DESCENT | ISSUE #5: Splinters

descent spring 2023 the fifth issue

splinters

Ouch! The sharp burst of an inhale, when you realize (too late) that something’s caught under your skin.

Think of embodied discomfort, a messy split, cracking, perhaps gangrene.

EXECUTIVE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Emi Ching

CREATIVE

DIRECTOR OF ART AND MULTIMEDIA Marissa Ding

DIRECTOR OF DESIGN AND PUBLICATION Isabelle Lim

VISUAL DESIGNERS Jasmine Kwok Raina Paeper Aud Ma Devon Lee Prithika Kulkarni Michaela Chang

COMMUNICATIONS DIRECTOR OF PUBLIC RELATIONS

Kyle Ching

SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGERS

Chloe Chen Jinny Kim

DIRECTOR OF INTERNAL OUTREACH Sreenidhi Boopathi

DIRECTORS OF EXTERNAL OUTREACH Sophia (Pia) Pelaez Susan Tang

WRITING

WRITING EDITORS

Emily Chen Z Luo Echo Tang

STAFF WRITERS

Ally Guo Megan Dang Tamanna Sood Paul Liu Jasmine Kwok

SPECIAL THANKS TO

COVER MODEL

Denisse Mari Aguilar

EDITORIAL MODELS

Nikita Kholay Megan Huynh

FEATURED CONTRIBUTORS

Jana Mae Rubio Katrina Romero Tran Anna Xie Marissa Ding Raina Paeper Aud Ma Sreenidhi Boopathi

DESCENT MAGAZINE

The sharp burst of an inhale, when you realize (too late) that something’s caught under your skin. For Descent’s fifth issue, we ask you to consider the theme splinters.

Think of embodied discomfort, a messy split, cracking, perhaps gangrene. We want submissions that take “splinters” physically or mentally, that are experimental or unsettling, that stick.

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SPLINTERS

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FROM THE DESK OF

DESCENT MAGAZINE

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Emi Ching

April 6th, 2023 A Letter from the Editor THE FIFTH ISSUE

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Hi All, Thank you so much for reading Descent’s fifth issue! It is incredible to think that Descent has been around for over two years now – we have grown immensely since we began, from expanding our executive board each semester to printing our issues to connecting with many more APISA artists – and I am always amazed by the creativity, generosity, and spirit of our community.

Our theme for this semester is Splinters, which was inspired by the idea of a splitting, the shards – of glass and ourselves – that get caught in fingers and hearts. Splinters feel simultaneously embodied and abstracted; they are the little things that are impossible to ignore.

Our team sought submissions that found a home in discomfort, and our contributors, staff writers, and designers never shied away from the challenge. We hope you will embrace the sharp edges as you read the issue too.

And yet, while we have focused this semester on the uncomfortable (sometimes in wince-inducing detail), our incredible community has never failed to make space for APISA artists, to provide a place where we can feel continually supported and inspired. I’ve been part of Descent since our first issue was released, and the way our team has developed – the care I see that our members have for their individual crafts and for each other – has been one of the most special things I have ever experienced. Knowing that I am leaving Descent too soon is the splinter in my side – I will miss this community dearly – but I am so proud of the work our team has done, prouder of the unbelievable places I know they will take Descent in the future.

Thank you for supporting Descent Magazine, and please enjoy our fifth issue, Splinters!

With gratitude,

Emi Ching Editor-in-Chief

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Table of Contents 10

COLORS OF NEPTUNE

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DON’T CRY

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DEAR FRIEND

Jasmine Kwok + Michaela Chang

Anna Xie + Jasmine Kwok

Aud Ma

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FEBRUARIES

20 HOLE IN THE WALL 28 TESSELLATION 32 ONG AMON NGA BULAK 34 /OUR FLOWERS 36 GROWING PAINS

Marissa Ding + Raina Paeper

Echo Tang + Jasmine Kwok

Sreenidhi Boopathi

Jana Mae Rubio + Michaela Chang

DIDI

38 WALK WITH ME 42

Tamanna Sood + Devon Lee

Katrina Romero Tran + Isabelle Lim

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THE PHOENIX’S GUIDE TO SELF IMMOLATION Z Luo + Devon Lee

A PLACE FOR THE DEAD AND DYING

50 IN THIS WORLD 58 YOU HAVE WINGS DRIVEWAY 66 WHEN DID YOU LAST FEEL 70 SPLINTERED/A SPLINTER? Megan Dang + Isabelle Lim

Ally Guo + Aud Ma

Paul Liu + Prithika Kulkarni

Staff Writers + Isabelle Lim

Raina Paeper

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COLORS OF NEPTUNE CORAL — MY OLD TOWNHOUSE, ON THE PORCH I try to balance bubbles on the tip of my pruny index finger before they float towards a different world or burst from the jagged wood.

I jump with all my might and stretch my arms towards the clouds. My mother’s laughter echoes through the dirty window that I rested my marinara-coated palms on just moments before. I can still see the smudge of red trail towards the baby blue curtains. My mother is dressed in a flowing floral blouse. She chews on a piece of her watermelon Trident bubblegum. Her favorite color is currently a vivid coral and banana yellow–they complement her like sunshine. Her hair hangs in a loose bun.

She has an essence of summer and poppy days. Everyone who meets her always gushes about how beautiful she is. Seeing her through the lens of a perfect bubble makes her ethereal. Her fuzzy coral blouse radiated a soft, gentle glow. Her happiness becomes my stardust, and I’m enveloped in a flurry of bubbles. I see an iridescent world.

I don’t have great balance. I dropped out of gymnastics and ballet because of my terrible flexibility and clumsiness. It took me the entire hour to even climb onto the balance beam–not to mention all the tiny toes I stepped on while attempting pirouettes.

Jumping on my deck is really no different.

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WRITING BY JASMINE KWOK DESIGN BY MICHAELA CHANG

After momentarily floating, I come crashing down on the uneven wooden planks and land on the sharp edges. Protruding shards dig into my skin. I’m surprised I don’t burst like a bubble.

On cue, my mother sprints out. Her coral sleeves wipe my tears away, and she brings a pair of holographic tweezers. Her flood of color distracts me from pain–I’m busy looking at the way rainbows reflect off of those tweezers.

Splinters hurt. A lot. And blood isn’t as delicious as spaghetti sauce– I don’t recommend it. But there’s nothing a dash of coral can’t heal.

GREEN — BUSCH GARDENS My aunt puts her hand over my stomach as I shriek in utter agony. The wind howls mercilessly and carries the faint screams of children. I feel like spiders are crawling up my skin as I ascend slowly towards the peak. The sheer velocity of the daunting Sesame Street roller coaster thrusts me into a race that transcends perceptions of time and space. The green color scheme of the park blends with the concrete walkway and coalesces into a sickening brown.

My aunt cries from laughter while I wail uncontrollably. To make matters even better, my globs of snot are captured in high resolution by those sneaky roller coaster cameras.

When we descend the platform, my insides churn from leftover anxiety. Kids much younger than me sprint past to hop back in line. Their joyful cheers are taunting–maybe I was the only one who was deathly scared

SPLINTERS of the roller coaster.

Honestly, it’s probably one of the slowest roller coaster rides in existence, but I swear we were going at lightspeed. It’s always the drop that gets me. I dread the slow, grueling ascension, only to plunge towards the ground while the funnel cake in my stomach sloshes and goes on its own fun ride.

It’s impossible to be miserable in a haven that is dotted with artificial green leaf clovers and smells like food seasoned with sweat.

To console me, my uncle buys me one of those juicy turkey legs. I gnaw away with my peg lateral teeth. We decide to watch the nighttime festivities: streets are bedazzled with glowing animatronics and floats. The ringing echo of the screams from the roller coaster are replaced by enchanted oohs and ahs.

I don’t recommend going on the Sesame Street roller coaster at Busch Gardens. If you do, though, make sure to recover by watching the green light parade at the end of the day.

TURQUOISE — MY OLD TOWNHOUSE, DINING ROOM My 4th grade project is to create a solar system diorama. I have to collect jars of stardust and steal the sun from space.

Luckily, my dad is a rocket scientist.

Michael’s becomes our galaxy as we grab vials of glitter, packs of toothpicks, and bags of styrofoam spheres.

We build space on our dining room table.

We paint each ball with globs of paint that he took out from the basement’s storage room.

I squeeze out a dot of glittery red to make Jupiter’s beauty mark. Pluto is coated with a shimmering silver. Soon, all the spheres shift from a pristine white to inaccurately vibrant hues of the planets. Neptune gleams with a shimmering turquoise–that’s why it’s my favorite planet.

Beads of sweat collect at my dad’s forehead. The pointy ends of the toothpicks prick our fingers and hot glue burns our hands. Stains of black and daffodil yellow paint are smeared permanently on our old, gray carpet–a nice addition to the faint blue streaks from the last time I finger painted.

The small cuts and minor scratches are evidence of our exhaustive work– correction: my dad’s exhaustive work.

When I’m too tired, he takes the project into his own hands. He carefully manufactures each planet and star to make sure they each shine brightly on their own. He’s not usually the creative type, but he works with rockets. He has to love space.

I realize that small sprinkles of pain are signs of progress. The class is about to be stunned by our glitter bomb of a solar system. I stand back to gaze at the final product: the sun is a cadmium yellow, Mars a glistening copper. These are so unrealistic, but I like imagining

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DESCENT MAGAZINE that Neptune is the perfect shade of aquamarine. Planets are way more interesting when you think of them as globs of paint on a palette.

BLACK — APPROACHING NEPTUNE Those cuts from my solar system project healed a long time ago. I can hardly remember the itchy, dry scabs from falling on my deck. I’ve also forgotten about the way my stomach curdled during the Sesame Street ride.

The splinters I suffer from now will take longer to heal because they’re invisible.

I’m no longer led by the hues of childhood.

Rather, I’m stranded in an inky abyss, solar systems away from my family. The one I made with my dad exists lightyears away. An entire galaxy rests between us.

I currently live on Neptune, but it doesn’t have the same turquoise glint I imagined.

When did the colors become so muted–like a washed out blue from a blanket thrown in the washing machine too many times.

A stretch of gray meets the dreary sky– voices are muffled and distant, ringing like a faraway dream, a fading memory. I don’t remember growing up.

My mother used to care for all my scratches. Like a sun ray’s kiss, her warmth washed away impending streaks of bleak gray. A bright Rudolph-themed band-aid would be plastered fashionably over the scabs I tore open. A warm glass of creamcolored oatmilk would catch my salty tears.

Now, time doesn’t stop just because of my pain. There’s no one who can color in my sore spots with a magic pencil.

This week, I cried alone in my new dorm.

The rainbow galaxy painting I made at

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home hangs cheerfully on a dirtied white wall, stained from the previous student.

My tie-dye narwhal rests gently upon my new pastel pink sheets. I bury my face in my pillows to hide my swollen eyes from my new roommate. I cry until the red drains from my cheeks. I am ashen. When I touch my skin, I imagine dust coating my fingers.

Colors could no longer paint over scars.

They are too deep: no matter how much paint I coated on top, you’d see the crevices.

It’s as if someone tore off the Rudolph bandaid before I could heal. Someone took a black Sharpie and scribbled violently over the life I began to take for granted.

Galaxies used to be wondrous. Now, they just scream distance, and the only thing that reverberates is silence. The splinters I received from my childhood manifested into a nightmare: an endless roller coaster of vertical drops and seats made out of toothpicks.

RAINBOW — NEPTUNE There’s a point on the rollercoaster where I see the entire galaxy stretch beyond me.

Crumbs of styrofoam have become stars, the bubbles are now tiny comets. I forget that I’m lost in space–for a moment, I imagine my mother’s gum, the lights of the nearby carousel, or my father’s steady hand painting. My family looks like a glowing orb that I can hardly make out but still feel their presence. My finger begins to sting from the memory of physical splinters, and it longs for some sort of pinch to remind me how to feel colors. The galaxies twinkle with a periwinkle glint.

My roller coaster treks towards them before whisking me around again. I feel a little distant–it’s weird to acknowledge that

SPLINTERS going home is just a visit, just another turn the ride takes before its next big drop. The roller coaster begins to accelerate towards lightspeed. Before I know it, I return to my home on Neptune.

Sometimes, the ascension is the worst part. Counting down the days until I moved out was more painful than the move itself. I used to romanticize the flight to space–the hope of reaching the stars or, if I looked hard enough, the sight of a distant planet.

I figured I could create my own home the same way I created those styrofoam planets with my father: with a dash of glitter and inconsequential paint that shamelessly stained the carpet. Now, every step feels intentional. Colors are no longer so carefree.

They don’t dance around like flowing watercolors. Instead, jet black seeps into my wounds and paints a shadow–it creates dimensionality.

Rainbows possess every color imaginable and unimaginable. Shards of different shades piece together a glass portrait–a delicate but beautiful image constructed out of each memory I made in a different lifetime.

If I could erase everything and repaint my journey, would I choose to ride on this roller coaster to Neptune? Would I exchange physical pain for starry scars? Would I choose to jump towards floating dreams even with the fear that they’ll burst?

When I created the solar system with my father, the turquoise glitter was my favorite.

It wasn’t only turquoise, though. There were iridescent specks that glistened like pixie dust.

Today, as I finally descend the roller coaster and place my foot on the surface of Neptune, I’m welcomed by new friends I can now call family. The doors of my

favorite poke restaurant swing open widely and engulf me in its vibrant orange walls and metal tables. A mini metropolis flashes with dazzling opportunities and magic flickers in every nook and cranny.

The waft of Neptune’s best bakery brings back memories of home, and the tsunami of colorful aromas and sights make me want to curl up in my mother’s pink bed sheets.

Only now, my longing for home is more of a beautiful reminder that “home” still exists across the galaxy.

When I look towards the stars, I remember the lightyears I’ve traveled to discover new shades to paint with. Perhaps the most important lesson I’ve learned is that black keeps the happy yellows and bubblegum pinks from getting too muddy.

Finally, I’m seeing how all the colors–the peachy coral, the neon green, the pure turquoise, and, most importantly, the deep, black gashes running across the icy ground– coexist on a planet once uninhabitable.

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DESCENT MAGAZINE

Don’t Cry When I was little, I used to go to a nearby park with my grandpa everyday after school. I had so much energy back then. My parents were never home and my wai gong was kind enough to always take me. I’d skip up the concrete hill and he would slowly follow behind.

I should’ve thanked him for always taking me.

This park had a playground.

It was dirty and small with a jungle gym, monkey bars, the swings, and wood chips covering every inch of the place. On hot days, the plastic on the slides would feel like lava that burned my stubby fingers; on cold days, it would feel like ice. Those little wood chips got everywhere, onto the slides and handles—to the point where I would get stabbed every time I sat down.

Going to that playground was exhausting and difficult and probably a waste of a good hour. But it was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

One fall day, I was dangling on the monkey bars. I was swinging my legs back and forth. My grip slipped and I fell. I let go too soon.

My feet hit the ground before my body could brace for impact. My legs gave out, and my hands came down to protect my head from the fall. They came down, hard, against the spikes of the wood chips.

Every little chip wedged themselves into my flesh. I couldn’t move

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***WRITING SUBMISSION*** WRITING BY ANNA XIE DESIGN BY JASMINE KWOK

without driving their thorny edges further into my hands. They were tiny knives, in all the small places I took for granted to be unreachable, safe. For something so painful, I expected there to be blood pouring out of my palms. Something real that I could attach to this pain I couldn’t see. There wasn’t any, so I did the next best thing I could think of.

I screamed.

I wailed as if Death had come for me, as if I was on the brink of insanity. I wailed until my grandpa came running.

He saw me sprawled on the ground.

My hands were laid out in front of me like a crime scene, in which I was the victim sobbing. My eyes were closed so I couldn’t see him coming to me, but I heard him.

I could hear his heavy, shallow breaths. As he walked, there was the crunch of those damned chips under his shoes.

There was a slight stutter in his walking.

One foot would drag longer than the other, with this delicate rhythm that was unique to him.

When I finally opened my eyes, he was extracting chips from my hair and cooing for me to calm down. He sat down in front of me—cross-legged in the middle of a children’s playground, completely focused on his crying granddaughter.

He spoke swiftly and softly, in a southern Chinese accent that I wish I picked up from him.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry,” His thumbs swiped under my eyes to catch my tears.

“Shhhh. I’m here now, don’t cry.”

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hurt.”

“My hands,” I cried. “My hands really

“I know,” he said. He grabbed my hands with his. They were so bony. Gray spots covered his knuckles and there was a subtle, constant shake in them. His cane was set on the ground next to him. That was the only time I’ve ever seen him not holding that cane.

He grasped onto my hands, placing them in one hand and continuing to take out wood chips with the other. His hands stopped shaking. They were calm and steady, and he didn’t seem to notice. Both of my small hands were caressed by one of his—it was perfect and warm—and I sighed as I watched his careful handiwork. Gradually, he plucked all those knives, tiny slivers, from under my skin.

And little by little, the pain went away.

“See? Your hands are getting better.

Don’t cry.”

I sniffled a little. He brushed the back of his hand against my cheek and smiled up at me. His toothy, loose, chapped-lip smile that somehow made everything better. I remember it so vividly that day; it was my comfort and my anchor.

“Okay,” I said.

We walked home that day hand in hand, we made dinner together the next day after school.

He went back to China the month after.

He made it back in time for my sixth grade promotion ceremony. I hugged him so hard that day. When I let go, the flowers hanging around my neck were all crumpled. I should’ve held on tighter.

He stayed that summer, but we went to the park less often. At the time, I wanted to be too old to go to the park anymore.

During junior high, I joined a bunch of extracurricular clubs. He would sit in the front

rows of my concerts, take pictures of me and my award-winning robots, and heat up dinner when I made it home from practice.

I should’ve thanked him for being there. For always trying.

We stopped going to the park altogether.

He went back to China while I was at a competition.

In China, I heard that he would sleep more and more, and that whenever he was awake, he would cough up blood. He coughed so much, and he went to the hospital. Then, the hospital called my mom. I was at rehearsal, I didn’t know until we were on the plane. I wish I had tried harder to find out what was happening to him.

When I saw him again, he was blinking into consciousness in a stark room. He was kept breathing with tubes that ran down his throat and up his nose. His frail body—once soft and warm—shrunk to skin and bone, cold and almost like decay. His hands were hidden by a white blanket, but I imagine the gray spots grew darker. His hands probably stopped shaking all together—but in a different, irrevocable way. When he opened his eyes, he probably couldn’t see me.

There were too many layers of plastic in the way. But he heard me.

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I wanted him to hear me. To know I was there.

“Is it okay if I sing to him?” I asked the nurse. I sang him a Chinese lullaby, trying so hard to mimic his southern accent so he could feel at home.

I wanted his last memory of me to be a good one. I somehow knew that my singing voice would be his last memory of me. But it still felt like I let go too soon.

I was sleeping in his room when I heard my mom and dad leave the house. It was well past midnight, but I woke up anyway.

The next day, we were burning his clothes and paper money in a smoking funeral room. We picked out a beautifully carved wooden box to put his ashes in and buried him in the following month. # A year later, I went back to the park. I climbed the jungle gym and sat up top, in between the monkey bars. The same wooden chips covered the ground. It was the same playground, everything was the same, it looked like no time passed. Except that time had passed, faster than I could ever have imagined.

With one blink, the years swallowed me.

I felt lost as all that time slowly tunneled its way into me. Time carved a hole under my skin, finding a home in my unreachable parts—which I took for granted to always be safe. It splintered like those wooden chips that day. Not in the crevices of my hands, but everywhere else that

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mattered. And it hurt, like nothing else could have prepared me for.

I realize now that I should’ve done so many things with him before it was too late. I should’ve walked to the park everyday with him for as long as he would let me. I should’ve cut vegetables with him as he made dinner, should’ve rode with him on the long car rides to the airport. I should’ve picked him up at the terminal when it was time to go home, I should’ve been at his bedside when it was time to go.

I should’ve done everything for him, like he did everything for me.

I should’ve thanked him for that.

There should have been some physical wound that came to me like a bleeding chest, or a bullet to the heart. Something real to show for all the aches and pains that I couldn’t see; no such miracle appeared. So, I did the next best thing I could think of.

I screamed.

I wailed like Death had come for me, like I was on the brink of insanity. But Death had not come for me. Death came for him, and he saved me.

Don’t cry.

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dear friend, ***POEM AND ART SUBMISSION*** WRITING AND DESIGN BY AUD MA

remember when we used to sit on the grass the sun shined bright, the air smelled clear the wind stopped, time stood still nothing else mattered glued at the hip we had each other on speed dial you were the one i ran to the first to hear my rants the first to know all the news i miss those days. those days where it was just me and you. me and you against the world. now i can’t help but ask, you’re here but are you listening? the air feels stale and i can’t help but wonder, as we sit in the world full of distractions, are you focused on me and my words? or has the glass wall between us grown thicker? how do i tell you that i miss you? i know i’m second if not third place now. we don’t have those days on the grass anymore. no more talks late into the night. “have you seen the news about –––?” “do you know about this –––?” but what about “how are you?” how about “what have you been up to?”

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i wonder if you know i’d drop everything for you run over if you needed with hands full of gifts full of love to give but i can’t help but think, would you do the same?

––– yet, please don’t forget about me i know i’m not always around anymore i don’t care if i’m not number one so please, please just don’t forget about me please don’t leave me behind

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The Difference Between Februaries (Los Angeles) WRITING BY MARISSA DING DESIGN BY RAINA PAEPER Content warning: For resources on disordered eating, see https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/get-involved/nedawareness/resources.

Last February you were clad in the same men’s size 38 slacks and an oversized jacket walking out of the dining hall to the train station just outside of campus hyperfixating on reducing weights filling out bodily figures slimming down silhouettes while the rain mixed with the tears stumbling down your cheeks.

It was windy that day and you watched the train come and go as you shivered and your clothes billowed around you. That jacket was an extra large in the U.S. a size they don’t make in China. You chose this for yourself.

That day was just another day of hiding what you looked like from everyone refusing to call your body a frame because a frame should communicate structure, not formless extremities a frame should uphold the beauty standards you couldn’t help but see yourself in an embarrassment for a culture that discarded sizes like 22

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24, for an a4 sheet of paper.

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SPLINTERS ***POEM SUBMISSION***

Maybe you always kept that shame within you when you started buying shirts that covered your waist your hips your thighs, and you called it “your style.” I just don’t want to define how I present myself with a label, you said. When you started skipping meals and filling downtime with empty calories the taste of low-sodium potato chips stale in your mouth after lunch, it brought back more memories pushing around undercooked rice grains and day-old kale on your plate at the dining hall staring at the mirrors in the library bathroom when you took study breaks fixating on how your body had changed.

A year later it’s raining again. You wear a leather jacket this time so you don’t get drenched, as you walk to the train station contemplate leaving the journey down the rabbit hole behind.

Perhaps things would’ve been the very same if you chose to wear something that dried fast, like polyester. You remember last February your sleeves draping under and around your arms clinging to every inch of you you, crying at the dining hall the fabric soaking up with tears, so wet as if you had just come in from the rain.

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Hole in the Wall WRITING BY ECHO TANG DESIGN BY JASMINE KWOK

TW: Mention/depiction of suicide attempt, friends, he who died alone in the cold, cold mention of death. dawn when the stars were still sprinkling the sky. He loved the stars, those same stars he There’s a hole in my kitchen wall. doodled on my math homework. I’m eight Gaping and black, threatening to years older than he’ll ever be. It doesn’t make consume the room. Pipes snake up the wall, sense. green and red from copper and rust, flanked Perhaps what’s truly in the hole in the kitchen by dull wood rods. The plaster is soft, slack wall is only a call in the middle school quad away, a quad so big it becomes a bottomless from the weight of its injury.

There’s a smattering of mold along void. Isn’t it scary, being fourteen forever, the corners, blooming spectacularly like a alone somewhere once so familiar but now wildflower field and not a parasite. And what so indomitable that it might as well have been makes us decide which forms of life are more outer space? And eventually, don’t stars also beautiful than others? Even straw looks like die, collapsing in on themselves so that they gold in the sunlight. Life is life, is life. In an swallow and destroy everything around them? abyss that thrashes and tears, pulsing like a I wake up in a fit and look in the wall supernova in this dingy kitchen, life strives, again, trying to see what I couldn’t see in my dream. I see my mother, who has her father’s continues, is.

The mold, glory in its blossoms, means eyes, who has his mother’s eyes, who has her father’s eyes. How painful, being immortal the world. would be, seeing those same eyes for eternity.

How lonely.

I had a dream about the world beyond the hole in the wall. In my dream, I was twentytwo years old, and my friend was so small and young, fourteen years old for eternity. If that is what’s beyond the wall, then I would have crossed the peeling plaster in a heartbeat and wrapped his small frame, once bigger and stronger than mine, in my arms.

But he died, he died the summer before high school. I found out on the six o’clock news, and they said that he was in Yosemite, freak accident. That couldn’t be right. He told me about Yosemite. He knew the trails and waterfalls like the back of his hand. There was no fucking way.

And yet, dead on arrival, dead in tortured silence: he who was always surrounded by

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What’s in my mother’s kitchen?

Soy sauce goes in the front. Black vinegar goes on the side, rose wine behind it.

Peppercorn oil always in the corner in the back because “people who aren’t from my hometown just can’t get used to it.” My hometown. She never says it by name because no one knows where it is. I’m glad that’s why she doesn’t say it by name; others won’t say because they are ashamed. Not my mother, no.

My mother, who stuttered over company dinners, transformed into an elegant woman of grace haggling over ginseng prices at the Chinese herb market. She learned to smooth her tongue over foreign syllables so she could

SPLINTERS be that same woman everywhere, not just behind the counter layered with newspapers and red envelopes from four or five zodiac cycles ago.

And she succeeded at it, because she is my mother. I know so because her lips upturn in scorn when another woman at her company dinner stumbles over the same words she did years ago. I bet that woman is just as regal when she’s plunged in aisles lined with leeks and radishes so fresh that dirt still clings to them.

My mother calls them the people back there. Was she not once back there too?

Maybe “back there” was just now a figment of her imagination, tipped roofs and humped green mountains obscured in the fog of myth, falling down the furnace of time.

I sometimes think about whether she thought about the other side. But with her back, straight as a rod, and shoulders square and proud, I realized that the moment a crack threatened to tear her plaster in two, she fixed it. A hole didn’t even have the chance to form.

I watch my own funeral like I’m attending it. My parents stoop over my coffin, tears tumbling off their cheeks. It’s a familiar sight, and I realize where I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen it in my kitchen, dirty water streaking gray plaster the same way teardrops stained my father’s face. How they are different, how they are the same.

High school classmates cry like they know me; wail like they care about me; speak sprawling, lifeless eulogies like it’s easier than breathing. My corpse is a zoo, and they’re throwing peanuts. Sad, sinister spectacle.

How would I go?

One world says I’d be washed away at sea. Another thinks I’d perish in a car crash, limbs bent a million ways. A freak accident like

I’ve seen on the TV, but I’m far too ordinary to go in a place as spectacular and beautiful as Yosemite. Maybe something cruel and torturous, but I’m scared that it’ll hurt. I still winced when I got my ears pierced, even with numbing cream. Maybe something instant, but something inside me still wants the world to see me, writhing in anguish, because at least it means that I was here.

Even my own demise plays like a work of cinema where I’m tossed around in the waves like a rag doll, lost in the eye of the storm. My classmates would eat it all up like a dog with a bone. Wind up the toy, watch it do tricks.

So I reach for blades.

If I died, at least it would be on my own terms.

My grandfather wanted me, but he didn’t want me. I’d lose the family name, because my father only had sisters and my grandfather’s dead brother never had a child.

The patriarchy cowers when my grandfather reigns in the kitchen, and it roars back to life when his wok makes food to raise men. The food rots, spoils, disintegrates, burns the hole in the kitchen wall deeper.

So I’m now my father’s son, and I wonder if he across the universe managed to destroy himself like he wanted, because my mother’s daughter didn’t have the courage, the selfishness to do so. If he held his life in his hands with my grandfather’s desire to have a grandson, and squeezed it into a pulp.

If he could do it because he was a man. If he could do it because he hated everyone, and he hated himself.

00 29

DESCENT MAGAZINE There’s a razor lodged between the rusty pipes, and I’m suddenly seventeen again, staring at it in one hand while groping the cold tile of the shower under the other. I raise it to my skin, squeeze my eyes shut, I know the pain, I prepare for the pain, I am the pain.

My sister’s laughter from the other side of the wall stops me. She’s watching some sitcom that’s tanked in ratings on IMDb. It’s enough for me to trade the razor in my hand for 988 on my phone.

I love someone, so I don’t hate myself.

I’m alone at Hollywood Palladium on Thursday night because no one could believe that somebody like me would like a Japanese rock band.

No, that’s not right. I’m alone because they saved me. Their scrappy lyrics and dramatic riffs made me into a Someone. They made me want to disappear a little bit less, made me feel like there was a place for me here, on this side. For a split second, I thought that even my weight, no matter how unordinary of a speck of dust in the years they’ve been playing, could manage to bruise their shoulders, so small that I became a giant in their presence.

Their voice, which sang to everyone, was still so mine that my chest ached with the gravity of my possession.

They made me believe in magic, the magic of when hearts beat together.

Those words shot bullets into my body, and I felt myself being saved over and over again by this music which didn’t know my name nor my face. And I wondered how the whole thing would be different, if only I was a bigger Someone in their eyes.

Maybe in the hole in the wall, that concert would’ve been just another concert. I would’ve slumped in my bed right after I slammed the door to the Uber instead of sitting at my

30

kitchen bar on a rickety IKEA barstool, staring transfixed at a rectangle of blue light radiation with tears streaming down my face for three hours. I would’ve drifted into a dreamless sleep instead of sitting in a meadow of mold blossoms and lichen petals, listening to guitar chords serenade other Someones with the same doting kindness they have given me, one I once thought that only I received.

But I would rather have my heart split in two than feel nothing at all.

How would you fix a hole in the wall?

A) You patch it up with plaster and paint, replace the molding wood and creaking pipes.

Just like my mother did.

B) You fill the crevice with soil and water, and plant a small forest. Watch it grow and weave and snarl with branches, filling what was once an abyss with leaves and flowers. Watch it make the mold and moss beautiful. The mold and moss were already beautiful.

Let the hole be a hole. Let it be dirty and ugly and hurtful. Let it ravage you and make you whole.

le be o h e Let th Let it be . a hole d ugly an dir ty r tful. u h d an vage a r t i Let ake m d n you a ole. h you w

SPLINTERS

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SREENIDHI BOOPATHI

MULTIMEDIA, 2023

SPLINTERS

DESCENT MAGAZINE

Ong amon Our Flowers nga bulak

***WINNER OF DESCENT’S SEMESTERLY WRITING CONTEST***

WRITING BY JANA MAE RUBIO DESIGN BY MICHAELA CHANG It’s not the anniversary of anything yet, but it will be in a few months. This spring, the one year anniversary of my grandma Naynay’s hospitalization. She moved out of our house to my tita’s, where there was more space for her medical equipment. That summer, Nay passed away.

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SPLINTERS This is the first thorn of my adulthood: the loss of a close family member.

I’m not mentally ready for this spring, but I’ve begun bracing myself. When I think about my grandma, I remember how she loved roses.

I remember how every May, my mom and Nay would gather blooms for the altar in Nay’s bedroom. There is such a clear picture in my mind of Nay meticulously pruning the prickly stems of the flowers on our kitchen counter as my mom prepared glass vases. It’s a fond memory that is forever embedded in my heart.

Ironically, I never had a conscious interest in roses growing up. I mean, they grew in our backyard and smelled nice sometimes? I knew it hurt a lot if our basketball rolled away and got lodged in the thorns, that stems should be cut at an angle to maximize water intake, and that unfurled buds are the best to put in vases since they gradually open up over time. I would soon learn more about caring for roses from Nay directly.

When the lockdown started, gardening became one of my main hobbies. My therapist suggested I do something outdoors and I thought gardening would be cute and romantic. Nay was so excited when I began going outside consistently. She would always ask me in the afternoons if I was going to garden later that day. If I answered yes, she would dutifully prepare her little walking aid that accompanied her as she did laps around our backyard. I was growing roses too, and Nay was so worried about the thorns wounding my hand.

When I pruned the base of a shrub, she would slow her pace and sagely advise, “Mag ingat ka at baka matusok ka, Jan.” Take care or else you will get poked. I miss her gentle reminders that always prioritized my well-being.

defining characteristics. I think it was unexpected because I thought I knew better. I’d completely forgotten Nay’s warning. Maybe I’d been too eager to plant the rose because I wanted to relive my memories of gardening with Nay sooner.

Recently I listened to a podcast about grief, and the hosts said something along the lines of “At some point they’ll be gone longer than they’ve been alive.” It knocked the wind out of me. I hadn’t heard such a concise summary of how small life can be. Nay was 94 and spent the last two decades of her life living with my family. She helped raise my brother and me; she gave everything she could to us. And her impact on our lives was anything but small.

This is my thorn. It’s the sharp inhale I take when I see my grandma’s cherished shrubs waking up from winter dormancy, and realize she isn’t around to enjoy them anymore. It’s gravitating towards any purple or red roses because they’ve always been the most fragrant varieties in our backyard.

Every day I see Nay’s favorite color rose on my way to school, and I just have to soldier on to campus without shattering.

Planting my rose marks a tangible, fresh start.

It’s something that Nay would be proud of me for.

Maybe soon my heart will stop feeling like that basketball stuck in the rose bush. And maybe soon I can look at my new rose, knowing that the roots have anchored steadily and completely into the dirt. I need to see something under my care thrive, so that my heartache will be easier to live with.

Despite the scarring I feel in my heart, I hope for better days. I want to see my roses bloom.

Just the other day, I planted a new rose in a terracotta pot at my parents’ house. I hadn’t realized this particular type of heirloom rose had thorns near the base of the plant, so I almost dropped it when it pierced my thumb. Why did I space out?

Of course roses have thorns! It’s one of the flower’s

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***COMIC SUBMISSION*** ILLUSTRATION AND DESIGN BY RAINA PAEPER

DESCENT MAGAZINE

Didi

WRITING BY TAMANNA SOOD DESIGN BY DEVON LEE

It’s a bitter phantom sting. It seems to be forgotten in your memory, yet everytime you graze over it, the pain of how it felt right when it happened hits you again. It’s lodged deep into your skin and yet can be seen sticking out. It’s far too deep to grab with a single pull, yet the splinter lures and taunts you with the idea. The splinter’s treachery is that everytime you try to grab it with your bare fingers, it moves further into your skin. Hence, a tool is needed for the retrieval. In my case, it’s always been an ice cold sewing needle held taut in my Nanima’s hands that punctures my skin and pulls out the splinter. She’ll carefully run her index finger over the splinter, doing her best not to hurt me. Yet she will soon purposely puncture my skin and draw it out using that same needle. It’s just custom practice. In order for the healing process to begin and for the pain to dissipate, the wound must be opened again.

In Punjabi culture, we fight pain with pain. The saying, loha lohe ko kattha hai (metal cuts metal), is what we live by. We fight splinters with needles and we fight grief with mourning. The sorrow of grieving and the pain of a splinter exist in our bodies the same way. The initial sadness and sorrow of mourning soon dwindles, but the wound inside you will, at random times, remind you of the pain that you once felt. The way we go about healing from splinters is the same way we go about managing our grief.

We mourn, we swallow our pain, and silently continue to grieve again.

It was white.

The sheet covering the carpet in my living room when I came home from school that day.

It was loud.

The throbbing of my anxious heart that I heard in my ears the day I found out.

It’s lonely.

The permanence of her departure.

The movie reel plays again. The sound of the old-timey movie countdown murmurs as the scene starts. The staticy multiple color tv stripes flash in my mind back and forth. The sounds are alive once again. My sobbing grandma, the pin drop silence in the room, the apologetic faces of the visitors. The image of the room seems to be collapsing in on itself in my head and seems to only be held up only by the constant ringing in my ears. The random and ill timed remarks of every side character.

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SPLINTERS

“She was so young.”

“She was going to be a doctor” “Is she really dead?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“She really loved you.”

“She was such a good girl.”

“She had achieved so much.”

“I feel bad for her fiance.”

“You never know. It was probably drugs.”

“She might have killed herself.”

It’s so and

overdone tired. The

memory of this day has played itself over in my head about a million times. When the smell of the jasmine incense hits my nose at a random thrift shop, when I’m studying on campus and the light of the library is a little too similar to that of my childhood living room, when I’m six shots in at a college party – It’s boring at this point. And yet, it causes me to stop in my tracks and shuts my body down everytime. My eyes will involuntarily start to swell and my throat will close.

Suddenly, I’m fifteen and afraid

again. I’m back in my living room hearing the sobs of my mother. Day is soon turning into night and the lights of the house are still off.

My dad is pacing around the house wearing an expression I’ve never seen before. My uncle is consoling my mother.

My brother stares right at me with a blank

expression while tears start to spill down my cheeks.

And then I’m back remembering that the day has far gone, and so has she.

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DESCENT MAGAZINE

It was a 2011 silver Ford Escape. It had a large bumper with uncanny resemblance to an alligator. She and I used to sit and talk in it for hours. The late night ice cream trips to the convenience store. The hours driving to and from Bakersfield. The days we used to sit with our legs hanging out of the trunk eating our takeout. Every part of us existed in that car.

From the pink glittery steering cover to the overflowing glove compartment to the thirty rollerball perfumes hidden in every seat pocket, the car was something we built together. The safe haven of a little girl and her big sister.

It was a silly and impractical vehicle. It was bulky and huge. Something you wouldn’t expect a five foot tall girl to drive. The car of her dreams. A man’s SUV. The backseat was always covered in dog hair. If I close my eyes

and clear my head, I can even smell the sky blue sea bre e ze car freshener that rested on top of the air conditioner. The trunk was bigger than an apartment and yet she managed to always fill it halfway. There was always a pair of scrubs and a whole plastic container filled with different shoes. It was my favorite place in the world.

We sold the car about four years ago against all of my wishes. I was old enough to know why, yet young enough not to care. The world had officially taken her away from me that day. The car she had promised to teach me how to drive in. The car she had promised me she would take me to my first club in. The car she promised me we would have our first drink in. The car was everything that could

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have been. I think about him every now and then. You never properly introduced us and I understand why. He was there for years after you passed. And then he wasn’t. We used to talk about you for hours. He was the only person who knew you like I did. He was a really good guy. You did so well. You were gonna be so happy.

Is it bad that the heartbroken part of me still feels jealous at weddings thinking about the happiness that could have been yours?

I promise I mean them well, but I just wish I could have danced at your wedding. I wish I could have held a chunni over your head at your haldi. I wish I could have fed you while you got your henna done. I wish I could have gotten to dress you up on your big day.

Is it wrong of me to still be upset? Mom says if I miss you too much I’m keeping your soul from being at peace. I’m sorry if that’s the case, but could you just forgive me sometimes? I promise I’m trying my best.

You haven’t appeared in my dreams in a while so I haven’t gotten the chance to talk to you.

It makes me sad that you don’t want to see me anymore, but it makes me happy to know that you are keeping busy. I hope you’re doing okay. I hope you know that I am too. I miss you and I love you, Didi.

“I hope you’re doing okay. I hope you know that I am too. I miss you and I love you, Didi.“

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Much like removing splinters, there are moments that I find onal damage of childhood trauma, passed down through g DESCENT MAGAZINE

WRITING BY KATRINA ROMERO TRAN DESIGN BY ISABELLE LIM

***WRITING

SUBMISSION***

Walk With M e

It’s interesting to think about splinters and how quickly and smoothly they enter my skin, and yet how difficult they can be to remove. For a person like me who hates any sort of bruise, bump, or cut, the concept of cutting skin open to retrieve a stray piece of wood is panic-inducing. Why would I purposefully cut myself open any more than I have to?

When a splinter is caught in my skin, I often marvel at how quickly it becomes embedded. Initial attempts to fingernails to retrieve it often result in surface breakage or pushing the sliver of wood deeper within.

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nearly impossible to move on from—the physical and emo generations of ancestors who were “just trying to make it SPLINTERS

Sure, my childhood did have many bright moments, ones revolving around chalk, Reading Rainbow, and playing pretend in the backyard. But there were deeper and darker moments mixed in that seem to supersede other memories of those formative years: these were moments of crying, abject loneliness, denying personal truths to save myself, silencing and shrinking to stay out of “trouble.” All together, I fell into deeply-rooted patterns of anxiety and insecurity, which continue to bubble up uncertainty in regards to my own self-image, my perceptions of what healthy interactions and relationships look like.

When removing splinters, removal of a splinter is necessary: to avoid further injury or infection, to alleviate my ailing mind from further duress.

I know there are so many other children of immigrants that have experienced similar narratives, whose pain and insecurity are buried deep beneath the lacquer of achievements, of seemingly accomplished “American dream” success stories.

Much like removing splinters, there are moments that I find nearly impossible to move on from—the physical and emotional damage of childhood trauma, passed down through generations of ancestors who were “just trying to make it.” Although it’s stress-inducing, working through my own pains is necessary in order to have the life and inner peace that I know I deserve.

The act of removing a splinter is at once both a relief and an accomplishment: the second the sliver of wood leaves my skin, I marvel at its smallness and ability to cause such discomfort and anxiety. At the same time, I am proud of myself for having endured the experience, knowing that I’m wiser for the next time.

It sometimes feels as if the work of healing is to try to undo the burdens of generations before me, but I know that my parents and ancestors did their best with what they had. They did their best in the face of patriarchy, oppression, and poverty—just as I am trying to do as well. It takes an army of folx to engage in healing, and the older I get, the more I realize that I cannot do this work on my own. Even if I have to do the physical work of reaching out to others and the emotional work of identifying and untangling my triggers, understanding that there are people to listen ultimately brings me hope. We walk through the moments of pain and uncertainty, together.

And so, I will accept these splinters for what they are, as part of my own experience. I will talk about these splinters with others, especially those who have them too, in the hopes that —although we may not be able to be completely rid of them—maybe we can help each other remove them, with time.

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DESCENT MAGAZINE

The Phoenix’s Guide to

Self-Immolation

WRITING BY Z LUO DESIGN BY DEVON LEE

Charcoal flame flashes, dim amidst the steady drizzle of pattering raindrops. In a mockery of a nest of wet soot and ash, a small bird stretches.

Oh, you’re back. Strange. Experimental shrugs of your wings bring stiffness and crisp, cracking sounds. You stare at your wings, if these odd things could even be an excuse for wings, feathers charred and ragged, barely decorating bones that shoot ever outwards and you cannot breathe.

You peck at them, unsure at whether your eyes have peddled l i e s , w a t c h i n g distanced as obsidian flame jets from what f l e s h remains. Definitely yours. Yet the caress of the rain is cold and these things are not yours. They cannot be yours.

Steeling y o u r s e l f , you leap, like a chicken in flight. You register a minor twinge on your side, but you still can’t breathe. Again. Fire drips into your beak, mixing with rainwater, sickly sweet. Again. A shawl of black flame emerges against you, but air continues to escape your gasping lungs. Again.

You are adorned in dark regalia of ebony flames, yet your stubborn ability still refuses to activate. In the eternity in which you collide

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again and again with the bitter, mildly burning ground, you suffocate. Finally though, your fire takes pity on your broken form and ignites.

Despite the agony of your bones, you greet the raging wildfire that greedily consumes and cleanses every bit of wrong with a jagged grin.

It makes sense that you’d have to asphyxiate to breathe again. ~ Tucked in a windy crag and rocking incessantly, a cerulean egg waits for the sea. Chipped spheres of hail rush from the sky, a heavy greeting from the world.

The sea rushes in, and you’re back, drenched and much too fluid.

There’s an ocean in your head. It howls with storms and calms with the moon, relentless and so loud. The tide sings to you, lullabies and laments, and you sway ever closer to the lure of the sea. Crashing waves beckon, beckon you, deafen you to anything but the sirenic, hissing froth of the sea, veins of sand pleading with you, to bury yourself beneath the mirror of blue.

You hurl yourself into the sea, a muted plume of water jetting from where your flames explode.

-

SPLINTERS Lavender and scarlet reindeer moss flutter amidst fluff, shed feathers floating like snow.

A river crept in while you were gone, lapping at your claws with chilly, undulating ebbs.

Claws? Glancing down, you balk at the … iridescent scales shimmering along violet, leathery wings. Whose nightmare has thrust you into this draconic form?

Your new wings slice through the air, sending y o u gliding in languid lazy loops, so swift and sure, lavender rushing t h r o u g h your mind. Yet still, e a c h sharp flap brings a sense of c h i l l . Your body is so much colder than it should be, crystalline specks of frost coalescing across your scales like freezing a r m o r. You can’t stop shaking.

You haven’t tried to return to stardust in a while, but the suffocating cold of your skin leaves you no choice. Murmuring a quick apology to whatever victims there will be, you soar upward, rapidly, before tucking your wings to dive. As you blaze like a comet towards your victim of a volcano, the ice begins to melt.

A skeletal bird dreams in turmeric flame, nourished in the depths of lava. Yet, when you crawl out under the harsh sun, you have fins, flapping, flightless, useless. With the phantom taste of rose on your forgetful tongue, you ignite.

Incandescent.

You are a featherless biped and you can’t move, your mind alight with a conflagration that finally, finally sparks.

Spiraling horns, magnificent even when damp in the torrential downpour but so wrong, inferno, hatching with … hands? Flesh and featherless, so wrong, flaring into rocks for feathers to explosions and shards of azure rippling through your vision as gills, wrong, burns to wrong, wrong, wrong-Oh, you’re back.

The first step of self-immolation is–

叽叽叽 Chicken! Ah, to be as free as a bird, even a grounded one.

Oh, you can fly? 叽叽叽 Ah, a smart bird are you! Can you understand me? No? Well, that’s ok. You have time to grow.

Chicken! You’re still here! 叽叽叽 I brought you some food! Look!

I heard chickens like strawberries so I found you these really green ones! 叽叽 Come ooooooooooooon, won’t you eat it? For me? 叽 I’ll eat it with you?

Yayyyyyyy!

The sun sets on twin faces emblazoned with matching, puckered grimaces.

Chicken, you’re on fire! 叽叽叽 Huh? You’re not on fire? But you weren’t this carrot before?

Interesting, so you just burn sometimes? Don’t do it in the future 啊.

Maybe someone will think you’re some

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DESCENT MAGAZINE legendary phoenix.

And now, we can match scars!

Anyway, I brought you more food today!

See, it’s a fruit cake! Because a balanced diet is important! 叽 It’s not strange! I baked it, so it’s a little lopsided, but there’s nothing wrong with the taste.

See, some kiwi and honeydew, figs, carrots and eggplant, all with a yogurt coating, fine, I’ll take a bite first– 叽叽叽 A crescent moon rises under the radiance of twin smiles.

Chicken, am I useless? 叽?

I just want to b e loved for who I am.

Not who I can be. 叽叽叽 You don’t have to try to make me feel better. It’s ok as long as you’re here. 叽叽叽 I didn’t bring you much today. Just this really big plum– 叽叽叽 Yeah, it’s really yummy isn’t it? 叽叽叽 叽叽叽 You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you later, ok? 叽叽叽 That’s a promise.

Chicken! I snuck out, so I’ll have to do some extra studying, but look! 叽叽叽 Yeah! I made you this corn and durian mooncake! 叽叽 Don’t worry! You can quiz me, and we’ll eat together if I get it wrong! 叽 Amused stars watch as a small chicken chases

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a child, both laughing with pained expressions of disgust amidst the drifting, powerful scent of durian.

Chicken! 叽叽叽 Today, I got up early and baked you this blackberry-lavender-cabbage crepe cake!

It’s not very pretty and I ruined a bunch of layers, but it should still taste good! 叽叽叽 Chicken, did you hear that? !! Chicken, hide! 叽?

I’ll lead them away, please, run or hide!

The observing celestials wipe at their leaking trails of starlight from glittering, prism eyes as the chicken nudges the small, crumpled crimson form, faces still both flecked with lavender cream. Frustrated, it burns the form to no avail, setting an amethyst stone before the charred husk of a corpse as a memorial. 叽叽叽 你不回来吗？ 燃烧了也没变 哎， 爱， I… Come back, come back! 叽, I’m back. I’ve never dreamt before, but I think I dreamt of you. Humans are obsessed with names, but somehow I never learned yours. Who will remember you? I tried to make the thing you called cake, but I’m not sure if it was the heat or the materials but it exploded.

I brought you the remains if you still want to split them.

A gust of cool air lifts the smoking ‘cake’ in lazy, ribboning arcs.

I ate a durian today and it reminded me of you. Are you still eating your horrible concoctions, wherever you are?

A breeze blows, messing your long

SPLINTERS tailfeathers into a matted mess.

Okay, okay, your unique concoctions, better?

I brought you those odd fruits you liked so much. See, the mauve one, and the green ones, the red one, the blue one, the pink one too. I tried to bring some seedlings so you’d have company too. I think that with you watching over them, they’ll grow really big and sweet.

The wind gently ruffles through your feathers.

I’ve never stayed this long, you know. It’s … like an itch, maybe, the urge to ignite. But then I wouldn’t be me any more, in a way. And you liked me as me. It’s funny, you know, being me. I thought I’d want to be someone else by now, but it’s kind of nice. You liked me for me.

Not someone who I could be. Not someone I wasn’t.

My feathers are the color of your ichor now, bloody reds and purples. I wonder what you’d think. Do you still think of me as that little chicken? My tailfeathers finally grew, so maybe you’d mistake me for a dull peacock. Our scar sits pale across scarlet and violet plumage. I’ve never kept a scar for so long before. I wonder what yours would look like.

I… I don’t think I can hold on anymore. I… wanted to … say hello … to you … I’m … sorry … may…be … I’ll … see .. you a— On a lonely peak where stray clouds play with ice and earth, a battered phoenix lays. A trail of tiny, periwinkle flames lead to the phoenix, which heaves gasping breaths as each successive, weakening gulp of air wracks its crumpled form and sparks at the surrounding flora. Despite the furrow of concentration in its pained brow, desperately trying to smother the crimson flames that crawl up its

ripped tail feathers, it can barely begin to cry before it is cut off by searing combustion.

A tiny wisp of blue flame hovers in the midst of the decimated mountaintop, floating across scarred ground and between skeletal, ashy stubs of trees. In front of a small, charred remnant of rock, it pauses, shaking.

Then, it blooms like an exhale, sighing into the form of a small, cyan chicken. When it glances down at the pristine, matted teal feathers across its chest, a wailing keel shatters the silence.

Pale creamy petals beckon / to their tart fruit / as decadent flesh / lies / in the arms of / summer / unrisen / no juice to stain / molting feathers askew / in a nest of down / you stain feathers / viridian Frolic / across lush meadows / blossoming with multihued flora you cannot / name / wade through streams / with rushes of steam / wherever you brush / perch along magnificent, wizened / branches / hide in hollows / from the fuzzy forms / of your / compatriots / to dream / and dream bursting from the sun / ever radiant / to glide towards the ever-elusive / moon / the stars call out blessings / jest over the length of your / tailfeathers / as you laugh / and dive / to greet their / reflections / amidst the spray / you delight at / rainbows Flaming eyes locked on / delicate, colorstruck wings / thinner than your feathers yet / fluttering so swiftly / ribbons and strokes of color / to dance across the sky / with your clumsy form / following

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DESCENT MAGAZINE Play at potions and gardens / as the ivy spirals along / frigid waterfalls and / among plum trees / to tie knots of grass / as promises / untangled or / cut / you still borrow sky from the trees / for what passes / as wisdom Ragtag wings still flutter / something seemingly / true / funny is it how / truth bends as you / need / and above the / scorched earth you / can breathe / with the jokester winds Oh patchwork phoenix in your regalia (who says regalia) /I like the vivid hues/ [muted] by your blindness to (pain)

Do you remember *what it feels like to* -burnyou are a sight to be beheld, surely (ha, you are, in your flailing) and attached too much (is this attachment?) is your torn wing, /silence, for the chirping of the

crickets/

wa, fire! (quiet) to listen /is not to be/ is not to have [why are the feathers brown?]

-ombre- lies, yellows and reds Gurgle and babble / little brook / flow red like the sky / splits into welcome / fit for the first / gasps of the world / listen / listen as the rivers

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/ awaken Listen, the fanfare / blares / escort of the ghost / requires a deft spin / of your wings / never quite / touching / ripples of mercury / light, r i n g s of ghostly / balefire / to comfort / t he faceless / where has / your ghost / gone?

Perhaps vengeance is fit / for the trees you have / trapped / tortured into sculptures / and dust / never to wither and gnarl / to see the gift of / decay / as seas melt to your / embrace / listen / the winds forget too / the rustle of / leaves 乖呀，乖，you child before / fate / are you still / child / sleepless / dreamless / weary of spinning again / and again / have you g r o w n dizzy? / can you hear / the grand bell of dao / tolling / to spin / again Can you hear the sound / of breaths / calm / and ragged / do you taste air / or water / in your blazing lungs / you walking corpse / is the hissing air escaping / whispers of / are you awake / are you breathing / are you / breathing

SPLINTERS Cut yourself open, won’t you / little birdie / you’ve never felt flesh / ripped apart by the carrion / believing you deceased / you find solace in your / ashes / though you flee / always / from the ruinous devastation / of your / wake / listen, the crows are / cawing

and let it hop onto your palm, little embers spattering merrily. You’d barely had the chance to bask in this warmth before it leapt off of your fingers towards the shell. Was it going to pick up its siblings? Would you have a nice, protein-filled dinner?

Listen / your feathers / burn

Before you could dive further into your poultryfilled daydream, the chick began pecking at its shell. You’d laughed at the sight, leaning down to help when suddenly, the chick’s Stab-pull. Stab-pull. Stab-pull. beak bloomed into a sharp-fanged, many toothed wonder with a long, spine-covered The hoe cuts crisply through the charred tongue flicking wildly. A massive shard of a topsoil, stroke by stuttering stroke. Despite piece disappears into that gaping maw. Not the pervasive scent of smoke, you can almost to be cowed, you’d taken a burning bite too, smell the eggplants and figs that will flourish. crunching through fig and honeydew, blazing Soon. Stab-pull. Soon. lavender and blood.

You smile at the tiny chick who watches with shining, apricot eyes.

Want to try? 叽叽叽 chirps the chicken.

Each drag sends crashing slices ricocheting through your head. Stuck, you uproot your hoe and send another wave though your skull.

Caught on the blade, a fractured, ghastly skull peeks from the scorched earth; the long, crooked beak hangs open as though mid squawk.

In a flurry of sunshine down and lemon feathers, fluttering gently to the freshly hoed soil, your Don’t look. small chick dances across the handle, little wings beating happily. To your surprise, the No response. Where had your 叽叽叽 spade ignites in a shower of brilliant sparks. gone? And when you’d sought to glance down to cover the eyes of your chicken, Had it been yesterday, when the chick had you began to shake, with laughter, with hatched? Bouncing from that absurdly large tears. shell of plum with the occasional fleck of lime, it’d blinked at you with such child-like curiosity There are amber feathers fluttering and let out an inquisitive 叽叽叽. You’d blinked along your arm. twice at the sheer yellow of the chick, absurdly bright against that behemoth of a shell, and at how miniscule the chick seemed. Was there to be an entire legion that would follow it in a burst?

Without a thought, you’d extended your hand

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DESCENT MAGAZINE

A Place for the and Dying.

Dead. veryone agreed it was far too nice a day for a funeral. It was late spring, and the cemetery was in full bloom: flowers smattered against lush green, soft cotton clouds overhead, gravestones aglow in afternoon light. Even the coffin, Lorraine thought to herself, was beautiful: deep red cherry wood, lacquered so well you could see your reflection in it (she’d used it to make sure there wasn’t any lipstick on her teeth before she began sharing condolences with the other funeral-goers).

Now she smiled with determinedly clean teeth at an approaching Mrs. Watson, who returned it with a smile of her own. The extent of Lorraine’s knowledge of the other woman was that both their sons attended the same elementary school; nonetheless, there was nothing like the odd funeral to bring two loosely acquainted people together.

Both of the women stood for a few moments in comfortable silence, feeling sorry for themselves and for each other. Then Mrs. Watson asked, “How did you know Mark?”

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“I’m a regular at his store.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Watson. Something in her tone made Lorraine feel self-conscious suddenly.

She wondered if now was a good time to start crying. She’d already cried a few times that morning during the service, but now struck her as a particularly appropriate time to cry.

Dabbing at her eyes with her already damp Kleenex, she asked, “How did you know him?”

“Been neighbors forever,” Mrs. Watson said.

“I’ve always been terribly fond of him and his family. Such a pity.” Then, lifting a hand to shield the sun from her eyes: “Oh, dear,” she sighed, and Lorraine followed her gaze, where a tall, gangly figure had made its way over to the coffin.

The young man’s head was bowed, but even from this distance Lorraine could see the stark inky blackness of his hair, like a gaping hole in the daylight. She watched as he stretched a hand out to the coffin. For a moment she thought he might try to open it, but instead he just let his fingers splay out over the smooth cherry wood. Then he sank silently to his knees, shoulders trembling.

SPLINTERS

e Dying Dead WRITING BY MEGAN DANG DESIGN BY ISABELLE LIM Mrs. Watson caught Lorraine’s eye meaningfully. “Niko,” she explained shortly.

“Mark’s son.”

“Oh,” Lorraine said. She sentimentally placed a hand over her heart. “The poor angel.”

The women watched Niko weep from across the cemetery, a two-person audience at a one-man opera. Then another player entered the stage: a girl with short, straight hair one shade darker than her black dress. She looked at once fresh out of high school and like a 40-year-old mother of five, her youthful face warring with the pinched, aged expression on it. Each of her steps thundered with intention as she made her way toward Niko.

“That’s Hani, Mark’s other kid,” Mrs. Watson explained. “She’s Niko’s little sister.”

“Oh,” said Lorraine.

Then they watched as Hani finally reached Niko, and in one swift motion, grabbed him by the sleeve, wrenched his arm painfully, and promptly threw him face down into the grass.

When the shouting started, Mrs. Watson asked Lorraine if she would like to head inside and try some of the hor d’oeuvres. Lorraine said that yes, she would like that very much.

“You’re the worst,” Hani told Niko first, because she thought that after three years of silence, that was the most important thing for him to be aware of. The delivery wasn’t half as cutting as she wanted it to be. She said it again, just for good measure: “You’re the worst.”

“Hani,” he croaked out, and when he looked up at her, his gaze was so stricken by genuine grief that anger whited out her vision for a moment. He lifted his arms up toward her. Hani responded by shoving him again; he toppled ungracefully onto his knees in the

“Oh,” said Lorraine.

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DESCENT MAGAZINE grass.

“What are you doing?” she hissed at him.

“I thought I—I don’t know. I thought I should hug you, I guess.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I guess because you’re my little sister?”

“Next time you try that I’m kicking that stupid Invisalign out of your mouth.”

“Noted.” Niko sat up, brushing his slacks off.

He frowned at the smudgy green on his knees.

“Man. I got grass stains on my suit.”

“Christ, no, not grass stains.”

“It’s dry-clean only.”

“How sad for you. Dad’s dead, but Niko’s got grass stains on his dry-clean only suit!” Her voice was rising to a shout, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.​​ Niko did—of course he did. He glanced at a pair of well-dressed white ladies who began to make their way inside the funeral home. “You’re scaring off the other mourners, Hani.”

In the politest of terms, Hani c o u l d not give one single shit about t h e other mourners. Mrs. Watson h a d resented Dad for as long as Hani could remember. Mrs. Watson hated that his pear tree grew into her yard, and their old dog Oatmeal who used to steal her house slippers, and that Dad made her take her shoes off if she took even one step into their house, and that Dad didn’t laugh at her self-deprecating jokes about her crumbling marriage.

Hani couldn’t imagine Mrs. Watson was too upset about any of this, and she suspected the same of the other lady, seeing as she’d never seen that one in her life.

“Well,” Hani said darkly, “my bad for killing the mood. I was under the impression this was a funeral, not a birthday party.”

Without warning, Niko’s face twisted

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painfully, as though he’d been punched in the gut. He sucked in a sharp breath and lowered his head. “Did he, uh… was it, like, over pretty…

I mean, how did he—” “Heart attack. It was over quickly, but it wasn’t pretty.”

“Was he… in a lot of pain?”

Somehow she knew exactly where Niko’s head was at; the feeling was warm and terrifying all at once. That even after all this time, after she thought they’d be complete strangers, she could still read him so easily. “No. I don’t know. Probably.” She paused. “Is that what you wanted to hear? That he suffered?”

“I don’t know,” he said. A thousand indecipherable emotions were at war on his face, but the only one she could make out distinctly was misery. “I don’t know.”

She watched him run his hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots, and the gesture was so familiar that it took her a beat to remember how to breathe again. An ancient memory dredged itself up in her head: Niko’s fingers running over his scalp, Dad wrenching his hands away. Stop touching your hair, you’re not a girl.

After a long moment she told him, “It won’t make things better.”

“Hani,” he started to say, but she didn’t hear him. She was already walking away.

“The girl — has she always been such a…”

“Stone cold bitch?”

“A character, is what I was going to say. But yes.”

SPLINTERS

“She’s not very fond of Niko.

As soon as he went away to college, he went pretty much no contact with her and their father.

She was the one who stayed behind, took care of the house.

Took care of Mark.”

“I don’t think that gives her the right to act like that.”

“Their family always loved strangely.

Makes sense they’re grieving strangely too.”

“That poor boy. Someone ought to show him some sympathy on a day like this.”

“Niko.”

“I know.” Her lips quirked slightly at the ends.

“You and your sister are sort of the stars of the show today.”

He laughed at this, although he didn’t find it very funny.

“I really am sorry, dear,” she said with a small, musical kind of sigh. “I just wanted to tell you that my heart goes out to you.”

“Thanks.”

“And I’m sorry about your sister, too.”

At this, Niko looked up. “What about her?”

“I saw her push you,” said Lorraine. “And all that shouting… just… completely inappropriate on a day like this, if you ask me.”

“Right,” he said. “Well. Thanks.”

“Oh!” Lorraine exclaimed suddenly. “Oh, dear.

Let me get you a napkin. I’ll be right back.”

It wasn’t until she hurried away that Niko realized he’d crushed the deviled egg in his hand: pasty yellow mashed against white.

Now that he was sitting alone again, Lorraine’s enormous hat was not blocking out the light anymore, and he squinted against the harsh sun until his eyes watered.

“He’s a good kid.” “Well, the boy is just an angel. An absolute angel.”

“Someone ought to.”

“Have you tried any of the hor d’oeuvres?”

Niko looked up. The lady’s hat was so large that it blocked out the sun. He started to push himself up to his feet, but she held out a hand.

“Please,” she said, “you don’t need to stand for me. I just… wanted to give you my condolences.

And something to eat.”

She offered a deviled egg to him; he slid it off the toothpick, smiled feebly at her. “Thanks.”

“My name’s Lorraine.”

“Have you tried this one? The waiter had some fancy word for it.

I think it’s French. Crudité, I believe it was? Or was it—” “He reminds me a lot of my son, strangely enough. Maybe the smile?

Maybe the manners?

Certainly not the face.”

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“Crudity? Croo-di-tee? Cru-deetee?”

“That looks like celery, Mrs. Watson.”

“Cru-di-tay…?”

In the church, Hani studied the back of her right hand, where a small scar clipped the edge of a knuckle. She still remembered the night she got it, when she’d come home past curfew, when she’d felt just masochistic enough to argue with her father about it, when a bottle had broken against a wall and she’d lifted her hands to her eyes and a tiny shard of glass had nicked her.

Her father had been a man of precision, something Hani thought he learned from his lifetime spent running the corner store.

He meted out pain to his children the same methodical way he counted change; never too much, never a penny short. He was careful not to leave scars, at least not ones on the outside. Hani always grew up grateful for it. Now, looking at the pale crescent on her knuckle, she began to realize it was one of the few things her father had left for her.

It was a tiny, faded thing, hardly even visible; she doubted anyone would be able to spot it even if she pointed it out. The irony of it all made her want to laugh: that her father’s last gift to her was this bit of pain that only she could see. How terribly fitting it was.

She was so lost in this memory that she didn’t even notice Niko had come into the church until she saw his grass-stained pants sliding into the pew beside her. She stole a cautious glance at his face, which was a curious mosaic

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of colors filtered through the stained glass window; it reminded her of the time he’d painted his eyes with a drugstore eyeshadow palette, and Dad backhanded him so hard his nose bled.

Finally he said, “Have you tried any of the hor d’oeuvres?”

Hani stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“Just making small talk.”

“Small talking is for people with too much time on their hands.”

“We can talk about whatever you want to talk about, then.”

“Does it even cross your mind that maybe I don’t want to talk to you after—after—” “After what? After Dad died? I didn’t kill him, Hani.”

“You killed me!” The words clanged like knives through the empty church, harsh, jagged, awful. Niko opened his mouth, but Hani kept going. “When you disappeared on us, you fucking—you killed me, Niko. That’s the worst part of it. You killed me and you don’t even know.”

“You know I had to leave—” “Of course I know that!” Hani snapped. “I don’t blame you for leaving, I just—you didn’t even tell me.”

“I thought you might tell Dad.” “You never even asked me,” she said plaintively.

She felt like a kid again, asking him to take her to the park with him and his cooler, older, weed-smoking friends, and she hated it. “If I wanted to go with you.”

“Would you have gone with me?”

She didn’t want to answer. It didn’t matter anymore. It wouldn’t make anything better.

She answered anyway.

“You were—” Her voice cracked a little, because her throat was dry, and no other discernible reason she could think of. “You’re my big brother.”

SPLINTERS

N i k o just looked at her with his mosaic face, and nothing was better, nothing was better at all, and she put her face in her hands and for a while they stayed there and didn’t say anything.

At last Niko moved, and she thought he was getting up to leave, but instead— Instead, he picked up her wrist. Turned it over. Traced a finger over the little white scar on her knuckle.

“I have these too,” he said quietly.

For a moment she thought about telling him how much she’d missed him, how she’d never felt quite the same when he was away, how she’d called his number just to listen to his voicemail two hundred and seventeen times until the line disconnected, how she was sorry that they couldn’t protect each other from Dad, how she’d spent so many nights blinking into the darkness and wondering where he was—whether he was happy, cared for, wanted—how despite everything they were not strangers. How she didn’t think they could ever be strangers, no matter how many times he left.

The moment passed. She said, “You’re the worst.”

But she still licked her thumb and rubbed it over the grass stain on his knee.

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DESCENT MAGAZINE

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SPLINTERS

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DESCENT MAGAZINE

In This World, You Have Wings WRITING BY ALLY GUO DESIGN BY AUD MA

Toua had sent out three origami birds before they’d left. Only two bird-letters had been clutched in his hand when they’d boarded the train. He had hoped Yuwono wouldn’t be too angry when he showed up uninvited. Now, sitting on the train as his hometown appeared on the horizon, he wished he’d waited longer for a third response.

A pained whimper from Boonie pulled him from the cesspool of his own anxiety. His partner’s head rested upon his shoulder, and Toua brought a cold hand up to Boonie’s feverish forehead. His eyes were squeezed shut, mouth opening and closing in panicked little puffs as some nightmarish film played out in his sleep.

“Boonie,” he whispered, brushing aside his sweaty bangs. “We’re almost here. Please, wake up.”

Boonie stirred, drooping eyelids slowly fluttering awake. “Toua?”

“I’m here.” He squeezed his hand. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Mm… It’s…” With effort, he pulled himself upright. “Traveling is always weird. The visions… They come in flashes. Like blurry reels from multiple people instead of a solid picture of any single death.” He shivered. “I don’t know which one I hate more.”

Toua wrapped him in a hug. “I’m sorry.” Like after every night, every nap, he wished there was more he could do.

“I’ll be okay.” Boonie gave him a weak smile, curtained behind dark hair. “No point in getting down when I’m finally visiting your hometown.” His expression softened as he regarded Toua. “I know you didn’t want to make this trip, but let’s try to think of things that make you happy, okay? Visit some happy memories? You haven’t been home in years.”

A strange, bitter hand plucked at the strings of Toua’s heart. He choked down the discordant melodies. “Yeah— I’ll try. I don’t want to ruin the trip for you.”

“You couldn’t even if you wanted to.” Boonie bumped his shoulder gently. “But that scary friend of yours might. We’re meeting her first, right? We don’t have to go if you’re not ready yet.”

Toua rolled his eyes. “She’s not scary.” She just doesn’t like when people break their promises. “But I need to see her again.” He took a deep breath. “She’s important to me, and I need to start acting like it.”

There was concern in Boonie’s brown eyes, but all he said was, “Okay. I promise I’ll be here with you the whole way.”

Promises, huh? Toua squeezed their still-linked hands. They were so easy to keep when they didn’t matter. And when they did…

It’d been years, but he could still feel the blood on his hands as Boonie’s fingers squeezed back, just as firm as Zunaira’s had been as a child.

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SPLINTERS “You’re not supposed to be the dumb one, Zunaira. That’s Yuwono’s job.” The annoyance in Toua’s tone barely hid the fear burning inside him.

Zunaira didn’t look down from where she’d scurried up the tree. “Don’t worry, I do this all the time.”

But Toua couldn’t help but worry, even if it didn’t show on his face. As Zunaira climbed dizzyingly high, his heart stuttered each time she hauled herself onto another shuddering branch. (“It’s too dangerous to get close,” she’d said as they’d trudged up the hill. “I need to get a better vantage point instead. Who knows when another flock of dragons will pass through?”)

Stupid. Stupid. He was surrounded by stupid people.

Still, he couldn’t ignore the twinge of excitement when she finally reached the top. “Do you see anything?”

“Yeah!” He could imagine the grin on her face, cheeks pulled wide. “There’s so many of them! I need to take notes.”

She reached for the bag at her side. He watched the top of the tree sway in the wind.

“Wait, Zunaira—” He screamed before she did, the sky’s exhale tipping her balance. He barely realized he’d moved to catch her when her body came crashing into his, pummeling them both into the ground.

Ignoring the ringing in his head, he gasped, “Are you okay?”

“Ow…” She rolled off him onto the ground. “I’m okay.”

Toua glared at her, taking in the cuts on her body and the bruises that were already beginning to form. “No way.”

Zunaira had always been too stubborn to beg, but this time, Toua thought she came pretty close. “I’m okay, alright? Just please don’t tell my parents.”

His jaw dropped. That’s what she’s concerned about? Besides, “Your parents are going to take one look at you and know what happened.”

She groaned, burying her scratched face in her scratched arms. “They’re never going to let me leave the house again.”

Standing up, Toua resisted the urge to stomp his foot. “Fine. Then I won’t tell them.”

If he was in a better mood, it would’ve been comical how she immediately perked up.

“In that case, I’m probably not okay.”

This time, he stomped his foot. “What do you mean?”

“My ankle hurts.” Wincing, she rearranged her leg, revealing the twisted shape of the joint. Toua’s eyes widened as he took in the bent limb, curled in a way that shouldn’t have been physically possible. “I kind of want to scream.”

Horror flared within him before a flash of hope vanquished it. Toua dropped to a kneel, reaching to grab her leg before he thought better of it. “Wait. Remember how Hli got too close to a wasps’ nest the other day? I tried something that helped with the stings. Do you mind if I…?”

Zunaira let out another groan of pain, throwing an arm over her eyes. “Go ahead.”

Gently, Toua wormed his hand under her ankle, pressing his palm against her torn flesh. “It shouldn’t hurt, but tell me if it does.” Closing his eyes, he braced himself, and then—

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Even with his eyes shut, he could see the black flames that erupted from his hand. Feel the burn against his face. It wasn’t a hot fire. In fact, he wondered if it counted as a fire at all. It was a strange feeling. Not being able to understand something that was a part of him.

“Toua, your fire… How?” He could hear Zunaira’s disbelieving gasps. “It’s…”

He clenched his teeth, blocking out the sensations that threatened to swallow him. Just a little more, he told himself.

Finally, reeling from the pain that he allowed to overtake him, he pulled away, pressing his face against his sleeve.

Zunaira stared at her leg. “I could feel the bone moving. It was tingling when… I didn’t know your fire could do that!” She looked up, face stitched with awe. “Toua, that was— What happened?”

“It’s alright.” Blood dripped down his face from the deep cracks that had formed in his skin, like red raindrops running down a chipped stained glass window. “I’m alright. This happens every time I use it to heal. I don’t know why.” It never hurts when I use it to burn. He dabbed at a wet cut underneath his nose. Blood continued to spill into his quivering mouth.

Zunaira glared at him. “Is that why your nose kept on bleeding last week? Even after Hli’s wasp incident?”

“Maybe.”

The glare sharpened. “Don’t do dangerous things like that!”

“You just fell from a tree! I’m going to tell your parents if you don’t stop doing stupid stuff like that!”

“Oh, yeah?” She huffed a nervous laugh. She didn’t seem able to control it as it soon overtook her entire body. Toua found himself joining in, blood still smeared along the cracks on his face.

He wasn’t sure how long they laughed, but when Zunaira finally caught her breath, she nudged him playfully. “Looks like we both need to do a better job of taking care of ourselves. How about this? You stop doing scary magic things, and I’ll be more careful next time. Promise?” She held out a scratched and scarred hand.

He nudged her back, just as gently, before squeezing her hand with bloody fingers.

“Promise.”

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SPLINTERS Zunaira Mahmood.

Zunaira must’ve carved the plaque herself. The strokes in the engraved metal were clean and precise yet deep enough to reflect the determined strength with which she approached everything she did.

Toua wasn’t sure how long he stared. Finally steeling his nerves, his hand hit the door once— —and it swung open before his knuckles made contact the second time.

Zunaira regarded him from the other side, an unreadable glint in her dark eyes and the tiniest twist to her lips. Her face looked harder and more calculating. She smiled ruefully.

“I was wondering when you’d knock. Nuri smelled you ages ago.” She turned. “Come on in. I’ll get some water.”

Zunaira’s small home was cozy. Tightly packed and tightly organized, each color and item deliberately slotted into place. It was practical, tools and books tucked into shelves and familiar fireproof gloves hung from a hook. A couple of simple, handmade photo frames sat on the table by the sofa. Hesitantly, Toua stepped closer: Zunaira’s parents smiling at each other, her many little siblings playing at the park, Yuwono with whipped cream smeared across a goofy grin, Hli in the night light surrounded by a crowd of adoring fireflies, and… himself.

Before Toua could stop, he’d picked up the frame, staring at himself as a child, crouched barefoot in a shallow stream as he peered at the crayfish in the clear water. Not a speck of dust decorated the glass.

She’d kept a photo of their friends in the center of her home, and he’d buried everything that reminded him of them in the back of his closet. Toua wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. How could he have allowed his pain to grow greater than his love?

He jumped when Zunaira returned from the kitchen with two cups, stepping away from the photos in a hurry.

She studied the two of them mildly. Back straight with muscular arms exposed, she was as intimidating as ever. “Zunaira Mahmood,” she finally said cooly, reaching out a callused hand with a glass of water. Toua noticed a large bandage on her other hand as she set the second glass on a shelf.

Boonie took the cup from her. “Please call me Boonie. Nice to meet you!”

“Likewise.” That rueful smile was back. “Toua talks about you. Quite a lot in the admittedly few letters he sends.”

Boonie’s smile didn’t falter. “I’ve heard a lot about you as well. You and Nuri.”

Zunaira’s expression softened at the name. She looked over her shoulder. “Nuri! You can come over now.”

A screeching scrabbling resonated through the house, like iron nails falling against floorboards. It grew louder until a large scaly head emerged with a hiss.

Boonie gasped while Toua felt a grin spread across his face. “Nuri!” He wanted to hold out his arms for a hug, but what if Nuri was disappointed in him, too? “It’s great to see you.”

No longer the egg Zunaira had found as a child, no longer the juvenile dragon Toua had known, Nuri had grown enormous. Mottled green, orange, and brown keeled scales coated a long serpentine body that slithered strikingly fast. Bat-like wings were tucked close on either side, powerfully vast even while folded. Nuri’s triangular head rose into the air, forked tongue flickering in and out as dilated amber-gold eyes stared directly into him.

A beautiful membranous frill fluttered at the sides of its head.

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DESCENT MAGAZINE Terrifying, but all Toua could think about was how proud he was that Nuri no longer knocked things over when it moved. Now, he did spread his arms.

Nuri barreled into him, and he fell backward onto the couch. He waved a reassuring hand when Boonie called his name before stroking the great creature that nuzzled him.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

He missed the way the young dragon used to nip at their heels. The way it brushed rough scales against their faces affectionately. He missed a lot of things—all the sights, sensations, and feelings he’d once thought he’d have forever—but that he’d also walked away from.

Zunaira watched the reunion, arms crossed and head tilted to the side. Toua felt his dread slowly trickle back as she continued to stare. “I’m sorry, Nuri. I’d love to play, but there’s something I need to discuss with Zunaira first. Is that alright?”

Nuri let out a petulant hiss but conceded, bumping against him one last time before returning to Zunaira. She stroked its head fondly. “Sorry, Nuri. Could you wait outside for a bit?”

Once it had slithered away, the room descended into an uncomfortable silence. Even Boonie didn’t seem to know what to do, glancing nervously between the two.

Zunaira finally broke the silence. “I’m sorry. This is rude of me. Please, take a seat.”

She handed Toua the other glass of water.

He clutched it tightly, the iciness both grounding and burning. “Thanks.”

Zunaira nodded. She didn’t sit even as they did. Briefly, Toua wondered if she was nervous, too. She’d always felt more comfortable standing, supported by her own strength and her own strength alone.

Finally: “How have you been? I haven’t heard from you in a while.” The words sat silently on a plate of empty air, like stale biscuits nobody really wanted to eat but couldn’t bring themselves to throw away.

“We write. Sometimes.” The words felt weak even before he’d said them.

“We do write. Sometimes,” Zunaira conceded, far more kindly than he deserved. “But I want to hear it from you. How have you been?”

“I’ve been—” Good? That… wasn’t it. There’d been many happy moments since he’d left town, but the rhythm of good was a foul sound on his tongue, the consonants and vowels incomplete. But it wasn’t bad, either. It was— Toua was a coward. “Sorry, I need a moment. Boonie, do you mind…?”

His partner startled, but an easy grin quickly crossed his face. “Sure! Where to even begin?”

Normally, Toua loved to hear Boonie talk, loved the way his voice enveloped him and his words bounced with enthusiasm. But today…

“—always wanted to study—” This was Zunaira.

“—was so lost after my—” Now Boonie was talking.

“—sounds wonderful—” Zunaira again… Or was it Boonie?

“—isn’t that right, Toua?… Toua?” …Boonie?

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SPLINTERS “Sorry?” He couldn’t focus on the conversation. Not when his intestines squirmed like snakes. Not when every time Zunaira glanced at him, it was with that same unreadable expression.

She was looking at him again as Boonie smiled encouragingly. “I was just telling Zunaira about how we met. Did you want to…?”

“Right.”

He tried to speak in color, to say anything of worth. But every time, his words sounded like cracked eggshells, all beaten and broken and scattered across cold kitchen tiles. And every time, Boonie—dear, beloved Boonie—glanced at him in worry and hurried the conversation along.

The walls closed in, squeezing him in an unrelenting fist. He didn’t belong in this place, just like he didn’t belong in any of his friends’ lives anymore. Not even that photograph of him deserved to be here.

“Toua?” Boonie’s voice and Zunaira’s sharp gaze. “Toua, are you okay?”

Before he could respond— “Boonie, I’m sorry. Please forgive me, but I’m about to be very rude to your partner right now.” Zunaira stepped forward, glare more cutting than any dagger. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“What?”

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” she snapped. “Why did you even come here if you won’t say anything?” Her voice grew louder. “He’s lovely. I’m glad you guys found each other. I wish I could be happier speaking with him. But I didn’t agree to meet to talk to him.

I want to hear from you!”

I didn’t want you to hate me.

“You’re not even here, are you? Just like you were never there in any of those five letters you sent. Did you come just to make yourself feel better? So you can pretend like you still care?”

I do care.

“Because if you do care, why won’t you say anything!”

“I was worried you didn’t care about me anymore.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe I don’t. Because you haven’t given me any reason to in a long time.”

Silence. There were rattling breaths in the air, but Toua couldn’t tell who they were coming from.

I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.

Boonie’s hand squeezed his.

I’mnotgoingtocry. I’mnotgoingtocry. Idon’tdeservetocry. Zunaira doesn’t deserve to feel even worse. I’mnotgoingtocry.

Her voice finally broke, anger slipping away like tiny streams after a storm. “You promised we’d keep in touch. And I can believe you tried, but that doesn’t change the fact that it never happened.” She closed her eyes. “Come on. I’ve said my piece. It’s your turn now.”

“I’m sorry,” he finally choked out the disappointing words. Tears prickled in his eyes.

“It’s no excuse, but I was so overwhelmed. I couldn’t stay here. It hurt so much to remember. And… you guys always made me remember.” letters that first year, and you responded to one.”

63

DESCENT MAGAZINE Zunaira rubbed her face. “I know things were hard for you after what happened with Hli. But it was hard for all of us. It wasn’t fair for you to run away, too. I wrote you so many letters that first year, and you responded to one.”

“I’m sorry.” It was the only thing he could say. The only thing that felt real in the moment. “I’m sorry I didn’t respond more often. I’m sorry I never came to visit. I’m sorry I’m such a bad friend. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

I’m sorry I want something so badly it’s easier to pretend Hli and you and Yuwono never existed in the first place.

She closed her eyes again. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. You deserved it, but I’m sorry anyways.” She looked at him directly. “I lied. I do care. But I guess I was scared you didn’t anymore. Because why else would you just disappear like that?”

Toua’s eyes widened as he heard Boonie suck in a breath. “That would never happen.

You’ve always been one of the best parts of my life.”

“Yeah, well, we’re not mind readers. So maybe you should do more than just think about it.” She sniffed. “But I appreciate the sentiment, so I’ll consider forgiving you.”

He wished he had words for how grateful he was.

She gave him a tentative smile. “I didn’t know what to expect when you asked to meet.

This is the first time you’ve reached out, you know? But I’m glad I got to see you again.”

He returned the shaky smile. “I’ll try my best to visit more. It probably won’t be the same as before, but I’ll be better. I pro—” “—Toua.” Zunaira looked down, a strange twist to her mouth. “I didn’t want to say this earlier, but… I’m leaving. That’s part of the reason why I agreed to this reunion.”

“What?” Boonie’s hand in his was the only thing that kept him grounded.

“You saw Nuri. It’s gotten so big. I don’t want to keep it trapped here anymore. I don’t want to be trapped here anymore. We’ve decided. I’m selling the house, and we’re going for the mountains. You know me, Toua. You know I’ve always wanted to see the world.”

She looked back up. “I was going to say goodbye to Hli and Yuwono, and then I was going to go. I’d given up on seeing you again.”

64

SPLINTERS It was easy to feel happy for her, just as exciting as when they were children and she’d appeared at his doorstep with a gigantic egg. But still: “This isn’t the end, is it?”

She seemed exhausted. “You know the answer to that.”

“I don’t want this to be the end.”

“Then don’t let it be.”

Zunaira stared him straight in the eye with familiar steely determination. “Don’t let it be the end with the others, either. Your family. Yuwono. Hli. They miss you, too.”

“I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”

She nodded, and then her shoulders slumped as she finally allowed herself to lean against the bookshelf. “I’m not going to be able to hold it together for much longer. I think you should leave for today. But come back later… if you want. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Of course. Thanks for allowing me to visit again.” He nodded at Boonie, and they were halfway to the door when Toua turned. “Wait, before I go, let me heal that for you.”

He gestured toward her bandaged hand.

She eyed him with concern. “Won’t it hurt you? I don’t want—” “Please, let me do this for you.”

Hesitantly, she held out her arm. He grasped the injury, and they both closed their eyes.

The familiar burn returned, glowing against their faces, and this time, when it ended— “You’re not bleeding,” Zunaira said.

Toua stiffened, remembering the first time he’d healed her. If he hadn’t forgotten, there was no way she had. “I met some people. They helped me learn how to control it.”

A smile appeared—one that illuminated her features and made her look like a child again. “I’m glad. You might’ve broken that promise, but at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. I think I can forgive you for that.”

It wasn’t until after the door clicked shut between them that Toua finally cried, collapsing into Boonie’s arms and sobbing for the first time since he’d left town all those years ago.

65

DESCENT MAGAZINE

DRIVEWAY WRITING BY PAUL LIU` DESIGN BY PRITHIUKA KULKARNI Let us begins with a driveway.

This driveway is an unassuming landscape, with smooth concrete and painted over with a yellow-beige color.

It is wearing a little bit, so that it does not look too new, too intimidating, and the tiny slant of the whole thing makes it somehow homey, comfortable.

It reminds you of something subtle and gentle, like a Rothko painting of three different shades of orange which you had seen when you were younger.

You were confused by it before, angry, even, but you feel as if you could understand it now, looking at this driveway.

66

Let us add a body.

There he is, the body of the little boy, who is on the driveway.

You think he is dead because of the pools of blood around the glistening brown bristles on his head.

The blood is mostly liquid, but it is hot and dry out, and you can see it thickening, folding in on itself like a wrinkled velvet blanket.

What has happened to the boy? you wonder.

You are not sad or panicked. Instead there is a quiet excitement building in your stomach, rising to your chest.

You decide you will never tell anybody about this feeling, how could they understand?

They would not even begin to try.

SPLINTERS

wl no

s et u

e past mov

the driveway, past the

body

and

t he towards the wooden bl o t od gate by the side of the house. u B , You have seen this greasy brown gate before, on your way home from work. You have never seriously considered this gate because it appeared to be like any other gate. But now you are looking at it—how crooked and deformed and shabby it looks! The gate is all splintered at its hinges and in different spots, the mahogany paint had chipped or set in all wrong, as if ravaged by woodpeckers. This gate means something, you think to yourself. Moving through the gate means that you will have involved yourself. So far you have seen with your eyes a driveway and a young boy’s bloody body. You have not touched anything, you have not even checked to see if the boy is dead or not. But standing there, studying the gate, you begin to wonder what it means to be a witness.

67

DESCENT MAGAZINE

L e t u s u n l a t c h t h e g a t e a n d m ove t h ro u g h t h e c r a m p e d s i d e ya rd w i t h ove rg row n s h r u b s a n d w i l d we e d s . T h e re i s n o p ave m e n t o r s t o n e , j u s t d i r t a n d t o u s l e d ve g e t a t i o n . Yo u a re m ov i n g q u i c k l y p a s t t h i s g a rd e n , t h e g re e n g ro u n d s o f t u n d e r yo u r d u l l d re s s s h o e s . Yo u c a n s e e t h e fe n c e t h a t r u n s a l o n g t h e o u t e r s i d e o f t h e h o u s e w h i c h i s a d a r k , b a t t e re d b row n . T h e g re e n e r y h a s c o l o n i ze d t h e fe n c e , m a k i n g i t l e a n a n d s a g t ow a rd s t h e n e i g h b o r ’s s i d e . O n t h e o t h e r s i d e i s a s t r a i g h t f l a t w a l l — i d e n t i c a l t o t h e f ro n t o f t h e h o u s e . Yo u b e g i n t o t h i n k t h a t t h e h o u s e i s j u s t a g re a t b i g , w h i t e b ox . H ow t e r r i b l y b l a n d , yo u t h i n k .

N ow we a re i n t h e b a c k ya rd . S o m e h ow, i t i s j u s t a s c r a m p e d a n d ove rg row n a s t h e s i d e ya rd . T h e re i s t h e g i r l . O f c o u r s e t h e re i s t h e g i r l . S h e i s s i t t i n g o n t h e t i ny p o rc h — h ow d o e s s u c h a p o rc h eve n f i t ? yo u a re s t i l l s u r p r i s e d a n d c o n f u s e d a b o u t t h e l ayo u t o f t h i s h o u s e .

Yo u l o o k a t t h e g i r l , w h o i s a l i ve a n d n o t d e a d l i ke t h e b oy o u ts i d e . T h e g i r l i s c l u t c h i n g h e r l e g s t o h e r c h e s t , w i t h h e r fa c e p re s s e d h a rd i n t o h e r k n e e s . Yo u c a n s e e t h e h e m s o f h e r fa d e d w h i t e s h i r t s l e eve s a n d t o r n j e a n s

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Wh en

SPLINTERS

e cyouome an c i l o p are standing still on d t e ak the driveway, just watching. thThe policeman next to you is trying to

e

ask you some questions. You see that he is a younger man, much younger than you, and that his voice sounds eager—too eager to find out about the boy and the girl. You look down on this young policeman immensely—how little he knows about the world!

girl... the

The girl has not made a sound. She does not even uncurl from her position in the chair. Two burly policemen carry her, still curled, to the car. The policemen carrying the girl have a deflecting look in their eye, they try not to look at the girl as they are carrying her, and when their eyes do fall on her, some-

They have already taken the boy away. They told you that he had already been dead, that there was nothing you could have done, that you did the right thing, and thank you so much for your bravery and keeping so calm. This is funny, you think, so you chuckle, and all the policemen around you—especially the young man—look at you suspiciously. What ’s so funny about all this he asks you. You ignore him and walk towards the spot where the boy was on the driveway. Maybe one day the young policeman will understand, but probably not.

The Rothko driveway is splattered with blood, in more than one spot now because they had not done a good job at moving the boy. Now, you thought, it would not be fitting to call it a Rothko. It would be more like a Jackson Pollock. Yes, that was it. How fitting it was for a Monday afternoon, you think to yourself.

69

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ssions , dinners out on th e tow

SPLINTERS

When Did You Last Feel Splintered / a Splinter?

Ally

“I met her over the course of decades in bursts of 12 years. Each time, there was something new. She told me she’d had a son. Then her son had a son. And then her son was dead.”

Emily

I don’t know how it happened — or should I say, how I created this splinter — but I took a step, I felt a pin prick, and I knew. There’s a black dot below my big toe, it’s almost a speck of dust. A period to punctuate my stride. I kept on walking.

Echo

I planned to go to a friend’s place to wind down and catch up, but my supervisor told me to go into the office. “Major mistakes in your analysis,” were his words from Slack, at two in the morning. I don’t know what killed me more — letting my friend down, or my inner people pleaser.

Z

There’s a little boy in my head.

He sobs and he screams; he wants to play. I don’t know how to tell him that I don’t know how to tell him that he doesn’t exist anymore.)

Meg

I’m torn up in a million pieces. I don’t know if I’ll recover from the betrayal, but the heartbreak’s even worse. My roommate ate all of my cream cheese.

Tamanna

It took about three hours in total for her to tell me how little I mattered to her. Three years of inside jokes, drunken nights out, crying sessions, dinners out on the town, and untold secrets all left in the past. Thanks for the fenty lip gloss, I guess. A text back would have been nicer.

Paul

Last Tuesday at the intersection of `Jefferson and Vermont there was a gray piebald cat sprawled on the street and nobody could see it. And when the light turned green, the tires bore down.

And what could I have done but witness with my head half-turned, etching the cat’s twisted figure into my mind?

Jazzy

Sun rays sprinkle rainbows across my room. I love it when nature spontaneously paints my walls. It would’ve been perfect if my tie-dye lilac and coral carpet wasn’t completely drenched. I peel it off my ledge to find a constellation of mold and a windowsill soaked from last week’s storm. I’ve changed my mind — the weather has overstayed its welcome.

71

this is descent.