Cherry Hill High School East Demogorgon Art & Literary Magazine 2019-2021

Demogorgon 2019-2020 2020-2021

Letter from the editor A demogorgon is “a mysterious spirit or deity often explained as a primeval creator god who antedates the gods of Greek mythology”, according to Merriam-Webster. Although this definition most probably conjures up images of frightening monsters, my experience with this magazine has brought to light a different connotation of this word. In our magazine, each writer and artist releases the demogorgon within themselves, illustrating their turmoil and stress. We have joked for the past two years that we always have many dark stories and illustrations in the magazine, but these pieces so beautifully allow students to express their profound emotions. Demogorgon provides a space for students to produce creative work outside of their monotonous English essays (sorry English teachers)! Throughout my time with Demogorgon, I have been constantly inspired and touched by the ways in which my peers share their passions and struggles in beautiful, creative means. As I move on to the next chapter of my life, I will always look back on my time with Demogorgon as a reminder that from intense emotions and difficult experiences come beautiful works. I hope that all who will be involved in Demogorgon in the future will carry that same lesson with them.

---Luisa Glass

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Members Editors-in-chief

Editors, cont.

Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg Luisa Glass Hannah Cohen

Alyssa Parke Ishani Hirata-Chandran Kyra Reilly Alana Zhang Vivian Rong Ella Williams Trey Shelton

Editors Maureen Castle Ava Mcfadden Cecilia Tavares Victoria Hummel Megan Liu

Faculty Advisor Mr. Connolly 3

Writing For Today (Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg) ......6 Sakura (Cecilia Tavares) ......7 Aki (Cecilia Tavares) ......7-8 Fuyu (Cecilia Tavares) ......8 The Land and the Sea (Anish Suresh) ......9 Catching Z’s (Phillip Trieu) ......10 Letter to Mr. Connolly (Nancy Shi) ......10 Unwoven (Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg) ......11 The Garden’s Gift (Alena Zhang) ......12-14 Summer is Not Freedom (Kyra Reilly) ......16 Metal Goat (Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg) ......17 The Yard (Luisa Glass) ......18 Bloody Apple (Alyssa Parke) ......20 Lifeless Roses (Cecilia Tavares) ......20 Snow Angel (Victoria Hummel) ......21 Snow Day (Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg) ......22 Dark (Cecilia Tavares) ......23 Stars (Cecilia Tavares) ......23 Philia (Victoria Hummel) ......24 A Lamb Sacrificed (Lyann Mejia) ......25 The Imperfection of Perfection (Kelly Anderson) ......26 An Evening with Lucian (Hannah Cohen) ......27-29 Please (Lyann Mejia) ......31

Birdsong (Ava McFadden) ......32 The Soprano (Ava McFadden) ......32 Needle and Thread (Ava McFadden) ......32 Stargazing (Ava McFadden) ......32 Tender Shoots (Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg) ......33-34 Renewal (Caitlin Cepeda) ......34 Why the Banshee Cries (Alyssa Parke) ......36 To My Brother (Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg) ......38 Viridian Forest (Cecilia Tavares) ......39 Silence (Cecilia Tavares) ......39 Lost (Vivian Rong) ......40 The Future as the Past (Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg) ......41

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Art Paper Boats (Ava McFadden) ......front cover Fallen Feather (Ava McFadden) ......6 Spring Blooms (Cecilia Tavares) ......7 Last Glory (Ishani Hirata-Chandran) ......8 The Storm Passes (Ishani Hirata-Chandran) ......9 Father Time (Maureen Castle) ......10 Swirls (Maureen Castle) ......10 The Road Less Travelled (Ishani Hirata-Chandran) ......11 The Dragon (Cecilia Tavares) ......15 Patchwork Flower (Maureen Castle) ......15 Love Locks (Ishani Hirata-Chandran) ......16 Impression (Ishani Hirata-Chandran) ......17 Sunbeam (Ishani Hirata-Chandran) ......18 Don’t Look (Kyra Reilly) ......19 Curse Doll (Maureen Castle) ......19 Rose on Gravel (Cecilia Tavares) ......20 Late Spring (Ava McFadden) ......21 Sky Frame (Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg) ......22 Hazy Night (Cecilia Tavares) ......23 Nap’s Over (Ishani Hirata-Chandran) ......24 Violence (Kyra Reilly) ......25 Sunset on the Shore (Ishani Hirata-Chandran) ......26 Alone Together (Kyra Reilly) ......30

Ladylike (Maureen Castle) ......31 There’s Something in the Water (Ishani Hirata-Chandran) ......32 Lazy Shadows (Ava McFadden) ......32 Secret World (Ishani Hirata-Chandran) ......34 Cryptid (Kyra Reilly) ......35 Watching (Hannah Cohen) ......35 Blood Canvas (Maureen Castle) ......36 Claustrophobia (Kyra Reilly) ......37 The Scream (Hannah Cohen) ......37 Ripples (Ishani Hirata-Chandran) ......39 Skeleton (Maureen Castle) ......39 The Girl on the Swing (Kyra Reilly) ......40 Freeze (Kyra Reilly) ......back cover

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For Today For today, I keep my Memories close, undisturbed Gathering dust to be blown Away In later days For today, my fancies fly Unbound and undetermined Ne-bu-lous-New worlds found and lost Like new words drawn out Letter by letter In my mother’s red-bound Dictionary Hidebound and hindered Nothing like the Soft white Computer And its infinite blue-lit tunnels Leading everywhere And nowhere At all Like flighty fantasies Forgotten Vanished As soon as they’re found.

Fallen Feather ---Ava McFadden

---Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg

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Sakura As the blossoms fall, spring seems to be coming to an end.

The pink petals on the ground seemed scattered by the wind.

In a way, this is like people, they’ll blossom and then fall apart, and be broken and shattered.

But in the end, they’ll always come back, and blossom again.

---Cecilia Tavares

Aki

Spring Blooms ---Cecilia Tavares

The leaves are turning The smell of pumpkin, School season has No more staying up late Now staying up to do homework Things change, people change, 7

Fuyu The red, orange, yellow leaves fall to the ground.

Outside getting colder.

Wearing thicker jackets and boots.

Lights getting lit up outside homes.

A hint of magic cast overs the air.

Soon we’ll be able to start over.

---Cecilia Tavares

to autumnal colors. apple pie, apple cider fills the air. to start soon. doing whatever we want. at absurd hours. just like the leaves.

---Cecilia Tavares

Last Glory ---Ishani Hirata-Chandran

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The Land and the Sea You are here.

You are in the present.

You look around to see The beautiful life You and others have.

Sometimes, life isn’t too beautiful.

There are always times That makes the strong Kneel to the ground.

But you have to rise back up.

You have two powerful weapons, Ones that can give you the strength To look back up.

One is the future, The land of mystery.

The future is always a new land that has the potential To be the most fertile one You have ever seen.

The Storm Passes ---Ishani Hirata-Chandran

The other is the past, The seas you already faced.

When you reach a place Where you failed the last time, Use the past to tell you what not to do.

Remember, the last time you used that sea Route, it did not take you to the right place.

If you can master the Land and the Sea, Then you will not hide your face And kneel anymore.

You can look up to see everyone And yourself.

You can look around to see The beautiful life You and others have.

And so, you are truly in the present.

You will be back here.

---Anish Suresh

Catching Z’s Sleep, I want to sleep.

School, the reason why I lose sleep.

Staying up late Delaying a date With my bed To rest my head Awake I am instead Just to retire beat Rinse and repeat.

Letter to Mr. Connolly

Inspired by Mr. Connolly’s lesson on William Carlos Williams I have used my phone that was on my desk

Father Time ---Maureen Castle

and which I was not supposed to use in class

Sleep, I want to sleep.

In class, my dreams I fall deep.

Awake I try to stay But the lectures lull me away Into a quiet realm I step in A minute or a few precious seconds Until the teacher’s gaze beckons Back to the room Another trip looms My eyelids meet Rinse and repeat.

Forgive me for it was to search up apparition and bough ---Nancy Shi

Sleep, I want sleep.

---Phillip Trieu

Swirls ---Maureen Castle

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Unwoven A tree is like a spool of yarn Unfurling Frayed ends Curled up Slightly Like leaves in Autumn When dead The leaves Fall Useless and forgotten: When forgotten Is when Yarn frays With a lick and a twist The yarn, saved.

Found again: Tucked away, Hidden Around the corner Like the warm Sweet days of Spring.

---Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg The Road Less Travelled ---Ishani Hirata-Chandran

The Garden’s Gift When I was seven years old, I learned that adults gave up messy, beautiful love.

Our garden was the most vibrant in the world. When the persimmons didn’t glow their fiery orange, the glossy pomegranates draped heavily on sweeping green branches.

Our grass shone like green matchsticks, and the dew flickered in the sun and coated the ground with its luscious rays. So what if our grass grew a little crooked? The birds and bees enjoyed it, chirping and fluttering with the promise of spring, and the dragonflies hummed and cartwheeled with the butterflies.

“It takes ten years to grow a tree, but one hundred years to cultivate people,” mumbled grandma, quoting a Chinese proverb. “Choose which one you shall grow.”

We planted pomegranate trees, jujube trees, and persimmon trees.

Perhaps grandma only planned on staying in America for a decade then, I mused. She had immigrated from China six years ago, and her halting English seemed like such a contrast from her warm and animated Chinese.

Grandma didn’t seem to enjoy our neighborhood and stayed inside for most of the day, sewing my clothes by hand and lining up each stitch with intense precision. She only came out to tend the garden after the sun sank into dark folds of nighttime.

For my grandma, the garden was a solace. For me, it was paradise. Each morning, I rushed out the door, looking for the promise of life under that dark, rich soil. I would stick my toes into the warm mud and pick green jujubes off of prickly stems, spitting the pit into fresh holes my feet dug.

I didn’t mind it when my neighbors looked at me as I played in the grass. I didn’t mind it either when they sneered and took pictures of the beautiful garden that they called our lawn.

However, I did mind it when they dropped their dog’s poop on our grass, leaving it to fester under the summer heat.

One day, my neighbor, the one with the neat lawn and shrub of orange flowers that deers don’t like to eat, stalked to our front yard like a pigeon.

Her march meant business, and her brown eyes swirled with something rotten and mean.

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“Why can’t you get rid of those plants!” she squawked. “Fit in with the image of our neighborhood!”

Grandma, with her tired eyes and wrinkles, stood straighter. Everyday it seemed like she was looking for something in our garden, or maybe she was looking past it to an unfamiliar place.

“I’m... so sorry, we will... do better,” she whispered, her mouth working slowly and softening into a grimace.

I hated that neighbor in a moment. She turned my strong grandma into someone weak. I didn’t know why, but she looked so small.

Three years ago, grandma made a promise to never buy store-made pies. Instead, she hand crimped red bean pastries that I waited eagerly for each lunar New Year.

At that moment, I wished that she would buy one of those waxy sugar crusted pies with oversweet filling and show that lady who we were. That we were just as good as the other neighbors, and that our garden could compete against those rigid green ones.

After the neighbor stalked away, my grandma sat down, wiping her weary hands over her face. Something in her countenance changed, and I heard a low sigh.

She slowly dragged out our creaky lawnmower. It sawed the budding date trees, blasted the soft mounds of dirt, and crashed into the pomegranate tree. At the end of its ravage, it belched and smoked. The pomegranates cracked into fragmented rubies and the persimmons slowly rotted into the debris.

I cried that night. When teardrops that rolled off scarred grass trembled in the wind, I looked away. That lady with the rotten eyes moved her mouth into a u-shape when she saw the snapped necks of our fruit trees. I imagined her inhaling and breathing out the spirit of our garden.

Perhaps that was the last blow for grandma. Her trees were gone. Her village in Xinjiang was farther than her frail body could endure, and she only had her granddaughter and a broken garden to root her in this neighborhood.

She was sick, the doctor said. She would not recover, the doctor said. The garden was gone, I numbly repeated.

When I could feel grandma’s cheekbones jutting out under the cool cloth I placed on her forehead, I knew the garden must come back. However, my grandma didn’t have a decade to watch a seed grow into a tree. I would plant bushes and flowers for her to see one last time, just before she could slip away.

13

The whisper of seeds in my hands soothed me, and perhaps they felt the desperation with which I clenched them. Sprouts emerged from the dirt, greedily growing, while grandma withered.

And just before the first bell pepper was tinged with red, she died, finally free to visit her faraway home.

The garden recovered. Each year, I watched the bushes grow, while waiting for the trees to bear fruit. Four years after my grandma reunited with her beloved home, the pomegranates came into flower.

Now, seven hang precariously from skinny branches, weighing the trees down with their red jewels. At first, the garden’s fruit was smaller and the grass less green, but after a few years, its spirit has finally fully healed from that first blow.

Grandma’s voice echoes in my head, “It takes ten years to grow a tree, but one hundred years to educate people.”

The choice enters my head, and I know what I must do.

As the wet sinks into my hair, I walk up my neighbor’s front steps, gripping a basket. I gently rest it on her porch, and it wobbles slightly before regaining its balance, teetering with overflowing persimmons, pomegranates and jujubes. Without turning back, I step away from the house, entering my garden.

And perhaps my neighbors do understand now. When their children admire the blooming pomegranate trees and breathe in the delicate fragrance of jujube flowers, perhaps they finally understand the intoxicating paradise of my and my grandma’s childhoods.

The fabric of my life, the red bean pastries I still prefer over store-bought pies, and the messy and beautiful garden I call my home define me and sustain me.

Even after so many years, when I open my window and breathe in the warm earthy smell of petrichor, I know that I will always return to my roots.

And the truth grounds me to this land, because my grandma’s garden will continue to blossom where the rain pounds into the soil and creates a secret oasis.

---Alena Zhang

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The Dragon ---Cecilia Tavares

Patchwork Flower ---Maureen Castle 15

Summer is Not Freedom The blistering heat of the sun burns your skin raw, Boiling alive as the heat thrums through your blood.

There is no sanctuary, any temporary relief giving way to a bone-deep chill.

Summer is not freedom.

School provides a mind-numbing routine of work and work and work and work, It creeps into the mind and tears it to pieces.

But it is not this that leads to desolation, it is inaction.

Summer is not freedom.

The lack of purpose, lack of meaning, lack of doing That squirrels its way deep into the soul, apathy rooting its thorns into our hearts.

We let it take roor because it is a comfort, a Judas kiss, an ill-intent marked with perceived goodwill.

Summer is not freedom.

Hell is not isolation. Hell is not the chains that bear heavy on our body, freedom a temporary bliss that is gone in a blink of an eye and leaves us craving more,more,more.

Summer is the overindulgence of this desperate need for bliss Summer is a drink from which we drink too deeply, indulging too much in our desperate need for comfort.

Summer is not freedom.

What purpose is there in meaninglessness? Summer is the Hell we don’t expect.

The Hell we see as heaven until the snake whips around and buries its fangs in our throats And we bury our teeth in the fruit And we realize that this was never paradise after all.

---Kyra Riley

Love Locks ---Ishani Hirata-Chandran

Metal Goat You, coming, who are you?

Let me sniff you With my Cold brass Nose Traveler, rub my horns As you Rest Perched on my Broad Back

Sing me a goat Song I will bleat Along

Help me prance With my heavy hooves Only you can make me Move

Warm me up with your Skin Tell me a story I will play hero

We will dance Twist our bodies Malleable and stiff Shapes numerous and strange

You and I, together Forever Or at least Until your feet are No longer Sore.

---Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg

Impression ---Ishani Hirata-Chandran

17

The Yard the yard used to be so alive

the boy is all grown up now,

the girl played on the swing set every day

left home to live his life.

the boy jumped on the trampoline

the girl is almost at the end of childhood,

the family sat out and watched the stars at night—so many to be seen.

but still looks out into the yard at night. the trampoline was sold away,

the girl fell off the swing set and nearly broke her arm. the boy jumped higher than the trampoline one day and hurt his dear best friend. the plants on the deck toppled over in a storm, thrown into the dirt. the cat died suddenly one night;

the swing set fallen down. the yard may seem rather dead now, but the life inside remains.

---Luisa Glass

his tomb lies in the dirt. but, the yard was still a place of refuge from the struggles of life for four. each day out the window one could see the joy that nature brings.

Sunbeam ---Ishani Hirata-Chandran

Don’t Look

---Kyra Reilly

Curse Doll

---Maureen Castle

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Bloody Apple She walked through the garden. She grew many things; apples, oranges, lemons and limes hung from trees. Grapes clung to vines. Bushes bore raspberries, blackberries and strawberries. But her favorites were the apples. She loved their sweet taste in pies, or pressed into juice, or just for eating.

She didn’t notice the archer. Perhaps he didn’t notice her either. Or perhaps he did. He wanted a challenge after all. She merely craved an apple. Plucking one from the tree’s bountiful and generous branches, she knelt next to the wooden bucket next to her and filled it with water. Plunk! She grabbed the old, washed out rag from its place at her belt, cleaning the apple until it showed her a distorted reflection of herself, as if it were a crimson mirror. ‘Crimson’ she thought. ‘Like rubies. Or roses.’ She smiled at her reflection. ‘Or perhaps simply like this apple. It is no flower, though it started as one. Nor is it a jewel though it could one day be a part of one. It is a fruit, something much more valuable.’ As she raised the apple to her lips, she had one last thought. ‘Crimson... like blood... this apple cannot bleed, though I can. How odd I think of these morbid things...’ then she thought no more. The archer had nocked his arrow. He set his aim on the first thing that had caught his sharp eye. A crimson apple. ‘Crimson... like blood.’ He thought, smirking. He did love to see his target bleed.

---Alyssa Parke

Rose on Gravel ---Cecilia Tavares

Lifeless Roses A scarlet rose as winter draws near seems to wither.

It seems to decay and grows dry as the petals look bitter.

But, once spring comes again the rose grows back it’s thorns.

The rose turns back to scarlet and is once again reborn.

---Cecilia Tavares 20

Snow Angel The glistening white snow; The shimmering frozen brook; The whole world, covered head to toe In sublime, benevolent white ash. Look.

Shimmering white lights Hung up in the raft Demonstrated the value in the night Of the young woman’s craft.

In spite of all adversity, Her eyes remained bright.

Her wings shall spread completely To protect all that is light.

The sun created a halo That formed a jeweled crown.

When the silver bells sung, though, They brought up those who were brought down.

White mist formed around her, Distorting her image into a blur.

The people would be forever grateful, For they had the eternal blessings of their snow angel.

This angel’s countenance, Her voice ringing true, Is reflected in the mirror, For that angel is you.

---Victoria Hummel

Late Spring

---Ava McFadden 21

Snow Day

It snowed for three days. Just a little each day, large languid flakes. “No need to hurry,” she says. After the snow stops, we climb the hill. She strides in front of me, laughing between her laboured breaths. With each step she kicks up snow. The wind sends it back to me, small drifts swirling around my ankles. “Sorry,” she says, but her eyes are laughing. The sun sets orange behind us. The grey clouds move and shift.

We reach the top of the hill as the moon rises, silver and pale. We push the snow aside, digging a nest in the virgin white. We sit, almost touching. Close, but not enough. Lazily she reaches up her arm, her hand, her delicate finger, and points out the constellations as they shift into view. “Libra,” she says. “Orion.” I try to focus, pay attention to her, but her words blur. And my mind wanders. Her lips today, so red, so soft. Her cheeks puffy, her laugh radiant. I’ve never wanted anything more.

A cold wind blows, carrying with it the scent of fire, of home. She shudders softly, then rests her head on my shoulder, erasing the space between us. I can feel her breath on my sleeve, can feel the soft weight of her pressing into me. It would be so easy to pull her face to mine, to kiss her so quickly, so lightly. Just long enough to feel her lips underneath mine. But I don’t.

The clouds race, as if in a hurry to be any place but here. I feel her shift, and look down. The moon has come out. Tender beams of pearlescent light fall on her face. She looks like an angel, like a star. Out of reach. “I wish we could stay like this forever,” she says.

I’ve never agreed with any statement more.

“We’ve never been so close before,” she says.

And I’ve never felt so alone.

---Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg

Sky Frame ---Racherl Agosto-Ginsburgg

Dark Running from the shadow that draws near.

Trying to outrace it but there is nowhere to run.

Consumed by the darkness with no light.

Falling deeper and deeper into this endless pit.

But a hand reaches out the only light in this shadow.

Things become brighter.

---Cecilia Tavares

Stars As I look up at the glimmering stars at night that shine so bright, I feel a sense of comfort as something is watching over me. You will never be alone as you look up at the sky, for someone might be looking up too at the same time.

Hazy Night ---Cecilia Tavares

---Cecilia Tavares

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Philia Cobalt and silver shimmered in the light.

No one expected this contrast.

One was small, the other was tall and ready to fight.

Silence reigned until one spoke at last.

The angel of judgment with silver lakes Spoke with a husky yet gentle timbre, Swearing to protect her “whatever it takes”.

The fire of mutual devotion burned a bright amber.

The angel of temperance with a dual sapphire lens Replied with a soft and timid tone, Vowing to stand by her as her defense.

“A true healer’s altruism and capabilities I must hone.”

Opposites attract, as they say.

For the two young ladies, it was true.

While they were not in love, they found a way.

To them, together they would make it through.

Nap’s Over ---Ishani Hirata-Chandran

You mustn’t forget your own value.

Eternal love, you must pursue.

I can tell it will not be an issue, For those two angels are me and you.

---Victoria Hummel

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A Lamb Sacrificed The sky cries out for attention with rain Attractive in the way faith and God is The blue turning grey as if it’s in pain Dangerous love is similar to this Because no matter how much you love me All your words are rotten and sickly sweet And breath is stolen from my lungs, I plea Bruises in places only I can meet I’m wood and you’re this flaming ball of fire You blindingly move to me and I’m stuck Rooted to the ground for death I don’t desire No love nor god can save me, no such luck Tell the others of the red flags I saw That perfection is a dangerous flaw ---Lyann Mejia

Violence

---Kyra Reilly

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The Imperfection of Perfection We are a world of dreamers Wanting bigger wanting more Filled with firm believers That there’s something greater than before

Our goals are our motivation The thing that push us on So what are we to do Now that all our goals are gone

We like to dream of fantasies Of flying high and free We dream of finding perfect The best there could be

We have found our perfection The goal achieved at last But now we’re stuck forever Going nowhere very fast

Our whole life is for this purpose Finding that one thing No time to make mistakes And no time for just being

That the thing about perfection It’s not so perfect after all Once you climb on up there You may just have to fall

Once we find perfection Our goals will be achieved Nothing left to find And nothing left to be

---Kelly Anderson

Looking Back Looking back, a distant memory seems to return and then fade away.

Looking back, at all the regrets and the what-ifs that I made.

Looking back, would I change anything, or would it have fixed everything?

Looking back, maybe it was meant to be this way.

Sunset on the Shore ---Ishani Hirata-Chandran

---Cecilia Tavares

An Evening with Lucian

“Am I mistaken or is that a dolphin?”

“I don’t see it.”

“Lucien, look that way.” As I spoke, the creature surfaced again and a second glance led me to realize that the creature was most likely a porpoise, not a dolphin. Lucien, being a more talented academic than myself, certainly noticed my mistake and I cast a nervous glance his way in anticipation that he would harangue me about the difference between the two cetaceans. Instead, his lips pulled back into a grin.

“Emil,” he laughed as he said my name and his grin grew larger. “That’s no dolphin - it’s obviously a fish!”

“Lucien!” He was giggling uncontrollably now, as if he were a child who had duped his parents.

“Yes, a fish! Maybe it’s a tuna or perhaps it is a sturgeon like the kaluga although, I don’t suppose the kaluga would live this far south,” he trailed off.

“But, in all seriousness, that was a harbor porpoise, right? Not a dolphin like I first suspected?”

“That’s correct, Emil.” He grew silent as he fell into his own thoughts but the corner of his lips remained upturned as a remnant of his joke.

It is easy to forget he can joke like this. I like to imagine that he has no time for humor, compassion, or anything said to be indicative of humanity. That all his time is just spent reading, or studying, or conducting research. At least then there would be something to explain his brilliance; something more than stating that he is simply better than I am. But I know that there is not. I glance over at Lucien’s smile again before averting my gaze. I hope he didn’t see the furrow of my brow or the glowering look in my eye.

Lucien and I are said to be colleagues. We are both chemists and we both conduct research at the same university, but that is as far as our similarities go. Lucien has never had a problem publishing research. In fact, I think the journals find it a greater honor to publish his work than he finds it to have his work published. Lucien has received multiple awards for his discoveries and, considering the amount of press coverage he gets, he has come to be a public figure in addition to being a scientist. I, on the other hand, have a great deal of difficulty getting my research published and, whenever I do manage to get it in one of the journals, I can’t help but feel that the publishers had a certain reluctance in putting it in.

There was one time though that I was interviewed for the press. Granted, it was not for my work but instead to see how I felt about Lucien’s.

“Emil, you work so close to Lucien in both proximity and content yet you have never had the same degree of success. Do you find that you are jealous?” I paused for a moment to contemplate the journalist’s question. Lucien and I are friends! Why even now, three years after this incident, we are vacationing together. But I could not deny the fact that I long to have the acclaim that Lucien has. Why shouldn’t I be granted it? My writing is not lesser than that of Lucien’s and, even if it is, it is only to a small degree. My research topics too are of no lesser quality. What then, I pondered, prevented me from being received by the publishers with the same degree of enthusiasm that they received Lucien? I realized that the journalist was growing impatient, so I decided to give her a reply.

27

“Well, I am not resentful of him.” And it was true at the time. For as much as I wanted to have Lucien’s acclaim, I was proud of all he accomplished. I wonder though if it still holds true now.

“The sun is setting. Do you think it’s time to turn back?” The sky was a brilliant orange and some of that color reflected off of the cerulean waves. It would only be a matter of time before the nightfall and I did not have the slightest intention of making my way home in the dark. On the subject of walking, I realized that we had been out for a long while and had missed supper (only when I noticed this did I begin to feel hungry) so I replied to Lucien.

“Yes, shall I make something for us to eat when we get home?”

“That would be lovely. Would you mind brewing some tea as well? I do always find a cup of tea to be very pleasing after a long walk.”

“Of course.” As we walked home, Lucien decided to discuss the differences between dolphins and porpoises. Although he is a chemist by profession, he is skilled in a variety of fields: biology, physics, even the humanities. I’ve tried to dabble in these fields but have never found much success. Lucien though - I remember that once when we were still in school we took a biology course together. It was about oceans, or rather the creatures in them. On the last day the professor was practically in tears when he found that Lucien did not intend on being a marine biologist but rather a chemist.

“At least consider it Lucien, you’re so talented!”

When the professor glanced over at me I think he sighed in relief.

At last, we arrived at the house we had rented and I headed into the kitchen and put the tea kettle on the stove. Lucien sat just outside in the drawing room and he now began to narrate an anecdote that only tangentially related to dolphins.

“You do recall that time we were in Switzerland for some conference.”

“Yes, well partially. I recall that you were in Switzerland for an academic conference last May. I wasn’t invited.”

“Ah yes, that’s right.” Lucien then delved into his story while I put the tea kettle on the stove. I hate the way he brings up the academic conference. It’s subtle, but I know he’s bragging. There is contempt when he recalls that I wasn’t there and, throughout the story, I can tell his voice is full of pride. He does this often, bringing up awards he has won or events he has been to in his vignettes just so he can remind me of his success, or rather remind me of my failure. The water came to a boil and I could still hear Lucien talking over the kettle’s high pitched whistle. He’s conversing with a marine biologist about cetaceans in his story. I bet the biologist was thinking of how intelligent Lucien is, it’s all everyone seems to think about after talking with him. I wonder what Lucien thinks of me. I doubt it’s anything complimentary.

I add in the tea leaves, black tea, and watch the water become more bitter as the tea brews.

“Emil, do you recall what happened to Andreas after he left our University?”

“I do not.”

“What a shame, he was quite talented.” Andreas is the only one of our colleagues I have heard him speak highly of. Not that he insults anyone else, but he has never praised us either. There is hardly a conversation between Lucien and me in which he fails to mention Andreas.

Probably because Andreas and I were good friends, are good friends. In truth, I do know what has happened to Andreas - he works for a university up in England and I receive letters from him rather often - but I won’t tell Lucien. If Lucien is so obsessed with his former colleague he should contact him himself - not seek out information through me! I have my own life to talk about, my own research, my own stories, my own issues, why should I then spend all my time talking about those of Andreas!

28

I want Lucien to stop talking. I don’t want to hear about his accomplishments and think of how I was not talented enough, not good enough to earn them. I don’t want to pit myself against Andreas and wonder why I wasn’t smart enough to earn the same admiration from Lucien. I pour the tea into two cups, one for me and one for Lucien. I look at Lucien’s and, after contemplating for a few seconds, I place my hand in my pockets and pull out a small vile. The label reads “sodium fluoroacetate.”

My hand shakes as I hold the vile. I had promised the university I wouldn’t use it for this purpose. I had promised myself I wouldn’t use it for this purpose. But what good is a promise? I add a drop to Lucien’s tea before and hope that will be enough. Tomorrow I’ll report his death. I’ll put him in bed and make it look as if he died while sleeping. Then, in a few days, I’ll attend the funeral. It will be miserable. Everyone will be weeping and make remarks about how talented Lucien was.

“It’s a tragedy,” they will say “he was such a great scientist - one of the best.” They will continue to weep and from then on after, there will be the occasional reference to what great things Lucien would have been up to if only he didn’t die.

My hand is more unsteady. I worry about lifting the cup. If I do it now, it will surely drop. The tea will get all over my clothes and Lucien will run in to try to help. I suppose that’s the nice thing about Lucien; he has always been helpful. I first met him through a chemistry study group he had set up for my introduction to chemistry course. We would gather late Sunday night in the library and he would try to explain the topics that other members said they found difficult. Evidently it was helpful as we all did exceedingly well in that class. Later, when I first came to work at the University, Lucien (who was already a well-established researcher at the time) gave me a tour of the lab in which I would be conducting research, told me to contact him if I ever needed to borrow any of his supplies, and took me out to dinner.

“Well, you know I have been trying to convince you to come,” That was true, in almost every letter he sent me he included a recommendation that I work at the university with him. “So I don’t believe there is any need for me to elaborate on how ecstatic I am that you are here.”

He looked very content as he said this - I think that there has never been a time where he was happier to see me. But that dinner was five years ago and I suppose he has grown accustomed to my friendship since then.

I couldn’t do it, it made me sick. How could I ever consider killing someone as kind and bright as he is? I reached for his cup and my hand stopped shaking. Sodium fluoroacetate has no flavor; he wouldn’t have known I gave it to him.

The teacup fell before I did. It made a small clash as the china hit the wooden floor. Then a thud resounded through the whole house.

“Emil! What happened? Are you ok?” I found something about the panic in Lucien’s voice to be rather pleasing.

---Hannah Cohen

29

Alone Together ---Kyra Reilly

30

Please She’s someone unattainable My grip on reality gone, I sway I’m lost in the curve of her smile That I wish I could see everyday I’m falling and I know It’s a crippling sinking hole There’s no way she’ll ever notice That it’s my heart she stole Her words give me life She keeps them in a locked shelf Desperation on my lips I wish to read her myself Please, I’d love to show you How much I’m ready to give Everything and anything You’ll be my will to live If I lose myself to gain her It’ll be a sacrificial price well paid I will be a hazy blur And she will never fade ---Lyann Mejia

Ladylike

---Maureen Castle 31

Birdsong A quiet morning.

Somewhere, a mockingbird sings Looking for a mate ---Ava McFadden

The Soprano An angelic voice The melody arouses Something within me ---Ava McFadden There’s Something in the Water ---Ishani Hirata-Chandran

Needle and Thread Late into the night, She uses needle and thread To sew a story

Lazy Shadows

---Ava McFadden

---Ava McFadden

Stargazing Gaze into the stars And think of me when you see The constellations ---Ava McFadden 32

Tender Shoots The sky weeps, white flakes dropping to the ground in a frenzy. To thirteen-year-old April, the flakes look like soap. She watches idly out the window, a copy of Les Misérables butterflied on her lap. She understands little of the story and enjoys even less.

“April!” Her mother dashes into the parlor. “April!” she cries again. “The asparagus!”

April looks up innocently. “Yes, mother?”

“Get off your ass and help me save the asparagus!”

April sighs. Clearly her mother has run out of patience. “Yes, mother.” Languidly she stretches her legs. Her mother hands April her coat and begins winding a scarf around her neck. “Quickly,” she whispers. With a pat and a kiss, April is launched into the storm.

The first thing April notices is the wind. It moans like a funeral dirge. Darkly, April imagines that it is for her. Snow has formed small mounds in the corners of the porch. Beyond, the world is monochrome. April steps hesitantly off the porch. Immediately, she sinks up to her thighs in the snow. Wistfully, she glances back at her house, golden light emanating from every window. But no. She can’t turn back now. She pulls one leg up and steps forward, her mouth set in a determined line. The asparagus is waiting.

The wind is against her. With each step, it blows a stinging cloud of ice into her face. Snow blows into her boots, soaking her socks. April stumbles forward half-blind, guided solely by memory. She keeps warm by complaining.

“I can’t feel my toes!” she screams to the sky.

A particularly strong gust sweeps through and almost knocks her to the ground. April raises her middle finger to the sky and trudges on.

Finally, the asparagus comes into view. The heads of the tender shoots barely poke out from the drifts. April stumbles to the first shoot and pulls out a small rag. She wraps it as carefully as she can with her thick gloves. She moves on to the next shoot. Its pale green head has turned black. Dead. April swears and moves on to the next plant. It, too, is dead.

Two, three, four more, all dead. Her rage threatens to boil over. Finally, she comes to a living plant. Just as she is about to wrap it, a gust of wind shears the head clean off the stalk. April falls backwards into the snow and begins to cry, broken at last.

Eventually, her anger runs out. In its place, survival instincts kick in. She manages to kick and claw herself out of the snow. Upon rising, she finds that the snow has shifted since she began her tantrum. The wind has uncovered shoots that earlier were completely covered. April squints through her snow-clogged eyes. Pale green! Living stalks! She hurries over to the fragile plants and wraps them one by one. Once the exposed stalks are covered, she begins digging for buried stalks. She finds and wraps several more.

By now, April is numb all over. She wraps one last asparagus stalk, then turns to go back. She scans the horizon, searching for her house.

The snow completely obscures it from view.

She begins to panic. She thinks of all the horror stories she has heard of children freezing to death, lost forever in the snow. Suddenly, her cold limbs seem even colder. She tries to take a deep breath, but her lungs fill with snow and she coughs uncontrollably. Wildly, she picks a direction and begins stumbling forward. The wind is behind her, so she speeds along. Her vision is clearer, but it’s gotten much darker since she went out.

As she walks, her panic mounts. She starts hyperventilating and shivering uncontrollably. Her tears have frozen to her face. How long has she been out here? An hour? Two? Six? 33

Suddenly, a beam of light cuts through the storm. “April?” her mother calls. Relief courses through April. “Mom!” she cries. She runs to the light and to her mother’s warm embrace. They walk back, clinging to each other, her mother’s flashlight parting the darkness. Once inside, April’s mother helps her peel off her wet clothes.

“It doesn’t matter,” her mother tells April as she rubs her frozen fingers. “The asparagus was doomed anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m not upset that you didn’t wrap the asparagus.”

“No, I mean, what do you mean?” April’s confidence returns. “I did wrap the asparagus.”

“You did?” her mother’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “That’s wonderful!”

April smiles, warm with pride. “The asparagus needed me!”

Her mother fetches April a cup of hot cinnamon tea as April settles down, naked to her underclothes, in front of the living room fireplace. She retrieves Les Mis from her chair and starts to read. Occasionally she glances at the raging storm outside. When she does, she smiles, for she knows that she has won. She has conquered the storm.

---Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg

Secret World ---Ishani Hirata-Chandran

Renewal Timid crocus buds Emerge above frosted soil Whispering of spring.

---Caitlin Cepeda 34

Cryptid

---Kyra Reilly

Watching

---Hannah Cohen

35

Why the Banshee Cries I screamed and wailed and cried myself to sleep when each went away. When each was taken.

I screamed ‘till I was hoarse and all the windows were cracked.

I wailed until it remained, still echoing in my ears.

I cried until my face became pale and dried.

Hello?

Is anyone there?

Please, anyone?

I’m so scared.

I’m so alone.

Is anyone here?

Will you listen?

Will you stay?

And now, I cannot join my lost loves.

For I am no longer a woman, I am a Banshee.

I’m so alone now.

My father is gone Mother as well.

Sisters and brothers have left.

I have no lover, for they have gone too.

I have no children now, they have been taken away.

The reaper has come for them all, But he will never touch me, Not after what I’ve made of me.

Perhaps…

I can warn others.

Yes. I will find others.

I will warn them of this pain.

This everlasting pain.

No one should feel this pain.

Blood Canvas ---Maureen Castle

---Alyssa Parke

36

Claustrophobia

---Kyra Reilly

The Scream

---Hannah Cohen 37

To My Brother When you left, the summer mourned with me.

The heat was heavy, my limbs were languid I thought of you and I cried.

The sky shimmered, as if hesitant.

The air whispered with days gone I listened to it and I sighed.

Who am I without you?

A tree without leaves, a fruit without seeds A cicada, singing alone.

Yet who am I to take you home?

You once were mine, the sun to my heat, But now all I have of you are memories Like the time when I coaxed you, complaining Outside to where The fireflies filled the trees Draping them in light I laughed So hard You thought me crazy.

I thought: Me happy.

I felt Playful Like when I used to Run Into your bedroom Sunday mornings when mom slept and slept And we would spin your outdated Globe And scan through your worn atlas And let our imaginations Take us far, far Away So now I will flip through the books and imagine that you are here For however long I must Until we are Reunited In the haze of humidity Our words lost In the endless chorus of cicadas.

---Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg

38

Viridian Forest A pleasant green forest with the sunlight shining through the leaves. It’s very quiet with not many sounds except for the wind that makes a breeze. As I wander through this familiar forest with no objective or aim, it’s calming and nice as it still seems nothing has changed.

---Cecilia Tavares

Skeleton

---Maureen Castle

Ripples ---Ishani Hirata-Chandran

Silence The clear blue lake with no ripples is silent all around.

Only sounds of nature like blowing wind, trees, and crickets seem to holler.

I wish things now were like this vibrant lake.

Instead, there is a shrill holler and ripple piercing around.

---Cecilia Tavares 39

Lost It’s not fair, it won’t be fair, it was never fair.

Princess by day, superhero by night She played dress-up and dressed-up With crowns made of tinfoil, perched on her head Held high, towards the sky And a smile so pure and untainted by what was to come.

She was happy and proud with twinkles in her eyes, Pride and love for life and hope Life was fair and simple.

Fair and simple, but good.

She stares up at the sky, eyes motionless and looking for nothing, Face faded, gray, solemn Color washed away from her world, stolen.

Questioning her existence Anxiety by day, depression by night; She had met reality.

What happened to playtime and pureness?

To tinfoil crowns and random acts of kindness?

Is this the life they all marveled about?

---Vivian Rong

The Girl on the Swing ---Kyra Reilly

The Future as the Past Someday i will look upon today Nostalgia-bound, through a haze And i will write poems From all the little trivialities and aches From dreams half-formed and Half-finished I see myself-Grown mature warm soft Obstacles conquered, dreams realized, poems composed-She smiles at me, Future eyes glowing soft A mother’s.

Ideal

hope. yet For now all Is murk, is mist Is paint half-mixed, And ash half-burnt, Is numbers, letters, spiral trains of thought Abstract Today All i wish is for This statement To be true “I see the future now in the way which I will someday see the past.”

---Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg

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