Syzygy - La Pluma Vol. 5

L A P LU M A V O LU M E

Cover by

ia S on

a Verm

5

LA PLUMA 23-24

STAFF OFFICERS

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Sonia Verma Alyssa Yang LEAD SELECTIONS EDITORS Ashley Kwong (art) Aashi Venkat (writing) SECRETARY Dana Yang PR EXECUTIVES Jillian Ju Giljoon Lee

WRITERS

Arielle Fam, Carina Ke, Subin Ko, Suhana Mahabal, Rudrika Randad, Ellie Wang, Selina Wang, Elizabeth Yang, Justin Yaung, Shannon Yu, William Zhang

LETTER from the

EDITORS

2024 unfolds into a tableau of stark contrasts. The cold uncertainty of winter reveals the push and pull of progress against tradition, unity against division, and hope against despair. Just as celestial bodies align in a rare harmony, community bonds intertwine moments of isolation, marking our lives with delicate connections that bridge deep societal rifts. We invite you to join us as we seek to understand the complexity of our natures.

In Volume 05: Syzygy, MVHS’ creative body explores the collision of unlike minds and moments that ignite change within. We confront the conflicts inherent in any union, writing love letters and forming blood pacts to embrace the growth that emerges from friction. We ponder over the juxtaposition of opposite forces—oil and water, good and evil, stillness and chaos—to create something transcendent from the harmonious blending of contradiction.

As we present Volume 05: Syzygy to you, we hope to inspire a deeper appreciation for the intricate dance of contradictions around us, in which lies the potential for extraordinary growth and breathtaking beauty.

ARTISTS

Palakdeep Bassan, Lisa Fan, Michelle Huang, Aletheia Ju, Bernice Kwong, Aster Nguyen. Katie Wang, Lillian Wang, Selina Wang

syzygy Sonia Verma

Co-Editor-in-Chief

Alyssa Yang

Co-Editor-in-Chief

(SIHzuh-jee)

(n.) a conjunction or opposition, especially of the moon with the sun 02

writing A Love Letter

04

Body Language

06

Reflection Eternal

10

Your Timeline

12

by Suhana Mahabal

by Jillian Ju

by Justin Yuang

by Subin Ko, translated to English by Giljoon Lee

Little Starspeck

by Elizabeth Yang

14

art Concatenated

05

Binding Monachopsis

09

Reflection Eternal

11

Hands Tied

13

Little Starspeck

14

Rose-tinted

17

draft25

18

by Michelle Huang

by Aster Nguyen

by Selina Wang

by Palakdeep Bassan

by Owen Liu

by Katie Wang

Waiting for the Green

15

In the City Beneath the Moon, I

16

Don’t Look Back

20

Oil & Water

22

by Lillian Wang

Potpourri

25

by Lisa Fan

Infinities

26

by Dana Yang

A Divided Soul

28

by Giljoon Lee

by Arielle Fam

by Ellie Wang and Shannon Yu

by Carina Ke

by Aashi Venkat

by Rudrika Randad

by William Zhang

by Aleithia Ju

Connected in the Moment

19

Oil & Water

22

Potpourri

24

Shadows Before the Dawn

27

The Royal Gambit

31

by Ashley Kwong

by Bernice Kwong

03

A Love Letter

Suhana Mahabal

T

onight marks the eve of the fifth moon. I am afraid.

I am so deathly afraid of what is coming. I have a haunting feeling in my chest and a sharp ringing in my ears and I know whatever comes cannot be good.

Whatever comes will only burn like acid, and yet I am more afraid of losing you. I felt as if I have already lost you a thousand times over. I feel the loss of your presence though I’ve never known you, though I know you far more than I’ve known any other being. I don’t know your body or your eyes or your laugh, but I know your deepest feelings and hopes and fears. Your words embrace mine in our letters and your prose brings tears to my eyes. You speak of my memories that I’ve never told you.

And as I speak of our connection, I realize I must confess. I cannot, in good conscience, continue our relationship with my dark heavy secret. We may die, any day now, and what would pain me more than a bullet to the gut is knowing I betrayed you with every fiber of my core. I am one of the Darkness, one of the beings sent to destroy Nurender from the inside out. I am the fear mongers on the street, the shadow in the window, the cloaked beings in your dreams.

And as much as I would like to lie, again, I cannot to you. When I arrived in your city, my mind was filled with dark thoughts. I hated the false peace and security you had achieved when my own hometown was ravaged. I detested the way your people strolled the streets, completely at ease, without the haunting fear of death trailing them. My own siblings could not leave the house, yet your children seemed to dash around without a care in the world.

And here again I speak the truth and only the truth: I wanted to kill you. When I first found your letter, tucked in a crevice in the walls, your words enraged me. Your attempts to reach out seemed like a condescending smite to my pride, a blow where I had been stabbed too many times. How could you speak so lightly, so hopefully, so carelessly? Although we held the same positions, both of us clandestine spies, our mindsets seemed worlds apart. And so I detested you and everything you stood for. Yet I sent you a letter back.

Perhaps my curiosity got the better of me. Perhaps your words managed to creep in some fallen defense of mine. I do not know, and I do not find myself caring. That first letter ignited a fire between us and

I would not give that up for anything. Your words have lit a match within me. You have shown me what it means to see the other side. What peace means. I have only known war for years and years. Only known destruction and demolition and death. And now with you I have found peace.

I know the idea of universe wide peace is impossible.

I know there will always be beings with dark minds and dark ideas and a hungering for blood. I know that you and I cannot find peace because of our species and our lives. I know, and that haunts me.

Yet I love you. I love you from the bottom of my heart. I love your words and the sense of peace you inspire and the fact that you’ve shown me a possibility where there is peace. A world without war and death and despair. A few moons ago, I would have thought that impossible. But now I see it so clearly.

I am now being sent to war. I have been hiding in your city, shielded from the most brutal extent of the horrors. It’s been a blissful escape but it can’t last forever. And so I must accept my duty. I am leaving. I do not know how to contact you again or if I will. All I know is that I love you. And is the truest love I have ever known. I will see you in every star and every comet. I will hear your words in the whisper of the wind and in the clash of swords. You are my heartbeat. You are all I will ever think about.

Should we ever see each other again, I will know.

I will see your eyes and see a million of our words intertwined.

Goodbye forever and ever.

You have shown me what it means to see the other side.

04

In battle today, I snuck up behind someone. I held a knife against a throat. I sliced it across, wet blood against dark ground. As the body fell I saw black eyes filled with all the stars and galaxies. I saw every dream and nightmare and word whispered. I saw our love. I saw the face of the one I loved fall to the ground.

Tonight, I write a letter to the love of my life.

Tonight, I write a letter to a dead being.

Our love could not survive this cruel world.

Yours until the end of eternity.

Concatenated Michelle Huang

05

Body Language Jillian Ju

Twice a year, as per our deal, Tyler and I are reborn.

We met at a party, the kind with a rooftop, where the chill bit through walls and everyone was perpetually rubbing their hands, grinning despite themselves. I looked down at mine (the hum of conversation passed to, through me) and figured I would not be looking at new hands for a while. What they don’t tell you about growing up is the part where you get stuck with yourself.

But he’s on the roof, and I’m sick of trying so I’m on the roof, and he says, “why?” and I get the feeling that he’s filling silence but all I can tell him is how I’m tired of looking down at the same hands. And not just the hands, the face in the mirror, the frame in the shadow– me, I think I’m tired of looking at me.

He nods. He says, “yeah.”

And he’s thinking, he’s got sleeves up to his fingertips and breath drawn out like ellipses, but something about the way he pauses makes me think he understands. So I say, would you want to be me?

He says, “yeah.”

On that night (and that night only), the world refused to resist us. The parchment rolled out like a whisper and the needles took easily, too easy, and absent struggle I did not feel like myself. Tyler grinned, bold despite his meekness, bloody and a little better for it. I laid down a name and felt it melt from my chest and thought, this is what it must feel like to die.

His bags, hastily packed, swelled in the corner of my apartment. The decision had been made, and perhaps it had been made long before we even met– we were meant for the other, meant to be the other.

Neither of us wanted our bodies. So it was easier to scrape ourselves away, to take on new names. I told him that was possible, that we only needed a night, that he only needed to say yes. So he did.

Tyler counts days towards reversion, rebirth. Twice a year, like clockwork. His anxieties fester and manifest in his shorthand, his scribbles. He sticks his notes on the fridge and never intends to take them down. In the absence of sound he writes and writes and never mentions it. So if anyone in the world would understand, it would be me; I don’t. I don’t know how to.

There are dolls in the drawer beneath his desk. He finds his little heaven by holding them tight, cutting them open. When he’s out at work I like to take them out, line them up on the floor, their faces so plastic they wrap back around to being human.

Here’s one whose legs are in the shape of fingers. Here’s one whose eyes have been scrubbed of childhood. Here’s one with “amaranth” labeled on its foot.

This doll is a mask, a blank slate. I pour a little from his acetone bottle; this is how he removes faces. I dip my palm in. This is how we remove our sins: God, I still have my history, engraved into my skin like my fingerprints.

are we sinners held by saints or only doomed by our parasites / defined by false paradise?

It never lasts long. In the morning we can go back to being ourselves.

06

On the fridge: “are we sinners held by saints or only doomed by our parasites / defined by false paradise?”

It is possible that we have not talked in weeks or years or lifetimes. He throws the occasional word at me but it is as if their dead weight falls short of flight; he expects nothing of us. I am free to take the silence wherever I go, like a blessing.

A full year ago, a full year into our exchange, we went back to that rooftop. We never coordinated it; I shook open the doors and he was just there. Thinking.

The hosts had long moved out, the building was set to be demolished, and everything ached with a

concrete dullness. The sky was just as gray and Tyler stood out like a scar, motionless in my hazel coat. But he’s on the roof, and we can’t be split so I’m on the roof, and this time it’s me who starts: Tyler?

He doesn’t respond; he is facing away, elbows on the railing, still enough to be canvas. He is so quiet that sometimes I worry he has become his own vision.

So I approach him, but before the words can come out he turns around and it’s not Tyler, it’s not tyler it’s not tyler it’s not tyler it’s me. Me staring at my face, my face clawed out of his skull like a raw wound like a new child like a full moon– it is this, twice a year. As per our deal.

A full year ago, a full year into our exchange, Tyler was reborn.

excuse sits in the back of my throat, in case he somehow wakes late into the morning (“I’m halfway through the novel, sorry for taking so long to get to it”), but the world is soundless. So I flip to the last page, the twist he refuses to reread, weighting his words into whispers:

I talk to him after dark. It is like talking to a corpse. I say, it’s okay to be a parasite sometimes. I say, the body is a vessel (I don’t believe it) and you deserve to be all of them, if you want. I am not sure if he hears me talking in his sleep. His chest forms punctuation in the dark, rising, sinking, but I’m tired of punctuation, I’m tired of silence, I’m tired of stuffing myself between his skin and his slashes — Tyler, just talk to me.

Under the desk, his doll drawer is open.

Here’s one whose body is dictated by binaries. Here’s one whose foot is labeled “tyler.”

Here’s one whose other foot is labeled “amaranth.”

I hold it in my hand; it has my eyes. It has the burn on my stomach. It has his right arm, and attached to it is my hand and the patch on my wrist. The body melts down the middle like a human venn, meeting itself chest to chest, rivet to rivet. Behind my eyelids, it’s often hard to believe that a human body isn’t simply this: a doll.

So here’s what I mean when I say we’ve been completed, hollow the way a secret is. He’s sewn us together. And if I were anyone else I would say that it’s horrific, that I don’t understand it, but after all

A body betrays what a tongue wouldn’t. Here’s a doll with a dress made of doll hair. Here’s a doll with its hands on backwards. Here’s a doll with “tyler” labeled on its foot. This drawer is all loose limbs and heads, all smooth shells and pieces.: He takes them apart. He puts them together. He tries to love himself the way he loves them.

On the fridge: “god it is not her fault if you never let eve be the man / the seed” I am peeling pomegranates (indulgent. my hands sickness-red) when he asks me if I know where his notes are going, the way you ask for a promise returned. He doesn’t expect a response and despite knowing, I don’t know if I have one.

On the fridge: “i want to sew myself so tightly i become heaven, so closed i become infinite”

“are we sinners held by saints or only doomed by our parasites / defined by false paradise?”

It’s harder to talk to him when he’s alive. So I shrink in the desk chair, blanket thrown over my shoulder, sipping tea that tastes just as much of dust as it does of life. The lamp shines across his back, the bed a cemetery.

I can nearly see his face in his shadow, on the wall, the way our homes become us. The way our hosts do.

The book sits between my knees. The prepared

07

the wishing and breaking and waiting for a body to feel like mine the way mine never was, all I can say is that this doesn’t get any better, does it?

I saw him and thought, I want her skin. But he’s more than a body. Tyler, he’s the only person I can ever believe in.

In the morning, Tyler eyes the clock and it counts hours until destruction. I watch him consider, but it is only himself he seeks to undo. Redo. He considers the note on the fridge, pale yellow, and shreds it as though it were skin, the sound piercing silence; he is left holding on, wondering. To hurt in p/reparation.

“Don’t push yourself too hard,” I say, knowing full well that the night before I had sat on the shower floor watching blood wash down the drain. Still under my fingernails like rot.

He looks at me.

“It’s not your fault,” I say.

Tyler looks away.

He leaves. I lie down upstairs. I taste every hour until midnight and wait for him to come home. I take his notepad in my hands and listen to its pages, write out what I wish could be spoken: On the fridge:

Tyler, why stay afraid?

On the dashboard: all of his notes. He flips through them as we revel in nowhere times and nowhere rushes.

He does not ask me why. I think he understands.

There are seven minutes left when the engine sinks into silence. He sits in the passenger seat looking up at the sky, met with his own reflection like a drowning man. I ask him if he wants to go out. If he’s prepared.

And he says nothing, wants nothing, just reaches for my hand and murmurs, “I never did like my body.”

“I know.”

A pause, then: “I’m sorry.”

Today, two years into our exchange, we go back to that rooftop. Now nothing more than a parking lot, we sit on the concrete in the hopes that we can find ourselves in compromise.

And as the minutes melt into seconds I find myself thinking that something about the people we are is built for impermanence— I don’t need to look over to know our time is up, that our atonement began the moment he caught me on that rooftop nonexistent / the moment the moments blur in his eyes like clouds, like gods in the venn we’ve been stitched whole again / our history bound on the face that he looks at me with, his features melting into nothing, into newborn innocence— My thumbs on his jaw & his palms on the ground, his face nothing more than the flat skin of a stomach, an eggshell smoothness — Tyler cracks open. And beneath that is my own face peering back at me, waiting to feel alive again— This rooftop, this body, this prison. And my lips want nothing more than to taste here to taste collision— Twice a year, as per our deal, Tyler and I are reborn.

I never did like my body.

On the fridge: amaranth?

The sun hasn’t even skimmed the horizon when he slams the front door. I ask him what’s wrong as though I wasn’t watching for his car through the window; he took mine. He parked it out back. He tells me he can’t think straight, he can’t work, he’s thinking / dreading / thinking of rebirth. Of reversion.

“It’s okay,” I say.

His eyes flit over his notepad in my hand.

I say, “Do you want to go somewhere?”

He’s quiet in the car. Neither of us quite know how to separate ourselves from anything. We let the city swallow us up in its noise and pretend, briefly, to be nobody.

He says, “It’s been difficult to explain.” We drive towards the sun, the sky washing out into darkness, the stars flickering off behind headlights. It is the most he has said in a while.

“Try me,” I say, thinking very little of it all. I feel feverish.

“That we deserve this,” he says.

“Deserve what?” The world seems distant; everything sounds like skin. And he doesn’t answer

08

but he does in the backseat to concrete heaven / our last-ditch faith in salvation blaring / songs drawn out like love remaining / eyes thumbed shut like true mercy / burning / his wrist wrapped around his seatbelt like the fear of dying oh tyler oh tyler what if this is immortality?

Aster Nguyen

Binding Monachopsis 09

Reflection Eternal Art by Selina Wang / Writing by Justin Yaung

A

s my eyes finally close, I savor my chance to rest until a deluge of pain spills over my momentary relief, washing over my face with endless, scorching, fire.

“Oh, Leila. You poor thing. You poor, poor, thing.”

I’m in my bed. Oh, how I love this place. The sunlight streams through my giant windows, warming my skin. I roll over on my stomach, looking for my phone to check the time, but when I see my blurred reflection on my dark screen, I gasp. That is not me.

It’s the middle of the afternoon, but as I rush to the bathroom to look in my mirror, the sky outside darkens. My face is a patchwork mess of gray and pink; darkened and burnt flesh like the butt of a cigarette in sharp contrast with the raw, pink, and fragile patches of my face. My skin is pulled in different directions—nothing is where it belongs. I feel like I’m looking into my own face but through a broken mirror. The sky turns to black. The moon blots out the sun. I’m completely lost in my appearance as my heart slowly turns to stone and I sink to my knees.

into my mind and another day of that might actually drive me crazy. I desperately need a respite, but my future hinges upon going to class and simply living with the fact that people will stare at me. But I don’t think I can do that.

I decide to skip, just for a day, just to get my bearings, order a pizza, whatever. I pace around my little room, checking my reflection every couple of minutes in hopes that a miracle happens and I can go back to my life.

I spend hours, slowly devolving from my sadness into frustration into anger. I shout uselessly at the walls.

“LET THEM STARE! I’LL GIVE THEM SOMETHING TO STARE AT!” I’ll… give them something to stare at? I ran to my computer, already on Amazon, excited for the first time in a couple of days.

I feel like I’m looking into my own face but through a broken mirror.

“Leila.. You’re broken.”

When I finally rise, I realize that I have a class, which I have a test for, which I have to go to. But I can already envision the murmurs, the rising storm of barely audible utterances by my classmates trailing behind me. My fears are quickly realized before even getting to school. The instant I step outside, a rising storm of whispers follows me.

“Oh, gosh. What happened to that poor girl?”

“Leila! Leila, are you okay, what happened, why haven’t you been responding to me?”

By the time I’m able to return to the safety of my apartment, I’ve endured so many phases of anxiety that I can do nothing but crash and fall into the familiar comfort of my bed.

“Run or hide, you cannot escape the truth” I can’t face another day of what I went through yesterday. Every little interaction I had seems to burn

10

“Leila, be very careful”

They stare, still. But they don’t stare out of pity. I feel powerful now, in control of my own life. So what if my face is ruined? I have a dozen masks, a dozen portrayals of rabbits, lions, rhinos, and every manner of wild beast one could dream of etched into the soft fibers that fit snugly on my face. I’m relieved of my burdens now—able to go wherever and do whatever and live however, without the fear of shame. There used to be a threatening nature for every interaction where they couldn’t tear their eyes away. Now, they can’t stop staring because I am compelling.

I never want to take these masks off. At first, I thought they would help, just a little, but they’re everything now. The mask slips onto my face so easily, fits so snugly, it feels... right, and it scares me, just a little. There’s nothing really to be scared of, though.

It’s just an accessory to my image, it doesn’t really mean anything.

But it’s… heavy. And it seems to grow heavier. The mask is part of me now, but I don’t know whether that’s a good thing.

“Leila... I’m sorry. So, so, sorry.”

I wake up and I’m tired. I’m tired of not being able to feel the sun on my face. The mask, the mask, the mask. It’s resurrected me. It’s allowed me peace. It’s

burned my soul to shreds—let me fade away. The afternoon sunlight warms my arms. I need it to warm my face. The mask will constrain me no longer; the training wheels are coming off; hell, I’ll even go to therapy; I need to be FREE again.

I wobble on unsteady feet, weighed down by the gravity of my situation, towards the bathroom to remove the weight on my face. The sky darkens, almost as if were a flower ready to bloom, to crow to

the whole world the joyous end of my incarceration.

I reach upwards for my mask, feeling for the straps keeping it in place. But the sky never brightens, the moon never fades, the mask, the MASK, IT DOES NOT LEAVE. It taunts me, sinking deeper and deeper, forcing me onto my knees, as the world goes pitch black and I… I have lost… lost my life.

11

Your Timeline?

Illustration by Giljoon Lee

Subin Ko

With the oar that doesn’t know his direction With the sagged sail that doesn’t meet the wind of dreams My dear, you who have lost your way at sea Even in this vast sea Always above our heads Are stars always shining in their own colors The stars, guiding our way with silence Aren’t they our life guides?

Now I follow their guidance I stand on the crossroads forced to make a choice Without being able to choose a star to follow Morning comes What is morning and day The morning colors the whole world with light and makes it bright but, It actually blocks my guide.

So who are mornings and days for?

Who doesn’t need stars Who doesn’t depend on oars or sails Is this a place for them?

Then you You who live in the morning while the stars are gone

Original poem in Korean: 그대의 시간선은? 밤 다음 밤 가야할 방향을 모르는 노와 함께 꿈의 바람을 받지 못해 축처진 돛과 함께 바다에서 길을 잃은 그대여 망망대해인 이곳에서 항상 우리 머리 위에서 항상 각자의 색으로 빛나던 별들 말없이 길을 인도해주는 별들은 그들이야말로 우리의 인도자가 아닌가요 그들이 인도자인걸 깨달은 지금 선택의 기로에섰던 나는

12

그새 따라갈 별을 고르지 못한채로 아침을 맞이하네요 아침과 낮은 무엇인가요 온세상을 빛으로 물들이며 밝게만들이지만 정작 내 인도자를 가리네요 그럼 아침과 낮은 누굴 위한건가요 별을 필요로 하지 않는 노와 돛을 필요로 하지 않는 그들을 위한 자리인가요? 그러면 당신들은 별이 사라진 아침에 살게된 당신들은 무슨 별을 바라보며 따라갔었나요?

Hands Tied Palakdeep Bassan

13

would you rather be the hunter or the prey? we’re all but monsters in the end little starspeck, don’t let his heart grow any darker, gun at the ready you, neither cry out in fear, for fear is for the hunted and although you sneak around, you, neither predator, nor prey, do not fear the end the light has died

to no matterwe’re all but monsters in the end

Little Starspeck

Art by Owen Liu / Writing by Elizabeth Yang

14

which one hurts less? but I see eyes of liquid sunshine harden into amber like the cold seeded in the night steel-tipped spear pointed, ready, to pierce the heart of the quarry dart away from the blood don’t get caught little starspeck, the candle has gone out, in your eyes am I still a monster? ...

... little starspeck?

Illus

tratio

ns by

Ashl

ey Kw

ong

Waiting for the Green Giljoon Lee

T

he red light forces the car to a stop. We watch from behind the windshield as a homeless woman steps onto the street and wanders in and out of the lanes, right in the middle of all the cars waiting. Her hair gray, she wears an oversized t-shirt decorated by a fading Superman logo. She waves a cardboard sign that reads, TWO CHILDREN WITH NO MONEY TO EAT. You bend down, feeling the floor for the sunglasses you dropped a second ago.

Eyes pointed at the ground, you say, “What if we made that bakery of ours like we’ve been talking about?”

Suddenly, I’m too cold and hot at the same time. I open the glove compartment and rummage through, looking for the car manual. I say, “Maybe. But what would we even sell?”

“I was thinking of salt bread. It’s quite popular right now.”

“But don’t you think people will lose interest in a month?”

“True. Or we could sell croissants. The classy kind.”

“The classy kind?”

“Like, you know, classy made-with-flour-from-theHimalayas-and-baked-in-a-hot-spring kind.”

“Oh,” I say.

But your words don’t matter because I found the manual and I’m flipping through it, looking for the instructions to turn both the builtin heating pads and cooling pads on at the same time.

“Did you find your sunglasses yet?” I ask.

“Sunglasses?” you ask without looking my way. “I’m searching for my wallet.”

To turn the heating pads on, press the button labeled “HEAT” below the radio, the manual reads. Below those instructions, it says, To turn the cooling pads on, press the button labeled “COOL” below the radio and next to the “HEAT” button. But no instructions for turning them both on at the same time.

I press both buttons at once and hope for the best.

It works. The cooling fans start loudly, and you notice and turn your head in my direction. A pause, then you resume your search for your wallet.

My ass feels weird.

The traffic light turns green. I tap your shoulder and you straighten up immediately.

You look out the window and see the homeless woman. The other cars start to move again and she drops her sign limping off the road, out of their path.

You release the brake and push down on the accelerator. The woman, now on the sidewalk, stares at the cars. Her hands are empty.

Suddenly, I’m too cold and hot at the same time.

15

In the city beneath the moon, I Arielle Fam

C

rate in the attic (hot, still); steel rising (pushing the sky); dust falling as dust does (drawn to everything); A honk, a shout, and thunder—pounding, pounding, pounding on my skull, burst in and trample— I shut my bedroom door tight and sit against it.

Deep breaths, I need to take deep breaths. (In, out.)

A motorbike’s imprint brushes the curtains. (In, out.)

The goldenrod sunset darkens to cool obsidian. (In, out.)

Look down, watch the ant crawl into the gap between the wall and the floorboards. (In.) Wish I could do that too. Crawl into the darkness, hide there, surround myself with nothing. (Out.) The sky isn’t bright anymore. I stumble to my feet and drag them to the window, throwing open the panes and pulling silver mist into the room. The stale air is sucked away and I exhale slowly. The moon, a single hole out of the world: so near, and though I cannot see past the white outlining her rim I step towards her anyway. Her entrancing beauty, beckoning; her expansive silence, serene; I close my eyes, open and

Again.

My breath scarcely begins to form in my throat before my cords snap and it falls into my chest, battered and flightless. Butterflies stabbed through with harpoons, birds tangled in steel. All in an instant.

How do I breathe in an abyss? I am no fish, merely man. No, it can’t— I am.

I can’t stand it.

I run and run but I’m in a glass cage; I’m not drowning in water but the vacuum; I shatter the tranquil unpeace and leap into the raging comfort: The ground curves away from me as I wait for the impact. Everything is slow, I’m back in the aquarium— I surface and it’s dark again,

I await the cacophony of indigo leaking down the walls. breathing heavily, and discordant brass, bracing Iassitmyup,gasps quiet and fade I realize something else takes my ears, but it never comes. their place. Sweet and beaua hush of wind. A bike I open my fluttering heart tiful, cruising past. Its rhythmic ticking grounds me even as and embrace the world it flies away. The final tint of wholly. dream evaporates and the ink

Footprints on gray dust—is this how her craters are made? The world is so far below, so far away. I feel like a fish leapt out of brine— gravity never was, never forced me down into an asphyxiating sky; if it did, how could I be here now, out of the aquarium, breathing, breathing, living?

Thump. Heartbeat.

Thump. Tingles in my throat; warmth on my tongue.

Thump. I am human once again.

Peace is the absence of a world living past its fullest; the ocean’s crash trapped in a conch and crushed to sand; me, barely present, half a shadow in the growing emptiness that must be filled—speak, cry, sing into it but it swallows me up.

The dawn hails me; I grasp the golden clouds and pull them close. I await the cacophony of discordant brass, bracing my ears, but it never comes. I open my fluttering heart and embrace the world wholly.

Try again. Sound couldn’t leave so suddenly.

Its song is not so loud.

Swallowed again.

16

of indigo dissipates as I hear a

Rose-Tinted

Katie Wang 17

draft25 Aletheia Ju

18

Connected in the Moment

Ashley Kwong

19

Don’t Look Back Shannon Yu and Ellie Wang November 11, 3:49 a.m.

D

ead branches snapped beneath her as she ran.

Her shoe caught on something and fell away into the darkness. She left it. No time, no time, no time to look back.

Brambles ripped into her tender, bare flesh and she screamed, crashing wildly through the underbrush.

Behind her, -------- cried out. “Hurry!” she shouted.

“Come on!” No time, no time, no time to look back.

Waves of heat pulsed against her skin as gusts of ash and embers blew past, the sparks golden against a black sky.

Fire swallowed the trees around her, engulfing one after another with a crack and explosion of powdery white flakes. It was loud, so loud.

She couldn’t hear -------- anymore.

No. No, no, no, they couldn’t stop yet. They had to stay together, not apart. They were best friends and best friends were never, ever, ever apart, never— A crash of splintering wood, and the night flashed white again.

“Keep going!” Her lungs felt weak, flimsy, unable to support even the slightest breath as she pounded out of reach of the flames. “We have to—” No time.

“—keep going, we can’t—” No time.

“—stop here, we have to keep going—!”

No time to look back.

She looked back.

“Sometimes, I look at my hands and see blood.” She held her palms out in front of her. “I know you see it, too. I killed you when I left you behind, I know I did. I should have helped you or waited with you or dragged you along, so why did I leave? Why did I run? Why didn’t I save you? Why? Why didn’t I just— just save you?”

She felt ------- ’s gentle grip on her shoulders.

“Look at me. Look at me. There is nothing on your hands. Absolutely nothing.”

She tried to look at ------- , but their eyes, their nose, their lips—everything about them was hazy.

She couldn’t even make out a shape. She wished she could see something, wished she could dig deep into her mind, pull out an image—any image—of her friend, but there was nothing. Only a blur as gray as the smoky clouds that engulfed each step she took. I want to see you. Her hand tightened around ------- ’s.

I want to see you. I want to see you again.

“It’s hard to lead a life when you’re stuck in the past. Nothing you do will change what has already happened—just let me go. Don’t let grief control you like this. Don’t lose.”

“I’ve already lost.”

“We only lose temporarily. There is always a way to pick yourself back up.”

Her throat swelled as she bit her lips, choking down tears. “You treat me like a little kid you need to take care of, protect, and shield. But I couldn’t even protect you! I killed you. I killed you, and I need to remember—” “That won’t bring me back.”

She stopped, the gravel beneath her bare, bloody feet digging into her open wounds, slicing deep through her skin, but not deep enough to cleanse.

“Please. This is not your burden to carry.”

“Then whose is it?” she asked, snapping her head to face ------- . “Who else can I blame? The forest?

The fire? I should have stayed behind. I should have saved you. So why. Why? Why didn’t I just stay?”

“You would have died, can’t you see that?”

“So?” Her voice broke and she sank to the ground, tears falling like the rain that had come too little, too late. Except this time, there was nothing left to extinguish.

A grin carved itself, uninvited, onto her face. “I killed you, didn’t I?”

Present

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

She kicked a pebble and it bounced once, twice, across the dirt path, vanishing in the dust. “Everything. We shouldn’t have been there. I should never have brought us at night.”

“Oh, don’t say that. The stars were so beautiful.”

A laugh. “I couldn’t even see them through all that smoke.”

“But you made it out.”

“You didn’t.” A grin carved itself, uninvited, onto her face. “I killed you, didn’t I?” “No, of course not. How could you say that?”

20

November 11, 3:57 a.m.

Her head throbbed as smoke filled her lungs. She gasped for clear air, but inhaled only ash.

Kneeling, she pressed her hands against -------- as a dark, sticky sap drooled to the forest floor.

“No,” she rasped. “No, no, nononono, why, why is this happening, why is... what is this?”

-------- sat against a tree trunk, coughing up black phlegm that flecked their lips and dribbled down their chin. Their head lolled, but their eyes stayed open, red as the flames that licked their ankles. “Go,” -------- gurgled, eyes widening.

“G–go...”

“No, no, don’t make me leave, don’t make me choose, I don’t want to choose, please get up, please!”

Frantic now, she shook -------- by the shoulders.

“Please, please just get up,” she begged, her voice straining against the hot, heavy air. “Just stand up and come with me, I can’t go alone, don’t make me go alone!”

------- coughed again, the black sludge spraying their clothes. “Please, just...”

“No, no, no.” Every sob that scraped through her throat left her insides raw.

She draped ------- ’s arm over her shoulder and stood, screaming as her ankles buckled beneath her.

Dragging herself up again, she heaved herself and -------- forward one long, slow step at a time. She could hear her own breathing, louder and louder by the second, merging with the sound of falling trees and raging flames.

“Stop,” -------- pleaded, voice reduced to a raspy whisper. “Can’t you hear the fire?”

A burning branch whistled past and exploded into splinters in the dirt.

I can do it. If we just don’t stop, I can do it.

And then -------- shoved. They fell out of her grasp and crumpled. Taking her hand, -------- smiled. Black tears streamed from their eyes.

It was a soft, feathery, freeing smile, she thought suddenly. Like birds flying through a bright, cloudy sky. But even birds burned.

“Go. Just go.”

No time. No time. No time to look back.

“I want you to remember what I say next. You did not kill me. This was not your fault. I died, and that is simply what happened. You helped me, remember? You did try to take me with you, you did try to save me.”

A scene filled her mind, the afterimage of her pulling -------- behind her. And then of -------- pushing her away.

“It was me who stopped you, wasn’t it?”

Blankly, she nodded again.

“Can you look at me?”

She hesitated. What was the point? She would only see a blur, a haze, a misty almost-image of ------- , a ghost she couldn’t even remember. But -------- had asked. So she raised her eyes.

The relief was warm, like a glow embracing her and ushering heavy beats from her heart. She had always felt that there was something pulling at her, hooking its claws into her flesh and peeling her skin back. But now, the echoes of that frantic battle slowly subsided.

“I... yes. Yes, I can.”

--------... Their eyes were filled with sincerity, lips shaped into a graceful curve. Their face lit up brighter than any sun, radiating a heat that made her forget every sadness, every grief she had ever felt.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered.

-------- smiled. “Thank you.”

No. Thank you. Thank you for everything you did, everything you have done for me.

“Life is a fire. It burns until extinguished.”

No time.

“Think of me, but don’t extinguish yourself in your grief.”

No time.

“I’ll miss you.”

She turned away.

And didn’t look back.

Present

She stood again after everything in her had fallen, the salt water lapped up by the parched, dusty ground.

-------- ’s hand pressed into hers, a comforting, familiar weight.

“Are you listening to me now?”

Taking a deep breath of cool air, she nodded. “I’m trying.”

Illustration by Ashley Kwong

21

Oil & Water

Art by Bernice Kwong / Writing by Carina Ke

I

remember the months when it was just me and you.

We were never like the others, those who fit so well together it was deemed destiny that they met. No, we were never like that.

I remember the fights we used to have, small arguments really.

It seemed, at times, that our stubbornness was the only thing we shared. But, either way, the grudges and the anger never lasted very long.

I remember we used to cook together because both of us refused to do it all ourselves.

You said we were like oil and water: try as we might, we would never fully mix. And yet, you added, we didn’t need to.

I remember those months.

I remember we were happy.

I remember the day you introduced me to him, the sharpness in his eyes when you told me he was your friend, the clench of his jaw when you told him I was more.

I remember how easily your words flowed when he was around, eager to discuss the book I wasn’t patient enough to read or the movie you loved, but was exactly what I hated to watch.

He fit with you like I never did, But you never seemed to mind.

I remember telling myself it was because you loved me anyway.

When he invited you to dinner, I know he didn’t ask for me to come, But he never told you, so you brought me along.

22

I know he was unhappy when he saw me at his door. Still, he was not surprised.

Without hesitation, he invited us both in, like it was his plan all along, nevermind the fact that there were only two places at the table.

I know he took your arm on purpose, while guiding you to his living room couch.

He didn’t make dinner, remembering how happy you’d always be when talking of our adventures together in the kitchen. I know he wanted you to recreate those adventures with him.

I know that, this time, I went alone and placed a single pan on the stove once it seemed clear your talks would not be done any time soon, despite the darkness that already filled the sky.

I know that it was only the sound of your laughter, after a particular joke he told, drifted through the open door that I was reminded: I was not in fact alone in the unfamiliar house.

I know you were worried about me when you came into the kitchen.

It must’ve been a depressing scene for you to stumble upon: thick oil weighing down the slowly heating pan, vegetables limply held in my hand, nothing like the cheerfulness I usually had.

I know you just wanted me to be friends with him, for me to smile as bright as I used to, right alongside the two of you.

But I know that he would despise that, you just couldn’t see what was so clear before my eyes.

I know you tried your best, like you always do.

But I could feel my anger rise and bubble with each drop of water that fell into the heated oil.

I know I was being difficult and I know you didn’t mean for what happened next.

But you knocked my hands, trying to come closer while I stepped away, and the food I held flew all at once towards the stove.

I saw how he went to you first, after hearing the commotion. He comforted you, checked over the small burns you had, tried to make you smile no matter how small or sad it was.

You said we were like oil and water: try as we might, we would never fully mix.

I saw the mess on the stovetop, nothing damaged beyond repair, but damaged nonetheless.

I stood silently, watching you and him.

I saw the moment I realized the truth.

I saw that I was no less blind than you.

I hope he didn’t take offense when you reached for me as I walked out of his kitchen, and out of his house.

I hope you agreed to cook with him despite what I had done.

I hope you enjoyed what was left of that night, of the dinner that was only ever meant for two.

I hope you can find in him the one that can do more than just be next to you.

23

Potpourri

Art by Lillian Wang / Writing by Aashi Venkat

24

June 24, 2022

December 2, 2022

I sent a bouquet of flowers—red roses, her favorite color, her favorite flower—to her house. I stood outside as they were delivered, and I watched as she opened the door and her face lit up. If I could capture this essence in a pendant, hang it on a chain, and keep it close to my heart forever, I would.

Fresh scent of roses Fluttering eyelids at my bedside Hurt-tainted gratitude

June 24, 2022 You sent me a bouquet Roses, my favorite “A beautiful red bouquet For my beautiful red girl” A memory fading An event I can’t quite recall My mind in an invisible chokehold Our love is red But so are my regrets My smile forces the combination of both I wish you were here

December 1, 2022 You’re still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen—even when you’re on a hospital bed, with your hair plastered in circles on your face, you’re still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Should I have been there? Would that have helped? I can’t help wondering whether the roses I gave you last week are still alive, or the ones I gave you the month before, each marking the next anniversary of our time together. Maybe they’ve turned brown, like your hair now that the red dye has seeped out. I brought you another bouquet. I delivered it myself this time, right to your bedside. The metal bars of the hospital bed feel like a prison between us.

The blue couch feels like bricks. How I wish we could be in my bed once again, with the rose-patterned blanket catching on limbs as our bodies intertwine.

Do you still think I’m the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen?

Your love is my remedy My permanent token Fingers interlaced Life support Faux happiness Given by beige-colored pills Temporary life Dictated by a beeping monitor Will you still love me when there’s no physical entity left to love?

April 9, 2023 I read your journal entries. You’d hate me if you knew this, but I’d hate myself if I didn’t. I know it’s not my fault, but what if it is? You’re miles away, but miles may as well be planets when I can’t see you. I know why you had to leave, but do you know just how much I love you? Your family says you like it in the hills of Switzerland, where the endless nature of the rolling gardens engulfs you. They say that you’ve been working on yourself. I mailed you a singular rose and a letter. I love you. Please come home.

April 9, 2023 Endless hills Cerulean sky Midnight blue rivers Cotton puffs Artificial oxygen Three words, A single rose Red blood Clear veins Love, I’m not coming home

25

Infinities Rudrika Randad

1.

it was a silent affair of words: we sat down, crossed our legs, and did nothing but gaze. static buzzed between the opposite poles of our beings, tinnitus-like, and the ever rotating hum of the earth all but forgotten, and the way nothing else seemed to matter, and creased eyes, cold ankles resting on each other, all the melodies we spun in that silence.

2.

we met at the mangroves, great pillars of twisting vine and root, under the dusky hues of midnight: it was solemn, the whispered exchange of words before we let our consciousnesses adrift. what we mumbled under our breaths—tangled legs and teenagery elbows knocking into each other— they remain forever suspended in the silence of that night; hanging stars and strung dreams.

3.

have we met before? perhaps we were nothing before this mangrove was (the horrifying paradox of: if a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, did it make a sound?), and perhaps we will be nothing after this but starstruck individuals, forever left in the wake of our whispers— yet perhaps we’ve always been a beautiful, strange, fragile, amalgamation of each other; perhaps we’re souls spinning in childish circles, eternally bound to the heliocentric model that is us.

4.

we met under a canvas of glowing specks infinities away, and i wonder, were words ever a part of us?

26

Shadows Before the Dawn

Lisa Fan

27

A Divided Soul William Zhang

I

woke up and found my room in ruins. The clothes I had neatly stacked two days ago were strewn about everywhere, spilling out from my dresser and all across my desk. The notes I had written to Tai were violently shredded apart. I heaved a sigh and started re-folding the clothes, making sure to separate my preferred clothes from hers, and placing them back in our dresser. I then walked back to my desk and gathered the note shreds.

Mutilated beyond recognition, they were discarded in the recycling. Please take better care of yourself, Tai, the note was supposed to say. Surely she would take these words more seriously if I made an effort to convey them?

I entered the bathroom and washed my face, untying the knots in my rather long hair. I then passed into the living room, where all the unorganized mounds of Tai’s manga, fashion magazines, and textbooks huddled precariously onto one side of a large desk. On the other side lay a Reversi board, set up from the starting position. To the side lay a note from Tai, scribbled with the cleanest handwriting I’ve seen her write, but still uncouth and barbaric.

Let’s play a game. If you win, I’ll do whatever you tell me to. If I win, I’ll remove you from my life. I’ve bought a medication that can permanently stop the personality shifting every night. One move per day. I’ll know if you cheat -Tai I shook my head. How will a board game settle anything? Why a contest of skill?

We’ve been fighting each other through this body for nearly twenty years. I placed a black token on the board, flipping over a white token adjacent to it. Is this really how you view our relationship? An abstract battlefield, devoid of harmony?

I wrote to Tai another note before heading off to work, letting the rest of the day play out by itself.

time—annoyance wells inside me every time I think about it. Why couldn’t he just leave the piles on the floor as they were? It’s much easier finding things when they’re scattered everywhere.

I glared scornfully at the desk where Yan works.

There laid another note, a target for my wrath. I seized the note and glanced at its contents.

If you want to live a life without me, go ahead. Just know that I will be the only person who will always care for you.

I unleashed a frustrated scream and tore the note into shreds. Just who does Yan think he is? My dad? Just having that thought induced a bout of nausea. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself—now wasn’t the time to ruin my mood. I should be squirming with anticipation to meet my boyfriend on a date today. I have a lot more trust in my boyfriend than you, I thought, spitting on the desecrated note before heading outside.

Today I woke up hunched over Tai’s desk. A halfdrunk mug of coffee and a couple of bottles of sleep suppression drugs lay beside me. Sore all over, I stood up and noticed small stab wounds in my arms, then at a pocket knife that had slipped from my sleeping hands. The dry blood made stains on the table and on the white skirt I wore. What had happened? I looked at the clock—4:00 in the afternoon.

At that moment, the doorbell rang. As horrible as my state was, I dragged myself to the door, still in Tai’s date clothes, and opened it.

“Tai! Wh—what—what happened to you?”

There was an unfamiliar young face in front of me with an aghast expression—dark hair, edgy looks, baggy clothing, several rings on his hands—Tai’s boyfriend? I had no idea she even had one. I opened my mouth to say something, but was interrupted when he suddenly grabbed my arms.

“What did you do to yourself?” he said with shock, stroking my wounds.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “Come inside. We need to talk.”

I offered him a seat at the dining table and quickly cut some apple slices. “There’s something I want you to know about Tai before your relationship continues any further.”

We’ve been fighting each other through this body for nearly twenty years.

I woke up and found my room as pristinely clean as an empty office hallway. I groaned as I got out of bed, unamused at the effort Yan had done. I dug through the dresser, tearing through the neat piles of clothing to find the yellow blouse I had planned for today. I then flew through the remaining drawers to find my favorite white skirt, but not after I tossed everything on the floor.

I never understood why Yan liked being so neat all the

28

Tai’s boyfriend looked bewildered, as I expected. “But y-you’re—” “Depends on when you’re talking to her. For today, my name is Yan, pronouns he/him.”

“Then where’s my Tai?” “She is asleep, while I am awake in her place. The person in front of you has a split personality that changes over night.”

Tai’s boyfriend wasn’t buying it. He stood up and gripped my shoulders. “You’re insane. Tai, please, what happened? Did someone inject you with—” “I told you, my name is Yan now,” I asserted, shrugging his hands off. “If you’ll be patient, I’ll tell you everything” He sighed and sat back down. “First, a question,” I said. “What did you do with Tai yesterday?”

“Well, we went on a date and we had lots of fun together, and then Tai said she wanted to date again tomorrow—we agreed on a time together that worked...”

She wanted to date tomorrow? You know that’s impossible, yet you foolishly blurted that out? Are you that madly in love with him?

As Tai’s boyfriend rambled on, I looked at my stab wounds and drew the lines between the coffee and the sleep suppression pills. You...risked your own life trying to keep yourself awake. Why torture yourself like so? Oh, Tai, what will I do with you...

“I get your relationship,” I said once he was done talking. “But are you really ready to put up with a girl who will only be with you every other day? Whose personality warps into a man’s the next morning? I may still look like a girl, but this girl isn’t capable of giving you continuous love.”

He pressed his face into his hands. Silence overtook the room.

“You’re...really not Tai?” “No,” I said. “If you really want to see her, she’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll make sure that she’s presentable” “No, no, that’s okay,” he muttered. “I just need more time to think about this. Can I have a piece of paper?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to write her a note?”

He nodded. After thirty minutes, he got up and left. I read the note over and wrote a few words on the back. I then placed the note next to the Reversi board, made my move, and headed off to the supermarket to buy dinner.

be next to my desk? What day is it!?

I caught a glimpse of the date and was compelled to kick the bed frame—giving my foot a stinging bruise in the process. Cursing myself for my stupidity, I reeled up my texts with my boyfriend. The last message was yesterday. I could barely get myself to read them lest the tears start flowing down my face. I considered sending him an apology, but Yan must have told him everything.

“Yan!” I screamed furiously as I slammed my fists into the walls, causing the entire residence to shudder.

“Stupid Yan! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Kill yourself! Die! Go to hell!”

Heavy breathing racked my body as the teardams burst, releasing waterfalls of anguish down my face.

I sat down next to the wall I tormented and curled my knees to my chest, quietly sobbing, wishing to have a normal life like a normal girl, wishing that Yan would just go away one day. My thoughts moved to the medication I ordered. Why hadn’t I taken it sooner? Why did I even bother with the Reversi game?

My mind clouded over with anxiety and confusion.

After taking a few deep breaths, I went into the living room. There was a new note on my desk. For whatever reason, I decided to pick it up and read it, determined to annihilate it if it said anything infuriating. But it wasn’t written by Yan. My dear Tai, I’m sorry, so, so sorry. I had no idea what kind of life you were leading before we met. The love you gave me filled my heart with so much joy each day we were together. But in the end, Yan told me about you and I don’t know if I want to be your boyfriend any longer. I hope that Yan takes better care of you than I. Goodbye, Jared I wanted to rip apart the note so badly, yet I couldn’t bring myself to do it. More tears streamed down my cheeks and landed on the note, wetting it. I felt lonely, so lonely, as lonely as I was angry. I wanted someone to comfort me, but I knew no one would come.

My tears had soaked the note so much that I could barely make out words on the back of the paper. I turned it over and tried to read what was written.

Tai, If you want love, I’ll always be there for you. If you want companionship and love, I’ll guide you to the best of my ability. If you want me gone, who will be there to accompany you in your heart when you are alone?

You know that you aren’t ready to let go of me yet. Why play a board game with me when you can just take the medication? This is no duel to prove the other is worthier.

-Yan

You...risked your own life trying to keep yourself awake.

Why torture yourself like so?

I sprang out of bed for my phone the instant I realized I was awake. Had I fallen asleep? Wasn’t I supposed to

29

My urge to destroy the note overwhelmed me as I shredded the paper over and over again. I tossed the scraps onto the ground violently and stormed over to where I had kept the medication hidden. I snatched the small bottle and grasped the only pill inside in my hand.

My suffering would be all over. It was this close. I tried moving my trembling hand closer to my mouth ­— If you want to live a life without me, go ahead. Just know that I will be the only person who will always care for you.

“Why?” I cried, my hand quaking like a detuned string. “Why can’t I do it?”

Who will be there to accompany you in your heart when you are alone?

“This is my life, not yours, Yan!” I shouted. “I want to be alone! I want my independence! I want my freedom!”

You know that you aren’t ready to let go of me yet.

I couldn’t take it any longer. I shoved the pill as hard as I could into my throat and swallowed. I expected to be relieved, but I felt... nothing. Just emptiness. Just like the medication bottle.

Tomorrow was the first time I got to experience a consecutive day. There were no more notes on the desk, no more tidy rooms and washed dishes. I was free to do as I wished, date who I wanted, work any job I wanted.

But the empty space in my soul gnawed at me endlessly, like a parasite inside my brain, where it kept whispering his last words.

I tried texting my ex-boyfriend, but he had blocked my account. Both of my parents were beyond my reach. And I had killed the only person who still cared about me.

“I’m sorry, Yan. I’m so, so sorry.”

I wanted his compassion, his invisible presence inside my soul, his kind words in his letters. But I had destroyed everything.

“I’m sorry, Yan.” I felt like the loneliest girl in the world.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

t i b am

G l a y o R t i e b h T m a G l a y o R The a Dan

g Yan

g Yan a n Da

30

31

LA PLUMA VOLUME 5