La Pluma (Issue#1) - Storming of the Brain

Acknowledgments For a long time, printing this magazine had seemed impossible. These pages, enveloped in ink, are the result of our hearts as well as minds poured onto paper. We hope that we have produced something that inspires and holds your attention. Doing what we love has been a joy for us, but the real thanks for this magazine go to all those who did not write in it. And now that you hold this shining paper in your hand, we give our endless gratitude to the following: For fundraising and monetary donations, thanks to: HarperCollins Publishers The Poynter Institute Hope Clark, president of Funds for Writing CafĂŠ de Flore (Los Gatos) Fabiola Zamora of Baja Fresh Mexican Grill (Cupertino) Gurminder Singh Coldstone Creamery (Sunnyvale) Monta Vista Campus and Club Commissions Erica Cheung of Chipotle Mexican Grill (Cupertino) Han Nguyen & David Le Somel Jammu Gursimran Singh Michelle Balmeo Katherine Lu Harry Kaura For publishing the magazine, thanks to: Kimberly Edwards of Folger Graphics For help in design and content of the magazine, thanks to: Michelle Balmeo Dale Barcellos and the ROP Graphic Design classes of 6th and 7th period For personal and moral support, thanks to: Neda Nasr Atinderpal Singh The Jammu Family The Singh Family For her advice and encouragement, special thanks to our advisor: Stephanie Platte

Foreword

“Every day you may make progress. Every step may be fruitful. Yet there will stretch out before you an ever-lengthening, ever-ascending, ever-improving path. You know you will never get to the end of the journey. But this, so far from discouraging, only adds to the joy and glory of the climb.” And nothing could be truer.

From the words of Winston Churchill himself, we, the officers of Monta Vista Published Writers, have seen that such a statement can become reality. Since just about the beginning of time, we had high aspirations for collecting writing from classmates to publish into a book.

But this book would be different, we thought; not like every other Chicken Soup for the Soul collection of works.

Some shook their heads at our possibly far-fetched dreams. But some tried to encourage us while retaining a realistic view—we received recommendations to start achieving our goals by first accomplishing a simpler task: to create something smaller with an introductory taste of what was to follow. Something short and sweet. Something simple, yet intriguing. Something sort of like...a literary magazine.

So we set to work promoting, publicizing, writing, negotiating, discovering, fundraising, organizing, and creating—in short, working our pencils down to the nub.

And yet here we are now. Our focus has changed and our mission is to continue publishing literary magazines by hopefully becoming Monta Vista High School’s official organization. We survived the toughest part of all: getting started. But as former British prime minister Winston Churchill expressed, there is still an everlasting path from where we are now, at our first magazine edition, until when MV Published Writers will have grown taller since its foundation—something we, as founders, will probably not witness in our limited years left here at Monta Vista. But the idea is phenomally satisfying.

The passion for literature and writing that both we and our new writers possess is not simply for us to have another avenue in channeling our writings, but to reach out and connect with you, the reader. In doing so, our greatest hope is that you, as the audience, enjoy the show that will follow in the subsequent pages. Nothing is ever perfect—especially not the first time around. But remember, this is only the beginning of a long, yet improving journey. May the pen never lose its ink.

—Somel Jammu Vice President

Editor’s Note

I can still remember those days back in sophomore year when I sat in my fifth period World History class, my pencil and the rain outside synonymously making tapping noises in the middle of January. Not to say that the class was boring—it was interesting and we learned a lot.

Which is why, I believe, the theme of this edition should ring a bell for those in or past sophomore year. Recall from the French Revolution this: the Storming of the Bastille.

Yes, the title of such an important and symbolic event was twisted by us into a lame pun.

But we can explain the reason for such actions! If only you are willing enough to listen or read on.

At the start of the preparation for this edition, we had difficulty choosing a theme mainly because we were first-timers. So, as officers, we combined several popular choices together, thus narrowing the pool of various topics. After a vote by the authors in our current issue, it was decided that the beloved pun ‘Storming of the Brain’ would be the best; it was still creative despite its outdated hilarity.

What we mean when we say ‘Storming of the Brain’ is, in essence, that this collection of literary pieces concerns matters of the brain or the mind—how it functions whether you regard it scientifically, emotionally, or even physically. What the brain does, or what it means, in correlation to life, love, work, and death among many lesser subjects. Explore with us, the officers, and our fellow members, what we could conjure about the brain, mind, psychology, human nature, thoughts, and so much more.

We’ve kept you waiting long enough, but don’t worry, because we’ll leave it up to your mind to decide what it thinks.

—Somel Jammu Vice President

Table of Contents All About the ’tude by Somel Jammu. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Amber Laced Chocolate by Aileen Le. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Oblivion by Kanwalroop Singh. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 On the Way Back by Jaime Chu. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Hear No Evil, See No Evil by Mansi Pathak. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 A Difference in Opinion by Katherine Lu. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 The Brainy Child and Sugar-Mountain Lalaland by Jaime Chu. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Charmin and Cassie by Shirley Qui. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Breakbeat by Shreya Shankar. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 The End by Linda Su. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Credits. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

All About the

’tude

By Somel Jammu

I

t was summertime, and the day was beautiful, nice and warm. The gorgeous sun seemed to sparkle and smile at me in the brilliant, blue sky. But I wasn’t smiling back. I wanted to be able to sip lemonade in my backyard, eat ice cream, go to water parks, swim with friends, and then do…nothing, really. It was the summer before middle school! I wanted for it to be carefree. However, my parents had something else in mind for my sister and I. *

*

*

*

*

Rewinding back to a couple of weeks ago, my parents had asked my sister and I if we were interested in signing up for tennis lessons. Now, as 6

great as the idea sounded to my parents, I wasn’t too sure about sports. They were boring to me, I pretty much sucked at them, and I didn’t really know if I would like the idea of having to practice a new sport everyday for the rest of my summer vacation. Did I mention I suck at them?

Not really thinking, the two of us simply agreed. “Whatever,” I had replied. That was then. *

*

*

*

*

Summer rolled around and now I find myself in a regretful mood.

*

*

*

*

*

So here we are, tying up our laces and running laps around the stupid court while our instructor brings out the tennis balls. You see, it’s hard to smile back at the sun this way, sweating and panting, wishing you had some sweet and icy lemonade. As bad as my story sounds right now though, eventually, I improved. I was able to learn better tennis skills and helpful strengths. No, I wasn’t the best, and no, I couldn’t hit every shot that came at me. But, I was able to open a new door for a new opportunity, and, I was able to pull through that new opportunity by working hard and having the determination to become skilled.

I changed my stubborn mindset of “whatever” to one where I began thinking, “…Hey, this isn’t too bad—I mean, if I really try hard, I can have fun as well.” *

*

*

*

*

Although now I don’t participate in sports, I’m glad my parents helped me open that door. I learned to not let your thinking create a cloudy atmosphere, but, instead help you overcome that negative attitude. In turn, it aided me in becoming experienced and seeing that once you start something, it’s wise to stick to it until the end. It’s wise to pull through those consequences, even if you don’t want to do those two lovely laps extra.

It’s wise even when it doesn’t seem like you can smile at the sun, in the brilliant, blue sky.

7

Amber Laced

Chocolate

By Aileen Le

So strange the need and longing to be drawn into something so bright and true yet shrinking away when the light reaches out to us breathing in the desire grasping close to the soul we shiver So strange the desire to be heard and seen to glimmer past the darkness, the rays of our light beaming yet not too brightly oh never too brightly only enough to dimly sparkle needing to hide when our capabilities overcome us

8

It makes me laugh that we dream of living in oblivion wish for shimmering love to embrace the surface of what we define ourselves to be and our search for identity ends as we hope to lose ourself into arms embracing us with amber warmness Dark chocolate laced caramel

Oblivion By: Kanwalroop Singh

Z

afirah sat on the bus feeling the cold harsh metal of the steak knife grate against her skin. It was tucked into the waist of her skirt. Her eyes glistened, calm and suspicious; they scanned everyone around her. A fat woman sat to her right trying to make conversation with a man who seemed about as dead as the dirt road on which the bus was traveling.

“You know,” said the fat lady to the man, “I told my daughter that I didn’t want to go by bus. I would rather walk than take a bus anywhere, no matter how far. But she said, either you come by bus, or you don’t come at all. But I had to see her new house, so naturally, I agreed. You know how children are these days.”

Zafirah shifted in her seat. Could she do it? The bus was fairly quiet except for the ruckus of the fat lady next to her. There was no doubt they would hear. But now that she had actually come this far, it really didn’t matter whether they heard or not. What

mattered was whether she had the guts or the courage to rebel. What mattered was whether she could pull that knife out from the belt of her skirt and deliver it to the weakened intestines of her grandmother’s stomach.

Her eyes shifted to her grandmother’s feet. They rested in their black Bata sandals.

Zafirah knew every crack in those shoes like she knew the wrinkles of their owner’s face.

She had grown to hate their harsh rubbery feel. *

*

*

*

*

The weeds were everywhere. They devoured the dirt and spread their ugliness.

Zafirah tiptoed through them, being careful not to hurt a single one. They were still living, she thought. No matter how ugly and stringy and worthless they looked. They were still living.

“Zafirah!”

9

Her grandmother yelled because she hadn’t made the bed or washed the dishes or mopped the floor or done anything of any value. She had wished away the day roaming around the dilapidated garden. Sighing, Zafirah tiptoed her way back.

She winced at the sight of her grandmother’s face.

Looking down upon Zafirah, she seemed to be towering over her. Her eyes flashed and her mouth was pressed in a thin straight line. Her wild hair was matted, sticking out in different directions, the white parts glinting in the sun. Then, with lightning speed, her hand went to her foot and raised her sandal high into the air. Zafirah could see the wrinkled skin hanging from her bones, browned from working in the sun so long. Then the sandal came down. Or rather, dropped like a bomb, upon Zafirah’s face.

She would remember that sting for years. Though it was a trifle compared to what would come after.

If idleness made grandmother mad, than tears made her livid. Tears were a sign of weakness. And they had to be beaten out with the roughness of nothing less than her black Bata sandal.

Zafirah had fallen on the weeds. They would never again stand as erect as they had once been. *

*

*

*

*

Zafirah could not have said that her grandmother was mean. It was too nice a word to describe her.

way to get out of drinking milk was to dump it outside in the backyard. So she jumped off her chair, peeked behind the wall and around the corner. No one. She ran to the screen door and opened it. Very slow, so as not to make a noise. She leaned outside and poured down the milk, watching it stream, like a white waterfall, into the dirt. She held her breath.

And then— “Zafirah!”

That had been her first black eye. *

*

*

*

*

Zafirah looked at her grandmother, and all at once, a rush of hatred filled her. She stared at the wild matted hair, at the ugly wrinkles, and she let the hatred overpower her. She let it seep into her veins, into her blood, until it was boiling with rage. She unleashed it all, wishing to bore a hole of hate into her grandmoter’s deteriorating brain. *

*

*

*

*

It was summer, but it felt like winter. Zafirah’s grandmother emanated a gloom that overpowered any slight brilliance from the sun. As the months went by, Zafirah became careless. And more than once, she cursed herself for it. She was careless enough to drop a knife on her toe while slicing onions and then leave a

The sandal came down, or rather, dropped like a bomb, upon Zafirah’s face.

Her presence was commanding. She could walk into a room and people would notice. She could open her mouth and people would pay attention. She could twitch her eye and people would fall silent.

But she never spoke—she barked. The sound that came out of her was a ghostly rasp. It commanded and demanded. “Drink your milk,” it said, and even if that was what you hated most, you would do it.

But if you didn’t obey, if you plucked up enough courage to defy, to rebel, then you had better be sure that God was on your side. But in Zafirah’s case, He never really was.

When she was younger, she had thought the easiest 10

trail of blood on the kitchen floor.

Unprepared and hurt, Zafirah had no one to turn to. She was all alone with her grandmother’s intruding presence. She waited for what was going to come her way. She tried to grit her teeth but her eyes gave way to tears. Through them, she could barely make out the mess of blood smeared over the white tile. As her grandmother came towards her shrouded in gloom, her heart sank and misery overwhelmed her. A cold darkness crept over her, and her skin tingled on her face. She crawled farther and farther away, trying to scoot into the remains of her consciousness.

The line between discipline and abuse had been

crossed long ago. Zafirah’s grandmother felt no remorse.

In her mind, she was still a strict disciplinarian. She had never abused her granddaughter. It was safer to be oblivious than admit the truth. *

*

*

*

*

Zafirah’s grandmother was leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes. Now more than ever the wrinkles in her rumpled face stood out, bearing witness to the painful years that had passed. A rush of images flashed through Zafirah’s head. A wrinkled hand, a raised shoe, trampled weeds, streaming milk, a glistening knife in the drawer, and a trail of blood on the kitchen floor.

She opened her eyes. Her grandmother was still resting against her seat.

In one swift movement she pulled out her knife and plunged it deep into the woman she had hated for so long. And all she heard was a quiet pleading.

Weak, just like the woman it came from.

Then a scream, a hurried rustling, and sirens in the distance.

11

On

the

Way

Back

By Jaime Chu

“I

t’s raining cats and dogs.” The words slur out of her mouth like a line from a poem as she walks down the street. “Not horses and cows.

Not frogs and flies. Not Tom and Jerry. Cats and dogs.” Another great, inexplicable mystery of life, like the Pythagorean Theorem and Nazi followers. She is slightly embarrassed by the mismatch of her black outfit and her sister’s pink umbrella. People squirm out of school and zoom past her. She likes to take her step small and lightly, like skipping on pebbles across a stream.

The street grows quieter as she goes deeper in. After the intersection is her favorite part of the route. Although cars and bicycles honk and squeak noisily next to her, the empty sidewalk gives her peace. She hums early, jumpy Beatles tunes, passing by the burger joint, the post office, and a bar. Crosswalks stop her from time to 12

time. The perpetual fear that a censor malfunctions frightens her. Should she walk back and cross at the earlier crosswalk? Or run quickly across as soon as the coast is clear?

She stops humming at the sight of chatty pedestrians at the strip of shops. This part of the route makes her impatient and uncomfortable. She begins to feel the heat running down her back from the exercise, so she scrunches her sleeves up; but that only makes her upper arm hotter. She still has to cross the park. She speeds up.

It is safe to hum again at her street corner.

The “Jesus loves you” sign on one of the windows makes her smile. Dorothy says there is no place like home; she says, “there is no home like the one around the corner.”

Such are the thoughts on the way back.

Hear

No

See

Evil,

No

By Mansi Pathak

Evil

B

eth Wilson leaned back in her chair, deciding what to order. A sweet, polite waitress approached Wilson’s table, pulling out a notepad to take her order. Wilson noticed a scar across the young girl’s neck and asked if she was okay. The waitress replied that the scar was from a car accident, but the girl’s higher self seemed to cry out the truth.

The scar was from the young girl’s abusive boyfriend. Wilson admitted that she knew and the young girl began to cry. She confided with Wilson—he mistreated and physically harmed her. She was ready to leave him but needed the courage, which Wilson provided during her counsel with the young waitress.

Beth Wilson was fourteen when she realized that she had a special gift none of her friends could understand. A conversation came up about angels, and Wilson innocently pitched in how easy they were to see. Her friends all turned to her, clearly startled.

Wilson had been receiving information from spirits through intuition, direct communication, and through pictures since childhood. She could communicate with peoples’ higher selves, a part of a person that is connected with God or a higher, spiritual

Photo courtesy of Beth Wilson

Intuition: Beth Wilson uses her spiritual ability to help others in need.

source. Wilson, realizing that her visions were anything but normal, kept quiet for a number of years, until she found that with her gift, she could heal those who had faced tragedy or lost loved ones. “… I am told things and they may seem like none of my business, but I always do as I am directed,” Wilson says. “It always creates an amazing transformation… it changes people’s lives for the better.”

13

A

Difference in Opinion

By Katherine Lu

001. Drabble

“Huh.” He stood, considering. “What is it?”

“What does it look like?” Eyes rolled upward. “It’s writing.”

“Kind of short, isn’t it?” Dubious.

“A hundred words exactly.” Smugly satisfied. “Took forever too.”

“Forever? They’re puny!”

“Hey!” Indignant glare. “Do you know how hard drabbles are? Trying to fit a whole story into a hundred words, make it meaningful, cutting phrases and changing vocab to fit the word count…God. It takes forever.”

A strange look, a flat tone. “This is one of those weird writer things, isn’t it.” “…Possibly.” Ventured cautiously.

“One day, I’ll know this stuff.” A sworn oath.

003. Polka-dot

Alex was dressed elegantly in clothes from a time long past—white shirt and waistcoat over a black jacket, black slacks that just brushed the tops of shiny black shoes. All of it was in sharp contrast with light blond hair.

“Perfect.” Alex stepped back from the mirror. Looked close. Contemplated for a moment. …Not exactly perfect. Something was ruining the lines of the jacket. Slender fingers searched and pulled out a traffic-cone orange handkerchief. It had light blue spots scattered across its surface.

Alex remembered this: a birthday present from Jack.

Wearing it, it didn’t matter that people stared.

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002. Jell-O

It was blue. It was square. It jiggled. Cautious, Jack poked at the jelly with his fork.

“I’ve gone my whole life without eating blue Jell-O,” he said. “Why should I have to start now?”

“Because it’s an essential cultural experience,” replied Alex promptly. “And it tastes good too.”

“I don’t even like blue raspberry,” Jack whined.

“Tough luck.” Alex was unimpressed. “Eat.” “Tyrant,” Jack muttered.

“I heard that.”

“Why do I put up with you?”

“You love me.” Alex grinned impishly.

“Not going to eat it. Reminds me of dead bug smears.”

“Dead bug smears are yellow.”

“Oh, gross.”

004. Balance

Jack very carefully placed the phone back onto its hook, very carefully picked up a glass, and very carefully drank some water. When his knuckles were no longer white from the force of his grip, he turned around and strode out of the kitchen. *

* * * * “I’m not leaving,” Alex shouted through the wood and pounded on the door. “Open up!”

Jack sat on his couch, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do?

They’d kicked him out. It surprised him how angry he was.

What now? he wondered.

005. Circular

“So what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“It can’t be nothing. Not if you’re like this.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It is not nothing.”

“It’s nothing, all right?

It’s freaking nothing.”

“Jack.”

“It’s nothing!” He snarled, the flat of his hand hitting the coffee table.

“So much nothing that you’ve started to hit things?

Break things?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Alex.”

“I know you don’t. I want you to.”

“Alex.”

“Jack.”

“It isn’t nothing, Jack.

You’re going to have to talk about it sooner or later.”

“I’d rather it be later.”

“Please, Jack. Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Please.” “…Fine.”

006. Ridge

Heights. Why did it always have to be heights?

Argh. Heights.

Why were they here?

Why were they here?

“Why’re we here?”

Jack didn’t answer.

The Grand Canyon yawned underneath them. Alex looked down. Shivered.

Heights.

It was probably even worse out in the open air. Actually, why even look out the airplane window? Closing the sliding blind thing and getting some sleep sounded better.

Alex closed it. Jack shifted in his chair and let out a little snore.

His head was tilted back, mouth slightly open. He shifted again, smiled. Little laugh lines crinkled.

Alex settled in to sleep.

007. Stars

In that in-between state, where minds drifted and eyes unfocused, Jack sat looking at stars. They bobbed, weaved, little bright points on a sea of darkness. A literal sea, he thought dreamily, and chuckled. A foghorn sounded faintly in the distance.

Alex appeared before him, an angel in blue – pointed out and up, solemn, wondrous – look, look, stars.

He looked and watched as they winked out one by one.

Don’t worry, soothed angel-Alex, kneeling to grasp a handful of white sand. I can make more.

How? Like this. Fine pale grains glittered in the moonlight, lifted by softly blown breath.

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008. Brackish

“Oh god, why did I let you talk me into this?” Alex swayed and nearly fell as the ship rocked again. “I’m going to be sick.”

“It’s not that bad,” Jack cajoled. “This is a huge ship. A cruise ship. It has multiple decks and tennis courts and three-course meals.”

“Don’t,” said Alex sharply, “even talk to me about food. Don’t.”

“Okay, okay.” Jack held his hands up in surrender.

Silence. Relief. Closed eyes.

“At least we’re not in the brig, surrounded by dirty salt water and that yucky yellowbrown colored foam from the waves…” “…I’m going to kill you.”

009. Squiggle

Snicker.

Alex glared.

Snort.

Alex pouted. Jack couldn’t take it anymore.

“Ahahaha…”

“Dude. Not funny.”

“Oh yeah,” giggled Jack. “Yes it is.”

“It isn’t that bad!”

“You got a single digit score! I didn’t even know that was possible with this game!”

“The stick doesn’t work.” Alex held up the blue GameCube controller, swinging from a black cord and secured between slender fingers. They caught the handles with a deft twist, and a thumb rotated the grey control stick in demonstration.

Jack eyed the television screen. A line crawled across its surface.

“It would be straight, then. Not like… that.”

010. Shock

She wasn’t ready. She had thought she was ready. She had thought…

She had never thought of this.

When it did enter her head (a convulsive shiver in the sunlight, a restless and uneasy sleep) it was pushed back, pressed down, hidden. Forgotten in the hopes that it would never come true.

But she had never believed – They knew the numbers; she had looked them up. Fatal automobile accidents per year: 43,000. Forty percent of those were because of drunk driving.

“Mrs. Darren? I’m sorry, but if you could please come with me…”

“It’s just Alex,” she replied tonelessly.

Red pooled.

16

The

Brainy Child and

Sugar-mountain

Lalaland

By: Jaime Chu Pop sizzles the easel In the head When lucky, the pen does the work Like adrenaline trips Trip, trip, trippin’ Out and away to Lalaland Man who conquers with horns And Dolly calls from ice-cream cones Sees Prince and the weeping sitar Trippin’ in, trippin’ out Pop, pops the old, blank bulb 17

Charmin and Cassie By: Shirley Qui

O

kay, dearie, come along,” said a counselor.

“Why?” asked Charmin.

The counselor sighed. “Because I say so,” Here it went again. Charmin kept on being the stubborn little kid she had always been.

Charmin was at a local boarding school for the retarded. She was severely ill in such a remote part of her brain that it was almost impossible to tell where she went wrong. When she was first admitted to the school, wanted to kick her out, because they thought she was just a normal kid with an attitude. Her parents negotiated with them though, and after caring for her for a few months, the problem came to life. Her problems were her emotions, and she was incapable of loving something. The only emotions she could express were her emotions 18

for hate. Doctors doubted if she even had any nice feelings in her at all. As a result, faculty of this school were rarely patient with her, and she had no friends whatsoever.

The sad thing was, Charmin thought she was being charming in every way possible. She was sixteen and getting older every day, and she thought she was normal in every way possible. The way she dismissed her special school was that she was “special” in a good way. Her friendlessness was dismissed by the fact that the others weren’t good enough for her. *

*

*

*

*

Right now, her goal was to make the counselor let go of her hand. She didn’t want to keep going to those counseling lessons, she was normal. She continued

to ditch, even if that meant being yelled at by the principal almost every day.

“Hiiiiiyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!!” She chopped at her captor’s hand, using her special Judo moves to get her out of that evil woman’s grip. The counselor winced, and then opened her mouth to scream at Charmin.

Too late. Charmin was already out the door and into the street. She was running as fast and as far as she could.

Huffing and puffing, she came upon a place like her school. The only difference was that these kids had heads shaped more like hers, instead of the weird bulges some people at the special school had. And they were all gawking at her. *

*

*

*

*

“Hey, you, stop staring at me.” Charmin picked a girl and started to yell at her. “Look away now, before I kill you.” She didn’t move. Charmin was getting annoyed. She stomped right up to the fence and kicked it. Vibrations went up and down the metal while the bunch of toddlers right in front of her jumped back. But Charmin’s focus wasn’t on them, it was on the girl. She was beginning to talk.

“What’s your problem, macho girl? Think you’re all that?”

Charmin was stunned by her questions. No one had ever talked to her like that in her life.

cracked her knuckles. “Bring it on,” she snarled. *

*

*

*

*

The girl circled Charmin, looking at her intently in the eye. A fire seemed to burn there, but it was bluish and cold. Charmin was not at all panicky; instead, she felt a strange calm she had never felt before. It felt good. Charmin threw the first punch.

It was a direct hit to her stomach. That punch would have made the girl double over with pain—if she hadn’t met that attack with a defense just as strong.

“Nuh-uh, it’s not gonna be that easy,” she shook her head while making “tsk tsk” sounds.

“As you wish,” Charmin grunted while swishing her leg in a circle. The girl stuck out her foot too, and made Charmin loose her balance easily. Charmin did a backwards summersault towards the street.

“That was a piece of cake; you really shouldn’t try such dumb tricks. I’m a world class champion for defense, you know…” The girl smiled. “Name’s Cassie, but at least you’re better than all those other wimps out there who don’t even know how to throw a punch.” She offered a hand to help Cassie up.

Charmin stared at it for a while, before realizing that she was supposed to take it. She took it cautiously.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to bite your head off,” Cassie chuckled and pulled Charmin up. “You’re quite the oddball, you know that? Wanta be friends?”

She wanted to show her the power coursing through her veins right now.

“Shut your trap and stop staring at me!” she yelled at her.

“Why?” “You want to fight?”

“Why?” Even though Charmin was so bossy, she had never fought in her life. The counselors always let her have her way in the end after she threw a fit.

“Why?” Mimicked the girl in a high pitched squeak, “because you look like a mouse. Is it our fault we’ve never seen such a mousey person ever?” It was true. Charmin looked like a mouse in many ways.

“Fine, let’s do it.” Charmin was getting pumped up. This girl was really getting on her nerves, and she wanted to show her the power coursing through her veins right now. Charmin stretched out her legs and

No one had ever asked Charmin that. In fact, the word “friends” was just a shadow in her vocabulary.

But, it sounded appealing.

“Hmm……sure.”

Charmin decided it was worth the risk to be “friends” with Cassie. *

*

*

*

*

Cassie shot up in bed. She had been dreaming about those retards again. There was something wrong.

She didn’t even know someone named Charmin.

Maybe she just really wanted a friend, after being so focused on her practicing for martial arts class, all the friends she used to have had left her. But a friend from that mental institute, not on her life.

19

Breakbeat By: Shreya Shankar Another bone splinters.

Update: I’ve got twenty one ribs left and no more ligaments.

I can see the strobe lights. Flash. Red, green, blue. And I can’t forget yellow. Flash.

I can’t forget tomorrow’s suit either. I have to wear my best one tomorrow.

It’s dry clean only.

A nerve snaps off and tears it way out of my skin. It’s on the floor now.

I’d try to pick it up, but I couldn’t possibly find it among all the dead brain cells and flickering pain receptors.

The floor is just so dusty.

I bury my head in my frozen arms. I hear bomb blasts.

I hear machine guns.

I hear neurons firing.

It’s all perfectly on beat.

A fine powder begins to rain down through the cracks in the ceiling.

This is the nice shirt. I starched it this morning.

Please, I smile up at the cracks. Please don’t ruin my work.

They promised last time that they’d be more considerate.

What happened?

The synthetic beat is reaching it’s peak.

The flashes are getting louder.

Red. Green. Blue. Yellow. Flash.

A drop of water leaks in with the pheromones, leaks in with the light under the doorway.

I hear hydrogen bombs.

I’m down to nineteen ribs.

This is the climax.

I’m living in a deconstruction site where I’m the project.

20

This has been pounded into my head. Flash.

Eighteen running on zero. I’m not sure what will be next.

I’m just praying for my lungs. I want to keep my lungs tonight.

The air smells so good.

Without the smoke and pungent scandal, it would be melodious.

So unlike the violence on the other side of the wall.

No beats.

No bass.

No sound.

Just air.

The calf muscles I’ve worked so hard to cultivate are decomposing.

Only a few more minutes.

A few vertebrae escape the atrophy of my spine.

My lungs are safe.

The climax is done.

Falling action.

Three at a time, the vertebrae snap. My body spasms.

My skull is cracking. Flash.

Only a few more seconds. Falling action.

My spine is long gone.

Update: Four ribs to go. My lungs are safe.

I have to wear my best suit tomorrow.

Grenades shaking the walls.

I have to re-starch this shirt.

Chemical bombs. Shells. Crack.

My skull is shattered now.

My lungs are safe.

This is the falling action.

This is breakbeat.

It’ll all be over now. Flash.

A gulp of air.

21

…

Organization: Monta Vista Published Writers

Credits

Advisor: Ms. Stephanie Platte President: Kanwalroop Singh Vice President: Somel Jammu Writers: Aileen Le Shreya Shankar Somel Jammu Kanwalroop Singh Jaime Chu Mansi Pathak Katherine Lu Shirley Qui Cover Artwork & Design: Front Cover by Cindy Tan Title Page by Justin Wang Ending Page by Linda Su Back Cover by Eric Chu

Graphics: Images used in this magazine were taken from the royalty-free stock photography website sxc.hu.

Publisher: FolgerGraphics Inc. Attn: Kimberly Edwards 2339 Davis Avenue Hayward, CA 94545 (510) 887-5656 For questions, comments, and concerns, please feel free to contact us at: La Pluma Attn: Stephanie Platte 21840 McClellan Rd. Cupertino, CA 95014 (408) 366-7600 mvpublishedwriters@gmail.com