2019 Ka Nalu Ola

Ka Nalu Ola

Mid-Pacific Institute

Spring 2019

Volume XII

KA NALU OLA Spring 2019 / Volume XII

Mid-Pacific Institute Honolulu, Hawaii

Published annually, Ka Nalu Ola is funded by the Language Arts Department.

Printed by Pacific Business Forms, Ltd. Cover artwork, “A Machine in the Middle of the Desert Attempting to Make Sense of the Hillocks,” by James Mendez c/o 2019 Cover design by James Mendez c/o 2019 Awards page logo by Moana Packo c/o 2007 The views expressed herein are to be attributed to the contributors, and are not necessarily shared by the editorial staff or Mid-Pacific Institute.

Editors’ Note Every piece of writing begins with nothing more than a blank page, a courageous amount of imagination, and a spark of talent. Writing is its own peculiar form of magic, the birth of something tangible with a life of its own.

Writing and art are transformative and enchanting: they have the ability to bring words to life and transport us to imaginary worlds.

The writing and art within this year’s edition of Ka Nalu Ola strive to do just that, to climb off the page and come alive in the minds of readers and beholders. We invite you to enjoy these pieces, and, beyond that, hope that they will make you think, feel, and live just a little bit more.

Jessie Garbeil and Rayce Kojiro Editors

Contents Scholly-Bromwell, Kory

How to Play the Piano…………………………………….…….1

Mendez, James

My Friend: The Fence……………………………………..……2

Kiyabu, Julian

A Sunset………………………………………………………..……3

Yin, Yiting (Tina)

Beauty Lost…………………………………………………………4

Carpenter, Calvin

Jumping……………………………………………………………..5

Sievert, Fiona

A Little-Known Forest in the Himalayas.................6-7

Robertson-Chambers, Piankhi

Morning Gaze..............................................................8

Mukai, Connor

A Proper Guide to Thievery………………………………9-10

Groves, Morgan

Childhood Restlessness……………………………………….11

Theros, Kaci

Illusion………………………………………………………………12

Robertson-Chambers, Piankhi

Good Morning Diary…………………………………………..13

Palagano, Anna

The Escape.................................................................14

Mendez, James

Rising Pillars of Distrust……………………………….…….15

Yagi, Abby

Trilogy……………………………………………………….….16-17

Nu’uhiwa, Joshua David

Mr. Pea……………………………………………………………..18

Garbeil, Jessie

if in the night you think that we are imperfect....19-23

Mendez, James

Carapace de l’Oursin de Roche………………………….…24

Groves, Morgan

Starry Eyed………………………………………………………..25

Groves, Morgan

Free………………………………………………………………….26

Miki, Isabella

We Are No Longer Home……………………………….27-29

Umemoto, Tony

Monuments……………………………………………………….30

Garbeil, Jessie

when you are hungry for outer space……………………31

Kojiro, Rayce

Tessellations of a Salmon Run…………………………….32

Kojiro, Rayce

Tessellations of a Salmon. . . SQUASH!....................33

Robertson-Chambers, Piankhi

Growing Pains……………………………………………………34

Robertson-Chambers, Piankhi

LOVE & STUFF..........................................................35

Wheeler, Presley

Pyrrhus’ Victory…………………………………………….36-37

Mendez, James

A Photo of a Showdown………………………………………38

Li, Hongxin (Apple)

Woman & Monster…………………………………………….39

Hittle, Gaia

Perception…………………………………………………………40

Hittle, Gaia

Hope…………………………………………………………………41

Garbeil, Jessie

instructions for no longer being so fragile…………….42

Oshiro, Kimberly

Acid Dragon………………………………………………………43

Sievert, Fiona

Shapeful……………………………………………………………44

Robertson-Chambers, Piankhi

Last Days Here……………………………………………..45-47

Tamayo, Judith May

Remember………………………………………………………..48

Sievert, Fiona

Cotton Peaks……………………………………………………..49

Choi, Haley

All the Little People……………………………………….50-51

Garbeil, Jessie

The Land of Natural Disasters………………………..52-54

How to Play the Piano Kory Scholly-Bromwell

Start at a prime age.

Not 40 years young, as your right brain will likely be weathered. Start at 10. Do not strive to be a six-year-old child playing “Moonlight Sonata” by Beethoven, pressured by iron-fisted parents. Play for comfort. Play for escape.

Play for resonance.

Morning dew calms. Nervously shuffle into a chilly, air-conditioned room with Mom encouraging you. Whiff the gleaming chestnut piano and glance at the homely lady smiling and beckoning to you. The room is welcoming. You are happy. Fingers touch the chilled, smooth keys. Sound retaliates.

“With grace,” Ms. Sheila nudges. Learn F-A-C-E and Every Good Boy Does Fine. Ponder the notes before you, deciphering their puzzle. “Hot Cross Buns.” Hot...Dun. Cross...Dun. Buns...Dunn. “Very good,” Ms. Sheila smiles.

“Now take this booklet home and remember to practice ‘Hot Cross Buns.’ I better hear Mozart the child next class,” she jokes. Laugh as she hands you the treat bowl your eyes were fixated on the entire session. Leave with small hands gripping a Tootsie Pop and notebook.

Remember your first practice three summers ago. Hands now fit snug on the keys. Misplaced sheets and advanced level booklets clutter the music stand, looming over resting hands. Groan and shuffle in your seat and stare down the keyboard with contempt.

“Mom, I’m so sick of this dumb instrument. I hate it,” you whine. “It’s not fun anymore. I don’t think it ever was.”

“Oh, stop your complaining,” she retorts. “Playing the piano helps you.

It exercises your creative brain.” Furrow your brow at the keys as if they had just assaulted you. “But you have been playing for a long while now. If you really don’t enjoy it and don’t want to continue, you could stop after this next recital.”

Your face lights up at the thought, but then “recital” is processed. Hold your tongue even though you’re already feeling dread in its purest form. Murmur ‘fine’ while pressing your fingers to the keys to practice your pieces.

Fall into a cushion and turn the fan on to battle the summer heat even though you should be used to your 18th summer. Look over at the dusty keyboard. Fill your head with sounds and memories. Overflow your senses with nostalgia. Walk to the keyboard and rest your fingers on a key. Dunn. The first time a note fills with longing since that air-conditioned room years ago.

Volume XII

1

My Friend: The Fence James Mendez Digital photograph

2

Ka Nalu Ola

A Sunset

Julian Kiyabu Just below the setting sun, dense clouds populated the skyline. Orange and yellow scattered across fish-scale and cotton ball clouds idling above me. The drowsy sun dipped lower into the horizon, illuminating its cloudy captor; her tendrils leaking through the gaps of a yellow-gray veil, grabbing whatever sandy viewers in reach. To the East, a blanket of clouds had just finished setting its mountains to rest. Gusts picked up and eager clouds fled to the sun to coddle her to sleep. Like droplets of water streaking glass, the clouds glided across the sky above me. I observed within my bubble-like atmosphere, for which the clouds couldn’t penetrate. Fought as she might—throwing light vertically, like a peacock unfurling its feathers, in an effort to continue her show—the sun could not resist the daze. Her colors muted and she sunk into the clouds, with the promise of a show tomorrow morning.

Camp Golan: friends grouped up along the stretch of sand. We were supposed to be enjoying a quiet moment with the sunset, and I tried to take it all in. But I kept getting interrupted by the chaos ensuing around me. Earlier, while walking from the theatre round (at the center of camp) towards the beach, I envisioned the quintessential sunset: a clear sky adorned with a bright yellow ornament falling into the skyline, delivering warmth ashore. Although it was a very cozy and peaceful scene in my head, it was quite far from reality.

I walked the shore and looked at my sandy comrades who surrounded me. Some made conversation and browsed social media, while others wrestled, played football, and piggy-backed each other. They desperately searched for Internet connection, eager to post about all the fun they were having. It was odd how absorbed they were in picture taking.

Two pictures on the phone, in case the first was blurry. Two more if you also want the landscape view. Not to mention the other poses that had to be captured. One polaroid for the nostalgia and the “aesthetic.” But of course only one. Limited film means rations must be made for the rest of the pictures to be taken. That first pose better have been good.

They seemed to be manufacturing the fun they wanted to have, as if a photo portraying enjoyment equated to the fun they wanted to be having. Outside of posing and smiling in front of a camera, they really did nothing else but commute to other stops along the beach for even more pictures.

I wanted something different.

I found a spot in the sand a few feet away from a group of people and the receding whitewash.

The moment felt made for observation and reflection. The sun’s brilliant display provided security, reassurance, and hope to its observers.

I looked to my right and saw one of my classmates sitting alone, as I was.

“Hey, Geoff.”

“Hey, Rick,” he responded.

“Wasn’t the sunset so beautiful?”

“It really was. I’m just trying to take it all in.”

I smiled and nodded. There was a mutual understanding that we were both on the sand for quiet observance and reflection. This kept our conversation short. It was nice to see at least one other person really looking.

Volume XII

3

Beauty Lost

Yiting (Tina) Yin Acrylic on canvas

4

Ka Nalu Ola

Jumping

Calvin Carpenter Digital photograph

Volume XII

5

A Little-Known Forest in the Himalayas Fiona Sievert

I She crept to the edges of the word.

Curled up like a caterpillar.

Lips sealed like an envelope.

The first letter fell to her feet.

Tumbled down from blue emptiness above.

An offering.

She did not move.

A word is tossed to her toes From the left.

Through the empty door frame.

She blinks.

Another word now.

And another.

The pile at her feet grows to a mound, A hill, A mountain range.

The Himalayas sprawl before her.

She does not move.

Her eyes close Gently as a leaf floating To the ground.

Her hands unfurl.

Her body grows as limbs unfold.

She moves forward, Eyes still closed.

A branch reaches toward the Himalayas.

A word is plucked from the snow.

The eyes open.

The lips bloom.

An apple grows green, Red. Falls Up

Into the hands of a girl Who turns to the left and says

No.

6

Ka Nalu Ola

II

Blue bright boys in the sky.

Pink pale girls on asphalt.

They say to always look at the road, Wicked and silent.

We crept to the edges of the word — Feet on thorns, Head in our hearts — Scrambled up the briars, A blank knot of anger in our eyes and Jumped.

A quiet moment.

The burning of night.

Absently: a voice from above, “Look. A faded forest below.”

III I have crept to the edges of the word.

Sat at the precipice of silence and sound.

Looked into the vicious face of fear.

My eyes were open Once.

Mostly, I walk blindly Into the forest.

Volume XII

7

Morning Gaze

Piankhi Robertson-Chambers Oil on canvas

8

Ka Nalu Ola

A Proper Guide to Thievery Connor Mukai

Inside a deserted wasteland warehouse, unnatural fluorescent lights hung high above and burned down on Mr. Jones’ stiff, constricting dress-shirt.

The man momentarily put a metal flask to his lips. Spilled drops of water, the only fluids the Indiana soil had tasted in weeks, plumed like powders as they collided with the dusty floor. Mr. Jones wasn’t too old, rather bland, and wore a faded blue outfit; it was probably keen and dazzling when he stole it from the downtown department store, but it grew into its master’s likeness. On an ordinary day, Mr. Jones’ blue-collar costume would be carefully slipped into and would go to work with him at 6:00 a.m. sharp, calmly scouting out banks, vaults, and anywhere worthy of a master thief's attention. But on this unusual Sunday, it was drenched in sweat as Mr. Jones kneeled and pleaded before a massive ebony door.

He dug his hands into his pockets, fishing for his Bic lighter. It wasn't windy, but he instinctively shielded the flickering flame and held it up to the keyhole. The springs of tumblers could be heated to neutralize the degree-offset used by torque style keys. Dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of fatigue, but they were tense, almost twitching, as Mr. Jones focused on the lock in front of him, quickly working to memorize its tumblers and grooves. He would typically flirt with a lock, prodding it with his picks and fingers, feeling its personality and shape, but when he heard the rumbling of the iron cage behind him, the usually comforting clicks of the forked clamp became a countdown to his massacre as he pecked the counterweight.

What was inside that horrid jail? A bear? A lion? A ravenous ghoul?

Mr. Jones dared not to inspect the box up close; he was fearful of an arm or tendril or claw that would reach out and bludgeon him with his own bones. The hackles on his neck stood on end. The petals of moonlight gathered bloodthirsty eyes to his throat. The inhabitant of the cage howled an insatiable cry, and Mr. Jones flinched and looked back and checked the electric timer on the box. He realized he was no longer a lamb to the slaughter but a preheated TV dinner for the monster, drooling, longing, yearning for release.

Under every breath, Mr. Jones scraped the jagged inner metal against the copper edges of the lock pick. The heat from his lighter was lost and the lock began to cool, siphoning the warmth from Mr. Jones’ calloused fingertips. He violently jammed his wires into the fastenings, his hands slipping and applying an excessive amount of pressure, his mind leaving to retrace his regrets.

“Damn it!” the words slipped from his clenched teeth. When he first swung open the fated ebony door, he was expecting another ordinary warehouse and was already choosing between the 21st Street fence and the downtown pawn shop. Those thoughts were lost in an instant when he found all his avaricious dreams paled in comparison to the warehouse’s stash. A silver lacquer shimmered with no hint of garish counterfeit, only with the seductive grace of a dim fluorescent veil. He was so mesmerized by the rows of $100 bill bricks, the mountains of gold watches, the streams of endless art that he did not hear the sound of the door clicking behind him or see the box of death directly in front of him. Now, the air felt empty, constricting from a vast warehouse into a single locked room.

All he could hear was the constantly growing sound of fang and claw, patiently honing their edges. He tried to work faster on the lock. Tightening and tightening into the bottomless iron, his picks refused to turn as his mind spiraled.

Would anyone find him if he screamed this late at night or was it already morning? He realized only the monster could know. His hands grew hysterical and his body heaved with each inhale, twisting and shaking the lock back and

Volume XII

9

forth — begging it to set him free: away from this monster, away from this place, away from his hell. Then, he snapped the lock pick. It was a novice’s error.

“Oh, God in Heaven, please no.”

There was nothing the man could do but wail and pound at the door, inhaling gallons of air to let out desperate pleas that crumbled into nothing.

“I’m sorry! Please.” He bargained with the indifferent wisps of air.

“Please, don’t do this.” Someone might hear him. No one did.

“This wasn’t…I’m not…I...” Sentences became words; words became sounds; sounds stuck in his throat and left in messy chunks.

“I’m sorry...please.” The cycle only repeated.

It was between one of his cries when Mr. Jones heard something new.

From behind came the creak of an opening crate. The metal hinge rasped in careful labor, dragging on as shadows held their breath. The iron reeled and unloaded its contents, lumbering with a dull ache. The ground rumbled in rhythmic beats, (left-right, right-left, left-right) and, for just a moment, as Mr. Jones stared, trembling into the keyhole’s sardonic eye, there was no noise in all of Indiana.

10

Ka Nalu Ola

Childhood Restlessness Morgan Groves Wire, fabric, yarn

Volume XII

11

Illusion

Kaci Theros Digital

12

Ka Nalu Ola

Piankhi Robertson-Chambers Good Morning Diary, Yesterday my family went out to a Chinese restaurant and I’ve had stomach pains ever since. Nothing that I’ve done has worked, be it walking, eating fiber, or just laying down. With each step I take, I somehow feel as though the ground itself is crushing me from within. Whatever the problem is, it doesn’t seem to be the kind that fixes itself. My mom said it’s probably some form of constipation, that maybe Zìwǒ juéxǐng’s MSG did it. So, I’ve decided to hole up in my bathroom until something comes out.

My Dearest Diary, It’s been three hours since my last entry. Sweat has bound itself to my face and shows no signs of leaving. My phone says that rhythmic breathing and hefty heaving helps hesitant objects escape, but all I’m having is lightheadedness and an unhinged hellish high that trickles beyond my entire being. Have you ever had a Christmas where you’re waiting a long time for your gift? You get worried about what it is, that it may not be “you,” but then you finally open it. And it is you. I don’t know, I guess I’m just hoping that this ends...well, sorta like that.

Hey there, Diary, Five hours have passed and my vision is blurry. The air in this room hangs heavily over my head and I find my legs vibrating, oscillating to a point that feels as distant as it was when the sun still lay over the horizon. I’m a sandcastle. Will it be the wind, the tide, or the sand below that finishes me?

Diary, Eight hours. It is as though there is a clawing in my bowels. My mother stopped checking in to ask whether or not I am ok. That no longer matters. This is not about feelings, it just needs to come out. The scathing reverberations no longer bother me. I think that I have found God. Twelve. A head peeks out. My head.

Volume XII

13

The Escape

Anna Palagano Atop a hill my castle stood bathed in the spring’s warm glow scented in memories surrounded by a gate where I made my great escape.

For the halls too Narrow the throne Tight And guards lost gusto abandoned their vigilance their sharpness as they awaited my Escape.

I stumbled and bumbled through the bordering forest summer’s Blistering, Burning, Beats.

Shadows sent chills so I soaked in seldom splashes of light Until I come upon The Land heard of second-hand a blur from the tower yet such an expanse

14

Ka Nalu Ola

Rising Pillars of Distrust James Mendez Digital photograph

Volume XII

15

Trilogy

Abby Yagi Digital photograph

16

Ka Nalu Ola

Volume XII

17

Mr. Pea

Joshua David Nu’uhiwa Digital photograph

18

Ka Nalu Ola

if in the night you think that we are imperfect Jessie Garbeil

It is well known among both America’s elite and America’s poets that illusions fall away by night. It is why the elite retire early to their glass houses and the poets do not sleep at all.

In this case, it is the elite that are kept awake; there are four, golden and polished, trapped on an island half of a mile off the coast of Massachusetts.

Here, the nights are dark and the stars are visible overhead, an eternal reminder that there is something far bigger and far grander than these games of wealth.

It is a four-day weekend in the heat of July, and there are four lovers on the island: Harry and Pat, Emily and James. They are political by nature but loathe politics, creating a horrid cycle of self-pity and anger. They are all quite rich and quite fortunate, and they are bound by an oath to love each other until their graves. By the end of the weekend, they will break their oaths. These are only cold, boring facts, the sort that fall heavy on your tongue and tumble down your throat as you gasp for air, sinking lower and lower into the frigid New England waters. …

Somewhere after two in the morning, Harry woke and sat up, very slowly and with all the weight of the world dragging him back into the linen sheets. He appeared to have slept little, as he blinked sleep from his eyes and stared at the clock with an exhausted frown. Harry mumbled a curse, but he eased himself out of bed, perhaps in search of a drink of water. Yet Harry was not entirely human, and it was quite unlikely that he actually needed water to live. He survived not off ordinary food and water, but off salt and Altoid mints, tucked into the pockets of suit jackets and hidden in the lining of overcoats.

The others were still fast asleep, still playing at the suggestion that, in their unconsciousness, the shattering of the illusions of love and perfection will pass them by with the passing of the moon. By morning, the illusions would be repaired, and everything would be quite all right.

Harry fell through the hallway, stumbling heavily in the dark, until he reached the living room. He froze when he reached it, finding the furniture less than empty. Emily was seated upon the couch, a copy of a Jane Austen novel in hand, a lamp glowing very dimly.

Slowly, Harry approached her. She did not appear to notice him, as her eyes remained caught upon the page.

“Trying to learn how emotions work?” he said quietly, and to a less astute mind, it might have appeared to be a joke. Emily, though, seemed to understand the melancholy in the statement. She smiled, just a tiny bit and not so tightly as she often did.

“Yes, I suppose.” Emily almost went back to her reading, but something must have stopped her. She stared at Harry, taking in the tangles of his dark hair and the lines already beginning to form beneath his eyes. “Can't sleep?”

“I was sleeping well, actually, but I needed water. I take it you can't sleep, though.” Harry looked at Emily, and he too seemed to evaluate her carefully. To each other, they were both numerical equations that ought to be approached with caution. Neither of them seemed willing to be easily solved.

“No. I don't sleep much anymore. Not out of D.C. I need D.C. To live, I think. But that's getting overly existential, isn’t it?” Emily stared at the lamp for a moment, then turned back to Harry. “I thought you were getting water.”

“Yes, of course.” Harry shook himself from an odd sort of trance, and he continued on his way towards the kitchen.

Volume XII

19

“There's wine in the fridge, still, if that would help you sleep.” For half of a moment, it seemed as if Emily might truly care. She most certainly did not care about Harry, but there were some strange sort of stakes trapped within the statement. “You can have some.”

“No.” Harry was some feet away from Emily, but even at a distance, they seemed to be able to understand each other easily. “It's unhealthy and a bit irresponsible to drink at this time of the night.”

Emily shrugged, turning back to the Jane Austen novel with a slight frown. “Suit yourself.” Harry fiddled blindly for a glass in the kitchen, then made his way back into the parlor. Emily looked up at him through her reading glasses.

“What's the matter, now?” She was very tired and surely very annoyed as well.

“I don't know where you keep any glasses.” If Emily was a different sort of individual, perhaps she would have jumped eagerly to her feet in the hope of playing at being a generous hostess. Instead, her focus remained on her novel. By night, she had no need to play at being proper or polite, to be the sort of woman that wealthy men strive to wed.

“Right above the sink. Don't use the crystal ones. James inherited those. He's very attached to them, for some idiotic and sentimental reason, I guess.” Harry nodded in the dark and returned to the kitchen. A moment after, there was the sound of a tap running, then the night fell silent again. Harry, glass clutched in hand and sinewed fingers wrapped around the crystal, made his way back.

“I think this is one of them, I couldn't see very well in the dark.” Harry took a long, awkward gulp of water, then blinked once, then twice. “I'm going to bed again. I'm sure a bit of sleep would do you good as well.”

As Harry began to leave, Emily turned in her place upon the couch to stare at him. She suddenly seemed very tired, her lips chapped at the edges and her eyes cast in shades of a burnt red. “Respectfully, you really have no idea what would do me good.”

The phrase would haunt Harry for quite some time to come. ...

Morning for Emily came before the sun rose, as she was awake once more, a cup of steaming coffee in hand even at four in the morning. It must have been the caffeine that allowed her to survive on so little sleep. She clutched the mug to her chest, the steam casting itself on her neck in a dainty layer of perspiration.

“You're up early.” Emily turned from her place near the kitchen window to see Pat, hair messy and eyes a bit red, standing in the doorway.

Without makeup and without the sunlight, she looked just as tired as anyone far more ordinary. The kitchen had become an odd sort of place of coming-and-going for Emily, with her very unwelcome guests slipping in and out carelessly, occasionally bothering to engage in a polite conversation or a game of banter.

“So are you.” Emily took a heavy sip of her coffee, the liquid catching on her tongue and clearly burning it. She winced aloud. “This is too hot to drink.”

She set down the cup very firmly, turning away from the window and focusing on the rather hazy outline of Pat. “I don't know, I'm still on my Washington schedule.” Pat avoided her eyes, instead eying the gleaming mug of coffee. Emily, though, was not the sort to be a gracious hostess, and if she caught the hint, she did not offer Pat coffee.

“You were up late. You and James both.” Emily did not appear to be accusatory or jealous, or if she was, she masked it very well. Her expression was as dizzyingly emotionless as always. It was not clear how she knew that James was not alone in the gazebo last night, but Emily always had her ways, never entirely human and always a bit mythical.

20

Ka Nalu Ola

“Yes. We were, I guess. We started looking at the stars and then we started talking about being back in college.” If Pat was aware of how suspicious the situation could seem, she did not show it. Instead, she stared at the cup of coffee again, clearly hoping her hostess would take the hint. Now, it was very clear that Emily was ignoring the suggestion. There was no malice here, just a quiet sort of laziness, a postured sense of superiority.

“You two dated back in college, yes?” Pat started at the question, a surefire sign of untrustworthiness. Emily took note and smiled slightly. “I don't care, really. It's the past, and we're happy now. I dated all kinds of people back in college, and I still talk to some of them. I still work with one of them, even.”

Emily was not the sort to date anyone at all, and the lie fell heavily on her tongue.

She seemed to realize it and frowned, a bit sadly. “I didn't date many people in college, actually. I had better things to do. But I do still work with one of them, Edwin Berkeley. It’s a pretentious name and he's horrid. I don't know why I ever bothered.”

“Yes, we dated back in college. And I think I know Edwin Berkeley, as a matter of fact. He's married now, isn't he?” Pat took a seat at the kitchen table without invitation, perhaps hoping that Emily would finally bring her a coffee.

There was little evidence to support this, but Pat was a persistent woman.

“Yes, he is.” Emily sat down far across from her, still only drinking her own coffee. Pat was growing visibly frustrated, although she always was very good at hiding it. “His wife is beautiful, and much better than he is. Nancy, is it?”

“Nora. We went to law school together.” Pat stared at the coffee again, then seemed to make a split second decision, still holding onto all semblance of manners. “I'm very tired, as I went to bed late, you know, and I was wondering, do you have any coffee? I can make it myself if you do. There's no need for you to bother yourself with it.”

Emily jumped to her feet, suddenly becoming the very image of the gracious host. The beginnings of a sunrise were creeping through the windows, and she was clearly realizing that the time for illusion had returned. “Yes, I was just about to offer. I'm sorry I didn't before.” She walked over to the counter, filling the coffeemaker with filtered water. It was a long and patient task, and she was silent throughout. Afterwards, she moved it to the burner, heated up the water, then turned back to Pat. “It slipped my mind. I feel like a terrible host.”

This, of course, was all playacting, and Pat seemed very aware of this fact. There was no ill will between the two women, or desires of revenge, or fits of jealousy, but they shared little love for each other then.

“No, not at all. We all have our forgetful moments.” Pat smiled serenely, leaning back in her chair. She seemed very awake now, despite her testimonials of exhaustion. “I can’t understand why you don't even look tired. I look horrid this morning.”

Emily shook her head, checking the coffee machine after only thirty seconds. ”I look nightmarish without makeup.” She paused, turning back to Pat once again. “I never could come to terms with that whole self esteem thing.” For a moment, there was silence, and, with it, the heavy note that Emily was not finished speaking. She stared up at the ceiling, then turned to truly meet Pat's eyes. “I know you still love him. I just don't know if he still loves you. I'm not angry with you, really.” This, for the first time, was the truth. If anything, Emily was rather sad, in a twisted way. “The coffee will be ready very soon, but I'm suddenly feeling a bit tired now. Good morning and good night.” ...

Pat’s coffee had grown cold. Sunlight was beginning to sneak in through the window, but only the very early beginnings of it. Otherwise, the room

Volume XII

21

was dark, and Pat did nothing but sit, her face devoid of all expression. In a curious way, in the toxic in-between of night and day, she looked a bit like Emily.

“Good morning.” Harry was aware then, hair already coated in expensive hair gel and polo shirt ironed neatly. She looked up at him with a smile, but it was most certainly forced. He leaned down and kissed her chastely upon the lips, a rather robotic and stoic gesture. “I hope you slept well.” They were both very used to waking at this early hour.

“Good morning, Harry. I slept well, yes. Thank you for asking.” This may not have been how most people talked, but the two of them were not entirely human; they were at home in a different world, where the fog stays all evening and the nights are cut short by the sirens of early-morning motorcades. Here, on an island so remote, they were even more out of place, no longer able to excuse their quirks with the mess of Washington, D.C. “How was the telescope?” For a moment, Pat seemed to play at confusion, but then smiled in recognition, brushing it aside as if it were no problem at all. In the morning light, the previous night’s interaction could, after all, pass as nothing more than a scientific gathering between two old friends. In reality, of course, it was anything but.

“It was incredible. We saw Saturn’s rings, and they were beautiful.”

Pat's smile grew wider and wider, and it became tragically clear that she was not in love with the stars, or even the eternity of the planet’s rings, but something far more fleeting than that.

“I never really liked astronomy, I always preferred things here. Like chemistry, I guess, and physics.” He stared at the light creeping in through the edges of the window, perhaps contemplating rates of reactions or the mechanics of potential energy.

“I know you do. Personally, I would have loved to be an astronomer.” It made perfect sense. Harry was close to the ground and as cold as the ice caps at the very top of the earth. Pat was poetic and caught up in higher dreams. If he was more ambitious, she was far more hopeful, but just enough of a cynic to survive in Washington. “To look at the stars, instead of here.” Pat paused, but Harry seemed to sense that she had more to say, or perhaps he had nothing to respond with. “I mean, I like Washington a lot, really, I do. But don't you…do you ever want to leave, honey? Just, go?” Pat's lower lip quivered for half of a moment.

“No. Not particularly.” Harry did not understand, not at all. He looked at her, rather blankly. If he was bluffing and meaning only to spite her, it would never show. His frown deepened, until the edges of his chapped lips faded into the sharpness of his jawline. “You aren't saying we should move, are you?

Because I'm going to get promoted very soon, I think.” Harry had been saying this for three years now, but as of yet, no promotion had come. Perhaps it was an excuse, or perhaps he was truly a fool. The former seemed far more likely.

Pat smiled, very bitterly, the corners of her eyes maintaining an unbelievably melancholy shape. “I wasn't going to say we should leave, I was just saying that sometimes I get tired of it. But I have a very good job, too, and I love it, and I wouldn't change that. I don't really want to leave, not for good, but maybe we should take a long vacation sometime soon, for Christmas, perhaps.”

Pat got to her feet, very slowly, still half-resting her light weight on the table.

“And you haven't been promoted yet. I don't understand how you can keep telling yourself that.”

“Yes, well, the promotion is coming soon. They tell me that. I mean, they could be lying, but you have to believe some things in life, after all. You must see that. I'm sorry if it's upsetting to you.” He got to his feet, too, far away from Pat. “And maybe we could go on a long vacation, if you really would like that.

Would you?”

Pat smiled, and she managed to take a slight step closer to him. “Yes. I 22

Ka Nalu Ola

would like that a lot, thank you.” What she refused to say was, “We can make this work,” but every set of crumbling lovers had their own code, after all. In that moment, the sunlight and the day crept back in, and Pat straightened her posture. It was time for illusions again, and the summer days were long and difficult to bear.

Volume XII

23

Carapace de l’Oursin de Roche James Mendez Digital photograph

24

Ka Nalu Ola

Starry Eyed Morgan Groves Digital painting

Volume XII

25

Free

Morgan Groves Intaglio print

26

Ka Nalu Ola

We Are No Longer Home Isabella Miki

As I walked down the street, I looked at the sky. It was a grey day. The sun was behind the thick rain clouds layering it. Because of those clouds, the air had a feeling to it, a dense feeling. It emitted a feeling of the verge of chaos. The feeling didn’t surprise or worry me. The night before didn’t oppose this feeling, neither did the current situation.

Before I left, I didn’t even check how I looked in that vandalized and dirty bathroom mirror. All I did was wake up to the shouting and cursing from Huxley and Heath, and pleads for the argument to stop from Lola and Cecelia.

There was no clarity in the argument when I actually realized it was happening. It was like I could hear the words before I even came into consciousness. However, they were just words. No meaning. Not to me. Not to each other.

When I got out of the engulfing bottom bunk, I was only half awake.

The fact that an argument was taking place didn’t even register. Only when I saw the two tall boys yelling at each other did I realize it. It was still clear in my mind: Huxley pushing Lola away behind him and Heath doing the same to Cecelia. The frantic tears causing the shine on Lola’s fair cheeks and the red in her grey eyes.

The frustrated pleas from Cecelia. Her raspy voice only causing the argument to grow. Added bacteria to an infection.

I had to get out of there. I could either leave or interfere. Either way I would’ve made it worse.

Staying in the bed wasn’t an option for me.

I had to be home.

Wherever that was.

Running from strange house to strange house was exhausting.

Especially when you had no idea what you were running from.

Or if you had even outrun it yet.

Or if it has already caught you.

And running is only making it worse.

When I shoved myself between Huxley and Heath to get to the door, Cecelia shouted at me in offense. Even though Cecelia had only raised her voice at me once or twice before, I didn't care. I didn’t even pay attention to what she was saying. I needed to get out.

So I did. The door handle was cold against my hand. Uninviting and notoriously familiar. The white walls passed in a blur and my feet easily came and went from stair to stair until I was finally out the front door and onto the cracked sidewalk with my backpack in arm. Cecelia’s eyes met mine from the upstairs window with a scowl. My lips pursed in slight guilt. I turned away, snapping the contact like the neck of a bird, and walked down the hill on that cracked sidewalk.

The sidewalk I’d walked on too many times before.

That house was a nightmare. It brought nothing but chaos. Every time I went there, a new problem appeared. Somebody had been beaten by their boyfriend but went back to bed with him. Or, when morning came, waking up next to someone found collapsed on the bathroom floor with blood leaking from their wrists. Or they’re slumped over the toilet, the stench of their drunken vomit permeating the still air. A friend comes crying to the front door at 1:36 AM, their eyes red and swollen, because their parents had given up and thrown them out.

That house had brought to me hate for the world I lived in. The belief that chaos and growing up too fast was the only life I could have. School didn’t matter, only the problems within the messy lives of me and my friends. Family didn’t matter, they weren’t running away from life with me.

Of course I had tried to help them—my friends, I mean. Of course I wanted to call the police on the angry bastard that beat my closest friend then

Volume XII

27

convinced her to come to bed. She loved him, there was no reason she would leave him. None that she would allow herself to see anyway. Her hands were cold as they grasped my shoulders, and her voice was terrified as she begged for me to not tell. I couldn’t figure out whether she was afraid of me saying anything or of what he would do if he was found out by an adult.

Of course I wanted to tell those parents that their oldest child had committed suicide after a night where the dark lasted too long. He had a little brother for God’s sake. He had a life full of sights and lessons and thoughts. All of it gone within ten minutes because of two deep vertical cuts, one on each wrist, that penetrated the arteries. I found him in the early morning when it was still dark out. I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t let myself. In my mind it was something he wouldn’t want. My steps were shaky and it hurt everywhere to walk toward the scene. I lay down with him, my front facing his body. My face right in front of his.

His eyes were closed as if he was just asleep. The only difference was the lack of breath. I contemplated talking to him, asking him why he did it. There would be no use, so I said nothing. The air was stagnant; it stayed in one place like it was watching me and him. I lay in it, the cold tile pressing against my right arm, leg, and temple, his blood soaking into my shorts and shirt. And mixing with my silent tears.

Of course I wanted to bring him to the hospital when he passed out from alcohol poisoning the first time. Nobody would help me. Nobody wanted the police to find out. Nobody wanted their parents to find out. He wasn’t dead when we found him. But he was pretty close to it. We helped him shower when he woke up, as if it was adequate compensation for not taking him to the hospital to make sure he was okay.

Of course I wanted to take my friend in—the one kicked out of her house. I wanted to take her home, where my parents would feed her and care for her. So she could experience the care and love of good parents. She thought she’d be happier with her friends. She apparently felt better at that house. Because that’s where we did whatever we wanted. I wanted to offer my house to her.

I wanted to call the police on Huxley for beating Lola.

I wanted to tell my ex-boyfriend’s parents that he was dead.

I wanted to bring Heath to the hospital.

I wanted to.

So why didn’t I? How could I? How do you tell your parents? How do you tell the adults in charge?

How do you tell the people who brought you up that you messed up? That your friends messed up? That the world messed up? That they themselves messed up.

We were all just kids. No matter how much we wanted to deny it. On the inside and outside we were just kids trying to navigate through a world we were not ready for. We were all in love with this idea of growing up. However, we did the exact opposite and threw ourselves into immaturity. We all knew what was right. And we didn’t want to admit it to ourselves or anyone that we weren’t right.

How do you tell your parents that you’re already part of that world?

They would be heartbroken. Scared. Anxious.

How do you tell your parents that these kinds of things aren’t abnormal in you and your friends’ lives?

How do you tell them that they’ve raised a world where these things aren’t rare anymore?

They thought those were adult things. They thought we didn’t know about it from experience. They thought we were all okay. That the world was changing slower than it really was.

They thought we were safe.

And that the generations before us had no reason to say sorry.

28

Ka Nalu Ola

My mom wasn’t going to be home until later in the morning. That’s why I wasn’t at home the night before, because she wasn’t. I walked home from that house. I walked to the place where my mom thought I was at the whole night.

When she came home, I was lying in her bed, crying. The tears were no longer silent. She embraced me, knowing everything, yet said not a single word.

Volume XII

29

Monuments Tony Umemoto Digital

30

Ka Nalu Ola

when you are hungry for outer space Jessie Garbeil I.

when you were girl, they told you to reach for the stars. so you did. you took them in your hands, like they were the waters of the fountain of youth that Ponce de Leon crossed the sea to see. you found it at last. you swallowed stars whole.

you were young then. you thought inhalation equaled becoming, but you did not understand mathematics. instead, the stardust stuck in your lungs, until you misplaced your last breath.

II.

when you were girl, you saw your footprints on the moon. so you let your soles sink in. you could not imagine this floating in space, this turning of lazy somersaults in the vastness. you say you are unafraid of whatever follows this life, only of the loss of breath. you are the worst liar.

you were young then. now, you have yet to become the stars you grasped for. you walk on the moon, but there is no trace. you deceive yourself into believing that this was how it truly should be.

III.

when you were girl, you were taught to become everything. you are, but not how you wanted to be. then, it was simple to take the skies in hand, between your bared teeth, to devour them. you were always satiated and to become interstellar was the simplest brand of arithmetic. the greatest lie you taught yourself was that the sky was of peace. this is a universe at war, and there is nothing otherworldly that you will not have to fight for.

Volume XII

31

Tessellations of a Salmon Run Rayce Kojiro Linoleum print 32

Ka Nalu Ola

Tessellations of a Salmon…SQUASH! Rayce Kojiro Linoleum print

Volume XII

33

Growing Pains

Piankhi Robertson-Chambers Digital comic

34

Ka Nalu Ola

LOVE & STUFF

Piankhi Robertson-Chambers Digital comic

Volume XII

35

Pyrrhus’ Victory Presley Wheeler

“Now everyone, please welcome the woman of the hour, Sarah Problem!”

I burst through a circular sheet of paper with the word “Congrats!” emblazoned on its surface. It was covering the door to the side room I was hiding in. Smiling and waving to all of my cheering editors, my loving family, and my celebrating friends, I took a step onto a small podium. I could not tell exactly who was who. Karen from finance had wanted to have a masquerade celebration to commemorate the millionth copy sold of Masking Thoughts. A glass of honeycolored champagne had been left for me, and I knew it could only have come from one brand. I was surprised to say the least; the bottle alone would have cost a minimum of $100,000. So what did everything else cost? More importantly, who was paying for it?

Waving away the thought, I plucked at the stem of the glass, grasping it between three fingers as I elevated it above my head.

“Well, everyone, we did it!” I exclaimed triumphantly as the office erupted into applause and praise. “It has been one hell of a year, and I couldn’t have done it without you. When I look around and see your faces—well...your masks—I think of how extraordinary each and every one of you is. I never thought I would be a best-selling author before I was 21!” I leaned over the podium, placing my palm beside my mouth like I was a young schoolgirl telling a secret. “Or at least that’s how old I tell everyone I am.” More applause, joined this time by laughter. “Okay everyone! Enjoy yourselves because tomorrow it’s back to the coffee machines and writing!” A resounding cheer flew throughout the room, and everyone went about their business.

Stepping down from the podium and taking a sip of champagne, my two assistants approached me. I knew it was them from the way that they dressed. Angela always wore white and had a penchant for floor-length dresses like the one she wore today. This one was different from her normal ones: it seemed more festive, with long, draping sleeves that covered her arms and an extravagant sash cinching her waist. Her mask was gold, and she had a warm smile.

Liliana, on the other hand, always went for the more ‘scandal at the office’ look that I told her time and time again was inappropriate for the workplace. She never listened. All she ever focused on was fun. Today was no exception: a short, black pencil skirt with a one-size-too-small, cherry red button down. The second button seemed to ache for its release as it strained to hold the top together. A matching cherry red mask with black lace embellishments adorned her face. Her black stilettos clacked on the tile floor in an even staccato as she approached. Even her walk seemed somehow...inappropriate, like a cougar ready to pounce on its next victim.

“My dear, you have done wonderfully.” Angela stepped forward, arms flying around my shoulders to pull me into a comforting embrace.

“I guess one million copies isn’t bad, but I still think we should’ve gone to a bar or a club or something. You know, chat up some cute guys. You can’t stay single forever, Sarah.” Liliana produced a glass of red wine that I don’t remember her holding just a second earlier. Dipping a perfectly manicured nail with its ever present blood red polish, she stirred the wine, taking her finger out to suck off the precious liquid.

“Are you just here to congratulate me or was there something else you wanted to talk about?”

“There was,” they replied in unison. They often did that, and I would be

36

Ka Nalu Ola

lying if I said it was not slightly unsettling. “But let us move out to the balcony first.”

Confused, I followed them to the balcony. Angela stood facing the street below, holding a glass of white wine that I was almost certain was not in her hands when she hugged me mere moments earlier.

“Sarah, darling. Do you ever wonder where you are going to go from here?”

“Yeah, what if you died? Right here. Right now. Would you be happy with your life?” I set my glass down on the cold, smooth stone of the balcony, leaning over the edge to look at everyone on the streets below. Those people were down there, living their lives, and here I was, above them. Was I really living my life? I wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know, maybe? Maybe not. I kinda want to see where it goes from here.” I was so absorbed in my own thoughts I didn’t hear the swish of fabric stalking toward me.

“I’ll tell you where it goes,” a deep voice rumbled behind me, “it’s going down. Just. Like. YOU!” I barely had enough time to turn around when I felt a pair of large, burly hands on my chest, pushing me with enough force to send me sprawling off of the balcony.

Wind. A sense of levity. As I turned back to face my impending demise, I could not believe that my end would come from being pushed.

That’s when I saw my champagne flute falling past me, just in front of me. How did this work? I must’ve fallen before my glass, but there it was, clear as the crystal it was made from, just out of my reach.

Then I heard the flapping of fabric in high winds just to my right, and a loud sigh to my left. Turning my head, I saw Angela and Liliana falling beside me.

Part of me wanted to laugh. They were with me from the beginning; it was fitting that they would be with me at my end.

“So, do you wanna answer my question now, hun?” Liliana had her arms crossed, facing the sky. “We could do it all over again, turn back the clock with different decisions.”

What was she talking about? Turn back the clock?

“You do not have to do that at all. Look at all the people you have helped. You can die happy. I am so proud of you.”

“Think about all the other people you could help if you avoided this party in the future,” they said in unison. What was up with them? “Come on, what do you say? Make your choice.”

“I...I...”

100 feet from the ground.

“I choose...”

50 feet.

“I choose—” The shattering of glass as the champagne flute hit the ground was the last thing I heard.

Volume XII

37

A Photo of a Showdown James Mendez Digital photograph

38

Ka Nalu Ola

Woman & Monster Hongxin (Apple) Li Graphite on paper

Volume XII

39

Perception

Gaia Hittle Watercolor and colored pencil on paper

40

Ka Nalu Ola

Hope

Gaia Hittle Digital painting

Volume XII

41

Jessie Garbeil instructions for no longer being so fragile: 1. notice when you feel your emotions falling out of your control. bite your lip, tighten your jaw, lean your head back. discreetly, or passersby will notice your humanity. smile, never too widely, or they will know you are like the rest.

2. breathe in deeply. to be less human, become more human. laugh at their jokes, and they will laugh at yours. learn to like the taste of oxygen, the cold sweetness of winter air and the freedom of respiration, and you will remain cold.

3. remain unreadable and swear off love with the coming of december. it is only meant to break you, and you are not the breed of misplaced humanity that is meant to shatter, only to crumble slowly. they will be deceived.

4. grow up angry, not melancholy. the world loves the angry ones; they are born to change it, and the sad ones are only here to clutch their hair and gasp for breath in public restrooms. play a game of substitution and they will never know.

5. if you feel anything at all, run from it. if you are in love, you are not yourself. if you cry, this is the last time. if you hate, never raise your voice. if you cut out your own heart, replace it with a cardboard cutout, and they will not know the difference. if you find yourself caring about him, then everything has gone very wrong.

42

Ka Nalu Ola

Acid Dragon Kimberly Oshiro Ink on paper

Volume XII

43

Shapeful

Fiona Sievert Digital photograph

44

Ka Nalu Ola

Last Days Here

Piankhi Robertson-Chambers Start Start Start Start Start Go Going Going Gone

Welp. Guess that’s it.

N o t h i n g is coming.

I guess that’s it.

This is the end.

Going going going going going going and now It’s I’m

Done?

But I’m still going...

Volume XII

45

Too many starting points, but no end in sight

In mind

I can’t help but feel underwhelmed

After all of this time, all of these years, all of this life, I can’t stop?

Is it because I wasn’t able to?

Don't I want to?

Or worse yet perhaps, maybe I never could.

No one could.

But everyone else is.

So much of me has been invested in going

Endless starts over finite waters chasms to meander through without knowing when weaving and willing will no longer work

All of this-

All of meI think I should be relieved

46

Ka Nalu Ola

But I lost my feather in the last gale The tiniest of the puddles Seem deeper than the wells I don’t know what I’m saying anymore,

Where I’m going...

Did it end?

Can I remain without it?

Am I still drowning?

Can it,

I-

ever end?

Volume XII

47

Remember

Judith May Tamayo Ink on paper

48

Ka Nalu Ola

Cotton Peaks

Fiona Sievert Digital photograph

Volume XII

49

All the Little People Haley Choi

He rather likes salarymen.

The early-bird hustle and bustle is absolutely, disgustingly trivial, yet necessitated by a demand for livelihood. He watches hordes of little men and women boarding little vehicles and zigzagging along the congested roads and crosswalks. The light changes and the murmur of pedestrians move in procession, a stampede of oxfords on asphalt, briefcases and ringed binders clutched in the hands of the tiny people.

The little people huddle on the subway, slotted into little nooks and gaps between the seats, overcome by sweltering, stuffy body heat, cramped and jarred by the dozens of listless adults clinging to their handholds on the ceiling and poring over documents.

The little people shuffle into shops from the moment their signs are flipped over and their doors unlatched. They order black coffee and flaxseed scones in droves, and they all open identical tablets and fuss over a multitude of files and taxes while brushing the crumbs from their laps.

By the time the cityscape is crowned in the brilliant hues of the sunset, the little people file out of their little jobs and board the daily commute to return to their little homes and their little families.

He watches them with a keen, mocking leer, derisive and imperious.

They coalesce into rivulets of marching ants and formless cogs running the corporate engine. He loves them unabashedly. He loves them like a deified creature loves its simpering followers. He loves them with every piece of his unapologetic, evil little soul because they’re just so pointless and inane and unimportant. He loves the nothingness they represent.

They’re just so average that the entire race of them are like foreign, unearthly creatures from unknown reaches of the galaxy. It’s like he gets to cruise right over the skyline of their depressing plastic world in a rocket ship every day.

Sometimes he dips down to ground level and snatches a little person up from their cubicle, straight out of their habitat. Whisks them far away in his shuttle and enlightens them. Shows them a snapshot of the broad, unforgiving eternity of universe and rubs their noses in the reality of their wasted lives.

He gives them an epiphany in a bottle and breaks their minds craftily.

He really needs them to understand how inferior they are, so he makes sure they’re well-aware of the studs in his ears and the stones on his wrists. He brings them to opulent exclusive clubhouses and pushes resplendent dishes before them. He strings chains embellished with stones he knows are worth more than their convertibles. He casually spins wild tales of his escapades and baffles them with his fulfilling lifestyle. Most of them are broiling with envy, this he laps up like milk. It’s a special kind of bitterness that runs like honey over his tongue.

They always feign indifference in the beginning. They nurse their drinks and mull over their steady income and speak fondly of their families and the palatable meals their spouses will prepare them.

But he is persistent. He wheedles and pries at the cracks and gives a voice to the persistent, niggling thing clamoring in their heads.

“Are you satisfied?” It asks.

And then they get sad. They get really, unbelievably sad. Like, Henneyquaffing, snot-gushing, premature midlife crisis in the back of his Mitsubishi Dignity kind of sad. They ramble to him about missed opportunities and blubber nonsensically about how lonely they are and how bad they want to escape it all.

He just diligently picks them up with great care and feeds them venom through his words. Tells them how worthless and unimportant they are. Lets them know that they’re going to die alone and unfulfilled, and they deserve it.

50

Ka Nalu Ola

They deserve to suffer for being so ordinary and bland. He is cruel just for the hell of it, and revels in the way their eyes always glaze over with betrayal when he hurts them.

He always hurts them. And then, and only then he offers them a hand— and a solution.

He brings the little people into his bed and pulls at their threads and takes them apart with his hands, before remaking them, he ruins them and makes them beautiful in a sort of ephemeral way, drops kisses into hollow collarbones and grabbing with insatiable hands, places he can’t see. He smiles when he hurts them because the little people always weep in gratitude and make him a god for one night only.

Caged in the cradle of his arms, he makes them something, just for a moment. Something real.

And finally the illusion breaks. Without preamble, he quietly returns them to their menial little lives that he spirited them away from, dropping them out without so much as a sideways glance or a kiss on the cheek.

And then he moves onto the next little person.

Volume XII

51

The Land of Natural Disasters Jessie Garbeil

when the houses erode off the edges and the sea levels sweep away your hair

the remains will still be there.

The earthquake had shaken the foundations of her home, tearing away the baseboards and the roots from the soil. Now, her house hung precariously at the edge of space and oblivion, the pastel paint chipping over the stormy edge of the Pacific Ocean. She was uprooted and torn away from what she had known before, but oddly enough, she was at peace with all of this destruction. The concept of death did not frighten her as much as it once did, especially here, where the effects of a twenty-year-old fire were still constantly visible, the skeletons of trees lying haphazardly and charred across roadways. This was the land of natural disaster, and she fit in perfectly, her toes sinking easily into the dark soil and her hands dipped in the saltwater that crashed far below. ...

She owned no more than a million dollars of property: the crumbling home, the spray-painted Mercedes, the boarded-up convenience store that she had resurrected once more. It had returned kicking and screaming, the walls creaking each time she took a step within them, threatening to curse her back to the colder land whence she had arrived. She was not meant for the west coast-she was too cold and her lips too chapped - but she had found her way here even so, to this clearing between foggy ridgeline and winding coastline. ...

Before she had known herself, she had told him the fractions of which she was certain: she would live a powerful life and then she would sink back into the wild, buy herself a home in a crumbling sort of town. She had been sixteen then, and she had not known what side of the world she would return to, but she had never thought that it would be anywhere so apocalyptic. Here, she could look up at the trunks of trees and the leaves and the branches until all she could see was sky and the watercolored sunlight. ...

She had not followed him here. She had followed the winding roads, where the asphalt seeped off the edge of the cliffs and every turn was a death wish, every beach the perfect place to step from the sand into the water and keep stepping, until lungs filled up with water and breath stopped, as simple as that.

She had not come here to die, either, to be perfectly clear. ...

The convenience store was nearly empty, aside from a bedraggled seagull that had landed in the middle of the frozen food aisle, sneaking in from the blustery outdoors, walking up and down with crooked, limping steps. For a moment, the seagull froze, noticing her for the first time; she was very aware that this coast regarded her with suspicion. People like her only came here to die, and she smiled too much for that fate.

She heard the familiar footsteps, light and always a bit rushed, in a hurry to get somewhere or another. There was nowhere to go here, but he had

52

Ka Nalu Ola

always been a man of habits. “Charlie.” His name had always fit him too small, and he had never seemed quite at home in it. Mild-mannered as he was, he was determined, and if she had bothered, Nina could write him into every cliche of a natural disaster imaginable. Nina would sacrifice every clever metaphor she had ever pieced together and pushed into flight for him: she knew this with breathless certainty.

“I haven’t seen you in a week or so.” He nodded, very absently, studying the bird with a careless curiosity. Outside, the wind rattled and wailed at the dented tin roof of the store. This town would not last much longer. In a decade, at the very most, it would likely blow away into the forest, leaving behind nothing but the fault lines of asphalt and the smudged footprints of the few children left here. Most of them had drifted away, following the sort of dreams that intoxicated the youth, of the East Coast elite and the Los Angeles city lights.

Nina, of course, was exhausted with the both of them.

In truth, she had come here to be swept away, too, to melt back into the earth before it was swept away with the rising sea levels or the next hurricane.

“It’s...I was getting bored. I never really realized how lonely this place was, not before I came out here. I just thought it was really beautiful.” Charlie examined a bar of chocolate, then slipped it onto the counter. Nina had not come to this town for him. She had not known that he lived in a blustery sort of mansion farther up the cliffs, which was only beginning to slip away into the November ocean churning far below. He was not as far gone as she was, not nearly so hopeless at such a young age and not nearly so determined to lose himself within this clearing of here and there, this rest stop of this life and whatever oblivion follows.

“You should go to the movies, over in Eureka. They’ve been playing some indie films.” She leaned against the counter, and, for a moment, she believed that everything would work out, that he was here to fall in love with her and not just to visit out of boredom, to buy a box of mints and leave with the dropping of the sun above.

“They’re boring, too. They don’t feel real anymore.” It had taken her three years to love him, and he had never managed to love her in quite the same manner. Yet perhaps there was something there, or fate would not have twisted Nina to this very same edge of oblivion, where the ground flaked away with every step and the most poetic kind of apocalypse was only a countdown away.

Perhaps it did not matter. In two years, his house would surely tumble from the cliff into the crashing waves below. He would drown, and there was no church in this town, no funeral and no graveyard to bury him in, aside from the tumbling waves and gray foam. He was never religious as it was. “Yes, and I never knew how to be nothing. But here I am. I’m nothing.”

Charlie smiled, just a bit, absently flipping through a travel brochure on her wall. The granite of Yosemite, seemingly light years away, stared back at him. “And you’re happy? I could never imagine you being...happy.”

“Neither could I. Actually, I still can’t.” From here, looking past him and towards the fogging windows to the outside, she could see the dusty expanse of the street and the seabirds walking aimlessly from roof to roof and the dilapidated cars soon to return, like all of this town, back into the earth. She would stay here until it all fell down: that much she knew for certain. ...

Her house stayed in its precarious perch between earth and sky. As for Charlie, the apocalypse hit his home harder than most, and, in a way, it hit his soul as well. He was sorrowful after erosion sent his floorboards tumbling into the ocean. Nina supposed that he would always be just a little bit melancholy. She brought him tea some mornings, and he rarely drank it, instead taking tentative,

Volume XII

53

cautious sips, as if he had never managed to trust her with all of his soul. They talked about the weather and how the redwood grove outside the town was rotting away. Soon, there would be nothing here at all but the remains of houses and the crashing waves far below.

“Is David ever coming home?” She jumped at his question. It was a fateful Saturday morning, and she sat beside him on the porch. It was a sudden question, and it made her heart skip a beat, made her believe for even a moment that she had misjudged it all these years and he had been just as in love with her.

Nina only shrugged and took a long sip of her tea. It was growing cold, and she had not put in nearly enough sugar. “I don’t know…He doesn’t call these days.” She considered for a moment and forced herself to swallow the tea. “I would imagine that he might, but maybe we should have had kids. Maybe it’s hard to keep it together without kids. Maybe there’s not even any point to it if you’re not going to…I don’t know. Maybe love isn’t meant to last unless there’s some kind of…glue. I don’t know, really.” She paused, staring up at the crumbling ceiling of the porch. “I doubt he’s in love with me at all anymore. It’s probably someone else. I mean, of course I would blame him. I would have to blame him, but at the same time, I wouldn’t. At least not really… But there’s no harm if he leaves me, is there? He hasn’t been here for a long time, really.”

Nina took a long, heavy sip of her tea, letting the syrup and tart taste coat her throat and fall heavy past her lungs. She considered if this was some metaphor, then looked at Charlie. “It’s a funny way of looking at it. But it’s true.

It…well, it helps, so that’s good, at least.” She went to take another sip of her tea, as if it would somehow fill up the silence and let it explode, but the glass was empty aside from one ice cube.

Charlie was still silent, and Nina felt a sudden and desperate urge to stand up and run from this place, to return to civilization and leave this land of natural disasters and sick, ugly metaphor. After a moment, Charlie frowned deeply, looking at her with a peculiar sense of curiosity. “Did I leave you?”

“Well, we all just left each other. But that’s what you do when you grow up, you just all leave each other and keep on waiting, like if you keep on waiting and waiting, everything that you thought was going to happen will happen again.”

The statement hangs heavy in the air. “But you didn’t leave me, not more than anyone else.” Somehow, Nina knew that this was not the answer that he wanted.

“Well. I’m glad that I was of help for something or other, then.” Charlie stared out at the beyond, focused on the horizon for long enough, everything would be fixed.

Nina was very familiar with that trick. There was only one thing to do in all of it: to keep track of yourself in all the jigsaw puzzle mess of stormy weather and wildfire and tremors, and she had done her best. Still, she had ended up here, at the bitter and jagged edges of time, waiting for someone or something to come along, a new concept or odd adventure that would take her into the afterlife. She had not seen her husband for seven years now, and they were still horribly young.

“Are you ever afraid?” Charlie’s voice shook her from a trance, just as recognizable as in the first moment that they had met. She looked at him; he had never really listened at all if he had to ask.

“Of course I am.” Nina reached ever so gingerly for his hand, afraid that he would snatch it away and what that would mean. It was not a romantic gesture, only a very simple one, more ancient than these cliffs and more lovely than the sky above. Soon, this porch would fall away, and there would be nothing but wreckage and corpses rotting into skeletons and skeletons rotting into the soil and the soil sweeping away with a gentle gust of wind, to become nothing more than the air and the storm clouds.

“Of all of it?”

“My God, Charlie, of everything.”

54

Ka Nalu Ola

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Staff Senior Editors

Jessie Garbeil Rayce Kojiro Anna Palagano Piankhi Robertson-Chambers

Editorial Staff

Griffin Au James Mendez Isabella Miki Fiona Sievert

Faculty Advisor

Ken Baldino

We extend Special Thanks to: Dr. David Viehl, Language Arts Department Chair Paul Passamonte, High School Principal

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Awards National Council of Teachers of English Highest Award: 2009, 2008 Superior Ranking: 2012 (Recommended for highest award) 2010, 2007: Revival Issue Excellent: 2013

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist: 2013 Silver Medalist: 2012, 2010, 2009, 2008

American Scholastic Press Association First Place: 2013, 2012, 2010 2013 (Best Cover)

!