Triangle 2011-2011

TRIANGLE

TRIANGLE 2010-2011

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Literature

5 Spring Julia Doyle 6 Going Postal Lauren Christiansen 7 When I Grow Up I Wanna Be a Role Model Gabrielle Kosoy 9 Mr. Overcoat Aileen Eisenberg 10 Leaky Brain Lauren Christiansen 11 Costume Talia Zisman 12 The Lovesong of T.C. Winslow Andrea Toomey 14 Justice for All Lydia Youngman 16 The Witching Hour Kelsey Sausville 19 Service Todd Matthew 20 Bubble Girl Lydia Youngman 23 Wine Zoe Chachamovits 24 Escape Nicole Ratelle 25 Breadth Murielle O’Brien 26 Here We Go Again Morgan Mills 28 Remembering Susan Lauren Christiansen 30 Foolishness Mary-Elizabeth Moore 31 Nostalgia Harriet Zucker 32 Why Large Chickens Should Not Be Kept As Pets Lauren Christiansen

33 Unrest Talia Zisman 34 Excerpt from the Short Story Francis Rose Johnson Nicole Ratelle 36 Shaken Soda Summer Jaye Melino 37 Aura Hannah Campbell 38 The Valley of Ashes Svitlana Iukhymovych 39 A Whisper on an August Evening Zoe Fowler You Suck Gabrielle Kosoy 40 Rocket Pop Jaye Melino 42 I am so Imperfect Svitlana Iukhymovych 43 Somebody to Love Jaye Melino 44 Ordinary Jaye Melino 45 Love Lauren Christiansen 46 Twig Theory Gabrielle Kosoy 47 Wounded Talia Zisman 49 A Brief Chronicle from the Corps de Ballet Natalie Dunn 50 Heat on Top of it All Gabrielle Kosoy 51 Petals Ava Zwolinski 52 A Wish to Night Murielle O’Brien 53 Daedelus and Icarus Lauren Miller

TABLE OF CONTENTS Art

1 Tulips Yuki Nakayama 4 Red Angela Dai Yellow Angela Dai 6 Self Portrait #3 Angelina Doherty 7 Bouncing Zhixing (Wanwan) Fei 8 Weft Faced Weaving Sample Barbara Todd 10 Between the Lines Linnhe Kapner 11 Bottle With Blue Food Coloring Angelina Doherty 12 Untitled Sarah Bower 13 An Accent of Yellow Harriet Zucker 14 Self Portrait Antonella Dominguez 15 Elle Seungmin (Mina) Hwang Nostalgia Julia Alencar 16 Of Glory in the Flowers Angela Dai 17 Up-to-date Pei-Ting (Peggie) Hsu 18 Street Singing Andrea Alverde 19 Creating Control Lily Eastman 21 Homo Animals Yee Yung (Ellian) Cheung 22 Tongues/trees/books/brooks/

sermons/stones Barbara Todd Stop Hate Crystal Ruiz 23 Self Control Angelina Doherty 24 Still Figure Painting Zhixing (Wanwan) Fei 25 Imaging Swinging Karen Trop 26 July Blue Annika Anderson 27 Me with Color Nhu Nguyen Ailen Pei-Ting (Peggie) Hsu 28 Susan Harriet Zucker 29 Fever Annika Anderson

30 Ottawa Sky Angelina Doherty 31 Peace, Palace, Vietnam Karen Trop 32 Multitude Yee Yung (Ellian) Cheung 33 Still Life in Space Vivian Cheng 34 River Street Claire Kairle 36 Stone Harbor Clara Dollar 37 Standstill Karen Trop 38 The Rubber Trees Karen Trop 39 Emily Seungmin (Mina) Hwang Solitary Pei-Ting (Peggie) Hsu 41 Visitors Annika Anderson 42 The End Salma Amin 43 Dimentional Investigation Angelina Doherty 44 Deficiencies Yee Yung (Ellian) Cheung 45 Ducking Zhixing (Wanwan) Fei 46 The Map Hong Jing Wang 47 Start Pei-Ting (Peggie) Hsu 48 Evolution Xin (Sherry) He 50 Silent Noise Yee Yung Ellian Cheung 51 Hair Gardening Salma Amin 52 F1 Lens Angelina Doherty 53 Cotton Candy Ashley Edwards 55 Untitled Alfie Huncosky 56 Weaving 1 Ashley Edwards, Miki Takada,

Pascale Stain, Anika Verma, Ting-Ting Yang, Sophie D’Anieri, Abby Nissen, Natalie Dunn, Kotoha Takashima, Candice (Yueh-Ting) Chiu, Karen Kao, Alfie Huncosky, Makeda Morrison, Anne Leonardo

Angela Dai: Red

4

Angela Dai: Yellow

Spring

Julia Doyle I planted a flower every day after you left.

I expected to see brilliant hues of pastel blue, patches of plum purple, a blushing pink and cadmium yellow, too.

But all I can see are shoots of leafy green, tentatively peeking out of the thawing Earth.

5

6

Going Postal

Lauren Christiansen If I think about the fact that your hands once pressed against this paper as they once pressed against me, I may be liable to forget our fathers, deny my mother, change my name, and crawl back to you, pressing into your sheets like a pen on paper.

Angelina Doherty: Self Portrait #3

When I Grow Up I Wanna Be A Role Model Gabrielle Kosoy

Oatmeal for breakfast Oatmeal for lunch Iced tea for dinner Cause I took a punch.

7

Zhixing (Wanwan) Fei: Bouncing Girl

8

Barbara Todd: Weft Faced Weaving Sample

Mr. Overcoat

Aileen Eisenberg

The man in the dusty brown overcoat sat on the curb. A piece of fabric that was a darker shade of brown rested over the hole on his shoulder.

“You’re late.” He said.

The man with the umbrella slowly lowered himself onto the bench. Pieces of the cracked paint attached themselves to the denim of his too short pants.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

The incessant dripping of the rain was the only response.

“Tell me a story.” Mr. Overcoat looked at him.

“You were late. If anyone should tell a story, it’s you.” Mr. Overcoat shot back.

The bus rumbled by. The rain caught on the rim of Mr. Overcoat’s hat. A rogue drop dripped down his face to hang on his mustache.

“I cannot tell you of love. I cannot tell you of adventure. What should I tell you of?” Mr. Umbrella sounded genuine.

“Let your umbrella speak. I’m sure that umbrella of yours has an interesting tale to tell with all the places it has been.”

Mr. Umbrella dug the toe of his black loafer into the crack in the sidewalk. Some dried green gum lay congealed. He knew he couldn’t kick it up. Hours on this bench had taught him that.

“Excuse me. Do you know when the bus stops here?” The young woman wore a yellow sundress, despite the gray rain. Mr. Umbrella stared at the gum.

“It should be here in about 5 minutes. You can wait with us here for it.” Mr. Overcoat lied, but both men wanted the young woman’s company, if only for the few minutes that she remained oblivious to the fact that she had missed the bus.

The young woman in the yellow sundress with the yellow hair decided to take shelter in the local bakery.

Mr. Umbrella wore a vacant expression, betraying nothing of his soul save utter exhaustion.

Again, Mr. Overcoat demanded, “Tell me a story.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t the strength for one.”

“Perhaps just the ending then.”

“She ended my story when she left me with nothing but this umbrella.”

The rain continued to beat down. Mr. Umbrella closed up his umbrella and moved down to the curb.

“Tell me a story.” Mr. Overcoat said.

“Give me one to tell.”

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10

Leaky Brain

Lauren Christiansen I have come to the conclusion that my brain is, in fact, a leaky thing. It’s been dribbling out for a while now and I’ve no intent to stop it because the more I lose the less I can think of ways to get it back in.

In any case I don’t think it’s going all at once, just a bit here and there. When I tip to the side too much and shake my head vigorously is the only time I can actually feel it wobbling around, but other than that I’ve not noticed when it’s going.

Still, you shouldn’t feel bad that I’m quite literally losing my mind because at my young age I’m sure to bounce back. I’ll bounce right up higher than I was before and everyone will forget that I even had a drippy brain in the first place.

I’m sorry but I’ve quite forgotten what we were supposed to be talking about. You know, I think it’s this thing that is going on with my head. I’m almost sure that my brain has started to melt, see, and I can’t figure out quite what to do about it.

Linnhe Kapner: Between the Lines

Angelina Doherty: Bottle With Blue Food Coloring

Costume

Talia Zisman White frost, smell of familiar cold Was unfamiliar by sky – scraped rock encrusted mountain mounds Bigger than eastern heaps of hills.

The grass was not grass, Not the grass of Upstate- New York, but Players dressed up in desert guise Of red clown lips drained of Blood gone brown.

It was beautiful in its normalcy of abnormality Where sage brush beat ferns in landscaping schemes; Footsteps like the splintering of a winter pond Crush beneath the underbrush of serotinous cones Peeling between fingers and Syrup of sap – saccharine taste unsweetened juices of A long remembered cousin.

The maple tree— spreading parasitic veins of locking torture; Piercing holes through soft tissue in glue of weaving flesh against flesh, Cracking ribs against iron wooded grip— burned crisply.

I burned their autumn colored leaves in the crackling of a simple forest fire That lapped and licked its orange lips at Maple roots pulled back from deeply layered skin.

Standing still, silent, lonely.

No roots left to ground me in the falsely growing grass And the imposter snowflake of morning frost catching cold inside my palm Tricking, waiting, whistling wind of eastern weeping willows Holding silence in the cinching of the western open sky Never reached my ears, but The thunder sound of lightning flash To my eyes brought tears.

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12

The Love Song of T. C. Winslow Andrea Toomey

So let us run, you and I Under the protection of the yawning, wide sky Into the night or back alleyways Of Saigon, twisting and winding Let us go retreat into to those familiar, weary nights Of swinging our feet just over the water That imitates the neon lights Of whispered shuffling through convenient stores Picking things up, putting them down And all the while we’ll keep an eye On that murky smoke that slithers up and around our feet And we’ll hold our breath for fear and uncertainty.

Oh, do not ask where we are Let us drive away in that car Because, sitting on that couch I watch those people come through, Who seem, to me, so small Talking of football

Sarah Bower: Untitled

Harriet Zucker: An Accent of Yellow

When will there be time for games again?

Where is there a place for the dreamers of the day?

For in front of us there is too much time to make a decision And reverse Do I dare poke the universe?

For once my life is measured by pieces of crumpled paper in the trash, I will scrawl myself across a few pages For a giant to observe under a microscope.

I grow into an adult…. And I grow…

I shall continue to wear my tight, skinny jeans Shall I talk of intellectual things?

Should I drink a glass of wine?

Who was it who once told you and me That this life isn’t a tale of heroic feats Just a tale of millions of lives running parallel for just a little while?

Well, if that’s true Then let us go into the desert and lie on the dunes And sleepily watch the camel caravan saunter by And let ourselves seep into the sands.

13 14

Justice for All

Lydia Youngman If they catch you, but can’t keep you, they will wait and watch you carefully, bring you in for something stupid like a parking ticket.

They got Al Capone for tax evasion, you know.

Antonella Dominguez Self-Portrait

Seungmin (Mina) Hwang: Elle

Julia Alencar: Nostalgia

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Angela Dai: Of Glory in the Flowers

The Witching Hour Kelsey Sausville

Under the covers Hidden in fright

Small eyes blink quickly in fear Blankets are squeezed tight by white knuckles

For it is the witching hour When the goblins creep in the night.

Eyes widen with dreaded anticipation And watch the clock hands meet

In a long awaited embrace of horror.

Eyes dart

Side to side.

Almost afraid to look But when heads venture from beneath the covers

And bravely survey the room There is no witching to be found Fists unclench

Eyes close in defeat And the children retreat to dreams

Where witches roam the night And ghouls prowl the streets For in the barren world of reality, Where dreams are crushed and imaginations lost There are no witches to be found.

17 18

Pei-Ting (Peggie) Hsu: Up-to-date

Andrea Alverde: Street Singing

Service

Todd Matthew Their names, we have long since forgotten four.

Inspired by thoughts of equal civil rights, They sat and ordered coffee is the lore.

A peaceful protest swelled to various sites In Greensboro, Nashville, Winston-Salem too.

The people sat not knowing future fights.

Bewildered Woolworth knew not what to do.

Support and harmony their only tools, And soon the scope and numbers grew and grew.

Museums hold the counters and the stools.

The halcyon grievance altered all the rules.

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Lily Eastman: Creating Control

20

Bubble Girl

Lydia Youngman I am a bubble girl, safe inside a bubble world.

Bubble princes come to call, but none see through the see through walls.

Bubble guard dogs guard the gate, while bubble villains dissipate.

Bubble germs get washed away, swirling down the bubble drain.

21

Yee Yung (Ellian) Cheung: Homo Animals

22

Barbara Todd: Tongues/trees/books/brooks/sermons/stones

Crystal Ruiz: Stop Hate

Wine

Zoe Chachamovits I sit across from you and watch as Your penetrating stare so profoundly calls to me, tempts me.

Your deep red tones flow erratically within your sultry frame.

I will forever lust after you, You who has become my greatest downfall.

But regardless, I crave your warmth.

With shaking hands I reach out to you, Bring you to my lips, And I drink.

23

Angelina Doherty: Self Control

24

Escape

Nicole Ratelle The fog plumed through the gunshot holes in the train windows Like it was trying to escape some terrible fate.

I watched, as it poured through, Running, as I was, away from everything.

But where?

Would it find another cloud of fog, Settle in, make itself a home?

Or would this cloud try to make it on its own?

Wandering, like me.

Perhaps the both of us don’t have any place to go.

We’ll simply wander alone, Together.

But instead I watched as the train disappeared.

And the once abundant fog vanished.

And again, the shadows of the moon reminded me, That I was on my own.

Zhixing (Wanwan) Fei: Still Figure Painting

Breadth

Murielle O’Brien Within the fence, behind the house a child plays on a swing feet scratch the sky, Arms flap like wings Yet still, she can not see past the tall tipped trees.

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Karen Trop: Imaging Swinging

26

Here We Go Again Morgan Mills

Apple orchard’s colored honey And Here We Go Again Back to the days When in an autumn afternoon, That was all that mattered.

Annika Anderson: July Blue

27 Nhu Nguyen: Me with Color

Pei-Ting (Peggie) Hsu: Alien

28

Harriet Zucker: Susan

Remembering Susan Lauren Christiansen

Sometimes when I am crouched down in my small shelter, bullets whizzing past and rain drumming into my helmet, I think about you with your hair done up and your blue dress on, blushing as you come down the stairs; Sometimes during the long hours of sweaty silence, walking past tree after tree, I think hard enough and I can feel my fingers fumbling as they attempt to tie the ribbon of the corsage around your wrist; Sometimes late at night in my attempts at a fidgety sleep, tossing and turning – never quite unconscious, I think back to the end of that evening when you gripped the sleeve of my rented tuxedo while balanced on your tiptoes so you could kiss me on the cheek; And sometimes if I’m really lucky I can feel my fingertips running along the curve of your hip, brushing back your light hair, I think: if I get out of this jungle will I ever see you bathed in the soft spotlights of an under-the-sea dance again?

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Annika Anderson: Fever

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Angelina Doherty: Ottawa Sky

Foolishness

Mary-Elizabeth Moore I thought myself tall While standing among giants.

I did not see their legs.

I mistook them for trees.

The rocks I sat upon, thinking deeply, Were their feet.

The stars I gazed upon, predicting their Orbits, were merely reflections in their eyes.

What a simple being I am Yet how wise I thought I was

Nostalgia

Harriet Zucker I used to pretend I had no fingers which was weird.

I used to lie about things, because it was easier for me to lie than to tell the truth.

Lies fall out of your mouth like spit when you’re talking too fast— It only matters if someone catches you.

Sometimes, I would pretend I was dead.

I would stop breathing.

But then once you did that to me, and then I never played that game again.

One time in fourth grade you couldn’t come to my mother’s day party and I hid in a cubby and cried this other girl’s kindly mother pretended she was my mom, but it really was just kind of weird.

Even now when I wake up scared or alone, I still sometimes heat up soymilk in the microwave with honey and a little bit of cinnamon on top, like you used to for me.

Karean Trop: Peace, Palace, Vietnam

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Why Large Chickens Should Not Be Kept As Pets Lauren Christiansen

There was a young lady of ten Who captured a large wild hen The bird was violent at best And as you can guess That lady was ne’er seen again

Yee Yung (Ellian) Cheung: Multitude

Vivian Cheng: Still Life in Space

33

Unrest

Talia Zisman I am happiest in the mountains now, Where snow can lovely fall and play from trees of coral branches sway; in frosty frozen raindrops drip, The think of silence on my lip.

In spring the sing of birds does shine the sun that gently blinds my eye the sinking flame, the night it brings Glaze of lonely freezing strings pluck to peace within my sleep.

Tundra flowers, petals weep Stop and wake the forest deep.

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Excerpt from the Short Story Francis Rose Johnson Nicole Ratelle

Francis Rose Johnson was an elderly woman in her mid-sixties. She lived alone on a quiet street in the same small town in which she was born and her departed husband was buried. If one were to ask any person in that New Hampshire neighborhood if they happened to know the woman they would be sure to respond, “Oh yes! Poor Francis Rose Johnson, such a sweet old lady, it’s sad what happened to her.” The sight of the 5”5’ figure broad, stocky, and shuffling along in her long tan coat with her beige stockings, orthopedic shoes, and skirt hem poking out from underneath, a knitting bag in one hand, a grocery bag in the other, was one to which every man, woman, and child in the neighborhood had been accustomed. She had short, curly, hair, silver as the sparkling, moderately used, Taurus that sat untouched in her driveway. One

Claire Kairle: River Street rarely saw her without favorite hat, moss green with the purple felt flower, and her soft brown eyes seemed sparkle whether in sunlight or moonlight. Her soft, wrinkled lips were always curled into a half smile as if they were waiting to let loose their owner’s exciting and untold secrets.

Francis lived in a small, single floor house that she had always called home. Up until her very last days she would swear that it smelled of the pipe tobacco of her father, her mother’s famous pot roast, her husband’s cologne, and even the glue from her grown son’s model air planes. She lived alone and, though her son’s room was always prepared for company, she never received any visitors. Francis kept her house neat as a pin, just as her mother did before her. Everything in her house had its place, there was no unnecessary clutter, and even the refrigerator was kept tidy; holding only the basic necessities. Every day, Francis took out her knitting and brought it out onto her covered porch with a cup of tea to enjoy the bright sun shine that streamed in through the bay windows. Each time she began to purl, she glanced at the scar on her left hand and was brought back

to when she was a young girl and cut herself on a rock while at the coast on holiday with her parents. As she continued her knitting and she would always begin to think about whether or not she would play bridge or bingo at the community center that afternoon (which she often did) and silently wished that she could go back to those days when she was young and the world was small, carefree, and never lonely. This was Francis Rose Johnson’s routine. She went through this very same cycle every day. Every day that is, until the empty room finally welcomed back its former occupant.

It was a Saturday when Johnson showed up on his mother’s doorstep for the first time since the death of his father five years prior. He looked nothing like his mother. Tall and slender, his features were sharp just like his father’s, and accented by his jet black hair which had been kept short since he was a child. His soft blue-gray eyes were also his fathers, though they too contained a sparkle which was noticed even in the softest light. At almost thirty, Johnson could have been considered handsome, had his eyes, bloodshot and surrounded by dark purple rings, not suggested that he was a man who had taken on much more than he could handle. He was wearing a cheap navy blue suit that was much too small, though Francis had bought an expensive black jacket and pants tailored to his exact measurements when his father passed away. He carried a large, green suitcase, torn and stained with use, and behind him stood a woman. This was not the girl that Francis had been introduced to five years earlier, the short brunette thing that Johnson had declared to be “the one”. She was tall, and Francis could see each one of her bones as clearly as if they were on top of her skin instead of underneath it.

Her skin looked as if it had never seen the sun, but her blonde hair shone as if that glowing ball of fire was hidden underneath it along with the rest of the girl’s face. In her arms, she carried a small child, not much older than three, who Francis could see shared the blue-gray eyes of her husband and son.

Truly, speechless for the first time in her life, Francis stared at the party for a moment. After what seemed like a decade, Johnson nervously said “Uhhh, well…Hi, Mom,” pulling Francis out of her reverie. She quickly pushed the strange party inside the house, and slammed the door behind them with more force than she had known that she possessed.

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Shaken Soda Summer Jaye Melino

Seltzer dew on Stifling sprite mornings It fizzles on my tongue And bubbles creep up my nose.

Sarsaparilla Vanilla Ginger Peach Warm sticky soda pop days Sweltering, slinking summer.

Lemonade lunchtimes And cream soda afternoons.

Mom hummed to me from the porch, “Roll out those lazy, hazy crazy days of summer, those days of soda and pretzels and root beer.�

To the tempo of Nat King Cole, The cicadas buzzed.

The hisssssssssss, --click.

Of my soda can tab Stirred the summer breeze.

Coca-cola red sunsets To grape soda nights.

Clara Dollar: Stone Harbor

Karen Trop: Standstill

The Aura

Hannah Campbell I once placed my forehead upon that cold marble that was your feet.

The air was heavy and I was caught in the sway of singing women cross-legged on the floor.

I licked spice from my fingers underneath a full moon and lay on a red pallet, thanking you for my good fortune. me, with oil on my feet treading upon sweet dust and beautiful garbage.

As I walked I heard the people calling out to you. and you were a golden god.

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The Valley of Ashes Svitlana Iukhymovych

Karen Trop: The Rubber Trees

I have always considered the Earth to be my element. Hours may pass and I will still be lying on the soft grass under the branches of pine trees in the forest that my parents bequeathed to me. My greatgrandfather was a forester, so I know every path and every mushroom on my way there, back home. I was eight years old when my perfect world, my paradise, my home – forest – was threatened in worst way I could ever imagine.

I don’t know if the drunk lazy cowards or careless children or somebody with vicious intentions did it, but the fact is – a fire was lit on a hot August day and it destroyed the front birch wood and a part of the pinewood near the village. I went there with my cousin as the fire died down. It was still hot, and it seemed that the grey clouds above wouldn’t let the hell disappear. The valley of the ashes – that is what the old birch wood turned into. Where my great-grandfather’s hand was giving life to the greenplants, black spires of dead birches were aiming at the dark-blue dry clouds as if in a question. Where he carefully cut down the mushrooms under the thick grass so as not to damage the mushroom spawn, the rare skeletons of heather lay unearthed and blossomed black. And even the dark fertile ground seemed to intensify the negative tape shown to our eyes. I could still smell the smoke mixed with a desperate dampness that was coming from the orphaned swamp. My cousin finally tried to pull me away from the place, to the green pines and fir trees that were observing the still and complete silence from their sublime height. But even their elevated tops would not save them from the fire.

I intentionally walked slowly to feel a sadness I had never felt before. It seemed as if all the effort and love put by my great-grandfather into the well-being of the birch wood had been annulled, vanished with the smoke. And the glades shaded by green branches opened, and the grass turned into ash. And the heather I loved so much for its grasp to the ground, for its childishly innocent lilac colour, that heather was turned into adult grey, autumn grey, the grey colour of sorrow. The birch wood became a plane as still as if frozen. I could look through it, and see the green bushes that were untouched by the fire and waiting for my cousin and I to come. Nine years passed. I have found later in my life that nature always regains what it once had and the soul deposited in it is reborn after each and every disaster. It is our family tradition to gather mushrooms in August in the forest that my great-grandfather took care of. This last summer the birch wood was almost the same as it used to be before the fire, except for the birches themselves. They are young and desperate for the new light and greedy for the golden mushrooms that grow below them and the renewed childishly lilac heather that I love so much. Now I am only a bit lower than those young birches that have their lifetime ahead. A fire may strike them, it will, but I am sure now that valleys of ashes don’t stay for long. And I know that my great-grandfather looks at me every single august morning when I come to embrace the birches and thank them for the golden mushrooms that make me the wealthiest person on Earth.

Seungmin Hwang: Emily

You Suck

Gabrielle Kosoy Just thought I’d let you know.

Cause sometimes love dies slow.

A Whisper on an August Evening

39

Zoe Fowler

I can smell you.

The sweetest of scents Wafting to me from Your perch by the Door.

You smell like Vanilla, with an Aroma of the ocean And moonlight.

My senses tingle, And the air Wisps a murmur from You To me.

Pei-Ting (Peggie) Hsu: Solitary

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Rocket Pop Jaye Melino

Rocket pop. Red white and blue popsicle on a straw stick. Fun for all ages.

Red “MR. DING-A-LING!” I shouted, running up the deck stairs so fast that I leaned parallel to the steps. “MOM! ICE CREAM!” She came running from the living room in the back of the house, already prepared with $3.75—just enough to buy an ice cream sandwich for her and a rocket pop for me. We had a system for this—my flip-flops flapped on my feet and I was flying back down the stairs before the white truck got through even one measure of The Entertainer.

The ice cream man, Seamus, knew me by now. Mostly because of my mom, who was more exuberant about her frozen treat than any of the other kids on the block. We were the only ones in line that day, and we huffed to a stop directly in front of the window. He had tattoos up his arms and one of his ears was pierced beyond recognition. His grizzled beard contrasted with his Mr. Ding-a-ling apron, but to me he was as good as Santa Claus on a hot summer day.

“What’ll it be, kid?” he asked affectionately, taking off his black sunglasses. With confidence and authority I smacked my money on the counter, the bills drooping from humidity and the quarters hot from my palms. I caught a coin right before it rolled off the aluminum and announced proudly, “rocket pop and a chocolate ice cream sandwich.”

White My father was my hero—a bad-ass dad who worked in the DMV and wore a uniform and may or may not have owned a firearm. I was not old enough to know of his reputation as notoriously unreliable, but I learned fast. It had been more than one night that my mother took me out for a burger and fries at our favorite diner after I had sat, abandoned, on our front porch, waiting for hours with my over packed sleepover bag. My daddy had promised to relocate to Providence when we moved to New York. I looked forward to him following us in a car behind the moving truck, taking the Rhode Island exit as we continued on our way. I dreamed about spending weekends with him in a new city, driving to the water with him happily. Eight years later, and he is in Florida. Like with Seamus, when I found out that he wouldn’t be accompanying us I felt a sudden, unique sort of disappointment. But in his letdown, I found the stomach churning feeling of freshly scooped ice cream dropped on the sidewalk on a hot summer day.

“On the double,” he responded in his rough voice. Seamus and I became friends that summer. He met my dog through the ordering window, and we talked about flavors of ice cream while my rocket pop melted all over my hand. Unlike many adults he didn’t treat me as if I was clueless. He spoke to me as an equal, and used words like ‘bulwark’ and ‘talisman’ as though he assumed I would know what they meant. To me, he was a tattooed superhero who always had ice cream.

Blue Then, on an especially sticky July fourth, there was a stranger in the noisy truck. He was an indifferent blonde teenager who was hunched over a Nintendo, sitting on a stool near the SpongeBob pops. I wasn’t tall enough to see over the metal ledge, so I knocked on the side of the truck as I always did, and his shaggy head poked out of the opening with an indignant “yeah?” I was taken aback and asked bluntly, “where’s Seamus?”

“He was embezzling from Mr. Ding-a-Ling. Do you want a snoopy pop?”

I was incredulous that he would think so little of me as to offer me a snoopy pop. “No! I want an ice cream sandwich and rocket pop.”

Plastic popsicle stick I crossed the street with my mother, dejected. Seamus had made my summer and my sprints to get ice cream worthwhile beyond just the fact that I was getting sugar. But he had disappointed me. I wasn’t sure what ‘embezzle’ meant, and I’m not sure how you embezzle from Mr. Ding-a-Ling, but as one of Seamus’ loyal customers I felt betrayed.

The next day, with all of our belongings in boxes and the moving van out front my mother received a phone call. Furious at the person on the other end, she went into the other room as I put my jar of ice cream money in my suitcase and sat on my bag to zip it closed.

“He’s not coming, Jaye-Jaye.”

In my little girl head, he didn’t love me. From my eight-year old brain, I erased the green Taurus following us as we drove in the moving van. I deleted the image of me waving back to him in the rearview mirror, and I stopped imagining his broken blinker tick as I watched him take the exit to Rhode Island. In my head, I curled up a little bit and grabbed a few napkins to clean up the sticky ice cream all over my hands. And I vowed to never let it melt again.

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Annika Anderson: Visitors

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I am so Imperfect

Svitlana Iukhymovych For my god is so young, a beginner-god To what now is known as my world.

And my words are so plain, and my alter is sinner, As well as the god—juvenile, immature.

He resembles the Bacchus—cause made me swallow The amounts of words for the sake of fun, He turns the forests out of a dollar And values the zeros that may be won.

My god is so shy that he hides in my pillow Not to listen to the tempting music of night.

Thus he makes me dream and shoots the arrows, Sincerely and lovingly, into my heart.

For my god begins to mock my rhyming And broaden the curves of my inner sins.

One second left for life and for writingA perfect essence to feel what he means.

Salma Amin: The End

Somebody to Love Jaye Melino

Beneath fluorescent stars I can’t quite see your face.

Glow-stick blood And glitter skin Vodka eyes Bedroom legs Cigarette mouth And arms to hold tight.

43

Angelina Doherty: Dimentional Investigation

44

Ordinary

Jaye Melino I ran away from the circus.

I inhaled straw houses.

I built sand shacks.

And I dream of being an everyday girl.

Yee Yung (Ellian) Cheung: Deficiencies

45

Zhixing (Wanwan) Fei: Duckling

Love

Lauren Christiansen Heart is open for a brief second, Ventricles fluttering out of normal beat, Fluid seeping through into damaged veins, Aorta, once filled with rich blood, now ringing true, And then closing quietly, softly resewing connective tissue, Septum aligning and pericardium surrounding heart once again.

46

Hong Jing (Liv) Wang: The Map

Twig Theory

Gabrielle Kosoy Remember that time I drained the world Of its worldly possessions, while your tongue curled around the dimensions?

When the first branches, of the very last trees, got stuck in the trenches, to bring air to its knees; what could have been your last breath, you exchanged for a word, that vanquished the path we all had endured.

Wounded

Talia Zisman I came across a hatchling in a crisis once before; The twinkle of intelligence I could see in bright black eyes; Its speckled breast aimed towards the sky, on its back upon the floor I found a bird in the position of a broken winged demise.

Breath of life dimpled within its cheek, The spots upon its breast, like bullets in a soldier’s chest.

If only it could wish to speak Of wings first attempt, met with contemplative rest From the simple touch of cold and bony glass.

Why had the bird even tried to leave its feathery nest From up above the hoary grass With fuzz, not feathers, still strung about its neck?

Pei-Ting (Peggie) Hsu: The bird’s collision was an echoing tune, Of Death to bring to a child so soon.

Start

47

48

Xin (Sherry) He: Evolution

A Brief Chronicle from the Corps de Ballet Natalie Dunn

You look at yourself in the mirror, seeing only the acne, the freckles, the splotchy cheeks where tears had burned like drops of hell. You had cried, all until the tears wouldn’t come, and then you went for the razor and the eraser and all manner of things cruel and unusual to smolder like the salty drops there on your bare skin. You were never good enough, not quite. You were destined for second place, left behind steeping in your own sweat, drowning in the fact that despite all your hard work, all those extra hours, all that pain, you were not sufficient enough for them. They wanted talent without dedication, like an oversweet puddle of frosting without the cake. They wanted her. They never saw you, all those hours… and all the love anyone could ever want all focused on one thing. You used to love. Then they took it from you. You used to be proud, to love yourself. Then they took it from you. They took and took, until all you had was a rickety skeleton of bare-bleached bones where strong legs, flushed cheeks, big wondering eyes used to be. They turned you into a despicable worm, eyeless, with nothing but a name to represent you. They filled you with hatred and siphoned the love out of your pumps and valves, every inch, until you shook with sobs on the floor. Far older than your years, you rotted from the inside out, just by striving. Striving to be the best, for some recognition. For just the tiniest bit of love.

But she, and not you, is the golden God, the molten sliver that slices through the air and into your soul. The eyes that look at her pass you over, dull and glazed. And though you too have joined the realm of the divine, she is the one who is the best, with all the fame, all the recognition, and all the love that you kill yourself every day to receive… so you are the forgotten.

49

50

Heat on Top of it All Gabrielle Kosoy

I won’t lie, I get scared when I don’t rhyme.

The suns eye scares me inside And I leave it to decide my fight.

Crave it, the speed it spies at.

Yee Yung Ellian Cheung: Silent Noise

Eunsol Park: Hair Gardening

53

51 52

Petals

Ava Zwolinski The only stance Children share With daffodils, Is unhinged dreaming The only aspect that differs Is potential, For daffodils have charm But even that won’t subside When ambition blossoms.

A Wish to Night Murielle O’Brien

Please listen faithful friend to the soft and swooshing beat of another’s stride I know you do not dabble in foreign melodies but time too takes a beat and possibly you may understand

Angelina Doherty: F3 Lens

Daedelus and Icarus Lauren Miller

The gray winter air swirled about in uncountable patterns, blurring the distinction between ground, snowfall, trees, and sky. Robert descended the treacherous stairs of the school bus, gingerly placing his feet on the precise ovals where the ice had been melted by various other students’ shoes. Stepping out into the blustery, sad day, he adjusted his black peacoat and navy blue scarf, and firmly tugged his matching hat over his ears. Bracing himself, he began the long walk home down the driveway.

Trees surrounded the windy, narrow one-way drive, providing a thick disguise for the house hidden within them. They were odd trees at best – perfectly round, about a foot in diameter, with symmetrically knobbly trunks and no branches until the very top, where the limbs stuck out straight from their center, wielding scratchy green pine needles. They blocked some of the snowfall, and the crunches of Robert’s steps became quieter as he traversed through the dusting of light powder. The air was still sharp in his lungs, though, and after 20 minutes of turn after turn, he was glad to round the last bend and catch sight of home.

First, the warm light of the front rooms and kitchen pervaded the windows and seemed to create a hazy golden halo around the whole place, a stark contrast between the dark blue and purple light of the dusky forest. The house was gargantuan, labyrinthine, a jumbled multi-story combination of rooms and workshops and hallways. From afar it looked like a giant toddler had been playing with blocks and stacked them in a deliberate pattern, but could not verbalize to any onlookers what exactly the pattern was. The peaks and corners of the roof could have been random, or could have been simply put together with a complex geometric formula – it was hard to tell. Various devices spun and clicked from their places on walls and attached to gutters, providing a discord of sound that could be heard from below. But this was home. Robert paused for a moment in the darkening afternoon air and looked up, meaning to gaze at the stars. He had forgotten for a moment that he was surrounded by those strange trees, and sighed when he beheld the skinny top-branches spread about above him, like spokes on a wheel.

The bulky front door let loose a heavy creak when Robert heaved it open. He took off his coat and hat and scarf, folding them neatly and putting them in the wall-to-ceiling cubby shelf filled with the clothing items of the family. Seeing his brother and father’s sections in complete disarray, he folded those too. Robert could hear the clatter of tools coming from a room upstairs – probably his brother Ivan’s, from the sound of it. He put his books down and made his way up, passing through two corbelled arches, the solarium, and finally climbing the jigsaw stairs his father had recently installed. He hated the jigsaw stairs. A stupid idea, really – each step could be taken apart and put back together with other jigsaw steps to create a staircase anywhere – except the steps only fit with those which matched them on one of their four sides.

“Robert, get out!” barked Ivan, as Robert entered the room.

“No. Where’s dad?” replied Robert, sitting down on a bench in the corner.

“In his workshop.”

“Which one?”

“The one in the back with the shells all over it.”

“Oh.” Ivan stared at Robert for a second, then flipped his goggles back on and resumed banging away at a hunk of metal with a tool resembling a ladle. He was older than Robert by three years, making him twenty-one. His muscular arms and shoulders glistened with sweat, as there was a large blaze roaring in the fireplace in the corner of the room. His short, black, bristly hair seemed tipped with grease, and very well could have been. Ivan and Robert didn’t look related, though they were – the only thing they had in common was their hazel eyes. Robert was tall and gangly, knobbly at all his joints, a bit like the trees surrounding their house. He had dark blonde hair, and could have been a clone of his father, especially when he wore his glasses, which was not very often.

“Fine then, I’m going to go find him,” Robert said, walking out of the room and down the long fish tank hall to the other side of the house. Doug, his father, inhabited this side. Because he was an architect, the walls were covered completely in chalkboard, though the floor was carpeted in lush green grass – he missed the outdoors. It had been nearly eight years since he left the house. Ideas and designs were scribbled all over the place.

Robert rang the doorbell to the workroom. The door itself could have been at the entrance to any suburban home. However, when it swung open, it revealed an interior encrusted with seashells from floor to ceiling.

“Hi Dad.” Doug didn’t reply. He was hunched over a table at the far end of the room, tinkering with something, using a large pair of tweezers.

“Dad…Dad!” His father jumped up, startled at the sharp noise of Robert’s voice. Doug spun around quickly to face him, obscuring nearly the whole table with his long arms.

“Oh…Robert…hello. How was school? Have you eaten? You look skinny…” he mumbled, running his hands through his hair and over his unshaven face. “Where’s Ivan? Is he around?”

“He’s in his room…and I was about to start dinner. Pasta alright?”

“Yes, yes…pasta…fine…good, good.” Doug’s words mushed themselves together as he turned back to his table, reabsorbing himself in his work.

Ashley Edwards: Cotton Candy

53

Robert stood there for a minute, staring at the aging back of his father.

“Dad…” he started. Doug turned around. The light reflecting off the shells made him look older than usual, and Robert could see the flecks of silver starting to appear in his light brownish-blonde hair.

“Never mind. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

Robert made his way back through the fish tank hallway, stopping to look at his favorite, a tiny clown fish named Reginald. Gazing into the clear aquamarine water, he leaned his head against the glass. His father needed to sell a new design, soon. Finances were not as good as they should be – the clients Doug usually worked for hadn’t been calling. The outrageous, the celebrities, the avante-garde, the billionaires who were bored and wanted to spend money – those were the types who bought his father’s work.

“We need to do something, Reg,” Robert sighed and continued on, down the jigsaw stairs, through the corbled arches and solarium, around two corners, and into the kitchen. The kitchen was bathed in warm yellow light, wood paneled, with light blue granite and steel appliances, right out of a magazine. It was possibly the only normal room in the house, and only because Robert’s mother had designed it.

After a dinner bereft of noise except for the clattering of forks on plates, Ivan and Doug disappeared to their various places about the house, and resumed their bashing of metal and tinkering with tiny objects. Robert was left alone, and began his pile of homework. The house slowly grew silent as the time ticked by.

It was Robert’s favorite time of the day – night. He worked in peace until about midnight, reveling in the quiet stillness of everyone else’s sleep.

Tired, he made his way to the solarium. Robert hadn’t slept in his real bedroom for months. He had his mattress set up directly under the center of the glass domed ceiling, where he could see perfectly the night stars – the only place the strange branches couldn’t reach was right over the center of the house. Huddling under his comforter, he gazed up into the sky at the pinpoints of light. They could be anything, really, he thought.

Robert started to doze off, comfortable in his celestial bell jar.

54

Suddenly a loud thump came from the direction of the front door. Startled, Robert sat up and looked around. Silence. He plopped back down.

Must be snow falling off the trees, he thought. Then, a harsh rapping noise, this time much more assertive and insistent. Someone was at the door.

He stood up and walked quietly out of the solarium, his bare feet cold on the wooden floorboards. He could hear two muffled voices, both men, coming from outside. Robert was abruptly struck with fear, a solid punch in the gut. Who would bother to traverse the long narrow drive after midnight, on a Tuesday, in the snow?

Reaching the door, he could see two forms – one large and hulking, the other more average sized. Robert grabbed an umbrella from the stand and swung open the door with a deep creak, clutching his weapon.

“Hello, how do you do?” said the average sized man, in a raspy voice. He looked to be in his mid-forties, tan and dark eyed. He removed his bowler hat and handed it to the massive man behind him.

“I am Maximilian Cretae, and I’m looking for Douglas Sideris. Is this his home?”

“Yes.” “May we come in? I must speak with him right away. It’s extremely urgent.”

“I suppose…are you a client of his?” Robert replied, warily putting the umbrella down (within reach) and moving aside. The two men stepped in, bringing a flurry of snow with them, squinting around in wonder to make out the strange attractions of the dark house.

“Are you his son?” asked Maximilian, ignoring Robert’s query.

“Yes. But are…”

“What’s your name?”

“Robert.”

“Well, Robert, I’m sorry to interrupt your night. But would you mind getting your father? As I mentioned, this is a very important business, very important…he must see to it right away…by the way, this is Canton, my assistant.”

The giant man nodded in Robert’s direction, but didn’t remove his wide-brimmed hat, keeping the upper portion of his face in shadow.

Robert nodded. “I’ll be right back. Please stay here,” he mumbled, striding down the hall towards the jigsaw stairs. He ascended them two at a time, and once out of sight of the men, sprinted to Ivan’s room. Not bothering to knock, he threw open the door to see Ivan sprawled out on his bed, snoring loudly, still in his dirty tank top and jeans. His floor was littered with tools and magazines, creating somewhat of an obstacle course for Robert to traverse before reaching the bed.

“Ivan!” he whispered.

Ivan let loose a garrulous grunt-snore and thrashed over, putting his head under his pillow.

“Ivan!” “….Mmmwhaaaat…?”

“There’s someone here!” “….Tell them to go away…”

“They’re here to see Dad.” Ivan opened his eyes. “Clients?” he blurted, face crinkled, still half asleep.

“Maybe…go talk to them while I find Dad,” Robert said, heaving Ivan’s bulky shoulders up. “Go! Please Ivan!”

“Fine, fine, fine.” Ivan stood up and ran his big hands over his head and face, then started out of the room. Robert followed, but continued through the fish tank hall to his father’s side of the house. The grass was dewy and frigid on his ankles. Cracking open the door to the shell room, he could see his father, slouched over at his table, asleep. He looked peaceful, his wrinkles diminished by the serenity of slumber, his glasses placed on the table beside him. For a moment, Robert thought about turning around and telling the men to go home. But he didn’t.

Tip-toeing over to Doug, he tapped him on the shoulder.

“Dad…there’s someone here to see you.”

His father jolted up, wide awake.

“Well then…I must go downstairs then, I suppose,” he replied calmly, putting his glasses back on, as if he’d never been asleep.

As they made their way down, the nervousness reappeared in Robert’s stomach. What if they aren’t really friends, he thought. What if they want something else? He pictured the unpatented designs hastily drawn all over the place.

At the foot of the stairs stood Ivan. His athletic frame took up nearly the whole stairwell. Doug pushed him aside and stepped towards the men. Still on the stairs, Robert could see Maximilian’s eyes widen as he beheld Mr. Doug Sideris, the famed architect, the recluse. Canton nodded and grunted from his corner, nearest to the door. He still hadn’t taken off his boxy, olive green trenchcoat – Maximilian had already taken his off to reveal a well-cut suit.

“Mr. Sideris – an honor, sir,” said Maximilian, holding out his hand.

Doug took it. “And who are you?”

“I am Maximilian Cretae. I…believe you may be able to help me with…a problem…it may take some time to explain fully, if you don’t mind…”

“Certainly,” Doug replied warmly. “Let’s go in the kitchen, shall we? Boys, go back to sleep. You probably won’t enjoy hearing business matters.”

Robert and Ivan glanced at each other.

“We don’t mind listening to business,” Robert assured his father.

“No, no. Bed. Now.” Robert sighed and turned towards the solarium. After waiting a few minutes in the hallway, he crept back towards the kitchen. He needed to hear who these strangers really were. If they were trying to dupe his father…well he wanted to know. Keeping his back against the wall, he held his breath and stood outside the kitchen door.

“So, you see, this is urgent.”

“Ah, well everyone has different measures of ‘urgent’. When would you need it by?”

“Two months, three at the latest.”

Robert heard his father let loose a low whistle.

“That’s cutting it close with time…I was hoping to keep Robert in school this year, too. I don’t know, Mr. Cretae. You may have to find someone else.”

Someone thumped a hand on the table. “There is no one else who can do this…I am sure of it. I’m prepared to offer you whatever price you ask.”

He heard his father whisper a number.

“Fair,” Maximilian replied. “Reasonable, taking into consideration the family issue. Do we have a deal, then?”

Letting out his breath, Robert raced back to the solarium and plopped down on his mattress. The stars had barely moved since he’d been rudely awakened, yet so much had happened. Thoughts raced through his head as he tried to sleep – Maximilian’s raspy voice, the hulking man Canton, whether or not he could steal some of Ivan’s magazines without getting caught – they all whirled about until he finally slipped off.

The next morning Robert awoke at his standard time, beholding above him clear, blue, frozen winter sky. He rolled over, listening to the distinct sound of breakfast being made, and smiled, smelling the luxurious scent of bacon as it crackled from down the hall.

Robert sat up suddenly. He usually was the only one awake at this hour. He usually made breakfast for the three of them, and he usually made waffles or toast, not bacon and eggs. Abruptly the events of the night before flooded through his head and he stood, running to the kitchen.

To his surprise, his father was standing at the stove, wearing a tattered, frilly apron, holding a frying pan and spatula – all the while humming cheerfully. Ivan was sitting at the table, dipping his crust into the center of a sunny-side-up egg.

“Morning, champ,” grunted Ivan, not looking up.

“Morning. Dad…what’s going on? Where are those men?”

Ivan laughed, glancing up from his plate. Robert looked at his brother, a face he’d known all his life. His eyes were different – he could tell Ivan knew something. Robert, irritated, gave him a glare. “Well, tell me, what’s happening?”

55

Author: fie Huncosky: Untitled

Al-

56

“Well, Dad, tell him what’s happening. You heard the kid,” Ivan snorted.

Doug turned around and put down the spatula. Wiping his hands on his apron, he removed his glasses and placed them gently on the table. Toying with them for a moment, the kitchen was silent.

“I’m going on a trip,” he started, hesitating. “A business trip. Your brother Ivan is coming along to help with the project, and you can’t stay here alone – so you’re coming too.”

Robert’s stomach dropped.

“Where?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s a little bit of a…secretive project. There are some people involved who don’t want…publicity…about the whole affair.”

“Is that why Mr. Cretae and his assistant were here last night? Is he famous?”

“Yes, that’s why they were here, to ask for my help. The plane leaves this afternoon, so get packing. It’s going to be a long trip, probably two or three months.”

“Yeah, pack plenty of bras and undies,” Ivan interjected with a guffaw.

Robert sat down and began furiously devouring his breakfast. This wasn’t the first time his father had taken him out of school for a “work trip”. He slammed his fork down on the table. His father and brother had already finished and left, yet he hadn’t even noticed.

“I’ll clean up,” he mumbled to himself, still fuming.

A thunderous boom careened through the house, shaking the floorboards. From his room, Robert could hear Ivan’s awe-struck laughter.

“What did you do this time, Ivan?” Robert sighed, rounding the corner to Ivan’s room. He entered to see Ivan sitting on the floor in the corner, chuckling to himself. His bureau was face-down on the floor. The handle of a suitcase stuck out ominously from underneath it, like the Wicked Witch’s foot from underneath Dorothy’s house.

“I got bored packing.”

Robert rolled his eyes. “You realize we’re leaving in half an hour. You better get going on that, unless you’re planning on taking your entire dresser.”

He walked out of Ivan’s room and back down the hall to his own, where he sat on the bed, looking around.

The bedroom was big and spacious, like most rooms in the house, yet dark. It was still a little boy’s room – space themed, with planets his father had sculpted to scale hanging from the ceiling. Robert’s bed, which he hadn’t slept in for quite some time, was shaped like a spaceship; his feet stuck off the end of it, but he couldn’t bear to throw it out. The quilt was worn and thin by now, a map of the constellations. His mother had made it. He slipped it out from under him and folded it, placing it in his bag.

Within a half an hour, all the suitcases were in the car. The lights were off. Robert, Ivan, and Doug stood in front of their house.

“Well. Let’s get going.” Doug opened his door and got into the drivers’ seat.

Ivan and Robert got in the back, uncomfortably crammed between various tools.

“Wait a second…I want to just make sure everything’s turned off…” Robert mumbled, getting out of the car with his keys. Walking back through the house, he had an uncanny feeling that he wasn’t going to be seeing it again. His bedroom, Ivan’s workroom, the shell room, the fish tank hall…he tapped on the side to get Reggie’s attention. On his way back down, he stopped in the solarium. Robert stepped onto his mattress, walked to the very center of the room under the top of the dome, and looked up through the crystalline glass at the darkening sky. The uneasy feeling grew in his stomach as he watched a cloud drift in and out of his circle of vision. A single black bird flew across the roof. The hair on the back of his neck prickled – he felt like he was being watched. Robert dropped his head down, looking around at the dark house. Nothing. He sighed and walked out, through the front door, locking it behind him.

Ashley Edwards, Miki Takada, Pascale Stain, Anika Verma, Ting-Ting Yang, Sophie D’Anieri, Abby Nissen, Natalie Dunn, Kotoha Takashima, Candice (Yueh-Ting) Chiu, Karen Kao, Alfie Huncosky, Makeda Morrison, Anne Leonardo

Members Literature Editors: Harriet Zucker Lauren Christiansen

Art Editors: Angela Dai Yi-Chen (Mayan) Wu

Faculty Advisor: Todd Matthew

Faculty Advisor: Katie Wilson

Lit Board: Lydia Youngman KaraLin Pintye-Everett Rebecca Pinert Murielle O’Brien Lauren Miller Jaye Melino Svitlana Iukhymovych Francesca Gundrum Aileen Eisenberg Julia Doyle

Art Board: Angelina Doherty Che-Hsuan (Sherry) Lin Katherine Whitebread Zhixing (Wanwan) Fei Jane (Beatrice) Li Antong Liu Seungming (Mina) Hwang Ji-Hong (Stephani) Yang Vivian Cheng Xin (Sherry) He Feifan (Vivian) Qiao Min Gi (Jamie) Park Yeeun You

Triangle is a student-run art and literary magazine that publishes student and faculty work. The magazine seeks to balance excellence and diversity.