Editors' Note This year's issue of Imago is meant to transport, to take you places. How Seussian, you exclaim, rolling your eyes over the warm drink you have brought to your desk. How cute, you say to gathered family and friends, whom you have summoned at the email announcement from Ms. Chu. You didn't open the Issuu link to hear about your elementary school's summerreading program — we get it. But as you flip through these pages, consider the way that each splash of color or carefully penned word makes you feel. If, and only if, you're curious: this year's issue may be viewed as a kind of hero's journey (credit goes to Connor, who is among next year's editorinchiefs!). Among these pages are portraits of self and surroundings; the works of artists who dazzled us with a sense of place solely their own. Successive images to take you from your home, towards flight, towards discovery, through the night air. There's a love story, and a fantastical account of birthing hope under political repression. One poem asks, what does it mean to return to what you called home, and to find it irreversibly changed? The rhythmn that you'll find, through the wealth of experience and perspective presented here, is both breathtaking and grounding. It's this dual quality of experiencing artwork and writing that makes the path of the hero, the reader, worth returning to. We at Imago thank you for making space in this moment for the creativity of your friends and classmates. Many thanks, too, to our faculty sponsor, Ms. Chu, and the other excellent teachers who helped nurture the talent in this issue. Finally, our gratitude to our contributors, without whom there would be no Imago.
~ The Editors
2
by Sydney Lai '22
T h e M a g i c of M u s i c “Pitter patter. Pitter patter,” go the clunky pointe shoes of numerous nervous dancers. I quietly creep into the right wing of the stage, cautious not to be seen. Surreptitiously, I peel the edges of the crimson, velvety curtain apart, so that only a small fraction of my face is visible to the audience. I listen to the faint calls of the stage director, signaling the opening of the show. As the festive music of the Party Scene envelopes the audience, I am brought back to my first Nutcracker Ballet. Nearly eight years ago, I sat opposite of the stage, only a mere spectator in the audience. It was the time of year when one would cozy themselves next to the burning hearth of a ravenous fire, enjoying a good book or Christmas Carol. I was fortunate to be amid an overflowing theatre, awaiting the appearance of Clara on stage. I remember when the first notes of the Party Scene graced my ears, merriment making its way to my heart. Dancers in wide arrays of colors waltzed onto the stage like flamboyant jellyfish, making me bob along with them. 6-year-old me was enraptured from the very start. The luxurious music and grandiloquent dance allowed me to witness stories through movements and gestures. I listened attentively as the music modulated to a minor key, falling into a new rhythm. The rapid accelerando following brought evermore intensity. I trembled as the rats crept onto the stage, bulky figures, and all. The battle waged between the soldiers and mice was adequately mirrored in the sinister soundtrack. My small hands clenched the edges of my seat, white knuckles protruding from my powerful grip. My heart skipped a beat when Clara joined the war in an effort to save her beloved Nutcracker. When the rats fell to the ground with a “thump”, I could finally release my throbbing hands.
The Waltz of the Snowflakes could not come soon enough. In contrast to the heavy, dark tones of the Battle Scene, the Snowflake waltz brought a light, dizzying quality to the stage. A smile spread across my face as colorfully ornamented music bounced off the auditorium walls. As Clara embarked on her journey through the Land of Snow, I embarked on a journey of my own, a journey of discovery. I stared stupefied in awe as dancer after dancer brought new flavor to the stage. The intricate melody of the Sugar Plum Fairy provided the ultimate show closing, leaving me with a new sense of contentment. Now, I find myself singing along to the familiar tunes of the Nutcracker. Not only revisiting Clara’s adventures, but contributing to the magical story as a Party Girl. From only a meager spectator, I have become a dancer, performer, and storyteller. The ability to bring stories to life without the pleasure of words is an attribute I have learned to appreciate. As I make my entrance, I allow myself to immerse myself in the comfort of the joyful, symbolic music.
Before we were suppressed, we dreamed of soaring. Being one of Tutankhamun’s 317 grandchildren has proven to be more of a curse, rather than a privilege. At the age of seven, both of my parents were assassinated, leaving me orphaned like many other children of royal lineage. The new-found government feared another powerful successor in the dynasty, stripping us of all birthrights. Like animals, we worked tirelessly day and night in the desolate deserts, void of any hope. We starved, we fell ill, and we perished. From living in magnificent stone mansions and playing in luscious royal courtyards, we were transferred to miserable reed hovels, with nothing but malaria for a companion. In a crude two years, nearly half my cousins died from malnutrition, heat stroke, or the physical abuse of our pharaoh. I sustained myself with nothing but the beautiful memories of my carefree past, filled with laughter and joy. At times, the burden of my sorrows was almost too much to bear, but my best friend, Lesedi, was always there to comfort me with a dirt-caked smile.
Once the guards vacated their weekly posts, Lesedi and I would exchange mischievous looks, as our skeletal wrists and ankles slipped through our shackles. Quieter than a fly, she would sneak into my reed slum to tell me one of her far-fetched stories. Today, she told me the story of a boy who lost his voice, but in turn, grew falcon’s wings. The boy spent his days ascending over the vast Atlantic, moving rhythmically with the Western winds. He watched humanity grow and wither, bloom and reincarnate. Lesedi’s story gave me hope that maybe someday, I would escape the torturous constraints of the wasteland I called home. We are all punished for dreaming of a brighter future. We dream of freedom, of prosperity, of happiness. We dream of flying, yet we have no wings.
Hot wind blows the stars across the desert. Miles of winding footprints are erased as a boy shakes a palm, filling his bag with coconuts. His ring glints in the fading light, and the witch sees. What an interesting jewel, murmurs the witch. Above, the sky seems to sparkle with a billion stars. They shiver as a cloud passes, and the boy puts the ring in his pocket. Wind in the desert means dust. He twists his bag in his palm. The boy hopes that the shelter of his palm will keep sand away from the coconuts. The witch watches as he sets down his bag to look up at the stars. A small smile slides onto his face as he continues through the desert. In his pocket, the ring jangles against a compass and canteen: ring, ring, ring, it goes. He pulls the compass out onto his palm when the night grows darker, and follows it to an oasis in the desert where someone is cooking breakfast. The witch sits next to the fire, under the stars, making small talk with the others. The boy reaches them, and takes his bag off his shoulders. He pulls a coconut out of the bag and reaches into his pocket for the ring. Far away, the stars watch as his palm emerges, empty. Spare a coconut? asks the weary witch. I’m sorry, says the boy, It's for the desert. It's for me, whispers the desert. But he still pulls one out from his bag and hands it to the witch. Don’t tell my mother, he whispers. Meanwhile, the ring appears in the palm of the stars. Many moons ago, a witch took her bag full of stars And emptied it onto her palm. But one fell down to the desert below with a ring, ring, ring.
Fragments of the Moon rain curves through April’s bright moon dancing safe from the stars fly, fly through the dark night listen—no song falls from dusty dawn nor hope from a hidden dream just the rain, bright and strong, falling raise a hand and feel them falling raise your eyes towards the moon aghast the sky falls laughing as a dream turns pale against the stars until the sun’s rays strike dawn and plunge like tears into the last kiss of the night that which may have been prowls awake at night secrets tip as tired eyes furrow, falling into a mist come desolate dawn stark against the absence of the moon who longs for the peace of stars when under the sun there lives the echo of a dream who longs for the perpetuation of a dream lasting far leaning long through the night is it not the fleeting beauty that stars in memory forever falling forgotten with the going of the moon paling against the rising of the dawn too swift in pursuit of wisdom’s dawn too bound to know to dream too silent against the wordless moon as I swallow words down into endless night screaming it raw but nothing comes out—falling falling deep into the eternal stars when the sun outshines the stars when dusk holds greater sorrow than dawn when silence in their eyes means falling falling from grace from that dream left broken in the throes of night kept sheltered in the moon when memories that hold that last dream sound again you gather the pieces shattered by night hold them together and see the moon
by Anonymous
[Untitled] by Maya Darvas
This is a story about anything. It could be about the girl next door, who you see every night in the window lit up by the moon. It could be about you standing nervously on a doorstep, holding out flowers with your heart clutched in the other hand. Or it could be about the sunshine you felt on your face when she said those words for the first time. I love you. It could be the subtle hints of cardamom and cinnamon in the coffee you drank in her favorite cafe just two blocks from her house. The way her hand felt entangled with yours, warm and a little rough and like home. Or the way the sun lit up the fractaled pieces of your heart when she walked away without looking back, her words still ringing in your ears. I’m sorry. Maybe it’s the way the girl on TV laughs that reminds you of her, how it melted all your pain away. The single set of footprints you leave in the sand when there should be two. Or was it the full moon, glittering across her ghost in the empty window of the house next door? I miss you.
R uá R i a z o r Madrina’s apartment complex on Ruá Riazor is not the same. Its elevator is as cramped as a can of sardinas. The air is stale and the hallways are shrouded in shadows. It is nothing like how I remembered it. When I was pequeña, the apartment was endless, With its dark corridors, ticking grandfather clock, And hushed whispers that hung in the air like smoke. I would waddle down the carpeted hallway, Past the spare room with the sofá-cama, Its walls painted a gaudy color salmón. The mornings were tranquil, with quiet beckonings, Offerings of warm Colacao, and tender kisses on the cheek. In the evening, the kitchen’s air was electric to the touch, As cartas were shuffled and laughter rang clear as bells against the walls and tiled floor. The apartment is quiet now. Not the tranquil kind of quiet that lets in the hisses of the ocean waves through the windows, But the quiet that reverberates in the air like the hum of a hearse, Like the murmurs of a prayer, cautious and private. Walking down the carpeted hallway, I feel out of place, as though I have outgrown the apartment. I am a child peering into a doll house, Whose hands have grown too large to hold the porcelain figures, Whose fingers tremble with the weight of my mother’s stories. The rooms are encroaching and claustrophobic, The santos on the walls, plates and paintings in dusty pastels, Are watching me warily, their hollow eyes reaching into my soul. Through the doorway, I look into Madrina’s room, Her silhouette distant, obscured by dusty light, A shadow against the caramel curtains of her bedroom. There’s a stillness in the air as the rich perfume of tobacco slowly seeps into the apartment. A knot clenches my gut; I feel as though I am watching something I should not. With un cigarrillo perched in her fingers and her figure taking on a ghostly faintness, Mi Madrina feels like a faint memory, another framed photograph in the foyer. In the kitchen, I can sense the same tension in the hushed voices of my relatives. We are all quiet, as though speaking would cause a disruption, Or awaken some malevolent spirit dancing over our heads. Perhaps it is the familiarity of it all, The calendar by the kitchen door, the gecko magnet on the fridge, That stuns us all into reticence. by Dani González-Gaubeka ‘22