FirstFlight 2019: Beacon

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FRONT COVER “Denied Reflection” by Karina Bowden 2

Farhan Hossain EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Kahyun Koh ASSISTANT EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Amanda Yen SUBMISSIONS EDITOR

Colette Chiang, Esther Choi, Vlada Demenko, Dhathry Doppalapudi, Daniel Kim, Bea de Oliveira

ADVISER: Mia Boardman Smith

PAGES 6 & 7

“URBAN VIEWS” by YURY BUKHRADZE

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Yellow by Amelia Gilkey Dazed and Confused by Karina Bowden

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You, Again by Jeronimo Laviada art by Emma Roberts

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The Taiga by Alena Kurovskaia photos by Kenna Aardema

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As Snow Was Falling by Yury Bukhradze Shibuya Crossing by Beau Chap

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At Home by Farhan Hossain California Tower by Angela Liu

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Casual Beauty by Karina Bowden On Cheerleading by Amanda Yen photo by Aaron Shi

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PAGES 18 & 19

UNTITLED ART by EMMA ROBERTS

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Self Made by Karina Bowden

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Ignite by Sophia Ai photo by Anton Glazko

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Hanbok by Kahyun Koh photo by Anna Jeong

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The Truth Always Comes Out by Adam Leveille Tangled by Seyoung Lee

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Greetings by Jackson Drewry art by Jackson Drewry

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Dig In by Amanda Yen photo by Garrett Seamans

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Shot in the Dark by Kahyun Koh Illuminate by Anna Ni

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Tomato Plant by Mackenzie Churchill art by Angela Liu

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Ranges of the Heart by Ryan Walsh Self-Perception by Lesley Moon

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Before the Sky Falls by Kate Pearson art by Emma Roberts

“ESCALATOR AT THE BROAD MUSEUM” by BEAU CHAP

PAGES 34 & 35

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We’ve Never Met ... by Sophia Ai photo by Anna Jeong art by Angela Liu

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White Powder by Alyssa Yeh Mammoth Lifts by Beau Chap

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Your Ashes by Jee Hoo Nam Foreign by Kahyun Koh photo by Anna Jeong

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Dive by Ryan Walsh photo by Shahen Boghoussian 3

“Airplane View Through Crystal” by Beau Chap and untitled photo by Anton Glazko 4 4

Ancient mariners on the Mediterranean Sea, accustomed to traveling in the dark, were mesmerized by the shining fire of the Lighthouse of Alexandria, one of the seven ancient wonders of the world. Its light could be seen from hundreds of miles, and its 300 foot observation tower offered ancient people a rare chance to stand on top of the world. At the opening of the tower in the 3rd century B.C., Posidippus, a member of the royal Ptolemaic court in Alexandria, overflowed with palpable excitement. … this tower, cutting through the breadth and depth of heaven, beacons to the farthest distances by day, and all night long the sailors borne on the waves will see the great flame blazing from its top ... he’ll find Zeus the Saviour, by this beam.

It is easy to see why the tower captured the imagination of the ancient world: the light of a beacon, after all, is a temptation, a guiding hand beckoning you towards a brighter direction. The darkness, however, invites uncertainty. There is a fear of learning to embrace the unknown, in trusting a distant light, in wading through the aureate waves.

In this issue of FirstFlight, we invite readers to challenge themselves, to take chances on the signals around them. Learn to trust the light, and be rewarded with unknown opportunities and new beginnings.

- The Editors 5 5

All that you long for exists within an arm’s reach, yet the world is wide, your life is long, and this is only the start. The sum of your days lasts an instant, a never-seen flash between ocean and sky, a thousand rosy twilights, a thousand blonde sunsets. You see colors in your mind you don’t yet have names for, the sense that there’s something brighter in the distance, beyond this rolling field of blue. Clear skies, and still, you have no way of knowing ­— what lies over the next crest? The next peak? Turn your face to the sun, arms open, to meet whatever comes.

“Urban Views” by Yury Bukhradze 6 8 6

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“Dazed and Confused” by Karina Bowden

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yellow

by Amelia Gilkey everything is black and white yet there she stands in yellow

god damnit yellow you’re fast

yellow

the hope the brightness it’s getting farther away dimming with each step i’m squinting to see it to see the sliver of happiness

joy peace happiness clarity energy hope all swirling around her how lucky she is to be yellow to embody the breath of a bee to radiate the whispers of gold to shower in sunflower smiles to inhale the sun beams to taste like lemons yellow dances in rainstorms for she knows her sun will return she skips in rubber yellow boots twirling in a slick yellow jacket she’s laughing she has this laugh that runs straight to your head her toes dance to the yellow taxi and i’m following? i'm following. soon i’m running this yellow? i need the yellow i need the clarity the positivity so i’m running after yellow

she’s too far gone i’m tugged down by the grays the in betweens the indecisiveness i allow the gray to pull me down who needs yellow anyway? gray churns around my weak body covering my mouth pinching my nose i bury my head down and squeeze my wet eyes closed i’m being suffocated but there’s a glow poking at my closed gray eyes yellow? short hair tickles my cheeks it’s yellow now we’re both running except yellow has my hand this time i need yellow the entire world was black and white until yellow seeped through

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you again

by Jeronimo Laviada First, the memories came like the plague, without even the slightest etiquette or order whatsoever, they were nothing but rapid flashes of what had been, could have been, was, and all those other random thoughts that were filed amongst those memories.

Then came the multiple scenarios that could possibly play out; the millions of things I could say and she could say; and even more important, the inscrutable feeling of knowing that: no matter what, no matter how many scenarios I could think about, not only would I screw things up with my first four words, but that all I thought I had already foreseen happening, was not even in the real list of possibilities.

All these thoughts were bouncing around my mind while the previously mentioned “She is not there, idiot” kept playing in my mind—just like one of those classic rock snobs who insist on playing old Beatles records on repeat to point out their “many mistakes”—making a disastrous cacophony of mayhem in the clusterf*ck that had just become my mind.

The one really clear and discernible thought that sporadically outpowered the rest was the feeling of forgetting something somewhat important, but I couldn’t really point out what, so instead of wasting my energies, I just shelved that thought for later, waiting for a sudden revelation to occur and save me from the excruciating work of remembering whatever I had forgotten.

untitled art by Emma Roberts 10 10

the taiga

by Alena Kurovskaia I’m late for our meeting again, It will not be easy. Do not feign!

And I know you will wait me any time.

To see all your beauty I will climb.

From this mountain I can see you.

The sunrise illuminates you, my dear Taiga!

It’s not at all like everyone drew.

I see you the first time in my life.

You are wider; you are grander!

These trees are in snow like under a blanket.

You offered me a glass full of adventure.

It scared and excited me, but I drunk it!

When you deal with nature, You should always be brave.

And if you pass all the obstacles, The Taiga will hug you in it’s own wave.

In it’s wave which is full of inspiration.

My dear Taiga, you are wider; you are grander!

untitled photos by Kenna Aardema 11 11

as snow was falling

by Yury Bukhradze

Snow was slowly falling. The street was completely empty, as expected. Rows of snow covered cars were lined alongside the road, and almost every window in every apartment building in vicinity was lit up. Yellow, blue, white, green, occasionally purple or red — these windows came in every color you could imagine. And the snow was still falling.

What time is it, by the way? I looked at my watch: 23:57. Huh. What am I doing outside then? I think that would be the perfect time to go back. They're waiting for me. My phone rang. I picked up. "Scha pridu," was my sole response to whatever Dima said.

A group of people came from around the corner of the building. They looked young, maybe in their early 20s. There were 4 people: three girls and a guy. They were walking fast — apparently, they were late to a party.

"My uspeem? Vsevo tri minuty ostalos'," said one of the girls.

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"Da ne par'sya ty, doidyom," the guy responded. Considering it was really just three minutes until midnight, these guys were never going to make it in time. They went past the courtyard and disappeared beyond another apartment building.

23:59. What is that sound? Oh, right, I'm listening to music. I don't like this song, skip, This one is awful, skip. This one is good, but the mood is not right.

Okay, whatever, no music then.

Fireworks broke the sky. People started shouting everywhere. S novym godom!

It was New Year. 2019… time flies, doesn't it? It feels like just yesterday it was 2010. Time sure flies.

Fireworks disappeared faster than I expected them to. I could still hear them in the distance, as well as somewhat distant voices. And the snow was still falling.

I looked around one more time. People started going outside, some with their own fireworks. I looked at the watch: 00:13. Huh, that late? Time sure flies. I think it's time to go back inside.

I entered the building. And outside, the snow continued falling.

“Shibuya Crossing” by Beau Chap 13 13

by Farhan Hossain The tall yellow stucco and blue shutters and pink roses exude permanence, safe and rooted and confident. But I remind myself that I did not always live here. I can still remember the other family, huddled up on the couch watching television while my parents and I walked around during an open house. They no longer call this place home, but they still linger in the remnants we never bothered to throw away.

They are in the bird fountain with ceramic squirrels in the backyard, in that hole in the wall shaped by their dog’s teeth, in the flecks of purple paint that become visible when the overlaying blue chips away.

The carpets are now a nice cream white, but I know they were originally a deep evergreen. Their carpets have been ripped out and replaced, save for the small patch remaining in the attic.

I wonder why anyone would purchase green carpet for their house.

They too must have thought they would live here forever.

“California Tower” by Angela Liu 14 14

“Casual Beauty” by Karina Bowden 15 15

by Amanda Yen I give myself an hour and a half before warm ups to get ready. It takes five minutes to find all the pieces of the uniform and another five to get them on right: lift my hair to zip up the liner, hold a breath in to button up the skirt. I have to get someone else to fasten the shell straps into the white and gold X on the back, because I can’t reach it on my own.

It takes a little more than a half hour to do my makeup –– pat the eyelashes, line and swipe the lipstick, tap the glitter on my cheekbones. The trick is to use as much as you can while looking like you used as little. Another three minutes to set everything, two for the hairspray, one to pin down the flyaways. Spray a little perfume, too, though it’s unlikely anyone will get close enough for it to matter.

It takes fifteen minutes to fix my hair into the perfect ponytail. I had planned to wash it two nights before so it’s a little dirty by the time I have to pull it up on Friday –– that way, the bow won’t start sliding out halfway through the game and I won’t get an infraction for not being prepared. I plan my weeks around my Friday nights. It’s like the big performance I keep waiting for.

I never felt like anybody until I got to Friday night. The first thing I learned when I first put on the uniform, at fourteen, was that people started

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to notice me. People started to actually look at me. They knew my name because it was written in script across my throat, but it made me feel like I was someone worth knowing.

I knew I was making a bit of a fool of myself, but it was fun. It was thinking a little and feeling a lot, dancing around and jumping around, and the football was only an afterthought, at least in the earliest years. Friday was the only day I had the confidence to say anything at all, even though the words weren’t mine. The best was when they listened, when they clapped along or cheered along, if only for a few seconds, because it meant that I was heard. I could imagine I was really leading those kids who always took the front row at football games, even though they didn’t know who I was during the week. For them, I only existed under those stadium lights.

I wanted to surprise them.

I wanted to show them I was strong enough to catch and carry other people, show them I was a good entertainer, show them I was a good time.

There’s a kind of victory in shocking people, in doing things they don’t expect you to do, and there are times I think I’m most comfortable when I am acting out that part. At some point, cheerleading starts to feel more natural than whatever role I have to fill the rest of my week with.

When I get home at the end of the night and I take all the makeup off — when I wash my hair and put my glasses on, and look at reflection — I think my own bare face looks stranger in the mirror. I look empty. I don’t look like anyone at all.

untitled photo by Aaron Shi 17 17

untitled art by Emma Roberts 18 18

Down through the polar darkness you plunge, sinking until the sun is but a distant drowned-out memory. You’re clawing up at surface dreams and frothy promises, left long unfulfilled.

Colder and colder, further from home, the hairs on your arms stand at end, and strange enough, the light becomes a dream you dream not of. There’s depth to the darkness, there’s dimension.

Are you afraid because you’re alone in the dark, or because you aren’t?

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“Self Made” by Karina Bowden 20 20

by Sophia Ai

your tears were drops of sunlight every time i tried to wipe them away my fingers would burn and a red scorching blossom of pain would remain tattooed into my skin

untitled photo by Anton Glazko

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by Kahyun Koh untitled photo by Anna Jeong

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I’ve only ever worn the hanbok twice in my life. The first was spun of rainbow silk and satin — my mother bundled me up in the traditional garment for my first birthday in Gunsan, South Korea. The second was as thin and black as the occasion: my grandfather’s funeral in Seoul.

The intermission between those two long waves was 14 years; since coming over to the States as a baby, I’d never revisited Korea until the funeral. between: across the space separating two objects or regions.

The South Korean flag was not the only thing I sacrificed on the day of my naturalization ceremony. My rainbow colored hanbok was another one of those sacrifices, yet I was stupid in failing to notice how small, tight, and uncomfortable the dress, a delicate chrysalis of what my life could’ve been, had grown until then.

Because, if all Koreans share the same ramie material, which lies underneath the hanbok’s many interlayered silks and patterns, I am of foreign dye than the rest of my cousins and ancestors.

I bleed red, white, and blue onto both of my halves, and am only allowed to borrow the pretty black indigo belonging to the South Korean flag when attending my relatives’ traditional Korean funerals or festivities; I cannot, in fact, recite the Pledge of Allegiance “at home, at school, and in my community each day” with the same unblinking ease as some of my peers, hands in pockets and eyes half closed, nor can I sing the Korean national anthem at my Korean Language School with the same patriotic vim as do my parents and teachers.

In this unending flurry of passports and suitcases, I can’t help but sometimes feel like a passenger stuck in a confusing layover between the 14 hour flight time between Seoul and San Diego. Or maybe I’m overthinking, and I missed the due flight long ago without realizing it. It’s kind of like riding on a dizzying baggage carousel over and over again because the luggage cannot be accepted by either country.

Whereas the hanbok is a historical emblem of social class and its oppressive ways, for me it glistens and glows like a beautifully tragic marker of nationality, perfect and unattainable.

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the truth always comes out

by Adam Leveille So I have a big ass secret, I haven't told the world, Once loved one boy, he took my only heart, And right there in front of me, he ripped it apart.

I want him to love me, To know who I am, The fear holds me back, So I can't let him in.

I do not trust the world enough, Their jokes and rude humor, It seems have joined in, I feel weird, But I still do it too, Betraying myself.

What will happen?

Will I lose my family?

Will I have to sleep on someone's couch?

Until they throw me out too, When they find out?

Finally I tell my mother.

She lets out a chuckle.

I don't think so, she says. There has never been a Leveille like that, but don't tell your dad, or he will be sad.

I feel bad, sort of betrayed.

I walk away.

What is with this world, full of disgust and hate, Homophobia, is a real threat to take.

I have one big secret I dare not tell, If I tell you, will you too yell?

Yell it out loud, tell the whole world.

After all its stupid, just do it after I hurl.

But keep in mind my heart and my life, So today I stand and say that I am proud to be gay, The truth always comes out...

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“Tangled” by Seyoung Lee 25 25

a screenplay excerpt by Jackson Drewry EXT. DESERT - DAY The warm sun shines on FRANK’s face. He remains completely still, lying with his back against the rugged desert surface. As he slowly regains consciousness, he notices his oxygen mask and rips it off his face. Shadows of blurry figures appear to be moving around him. He becomes increasingly aware that he is not alone. A boot hits the ground next to Frank’s head. As his vision becomes clearer, he is able to distinguish a man looking down at him with a distinctive coat and a white beard— LAWRENCE MILLS (55).

FRANK: Wh-who are you?

Mills smiles as he continues to stare directly at him.

Frank turns his head to see SEAN and SARAH, fifteen yards away from him, unconscious on the ground. They are surrounded by a dozen armed GUARDS. Mills turns to the guards.

MILLS: Take a good look at these earthlings. It’s not often that we get a case as good as this.

The guards observe the three mysterious people with fascination. Frank unbuckles his parachute harness and begins to sit up.

FRANK: Excuse me—who are you?

untitled art by Jackson Drewry 26 26

Mills turns to Frank and forces him back to the ground with his boot.

MILLS: Sshh. Don’t move.

Mills motions to the guards.

MILLS:(To the guards) We’ve got a twitchy one here, don’t we. Load them into the budgies.

The guards carry the semi-conscious bodies of Sean and Sarah. The others lead Frank to the parked BUDGIE: a maneuverable flying vehicle with four engines extending from each corner of the unenclosed cockpit. Frank enters the budgie with Mills and six of the guards. The rest of the guards load Sean and Sarah into a second budgie. The pilot starts the engines, and they hover upwards. When they reach roughly fifty feet above the desert surface, the budgies tilt and begin to move forward.

EXT. DESERT MOUNTAINS - DAY The two budgies fly through the dry landscape. They approach a tall mesa among the mountainous rock formations, and the budgies land on the flat summit.

Mills hops out onto the surface of the mesa.

The guards lead Frank out, while Sean and Sarah—now conscious—are brought beside him. The pilots turn off the engines.

MILLS: Please, take a seat.

They hesitate, confused. Finally, Frank awkwardly kneels on the ground. Sean and Sarah do the same.

Frank.

SEAN: (Whispers) What is this?

FRANK:(Whispers) They found us.

SEAN: Who are they?

Frank shakes his head, somewhat resentful of Sean.

FRANK:I don’t know.

They sit on their knees in silence.

SARAH: Do they know we came from Earth?

SEAN: They real question is whether they know it was illegally.

SARAH: No one’s been authorized to travel to Terra Nova in centuries. If they know we landed from space, then it’s pretty obvious we came from Earth. And if they know we came from Earth, then they can assume we’re prohibited from coming to their world.

SEAN: I hate that word. (Scornfully) ”Prohibited.”

MILLS: Perfect.

Mills walks to the edge of the mesa and looks out, pondering the situation. Just as Mills is out of earshot, Sean turns to

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in the aftermath they asked me if i felt any different, now, in losing this main piece of me.

by Amanda Yen

and that revealed the disconnect, because i felt that i’d lost nothing. had nothing i could give away –– i was still whole, and if i’d fractured, then i held every shard. every fragment, every morsel, not one bite conceded, least of all to him.

some girls winked like they adored me, abhorring me in silence. acrylic hooks beneath my skin, their coal black eyes all glittery they who never loved me, to think i’d had my just desserts.

i know he snickered when he heard it, he whose heart i severed at fifteen, when i was careless, i was cruel. he carved my name up with his forked tongue –– the edge of it, serrated. it’s funny how they think that if you “give” away yourself at night it’s an invitation for the rest of them to dig in. so fine. make a four-course meal of my body. tear into my limbs, my organs, and choke on the choicest pieces.

I still belong to me.

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untitled photo by Garrett Seamans

“Where are you from?”

So, what brings you here?

“San Diego.” oh, the usual.

“No, I mean, where are you really from?”

Do you feel … a little blue these days?

You look stressed. Parents put a little too much on your plate? You don’t go out enough.

Should I ask mom to step out for a little?

I’m all ears, you know.

“Like, my ethnicity?” i’m good, i’m just tired (and god so sick of people).

“Yeah, whatever.”

Alright, if you say so.

“Korean.”

“North or South?”

by Kahyun Koh

Relax, hon! It’ll pinch just a teense. Deep breath in …

“South,” I exhale, closing my eyes.

In goes the needle! Counting down from ten, nine, eight …

“So you eat dog.” zero. *** “... anything else for you, sweetheart?”

“Could I be treated normally?”

“Aw, I’m guessing today’s anesthesia was a little heavier than you’re used to?”

Weaker, actually; I feel it so much stronger this time.

But instead I shrink back to that pearly white smile, hating myself for the aching silence.

“Never mind. Sign me up for another Glutathione injection, please.”

“Illuminate” by Anna Ni 29 29

untitled art by Angela Liu

by Mackenzie Churchill She laid on the bed; still, as white as a sheet, her chest rising and falling, slower and slower.

Everything was still. The only sound I could hear was the continuous beep of the machine, as it pumped the oxygen into her lungs; helping her body do what it could no longer do on its own. She looked so delicate and fragile, as if she herself were one of the many flowers that decorated the dull hospice room. I stared at her still face, that had been so bright and full of life, now was empty; no hint of life. Her radiant smile was replaced by a thin line, and her caring eyes, so curious and bright, now closed; never to see the world again.

As I looked upon her, my mind rushed with the memories I shared with her.

The mumble of voices echoing from the television, as images dance along the widescreen; scenes of vibrant colors and delicious treats as Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory played for the third time in a row. I enveloped myself in the thick silken sheets of her bed, as I lounged beside her. She wore one of her many nightgowns, this one with patterns of intricate pink and cream flowers. Her snowy white hair sat atop her head in endless curls, the white of her hair blending with the fine sheets and pillows of her bed. I remember my younger self being so fascinated by the movie that we both just laid in silence watching. It was not an uncomfortable silence, but instead a welcoming one. I would spend all day with her, watching endless films, chatting casually, and sharing laughs.

I remember the cool breeze caressing my skin as I shoved my hands into the moist soil. She handed me small seeds that I would scatter around the planter, laughing and smiling. She would help me plant the microscopic seeds, covering them in layers of fresh soil. We would water them together every time I came to her house. Soon the seeds would sprout and transform into an entirely new objects; vibrant green plants, with thin branches that held tiny green leaves. The branches would develop tiny round objects, that would grow and grow until they turned ripe and red. We would eat the tomatoes we grew, enjoying the savory taste they emitted. But soon those plants would let go, warping in on themselves and sinking to the ground. The remaining tomatoes left to rot beside the fallen plants.

The beep of the machine broke through my thoughts, sending me back to reality. Where she still lays in the bed.

It was her turn to let go, as the tomato plants had.

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ranges of the heart “Self-Perception” by Lesley Moon

by Ryan Walsh

Laid bare, we have been stripped.

Time has touched all stones, Man has polluted all temples.

We were weathered away until nothing remained, Hidden in the clouds, Cracking, Falling to pieces.

Until the stones in our core began to grind and take shape.

The sheer feeling guided us to decide.

So, We built.

We rose into pillars of hope.

Glistening brilliantly in the sunlight, We morphed the surrounding world into an unrecognizable utopia.

In our crevices, galaxies are kept tucked away, In our veins are raging rivers, Creations of mountainous stature.

We lay gently and steadily in our realms, Throbbing with life, Until we fall into eternity.

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untitled art by Emma Roberts 32 32

by Kate Pearson When the sky falls down and the rivers turn to dust Will you still be so arrogant, so blinded by your lust?

Incapable of trust?

When the mountains crumble down like sand The world you know is gone Will you just stand there, unaware?

Wondering what you did wrong?

I see the beast in all its glory Hiding in the dark It’s tucked away behind your eyes waiting to leave its mark.

Let me shine my light on you, let me make a spark.

Listen please, I beg of you Don’t shut me out for good Hear me out, I know what’s coming what’s lurking behind that hood Please, change, stop your pretending I know you’re not okay.

Everything will be much clearer in the light of day.

Please let me stay.

I know that you’ve been hurt before.

I promise I won’t hurt you.

I just want in, behind your walls Before, before your whole sky falls.

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When the walls close in and the unknown presses down, and the weight of the future hangs heavy as a chain around your neck — you remember, at last, to look up. A candy-striped tower forms a torch to the night, crowned by the jewel of a flame defying. An undying flicker of a heartbeat, a pulse, a touch on your shoulder, a comfort and warmth. The path illumined, guiding you on. Sometimes you must lose the way to find it once more.

Better dreams at better heights: the clarity you never knew you were reaching for, at last.

“Escalator at the Broad Museum” by Beau Chap 35 35

by Sophia Ai

We’ve never met before, but the first time I saw you sitting at the table next to the window with your headphones in, dark locks of your hair falling into your eyes with a book open in front of you with a steaming cup of coffee by your side I thought you were beautiful.

I was wandering the streets in the rain then, in the midst of an unforgiving storm each raindrop washing away layers and layers of dirt and grime and tears and regret and shame and guilt when I pulled open the door to that cafe, the little bell singing and you looked up and our eyes met for a split second.

We’ve never met before, but the second time I saw you sitting at the table next to the window with your lips fixed into a pout, your hair pulled back into a messy bun with your fingers dancing across your phone screen with a steaming cup of coffee by your side I thought you were beautiful.

I was wandering in an endless flowerless field then, feeling time slip away from my fingertips by the second.

We’ve never met before, but the third and last time I saw you sitting at the table next to the window with a man I’ve never seen before, your eyes brimming and overflowing with tears that fell like shooting stars as your lips mouthed ‘Don’t leave’ over and over again and his face red and his eyes downcast as he stood up and pushed the door open to the rain

the little bell singing you covered your face with your hands and even then without a steaming cup of coffee by your side I thought you were beautiful.

I was in the midst of a great whirlwind the gale tearing away at my mind and body and I pulled the door open to the cafe and ordered two cups of hot coffee and walked to where he left you with your hands over your face with the steaming cups while the storm and tempest and wind died down and you looked up and our eyes met and I said: “We’ve never met before, untitled photo by Anna Jeong but can we have a coffee or something?”

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untitled art by Angela Liu 37 37

A snowy morning, when I found you in the park, Shaking and quivering, you had been crying.

You said your angel left you in the dark, But I didn’t know what you were implying.

So I lay down, flapped my arms about, And created a new one for you.

That was the beginning of it all.

I invited you over for hot tea.

You told me about yourself, and I told you about me.

You said you liked the sea, and I said I loved Glee, And we became friends, an unlikely amity.

School began when the snow melted.

We found out we shared some classes With some nice teachers and some others...not quite respected.

We talked and played with grass and clay, And dreamed the days and troubles away.

We became best friends in the most incredible ways, Inevitable, unpredictable, unafraid.

I dreamt about you, and you dreamt about me.

As cliché as it sounds, a love bloomed beneath.

I thought it could always be like this, Flirting and teasing and maybe a kiss.

One night, I went to your house With a homemade gift, and in my cleanest blouse Knocked on your door, but you didn’t answer Called your number and waited for an hour.

Maybe it was my fault for intruding in the first place, But when I walked in, I wasn’t expecting traces Of discarded clothes and half-eaten dinner.

I found you with another, And I realized Love is white powder, Innocent and destructive, Pretty to look at, beautiful to dream of, Regretful to see it melt.

Because we melted Under the heat of your passions and your pursuits Pursuits for an open heart, Pursuits for some open legs, Pursuits for anything I could not give, And you said it was for the better.

One angel wasn’t enough, but strangely four were.

Love is white powder, But I still come back for more.

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by Alyssa Yeh

“Mammoth Lifts” by Beau Chap

Being with you, I learned, and I loved, and I grew But I won’t ever let you know that I know Why your lover left you in the snow.

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by Jee Hoo Nam You’re the warm summer breeze Drying the tears on my cheeks, Telling me to stop grieving.

You’re the beautiful birch tree Standing tall, Showing me that You are strong, That nothing can hurt you anymore.

You’re the blue ocean waves Shining bright below the sunlight, Gently kissing my feet As if to remind me That you are happy now, That staying in this world No longer pains you.

untitled photo by Anna Jeong 40 40

by Kahyun Koh She believed it was a fingernail against the wild blue yonder but knew that the sheer enormity of it could never compare to something so minute as the human body. Godlike, it was the barrier between her past and present, and the reason for her disconnect from the world. The ocean was why she was foreign.

For in the taste of salt crystals seeped deep into skin, and grains of sand entangled in wind blown hair — mermaid glitter, as Samchon would say with a scary Cheshire smile — she was able to salvage glimmers of her past self, even at 9,888 miles from home.

Reaching into her pocket, she’d fish out dry shrimp crackers of her childhood and fling them out to the California gulls, hoping they might replace the Blacktailed ones back home that once swooped down from their brave parabolic dives and grazed her fingers. How she suffered and revelled in this irony between oblivion and reality, between pretending and knowing.

Yet in those unhardened spaces where she was tired of pretending and missed her mother land, she would sit beneath the spreading sunset while cradling that noisy pendulum against her chest, and watch the sky slowly bleed from blushed peach to orange, like a finger gently pressed.

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untitled photo by Shahen Boghoussain

dive

by Ryan Walsh Dive deep into the waters unknown Cold spreads her hands over you, And paralyzing fear takes the throne The temptation to let go and explore this world you never knew Whispers in your ears and beckons you Cautiously your eyelids open, and the sharp rays of sun come splintering through the ocean The world above tries to infiltrate the dream you’re in now The frigid water isn’t so bad anyhow You’re drifting through a sparkling current, One the old world can’t seem to torment Turn your back on the life you once led And follow the dreams that litter your head That life is gone, the girl you once knew This world is exciting, this world is new.

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BACK COVER “Airplane View Through Crystal” by Beau Chap 43 43