Efflorescence - La Pluma Vol. 4

LA PLUMA VOLUME 4

Cover by Sophia Ma

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

a

STATE or TIME of

Spring arrives, not with a whisper, but with a shout. The Bay Area swung sharply from thunderstorms and heavy winds to California’s characteristic warm weather. Flowers flung their delicate petals wide open, spreading pollen with reckless abandon. After weeks of the cold and rain, the world felt washed clean, a blank slate upon which anything could happen.

Everywhere we look, the world is full of life. We watch with bright eyes as tightly-furled green buds appear on branches and herald the return of spring. Slowly, slowly, then all at once, they burst into being. And as temperatures rise, so do our spirits. With spring comes hope, life, and growth.

The world seems brighter, lighter, younger. Full of hope blossoming in front of us.

We, too, bloom in the spring. We leave our blanket cocoons to watch the world awaken, wandering newly green parks and breathing in the fresh air. In Volume 04: Efflorescence, we explore all the stages of a flower’s lifetime. We begin with Budding, where we hold our breaths in anticipation as the first tiny green sprout emerges on a branch. As we move into Blooming, we admire the vibrant colors and sweet scents of flowers. But all good things must come to an end. In Decaying we explore the slow loss of what was once beautiful and make way for new beginnings. Regardless of where we are in our journeys, Volume 04: Efflorescence gives us the opportunity to feel full of life and hope again, like the world itself is blooming before us.

FLO R WER ING EFFLO EDITOR-IN-CHIEF ANNIKA LEE

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04

budding

14 blooming 24

decaying

ORESCENCE 03

Every flower begins as a small sprout pushing through the wood and into the world. Each one has the chance to become anything. Every piece within this magazine, too, begins as a tiny idea taking root in our heads. We turn it over and over in our minds, refining it before we finally set pencil to metaphorical paper and bind it to word and to color.

Budding explores the very first stages of life, both of flowers and of ourselves. We delve into childhood and return to our wide-eyed naïveté. We remember how it feels to be a child again, new to the world and always learning. We wait on tenterhooks for a prophet’s arrival and play with plastic horses and new friends. In Budding we embrace hope and all the innocence of youth, as if we, too, could become anything we wanted.

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Cover by Dana Yang

budding

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REBIRTH Justin Yaung

I

sit on the grass, clearing out the various twigs and pebbles behind me. The grass glares up at me. I am an intruder here. I don’t care. I am done caring. The tension falls away from beneath me. The tiny blades of grass sway softly in the wind, inviting me into their gentle embrace. I have places to be. I have people to see. And yet, I cannot, I will not muster the energy to do anything.

The grass caresses me gently as I slowly lie down, softening beneath my back, enfolding my shoulders and arms. My only wish is to stay here for the rest of time, while my emotions slowly sap away, while my worries fade into the wind, and a tree blooms from where I lie, the product of all my sorrow and anger. The grass wraps around my body, clutching me tightly, pulling me deep into the ground where I will rest forever and ever and ever. The wind whispers breathlessly into my ears, blowing my fears into the night. It soothes my skin, alleviating the harsh burn of light, cooling me down before I overheat and explode. The sun is fading from the sky, its influence diminished, the soothing night encroaching.

I close my eyes, protecting them from the last traces of jarring brilliance, the final hurrah of the sun as it wanes away, drowning the sky in hues of purple and pink.

The first thing I notice is the light. My eyes are discomfited by the deluge of brightness, and my eyes open

on instinct, allowing the light to scorch my retinas. Closing my eyes doesn’t save me, either, as the light floods through, probing and poking, looking through my eyes and seeing what I see. Blinding flashes of color and motion imprint on my brain.

Then comes the heat. The light has brought with it an endless torrent of fire, searing my body, trying and testing me with its never-ending barrage of merciless flame, roasting me through, burning out my soul.

And then, the sound. Oh, the sound. The sound is the start to the end, as a cacophony of ear-splitting screams hit me, as I am plunged into the depths of the inferno, where damned souls reach out to me, engulfing me in pain, and sorrow, and all of the emotions I swore never to experience again.

Slowly, I felt the fervor of the moment leave me.

The scattered fragments of myself floating in the ether were quietly pulled back in, leaving myself whole, both physically and mentally. Pieces of starlight glide and drift downwards towards my outreached hands as I struggle to stand up. I suppose I made it through whatever ordeal that was. I felt infinitely more settled, my feet planted firmly into the ground even though I could once again reach for the sky. Two words were whispered into the night sky, and then I got up and tried to find where I left my wallet.

The wind whispers breathlessly into my ears, blowing my fears into the night.

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ARRIVAL OF THE PROPHET Selina Wang

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UNBREAKABLE BOND Kaavya Ahuja

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THE THINGS I SHOULD HAVE SAID Aashi Venkat

From somethingness into nothingness into you If I knew the half of it If I knew you who you were What you were thinking feeling doing All that time Would anything be different?

Would anything have changed?

If you knew I loved you could everything have changed?

Nothing poetic, nothing poetic at all Nothing poetic, at all, nothing but I miss you.

Nothing, nothing Nothing other than that I saw your eyes in the fog, felt your touch in the wind Seventeen never felt so young You had your whole life ahead of you I don’t know if I’m talking to you or convincing myself It was some long held truth, some withdrawn lie You were So young So innocent So fresh So unscathed You had your whole life ahead of you

Holding your trembling body close in my arms that night Only seventeen Only a child, the doctor had muttered My cries illuminated the dimly-lit hospital walls I was crying, seeing You were stone-cold, a carefully-blanketed bundle Your mom was worried She was crying, insecurity translated into fear She lost sight of the family, you included, she said Your dad was gone Some business trip, or another unfaithful night I later on convinced myself he was justified But there you lay in my arms that night Your voice so beautiful You, so beautiful Beauty, beautiful, so breathtakingly beautiful I swore to never let you go But I had to let you go Fuzzy recollections of you Golden sunshine, braided hair, bare feet Sprawling fields of tulips gardens of roses, bottomless fountains You’re carefree please be careful There are thorns please be safe Fragile petals, wavering warmth, opinionated chirps Climate change freezing one year’s spring Pink tulips yellows, oranges, reds Soon eighteen, soon legal Matching tattoos only mark one body, only mark one soul I’ll still get the tulips I’ll still dye them pink I love you.

I should have said.

Graphics by Aashi Venkat

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ASK POLLY! HELP! I’M STUCK IN AN EVERLASTING WINTER Alicia Xu

DEAR CSRMIN, Everyone is lonely, in a way. Not to diminish your experience or anything! But there comes a point in every person’s life where they wonder, who am I? What am I? And it’s so isolating. It’s ironic—one of the most lonesome experiences of being human is, in reality, shared by everyone. I know that you’re tired of it. I know that it hurts, not being where you want to be. But when you believe in who you are, you are no longer alone. When you believe in what you are, the whole world joins you, lifts you up higher than you ever thought you deserved to be.

You are larger than life itself, soft and beautiful as anyone.

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It is always different when you are young. It is different when it feels like the world is ending and everything is miserable and that no love can be found in empty spaces since they are, well, empty. But know that there is something there. Something special and transformative.

I am telling you this now because you are still learning how to live. It is spring soon and tonight, tomorrow, forever, you will be warm—you always have been.

Best wishes, Polly

DAILY CROSSWORD - 5/4/92 Jillian Ju & Giljoon Lee

DOWN 1. “the waste land” poet 2. could not have predicted 3. the ways in which 4. winter 5. gives way to 6. snowdrops

ACROSS 7. soft, as candlelight 8. grazes the surface of 9. your upturned palm 10. searching for 11. spring 12. a new beginning

Answers: 1. eliot 2. uncertain 3.methods 4. hibernal 5. yields 6. blossoms 7. warm 8. skims 9. tree 10. seeking 11. coil 12. rebirth

DEAR POLLY, Over the years, I have started to think that it is more fact than feeling that I run cold. People are naturally warmblooded, I know, but winter has never been kind to me. I rub the backs of my hands over my nose and revel in the miniscule amounts of warmth the touches bring me.

Let me start over—I’m sure my sudden rush of melancholy does not evoke a good first impression. Hi. I’m 18 years old, unbelievably lonely, and something about the liminal space between the falling of winter and the breakage of spring has always made me raw.

To start off, I haven’t always been like this. I used to be an outgoing kid, yet I was never really able to keep friends for a long time. I’m unsure if it was some sudden bout of teenage angst crashing through my puberty-riddled body or just time taking its toll that caused me to give up entirely on finding new friends, but after a certain point I became victim to a loneliness that felt like it’d never end.

It’s been a few years since, and I’ve begun making my peace with the feeling. The friends I do have are good—they make me feel loved. Appreciated. And I am grateful for what I have, really! But I just can’t seem to tamp down that rotten feeling of greed and jealousy, watching what other people have and wondering where I went wrong. Growth is such a cruel myth.

How am I supposed to blossom when my stem has been cut?

There’s more to this life, I’m sure. Help! I’m a cold-blooded being amongst warm-blooded humans, and no one knows it but me.

Sincerely, Can’t Stop Rubbing My Icy Nose

SITTING BESIDES YOU Bernice Kwong

Egg, I despise every second

I wait for you

I wait for you to come out of your shell so I don't have to be alone anymore

I'm tired of waiting

and I'm scared you have already

rejected me.

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NEW FRIEND Tanvi Kanderi

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A flower is most beautiful when it is open. Petals splay themselves wide, spreading sweet scents. We know spring is in full swing when we spot bursts of color everywhere we look.

Likewise, all of our ideas grow and grow, becoming something unique as we go through the drafting and editing process. Our pieces take shape under our hands and we let them shine.

In Blooming we explore beauty in all shapes and forms. We look around at our own lives with new eyes to remind ourselves of beautiful moments close by. We weave flower crowns and walk through parks with our lovers, begin homes that will stand the test of time and dive for undersea treasure. Blooming delves into the quiet maturity and elegance we gain as we settle into the prime of our lives.

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Cover by Tanvi Kanderi & Dana Yang

blooming

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FLOWER CROWNS Anvitha Mattapalli

and we weave flowers, our precious secrets into crowns of destiny, fit for our desired ascending to the throne (of equality), and let the sweet nectar dribble down our chins, painting our fate with sugarcoated sweetness (and we brush our lips together to taste the dew drops when they kiss our hearts with a false promise) in a family of hyacinths stained pure white like halos around our heads, a pair of cerulean roses blooms (bold in newfound diversity), born from the roots of our garden (the garden that i gifted her on our third anniversary) and flourished much stronger than its petaled persona unbecoming at first glance (like the stem weaving our hands and fates as one), these shades of the ocean, boundless yet elegant, popping out of crystalline clouds, precious to all (if only the same could be said about us)

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HOW PERFECT Saarika Nori

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LE PAPILLON Katie Wang

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MOTHER & FATHER Melody Cui

It was after his funeral, when we had left her at the café with the blue cups and the trashy lights, and found ourselves sitting on the park bench.

I found the engraving we made as kids but before I could show him, he raised his head towards the sky.

The words found my tongue first, and I let them slip, Mom, I’ve always hated mom.

The sky was blazing, For everything she did. for putting on that trashy shade of concealer over her moon eyes, for making his favorite lasagna right after, for sweeping the shards of beer that dripped onto the crimson carpet.

There was a silence I caused, and I had to fill it with truth, No, not just that, for everything she didn’t do, for not leaving, for staying helpless for lying there and letting that frying pan hit her womb, as he continued to drink and feed.

For crying instead of running, god, she cried so much, for even at his funeral, she was crying and pleading for him to come back when even if God took mercy, he wouldn’t have and she knew it too.

I hate her and I hate her so much. And I wish I didn’t, but I do.

I turned to my brother, his pale face glowing under that summer Sun, still staring at the cloudless skies.

He reached for my hand, his gaze unremoved, and we held each other like we did as children as the sky darkened and our hearts broke.

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FIREBLOSSOM William Zhang

G

azing at the blazing fire in the fireplace has always allowed me to calm down after a long day after hard work in the fields. I watched the flames, fascinated like a moth magnetized to its alluring light. The orange tendrils caressed the firewood, waltzing with one another, exuding a warmth that enveloped my body like a shield against the chill of the night.

The colors of the flames are so brilliant and vivid, like wildflowers. I felt as if the flames were nurturing me as I sat. The longer I stared, the more hypnotic the flames became. Such a magical display those flickering embers are making.

How long have I been staring at the fireplace? An hour? Two hours? My vision had blurred from dryness. I blinked a few times to refresh my eyes, and the flames returned into focus.

There is a person in the fireplace. The flames had transfigured into a small doll-like form, sitting on the blackened wood.

“Who are you?” I said.

The form’s fiery hair parted to reveal a childlike face, her white eyes reflecting my stare back at me. She opened her mouth to speak, but it sounded no louder than a whisper, deep in the back of my mind. I am Hel. “What are you?” I asked. Was she a spirit? Or someone of the dead?

Hel gave no response. I edged a little closer to her. She was the embodiment of fire: warm, calming, and beautiful.

So beautiful. Her eyes shone like a mythical being, and her miniscule form gave off a pleasant yet powerful aura. Why do you stare at me? She asked.

I didn’t know what to say. Why did I stare at her? Why was I staring in the fireplace? The heat was starting to make my head dizzy. Because it’s relaxing, my thoughts responded. You feel warm and cozy.

Hel tilted her head and smiled, an expression that touched the depths of my heart, threatening to ignite it. If you won’t give me an answer, then I will be going now, she said. The headache I had didn’t go away as I watched her dissolve into the flames. I reached out towards the open fire, wanting her to stay longer, but the flames licked my hand as if they were protecting their mistress. The faint smell of wood smoke let me come back to my senses.

The blanket of heat stayed on the front of my body as I reluctantly left my spot in front of the fireplace. It slowly dissipated, leaving behind a cold, empty feeling. I couldn’t get any warmer, even in my own bed. The cold kept me awake for the longest time. I longed for Hel’s warm embrace as I shivered in my loneliness. Then, at a certain point, I could stand it no longer.

I clenched my teeth as I trudged towards the fireplace again. Much to my distress, the fire was out. I reached out

my hands to feel for any lingering warmth, turning over the ashes for signs of firelight. There was none. I walked hastily to a cupboard in the kitchen to find a lighter and matches, headed back with several, and lit a flame over some fresh firewood. A sigh of pleasure overcame me as warmth surged back into my body. It was as if I was living off of it.

Where are you, Hel? I wondered, peering through the fire. The back of the fireplace was obscured by a light sheet of smoke, but what lay beyond that sheet was not a bricked wall, but rather a dark tunnel lit with hot coals. From the tunnel came Hel, lighting the coals ablaze as she walked past them.

So you have summoned me, she said. Why do you seek my presence?

“I want you to stay with me,” I blurted. “To keep my body and soul warm.” I knew it was a foolish thing to say.

You seek not my presence, but my companionship, Hel said. Her white eyes glowed with a newfound intensity as the flames in the fireplace roared to match her energy. The tinderbox that was my heart was set ablaze by Hel’s equally bright smile. What a marvelous force of nature fire was, how captivating Hel’s charm was! I wanted to touch them, to stroke them, but the heat would always deter me. Very well, Hel decided. Why don’t you take some of this firewood and create a bigger fire outside? Wherever the fire is, I will follow.

I took a pair of tongs and grabbed a piece of firewood and walked out into the fields. The sky was a deep crimson prepared for a brilliant sunrise, but I paid attention only to the fire in my hands. A light gust blew across me and nearly extinguished the firewood. In fear of losing the fire, I dropped the firewood onto the fields. The dry, summer grass was engulfed in an inferno. The flames rose in columns, expelling massive amounts of heat and smoke into the sky. From within the smoke I could see a taller version of Hel, wielding a goddess’s aura with a pair of burning wings. My heart raced as she walked closer to me, leaving a trail of ashes and smoke.

You have done well, she said, extending a blazing arm and taking my hand. I felt no pain even as my hand was blackened. The nurturing of fire pleases me. You deserve a reward...Hel’s flames raced across my sweater, burning through every fiber. My skin only felt warmth, the warmth I desired so greatly. You wanted me to stay beside you forever, her voice sounded in my head. So I will.

Then she brought me into a hug, wrapping her fiery wings around my doomed body. To be finally embraced by the being I loved brought me such immense happiness that I could no longer feel my life departing. My last conscious thought left my mind—The fire and I can stay together forever.

I watched the flames, fascinated like a moth magnetized to its alluring light.

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LIGHT OF LIFE Ashley Kwong

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MOMENTOUS Suhana Mahabal

May 1962 The sky was impossibly blue the day the Astors first arrived on the sprawling property. The honeyed scent of Japanese tree lilacs lingered over the house, their blossoms blanketing the wild grass.

As their car shuddered down the drive, Ivy Astor leaned out her window, her golden hair whipping in an unseen wind. Her face tilted up, she felt more peaceful than she had in ages. It had taken forever to get here, but everything came together in the end, didn’t it?

Beside her, Richard Astor drove, the weight of the world lifting as he watched the mansion rising above him. He could already imagine him and Ivy in their old age, rocking in their matching chairs on their wraparound porch.

Richard stepped out first, then opened Ivy’s door. Arm in arm, they walked down the path, pausing before they reached the grand double doors.

Together, they entered their new home.

Wandering through a plant nursery hand in hand, they bought a seedling to plant together. A Japanese tree lilac like the others on the property. They dug under a balmy Maine sun, dirt under their nails and sweat on their faces.

After Ivy watered the sapling with her little red watering can, she turned to Richard.

“Doesn’t this feel important to you?” she asked. It was an unexplainable feeling: a confidence that this was both the beginning and the end of a thousand different stories.

“I wouldn’t be able to tell. Every moment feels a little momentous with you,” he replied, grinning with that infectious smile.

“You’re such a hopeless romantic,” she smirked back at him. “I suppose I’ll just have to tolerate it.”

August 1981 Agatha had liked him for so long it hurt. His dimpled smile, his mesmerizing laugh, the indescribable feeling he gave her.

“Chris!” her best friend yelled, waving him over. Immediately, Agatha straightened, meeting his eyes.

“Hey, Agatha,” he grinned, throwing her best friend’s name in as an afterthought. “There’s a party on the beach tonight. Like a going-away party for everyone. You guys should come,” still unable to rip his eyes away.

Her best friend nodded enthusiastically, jabbing Agatha until she finally relented and agreed.

When Agatha arrived, the setting sun was painting a fiery watercolor. Unsure where her friend was, she lingered in the crowd of new alumni, celebrating their last few days of freedom and rebellion before they scattered all around the world.

Scanning the crowd, Agatha met Chris’ curious eyes.

She smiled, inviting him to join her.

Beside each other, they watched the party in comfortable silence, almost but not quite touching.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” he asked suddenly.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she smirked, wandering away as he ran to catch up.

Watching from afar, you would have seen two lithe silhouettes under a tree, leaning into each other under the darkening sky as a party raged on beneath them, smoke curling into star brushed velvet.

It was late at night when they first kissed, lips brushing and hands wandering, under a tree in Agatha’s front yard. The last blossoms of the season floated around their entangled bodies.

She would forever remember their first kiss smelling of honey. As they stumbled through the mudroom, refusing to unclasp for even a second, she would forever remember almost tripping over her mother’s metal watering can, the hard edge digging into her calf for just a moment.

June 2019 Sylvia’s ancient car pulled into the new driveway.

Stepping out, she inhaled deeply as the scent of honey filled her lungs. Around her, small white blossoms littered the ground. Raising her eyes to the horizon, she spotted a party raging on at the beach. Teenagers celebrating a new summer. Some things never changed.

Entering the backyard, the chorus of greetings and offers of food and drink immediately began, relatives surrounding her to welcome her back to the Astor house.

“Syl, my dear, how are you?” Agatha asked, hugging her daughter.

“I’m good, Mom. Really good,” she reassured.

“Good. I think I’ll go watch the sunset with your father.

Have fun, darling.”

As her mom walked over to Chris, Sylvia noticed she seemed a little more frail. Everyone seemed a little frailer.

Sylvia sat in a rocking chair beside her grandmother, as they watched the ocean together.

As the chairs moved in sync, creaking on that old porch, she observed Ivy, who had looked close to death ever since Richard passed.

“Tonight feels special, doesn’t it, Syl?” Ivy asked placidly.

“I don’t know. I think every night feels special when I’m here with all of you.”

“Every moment’s a little momentous, isn’t it?”

After Ivy passed, the mansion was sold. The last thing the Astors did was bury her besides Richard, blossoms lingering on their matching gravestones.

In July, Sylvia and her parents drove down the driveway, her car hissing smoke as they left the winding gates for the last time, past the spot where Chris and Agatha had first kissed, past the beach where Sylvia had celebrated her graduation, past the Japanese tree lilacs that Ivy had loved so, so much.

Every moment’s a little momentous, isn’t it?

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SPRINGTIME Mike Ochi

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But all good things must come to an end. Flowers wither and die, returning to the soil from whence they came. Yet there is a dark beauty in their drooping stems, in their faded petals, in their slow death. For we remember what they looked like in the prime of their life, and know they have lived well.

There is a certain bittersweetness in Decaying as we explore the slow withering of everything around us. Relationships and people falter and fail with time, but what was there was good. Thus, we mourn the loss of people we used to love. We peek into bedrooms where we reminisce on what used to be. We drive down highways with mementos of a long-gone past. We watch lines of ants crawl by and remember old friends.

As this issue draws to a close, so does the school year. We look back on the long evenings spent cramming for exams and wonder how we ever got through those sleepless nights. The year seems to pass both in a flurry and haze as the days blur together. It still does not feel as if the school year is almost over. Yet here we are, approaching the end, a quiet grief suffusing us as we watch the year wither away behind us. But even as flowers decay into nothingness, we remember: they will bloom again.

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Cover by Sophia Ma & Dana Yang

decaying

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I’M SO PROUD OF YOU Giljoon Lee

T

he THANK YOU takeout bag sits between Eunbit and Dylan in the car. Dylan’s driving; Eunbit’s riding shotgun.

It’s raining. The windshield’s blurring, disfiguring the light and colors. The side windows are fogged white. Dylan fumbles with the windshield wiper controls; it’s his second time driving the Camry. The first time was yesterday.

Inside the plastic bag is a secret, a surprise—at least that’s what Dylan told him, but the smell of fried chicken is obvious. Eunbit pretends to not notice. It’s his apology.

There’s a black umbrella by Eunbit’s feet, crumpled and wet, dampening the carpet.

“How’s school?” Dylan asks.

“You’ve already asked,” Eunbit says. He takes a sip from a water bottle.

“I know. But still—tell me more. We’ve got time.”

Eunbit opens the center console and rummages for the Kleenex box. He takes a tissue and wipes the fog off the side window. Dropping his hand onto his lap, he stares out at the department stores and restaurants and the occasional dental clinics passing by.

“Eunbit?”

“Yeah?”

A pause, then: “Nothing.”

bright yellow with a pattern of ducks on them; a small bedside cabinet with a lamp sits next to it. There’s a short wooden shelf with books and boxes labeled PHOTOS, SOUVENIRS, MEDICAL, PENS, and RULERS & TAPE. Eunbit picks up the PENS box and opens it. Pens nearly fill up the entire box. He grabs a handful and releases it, watching the pens filter out of his hand. He repeats this till he finds a purple pen with I’M SO PROUD OF YOU written on its side and a smiley face next to it. He puts the PHOTOS box down and takes the MEDICAL box. He opens the lid and rummages through the paper pill containers, tubes of topical paste, empty orange bottles, portable batteries, travel brochures, prescription papers, Polaroid film refills, unwrapped gifts, insurance cards, rolls of gauze, empty juice bottles, snow globes, phone cases, letters and finds a small plastic Ziplock with bandaids in it. He takes one out and...

“Come down,” Dylan’s voice calls. “The surprise is getting stale.”

Eunbit pockets the pen, then peels the opaque film off and sticks the bandaid onto his unbruised arm. He begins to head down.

Eunbit pretends not to notice. It’s his apology.

The car comes to a stop in front of a lime-green house.

It’s a modest two-story inside a suburban residential neighborhood. Dylan heads inside first to prepare the surprise; Eunbit stays to prop the umbrella up to dry.

When Eunbit goes inside, Dylan’s in the kitchen, grabbing plates and cups. His parents aren’t home.

“Can I go up to your room? To see what it looks like,” Eunbit says.

“Don’t you know what it looks like already?” Dylan says.

“Can I?” “Sure.”

The room’s walls are green on two dies and yellow on the others. “The landowner’s fault—he has atrocious taste,” Dylan had said. A bed’s in the far corner, the sheets

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Dylan’s sitting at the table. The chicken’s on a plate and the THANK YOU bag lies on the floor beside it.

Wordlessly, he gestures at the chicken to Eunbit and grabs a leg. Eunbit takes a seat and, instead of eating, pulls out the pen and places it on the table.

“Remember this?” Eunbit asks.

“No?” Dylan says.

Then, after a pause he asks, “Should I?” Eunbit grabs a wing and stares at it in response. Dylan takes a bite of his leg.

“Okay,” he says with a mouth full of chicken. “Give me a bit—maybe I’ll remember it. We’ve got time.”

Eunbit takes a bite into his wing.

“So,” Dylan says, “how’s the surprise?”

Eunbit nods.

After some silence, Dylan says, “I think I remember the pen.”

Eunbit cocks his head towards him.

“A gift shop, right?” he says. “San Fran or Egypt or Korea.”

“Okay,” Eunbit says. Then, suddenly: “Can we go?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can we go outside? In the car.”

Dylan notices the bandaid. “Hey, did you get hurt or—” “Can we take a drive?”

“Are you okay?”

“Can we go?”

“I don’t remember seeing a bandaid on you.”

“Can we?”

A silence, then, “Okay.”

Eunbit puts down the wing.

“The chicken will get cold though,” Dylan says.

Eunbit doesn’t reply; he wipes his hand on his shirt, leaving a red stain, and picks the pen back up. He grabs the THANK YOU plastic bag from the floor and puts the pen in it.

“Where’s the trash can?” Eunbit asks.

Dylan nods at a cabinet in the kitchen. Eunbit opens it and grabs used Kleenexes, misprinted papers, empty plastic containers, paper boxes, cut-up wrapping paper, used pens, single-use chopsticks, used toothbrushes, plastic packaging with his hands and shoves them into the bag.

“What are you doing?” Dylan asks.

“Might as well get rid of these too,” Eunbit says.

Eunbit ties the plastic bag to the Camry’s side view mirror.

“Can I drive the car?” Eunbit asks.

“Do you have a license?” Dylan says.

“Can I?” “Do you?”

Eunbit stares at him. Dvylan stands there and lets him get in the driver’s seat.

The rain’s stopped and left the roads wet and reflecting the night. Eunbit drives slowly, carefully, getting to the highway. In the sepia and blue of the streetlights, the THANK YOU bag flaps in the air, the used Kleenexes and misprinted papers and empty plastic containers and paper boxes and cut-up wrapping paper brushing against the

windows, flying out onto the blacktop.

“What—” Dylan says, looking at Eunbit.

Eunbit stays silent.

“There’s— The highway, the trash!” Dylan says.

“I know,” Eunbit says quietly.

“Stop! Stop it! The plastic, the boxes, the paper, the packaging, the wraps, the—” “I know!” Eunbit breaks his composure.

“The trash, the road, the cars—!”

“I said, I know!”

Dylan rolls down the window and reaches out, attempting to untie the bag from the mirror. Crumpled notebook pages and Post-its and Amazon package labels and used pens and single-use chopsticks and plastic packaging come into the car, hitting the steering wheel, faux leather seats, carpet flooring, car doors, windshield, rear window, Dylan, Eunbit.

“No no no no no,” mutters Dylan panickedly.

A purple pen flies in. I’M SO PROUD OF YOU written on its side with a smiley face.

Dylan picks it up from the floor where it landed.

“Vans!” he says.

“What!” Eunbit says.

“Vans—the teacher—Ms. Vans, ESL, the red door and yellow tiles.”

Eunbit glances at Dylan’s hand with the pen in its clutch.

“Okay,” he says, then knocks the pen out of Dylan’s grasp. A small blur of purple rushes out the window.

“Why—” Dylan says.

Eunbit pulls the car over. The trash stops flying.

Silence.

“Are you okay?” Dylan asks.

“I have a bandaid.”

“You don’t need it.”

No response.

“You know that.”

Dylan reaches over and takes the peach patch off Eunbit’s skin. Eunbit stays still.

“Let’s go home.”

With a sigh, Eunbit rests his head on the wheel. He stays silent.

“We’ve got time.”

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FIVE DAYS AGO Carina Ke

F

ive days ago, I sat at my window, still hoping to catch a glimpse of you.

Everyday I used to look out beneath the window of our second-story room and see you there amongst your flowers.

Everyday you used to wait for me, in the heavy rain or under the blazing sun. You’d tell me of all the plants beginning to bloom and also the ones yet to grow.

Most days, I’d run late. It would be dark by the time I got home. The only way you’d see me was under the dim light of the moon or the soft glow of our porch lights.

But everyday you used to be there, sitting on the bench you’d bought just to make sure you wouldn’t miss me when I arrived, whenever that was.

Everyday, you used to pull me beside you and talk for what felt like hours about your precious flowers.

Five days ago, I sat there on my own, waiting for you, just like they were.

Four days ago, I saw the parasites you let infect your garden.

It was you who was responsible for those flowers.

It was you who knew better than anyone that never, in

Graphics by Dana Yang

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all the times you’d tried to teach me, had any of them ever flourished under my care.

It was you who loved them more than anything else in the world, who knew just what to do when they began to wilt, who could perform the magic to keep their delicate bodies alive.

Yet it was you who abandoned them.

It was you who let them crawl with bugs that slowly ate away at their paper thin leaves and fragile stems, leaving only falling and broken petals behind.

It was you who let them wither away under the furious gaze of the sun, who robbed them of the water you refused to give, until their bodies turned to dust.

It was you who went away.

It was you who didn’t come back.

Four days ago, they’d become mere shadows of their former selves.

Three days ago, I tried to fix the damage that had been done.

I could imagine your face, crumbling and broken, just like they were. It must’ve hurt to see what they’d become. You must’ve stayed away, unable to face such a heartbreaking scene.

So I tried to do what I’ve only watched over and over again, as if all those tips and tricks would finally work for me.

I buried the buds that could not be saved so they could nourish those still clinging on to life.

I gently picked off the bugs I saw, spraying the flowers with that spray you yourself had mixed just last summer to make sure they didn’t return.

I watered them too, making sure the power of the hose didn’t knock down the fragile stems.

Three days ago, I’d given your flowers hope so you could come back to us again.

Two days ago, more petals began to droop.

They weren’t nearly as healed as I’d optimistically thought.

They still stood gloomy and withering, despite everything I’d done.

They had been neglected far too long and were far too close to death to come back with the small efforts that I had made.

They were not going to survive for much longer regardless of anything I could do.

They were never going to be saved by a hand as careless and inexperienced as mine.

They needed you to be there, to really heal them.

They were going to die.

Two days ago, I knew you were never coming back.

Yesterday, only the empty bench waited for me.

Everyday, I used to see flowers filling the garden, but now there are none.

It was you who cared for them more than anything else, but you had to leave.

I did what I could, but I’d been too late.

They were once beautiful, but they are gone.

Everything was perfect, but it never will be again.

It was you who went away.

Yesterday, I stopped looking out of the window from my second-story room.

WOLFSBANE Michelle Huang

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BETRAYAL Palakdeep Bassan

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So many suns have passed since the last time you scattered water on my soil, the pure white petals you were so proud of maintaining drooping like a melted candle.

Screams come from the kitchen, muffled sobs from the floors; I can’t help but think, maybe if you were blinded, maybe if you didn’t know I was his, you’d care for me still, love me, still.

If only the tears you shed would land on me instead, maybe I would still be alive.

CRIES OF A DYING LILY Mikaylah Du

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HEXAPODS [& THE SELF] Jillian Ju

i. in my youth, ants ran the same races and bled the same darkness; nothing has changed about them. i used to have this friend who squashed them for fun; when we were learning songs about rain and mothers and love, she would sit there, legs drawn up her chest, and pick them apart. segment by segment. ashes clung to her fingertips. “here,” she told me, the concrete dotted with bodies— “you try.” and she handed me one, pinched by its abdomen, legs flailing at nothing. it landed in my palm and shuffled away. ants draw their own routes, down your arm, at times. i watched it leave. i guess i wasn’t thinking. she was a little annoyed but kept on: hold it. squash its stomach. pull its head from its body from its soul. wipe your hands. define repent for a child whose world is herself; her sooty fingers— do they count as bloodied? ii. i never said bye to her. i just remember the last time we met (with her frizzy blonde hair and the yearbook in my clutches) she sat on the curb. thinking.

it was simple. the truck was in the driveway but i thought i would see her again, because when you’re a kid nothing is permanent and your words last an instant jagged clouds on the tongue & the way you act transient; that fly you crushed? back the next day. and you swear it’s the same.

iii. last night, as i was remembering, i met an ant with five legs. it scampered across my page and i almost didn’t notice until i thought of her again, sitting on the curb, rolling flies between her palms. so i held it. counted its limbs. wondered, in languid silence, if she would’ve killed it too. iv. the first time i found them in the new house had been a long time coming. the heat stuck to every surface with a burnished hand, the air engorged, the windows open and making no difference. they found our sugar, they found our cracked walls silky smooth, our dusty tiles, their roads to walk through. so they did.

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one way, i found, to hide was to fly. come summer, i knew nothing of my own clammy walls, but my grandmother’s greasy floors. she chopped chicken with cockroaches scurrying by her feet, belly up in the streets, same hue and shape as chewed tobacco: velveteen. grandmother, for her part, stamped them out diligently. my cousins learned from a young age to pick them apart, peel back its shell and pour out their contents, pry off each leg and spell names i could not read, nor watch. in a way there was no way to run. i came back to America dazed, chained to the a.m., hypnotized by silence. everyone was asleep, and i should’ve been, but instead i stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched: ants draw their own routes, through the house, up the walls, into and out of the cabinets, their web like one trembling body eternally searching, eternally hungry; back and forth they go. touch. crawl on. carry our sugar like a lifeline. i sat. the microwave was out of function and took the time with it. i shivered as an ant crawled up my arm, as i held out the palm of my hand: hold it. squash its stomach. pull its mind from its judgment from its homeland. v. dad left the ant baits under the sink. the same honey shade as the barley tea we drink, neither of us thinks twice before twisting the tabs open and setting them down, poison for a new generation. eat, where they starve. drink, where they languish. where they find promises, long buried beneath broken limbs and ashes— make your claim. drive them out. ants scramble to drink from the womb of progress. they cluster around its gaping mouth; soon they will vanish. still they deviate, in search of a better world, a fresher source, a cleaner high, but they will die before they find it. take their hope and offer more, stuff them full of words and dreams and lies, so full they collapse believing this is all there is; ants draw their own routes. but the world cups their hope in its hands and grins as it pulls its fingers into fists: hold it. squash its stomach. pull it closer, ask, how did you come to rot?

Graphics by Giljoon Lee

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LIFE, CRUMBLING Annika Lee

I

still remember the first time you saw me. I will always remember, even as I draw my dying breaths.

Even in elementary school, you were so vibrant you drew everyone’s eye. Once, someone called you pretty as a flower, and the simile stuck. We compared you to a flower when you couldn’t hear, not because we thought you would have taken offense, but because we dared not speak to you.

When you spoke, we all leaned in to listen. Your voice was like a rushing brook, like tinkling bells, like everything that pleased the ear. But you always sounded distant.

Everyone wanted to take you by the hand and draw you close. Deep down, I think we were all half in love with you.

I was nobody. People’s eyes skipped over me. When the older kids pushed me down, I stayed there. Nobody would come to help a scrawny kid whose name slipped their mind after ten minutes, and I had learned that they easily grew bored easily.

But that, they kept kicking.

I tucked my knees to my chest, my body a terrified curve.

“Hey,” you said, then, your voice steady. “Stop that.” You pushed your way through, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me to my feet. You pinned them in place with a thorny glare. They looked down and shuffled their feet, cowed. In contrast, your shoulders thrown back and your chin lifted, you seemed like a warrior.

With a solemnity that shocked me, you pronounced, “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” Their faces flushed red, and you dragged me away.

You let go when we were far enough from them that their figures were blurry and indistinguishable and turned your piercing gaze upon me. I felt cored out, like you had reached your hand into my chest and scooped out my heart to examine it. My bullies must have felt the same, I thought, though they must have been examined and found wanting.

“You know,” you said, your eyes softening so quickly I thought I imagined their earlier sharpness, “you ought to say something back to them. I can’t fathom why you would let them do that to you. You’re certainly smart enough to make them stop.” With that, you floated away, like you were walking on clouds.

That was the first time you saw me, that anybody did.

In the here and now, you laugh, not looking at me. “Did I really say that?”

I nod, watching you through the mirror. Your eyes flick to mine then away. You, with your once-piercing gaze, the one now too hesitant to hold mine for longer than a second. What did you see in me, then? What do you see now, when you look upon my reflection? What do you see when you look upon your own?

You drag your comb through your long hair. You haven’t cut it ever, except for slight trims to take care of any split ends. When you stand, it falls to your feet in a long waterfall.

“Wow,” you say, with a forced laugh, “I barely remember that.”

“Yeah, well. It happened.”

“It happened,” you say, softly, neither a question nor agreement.

It happened, like everything after that did, sent us careening through the years to end up here—you, in front of your mirror, combing your hair.

Me, on your bed, watching.

“You know,” I say, breaking the silence blooming between us, “everyone used to say you were like a flower.”

“A flower?”

“Everything you had was covered in them. And, you know. You always seemed so perfect. Untouchable. Not like the rest of us.”

A melancholic smile grows on your lips. “Perfect? As if.

No one’s perfect, least of all me.”

Then, without warning, you say, “I feel like cutting my hair. What do you think?”

“Up to you.”

You fall silent, playing with the ends of your hair.

“If I were like a flower,” you say, suddenly, “I’d be like that flower. Dead.” You jerk your chin at your windowsill to indicate a dying orchid. Wrinkled petals cover the soil, and its bare stem droops.

I walk to the flower, trail my fingers over the yellowing leaves. You don’t look at me as you pick up the hairbrush to continue combing your hair.

“No. You were so full of life back then. None of us could compare.” I pause. “And then, of course,” I say, before remembering that I shouldn’t continue. The reason for your change is a sensitive subject, even after all these years.

“And then, of course,” you say, mockingly, “my mother died.”

We compared you to a flower when you couldn’t hear, not because we thought you would have taken offense, but because we dared not speak to you.

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Yes, and you stopped raising your hand in class and looking people in the eye.

And your voice did not ring with bells, but with sorrow.

Your eyes no longer saw through layers of masks—they needed to focus. You needed to stop floating around and plant your feet on the ground like the rest of us.

“No,” I say instead. “And then I realized you were like me.”

Once, nobody ever dared to brush past your clothes.

Now, you were jostled with the flow of people. Someone shoved you hard into the lockers. “Can’t you watch where you’re going? Freak,” they spat, before disappearing into the crowd.

You flinched. For a second there, I saw my younger self cringing away from relentless kicks.

Then I blinked, and you were left standing there, your shoulders hunched.

I pushed my own way through, planted myself in front of you. “What did you say?” I asked, glared at everyone who avoided my gaze. Behind me, you trembled like a leaf in the wind. Nobody spoke.

You tugged my shirt, a silent plea. With one last scathing glare, I pulled you away.

“It’s nearly class,” you said, quietly, stumbling over your feet.

I kept walking, out the doors, away from the throngs of people. I brought you to the dark space under the bleachers and held your hands in mine.

“Hey,” I said, “Are you alright?”

You stared at the ground. In the low lighting, I saw a single tear race down your cheek. “What does it matter to you?” You finally said, voice so soft I could barely hear you.

“You don’t know me. Why do you care?”

I shrugged, then. Said nothing. It was true: I didn’t know you. I’d spoken to you once before. Certainly not enough to call you a friend. All I did was stand there, squeezing your hands between mine, hoping the touch would bring you comfort.

If you asked me that question now, I would say that I cared for you the way you cared for me back then. So fierce and strong that you marched up to children taller and stronger than you and demanded they stop kicking a kid you didn’t know. You didn’t have to know me to care for me; I don’t have to know you to care for you.

You’re silent for a while after I finish. “No,” you say, finally, “I’m not like you. You’re stronger than I am.”

I shake my head. “You were always the strong one.”

“Maybe once, but not now.”

I hesitate. “What happened to you?” I say, finally.

You put your hairbrush down. “What happens to all of us? Life happened. We grew up. The difference is that I broke, you didn’t.” You pause. “Sometimes I think I’m still breaking.”

I meet your eyes in the mirror. “I think you’re stronger than you know.”

A sad smile tugs at your lips. You hum noncommittally rather than respond.

“You’re not like that orchid,” I say, leaning in. “I don’t think you’ve broken. You’re still just like a blooming flower.”

“No. If I were a flower,” you say, picking up scissors on your desk and staring your reflection dead in the eye, “I’d kill myself my before I died.”

Graphics by Ashley Kwong

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EVE/ADAM

Art by Dana Yang / Writing by Alyssa Yang

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ADAM takes EVE’s hand and points. look at what you have done to yourself, he says. look at the wars raging across your skin and the termites gnawing at sinews. my heart is still warm, replies EVE. my lips still smile. you lie, says ADAM. look at you, laying back; letting your spine sink into your skin. where is your grace? my arms still open, replies EVE. my eyes still weep, and my blood still spills. my missing pieces still love. you lie, repeats ADAM. he lets EVE’s hand drop and shatter into bone fragments. look at you, rotting away into the garden you succumbed to. where is your marrow? where is the wisdom you bargained for? cathedrals are carved within me, replies EVE. my mouth is a churchyard of the children we have borne. the sin you bore, scoffs ADAM / MAN / ADAM. have you forgotten your penance? who gave in to temptation; who unleashed the serpent?

EVE weeps: my penance? do not speak of my penance. so our LORD decreed and so I have crumbled at your heels, aching between your ribs and beneath your hands and yet in my dreams you are still dragging your fingers down my spine with your legs all tangled up in mine. in my dreams you are the serpent murmuring EVE, EVE, one of us must be at fault for all the gasoline pyres and trenches and cracked concrete and eons of grieving hearts, as our fingers hook around the fruit. this is no place to point fingers. did we not both eat? you forget your penance, says MAN. i rule over you. yes, says EVE. you have invited yourself inside my bones and now there is no place left for me.

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artists

writers

KAAVYA AHUJA PALAKDEEP BASSAN MIKAYLAH DU MICHELLE HUANG ALETHEIA JU TANVI KANDERI ASHLEY KWONG BERNICE KWONG SOPHIA MA (EDITOR) SAARIKA NORI MIKE OCHI RUDRIKA RANDAD SONIA VERMA (EDITOR) KATIE WANG SELINA WANG DANA YANG (EDITOR) JESSICA ZHOU

MELODY CUI MIKAYLAH DU JILLIAN JU CARINA KE GILJOON LEE JANICE LIN (EDITOR) ANNIKA LEE SUHANA MAHABAL ANVITHA MATTAPALLI (EDITOR) RUDRIKA RANDAD AASHI VENKAT (EDITOR) ALICIA XU ALYSSA YANG (EDITOR) JUSTIN YAUNG WILLIAM ZHANG

production MIKAYLAH DU, JILLIAN JU, ASHLEY KWONG, ANNIKA LEE, GILJOON LEE, SOPHIA MA, ANVITHA MATTAPALLI, AASHI VENKAT, SONIA VERMA, ALYSSA YANG, DANA YANG

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STAFF officers EDITOR-IN-CHIEF ANNIKA LEE LEAD SELECTIONS EDITORS SOPHIA MA (ART) ANVITHA MATTAPALLI (WRITING) PRODUCTION MANAGER SOPHIA MA PR EXECUTIVE SONIA VERMA SECRETARY/TREASURER ALYSSA YANG

LA PLUMA Volume 4 2022-2023 Monta Vista High School 21840 McClellan Road Cupertino, CA, 95014 @mvlapluma mvlapluma@gmail.com ADVISOR VENNESSA NAVA

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EFFLORESCENCE La Pluma | Vol. 4