Demo Art & Literary Magazine
Letter from the Editors
“What’s Demo?”
“We’re a club that makes art, writing, and photography to compile in a magazine at the end of the year”
While that’s definitely true, in my years involved with Demo I’ve seen that we’re so much more than that. We’re the club that has spirited discussions about video games, ranks different musical instruments, talks about all manner of things, all while creating to our heart’s content. When I joined this club in my sophomore year, I didn’t fully realize the impact this club would have on my life. As cliché as it sounds, this club became more than an outlet for my own creativity, but a place where I could connect with others, talk about my interests, and be myself. Demo is at its heart definitely on the (endearingly) chaotic side, but we’re also a close-knit community of creatives. And as we move into the summer and beyond, I hope that you all will have fond memories of this club.
Thank you, for these amazing, wonderfully weird three years.
Enjoy the 56th edition of Demogorgon!
- Sarah Weber
Welcome to the 56th Demo magazine issue! We’ve come a long way from the beginning of the year with Democember, the Open Mic, and a few other activities we organized during this busy year. This club is so important because it increases awareness of the artistic and literary abilities of our peers. I hope this club continues to grow and receive more and more submissions, possibly to the detriment of those of us who have to actually edit the magazine. Let’s hope this club continues on to publish its 60th or even 70th issues!
-Winnie Tang
Staff
Editors in Chief
Sarah Weber
Winnie Tang
Faculty Advisor
Mr. Connolly
Vice Editors in Chief
Ilanna Bernstein
Aubree Mon
Staff
Charlotte Bomze
Angela Chang
Olivia Ding
Wolfgang Drake
Gia Gupta
Lucie McFadden
Prisha Mathur
Naresh Raaghav Vasudevan
Phoebe Wu
Kaylee Yoon
Tian Zheng
Chilling
Olivia Ding ‘24
Poetry & Prose
The Weathering of Travels
A shower of rain and the glow of sunlight
Beneath such vibrant jewels of colors flourish
An assortment of blessings to one’s sight
Bearing gifts and pleasantries for one’s heart
Soon after
Light feathers flutter down slowly
Left is fragments and networks of lush green
Strong and healthy
Freshly exposed but ever present beneath its previous treasures
And even after the green fades
An assortment of pride and life is procured
Casted to the ground as a symbol of its lasting presence
A reminder of its strength and vitality
Then as these colors dissipate into a dull brown
The frame is left bare and exposed
Yet still strong and protected
Encompassing the contents it proudly displayed for later
Waiting until the once again
The rain falls and the sun opens its arms
Then it all repeats,
Over and over
Until the rain falls and the sun shines
And no longer can it repeat the cycle anymore
Tian
Zheng ‘24
Treehouse
Sarah Weber ‘24
Boxes and Stories
When I was a little kid I loved boxes. Not what was inside, just the box itself. I loved to collect them. I made forts with the boxes, tied together with blankets and tape. Lots and lots of tape.
(I am not joking when I say I once asked for tape for Christmas.)
(The wish was granted in case you wanted to know.)
And in these forts (and outside of them) I loved to play pretend. To create my own world, my own little bubble of reality, with characters, stories, and universes tumbling around in my little kid mind. To create what wasn’t real.
When I was a kid I loved to have dreams where I would discover secret rooms in familiar locations, only to be disappointed when I woke up.
And when I got too old for forts (though one is never too old for forts), I would create characters and stories and worlds and universes in my imagination.
I would love to get lost in daydreams, to get lost in my own stories mixed with the stories of others.
When I was a slightly older but in no way mature kid I could sometimes tell I was in a dream. When this happened I always wanted to fly. But when I tried, it wouldn’t work, and I would wake up.
But I had a flying dream, once.
I was in my front yard, running and jumping and concentrating on staying above the ground.
I flew, feeling the most exhilarating feeling in the world. I was twelve.
That was a good dream.
When I was a teenager the stories and universes still floated around in my mind. Stories that were never really recorded, only sometimes captured in a small drawing of a scrawl on paper or let go and forgotten. Like trying to capture a shell on the beach, only to be stolen away by the waves.
Maybe someone somewhere sometime will find it again, but that someone is not you.
But after a while the stories started to recede. It became harder and harder to find them, to hold onto them and keep them.
The ones that remained often vanished like smoke.
The ones that were recorded were malformed, broken things, stripped of motivation and forgotten. They sit, still waiting to be built upon, but even the most hopeful of hopes fades with time.
The daydreams were replaced by other, more “real” things, like deadlines and assignments and work and papers and assignments and it never ends and I know that’s how it goes but sometimes it’s all too much.
The “real” things faded like an ocean wave (gone for now but will soon return) but the stories didn’t come back. There was just ennui and a lack of motivation.
No color, no fantastical, magical mural like there once was.
I felt stuck, trapped in the monochrome mindscape.
I longed for the flying dream.
When I was a slightly older teenager I started to read more stories, attempting to break up the monotony a little bit.
(a teenager reading for fun? Impossible!)
The books, unsurprisingly or surprisingly (depending on your mindset) started to bring the color back.
The characters and stories and universes started to whisper again, intertwined with the stories of others.
“Here’s inspiration. Took you long enough.”
I never got back to where I was before.
(I’m starting to doubt if before is even what I thought it was. After all, memory is malleable and nostalgia is one heck of a modifier.)
But maybe, just maybe, I can finally get these new stories down. Right before they slip away or self-doubt creeps in, that is. So…
ThisSide Up
When I was a little kid I loved boxes.
Sarah Weber ‘24
The Crown of Colors The Crown of Colors
Naresh Raaghav Vasudevan ‘26
Naresh Raaghav Vasudevan ‘26
Killer Flush Killer Flush
Prisha Mathur ‘25
Artist and the Painting Artist and the Painting
Phoebe Wu ‘25
Suprise
Gia Gupta ‘24
Icalculate. Iplaythegame,minute byminute.
Between6:32A.M.and6:36A.M.this Tuesdayand1:02P.M.and2:30P.M.this Wednesdayandonandonthecalculationsramble. Buteverysooften,Imeetawoman,knocking withoutwarning. SometimesIseeheronapark-strolled-on-upon-byaccidentora
NewYear’smessagefromalongloststar.Oranunforecastedsunset onabusridehomeoralostbutterflyonaquotidian neighborhoodwalk. Imaginewakingupto asageskyorceruleangrass surprise,sometimesIlove tolosethegame.
Leap
Ilanna Bernstein ‘25
Red Paint
Chang ‘27
if paint on one's hands is proof that one loves their work then surely blood on his hands is proof that he loves me
Preserviation
Angela
Winnie Tang ‘24
Beads
Angela Chang ‘27
There’s nothing to say.
Nothing on the tip of my tongue or the tip of my fingers, nothing that’s good enough to put out into the world. My mind is empty and my tongue is locked to the roof of my mouth. my fingers are barely moving, only having the inspiration to type out this monologue.
Ideas are coming like birds, sitting in place until you get close enough to look, right before they fly away. Words are clunking around like beads with holes barely too small for a thread, giving you the hope that you can string them together before the thread inevitably bends or splits. sometimes you manage to string one to another, but you inevitably get distracted and let go and lose it forever. Even if you put together a string of words, if you try to tie the strands together, they knot up and tangle, stuck together but never correct. The birds think it’s shiny and they swoop down and grab it. When they’re done, you have a feathered, incohesive, tangled string of beads. It makes no sense to you, and it is far from the necklace you were hoping to make.
There is no clean, smooth, and beautiful necklace in my head.
There are only crowing birds and beaded piles of string.
There isn’t one real reason
One true theory
One simple problem
Or one final solution
It’s all intermingled between the crooked lines on my crooked face and the specks of sun covered life on my taught skin
It’s this toxic love that tugs at my heart and my lashes
This pain that grips the stretched shirt on my chest and the hair in my hand
And this never ending dance to which I fruitlessly attempt acceptance of failure to something I can’t discern from where,
Acceptance of the long thread which intertwines It and I
And I and It
It’s the acceptance of my faults that turns I and It into me and these two left feet into three.
It’s this endless dance that longs for an end because it is I and It that dances it’s dance and grips it’s chest and tugs at it’s heart
It is I that crinkles my nose beside my sunken eyes and creases my darkened brows
And It is It that leaves the flaming reminders of what It has done to its canvas
Desecrating the entirety of me and my love
But It is I
And I is me and the pain It carries is no solace to my own
For we are we
And It is Me
Lotus Flower
Angela Chang ‘27
Hand Doodles
Sarah Weber ‘24
Golden Hour
Phoebe Wu ‘25
Laced Up Butterfly
Cat Noodles
An Answer
Tian Zheng ‘24
The world moves on a clock
Like a traffic light
The sun pulls and pushes people in and out
Bells chime, noise fills the air
As people wake and venture into flooding light
The sun greets each person
Beckoning them into its warm embrace
Pulling them into the present
Yet people toil along
While the sun rests at its highest
Plagued by work and tasks
Pressing on
And as the world is painted a scarlet hue
A sense of closure arrives
A sigh rolls past
And people begin to depart
Leaving the sun’s glow in their footsteps
Ready for its call again
Yet life also flows freely
Waves
Crashing, gliding over settled sediment and rocks
A moment’s rest brief yet ever occurring
A rushed call
A quiet park covered in overarching trees
A bustling street
A small cafe peering out into the city
A field of glowing lights and neon signs
An empty street
A shower of laughs and shouts under tarps and stands
A lobby illuminated in moonlight
When you ask which the day is
You are left with a gift in response
One with a shadow casted at your feet
One sitting beneath your shadow
And one simply bare, with no shadow at all
Cityline
Winnie Tang ‘24
After the journey
Doors
Tian Zheng ‘24
Door upon door, Hall of endless length, Walking, running, crawling.
Yet ahead lies
Darkness, But not empty.
With each glance
Lies another burden, On the soul
Entertwined to the heart
Till run
One can no longer
Thus one can wait, Patiently still
With the tick tick ticking of a clock
Till light breaks
And the dark loosens its grip And thy waiting
Anxious and unable Can move forward
Again
Or venture further, Shoulder the burden, Tread onward, Persevering
Till they become light
Light to rid the darkness
From themselves
And others treading Isolated but not alone.
Winnie Tang ‘24
‘26
Cassie Kaylee Yoon
Phoebe Wu ‘25
Charlotte Bomze ‘26
An endless cycle of give and take, Boundless opportunities out of reach.…
For those who have all the time in the world for boastful living in the presence of the lower class,
Each step marks a path further and further away from a world equally walked upon, As the crippling pressure of assets overways compassion and humanity in relation to us all.
And yes there may be those beacons of hope ever so glowing atop those high pillars they so gallantly placed themselves upon acting as if they represent something more than the false hope in which lies. Are they not less than we are morally? To sink so low your feet touch the ground of the “weak” to ever so slightly christen a title into nothingness. If that boot is not submerged, will our strifes never reach the open air? For they’re buried below the depths of our own understanding, no petty being ever shall dig deep enough to comprehend what useless incentives they place.
The irony is so simple too; the power to have anything they want, and the knowledge is desolate in the open plain of their own intellect.
Ignorance and want, as I've learned, go hand in hand, grasping the frail strings it hangs, despite the thick, protruding array beyond.
The simplest matters only need such simple solutions, yet no matter how clear they are, they’re as if intentionally placed just out reach, giving only those with the ability to step up be able grab at them . Who wouldn’t satirize such a “dilemma”.
It's so laughable to the point its not…
MONEY MAKES THE WORLD GO ROUND!
And whether we like it or not, that's our reality.
I wouldn’t obviously go forth believing that money is everything either, but when it comes down to it, without money, there's no funding, and no funding means no education. Without the money to educate, and without those with such assets educated, it's a push between both nonsensical beliefs. It’s ignorant to the point where saying so is arrogant.
But when will my arrogance surpass the point of those ignorant, where it becomes clear enough to understand?
Bird
Sarah Weber ‘24
Fragment
Winnie Tang ‘24
Winnie Tang ‘24
Lighthouse
The Introduction and First Chapter to
Wolfgang’s Inferno
Wolfgang Drake ‘27
Introduction
The thing that sets the plot in motion
Y’know an introduction
Canto I
So there I am, right, in my little cabin in the woods. It’s great! So I decide to go for a short little walk. Nothin’ major, just a little walk. I accidentally take a wrong turn, but it’s nothing, it’s whatever. So I’m on the path… AND I GET BOMBARDED BY LEOPARDS! THREE OF THEM! ONE OF THEM’S A GIRL! Imagine that A girl leopard So I’m panicking, I’m worried, I try to run away, and the girl leopard LUNGES AT ME! Like, WOW! It was REALLY fast. I try to run away, and I almost do, but it BITES ME! IN THE CHEST!
So I look down, and it STABBED THROUGH MY HEART! The jerk girl leopard literally stabbed me in the heart. So that sucked.
Because my heart just got stabbed, I was pretty upset. More importantly, it was pretty hard to stand up. At one point, it became completely impossible to stand up! So I didn’t. I fell down on the floor, only to stare face-to-face with another figure.
“Have mercy on me! Spare my soul, I beg!” I shouted to… whatever it was.
“A man I am not, Wolfgang,” it responded.
“Alright wise-alec” I realized this probably wasn’t doing me any favors for it wanting to keep me alive, but it was the heat of the moment, alright!
“I was once a man, but not anymore. I was born under the rule of Julius Caesar, and I lived under the rule of Augustus, during the time of the Roman Empire! I don't know how that works, but it's what happened” it continued.
“Oh that's cool. So who are you?,” I asked the figure.
“My name is Virgil I am the greatest, most honorable poet of my time!” it explained Did he expect me to know who he is?
“Oh, uhh… that’s cool,” I said, disappointed.
“What, is something wrong?” Virgil asked, picking up on the disappointed-ness in my voice.
“No, no it’s… it’s fine…” I trailed off.
So after that, Virgil finally stopped me from dying. That was nice. I only wish he did it earlier, because in around 5 minutes I wouldn't be able to breathe any longer.
“Alright, look,” Virgil started “That leopard that was about to kill you? It’s a JERK But that’s just what it does! It realizes that hindering its opponents’ movement is the best way to kill ‘em, so it does that. It’s always hungry for kills, but it’s never satisfied. But eventually, there’s gonna be a hound that comes by, and that’s gonna take her in.”
“Cool…” I replied.
“I wasn’t done. So that hound is gonna send the leopard to Hell, and she’s gonna hate it,”
Virgil continued
“I don't… why are you saying this?” I asked, not seeing the point of any of this exposition. “So, in order to become closer to God, you have to go to Hell, and see everyone being tortured. You gotta see everyone die a second time, because it’ll help you be closer to God.
Once you’re done with Hell, I’m gonna walk you to Heaven, but I won’t finish walking you. Someone more worthy than I am is gonna take over, because I’m not that close to God.”
What??? What was he going on about? I’m gonna be sent to Hell, which’ll somehow help me become CLOSER to God? And then I’ll be walked to Heaven, but he wouldn’t even FINISH walking me there! Why would he START my journey to God with me, but not finish it?! IF HE’S NOT THAT CLOSE TO GOD, WHY WOULD HE BRING ME TO HIM?!
“Uhhhhhhhhh sure, I’ll do it,” I said, without thinking To be Continued on the Official Demo Website
The Final Piece
Lucie McFadden ‘24
Democember!
Aubree Mon ‘25
Thanks for Reading
Squeak Squeak Squeak
