Palo Alto High School’s Literary Magazine
Dear Readers, We are excited to present the second issue of Ink! This issue features seven poems, five pieces of fiction, and two pieces of nonfiction. We would like to thank the writers and graphic artists for their incredible contributions. All work is by Paly students. We would also like to thank our adviser, Mr. Kandell, for his guidance and continued support of Ink. Enjoy, Abhinav Ranganathan & William Rumelhart
The front cover depicts the art installation Pole Field at the Palo Alto Baylands. The winding path represents the journey through writing that Ink seeks to provide for the reader.
Top 8 Literary Magazines NSPA Spring 2021 Awards
Editors-in-Chief Abhinav Ranganathan William Rumelhart Writers Siena Adwere-Boamah Rachel Feinstein Jonan Pho Anya Lassila Nisha Mata Piper May Ash Mehta Ashley Qiu William Rumelhart Anneke Salvadori Eva Salvatierra Michaela Seah Devon Shih Colleen Wang Photos William Rumelhart Adviser Paul Kandell
Submissions
Printing
Please submit for our next issue! We accept poetry under a page, fiction under 1,500 words, and nonfiction under 800 words. If you are interested in submitting, please email us at literarymagazineink@gmail.com.
Ink is printed by Aprintis in Pleasanton, Calif. Due to the Covid-19 pandemic, the magazines will be primarily distributed through the PAC ticket office library.
Table of Contents Poetry
The Two Bicycles...4 The Chess Game...4 A Parking Garage Roof in August...5 Skies and Fireflies...6 Pendulum...7 Period 4 Math...8 Thoughts in the Gated Glen...8
Fiction Unlaced...9 Addict...11 A Multitude of Mishaps...13 Nothing to Lose...14 Reality...16
Nonfiction
Sic Semper Ad Astra...17 In Memoriam...18
POETRY The Two Bicycles Anneke Salvadori
a pair of bicycles rest in the garage.
One: pink paint peeling and rust gathering at the spokes. they are dented and old; used. their seat holds a new sheen smothering the forgotten below. One: green coat scratched and burned, gears shredded, worn. their chain fallen, kicked aside, covered in corner dust, yet their wheels still turn.
the pair of bicycles lean against one another
and stay.
Graphic by Abhinav Ranganathan
The Chess Game Anya Lassila
For a long time, I’ve played a game of chess. Across from me sits my anxiety. It always wins, no hope of success. But I keep playing. Maybe I’ll break free. Am I crazy? Its piece just reappeared! Glass queen in my hand and on the board too. I shout “wthat’s not fair!” But it only sneers. It gets in my mind, mixing up what’s true. All my life, I’ve tried my best to improve, But I can never ward it off for long. It always trips me up with my own move; It’s panic’s parade, I’m just strung along.
Graphic by Julia Hirschman
4 | Poetry
When will I be done with pointless crying? Standing up, I send the chess board flying
A Parking Garage Roof in August Eva Salvatierra
who are you if not a ghostly fragment i carry zipped into a corner of my fraying wallet? i will forget about you until the coins fall out. i cannot light a candle without blackened matches soaking in the hot wax; these posters on my wall don’t remind me of this life anymore, i must clean out the pencils from beneath my bed with each hair-tie drenched in dust. can i remember who i was in that tanktop? i smell cat piss in my room but i cannot locate the source. you left something here and it has not dissipated - coldly, you shout, “warmest regards”. i write this as i drink mint tea, you taste like where i laugh the loudest but i am not there anymore so let my body be another thing that dissociates when she remembers. i stare at the collage i made in fourth grade, the one that won the award, with a green car and a yellow moon rolling across the short width of a rectangle. layers of teal and purple earth. i shiver at this space that is called my own, you blink, and knowing you will never respond, that there is no absolute truth i can find before 9 pm, i take my sleeping pills early
Graphic by Alexandra Ma
Poetry | 5
Skies and Fireflies Siena Adwere-Boamah
Beneath the skies and fireflies, Tears fall from your eyes like raindrops And the air hangs heavy like sweet molasses, It threatens to pull us down Thoughts swirling and spinning inside my head, Hurricane in my mind, I can never hide And now my weary spirit splits in two, As I watch myself slowly fall The once howling wind will start to dull, But as it leaves it steals my soul And I am left to walk alone, Among the shadows, on my own Walk this cursed path till the ground runs red, And my body trembles with ice and terror The boiling rage, replaced by frost in my veins, As the stars taunt me from above Eyes blurring, drops cascading down, And I am slipping Melting away, decomposing into this peaceful ground To make way for the tulips that will bloom, Tomorrow
Graphic by Jimmy Miller
6 | Poetry
Pendulum
Rachel Feinstein I checked the medicine cabinet But all the bandages were too small And I couldn’t find where the wound was I could only sense the blood When you banged against the wall A metallic taste That invaded our home When the world was a million miles Of cancellations And monochrome An elephant in the room That dined right next to you Reminded you of memories You tried to undo Orange juice Spanking Black and blue Shattered plates Locked doors Not enough food Pendulum I hold you tight Until the world stops spinning Until you’re mine again And we’re both grinning Everything’s fine Scents of peaches and roses Masking the problem Under our noses Everything’s fine Until you swing back again Into the dark place Where I lose you
Graphic by Julia Hirschman
Pendulum
Poetry | 7
Period 4 Math Michaela Seah
I freaking hate the endless shrieking. Fists clenched, I pull out my hair like weeds. It’s too loud for peace my thoughts they’re praying For only silence is what my mind needs. To sit on hard plastic is short of Hell To listen to this broken record scream. Fake wood desk and buzzing stress and the bell Learning origins of irrelevent dreams. My head is down my pencil unmoving, dead. There is no focus there is only strife When your peers and patience are far ahead The teacher his eyes regret life
Graphic by Michaela Seah
Although sad all know in order to pass You must sit and be in this freaking class.
Thoughts in the Gated Glen Jonan Pho
The mind; a space of untold fantasy A world in which ideas come about Starting from roots growing into a tree A forest of great redwoods with one route A winding path through all that’s said and told And saplings planted in space it can find Farther along the trees have now grown old The route changes; fences now it’s lined Some trees have gnarled, warped beyond compare The forest darkened, thoughts become amassed The fence is barbed, free roams it can ensnare And to the present I have closed my past The fence gates all, the comfort and the pain But still new saplings my forest will gain
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Graphic by Michaela Seah
FICTION Unlaced Ashley Qiu
Dale leaves the Goodwill, clutching his new sneakers by the flimsy shoelaces, swinging them back and forth. He saunters down the slanted sidewalk, the wind tickling his exposed toes through the soles of his ravaged loafers. He doesn’t shiver or break his stride. Soon he settles on a bench at the boardwalk near the ocean and removes the old shoes, tossing them into a nearby trash can. Below him, the waves lap rhythmically against the mellow shore, frothing as they curl. For a moment, he admires the fading colors of his new buy—all he could afford with the six dollars he had in his pocket. They don’t look like much of an upgrade, but Dale is satisfied. Gingerly, he slips them onto his naked feet; they feel scratchy at first but are surprisingly cozy. A while later, Dale stands at the edge of a cliff overlooking the waves, not quite sure how he has gotten there. A joyous shout snatches his wandering mind and guides it to the shore, where a blurry figure of a boy prances across the sand in his sneakers. Dale notices that the boy’s shoes are nicer than his own; they are embellished with red and blue patterns vivid enough to satisfy any child’s desires.
A glimmer of light races across Dale’s vision. It bounces off the choppy blonde hair of a youthful woman, her arms outstretched as her son leaps over the golden sand towards her. The image is like a painting, one that belongs to a larger collection in a gallery’s sidewalk display. The woman turns toward Dale, and a sense of urgency strikes him and he drops his hand into his pocket, his wrinkled fingers scrambling until he feels the worn-out wallet buried at the bottom. He unfolds it. It’s empty except for the photo he has had forever. He has memorized every angle and shadow, but he has to be sure. This is not the time to mess up. He recalls the one-bedroom apartment they used to share, too small for the two of them and perhaps one more, those early mornings when the sun rose over the
dirty white buildings of the city, and the warm glow would cast curtain webs across his sleepy face while she stumbled out of bed. Her bare toes landing on the scratched wooden floor, they would lead her to the corner kitchen with its faded cabinets. The forever bursting trash bag would be hanging on its usual drawer knob, revealing eggshells and the skeletal remains of frozen food boxes. Littered on the linoleum counters would be all the cans full of cigarette butts from the night before. He remembers the cold shower on one particular morning; the hot water heater was broken for the third day in a row. He still feels the crinkle of the brown bag in his fingers. He had left without saying goodbye to his job working too many hours, even then feeling the edges of his mind fleeing like time. Dale maneuvers toward the
Fiction | 9
stairs leading down to the beach. It’s been so long - will she recognize me? She’ll probably be disgusted, terrified even. A force abruptly sucks in his body, dragging it towards the ground. His hands make contact first in a futile attempt to save himself; his wallet flings forward into the hedges. A sharp pain emanates from his knee, now buried in the gravelly pebbles. It was his sneaker. The one that had so much potential when Dale spotted it in the second-hand store, now the cause of his agony. The front sole of the shoe dangles almost apologetically as Dale tears it off his foot in disgust. He raises his arm high over his shoulder, reeling it back to chuck the stupid thing as far as possible, but stops. After all, it’s just a shoe. Ignoring his burning knee, Dale springs up and looks out to the waves, glittering blankets of amber and amethyst, pushing and pulling themselves to the shore. He knows that the ones he is searching for are gone; it’s too late. The broken sneaker abandons Dale’s shaky hand, landing in a thump. His shoulders slumped, he shuffles the shoe back on. That night, with the few remaining coins in his pockets, he purchases a cheap bottle of glue. Sitting in the narrow alleyway he calls home, half-protected in the beat-up camo tent littered with a jumble of old scraps that function as clothes and his scratched-up water bottle, he sits with his legs stretched outside the tent, his shallow and angular
10 | Fiction
features lit by the soft glow of the drugstore as he feverishly repairs the sneaker. In the dark, he can hear the waves. The lulling crashing and the swift ripples rock Dale’s body in tiny motions, forward and back. His calloused fingers stroke the rim of the sole with care. He tries to snatch his wandering mind, tries to stop it from worrying about tomorrow, the day after that, and the day after. It tended to do that, go places he didn’t want to go, becoming a violent intensity that consumed his body and conscience. Moments of
clarity came less and less frequently; he needed something to lift the noiseless fog shrouding him. The tent sways with him, desperately searching for something to anchor to, but failing. As Dale squeezes the last bit of glue onto the shoe, he realizes that he has been holding his breath. He releases it, a stream of relief rippling from his old, broken body. Tenderly, he picks up the repaired shoe and holds it close to his chest, so close that he can feel his steady heartbeat through the aged rubber, and he promises never to let go.
Addict Ash Mehta “The oddest trio to ever grace the Earth,” Grandma chuckles. Her russet cheeks crinkle, the furrows and hills of her skin softening. “That we are,” Cassiopeia giggles, pressing her gentle fingers into my palm. I nuzzle my head into the crevice of her neck, draping my arm around her back. The lush green grass sprawls out underneath us, contrasting starkly with the faded yellow of my crumbling neighborhood. We’re the Weird trio. The local tribe’s elder, her nonbinary, city-dwelling grandchild, and said grandchild’s nerdy, dyed-hair girlfriend. A true island of misfits. We stay at that park for an hour, munching on chips and watermelon, playing cards, listening to Grandma recite stories from her childhood that are probably 99% false....
burn in agony from the waterfall of tears crashing into my shut eyelids in my sleep. It doesn’t even hurt. I start to run glacier-cold water over my numb hands, the crystalline, icey liquid brushing red strokes across my ochre palms. My mind vacates my body and the shell of my spine collapses onto the floor, my shoulders heaving, my eyes burning, though my face and eyes are paper-dry.
~
And then I wake up with a gasp. I’m in my rigid, springy bed, my back not hesitating a moment before flaring out in pain. It’s nothing compared to the emotional agony that washes over me the second I remember that that memory happened two months ago. That Cassiopeia and Grandma are gone.
~
I collapse out of bed, a sting creeping through the nape of my neck, my head exploding and collapsing in on itself all at once. My vision is blurry, watery, and my eyes
I remain like that for an hour, out-of-body, out-of-control. I come to being with my nails curled into the gritty, decaying timber of my bathroom floor, splinters peppering my legs, seven deep, crimson lines drawn in a grid on my shoulder with my own blood. I quickly lift up my dress, ashamed, terrified. My mother’s already going through so much right now — she just lost her mom. I’m such a burden on her. I don’t know how to stop. A hole of despair blossoms out of my chest and overwhelms me, a
black sea of grief choking the last bit of breath from my ribs, and my head spins, my vision going blurry again. She’s standing in front of me, Cassiopeia Chloros, her grains of hair puffing out in an ethereal storm cloud. She reaches out her palm and I grasp onto it without the slightest bit of hesitation.
~
I’m lying in the park again, but this time, the city around us is the pristine towers of wealthy San Francisco. Casseopeia seems to be a bit older, 24, 25, and somehow I know that I am too. Maybe from the weight of a heavy, lapis-colored gem studded into a silver, twisted ring twining around my ring finger. I hold it up to the sky, the rays of sunlight creating a dazzling wash of purple glow across Casseopeia’s face. She smiles at me, and I almost sob, because I would do absolutely anything to be able to see that toothy, wide grin again. I cuddle into her stomach, feeling the warmth of her body along my spine. A ruby ladybug flitters onto my hair and I shriek, jumping back into my grandma. Grandma laughs, reaching out her baby-soft, tiny hand and caressing the insect in the wrinkle of her palm. The bug curls up, bracing itself for takeoff, and flutters off into the sunset. I lay back on the soft, luscious grass, the warm sun scalding my eyes, my face warming, and I shut my eyelids, rolling my head to the side. The wind glides past my ear lightly, tickling my earlobe ever so slightly.
Fiction | 11
My mind drifts off into nothingness, the red sunlight on my shut eyes going black. I wake up again, weary, my eyes burning in agony, not from the wash of sunlight, but from the dry tears I’d heaved at midnight. 3am. How can it still only be 3am? I sigh, knowing there’s no chance I’ll rest again before a quick walk. I’m lying on my floorboards anyways — I collapsed after that hallucination. A burst of bruising pain blossoms up my elbow in recollection of the thought. I wander down the narrow hallway, though it’s but a five second stroll before I arrive at our front door. It’s freezing, even midsummer, and my teeth start to shake as I pour myself a quick glass of lukewarm water. An idea crosses my brain for just a moment. More of a hope, really. I practically run to my bedroom in a rare burst of cautious excitement, tucking myself in as nicely as possible, listening to the crickets hum, hearing gunshots about half a mile away, though I’m too tired to process. I’m already halfway to my subconscious.
12 | Fiction
I’m driving in the car, Grandma beside me, Casseopeia in the back. She’s flipping through her math textbook meticulously, penning numbers and figures and calculations. You would never know her assignment was due in five minutes. Cavetown plays on the speakers. Grandma is quiet, faintly humming in her deep, scratchy voice. I rest my chin on the window, staring out nervously at the layers and layers of snow. The road is barely discernible up ahead, but a shallow indent in the massive banks. We begin to slip and slide, and my gut turns inside out. A primal fear overtakes me. This has all happened before. I did it all wrong before. “Jump out!” I cry. “Now!” They don’t question me. A click, and we’re tumbling onto the snow, bruised, aching, staring out at the car tumbling off the cliff, hooking onto the ledge by the handle of my side door. “Oh my,” Grandma says. And then we say no more. We sit there, shaking, freezing, teeth chattering. I huddle into Casseiopeia and she begins to sob uncontrollably.
And then I do too.
~
No, is my first thought upon waking up. No, no, no... 4am. I have to go back. I need it with every fiber of my being. I pray and pray, something I haven’t done ever before in my life. And I shut my eyes, squeezing them tight, envisioning that Cass and Grandma are right beside me, believing they are, and then they’re there. Beside me.
~
We’re at the park. Nothing is happening. The frame is frozen. The feeling is frozen. My life is frozen at that exact moment, when everything was entirely perfect. I want to stay there forever. I feel the hands of the real world pull me awake, and I cling to the grass, sobbing, begging to stay. They let me. They try everything to pull me awake. My mind, my mom, the doctors. But I grip onto this world as tightly as I can. I never let go.
Of Multitudes and Mishaps Colleen Wang
Zara lived in her own bubble. Behind the counter, sketching on the back of a menu, one earbud in, nodding her head to the music, watching the dust motes slowly swirl in the sunlight. It was a slow day today and most people were gone. And it was rudely disrupted by a bloodied and battered boy crashing into the one and only Mildred’s Diner, hissing, “Sh*t.” She stared for a while, the voices of some generic band still singing in the background, at the bright red puddles on the gray floor she had cleaned just a couple minutes ago. “Is that blood?” He still had the energy to snort. “Yeah, it’s blood. What did you think it was, fruit punch?” It wound through his fingers, forming small rivers down his forearm. It looked like that cut on his face was pretty deep. “Shut up.” Zara wordlessly rummaged through the counter until she pulled out the first aid kit. She blew off most of the dust and threw it at his feet. She went to get a mop while the mystery boy reached for the metal box with a groan. The girl heard the movement stop, then another quieter, yet no less angry, “Sh*t.” She sighed. “What.” “The nearest sink is too far away.” She supposed he had a point, but still rolled her eyes as she grabbed a towel from the kitch-
en, ran it through with water, then threw it to him. “Is this a kitchen towel?” “Yes, it is. No way I’m letting you stain a new one with blood.” He huffed in response. Zara was about to mop the blood up when she heard a third and final, “Sh*t!” “What is it n—” She stopped short when she noticed several men walking towards their direction and shuddered at the memory of the one time she served them. They had promptly been kicked out after. There was no way they were all gathered together to hunt this guy who just happened to collapse in the restaurant she worked in. No way...
“Yeah, they’re trying to find me,” the boy spat out while crawling behind the counter. “Sh*t!” Now it was her turn to swear. There was still too much to hide: the blood on the floor, the bloodied towel, the first aid kit She looked around frantically. Her experience from busy hours of serving people kicked in, and she pulled out the bucket with a mop, kicked the box into a corner, and dropped the towel into the water bucket. The water sloshed everywhere as she took out the mop and threw it on the bloodstains.
Zara turned around and was face-to-face with one of the guys. Her voice stuck in her throat, but she swallowed and asked, “Can I help you?” “We were wondering if you saw a guy that came around here. Black hair, beaten, bloody. Pretty memorable, don’t ya think?” She affixed him with a cold stare. “I have seen nothing of the sort.” His gaze flicked to the mop she was awkwardly holding. For once, she was glad that the cleaning boy never did his job, as the disgusting and brackish water was doing wonders in concealing the red of the blood. “You sure you didn’t see anything?” “Obviously not. And if you continue to harass me, I have the police on speed dial this time.” “Fine. We’ll keep an eye out.” He looked over Zara again, but soon scoffed and motioned for the others to leave. She watched them slink away, making sure they were actually leaving. The moment they did, she rushed to the spot behind the counter—only to find it empty. Zara picked up the note written on a stray receipt on top of her drawing. Thanks for saving my a**. I owe you one. Nice drawing, by the way. -Kai. The entire mishap was a pain in the rear and she was pretty sure he got blood on the pen, but Zara couldn’t help but grin. After she cleaned everything up, she returned to her slice of peace—just holding a receipt and smiling a bit wider this time.
Fiction | 13
Nothing to Lose Devon Shih
A long time ago, I lost what felt like everything. A drunk, ruined man broke into our house and crumbled the entire building. My dad shielded us from the falling roof as my mom barely got us out into the yard. No adults survived the scene. The men were crushed in the rubble, and although my mom was rushed off to a hospital for her injuries, she died before she got there. After my sister and I started living with our grandmother, I began to comb through the local library. At first, I wanted to know everything about the man that killed my parents, perhaps to unleash some sort of revenge, but I never did find anything. Grandma talked me out of my foolish thoughts, and I stopped looking. I didn't stop reading, though. Countless more hours of digging through books brought me an encounter with an essential question: I wanted to know how the man had collapsed an entire building. He didn't have so much as a hatchet the night he did it. That question led me to books on the endowments. Written records of lectures from famous grandmasters taught me everything about the endowing arts. And then, I came across an old diary. It was around the same time we lost my
14 | Fiction
sister to sickness, so I read the diary extensively. It kept me busy. From its pages, I learned of many medicinal herbs, animals of interest and philosophy on all things regarding the soul. But there was one section that I constantly revisited; it was about an ancient way of sensing — of endowing arts — and if someone should learn to control the power, they could theoretically crumble a building with nothing but their practiced soul. The power was once only for people who had nothing to lose; people who were so broken, they were ready for any consequence — so they wreaked havoc. These people felt nothing, metaphorically and literally, since all seven endowments needed to be completely depleted in order to perform it. Touch, Taste, Sight, Sound, Smell, Movement and Breath. Made up of the five senses and life-essentials Movement and Breath, those
Graphic by Esther Wan
were the seven, manipulatable, endowments. For a while, I was obsessed with it all — the diary, the endowments, the power; I began teaching myself to manipulate my own endowments, and I even learned to perform even the strongest techniques. Drunk with power, I moved a boulder and killed a deer in the forest. I had done it for my grandma; I thought it would help. It was her who saved me from becoming a monster again. When I brought the deer home, she made me carry it back into the forest. Back to the place it belonged. Then, she and I gave it a proper farewell. I apologized that day. I apologized in the silence. I apologized in the rain. I apologized for hurting others — for hurting myself. I apologized to my parents. I apologized to my sister. Then I apologized to my grandma, who I wish I had thanked instead. Years later, the next time I would perform any endowing arts, I was in the forest again. I used the destructive power to protect a creature that needed me. The day began cold with the crisp air gnawing at my dirt-ridden toes. I found my jacket sprawled over my body and I remembered where I was. Quietly, I rose. The
Graphic by April Wu sky was hidden behind a garden of fixed clouds, so time was kept a secret. Judging by the pale, winter complexion, though, it was easy to guess that it would soon rain. Tied to my leg with fibers I picked was a diary, but I had no intention to read through its pages. After a few hours, my prediction proved true, and the thick canopy I rested beneath shielded me from the developing drizzle. And with the rain, came company. At first, a family of skyworn deer found their way into the dwelling. I welcomed them with some berries I found over the previous day. “Hello,” I said to them as they nibbled on the berries. “I promise I mean no harm.” The family stared at me curiously, then claimed a spot at the other side of the canopy. The youngest fawn waddled after her mother and siblings.
The legend goes that skyworn deer once bore wings; they journeyed the skies with a grace that none rivaled, but an envious cloud struck them down to the earth. I was silent as I recalled their story. They had lost everything — those graceful wings — and I knew the feeling. As time passed, more and more creatures arrived, seeking shelter. “Your feathers are very beautiful,” I told one of the lantern owls. “I wish you luck hunting in this weather.” The rain drummed harder against the leaves until the dim silence became a constant rustle like shifting sand. That's why I could only barely hear the howl as it vibrated the forest floor. It was a cry—one from a mere pup. A pack of withersmoke wolves rose at the sound of their companion's calling; I watched as the den
emptied of them, relaxing the frightened critters. “I'll be right back,” I told the other animals, and chased after them. The withersmoke wolves soared across the mountainside with a pace they were known for, but I managed to tail them by dulling my endowment of Touch, no longer able to feel the rain on my skin, and enhancing my Movement for speed. Then I nulled my Taste as well, which I didn't need for the moment, and augmented my Sight, since vision was scarce in the downpour. With the stronger vision, every blade of grass and every droplet hanging to the underbelly of branches fell into focus. When I arrived on the scene, there was a small pup caught by a ledge with a nasty gash searing with blood. The wolves were working with haste, but all attempts to drag the pup away from danger proved useless. The rain splattered on flora and soggy roots as the situation became more and more dire. The wolves could not reach where the pup lie whimpering. But I could. As soon as I realized this myself, the wolves each matched their enigmatic eyes to mine. Withersmokes were tolerant creatures; they nearly always kept to themselves. Seeing their watchful gazes rooted me into my surroundings, and an idea spawned. “I can try to help,” I told the wolves, “but I'm not strong enough to carry the pup with these arms of mine.” I let a feeling deep inside of me
Fiction | 15
stream from my heart to my fingertips. Then to the rest of my body. Then out into the air and earth. The feeling was my soul. As easily as I would hold my breath or close my eyes, I caught the raindrops in the air — locking them in place and out of gravity's reach. The wolves didn't seem startled by the supernatural occurrence; they simply prowled away and gathered beneath an overhanging tree. I could barely feel their paws against my earth, but I surely feltheir soaked, grey fur against my winds. I had depleted all seven endowments of mine and bled my soul into the world around me — a technique that allowed me to move my surroundings with my soul. I could not move, for I had no Movement; I could not see, for I had no Sight; I could not breathe, for I had no Breath. It was easy for me — what else had I to lose? The withersmoke pup laid limply upon one of my cliffside stones, heaving its breaths and sputtering whimpers. With every last bit of strength in my soul, I willed the cliffside stone to rise, and it was as if attempting to stand up on my own two feet. Vines and flora stretched and snapped as the stone crept into the air. I felt the need to breathe in my physical body, but I couldn't stop. Not yet. Pushing my chances, I hauled the massive stone onto the grass, settling it safely. The pup was still breathing. Then the rain fell once more, and my soul collapsed into my body.
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Reality
Nisha Mata “Olivia! Olivia!” a lady snaps. Olivia jolts awake. Everyone is staring at her. Embarrassed, she sinks further into her hoodie. “Nice of you to join us,” the sponsor says sharply. Olivia rubs her eyes awake and sits up straight in her chair. She looks down at the piece of paper in front of her. At the top, it reads, “Alcoholics Anonymous, Meeting #208,” and a few lines down, a note that she wrote to herself says, “today is the 1,456th day of you being in this hellhole, and you fell asleep. Good job.” The meeting ends shortly after that with a message to not give in to one’s desires, and Olivia quickly removes her Virtual Reality goggles that she uses to “go to” her AA meetings. The table she is sitting at has all of her supposed sobriety chips scattered across the table, and behind her, half a bag of chips and empty beer bottles lay on her undone bed. Olivia looks around, finds three unopened beer bottles,
and inhales them. “What’s on your mind?” her sponsor asks her later the next day. “I don’t know, you were the one that scheduled this meeting,” Olivia quips. “Fair enough. I’ve noticed lately that you have been showing up late to the meetings and not paying much attention.” “Yeah well, I’ve been sober for four years now, I don’t think I need to be hearing the same old lecture on how not to be an addict.” “Well, an AA meeting for long term sobriety can be arranged. If I do this it means you’ll show up on time and pay attention. “Yeah, I guess so.” “Great, I’ll see you then.” The meeting ends, Olivia removes her goggles, takes another three bottles, and gulps them down. Graphic by Julia Hirschman
NONFICTION Sic Semper Ad Astra Piper May
My dad always got so frustrated when people hovered over his shoulder. The time he had to fix the boiler, twenty minutes before a dinner reservation, wasn’t an exception. He stood there in a long, brown coat, trying to figure out what was wrong while silently seething because the tenant, a small, balding man in his thirties, wouldn’t go away. You can’t just yell at someone for existing. It’s basic human decency. So he stood there, pulling at wires and working out problems for a piece of machinery that he knew better than anyone in that room. He knew it better because he’d lived there once. Our family lived there once. And even though I wasn’t old enough to remember more than a moving van pulling away or a glass of milk with sugar before dinner, ten-year-old me was filled with some form of sympathy for my dad, just trying to help, but who couldn’t because the man paying him to sleep in the same room he had years ago wouldn’t give him a foot of space. That was the first time I’d seen the house in six years. While he
I used to sleep. Childish delusions told me it would all look the same. Of course, that isn’t true, but either way I never found out because the second I asked, my dad said no, you can’t go up there. It’s someone else’s now. Sort of. The tenants were renting it from us and I got a lecture from Dad on how it was a privilege to own property and we needed to respect their space. This went over my head at the time. What mattered was the house where I first started to remember things, where I cried at night as a baby and figured out how to talk and read and write. Someone else’s. And I remember feeling sad because those were my memories. My life. My beginnings. And some stranger wanted to overwrite it. I went back to that house Graphic by April Wu last summer. The tenants houses, walls covered in rainbow moved out and that’s why we had lettering that I never went five min- to go: to make sure everything was utes without seeing whenever we okay for the next people. There was a bracelet on the were there. And it was disorienting, seeing something I’d supplanted so floor of my old room. It was gold, heavily in my own mind be replaced oblong, said SIC SEMPER AD ASTRA, thus always to the stars, in upwith the truth. Everyone always says the truth percase letters. Someone else’s memories, isn’t pretty. And everyone is right. someone else’s beginning. I picked That was what I took away from up the bracelet and it came home that moment. On that visit, I remember want- with us that day. Some of my memories for some ing to go upstairs, to see the kitchen my mother used to give my sister of theirs. I think that’s a fair trade. sink baths in and the room where tried to puzzle it out, I went outside, where it was cold and foggy like it always is in San Francisco, to see the view over the back of the hill I remembered so clearly from when I was little. The little yellow dandelions and the pretty green grass, stretching down into a small tree grove. But either I was wrong or it was a dream because there wasn’t a tree grove. It led into a series of shabby
Nonfiction | 17
In Memoriam William Rumelhart
When I look through my window on those gray days of indefinite gloom, I see in the nine panes a different nostalgia: wet sand at the beach or soaring swing sets at the park. Yet one recent overcast afternoon, a fleeting, troubling image appeared in the glass. It was of a moment four years ago traveling in a car, passing through some ordinary city I do not recall. I had fallen asleep, nestled in the black leather seat, lulled by the mechanical stop and start of plodding traffic. Dusk was nearing its end, and the radio was tuned to the classical station. Soft Debussy melodies hummed through the speakers. I awoke with a start as the shrill announcer introduced the next piece. I rested back against the headrest, trying in vain to return to that deep, easy slumber. The traffic was moving faster now. I turned to look through the window at passing cars, but my eyes locked onto the outermost white line as it lurched and recoiled with the curvature of the road. It snaked along the shoulder, then quickly jutted off with an off-ramp. In the dirt dividing the highway from the ramp, I was drawn to a trio of stout trees. Nailed to the most snarled of the three was a thin white cross. Thick black letters spelled a name I could not make out. Flowers and small electric candles lay scattered in the dirt below as if sprinkled from up
18 | Nonfiction
above. Then it all fell out of sight behind the pillar of an overcrossing. Time slowed. The music receded and the melodies slurred into an ambient whir. I stared into the black of the seat in front of me, searching for an explanation but not finding it. I looked once more out the car window and saw moments of my own life dissolved by the side of the road. Important memories were strewn across the weeds among plastic bags, soda cans, bits of old newspaper. Deaths, sicknesses, vacations, goodbyes: all lost in the lit-
Graphic by Alexandra Ma
ter.
Slowly, the images began to fade like paint running thin until nothing remained but desolate dirSoon, the highway began to drain of cars. In the on and on-ness of everyday life, I have found myself thinking more about this cross by the side of a highway with a resigned melancholy. The name never to be known; the flowers never to be smelled; the candles never to be held. But at least I can say the words that matter most: I remember.
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“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” — Ernest Hemingway “We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” — T.S. Eliot