Interrobang Vol. 12, no. 1 (Kirby School)

Interrobang

‽

The Literary Magazine of Kirby School

Santa Cruz, California

Interrobang Staff

Carlo Delezene

Kit Erhart-Bruce

Karen Gourlay

Averie Huang

Grace Jones, Fiction Editor

Emerald Landry

Rebekkah Perkins

Dylan Reisz

Sam Ruttenberg

Penelope Strong, Poetry Editor

Maria Elena Caballero-Robb, Faculty Advisor

Interrobang publishes excellent poetry, short fiction, creative nonfiction, drama, and comics written by the students of the Kirby School. Interrobang appears twice yearly, in winter and spring. Share your original, proofread work with our staff at interrobang@kirby.org anytime between August and May. Contributors need not be on staff. We welcome submissions from Kirby middle school and high school students. Submission guidelines available upon request. Email mcaballero-robb@kirby.org with any questions about submitting your work or joining our staff.

The staff of Interrobang meets during club time. We always welcome new members with interests in creative writing, art, literature, and ideas.

Interrobang Literary Magazine

Kirby School

425 Encinal Street

Santa Cruz, CA 95060

Interrobang ii

February 2023

Dear Readers,

In our Winter 2023 issue, we are excited to share poems and stories written by Kirby students. A few emerged from a project to write vignettes in the style of Sandra Cisneros after students read several short stories from her collection Woman Hollering Creek. Vignettes by Sadie Brown and Nate Kawasaki were inspired by Cisneros’s story “My Tocaya [Namesake].” Writings by Sarah Miller, Willa Upshur, Dylan Reisz, and Rebekkah Perkins were also inspired by Cisneros’s style. Pieces by Karen Gourlay and Andrew Sylvester are mock jeremiads, using the diction and structure of early New England fire-and-brimstone sermons to address very non-Puritan topics you’ll see!

We are grateful for Kirby’s student writers for their interest in creative writing and their love of ideas, both of which are essential to the life of Interrobang. We urge all Kirby creative writers, from middle school to high school, to submit poems, personal essays, comics, and short stories to interrobang@kirby.org by email or by sharing a Google doc. Contributors remain anonymous until publication.

We continue to be grateful for the ongoing support of Kirby School’s administration and teachers, who make our school literary magazine possible.

Enjoy!

The Staff of Interrobang

Sarah Miller

Ballroom Dance on a Wave in the Ocean

The day is hot, sun beating down on your skin, too-warm air circulating around your temples heavy and thick. You plod down the vacant beach, pebbles making a satisfying crunch and kicking up behind your bare feet as you step. As you begin to reach the shoreline, you pull the top half of your thick wetsuit up from around your waist, stretching your arms inside the sleeves and securing the collar neatly around your neck. The suit may be hot, but the ocean is still far too cold to stay in any reasonable amount of time without it. As you zip up the back of the suit, the heavy, rubbery fabric sits close to your body, a familiar and comfortable weight. You pause.

Instead of stepping into the gentle ebb of the water, you let yourself breathe as you stand on the damp sand and stare into the water. The last remnants of a wave reach out to you, caressing the bottom of your feet as you pull your goggles over your eyes and break out into a run. The quickly deepening water drags away your momentum, and you are left to stand waist-deep in bitingly cold water as it worms its way through the seams in your wetsuit. All at once, you plunge your whole body into the ocean, the frigid waves a welcome cool on your heated face. With a smooth kick of your legs, you dive forward and tilt your head down. Your gaze sweeps across the sand, gently patterned from eons of waves pushing it back and forth. You take every chance you can get to be under the water what’s the point of being in the ocean if you don’t swim in it, you always say.

You don’t need to do anything when underwater to have a good time, you think. It’s satisfactory to just take in the feeling of weightlessness, of complete control of your motion in all three dimensions, and explore the different world that hides below the barrier between land and sea. Okay, that might be putting it a bit dramatically. But you’ve always been a fan of being over-the-top when it’s unneeded. You pride yourself on it, you admit with a slight smugness. It’s for the comedic effect. You spot a gleaming shell resting on the seafloor. After a quick breath of air, you dive towards it, your hand passing through the fine sand as you pick it up. Before resurfacing, you stare at it, hair smoothly floating about you as you admire how the

dancing light from the surface ripples along the intricate curves and patterns on the shell.

But who can say that the ocean isn’t otherworldly? Over eighty percent of it is unexplored, and even the fraction that we have discovered is incredible. Bottomless trenches with species evolved to exist in near complete darkness, coral reefs teeming with tropical fish and anemones, and kelp forests, fertile ecosystems that are habitats to whole hosts of species.

Aw man, now you want to go to the aquarium again. You find your footing on the sand once more and straighten yourself up, the water running off your hair and body in rivulets that stream back to their source. You stare out across the surface of the ocean, eyes drifting past the indications of land and clouds that rest at the horizon. As your gaze travels back towards the water, you take in the sight of waves, glistening with the light of the midday sun and half-forgotten memories of summers past.

Again, you pause.

You breathe in that life-giving, salt-tinged air, its scent brushing against the back of your throat as it floods through your nostrils. As you exhale, the sigh flooding out of you brings with it a sense of contentment that pushes itself to the front of your mind. Here might be the only place you’ve ever felt pacified (or atlanticized, depending on the ocean).

Sure, the aquarium might be great, but you think here and now is pretty alright too.

Karen Gourlay

The Ramifications of Stealing God’s Money

Blasphemy I say! The epidemic that one hath subjected themself to will endure as long as thy faith in God remains weak, like a mouse in a serpent’s grip. When going against the covenants of Christ concerning the purchasing of iPhones, thou must always remember the consequence that follows: everlasting hellfire. Thy annual pilgrimage to the Apple store further demonstrates thy voraciousness against God’s hand. He hath left us with an unlimited amount of wisdom on how to handle our finances, yet we dither about whether to listen to the holy words of the Gospel! He who sees all will not disregard thy irresponsible credit card statements. He who sees all will hold great judgement over thy head every time thou swipeth thy money away. As the Bible says, “No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. Thou cannot serve God and money” (Matthew 6:24). Thy money is God’s money! With every financial negotiation that bestows upon thee a new iPhone, more menacing black clouds are summoned to hang over thy head. While thy judgement may lead thyself to believe that the purchases made are not those of a heathen, thou hast failed to remember the methods God has created to help us thrive in this world. Hitherto, the constant innovation of technology has not always been a curse. iPhones are certainly an advancement that many are grateful for. Howbeit, there are those who take away the foundation of Christ’s ideals, and are of the suspicion that there is a magical presence inside of an iPhone. Yet, after just 365 days of usage, they believe it to be a valueless box. Compared to the new model’s glistening large screen, there is no longer any enchantment within the now antique device. What they have not realised is that the magic remains for an extended period of time, due to the lord’s plea for longevity. Why would thou plan to waste so much when "God will generously provide all thee need. Then thou will always have everything thou need and plenty left over to share with others" (2 Corinthians 9:8). God has not deemed it necessary for thou to squander on such valuable objects. Doth thou believe thy opinion to be higher than that of the lord? Curse thy vanity! If he has given to us items that he expects us to cherish, and we completely disregard his wishes, God’s wrath will seep into the Earth, and thou shall feel every deserved burst of destruction he brings upon thee.

Do not fall with those around thee who hath already brought torment upon themselves, for they have not received a nurturing from God. One of the ten

commandments states that “thou shall not covet thy neighbour’s goods” (Exodus 20:17). As tempting as it may be to follow people’s ideas of what to desire, t’is worse to knowingly succumb to the opinions of heathens than t’is to already be one. Think of the previous state in which those under God had lived. Before the times of intricate electronic contraptions, it was harder to obtain valuable possessions. Due to this dilemma, many who were faithful listened to the advice of the lord, and learned to cherish what they already had without the desire for more. Thou might think that thy wishes for an obscene amount of iPhones will provide a feeling of glory, “But the cares of the world and the deceitfulness of riches and the desires for other things enter in and choke the word, and it proves unfruitful” (Mark 4:19). When ill-formed, God cannot promise to withhold his vengeance, which would immediately result in a flood of fury that would burst upon thee in an instant. He shall make sure every visit to the Apple store will have lines as long as a serpent’s body. He shall cause those who toil at the Genius Bar1 to not be able to solve any hardship that hath come to thy iPhone. He shall condemn thou to the same fate thou hath inflicted upon thy phones deemed worthless. He shall wrap thou in the same cords that hath charged thy addiction!

The longer this sinful pattern inhabits thy head, the farther from God thou will stand. Nevertheless, today should be considered fortunate for those yet to experience true guidance. Christ is able to be merciful even towards the most unrighteous person, so be grateful for his generosity. Make haste and repent thy sins! Recognize thy wrongful actions, that way thou will be sincere whilst trying to convince the lord to forgive the past. Prove thyself to God by doing the following: do not purchase the next iPhone. Cherish thy current magical box until the enchantment hath worn out entirely. Take great caution in not dropping thy device. Do not let jealousy control thy mind when thou notice additional camera lenses, for such details are of no importance. As the Bible declares, “Do not lay up for thyselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for thyselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where thy treasure is, there thy heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:19-21).

Amending thy broken covenant shall be of utmost importance from now on. Every second without God’s forgiveness leaves thee in a wretched state. Howbeit, once thou hath accepted his nurturing, thou will be able to find a new state of contentment and bliss. The curse that Steven Paul Jobs hath cast on thee shall be lifted! Anon, thou shall look back on thy past self and wonder wherefore were thou so groundless! The

1 The Genius Bar is a tech support service at in-person Apple stores.

satisfaction of having a larger screen on thy iPhone will be replaced with the feeling of protection under God, which is significantly stronger than facial recognition could ever aspire to be. Until that day, God shall cheer thee on in this endeavour, for his heart will grant wisdom upon thy own.

Josephine Baumgaertel

Josephine Baumgaertel with chestnut brown eyes. Josephine B. who I hated when I first met them. Josephine with a fucked up family and ten million siblings. Josephine who lives in a slate blue house that smells like strong incense and burnt wood. Josephine with a pretty smile that I miss every day. Josephine who grabs my hands and pulls me outside into the rain as it pitter patters down onto the hard concrete. Josephine with that mischievous look on their face right before they try to dunk me under the waves. Josephine who dances around the kitchen with me in the refrigerator light. Josephine with a singsong voice that whispers my name every morning and shouts for me when they come home. Josephine who wears a white clover ring from last summer. Josephine with a baby sea urchin that they pull off of slippery seaweed covered rocks and use to propose to me. Josephine who throws me off of the dock into the muddy marsh water. Josephine with hugs I love so much that when they hug me I don't want to ever let go because the last time I let go I had to leave. The first time we let go I don't cry. I won't let myself. As my car speeds down the highway with green trees on either side I tell myself I'll see them tomorrow. Josephine though, with those big beautiful brown eyes, lets the tears flow down like a river.

I love you and dried flowers are all we have. On both sides of the country they crumble and fall out of book pages and letters. We cherish our letters like they might be able to fix the pieces of our mosaic broken hearts. Paintings and drawings sent back and forth. A hand brushes across a pile of paper and letters picking one up and reading it just to remember those good times. Our pencils, 3,200 miles apart, scratch across pieces of paper spelling out words of longing and sorrow. We both know this feeling all too well.

When I finally come home there are no tears. We keep them to ourselves so we don't drown. We hold onto each other and go on walks and watch tv and read and paint and we tell ourselves that this is the golden age of something good and right and real. We are together again and my world is together again. Everything is perfect. But I eventually have to let go.

This time I cry. I cry as my car speeds down the highway. I cry as the bare broken branches of the once green trees rattle in the wind. I cry as I get on the plane and we enter the soft white clouds. I cry as I look out the window and close my eyes. Josephine who loves lakes and letters and literature. Josephine with a beautiful garden full of flowers. Josephine who dances with me like we’re made of starlight. Josephine with a name that reminds me of the taste of floral chamomile and sweet honey and the salty ocean. Josephine who can talk about their favorite books and movies for hours and hours. Josephine with a window full of flowers that catch the light in the morning and cast shadows onto the carpeted floor at night. Josephine who picks flowers and puts them in my hair and behind my ears. Josephine with red Converse that they covered in drawings with a black Sharpie. Josephine who calls me over the phone and says in the saddest way that they miss me and I need to come home.

Josephine with a paintbrush that glides across my face leaving a red mark but gets upset when I try to paint theirs. Josephine B. who smells like tea and flowers and old books. Josephine Baumgaertel with that old soft brown sofa that we fall onto as they wrap their arms around me and kiss the top of my head. Josephine, Josephine, Josephine, my dearest darling who makes me feel at home.

Postscript

JOSEPHINE, JOSEPHINE, JOSEPHINE WHO RIPPED MY LUNGS OUT OF MY CHEST AND LEFT ME LYING BREATHLESS ON THE FLOOR.

When I got the letter I read it, I cried and then I burnt it. There isn't much more than that. The smoldering pile of grey ashes felt good to look at but it didnt get rid of the deep rooted sadness in my soul.

Josephine Baumgaertel who wrenched my heart out of my body and threw it on the ground. Josephine B. with their lies that seep into my brain like gasoline and when the moment is right they set it on fire. Josephine who I love and hate so much it hurts.

Josephine with their conversations with little white lies. Josephine whose words are like knives that twist around in my brain until I can't take it anymore and I have to find a way to stop the voices. Josephine with their cavalier attitude and cruel ways. Josephine who says they had to kill me but I know it killed them just the same. Josephine with their sharp tongue that cuts through my words and leaves no room for my voice.

Josephine who once drew stars around my scars but now has left me to bleed. Josephine with a mind that doesn't care about anyone unless they are trying to hurt them.

Josephine who .

When I look back at it all I see this for what it is. I loved so many things about Josephine. I hated so many things about Josephine. Josephine who was fully prepared

to ghost me and leave me wondering why. Josephine who didn't even give me a chance to say a proper goodbye.

Rowan Caspers

Desolation of Peace

Where once a forest, now stands nothing.

Where once life overflowed, now all is dry.

Where once light shined through trees and beams of golden light, Now the night is upon us.

Where once nature crafted beauty in peace, Now a barren wasteland spreads to horizons. Light turned to darkness, shadows and suspicion abounded. Then people, running, hiding, sounds, fear, destruction. They left only the shallow craters on this mirrored image of the moon.

Nate Kawasaki

Vignette: Nate Chrome

Who is this guy, Nate Chrome? Tagging places no person would ever want to go. Climbing and getting his name higher than humanly possible on buildings all around the city. Have you seen the piece on 41st street? Did he do it in the day? The night? How did he get up that high? On the bridge on 41st, the only place to put your feet is on a four-inch ledge, with a fifty-foot drop straight into traffic. It would only take one slip to fall to one’s death, and yet this wacko created a masterful art piece in this very spot. “Creative”, it says, in brilliant orange letters, red highlights the color of a setting sun, a black outline darker than deep space–all surrounded by shining chrome stars of every size. Each letter is seven-feet tall, stretching along the side of the gray steel bridge. And if you think that’s enough, check out the twelve-story building on 27th Avenue! That Ninja Turtle with the chrome mask is sweet! Light green running along the turtle’s arms clearly shows its veins popping, and the reflected light on the chrome mask is visible from the ground, a couple hundred feet below. The whole piece is visible from several blocks away. You can see him climbing the building in the POV shots on his Instagram, so you know that he wasn’t leaning out a window, right?

How is it that this guy shares my name? I need to meet him, and there is nothing like Instagram to help you track a person down. What are the odds that my cousin Alice, who lives in New York City, posts a picture from her local news about a building he just hit! He is in NYC. I catch the next flight out from San Francisco. The flight is miserable and, between the crying babies and the turbulence, I can’t sleep a wink. I hold on tight to the paper bag in my lap and try to ignore a scent wafting through the air that smells like two-week old beans left in a chicken coop. But it is worth it - I have to meet this guy. It is late when we land and as soon as the door opens, I am hit by an icy breeze. I call a taxi to bring me to Alice's apartment. Going through the city is amazing. The tall buildings tower over me as I press my face against the window trying to look up, like a kid window-shopping for Christmas. The driver is trying to make small talk with me but I am too astonished by the view. On the way to the apartment, I see a supermarket that has a wall on the roof–that’s it! I have seen this spot before. This is where I will head first.

As I get out of the taxi, my senses are assaulted by the honking of horns and the dank smell of the city. I grab my stuff and walk into the building. My cousin is waiting

for me in Apartment #8A. We hug and laugh and after getting my stuff settled, I look out the giant window. I feel like a god - floating on a cloud above the city. I am so high that no one can touch me. Time to go find this guy.

I make sure to tell my cousin that I will be back late. I head out to find that supermarket wall. It is 11:30 pm–perfect. The supermarket is between two brick buildings that are taller than it, making a wall on both sides on the roof. After analyzing how to get up, I jump to use the fire escape as a ladder. It is so loud as it flows down that it sounds like a roller coaster flying down the tracks. The noise reverberates off of the brick walls. My adrenaline starts pumping, but I’m used to this feeling. I set my paint down, scanning the wall to choose a place to start, and grab a light blue. As I shake it, I smile. I love the sound of that marble getting tossed around in the aluminum can. I took one last look around to check for observers and start painting. The paint leaving the can sounds like a gust of wind hitting the wall, but the noise is quickly absorbed by the din of the city. I am painting the word DREAM, when I hear something that sounds like someone slipping on wet bricks. I stop. I grab my bag of paint and scan the area. What the $@#&? I make eye contact with a shadow. He starts to walk into the light, but I am frozen. He looks up at my work and says, “You beat me to it, tonight. Creative, but your can control is all wrong.” It’s him! My bag leaves my hand, the marbles clattering as it hits the ground. My heart is racing but I try to chill. Chrome walks forward and shakes my hand. “What do you write, son?” I’m not used to the New York slang, so I have no idea what he means. He tries again. “What do you go by? You know, your graffiti name?” I recover. “I’m sorry, OG, I’m from Cali. I write DREAM. It would be an honor to…” He interrupts. “So when are we gonna fix that can control?”

We paint together until 5 AM. I can’t believe it. He teaches me his tricks and the locations of his favorite spots. He wants me to hit a bridge with him before I go, so I sleep on his floor that night. We wake up at 2 AM and drive to the bridge. It is cold–the kind of damp cold that hurts your fingers. We have to bring an extension ladder to get on the platform under the bridge. The metal is icy and burns. I have to walk with my back against the bridge for twenty feet until I am in position. I try not to look down. My legs are shaking and they feel like twigs about to break from both the cold and my fear. I finally look around and see Chrome, who is already painting. I am freaking out and he is totally unfazed. I can’t move and he is flowing like water under the bridge. Crazy. I take one deep breath and process that I am painting next to my idol. I realize that I have to go big or go home, so I paint my heart out.

Premature Beauty Queen

This is my daughter Sadie Brown and she is three years old. Sadie, tell everyone watching this, why do you like to do pageants? What? Why do you like to do pageants? No tell ‘em why! Why do I like to do pageants! No, tell ‘em why YOU like to do pageants! Why do I like to do pageants… Just cuz of all the trophies n crowns n banners n flowers. Haha yes that’s right, isn’t she just the dearest little thing you’ve ever seen? Pretty, in a pink frilled dress, warm, soft skin, and with golden ringlets so smooth and shiny they almost look synthetic. “If I had to describe Sadie, I would call her spunky, a real American girl. She speaks her mind” She wears rhinestone-covered boots, rhinestone-encrusted hats, anything that sparkles to remind everyone “How bright she shines”. Girly pink bottles filled with cloying sweet Victoria’s Secret perfumes that make a cloud of artificial floral toxicity in every space she enters. Coco body butter gives her skin that silky smooth shine. Tanning lotion, for the natural, healthy look children get when they play outside, rather than in concrete concert halls will fluorescent lights. Praised for her talent, when indeed it is nothing more than an iron-fisted mother with hairspray and “plumping” lip gloss in hand, whispering words from behind a smile. She is an excuse for dirty old men to look at. She is hairless, careless, and a child.

Yet, how can someone so young be anything but a helpless doll at the mercy of everything? Not unlike a helpless chick, fitted with feathers upon feathers in imitation of the majestic peacock. How can you possibly begin to understand what Mom has done to you? How can you, a child, fathom the extent to which she has stolen from you? From the moment you could form sentences Mom was chattering incessantly about what a great contestant you would be. Dad didn’t want to at first, saying you should be old enough to choose if it’s really what you want. Promptly, Mom would reply that “Any little girl would die to be as pretty and smart as our Sadie! But if we don’t start her early she won’t have a chance.” “Starting early,” as she called it, costs you a normal kindergarten, followed by an irregular and abnormal school experience until seventh grade. She did ask you if you wanted to go and you did say yes. But, when a mother asks her baby if she would rather travel with a bunch of little girls and their mommies and eat lots of candy and wear princess dresses like in the movies with sparkles and makeup, why would she choose something else? She has taken your ripe

innocence and delivered it straight to the lion’s mouth. Just wait, you will see how their eyes are glued to you, how their mouths water. They will praise you on your beauty, talent, anything, to keep you in their grubby wrinkled hands. They will relish in your infancy, and you will be completely oblivious to it. She has trained you well, hasn’t she? She has made you think you like this? I pray to the lord above that you do not. But maybe I am wrong. After all, I was never pretty enough to be a premature beauty queen.

When I used to see you, I would make a point to talk about things not relating to how cute you were, as most people did. It used to make me so angry, the way they would fawn all over you saying how you were “Just perfect!” You can’t be perfect, you can’t always be told you are perfect. If you're always told you are perfect then someday you will look around and see that all you have is that perfectness and nothing more. So I tried to make a point of how funny you were, or even joke about you being a gremlin or some other grubby little monster. Make us run outside the house with shoes and socks and every care left at the red doormat. Stick your little pink toes into the dirt and squirm when a bug wriggles onto you. “Look how little he is! I bet he's a little baby, with a mama and a papa and a whole buncha sisters and brothers. And they eat daisies and drink those little drops of water.” Get you listening to birds and looking, thinking, seeing. Let you see that there is a whole big beautiful world god made just for us, you me and everyone. Get you away from all the goddamn mirrors that woman litters your house with.

It has been years now since your glory days, since you retired at the ripe old age of eleven. Now, only once and a while, a headliner with your name appears in big yellow headlines. “What the little beauty Sadie Brown is doing now” in a trashy magazine. You don’t look like how I imagined you would. Your posture is slumped, shoulders bent forward. Do you feel you are too tall? Your mouth is turned up, but your eyes remain fully round, the smile does not reach them. Your slump and smile make me think you are not happy. I hope you are. I hope that when your dance instructor got a bit too touchy and you were pulled out it wasn’t too late. I hope you like school, I hope you like cheerleading and your boyfriend, and flowers like that magazine said. I hope you can see that there is more to life than being a premature beauty queen.

Andrew Sylvester

Sinners in the Pants of an Angry God

What did Adam and Eve first do after committing original sin? Did they become violent and murder one another? No. Did they start worshiping a false god? NO! The first thing they did was put on clothes! “Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves” (Gen 3:7). If clothing was caused by sin and, of course, sin is caused by Satan, then surely sewing is the devil's handiwork! Even the most pious Christians scorn at the idea of nudity, but why do they fear God's own creation? If they truly want to live as God intended, then they should be like Adam and Eve. “The man and his wife were both naked, yet they felt no shame” (Gen 2:25). We should be naked and feel no shame! Unfortunately, many today do feel shame and fear. We have no reason to fear God’s holy creation yet we live in fear of it. This is because the devil has gotten ahold of our hearts! For millennia he has stuffed our hearts with his own fear of God’s magnificent works! In turn, we have buried ourselves, and God, under mountains of clothing. Just as in Matthew 5:15, we are burying our light under a bushel basket. Our desperate desire to dress is reminiscent of another grave sin, worshiping a false idol! Humans are made in the image of God, and humans are made naked. Therefore, God is a naked god. Instead of worshiping our nakedness, we worship the nauseating temporality of fashion! This God is not named Jehovah or Yahweh, it is named Gucci and Louis Vuitton. It is no coincidence that two of the top fashion brands are named Nike and Hermes, the names of Greek gods!! As proven earlier, God is naked. Because of this, we must worship our God nudely, the only godlike way. God hates clothed people and he will destroy them because of their sins. I was informed of this through a revelation from God. I had just brought my clothes home from the laundromat and I tried on my extremely clean (due to the extra soap) and freshly washed clothes. I was going about my day when, all of the sudden, an overwhelming itch came over me. It was as if thousands of pitchforks were pressing into me. This was God’s wrath punishing me for my stark clothedness. Ι tried to quell my torture by scratching myself but it would not let up. As I dug my hands into my wool

sweater, trying to find relief, I began to tear my garments to shreds. The burning only ceased when I inadvertently tore my entire outfit off and I laid naked beside the remains of my clothes. Then, God revealed himself to me. He was wearing nothing except for a conveniently placed cloud, for at that time, I was not ready to witness God’s full glory. He proceeded to tell me the error of my ways and instructed me to burn all of my clothes and preach my ministry of nudity.

If we want to save ourselves and reunite ourselves with God, we must take drastic measures. First, we must forgo all clothing. From head to toe, no shirts, no socks, no shoes. Even the smallest scrap of clothing is a disgrace to God and is unacceptable if one wishes to enter into heaven. When God judges you at the pearly gates and he replays your life, how can he see your soul if it is smothered by linen? He will not acknowledge your humanity and you will be thrown down into hell to burn. There is a special place in hell for people who wear clothes. Satan treats them with a unique punishment. They are put into a massive human-sized washing machine and they are spun and drowned in freezing water for hours at a time. Once the cycle is finished, they are put into a human-sized clothes dryer and they are spun and burnt for a few more hours. Some people are instead pinned to a clothesline hanging over a gaping pit where they hang for days. After they are dried, their bodies are folded and contorted so that they fit into a drawer. Dozens at a time are crammed into a drawer that should only fit two. After sitting in the drawer for a sufficient time, this torturous process is repeated. If you do not want to end up like this, you must repent and throw off your clothes at once!

But at this point, it is too late to merely correct your lifestyle. If you were naked for all your life, this would be enough to satisfy God but since you were living in sin for so many years, you must do even more to redeem yourself in the eyes of God. You must continue to spread his holy message that nudity is necessary. You must shout it, and show it, from the mountain top. The most effective place to share this message is in the churches. If you are a priest, you should lead your congregation by example and begin the mass nude. You should encourage the congregation to be comfortable with their true body, not their disfigured cloth one. Because society right now is not comfortable with nudity, the church can be a safe haven for the nude until general society adopts our message. The laity should also adopt nudity throughout their lives. Inside the church is only the beginning, in order to truly spread the message and redeem humanity we must go outside nude and preach God’s plan. It will be easy to attract an audience as humans

today are so captivated and shocked by nudity that they will flock to you asking why you are so barren. You can now explain to them what I have explained to you and convince them to repent and adopt a more holy outfit. Some may object to this way of life, claiming that clothes are necessary to protect oneself from nature. They have little faith, for if they trust in God and forgo their clothing God will keep them warm with his light. Just as Jesus walked on water, they will be warm with no clothes.

If you do as I have told you here, you will surely be accepted into heaven. If you do not follow this, you will surely burn forever in hell. It is as simple as this. Amen.

Dylan Reisz

Elementary Problems

Jacob, with the faded green Mohawk, drags his feet when he walks, and mumbles when he talks. At 8:45 each morning he drags his luggage-like-backpack into the classroom. At 8:45 each morning the teacher scolds him for his lateness, and at 8:45 I give him a faint smile. Right now it’s 8:30.

“Who, in this classroom, can tell me something about eighteen divided by two and added with…” is what I think the teacher says to start class.

Natalia raises her hand because her private tutor already taught her this problem and it's really quite easy. Gracefully, she carries numbers and divides them into pieces and talks about how fun it really is, but the teacher doesn’t care.

Looking for another victim, she surveys her den. “You!” she says accusingly.

I tell her “I don’t know.” Except that’s not the right answer and she assumes that I’m lying because we’ve been doing this all year.

8:42. I try explaining that I don’t know how to do this because smarty-pants Natalia is the only one who does, on account of her private tutor. And I really try not to sound snarky, but I can’t help it because what I said is true.

8:44. The teacher is an angry jack in the box, and winds up aggressively. Her face is so red that she looks like she’s going to breathe fire like a dragon and burn down the whole school.

It’s finally 8:45. The classroom door opens right on time for a short, ten-yearold kid in ratty sweatpants to stumble in. His signature blank expression is, of course, plastered on his flushed face.

Pop goes the Weasel! The teacher directs her fire at Jacob. It’s the 89th time he's been late, and you know how she knows? It’s because it’s the 89th day of school in the whole year; he’s been late every day.

When the bell dings at 9:15, recess starts, but Jacob has to skip it because he doesn’t do his homework and the teacher has to stay there and work extra. The teacher says that Jacob should be grateful for getting all this help and that she can't understand why he always frowns so much because she's always so nice to all her students. That makes my eyes do what my mother calls a trip to the back of my head.

Back in class at 9:30, I’m not the only one struggling with math. Natalia tells me that Jacob should get a tutor, so I tell her to tell him, and she does. Vigorously

marching across the room, Natalia lands at Jacobs desk with her recommendation. But instead of the enthusiastic response she expects, Jacob doesn’t even smile. Instead, he just swats her away with a frown which makes me laugh a little.

12:15. I trot to my assigned seat, proudly marking my spot on the deteriorating blue table. My lunch is a sandwich and an apple. Natalia has pasta, homemade by her dad who is retired, and a healthy box of salad. She also has special goat milk crackers from the farmers market that look more expensive than my whole house, but taste as bland as cement. Jacob has forgotten his lunch again so the teacher tells him to go to the cafeteria and not be so lazy next time. I don’t think Jacob has a Cafeteria card because he comes back empty handed every day. He never whines, and doesn't complain about how hungry he is. In fact, I don’t think I’ve exchanged even one word with Jacob this whole year.

2:45. That means it’s time to go home. Just like recess, Jacob stays behind once more, but this time it’s not because of homework. When Jacob leaves the classroom with tears in his eyes, he tells me that his mom got arrested for being “under the influence.” He has to relocate to another school, he doesn’t know what will happen to his brother either. He also can’t live with his dad, so he has to stay with his grumpy, onion-smelling aunt who lives in Nevada, at least probably. Jacob’s first words to me the whole year make me feel... bad. I don’t even know what the influence is, and I never got the chance to say anything back.

When I tell my parents at dinner, they say that Jacob probably won’t move to his onion-smelling aunt's house because that would be crazy. Of course they could assume his family's financial situation but that would not only be rude, but probably lead to “an inaccurate conclusion.” My parents tell me it’s probably playground gossip, elementary problems. But I don’t think they get it because before Jacob left he told me this was “big stuff, you know.”

It’s 8:30 the next morning. The teacher starts class with math, I don’t know the answer but Natalia does. After 15 minutes of worksheets, we all glare at the door. It’s 8:40 and my mind is racing. How could I never notice him before? He never laughed at anything, not even when the teacher accidentally said poo, which would surely make anyone laugh cause even boring Natalia did too. Still, I think, how could he not show up? That would be crazy. But at 8:45 the door stays closed, and at 8:45 even the teacher looks sad.

Missing, Time, Distance

Many things can change in two years. Are you missing me right now? Missing that crosses the Pacific Ocean, Missing that crosses space and time. Two years, I watched you grow up from a baby to a child. You learned a lot of things: speaking, walking, and jumping. Every time I see you change through the screen, how complex my mind is, happy but bearing an unspeakable loss.

I had a dream, the dream where I saw you standing in the playground where mother used to bring us there. I run to you, say hi to you, but you seem like you don't know me. The fear on your face:

like thousands of icy thorns to my heart. People always say, children won’t remember anything before three years old. I never believed that, I don’t want to believe that. You won't forget about me, will you?

Time is a file that wears and makes no noise. Blink of an eye‒I missed two years of your childhood.

Whenever I come to the Santa Cruz seaside, I always look across the ocean to the distant place where my home is.

The sea breeze whistles in my ears:

Is that you calling me?

I believe“思念”will break the distance between us.

In Chinese that means we are thinking of each other, the emotion that crosses miles and years, you are on my mind.

Tonight, I stare at the round and bright moon. I believe the moon will bring you my love. We wish each other a long life so as to share the beauty of this graceful moonlight, even though miles apart.

One Small Wish from Jane Hoffman

Dear Adonai,

Can you please move Mia Kepler out of my class. I hate her, and she hates me. She is the most aggravating and annoying girl I have ever met. She’s been in my class for the past five years, and has always been mean to me. I was hoping this year she’d be in another section, but nope. She’s in 11b with me. Even worse, she's in all my classes. I don’t want to talk to her. Ever. I promise I’m not trying to be unreasonable, but I’ve tried to get along with her and it doesn’t work. One time, I told her that I liked her dress, and the color matched her bright blue eyes. She thanked me, and said she could give me advice on how to dress like her instead of wearing “tacky” outfits like I normally do. I wouldn’t really call a white graphic tee, black jeans, and Converse “tacky”, but whatever. I tried to be civil, even friendly with her, and she just insulted me back. Her outfit wasn’t even that good, and it didn’t even match her pale eyes. I’m not looking forward to this school year if she's going to be there. If you can’t move her out of my classes, can you at least get her to stay the hell away from me? Thanks.

Jane Hoffman San Francisco, CA

Dear Adonai,

It's been a few weeks since I last wrote to you, and Mia stayed in my class. School has started, and it's going poorly. I was sitting in math, when I felt a hard glob hit the back of my head. I reached my hand back to touch the sticky mass, and felt a warm, slimy substance stick to my hair. Gum, real mature. I turned around to find who threw it at me, and I saw Mia, laughing like she was at a stand-up comedy show. I was so pissed at her, that I confronted her after class. I asked her what her deal was, and she said she thought it was funny. I told her how ridiculously immature she was, and to stay away from me. She scoffed, flipped me off, and walked away. This is what I was going on about. She just doesn’t care about anyone else. It makes sense that no one’s

friends with her at school. Not even her brother talks to her. He’s a year older than us, so we see him a lot. I often pass by her at lunch, and almost feel bad for her, sitting alone at that scrappy old picnic table. But I don’t feel bad, she’s a jerk. If she was nice to people, she wouldn’t be so lonely. Please Adonai, don’t let the rest of the year be like this.

Jane Hoffman

San Francisco, CA

Dear Adonai,

Something sort of odd happened between me and Mia. We were having a stretch break in class, and she was up to her usual antics; I was having none of it. I was already pissed off due to the fact that I slept in by accident and had no time to get ready for school. Amidst the rush of throwing on my white shirt, cyan flannel, and black jeans, brushing my teeth, and making freezer waffles that tasted of ice and plastic, I forgot my math and history textbooks. All of this combined made me already very irritable. So when Mia stole my pencil case and used her height to tower over me and play keepaway with herself, I burst into tears. She looked startled that I had started crying, and shoved the pencil case back into my hand. I had never cried because of her before. Sure, she always annoyed me, but she had never managed to frustrate me to the point of tears. I think she felt bad for me, because she didn’t bother me the rest of the day. The next morning, I was putting my textbooks in my locker so as to not forget them, and she bumped into me, causing my books to fall on the ground with a thud. I yelled at her to watch it, and bent down to pick them up. Instead of retaliating, she muttered sorry, and started to help me gather my books. We locked eyes for a second, and her clear blue eyes sent a chill down my spine. She shoved the textbooks into my arms and rushed down the hallway. Why would she do that? Did she still feel bad for upsetting me yesterday? I’m not sure, so can you please tell me?

Jane Hoffman

San Francisco, CA

Dear Adonai,

Something weird is happening to me. It’s been a few days since Mia helped me in the hallway with my books, and she has continued to not bother me. In fact, she's being nice to me. Sort of. She mostly didn’t pay any mind to me, except for math class yesterday. We were working on quadratics, when my pencil rolled off the desk, making a clattering sound when it hit the cold linoleum floor. I went to pick it up, but so did Mia. I accidentally touched her, feeling the warmth of her hand against mine. She quickly drew her hand back and muttered sorry at me. It was weird that she was still being nice to me. I decided to find out why Mia was being so friendly. At break, I scoped out the busy lunchroom, and spotted Mia, sitting alone at her usual table, tucked into the corner of the room. I headed over to Mia’s table and set my tray down. She looked up from her hot lunch, and had a confused look on her face. I sat down and asked her why she was being so nice to me. She said she didn’t know, and after a few minutes of me staring at her, she finally said that she felt bad for making me cry. She admitted that even though our interactions were always insults, arguments, or confrontations, she appreciated them. Nobody ever really talked to her besides me. We sat in silence for a bit, then she said softly that it was nice to have someone else at the table. At that moment, we locked eyes again. I never noticed how soft her gaze was. It was calm, almost inviting. I looked down at her hand laying on the table, and wanted to reach for it. I wanted to hold it, feel her hand in mine. What was wrong with me? She was just recently a total asshole; I can’t be friends with her, let alone like her. I think she could hear what I was thinking, since she immediately retracted her hand under the table. I blushed, feeling my face grow as red as a tomato, and was thankful that my mask was on to hide it. We spent the rest of lunch in silence, occasionally exchanging quick glances. That night you sent me a dream of her. She led me to the forest behind her house into a small tucked away clearing. The forest smelled damp. We built a small fort of sticks supported by the surrounding redwood trees, and put down a rainbow knitted blanket. We laid down hand in hand, and gazed up at the canopy, the sunlight filtering through the leaves. My stomach was in a knot, but in the most magnificent way possible. Why would you send me this dream? I don’t want to like her. I can’t like her. Adonai, do I like her?

Jane Hoffman San Francisco, CA

Interrobang

Volume 12, Number 1

Sadie Brown

Rowan Caspers

Karen Gourlay

Nate Kawasaki

Rain Li

Sarah Miller

Rebekkah Perkins

Dylan Reisz

Andrew Sylvester

Willa Upshur

Winter 2023