2018 Vibrato

VIBRATO The Hockaday School | 2018 | Volume 53

On the cover

Normal City

Hallet Thalheimer

Vibrato The Hockaday School 11600 Welch Road Dallas, Texas 75229 214.363.6311 hockaday.org

Screen print 30 x 20 in

Introspection

Dear Reader, All artists hide vulnerabilities in the cracks and crevices of their art. As you read this magazine, Vibrato invites you to strip away the faรงade and search between the lines for hidden truths. Allow your perceptions of what should be to drift away like steam and have the courage to come face to face with your own inner thoughts and feelings. Join us as we dive deep within ourselves and learn to embrace and celebrate our hidden insecurities through paper, paint, photo, and production.

Steam

Emily Baschab

Collage and pen 15 x 18 in

TABLE OF

CONTENTS L

LITERATURE

12 14 16 18 20 22 24 27 28 30 33 34 37 38 42 46 48 50 54 60 71 87 88 91 95 96 98 100 103 104 108 110 112 117 120

Helter Shelter - Shelby Schultz The Spring of ‘66: History Battled my Brothers and I - Ellen Schindel Feminism - Isabella Yepes Sandstorm - Hibah Naviwala A Paradox to Blame - Hailey Sipes Galileo - Annie Zhou This is what Makes us Girls - Eliza Parker Tock - Jane Cook A Little Girl’s Journey - Sydney Polk Dichotomy - Hailey Sipes Like in the Movies - Shelby Schultz How to Fall in “Love” - Grace Olson A Naïve Milk Carton - Eliza Parker Just Fabric - Hibah Naviwala Coffee Beans - Sharon Zhang Poems from an Invalid - Helena Perez-Stark What Happened to You - Aryn Thomas Banana Girl - Michelle Chen The Story of Ten - Camryn Dixon Airplanes are Existential Places - Grace Olson Drake Passage, 2017 - Michelle Chen Did the Flowers Say Hello? - Hailey Sipes The Stories we Tell our Youth - Hailey Sipes Visitor - Helena Perez-Stark Lemon Yellow - Catherine Sigurdsson The Welcoming Warmth Invites me There - Helena Perez-Star The Anatomy of the Kidnapped - Eliza Parker An Unfair Existence - Helena Perez-Stark How to Live on Antarctia - Sharon Zhang The Impalement - Helena Perez-Stark Chinese Takeout - Michelle Chen Teetering - Shelby Schultz In Media Res - Payton Hart Butterflies in Your Stomach - Helena Perez-Stark Cure - Helena Perez-Stark

S LITERATURE

12 17 21 23 25 26 29 31 32 36 44 69 72 73 76 86 89 90 94 96 99 105 106 111 114

Forced Perspectives - Lily Loose Primary - Emily Baschab Grandfather - Chrisine Ji The Young Girl and the Sea - Elli Lee Self-Portrait - Lily Loose Glass Half Broken - Tosca Langbert Fashion Without a Boundary - Sunita Hu Homer - Hallet Thalheimer Cover Up - Sunita Hu Hannah - Lily Loose Rose - Lily Loose Monachopsis - Elli Lee Afternoon Roses - Christine Ji The Hidden House - Christine Ji Untitled - Lily Loose Dreaming - Sunita Hu Still Life - Amanda Jin Lone Woman - Elli Lee Oranges and Kettle - Amanda Jin Her - Sunita Hu Looking In - Elli Lee Distortion - Sunita Hu Be A Man - Sunita Hu Pause - Neelam Jivani Contrasts - Lily Loose

ART & FILM 10 40 62 84

Cracks - Anna Glasgow Foreclosure - Shelby Schultz Ukiyo - Sophie Gilmour After Taste - Emily Ma

To watch the film, scan the photo with your smartphone where you see this symbol.

Revelations - Margaret Thompson Pueblos - Regan Halverson Under the Sea - Sarah Schultz Boutique - Jade Nguyen Cloudy Day - Kristi Li Perception - Dawn Grillo Floating - Helena Perez-Stark Konichiwa - Kristi Li Antelope Canyon - Sophia Kim Camden Day - Alexa May 8:26 pm - Kristi Li The Fish Market Obasan - Kristi Li The Journey - Swiler Boyd Blue Daze - Isabella Shadle Rise and Grind - Alyssa Manganello What a Quiet Night - Alexa May Koi Fish Couple - Claire Marucci Hope in the Eyes of Muong Children, part 1, 2 - Jade Nguyen The Aqua World - Kristi Li Rice Paddies Through Mist - Jade Nguyen Icicles ´ - Christine Kirby Phô Cô [The Hanoi Old Quarter] - Jade Nguyen 214.695.2511 - Sawyer Bannister Lion - Katherine Pollock King of the Jungle - Catherine Dedman Deception Island, Antarctica - Michelle Chen

PHOTO

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14 18 34 38 43 49 52 56 58 59 60 65 66 70 74 79 80 82 92 100 102 109 116 118 119 120

Many thanks to: Mrs. Rosenthal for working so hard to make our ideas into reality. You have never failed to support our ideas and provide valuable feedback and suggestions. Your constant devotion and unwavering perseverance and passion has made this entire process possible. We are forever grateful and will miss you so much next year!

Dr. Cranfill for your literary feedback and for volunteering so much of your time to sifting through our literature folder. Your experience and perspective have been much appreciated throughout this creative process.

COLOPHON Dr. Coleman, Mr. Murray, and Mrs. Palmer for providing us with the opportunity to create such a unique magazine.

Melanie Hamil at Impact Graphics and Printing for always being so available despite our many crazy ideas. Thank you for finding a way to make all of our dreams a reality.

Vibrato is a magazine that exhibits the art, photography, literature, and film of Hockaday’s Upper School student body. Each piece is an original work by the student. Together, our staff members closely review and carefully select the pieces to include in the publication, design the spreads, and distribute the magazine. As you journey through our magazine, we hope you are as awed by the genuineness of the included pieces as we were.

The text of this issue is set in BetonEF and the titles are set in Arizona. Variances in size are used for titles of literary pieces, art, and photography as well as names of authors and artists.

The magazine was designed using Adobe InDesign CC 2015.

N

Payton “thing 1” Hart Co-Editor-in-Chief

Sarah “smattyb” Matthew Managing Editor

Claire “keyboard shortcuts” Marucci Co-Editor-in-Chief

Alexandra “thing 2” Hart Asst. Art Editor

Noelle “winfo?” Diamond

STAFF

Luiza “1st year senior” Gruntmane Christine “give me your spread” Kirby Communications Director Asst. Photo Editor

Parker “photoshop queen” Hawk Photography Editor

2017-2018

Tarini “still 14” Gannamaneni

Hailey “1 liner” Sipes Asst. Literary Editor | Film Editor

Emma “on my computer” Roseman

Helena “Dorian Gray” Perez-Stark Art Editor

Varsha “I can read” Danda

Bethany “Sleeping Beauty” Vodicka

Ellen “Greek yogurt” Schindel Literary Editor

Catherine “the middle” Dedman

Doris “the explorer” Zhang

Ana “mom“ Rosenthal Faculty Adviser

Synopsis: A father-daughter relationship sees the trials of a failing marriage, and seeks solace in the little things.

Cracks

Anna Glasgow

Film

HIDDEN

Helter Shelter

Shelby Schultz

Five feet long and not so wide, Cool blue tile and a bath bleached white.

Water scurrying down pipes rusted frail And drain tangled with the hair of a silken veil.

Mirror misty from shower steam With fingerprints streaking to reveal what seems.

Father’s cologne and mother’s perfume, A bottle of pills, the center of a room.

She sinks to the mat, rests her knees on her chin, Then she can’t hold her weight so she sinks down again.

Rest your head in this common space, Where no one cares to see your face.

Smell bubble bath, dispersed to air.

Imagine forgotten ground above despair.

Lay down your head and rest in the light.

Lay below the mirror and blind your own sight.

/12

Forced Perspectives

Lily Loose Oil on canvas 20 x 20 in

/13

The Spring of ‘66: History Battled My Brothers and Me Ellen Schindel

Of course, it wasn’t the photographer’s fault, That Fate told History to get rid of us.

Every ounce of ideas gained: a moment lost.

My brother, Brashear, Locked hands with History, While Fate fought to smudge him, To drown him in his sea.

Why the glory when he can’t flee?

Why paint him in History But take his leg and sea?

If I, a statistic, not a hero, Fall Will History remember his lover at all?

Once Fate stood at our side, And History held us tight, Gloating like a proud father.

Fate would hammer together Our ships, and History Voyaged for thousands of years And hundreds of miles.

Just for our patron, Odysseus.

/14

Revelations

Margaret Thompson Photography

/15

Isabella Yepes i gave birth to my feminism as a mother gives birth to a child (except i did not push my child out of me) it crawled from that pit in the stomach every woman has— a pit of anger and sadness and the words of men— to the base of my throat and in the same way a mother’s child arrives screaming so did mine

/16

Primary

Emily Baschab

Oil on canvas 20 x 16 in

/17

Sandstorm

Hibah Naviwala

Sand scratches glass and metal As the wind sings its piercing song Filling the desert sky With a curtain of dust And the snakes And the serpents (And the villagers) Embrace the safety of their reliable musty homes.

Sand storm: A sign of Judgment day approaching.

/18

Pueblos

Regan Halverson Photography

/19

A Paradox to Blame

/20

HE LIED TO HIMSELF SO MANY TIMES HE LOST FAITH IN HIS OWN TONGUE. Hailey Sipes

Grandfather

Christine Ji Pencil 18 x 24 in

/21

Galileo

Annie Zhou

On a map of stars, worn edge defines the lines.

Constellations begin, But trapped in set confines.

In a crowded hall of scholars, Galileo stood alone.

While blinding sun revolved ‘round Earth, he reached out uncondoned Towards other stars, towards further stars!

Extending his old telescope, He strove to see at a great length his only shining hope: Twinkle twinkle in the sky Another diamond passes by, ‘Round and ‘round they go in space, Does everything have just one place?

He took his planets, took his time, Proved fact was fiction, proved truth… lies!

Old legends rose, youth escaped confines— From magic fountains into Galileo’s shining sky.

How much will you sacrifice to see what you must find?

To shun outdated textbook facts, what must you leave behind?

Will you live like Galileo, pushing limits for mankind?

When will you start to try your heart, become your thoughts, your mind?

/22

The Young Girl and the Sea

Elli Lee

Oil on canvas 20 x 24 in

/23

This is What Makes Us

Eliza Parker

This is what makes us Those sugar and spice and trained to be nice Those quiet and cute and 14-year-old Those docile and blonde and smile at you back Tired and warm, kiss daddy goodnight Dreaming and still, Care Bear in our arms Not alone not assuming, we think we’re alright Men want us, they take us, knife to our throat We follow, not screaming we swear we are good Throat dry, cheeks wet, get pushed in the car Wanting to run, forget how to walk, thinking of the knifed Car racing, breathing faster, we are told to shut up Submitting, soft crying it’s what we do best Blood rioting, chest quivering, holding our own hands Pit stains in our PJ’s, goosebumps on our heads Snatched again, jaw clenched as you pull our pretty hair You wipe our tears with your fist as you welcome us home You steal our night gowns, lock the door and laugh at your new girl Lights off can’t see­—never could Men like those girls

Poems about the kidnapping of Elizabeth Smart

/24

Self-Portrait

Lily Loose Acrylic on wood 23 x 21.5 in

/25

/26

Glass Half Broken

Tosca Langbert Colored pencil and graphite 14 x 14 in.

Tock

Jane Cook

I was still holding on To what was left, Sharp shards of memory.

But bathed in an ocean of time, fragments smooth to sea glass: Painful no longer.

The sound of the second hand echoes in an empty room Tick.

/27

A Little Girl’s Journey

Sydney Polk

As a young girl, I was timid. A hollow shell, with a dim light in my eyes.

No excitement. No happiness.

Never cracked a smile because: I wanted to be DIFFERENT. Removing the dirt. Embedded in my skin. Scrubbing. Rubbing. Raw. Repeat.

I’m self-conscious… and looking for validation. Am I BEAUTIFUL? Every night I would pray: make my hair straighter, thighs slimmer, tummy flatter, skin lighter I WANT TO BE DIFFERENT. Why is my black considered beautiful…?

Night after night, it was the same prayer: I WANT TO BE DIFFERENT. Soon…God answered.

His response: a seed, a blessing.

Planted in her malnourished spirit—to FLOURISH. From the crown of her head, to the tips of her toes, a slow transformation—MAGIC Now a young woman. I’m NO LONGER praying my modification prayer.

N O L O N G E R pinching the fat rolls on my thighs and stomach.

Instead, admiring myself: My Curves. My Stretch marks.

With a smile I see: my tummy and thick thighs A wayward curl pattern adorned with nappy hair and kinky roots My chocolate skin—kissed by the Gods— A set of two-toned mocha lips And my light-bright brown eyes staring right back at me.

This is beauty. ACCEPTANCE, exuding CONFIDENCE, and REALIZATION. MY BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL and I wish I had realized it sooner.

/28

Fashion Without a Boundary

Sunita Hu

Medium and acrylic 20 in. diameter

/29

Dichotomy

THE BOY SPOKE HIGHLY OF LOYALTY AND TRUST WITHOUT REALIZING THE PARALLELS BETWEEN SILENCE AND LIES. Hailey Sipes

/30

Homer

Hallet Thalheimer

Paint on canvas 14 x 11 in

/31

Cover Up

/32

Sunita Hu Waterclor and prismacolor pencil on paper 16.5 x 16.5 in

Like in the Movies

Shelby Schultz

I could feel his breath on my neck. The odor of onions wafted across my nape. He removed his satin jacket and pushed up his cotton sleeves. Work was over but he was preparing.

His hands brushed through his over comb, an attempt to disguise his bald, dry scalp. I thought his eyes were green, but in the light, gold-yellow flakes battled his growing pupils. His hand, ghosting up my forearm, remained red. I dropped my eyes down to my tripod, trying to connect muscles to memory to movement. Hands laced in my hair, pulling down and down. A crotch against my hipbone and fabric too thin to defend.

No and no and no, my brain entreated. Yet my lips wilted, cotton stuck in the back of my throat. “How about a drink?”

I heard the bottle click. Glass cool in my hand, fingers barely maintaining a grip. This is not what we normally do. I should be walking home with my key in my hand. Yet it was me and him and Susan far in the back. She was packing up the lights and the soft yellow glow subsided to dark.

My mom always said only bad things happen in the dark. She said bad things happened to girls in short skirts who drank too often and revealed too much: slutty girls, desperate girls, girls like Susan. Susan lapped mascara over black-crusted eyelashes every morning and wore a skirt two sizes too small. Susan laughed too loudly and leaned in when she spoke.

I was sweaters and long skirts—not that girl. Yet, I found the glass on my lips, tilting, tilting, until the whiskey burned tasteless streaks down my throat.

Susan always wanted the producer to like her. She gravitated towards his success, clinging. I found it helpful to walk along with him to learn the ropes, but not follow his tail like a stray puppy. He knew so much. He had done so much.

Susan’s heels continued to click and he refilled my glass as if I had asked him to. “You’re lucky he likes you,” Susan had said.

He watched Susan leave in anticipation. The screech of the door closing frightened me. Then he grabbed my elbow, his blunt nails clawing my skin like a shackle.

The bathroom light snapped on as he shoved me through the door. I could feel the air conditioning spit

cold air on my skin. The night crew had already come through. The scent of disinfectant hung in the air. The floor still looked dirty. A toilet paper roll had unraveled, strewn across the bleached white tiles. I could see a grimy handprint against the unclean mirror.

He backed me against the wall between the two air dryers. He fingered the edge of my sweater, rubbing it between his fat digits. Soon it was off and he stepped back to admire his object. He dipped in, then, and dragged his pointer finger across the shadow of my bra. “You want this.” The way it echoed… I wasn’t sure if it came from him or the strings he pulled in my amygdala.

He enclosed me, placing his two arms on the wall as he bit down my neck. No, no, no my shaking head protested, but I found I wasn’t moving. This man held my future in his palm. I knew, I knew, I didn’t owe him this. But what else could I do?

He lifted his hands from the wall—he knew I wouldn’t budge—and began to unbuckle his belt. My eyes drifted to the mirror and I watched my own eyes, so gray compared to the brown that usually stared back.

I saw red bites that would bloom into black and blue bruises. Marks I would have to hide behind turtlenecks. Reminders that I would have to stare down in the mirror.

His fingers reached below my skirt and traced along the seam of my underwear, like he was asking permission. It was just a game.

“Look at me,” he barked with his onion breath slamming against my face. I could see my eyes slipping tears as he jerked my jaw up. He laughed, widemouthed, when he saw my lip quivering. My mentor’s premonition echoed in the shallow recesses of my conscious: “if you work in film, you will be sexually assaulted. It’s just part of the job.” He swooped in again. He shoved his tongue deep down my throat.

I decided to forget all that happened after that. I decided to just surrender my will to the will of this man.

Because I knew I would have to see him tomorrow.

Because I knew I would have to work for him the day after that. Because I knew that this man held my future between his fingers. Because I knew, no matter what I said, no one would believe me. Because I knew that he would always be stalking behind me, ready to take. There he would always be, raising me up to success, just so that he could shove me back on my knees.

/33

How to Fall in “Love”

Grace Olson

I didn’t know I was broken Until you told me so.

I expected “It’s not you, It’s me,” But you told me it was the opposite “It’s you.”

Accusing, Teenage voice breaking.

Closed off, shut in Untrusting man-hater.

This is what you called me.

What your ugliness wrote between the lines Of your high and mighty intellectuality.

You called me inexperienced For not being able to find “love” In clammy hands locked together, In bony arms flung over each other in movie theaters, In the backseat of your dad’s old car.

As though that was the only genesis of “love.”

As though all this time I had been looking in the wrong places.

These thoughts twisted through my mind As I crawled into the bed I “loved” Wondering if all I had experienced was Watered down reality Like the stained memories of summer camp “Suzie’s sorry she flushed your heart down the toilet, I know you strongly dislike her, But never say hate,” Then that became the only four letter word you knew whispered

/34

Over and over Lying in your bunk at night The word I whisper now They tell you words have meaning But they always forget to mention The vomitus after-taste the words of another Will leave in your throat As you are forced to swallow Your pride To spare your femininity Picking apart our conversation, I read for the tell-tale signs of my consent to your analysis Were my words dressed too provocatively?

My vernacular asking for it?

The ice cream cone from our first date A metaphor for my depravity?

But I found none Only you asking “why are you so afraid of men?”

As I look up at you through the gaps in my fingers You telling me about my insecurities Me wondering what the hell sort of insecurity Coerced you into telling me about mine.

Is this the picture you have of me in your mind?

One drawn with the crudeness of a five year old, Contoured with your disappointment in me, Colored messily outside the lines of respect Of kindness Of “love.”

But now I understand my mistake Love is Falling Opening your legs Closing your mind Breaking When you inevitably hit the ground And piecing yourself back together After they take the best fragments of you And leave.

Under the Sea

Sarah Schultz

Photography

/35

/36

Hannah

Lily Loose Acrylic on canvas 14 x 11 in

A N a ï v e Milk Carton

Eliza Parker

Hopefully today is the day that I save Elizabeth Hopefully this morning your sunrise hunger is strong enough To call you towards the undisputed breakfast champions: Lucky Charms and Milk Hopefully you use the energy and empathy I give you to go find Elizabeth My heart swells with anticipation as I shiver in this crowded room I am only one cock-a-doodle-do away from a break in the darkness One early bird from broken fetters set by a gray, fragile, and far inferior carton I cannot wait until you free me from captivity and extend the deed to Elizabeth Just as I suspected Dawn breaks and I am as irresistible as ever The slightest influx of warm air is my cue to shimmer in the incandescent light Of course my timeless beauty picks your primal eye When you take your morning swig my eagerness becomes sweat The familiar leprechaun lets me know my plan is finally working When you pass me around to smaller versions of you I live out my purpose and tell everyone about Elizabeth It was really loud out there so I’m not sure if you heard me The way you are shaking me really hurts you know I don’t like this angle Mr. You don’t get it!

You have run me dry and you didn’t even listen to me We can save the world together but you won’t listen Please stop shaking me Can you not see I am empty?

Can you not see Elizabeth?

I have grown sick of the stupid stare of the leprechaun It seems that I am not alone in this opinion You put us back It’s dark in here too but not nearly as cold I was warned of this place but I never thought That you would damn me and Elizabeth to such an unforgiving destiny

Poems about the kidnapping of Elizabeth Smart

/37

Just Fabric

Hibah Naviwala

The cloth on my head And the faith in my heart are Just fabric.

But the jungle of thorny assumptions That I, and my sisters of fabric, and their sisters of faith, Must trudge through (For survival of course) Are twisted fables yet to be rewritten.

When silenced by the white hunters of the jungle The cloth wrapped around My mind shouts instead.

In a jungle where Fabrications of oppression and Terrorism are associated with Just fabric, My mind’s voice cannot shout alone.

/38

Boutique

Jade Nguyen Photography

/39

Synopsis: Children understand more than we realize.

Foreclosure

/40

Shelby Schultz

Film

Coffee Beans

Sharon Zhang

I love coffee, she told me We sit in a rustic cafe in the abandoned part of town, the dead leaves of autumn at our feet.

When I open up a bag, a symphony of smells —the crisp copse of Colombia, discarded drizzles of Jamaica— bursts into the air, unfiltered.

The explosion of ground coffee, like sand, fresh as spring’s first flowers, leaves a trace of winter’s spell.

Around us, the static radio wavers, a backdrop to her words. She is saying lists and lists of things, and reasons.

Ripped edges of old posters nag at the once-white paint, the silent, worn walls, holding more than we know.

But its taste, bitter like that morning— I woke up to find that she had run out of lists and lists of things, and reasons.

I brewed the coffee anyway, took it hot in my hands, sipped slowly, let it burn a creeping trail down my throat, muddy footprints through veins, towards my heart, pumping violently, a black storm.

/42

Cloudy Day

Kristi Li Photography

/43

/44

Rose

Lily Loose Paint on wood 21 x 17.5 in

/45

Cloudy Day

Kristi Li Photography

I. It’s in the space between my Scalp and my skull.

It’s in my neck and the Stem of my brain.

It’s in my shoulders and it’s in my heart.

But God forbid that it Gets inside me.

II. I watched the fan spin.

It was really fast, But that was okay Because it went in a circle So I knew it wasn’t a competition.

III. I went looking for a hard floor one day Because hard floors feel real And so do hard walls.

That is why I like corners.

As I dwelled Pressed against the corner Basking in the real things I stared at the ceiling And wished it would join me.

It wouldn’t move.

Even though it used to.

I was disappointed.

It was really too bad that I’d just get a regular corner today Even though I wanted a box.

VI. I look at the bright lights They’re pretty You’re pretty I guess that makes you a light Haha That’s probably a false equivalency Whatever.

V. I blink a little bit And try to read the message, But the words swim on the page.

They seem to enjoy swimming, But maybe I should buy them a rowboat.

It’s a bit bothersome, But I’d rather be kind and not harsh.

VI. I sat in the snow and stared at the ceiling.

It was painted light blue.

I didn’t like it too much.

I wished it were night So that my eyes would hurt less.

It snowed some more, And I realized that I was probably inside Because I wasn’t numb.

I didn’t have an opinion though.

There was water in my eyes.

I thought I might take my temperature, But I couldn’t read the thermometer.

I thought I was probably normal, then.

Bad news is meant to be read.

I fell asleep on the ice.

VII. I’m going to sleep now.

I think it’s going to be awhile.

It’ll be warm I hope.

I just want to be warm.

And I think that I’ll be still.

Maybe everything will stop.

Maybe I’ll sleep for a few months.

Maybe forever, who knows.

In my dreams, I’ll be embraced.

Maybe I’m finally going to be calm.

Maybe I’ll finally rest.

Just let me burn then.

/47

What Happened to You Aryn Thomas

What happened to you?

You crossed a few.

What happened to you?

It was passed your curfew.

What happened to you?

Was someone else there, What happened to you?

Did you have a clear view, Was it your decision or The voices talking to you?

The cameras didn’t tell, What they’ve done to you.

The motive, it is unclear.

The nature of the crime, it is undecided.

Homicide or suicide?

It is heavily debated.

Many questions remain about what really happened to you.

Were you alone?

Were you scared?

Speak to me now Unveil the truth.

Your family isn’t mad, They want to understand what happened to you.

/48

Perception

Dawn Grillo Photography

/49

/50

Camden Day

Alexa May Photography

Long into the Abyss

/51

GIRL

/52

BANANA

BANANA

America—my birthplace.

I learned the alphabet so they would call me [ABC] the precise curve of my tongue around the letter ‘L’ so they wouldn’t call me [Loser] Yellow—my skin.

I gave up sunscreen long ago to feel sun’s lip-glossed kiss on my shoulders like an American girl, too tan China—my home.

Thirteen years almost girl: skinny legs [dark] hair [dark] eyes the grey canopy of pollution faces the paler the prettier never white Banana Girl—name. [tawny] skin white within Not quite high school sweetheart: denim shorts or wide eyes Hannah Montana never smiled at my kind of girl

GIRL Michelle Chen

/53

/54

Helena Perez-Stark

Photography

/55

The Story of Ten

Camryn Dixon Ten suffocating a plastic bag over my head black blind to the outside world I gasp my lungs ache gone I was his first Nine my husband dead beside me I know I am next rope slowly digging deeper into my neck tighter, tighter I take my last breath Eight mom? dad? no response floorboards creak below his heavy feet he walks to me fear death I’ll see you soon mom and dad Seven I am alone scared no one left to save me now he ties the rope rigid a baby bird tied down breathless, powerless young, naïve maybe birds aren’t meant to fly

/56

Six warm summer air, a nice night for a drink or so I thought‌ stab the party was great stab I don’t see him trailing behind me stab my knees give out stab the gravel cuts in stab warm blood drips down my freshly shaved legs stab my head strikes the unforgiving ground stab panic, fear, terror; everything all at once stab the filthy eyes of a murderer glaring into my soul stab stars hover above stab my vision goes black stab

Five rugged rope my fragile skin rubbed to the flesh constriction lack of breath I scream, but no noise comes out just‌nothing Four what I thought was a harmless belt was a harmless belt no more one notch too tight I cannot breathe but still he strangles on lightness then darkness gone Three coarse hands sandpaper around my throat cool fingertips ice on top of my wound strong grip he has done this before one breath my last Two sheer, seductive innocent nylon stockings wrapped around my gentle neck merely harmless adornments until this moment who knew these tights could be so damn tight

One the cherry on top of a mountain of remains the final hurrah in this sick, twisted game I was his last

/57

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Konichiwa

Kristi Li Photography

/59

Airplanes are Existential Places Grace Olson

From above the street lights are illuminated like veins Connecting city to city Unfurling in the blackness below me, The anatomy to a geography unknown.

/60

8:26 p.m.

Kristi Li Photography

/61

Synopsis: A girl is imprisoned by the monotony of the working world.

She tries to escape her dull confines through her imagination.

Ukiyo

/62

Sophie Gilmour

Film

/64

The Fish Market Obasan

Kristi Li Photography

/65

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The Journey

Swiler Boyd Photography

/67

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Monachopsis

Elli Lee Acrylic 26 x 12 in

/69

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Blue Daze

Isabella Shadle

Photography

Drake Passage, 2017

Michelle Chen

night stole past my eyes and never fell here the sun’s dagger of truth has long killed darkness i chew on 3 am blues the ocean and the clouded mirror of a sky the sun has neither risen nor set this land must never age or may it age invisibly —a scene set at the center of time how the world spins in my peripheral how my mind spins in my skull how they spin past each other

/71

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Afternoon Roses

Christine Ji Oil on canvas 24 x 36 in

The Hidden House

Christine Ji Watercolor 11 x 15 in

/73

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Rise and Grind

/75

Alyssa Manganello Photography

/76

Untitled

Lily Loose Acrylic on a Disk 12 in. diameter

/77

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What a Quiet Night

Alexa May Photography

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/80

Koi Fish Couple

Claire Marucci Photography

/81

/82

Hope in the Eyes of Muong Children, part 1

Jade Nguyen

Photography

Hope in the Eyes of Muong Children, part 2

/83

Synopsis: Over a meal, a girl recounts the flavors of a relationship.

/84

After Taste

Emily Ma Film

PERCEPTIONS

/86

Dreaming

Sunita Hu

Ink and Water Color 9 x 12 in

Did the Flowers Say Hello?

2.

She was falling, down, down, the rabbit hole, her mind the path twisted and tangled, taking its toll.

Alice would down the contents of her bottle, turning to the liquid courage to make herself feel larger, stronger - but in the end, she shrank, cowering in the corner and she knew She was going mad.

With each smoke she shared with a caterpillar she knew existed only in her head, with each time she chased the rabbit around and around and around a world she couldn’t recognize,

Hailey Sipes

When she asked him for directions - for someone to talk to, he’d point her where he could - the Hatter, the Hare: but she said they were mad and that mad was bad.

And the cat knew not what to say. For she and he were both mad, too - and her words were like the claws the flowers feared dug themselves into his own heart.

7.

Alice knew she was going mad.

Jack of Clubs, Queen of Hearts, King of Diamonds, Ace of Spades.

A deck of knights that flock to protect their queen for Wonderland conceals their heart in a shrubbery maze, while the rest of their kingdom was trapped in an herbal haze.

She drowned in her tears that flowed faster with each sip of courage she took, with each sweet she tasted, trying to console her fears.

Jack of Clubs, King of Diamonds, Ace of Spades The Queen of Hearts was a card worn at every edge, a temper uncontrolled and easily tipped over a ledge.

“Who are you?” her caterpillar would ask, and Alice didn’t know how to respond - for how could she know who she was when she didn’t understand where she was or what she was doing? She’d fallen so far down the rabbit hole, the line between real and imaginary had blurred so much it was gone.

Yes, the white roses had been painted red, but for that – why should they lose their head?

You’d think over time she’d get used to those who let her down, yet despite the years of constant disappointment, the anger still flared – uncontrollable and consuming.

And with each drag her friend took, each puff of smoke he blew into her face - Alice lost herself in the dangerous, deadly, and yet so desired Wonderland.

Her sight turned red as the roses in her gardens, as the fabric on her dress, as the blood pulsing through her veins and the veins of those she beheaded. Despite the years of failure, she never grew accustomed to the sneers and leers and fears she encountered along the way. Despite the years of sorrow the Queen of Hearts still was teetering on the brink of insanity, though some may claim she’d plummeted so far.

5.

The feline watched this girl poison herself with the arsenic society encouraged their youth was cool when in reality it scorched their lungs, drown their kidneys, and robbed them of their freedom.

He watched her chase a fantasy, yet every time she reached out to grasp it- she was too late.

She was late for this and late for that and the Cheshire Cat watched with a painful grin as people wondered how the darling Alice had fallen so far?

His cheeks ached from smiling so falsely, he laughed and chuckled and purred but his cheeks ached from a smile that shouldn’t be his. His words betrayed him as he edged her on, thinking he was helping, But he just made things worse.

The Cheshire Cat lost his mind in the nights he spent invisible, hidden in trees and watching his world tear itself apart, unable to find himself or anyone else.

He could talk to the flowers, but they feared his claws – he could talk to Alice but she feared his mind.

Perhaps she wanted their heads because she couldn’t find her own.

A.

They called him mad but they did not know what mad really was.

They claimed that the lead had gone to his head, that the tea left him free from his own thoughts. But they did not know how his thoughts whirled, how he lost himself in a dream world.

He hadn’t the slightest clue as to why a raven was like a writing desk or why they all considered him grotesque.

The Mad Hatter waited for Alice to flee but she kept asking for the tea - oh don’t drink the tea sweet girl, for it’s not the lead that ruined his head, it’s not the hat that caused warped way he’d chat - but the tea- oh the tea, soaked in poppy it would be.

So, don’t drink the tea, don’t wear his hats, don’t trust the cats, or hares, or queens. Just go, get out while you can, before you become the one who should’ve ran from Wonderland.

/87

The Stories We Tell Our Youth

Hailey Sipes

“Come here, pretty girl,” smiled the wicked man with the wicked white teeth, For somehow, he hid his arsenic underneath.

He warned the girl not of the dangers that lay ahead, Rather instead compelled her first into his bed.

But alas, the girl was hardly his to keep, And soon she was forgotten, resting in eternal sleep.

As the man played with his pawns, his knights, his queens, Others thought not of whatever the girl’s fate means.

And soon ascended another, a girl just as fair, With silken red rose petals woven into her hair.

She danced, she sang, she enchanted the court, But when she smiled, she left men scavenging for their fort, Stolen from wolves, her teeth stained yellow, Many a man cry, many a man bellow.

But still the wicked one pursued, Thinking he surpassed her as he was shrewd.

But the girl with the rose petals for hair, Considered him rather unaware.

For as he’d begun to set his pawns into place, The girl devoured him whole, leaving not a trace.

/88

Still Life

Amanda Jin Oil on canvas 40 x 50 cm

/89

/90

Lone Woman

Elli Lee

Oil on canvas 24 x 20 in

Visitor

Helena Perez-Stark

You look best when you’re pale When your lips are tinted the color of washed out plums, When your eyes are sand not yet melted into glass.

Then. I’ll lie next to you and touch your cold body And whisper into your ear:

I love you when you’re like this.

Your fingers, interlaced within my own Will not respond, So I will feel the distinct chemical twang of a snapping guitar string Within the depolarized fibers of my heart.

I’ll scratch at the faintly blue skin spread loosely over your ribcage, But there will be no red to greet me.

All of the strings moving your pieces about will be cut And you will be relieved.

I’ll take your pulse right where the sun lies on your wrist And you will rest well.

/91

/92

The Aqua World

Kristi Li

Photography

/93

/94

Oranges and Kettle

Amanda Jin

Oil on canvas 40 x 50 cm

Lemon Yellow

Catherine Sigurdsson

The little girl—she looks like a Stacy, or maybe an Eliza, even a Tiffany—hops along the street, over cracks and lines in the sidewalk as her mother bustles behind her. It’s too bad, really, they seem like such a nice pair. Over the crowd, if I focus, I can hear the mother’s nattering on her cell phone; something about bills, a new sofa, her wife’s dratted boss. I sigh and adjust, fabric rustling against fabric, cotton on silk. My sharp fingernail catches the end of my ragged cloak and makes a new tear. Shit. Well, it doesn’t make a difference, it’s torn up enough as it is, but it is hard finding the exact right materials to mend it, as shown by the various stitches and tears and frays. People don’t notice floating stitches. They don’t observe what they believe to be small things, inconsequential things. I slip in those cracks.

I suppose it’s a blessing the little girl is grasping a balloon, a lemon-yellow dot bouncing in time to her hops. I think I’d like a balloon like that, maybe on my time off. I watch the little girl glance at her mother, open her mouth (missing one front tooth), then shut it. Her mother notices too late as the young child dashes off, into a sea of suit legs and hose stuffed in pumps. It’s beginning. I hear the rustle of more silk on cotton, but it’s not me, it’s the others. I like being early, it lets me watch and see how the story unfolds. The people with flashing boxes, scribbling pads, and soft-ended sticks will be here later, making a story, but they won’t have seen how it came about. Down the road, a light turns green, but the car starts late. At another, a car runs a red light.

The little girl pushes ahead, laughing and giggling, high-pitched and in high spirits. I descend, hovering between her and her exasperated mother who just can’t seem to grab her child’s wrist.

“MaKaylyn!” she shouts. I know it has those ‘y’s, of course, considering the child’s name burns yellow at the end of my parchment, flat against my chest. Makaylyn doesn’t stop, knocking an elderly gentleman’s briefcase into the street—he spares a few moment’s glance at her in disbelief, shakes his head, and steps onto the currently-empty street, joints creaking with arthritis and old age as he bends to grab the handle of his case. I sigh. Maybe things would turn out different if he didn’t stare at MaKaylyn.

She’s in the middle of the street now, taunting her mother as the woman stands on the curb, yelling at her daughter to get back here. It’s too late now, the car that ran the red light is speeding closer and closer. The irony—it’s red, and a teenager nattering on his phone is behind the wheel. I sigh again, resigned. The other car—don’t you remember?­—zooms ­­ as well, speeding at least fifteen miles over the speed limit. The mother sees the approaching car and runs out to grab her daughter, but the teenager isn’t slowing down. The other car swerves around the old man, clipping his hip and knocking him over, going too fast to stop and reacting too slow to avoid him. The two cars crash, red slamming into black, sandwiching the little girl and her mother’s arms between the metal and plastic. Something is burning, there’s fire, and another car crashes into a street pole in a terrible, terrible attempt to avoid the carnage. Yet, there’s no screaming, as the pedestrians stare at the wreck in shock, in horror, the old man’s pants and grunts of pain ceasing. Looking at the pole, I see another man slumped back in his seat, young and just out of college, judging by the bumper stickers.Dead, bleeding, and his girlfriend is sitting in shock. A rustle, and I see a cold blue pulled from his mouth. He’s been taken care of.Someone’s wailing now—it’s the mother of MaKaylyn, trying desperately to process what happened. What happened. I land on the roof of the red car—the teenager is alive, though most definitely scarred, and the other driver has exited her vehicle—and I dig my hand into what’s left of the little girl’s mouth, pulling out something light and yellow and warm in my grasp. It’s too bad it won’t mature. I slip it into my satchel and, after a moment’s thought, I soar after the balloon.

I grasp it and the balloon, with me, floats away.

/95

The Welcoming Warmth Invites Me There Helena Perez-Stark inside a skin-covered drum i melt, my half-formed fingers limply reach for the membrane

is this a womb or is this a coffin? half-asleep, I feverishly scratch beneath the surface of warm ice on a lake frozen with cerebrospinal fluid and lubricating mucus I cannot breathe.

Placenta fills my mouth and I am suffocating.

My heart panics shallowly as a weak child would flail and cry; Harshly my blood shushes it.

We must work to breathe less so that we can finally breathe more.

I am choking far too inefficiently. consciousness lies there, lies there through the thin barrier, but it is blurred and even though my body pushes and i struggle i cannot see it and the embrace is too comforting

/96

her fingers wrap around my forehead and trace my eyelids closed they convince me that i do not need my throat for talking or for breathing she holds me for my will, against the roiling thing in my stomach which tells me that the burning in my lungs is not love or the soothing sting of solace but the dimming light of the sun as my day lies on the brink of termination I cannot breathe.

The container molds around me.

It is frigid, and a pigeon’s feather of coldness works its way into the failing cortex of my brain.

Her corpse is cold leather.

it is so easy to fade into her warm caress with this overwhelming tranquility sapping the blood from me and i am only half-made yet so i must wait until the stabs of pain in my chest subside i must wait until i can join her i love her, who makes me an empty set only solved by imaginary numbers her hand is grasping my heart telling it that it has worked so very hard all these years telling it to rest because it has made it very far and everything is lachrymose and everything is slow i do not want to leave this place.

The nature of this place is transience.

i am separated from touch and smell by nothing impermeable if I do not want to leave I must go further away it is against all regulations to stay where she is trapped in the moment of a blink i cannot hover beneath my open eyes they are to weary too maintain this balance i cannot stay just above my closed ones, they are too weary to see beyond the ephemeral barrier I cannot breathe.

I writhe violently and it is all broken.

The hypothermic cadaver smiles back at me and we are startlingly similar.

My lungs inflate, yet everything is atrophied, Everything is weak and oversaturated and I am having difficulty.

I am possessed by the spirit of life; I am reborn, liberated; I revive the damaged impulses left in my nerves.

Soaked in my own humors, I open my mouth and swallow the sun whole; There are billions of years of light that will not subside And a cutting chill which presses a lit match to my mind and offers me a smoke.

Basking in the heat of a single match, I inhale deeply.

I jerk and stutter. and i cannot breathe

Her

Sunita Hu Watercolor, Prismacolor pencil, collage 9 x 12 in

/97

The Anatomy of the Kidnapped

Eliza Parker

I pluck my scalp like a daisy Until the mangled locks of hair on the ground tell me you love me My body is hollow My torso echoes with the pops of stomach acid diluted with vodka My bones clink and clank in the wake of the vibrations of my persistent heart My pulse is my only source of consistency My tongue was trained to sit still It was my hands that could not keep a secret So I chewed my fingernails until they learned how to shut up My feet are an oxymoron Encrusted to the ground in my own vomit My only method of escape set roots in the concrete You hollowed me out until I was a vacant vessel You turned my body into a closed casket in which we both rest inside

Poems about the kidnapping of Elizabeth Smart

/98

Looking In

Elli Lee Oil on canvas 8.5 x 11 in

/99

An Unfair Existence

Helena Perez-Stark

Grass is weighed down by Rain Rain says “no, I’m giving you life.”

Grass begs to differ.

Rain says grass is ungrateful; The weatherman agrees.

Sun is too hidden to believe either side.

Grass wilts.

/100

Rice Paddies Through Mist

Jade Nguyen Photography

/101

/102

How to Live on Antarctica

Sharon Zhang

In your collared shirt and black tie, overwhelmed to the point of tears, lie still, and let your body melt

into

isolation’s numb arms.

Before getting dressed, before moving to Antarctica, you should have understood all the possibilities of being alone.

Maybe you didn’t hear that small click in your mind, that icy, dream river before reality.

Maybe you don’t know how to listen.

Maybe you will never get there.

And no one is going to tell you how. Except you should learn to follow the signs.

Otherwise we would lose ourselves, without the arrows pointing in all the right directions.

It’s colder than you thought and maybe, maybe you should have grabbed that blue duck-feathered jacket, sweaty from unsteady skiing.

But it’s your choice. But blue can work well with so many things.

On the black granite island you now call home, the only things you ever feel is cold.

Let the cold be a good enough reason to run away, or Let the cold be a good enough reason to take a nap.

Out here on Antarctica, there are two sides to everything:

heads — that thick blue jacket, with its muddy grass stains,

would have brought warmth,

a shelter to this frigid desolation.

tails — this stiff black tie, thin collared shirt, vulnerable

a habit, put on that senseless morning,

seems to choke without a touch.

But it’s your choice.

Icicles

Christine Kirby Photography

/103

The Impalement Helena Perez-Stark I feel the minutes pushing through bone and Sinew 45, 46, 47 They writhe through flesh and crush my lungs Push my spine Against my sternum until My heart can no longer Beat 49, 50, 51 I try to make it stop To end the relentless push Forward, forward, On broken legs and deadened Eyes 53, 54, 55 And my throat holds Tight, cut Off, and vocal chords Almost, cut, hanging By a tense, fine Filament 57, 58, 59.

Not a rewind but 00 Again 01 Again 02 Again

/104

Distortion

Sunita Hu

Acrylic, Water Color and Collage 16 x 20 in

/105

/106

Be A Man

Sunita Hu Acrylic and Linoleum Board

/107

Chinese Takeout

Michelle Chen

bleached lights and watered-down hand soap plastic tablecloth beside glass fish tanks filled with murky watercourses and the omen of small deaths wooden chopsticks that bite back at you shoes do a good job at sticking to those floors self-proclaimed sichuan connoisseurs chinaman and woman trying to remember the taste of “Americanized” with white-washed tongues like ghosts wide awake at 2 a.m. who fear everything that appears strange in the blatant daylight of a foreign land mother’s tired eyes wait obediently father stares at athletes on the restaurant screen authenticity becomes a foreign subject as they take plastic-wrapped fortune cookies for two-year-old Emma and eight-year-old Jen ghosts creep home at 7 p.m. fearfully washing their dusky arms of every foreign stain and recall— au•then•tic•i•ty \ -’then-tik , o-. \ noun a flavor less fake than “Americanized” yet remains unreal e

/108

¸

Phô´ Cô [The Hanoi Old Quarter]

Jade Nguyen

Photography

/109

Teetering

Shelby Schultz

Two

too-large feet carried me across the smattering of grass lining the muddy Lamplighter playground. The slight hill at its center seemed so large within the context of the flat school campus.

The tunnel that snaked through the hill lay open with a jagged door peeking out, trying to snag a passerby. In fear of the dark tunnel, I skittered past it and onto the black tar track surrounding the playground equipment. Heartbeat and breath in sync, I navigated through the mob of children rushing like clockwork around the well-worn road. Then, I stepped to the edge of the woodchips and paused, watching the children crawl up the plastic stairs and descend down the metal slides. The wind battered the legs of my velvet shorts and swept up my pink shirt. “Shelby, come here!”

Sophia Stener’s voice cut like a scalpel, sharp despite the short distance between us. Even once her echoes faded, the words hung red on her lips like fiery blood and her eyes stared like two clocks, counting down in expectation. “Come on.” There was no time stand or even to think, just to step to the teeter-totter and grasp onto its cold metal bar. That was my job. My classmates would line up and I would use my body weight to rattle and shake the teeter-totter. Each surprised giggle I elicited from my classmates flowed through my lungs before I breathed it out and a new kid stepped up to the bar.

Sophia ticked up to the front of line with her stick arms crossed in an X against her red dress. The wind pulled at my sleeves, dragging me backwards, and I stepped off the bar. Somewhere among the lint in my pocket came the words, “Are you sure you want to ride?”

Sophia stomped back with a hand over her heart and her mouth jutting down in exasperation. She glanced to the crowd and their appalled voices stabbed against the warm air. “You can’t just exclude her because she’s small.” “Are you calling her weak?”

“You’re discriminating!”

Then, her mouth shifting upwards, she strode to the teeter-totter, daring me to stop her. I distantly grazed the handlebar. My fingers curled around the metal. I raised up to leap. Sophia shouted, “look no hands!” Gravity snatched me down. Sophia blasted into the air.

Speeding. Flying with no direction. A launch without calculation.

She swooped past the sharp woodchips. Then, she dropped, heavy and hard, onto the concrete track. The air hitched then swarmed as the students rushed past me.

Sophia did not laugh. She did not jump up. She did not explode in anger. She didn’t even cry. She lay limp on the black track and time paused with her, waiting. The air swept whispers across my arms: “Is she dead?” I stumbled back and back with each student shoving past me.

/110

The tunnel was damp and my tears made it worse. Of all the times I had imagined the tunnel, I had thought of lurking monsters and evil creatures. Now the only monster inside it was me. Words hissed from the outside and grew in the confines of the tunnel. Sophia… not moving… what will happen… it’s Shelby’s fault. I could see their faces in the shading of their voices –they frowned in disgust at the mention of my name.

I decided then, that I had ruined my life. I deserved to be locked in a jail cell, hidden from the light of day. I would never get to watch The Phantom of the Opera again. I would never get to finish The Series of Unfortunate Events. I would never get to try the zip line that only the fourth graders could ride. It would be me and time trapped in an empty cell with only the wind to drag in wafts of the outside world.

Eventually a teacher found me. Dragging me out of the cramped tunnel, she pulled me past the crowd of students. Her reassurances fell silent under the chatter screaming, “she still hasn’t moved.” A teacher lifted Sophia, draped her across his arms like a fallen warrior, and placed her in the ambulance. The students stared in fascination at Sophia, the martyr. I walked past with dragging feet and a hope that she would lift her head to shout abuses at me. Yet, she stayed silent and motionless; I kept moving toward the door. Two too-large feet carrying me, I had no where to go but away. I closed the door gently behind me when I saw the last of the ambulance’s lights fade. monsters and evil creatures. Now the only monster inside it was me. Words hissed from the outside and grew in the confines of the tunnel. Sophia… not moving… what will happen… it’s Shelby’s fault.

I could see their faces in the shading of their voices –they frowned in disgust at the mention of my name.

I decided then, that I had ruined my life. I deserved to be locked in a jail cell, hidden from the light of day. I would never get to watch The Phantom of the Opera again. I would never get to finish The Series of Unfortunate Events. I would never get to try the zip line that only the fourth graders could ride. It would be me and time trapped in an empty cell with only the wind to drag in wafts of the outside world.

Eventually a teacher found me. Dragging me out of the cramped tunnel, she pulled me past the crowd of students. Her reassurances fell silent under the chatter screaming, “she still hasn’t moved.” A teacher lifted Sophia, draped her across his arms like a fallen warrior, and placed her in the ambulance. The students stared in fascination at Sophia, the martyr. I walked past with dragging feet and a hope that she would lift her head to shout abuses at me. Yet, she stayed silent and motionless; I kept moving toward the door. Two too-large feet carrying me, I had no where to go but away. I closed the door gently behind me when I saw the last of the ambulance’s lights fade.

Pause

Neelam Jivani

Chalk 36 x 24 in

/111

In Medias Res

/112

Payton Hart

I.

II.

It was all going too slowly. Every evening he set his alarm for a slightly different time, yet, despite the slight alterations, he always woke up on the same side of the bed – the left side facing the window – at the exact same time – 7:54am. It had been this way since he could remember. And, as he stripped the damp sheets from his sweat-covered body, he turned towards the window, briefly acknowledging the wisps of sunlight filtering through the shades, and prayed that this Monday morning would be different.

Everything was moving too fast. At 7:45am, she abruptly woke to a chorus of alarms, each individual voice chiming in one minute after the previous. Her eyes burned red – perhaps from lack of sleep – and she sat uncomfortably straight on the right side of her bed as she attempted to find her bearings. She didn’t sit for long, however, because, shortly after she managed to silence the ensemble of alarms, her cat, Maud, started kneading her leg, a sign that it was time for breakfast. It had been this way since she could remember.

And, as she poured the cat food into a bowl and simultaneously tried to brush her teeth, she turned towards the window, silently regretting her decision not to buy blinds, and prayed that this Monday morning would finally be normal.

Despite his meager prayer – one in a series of hundreds – this Monday morning would seemingly be no different than the previous. Like clockwork, he sluggishly squeezed a dollop of toothpaste – white, bland, and having a texture uncomfortably similar to sandpaper – onto his toothbrush and brushed his teeth to the tune of “Simple Man” by Lynyrd Skynyrd before turning the faucet on and rinsing his mouth of the combined flavor of sandpaper toothpaste and stale bread. As he stared into the mirror, he began his daily count of hair on his head: this morning, he is missing two more strands than yesterday and five more than the day before. He reluctantly combed the few remaining hairs to the left – it looked better that way – and said farewell to his succulent, Bernard.

He clocked into work at 9:00am on the dot (his boss had an extreme distaste for lateness and took pleasure in harassing workers who clocked in any later than 9). As he took a seat at his cubicle – the one furthest to the left and closest to the window – he peered out onto the city – a collection of mock-up skyscrapers glistening with dew and reflecting the bright morning light directly into his eyes. With a sigh, he gripped a pen in his left hand – three fingers supporting the pen, one resting on the side, and two maintaining his grip – and, with sloppy lettering, started on the financial reports.

He wished Bernard was here; he was seemingly more interesting than paperwork.

Despite her meager prayer – one in a series of hundreds – this Monday morning would seemingly be as strange as the previous.

The daily chaos quickly began when she attempted to retrieve her work uniform – a worn pantsuit that had been the victim in a number of food accidents – from the dryer. At first, the dryer would not open and she assumed it was stuck. Her fingernails, worn ragged by her constant nail-picking, could not possibly pry it open, so she decided to use a knife. With her right hand braced against the side of the malfunctioning appliance, she wedged the tip of the knife into the slit besides the door and pulled. To her dismay, not only did she manage to separate the door from the dryer, but also the blade from the knife handle. To make matters worse, there was now a hole in the wall from which the knife hung and her pantsuit, a once pale peach color, had somehow turned a somber shade of grey. This abnormal transformation was not so abnormal though.

She simply shook her head, spat out a brief string of curses, and put the now-grey suit on (please note that grey is her least favorite color). As she glanced at her right wrist, her watch – a useless piece of junk as it never seemed to read the right time despite being reset every evening – beeped a brief warning, her heart skipped a beat and, with a glance, she gave her farewells to Maud.

She clocked into work at 9:02am (her watch read 9, but, as stated before, it always gave the wrong time). When offered a seat in her boss’ office, she chose the right (for the plush red cushioning of that chair was much more pleasing than that of the left) and prepared herself for another intervention. To her dismay, the window in the office did not have blinds and the morning light prevented her from doing anything but squint. When she was finally freed to return to her cubicle, she somehow managed to trip over herself and knock over a bookcase. As chaos erupted around her, she found herself sitting on the floor, her skirt bunched around her thighs, wondering why she was bleeding and wishing Maud was here; she was seemingly blander than this disarray.

/113

/114

Contrasts

Lily Loose Collage and ink on canvas 12 x 24 in

/115

/116

214.695.2511 Sawyer Bannister Photography

Butterflies in Your Stomach Her fingers lock, refusing to move even as she begs them to hold tighter onto the rope, hand, strand of hair …whatever’s holding her up. All of the blood left her arm long ago, little pinpricks of pain shooting upwards into her fingertips, warning signs that she won’t be able to feel them for much longer, that her heart doesn’t have the energy to defy gravity for much longer. But it must. Lest she stop hanging and start falling.

“Please,” hardly a whisper but she needs to hear herself say it, say something.

“Please don’t let go,” voice rises a little higher, panic hiding behind that coaxing tone.

“You can’t let go; you’ll die…” “you can’t die,” drawing syllables into a pathetic whine.

She can only slip back, out of reality. It’s too easy for one to fall into delusion than live the moments before their fall with clarity, understanding but never accepting the inevitable.

“Someone will pull you up someone will save you it’s going to be fine you’re going to see everyone again it’s just a dream it’s just-” The babbling is interrupted (by a rock coming loose and falling.). She sees it as it’s pulled down, watches as it recedes into the darkness, falls silent as she waits for it to hit the bottom. With a hitch in her breath, she realizes that it’s too much to ask for another sound. She dare not think that she might soon find out for herself exactly how long the fall takes.

She’s probably lucky. She probably won’t be conscious enough to register the music her bones make when they crash together, breaking each other just as much as the rocks break them. She tries to disconnect again. To look behind glazed cake eyes instead of out of them, but a strand of urgent pain has managed to fight its way through the numbness and into her hand; the sinew of the joints in her fingers starts to tear; the ties between bones and muscle become painfully loose.

And she cries out, ears dutifully receiving the pained sounds time and time again as they play tag along rock walls.

Then comes her wrist; the strain was too much for it too.

It dislocates itself with a satisfying crack and sighs contentedly.

From there it travels quickly; her elbow is next and her shoulder follows suit, and she screams a little bit louder, her mouth subconsciously forming the word “help.”

Over and over again as she finds a new escape in the word, a futile hope onto which she can cling until her vocal chords are torn apart and she’ll have to find something new.

It’s rather surprising she hasn’t let go yet. Bones splintered not long after joints, cracking open inside of her, bits of marrow seeping through the sponge and out of the fractures. Her nerves gave up on pain, focusing on keeping her grip as if it’s the last thing she’ll ever do. Ha. Her senses are inundated with echo after echo and she can’t manage this volume for much longer. Voice is softer now, but still dry and rough as her throat gets rawer and rawer.

“Please help.” Never growing too quiet to not echo back that it’s almost like a conversation. The infuriating kind that she’d had so many times as a child. The other kid would parrot back her words in that mocking “I’ll tell on you if you hit me” kind of tone that only brought her closer to the brink of punching them in the face.

The speck of sunlight above her turns into shadow and someone’s heard her and someone’s pulling her up. A mix of relief and joy crash over her in a wave it’s the sea coming out of her eyes in tears her body still finding a way to cry no matter how dry her mouth or parched her throat.

Two words “please help” turn into “thank you.” Who is she thanking?

God, herself, her disfigured hands the figure above? But those are the only words on her mind.

Helena Perez-Stark “Thank you, thank you,” and tears start to shine brighter across her as the sun reaches down to caress her in comfort.

She smiles, light bouncing off her teeth, illuminating blood-caked butter knives.

“Just hang on” he shouts down at her, just as she starts to feel drops of his sweat fall from his brow to hers, mingling in with her tears.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you” “You’re going to be fine. Just hang on.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you” because she’s going to be fine.

It’s a miracle and she’s being saved and all she has to do is hang on.

It’s all she has to do. It’s all her fingers have to do for her. Not let go. And they won’t. Won’t let go because they are a part of her and they won’t let her die, even if they’re dead themselves.

But gravity wants her body down, does not like her body up, so it starts.

The sickening sound of muscle tearing itself apart, the finely woven tissue’s cloth beginning to fray, the last piece to fall apart, ready to join the severed tendons and shattered bones. Her gratitude finds itself swept back into fear as blood joins the sweat and tears dripping down her cheeks.

“Thank you” turns into “no” and the flesh around her wrist rips and rips and she can do nothing but stare in disbelief. Now can see the smooth end of her bone peeking out, and only a ragged strip of striation is binding her to life and she turns to vomit, and it rips and all of a sudden the breath is knocked out of her as she’s realizes she’s falling.

Though she never did let go, two people’s screams mix together as she is ensconced in dark. She starts breathing again, sucking in more and more air, because as long as she’s breathing, she’s not dead. Her head goes light from the too-quick flow of oxygen, and she never calms nor comes to terms, convinced that she might have a chance.

It’s a funny concoction, hope forced into fear’s enclave.

She’s still screaming no, falling faster than her words and sitting somewhere in the middle of hysteria, she knows when she’s reaching the end. Eyes go dry, pupils blown wide. She cradles her last breath tenderly in her lungs and eyelids drift closed. For a few minutes, mind dulls pain and there is nothing but the sound of the air rushing by ears. Almost a gentle whistle, she herself focus on that sound, on her weightlessness, forgetting that the ride is ending.

In the moment that the fear comes rushing back it is quick, painless, gone before the first jagged rock gashes across her back.

It should have been earlier. She should have been allowed to end in peace.

It is still lucky. It was like a chain reaction, each crack setting off the other; her ribcage collapses in on itself, poking holes in her lungs, stabbing her already lifeless heart. The rest of the contents are twisted at odd angles.

A poor marionette tossed away by an unassumingly sadistic play-mistress.

Always on the alert for something fresh, the ground-creatures become aware of her presence. Crawling into her fleshy labyrinth, bathing in pools of blood and lymph and chyme. Segmented, lightless beings feast to their hearts’ content on her heart; it’s rare they get such a treat.

Millenia of darkness and they are blind. No remorse when they eat her eyes out. It’s short work.

And there’ll be no other person to see her dead body come alive again, writhing with other There’ll be no other savior.

The first one ran the moment he was left with nothing but her severed hand.

Still gripping on, forever untouched.

/117

Lion

/118

Katherine Pollock

Photography

King of the Jungle

Catherine Dedman

Photography

/119

Helena Perez-Stark I. Prozac We waltzed together In a plain grey field Until slowly Color began to show.

As our surroundings bloomed into existence, I grew weak with the flush of beauty, My vision blurring through windblown tears.

With every set of four Steps of three The flowers reached higher To the sun and Slowly I came to realize My skin had grown sickly Sap for sap, You carried the shell of my body And I did not panicI did not do anything But soberly stare at Budding burgundy winecups

/120

II. Zoloft You threw my loose skin Into a pail of ice Until I woke And had flesh again As you kissed my cold apple lips My fingers trembled And trembled And I dug my nails tight Into the back of your neck My head spun but I smiled Because you coated the world In a lens of sharp frost And I could finally see (through the black veil covering my eyes) What I had been missing Soon the dark curtains Were closing On my vision and I was Mostly blind and falling Down quite often; I was Dizzied III. Effexor Then, finally, You dragged me by the hand And forced me to run I struggled across That grey field of wildflowers That dessert of frozen knives I struggled until In my periphery, I could see.

My heart was throwing itself Against my lungs And both burned With a warmth That I had not felt Since before I met you Exhausted, I collapsed And ran And collapsed Again, I stood You would not carry me But you Were still there.

Deception Island, Antartica

Michelle Chen

Photography

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