PCS Literary Magazine, June 2022

PCS Literary Magazine June, 2022

Table of Contents Natalie Glassie…………………………………………………………………Ruby Revenge Larry Zhang……………………………………………….Portrait of the Artist Off his Meds Eugenie Kourti Ferrante…………………………………………………….…The Blue Pool Hana Altomonte……………………………………………………………………. Ear Stuff Toby Irikura……………………………………………………………In an Autumn Garden Zsofi Markus………………………………………………Devolution of the Moronic Editor Chloé Bryan…………………………………………………………………The Trees Speak Dashiell del Barco…………………………………………………..….…….Tacca Culicidae Eugenie Kourti Ferrante……………………………………..…Maybe It Should Not be Writ Ethan Wood………………………………………………….……. I Was Held Back a Grade Eugenie Kourti Ferrante……………………………………………………………The Table Tatiana Lorich……………………………………………………………..…..Rainbow Road Toby Irikura………………………………………………………I Hear the Water Dreaming Zsofi Markus………………………………I Dropped Out of Horace Mann to Come to PCS Elizabeth Cuite………………………………………………………….………Perfect Crime Dashiell del Barco………………………………….…………Where Comic Art Goes to Die Toby Irikura………………………..…………A Flock Descends into the Pentagonal Garden Jasper Johnson Weinberg…………………………..…………………………..……….Colors Toby Irikura…………………………………………………..………..……Toward the Sea, I Tatiana Lorich…….…………….………………..What Tourists Think New York Looks Like Yat Fei Chen…………………………………………………..………..…..Jackson Pollock 2 Toby Irikura…………………………………………………..……………………..Patriotism Sammy Voit…………………………………………………..……………………..First Cow Toby Irikura……………………………………..………………New York, January 26, 2022 Sarah Silver……………………………………………………………....………….,.……Ink Eugenie Kourti Ferrante…………………………………………………….…Memory Poem Lucie Richards…………………………………………………..………………………Colors Toby Irikura…………………………………………………..………………..…Coral Island Alexandra Su……………………………………………………………..…….. The Final Cut Toby Irikura………………………………………………………..Homage to Allen Ginsberg Eugenie Kourti Ferrante………………………………………..…Portrait of Charlotte Brontë Front cover by Zsofi Markus, back cover by Dashiell del Barco Masthead

Ruby Revenge Natalie Glassie Soon I’ll be inside, Nicholas thought to himself, very soon. He was hunched over the old stone wall. He was situated perfectly behind a tree where no one could see him. He had stood in this spot many times now. His eyes were fixated on the Castle.

It had been a long time since Nicholas had been inside the Castle, twenty years to be exact. He remembered the last day very well. Nicholas’ father, Peter, was a personal assistant to King Arthur of the Oridian lands. Peter had a number of responsibilities that included managing the rest of the staff and attending to many of the King’s needs. King Arthur was a gracious ruler.

He was beloved in the town and by his staff. He was fair, smart, and gentle. The King also loved Peter. He treated him like a friend, or even a brother, not like an assistant.

Peter worked in the Castle every day. King Arthur would often invite Nicholas to join his father to spend some time with his own son, Prince Gabriel. The two boys were the same age.

Gabriel had a much different demeanor than that of his father. He was loud, bossy, and at times, quite tricky. But Nicholas loved spending time with him because he desperately wanted to try and impress the prince. Prince Gabriel also had a little sister, Princess Isabel. She was a stunning girl and Nicholas couldn’t help but fall in love with her. Isabel loved Nicholas too, at least that’s what she told him. Whenever he visited the Castle, Isabel always begged him for a kiss.

The day before Nicholas’ last time in the Castle, his father had made a life-changing discovery. Peter was very interested in studying gemology. He sometimes took his son on small expeditions to the mountains where they would look for jewels. Peter was rarely successful at finding valuable treasures despite hours of mining and digging. But one day twenty years ago, he had great success. Peter came across a ruby which he extracted and took home. He showed his son their new prized possession very carefully.

“Nicholas, this is my most valuable find. We have to be extremely careful with this. One day soon when I’m ready, I will go to town and sell it. Then, we will have a lot more money and we can live out the rest of our days somewhere beautiful. I will give up my job at the Castle.”

Nicholas couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He simply couldn’t wait to travel and have more adventures with his father. But what really excited him was the ruby itself. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. It sparkled brightly in the light and it was the most vibrant red color imaginable. His father put it away in a case in the attic. But that night, Nicholas snuck out of bed to just sit there and hold it.

The next morning, Peter was standing by the front door, ready to leave for the Castle, and was calling for Nicholas to get ready. Nicholas replied that he would be just a minute. He couldn’t stop thinking about the jewel. He stood over the open case, grazing the jewel lightly with his fingertips. If only he could bring it to show Gabriel, he would finally impress the prince.

He also wanted to show it to Isabel, because maybe she would love him even more. Nicholas picked it up and put it back down many times. I’m just gonna slip it into my coat pocket, he thought, my father will never know that it left its case. I’ll simply show it to them and then run upstairs when we return home and put it back. The decision had been made. Nicholas grabbed it and ran downstairs.

“Coming father!”

They arrived at the Castle and entered through the staff door as they usually did. Peter and Nicholas went their separate ways.

“I’ll see you at the end of the day, Nicholas. Be a good boy and play nicely with your friends,” said Peter.

Nicholas ended up in Gabriel’s large bedroom where they began playing a game of jacks.

“I have something to show you,” said Nicholas. “My father found this yesterday and it’s our treasure now.”

Slowly, Nicholas revealed the ruby to the prince whose eyes quickly widened. Gabriel grabbed the ruby out of Nicholas’ hand.

“Wow, that’s a big one,” he said. “What are you going to do with it?”

“My father is going to sell it.”

“Sell it! That is ridiculous. A ruby like that is meant to be kept,” Gabriel replied as he turned the ruby around and around in his hand. “Where it really belongs is somewhere important like the Castle.”

The prince stood up, still clutching the jewel, and began to scurry out of his room.

Nicholas started to panic, “Hey! Where are you going with that?”

“Oh nowhere, just to find someplace actually suitable for this ruby.”

Gabriel began to run and Nicholas chased after him as fast as he could. They circled all the way around every winding hallway and staircase. At one point, Gabriel bumped into one of the Castle’s caretakers.

“Prince Gabriel, I’ve been looking for you. Something terrible has happened. You need to wave goodbye to your friend and come with me immediately.”

The caretaker escorted the prince away.

“Wait! Stop! “He has my...”

“What are you doing?” said Peter. He had come up behind his screaming son, “We must leave right now.”

He grabbed Nicholas and they rushed out of the Castle. The lump in Nicholas’ throat was as big as the ruby itself. His stomach churned so intensely and he wanted to cry.

They stood outside of the Castle and Peter explained what had happened. The King had been feeling ill for the past couple of days, but nobody thought it was anything too serious. Just now, the King began to lose color and become extremely lethargic. They called for the doctor but it was too late. The King had died.

The following weeks were miserable. Nicholas had to explain to his father how Prince Gabriel had stolen their ruby. His father was extremely disappointed. But that wasn’t the worst of it, because Prince Gabriel was now King Gabriel. He was nothing like his father as a ruler. He fired all of his father’s staff, including Peter, and shut down all outside access to the Castle.

Gabriel was all-powerful. He did hold a funeral for his father, but he didn’t invite any common people. Nicholas went to spy on the service from his spot behind the tree. He saw Isabel wearing a particularly large necklace with a stone in the middle. He recognized it to be his father’s ruby.

During the next couple of years, Peter died too and Nicholas got a low-level carpentry job in town. Every couple of days, he took a detour to stare at the Castle and formulate a plan. He was going to steal his ruby back.

One day, Nicholas saw an announcement in town that said King Gabriel was going on a trip to a nearby country. He knew that this would be his window to act. The next morning,

Nicholas woke up and dressed in his best clothes. The only trouble was getting inside to see Isabel. Once he was in, he knew he could get the ruby back. He was sure of it.

Nicholas climbed over the stone wall and snuck up to the staff door. He rang the bell and waited until a suspicious woman came to the door.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I’m here to see Isabel,” he said. “If you tell her my name she will let me in, I‘m sure of it.”

“No can do,” said the woman who immediately began closing the door.

“Nicholas? Is that you?”

He heard a familiar female voice calling out to him. He turned around to face the gardens and to his delight, it was Isabel. She was smiling at him and around her neck hung the ruby necklace.

Wonderful, he thought.

They exchanged pleasantries and Isabel explained how excited she was to see him.

Nicholas asked if he could come in for a moment. Isabel paused to think. She supposed it would be alright since the King was away.

She took him inside to her room where the two sat on the edge of a sofa. They talked for a while until Isabel blurted out, “You know Nicholas, I always loved you. I’m fairly certain I still do.”

This excited him, but what intrigued him much more was the necklace, staring straight at him. He knew that was the real prize.

“Remember how I used to beg you for a kiss?” she asked. “Well, I’d love one now.”

Nicholas got an idea.

“Of course Isabel,” he replied.

He leaned in for a big kiss. He hoped she’d be distracted and not notice him unclasping her necklace and letting it slide into his sleeve. He pulled away and looked at the clock on the wall.

“Isabel I’m sorry to tell you this but I must be going. Thank you for having me.”

“Wait! You’re leaving already? Well, promise me you’ll return tomorrow,” she cried.

“Sure thing.”

As Nicholas left the Castle grounds he knew could not return and must travel far away before anyone realized his crime.

Larry Zhang–Portrait of the Artist Off his Meds

The Blue Pool Eugenie Kourti Ferrante Nothing to do in a blue pool of thought Not in the ways many say But as a condemnèd fish by the rod caught To my love oh I swim to get away And tangled among the nets of the confusèd mind I look to the worlds lost To find that love’s greatest love’s untimed Ay, I too may be to another land tossed Doomed to live farthest from that known sea Not to belong in the common sphere of company Stuck in the misfortunes of the free Evergrowing tired of the same missing of thee And of this wet sorrow soon open the drain Unto myself ordain, “the fantasies must stop!”

Feeling then for my heart, the will is slain.

Hana Altomonte–Ear Stuff

In an Autumn Garden Toby Irikura I hear the bells singing Sheets of Green cloud my sight The odor of fallen leaves Dancing in the breeze to sit in an Autumn Garden

Zsofi Markus –Devolution of the Moronic Editor

The Trees Speak Chloé Merzier-Bryan

The Delacourts were a very affluent family. Living in a rural, gated community in Southern California, they were one of the most “respected” families in the area. Of course, what that really meant was that many of the other families in the neighborhood, while very rich themselves, felt the need to kiss up to them as if it would raise them up the social ladder. They were the type of rich people to throw lavish parties at their multi-million dollar mansion and invite people who, even though were repulsive in personality, would gain them more wealthy family street credibility. They raised their child with the best resources, among the “best” communities, with the best opportunities money could buy. The Delacourts donated to charities and schools, the mother hosted modeling camps for young girls, the father worked with the government and their foreign affairs, and their daughter was the most popular kid in her preparatory elementary school. They appeared as the ideal household to all around them. The unit any family would dream of replicating. The perfect nuclear family. At least, it appeared that way on a superficial level.

While they did appear to be the perfect family on the surface, like most families, they were very far from the concept. Mr. Hugo Delacourt, despite being an accomplished man, a U.S. foreign ambassador of Spain, was very absent. Both physically and emotionally. He was a stoic-faced man with a clear, direct, and strong way of speaking. He traveled many times to Spain for work, for long periods of time, and it always seemed as if every time he left the country, it was almost always during the most inopportune and inconvenient times. Many school events were missed, many intimate, romantic moments that could have been had with his wife stolen. It was good that he was so invested in his work, but the cost became too great overtime, and a rift was created, between his wife and his young daughter. Of course, in very Delacourt fashion, the rift was never discussed, and was instead pushed deep, deep down, until it became less of the huge elephant in the room, and more of the baby snake in the shed, and that could be better if not for the “snake” in question having serious potential to cause some serious damage.

However, because of the overlooming pandemic, what with the new virus overtaking the world, a respiratory disease caused by the spread of germs, travel had been halted for the last couple of months and Hugo was stuck at home, with his daughter, who he felt like he didn’t really know and never bothered to make a real effort to connect with on a deeper level, and with his wife, at whom he routinely lashed out due to stress from work.

Mrs. Delacourt, born Isabella Esposito, was a former fashion model from Spain. She was quite a beautiful woman. Fair skin, a symmetrical face, an hourglass body type, and long, wavy locks of platinum blonde hair. Many people in California, no matter where she went, would compliment her on her looks. It started as soon as she came to America after marrying Mr. Delacourt. Back then, so many of the praises about her appearance flew over her head because she couldn’t speak English very well. Many times, Mr. Delacourt would have to respond with a hearty and very shallow “I got lucky, right?”, doing that obnoxious “rich man” laugh he always did, while Isabella smiled brightly despite not knowing what was going on. After she started studying the language further, she quickly became more aware of how many of those compliments were actually compliments, and which ones were actually just unwanted comments

about her figure or her bouncy, blonde hair or how she probably does whatever her husband tells her to do. When she realized this, she didn’t really know how to feel. A small part of her was sick to her stomach. That she would let those types of comments slide and smile blindly in the face of them, even though it was never her fault that she just didn’t understand the language. Her father always told her to be smart and think for herself. It was the last thing he told her before she was to move to the United States with her new husband. The other part of her was indifferent to it. In fact, that part of her felt the need to ignore it and assimilate to what people thought of her based on her appearance. That part was stronger than the former. Because God forbid a beautiful immigrant woman who had just married a rich foreign ambassador accidentally tarnish his reputation for having a mind of her own in the public eye. That part of her was dictated by more of her mother’s mindset. Unfortunately, passing that ladylike-ness onto her own daughter was not an easy task and was far from being a success.

Little Clarice Delacourt was an adventurous, rambunctious, and very much rebellious child. In fact, a “regrettably disobedient” little girl, words once used by her father, her mother, and a multitude of angry neighbors, was she. However, her routine defiance of authority, often inconvenient for others around her, was also quite endearing. She was an easy child to forgive, no matter how bad the deed. You see, Little Clarice was quite a cute little girl. Quite short for a girl her age indeed, with a doll-like face and long, curly, blonde hair. She resembled a modern Shirley Temple. Of course, she got her looks from her mother. Her personality, however, was her father’s doing. At least, that’s what Isabella had suspected. Her daughter was a smart girl, but she feared that the girl’s temper and pride, combined with her overbearing nosiness and curiosity was going to get her into grave trouble and cause her to get involved in business one would never dream of ever wanting to get involved in. And one night, during the eleventh hour of the evening, it seemed as Isabella’s fears came to fruition in the most unexpected way.

There was a house rule set for Little Clarice, written for her on the family white board suspended upon the wall nearest to the back door in the kitchen. On the board, the rule said that the little girl was not to go out into the backyard property after dark. The house was located at the edge of the neighborhood, right next to a forest. There was plenty of open grass in the backyard, but that all eventually led into the darkness and vastness of the wood and the leaves and the stumps, and the bushes. There were many deer, foxes, and only God knew what other creatures that were residing in that forest. Sometimes, if you listened closely, you could hear them at night, running around and occasionally calling out to their kind. Clarice’s bedroom, which resembled that of a human-sized Barbie dollhouse, had a large bay window with pretty satin pink curtains, overlooking the backyard and into the woods. Clarice slept with her window open, as she got the best cool breezes at night flowing into the room, cooling the bed if it ever got too warm during the night. This allowed her to hear all sorts of interesting, cool, and unusual noises while she slept. Ironically, she found these noises quite relaxing to drift off listening to.

But on one particular night, Little Clarice was finding it quite difficult to fall asleep, due to a very strange noise. Stranger than what she was used to. It was very late, 30 minutes till midnight. Her parents had already gone to bed. She knew they were asleep because they left the door open to their bedroom, and since it is only down the hall from her own, she could hear the both of them snoring loudly. But it was not the snoring that was ruining her sleep. Instead, the strange noise was coming from outside, from the backyard. The first thought that had popped into Little Clarice’s head was that the noise did not sound like an animal. The deer made soft, high-pitched bleating sounds, she knew that. She knew that the foxes made short barking or howling sounds, and to Clarice, they sounded like a mix of a dog, a bird, and a woman

screaming. But this noise didn’t sound like any of those. Instead, it sounded like someone talking.

It was faint, quiet, and pretty incoherent. In fact, the little blonde was not even sure that what she was hearing was even English. It didn’t sound like any language she had ever heard of at all. It certainly couldn’t have been her mother or father, as they were asleep. Who could it have been? It was a little unnerving to listen to, but her sense of curiosity about where it was coming from was much stronger than her fear. So she groggily waddled over to her bay window, looking out into the starry night sky, lit by the full moon, and peered out of the open window, looking through the screen frame protecting the room from leaves and bugs. No one was there, or at least, no one was in her line of sight. She stepped back from the bay window, curiosity still unsatisfied. Clarice turned toward her bed and started to walk back to it, but looked back at the window, still hearing the strange sound of a person talking.

It was freaking her out, yet she still wanted to know where it was coming from. She didn’t see anyone at first glance. Was it possible that it was just all in her head? … No. She knew what she was hearing. Clarice started towards the window again. She opened the window wide, pulled the screen back, and stuck her head out of the window. She could still hear the voice, but again, she saw no one there. She thought for a moment, and an idea quickly came into her head.

It would get her in trouble, but she didn’t care. She wanted--no--she needed to know where the voice was coming from. As far as she knew, it was the backyard, but she wasn’t allowed to explore the yard at night. In addition to that, all the doors to the house were locked at night, and if they were to be opened somehow, whether it be from the inside or outside, the alarm in the house would go off and her parents would wake up.

Clarice’s bedroom had a roof on the outside of the bay window, and this roof was not too far from the ground. Climbing out down the pipes on the exterior walls of the house was an option that was being seriously considered by Little Clarice. But there was no need, because upon a third thorough inspection out the window, Clarice discovered a very tall ladder resting right next to the bay window. It was left behind by the electrician who had come earlier in the day to fix the fairy lights hanging from the top roof, which had been turning off and on and back off again due to a broken extension cord. He didn’t finish his work in time, so he ended up leaving the ladder he used to get up to the roof in the yard. Perfectly convenient for the use by one Clarice Delacourt.

Clarice put on her favorite sparkly, fuzzy pink hoodie and her light-up Sketchers, and slowly climbed out of her bay window, being careful not to make any noise so that her parents wouldn’t wake. She grabbed onto the ladder and swiftly made her way down each of the steps.

As she got to the bottom and she felt the grass graze her shin, she looked around at the grass field and into the direction of the forest. She then listened for the voice, but to her surprise, she did not hear it anymore. She decided to explore further.

The little blonde proceeded with caution, wary of what she could run into during the night while looking for the voice. She looked around in every direction, trying to remember where she might have heard the voice coming from. Admittedly, she was a little bit scared. At night, things looked more alive. The way the constant breeze of the evening swayed the grass made it seem as if the ground was breathing. The bushes sang as their leaves rustled. And the trees. Oh, the trees… By the way they were moving, Clarice was unsure whether the large and majestic trees, with their many branches and strange ways they were stemming from the dirt, were going to hug her or swallow her whole. She suddenly paused where she stood, hearing a sudden irregular rustling from the nearest leaf bush. The little girl started towards the bush,

slowly and with her guard up. All of a sudden, out of the bush popped a small baby raccoon, earning a startled gasp out of Clarice. It spotted the girl and quickly ran away. Little Clarice breathed a tenseness out of her body with a relieved sigh. But the tenseness returned as quickly as it left when Clarice heard the voice resume its incoherent speech, only this time, it was a lot louder, despite sounding more like a whispering voice.

Clarice turned toward the nearest tree, a colossal and absolutely enchanting plant to behold, as the voice was at its most intense from the direction of the tree. She slowly approached the gigantic and winding tree, the voice growing louder and louder. “That is definitely not English,” thought Little Clarice, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not think of a single language in the world that sounded like what she was hearing. She circled the tree, expecting to find someone behind it, but she did not. The voice was coming from inside the tree. Clarice got closer to the tree and pressed the palm of her hand on the trunk.

ZAP! Little Clarice’s body felt as if it had been zapped by a billion jolts of lightning and pure energy. She screamed loudly from the pain and shock, immediately collapsing to the ground, laying on the roots of the tree. She convulsed as if she had just been tased. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and her body contorted and twisted in a hundred different ways that a human could be contorted and twisted in. Her eyes were blurry, but her mind was very clear. She felt aware. Too aware. Her mind was flooded with voices, a cacophony of voices in her head getting louder and louder. She grasped her head in pain. This was worse than any migraine ever. Images and visions filled her brain.

Then, she saw it. It was a monster. A horrific combination of flesh and bone. Dirt and root. Blood and bugs. A clump of sickening things. It had no eyes, but she felt like it was watching her. No ears, but it was listening to her thoughts. A hive mind deep underground, conversing with her. Conversing with itself. It beat like a heart, two slow beats every five seconds. It breathed like a creature. The roots of it connected to the trees, like antennae and it just watched. Clarice moaned and groaned, rolling around on the ground in agony at what she had just discovered. What thing she had just been made aware of. Everything was so clear now.

She could see, hear, feel everything. It was disturbing, and yet, it was beautiful. Without warning, she heard the multitude of voices come together from their scattered speech patterns and scream at her in unison, a word she had never heard before: “LIVGIVNUMUM SNAIG REHTONA. YLLANIF! YLLANIF!!!”

Suddenly, she was pulled off of the roots and onto the grass, snapping out of her catatonic state. Her formerly blurry vision became clearer and clearer, and she could see her mother and father sitting over her, extremely concerned and terrified looks plastered upon their faces. Little Clarice’s head was now resting in her mother’s lap, while her father was kneeling next to the both of them, holding his daughter’s hand. Mrs. Delacourt kept calling Clarice’s name over and over. Once the girl had gotten a grasp of the situation, she suddenly sat up and scooted away from her parents, still clearly shaken. Her doll-like eyes were darting everywhere but in the direction of her parents' eyes and she was mumbling something under her breath. Isabella tried to reach out to touch her daughter’s shoulder, but before she could make contact, Clarice swiftly grasped her mother’s hand and looked her dead in the eye, like a deer in headlights. “...they can speak,” says Little Clarice.

“What? Who can speak, honey?” says Isabella. “...the trees. they can speak,” the little girl repeats. Mr. Delacourt looks at his wife and then looks back at his daughter.

“Clarice, what does that mean--” Hugo couldn’t even finish his sentence before being suddenly interrupted by his daughter.

“THE TREES SPEAK. THE TREES SPEAK. THE TREES SPEAK,” the little girl repeated this to her parents over and over again, a sinister look on her face, sending a cold chill down Hugo’s spine and causing Isabella to cry hysterically at her daughter’s state.

“WHY?! WHAT HAPPENED, HONEY? WHAT HAPPENED, CLARICE?!?! TELL ME, PLEASE, PLEASE!” screams Isabella.

“THE TREES SPEAK, THE TREES SPEAK, THE TREES SPEAK, THE TREES SPEAK, THE TREES SPEAK, THE TREES SPEAK!” Little Clarice was now crying as well, but fixed upon her face was the most unreadable and the most blood-curdling smile, as she screamed the same revelation over and over and over and over and over and over again.

fin.

Dashiell del Barco–Tacca Culcidae

Maybe It Should Not Be Writ Eugenie Kourti Ferrante Maybe it should not be writ Love, that night, and all thereafter Eikon in my mind evermore lit Warrior turned to batter such affection hereafter.

Tis the scene that perplexes, me Passes abruptly to mourning of forever He within or without be Wherefore would I these ties sever?

Sweet boy by the slip of Time Electrified hair, skin sheened, face away Towards me search the flaming clime Back to the air of lost enchantment-stay!

Muses, you relate hurt, even in undying rhythm I crush senses with the physical world Socrates knows not of this our great schism Phantom to human in metamorphosis pearl’d.

Leave he will not the state of feeling Only plant his locks within my fieldOf vision, touch, and sound left reeling The face of reflection to shield.

Ethan Wood–I was Held Back a Grade (Lucky to be Included)

The Table Eugenie Kourti Ferrante In an old tavern, a table unlike the rest was left unnoticed for untold years, until one morn, a village girl of unique appearance chanced upon it the moment she entered the tavern.

Drawn to the table, she sat at it, and as she slid her fingers along the wooden undersides she sensed wounds like those wrought by the blade of a sword. “Oh, you must hurt '' gasped the young maiden, and it seemed like the table would break into a thousand pieces of wood, for she felt a yearning as that of a crowd at a theater pushing their way to the front. Suddenly, she felt herself pulled to the table, and her auburn locks with their merely faint tint of gold stuck within the cracks of the table. Soon her feet were held by the feet of the table, then her slender fingers stuck to the undersides. Fighting the strength of this special table, she gave in to the weight of it and her lips fortuitously interlocked with the edge. The owners of the tavern-a villainous pair, approached the bound girl and table. The man and woman unveiled their naturally pitiable looks, and let out evil laughs, turning to jeers. Their hands of newly-sharp thorns reached the girls’ skin, cutting her as would a dagger, when screams of pain were let out from the table, then addressed the girl, “Luceria, listen to us, thy people, listen Luceria, you are one of us.” The poor lass, overcome by the present revelation, exclaimed “my name, my name! What, how...just who are ye?” The screams arose anew and intensified, so that the feeble tavern shook, and the wicked owners ran horrified out into the back garden. Upon the dusty ground lay a wand made of wood that had fallen out of the old woman’s pockets. Similar to the force of a magnet, the table drew it to the girl’s hands. Luceria, though stuck in all her frame to the table, had space in just her thumb and index to secure her hold on the wand. The cunning couple overheard the commotion, rushing back to the wand that would be otherwise vilely employed to throw but another trace of antiquity into the crammed table. The wretches opened their thorny hands once more, but Luceria impeded them, chanting “Rise, branches of old, strike down growing thorns of malice, unto triumph lead our palace, none other than Luceria told!” Released from the spell, her ancient folk sprang out of the table. At once they filled up the tavern, squashing the two miscreants to livers upon the ancient wood of the floor. With the aid of her ancient company, Luceria’s skin freshened up, her hair assumed the luster of gold, oh, her attire transformed to that of a noblewoman’s. Luceria and her crowd merrily left the dark tavern, grabbed the revived trunks, barks of trees, and evermore celebrated their ancient roots.

Tatiana Lorich–Rainbow Road

I Hear the Water Dreaming Toby Irikura I hear the water dreaming it bubbles quietly while it sleeps I wonder what it speaks of Blue metallic streams shades of red that flush from the mountaintops Into still lakes where they rest, beyond any distant memory They may stay for minutes hours years decades even centuries Never to be disturbed.

Zsofi Markus–I Dropped Out of Horace Mann to Come to PCS

The Perfect Crime Elizabeth Cuite As she sat by the window on a stormy night, listening to the rain pound against the roof of her apartment, Amelia sat and pondered the events of her day. The busy Manhattan streets were vibrant, with lights and bustling people below. There was a man on the corner in a heated phone call who looked malicious. A woman hurried her two children into a taxi, trying to protect them from the rain. Teenagers were jumping for joy in the thunder, letting it wash away all of the grownup situations about to come their way. All these people have lives, families, and friends.

Each person has his purpose and people to love. This is a stark contrast to the woman sitting by the streetlight huddled under blankets to shield herself from the rain. Amelia knew this woman was alone. No one to love or care for her. In a way, she didn't exist. Is it possible to live when no one acknowledges your presence? These are the questions that kept Amelia up at night. Turning her head away from the lonely woman on the street, Amelia looked back at the bustling part of the street. It puzzled Amelia how everyone was oblivious to the girl above them who had just done something unthinkable. Unfathomable.

Watching from above, Amelia wrapped the blanket tighter around her body and took a sip of tea. It was chamomile with a spoonful of honey. Something about the chamomile filled Amelia with a sense of comfort and made her feel safe. When she was a child and found out that she had failed a test or made her parents unhappy, her nanny, Laura, would make her a large cup of chamomile tea. The tea was a reminder that everything would be all right, and the world wasn't ending before her eyes, which she sometimes believed wholeheartedly. Amelia saved chamomile tea for these types of days for this exact reason. She needed a powerful reminder of how the world would keep spinning. Sitting with her tea, Amelia began to recount the events in her head. She needed to do this in her mind to make sense of what had happened during the day.

Being in shock was never a good feeling, and she needed to understand and come to terms with what happened for her sanity.

The day began like any other day. Waking up at 5:30 to her maid, Leslie, knocking on the door, Amelia rose and walked to her balcony. The balcony had a lovely seating area that had the perfect combination of being fashionable and cozy. Amelia sat there every morning meditating in preparation for the day ahead. This day, May 24, 2018, would have extra stress, which meant Amelia needed to spend more time meditating in the morning. The added stress would result from having lunch with her mother that she had scheduled for the two of them. Amelia did not want to meet with her mother. Not because she didn't love her, but because she knew her mother would disapprove of Amelia's recent choices. In Olivia’s eyes, Amelia should be married with children and attending galas and charity events with a rich husband that Olivia picked out for her.

Olivia needed Amelia to be a real socialite of Manhattan, just as she was herself. Amelia had considered this path in life and then decided it didn't fill her with any joy or passion. As Amelia grew older, she realized she had never been full of excitement or desire for anything. The feelings Amelia did feel, if any at all, were stress and guilt. Because of the rare burst of anxiety

that was bound to erupt as a result of meeting with her mother, Amelia left immediately after her meditation for a walk around the city streets.

Before leaving the building, Amelia had to stop three times. The first time, she was stopped by her neighbor, Alan, who reminded her that he had his birthday party that night and that she was meant to attend. Storing that piece of information away, Amelia went on her way towards the elevator. During the ride down in the elevator, Amelia received a phone call from her mother, which consisted of a scolding not to be late to lunch. The third interruption came from the doorman, who asked her if she wanted an umbrella because it would rain later. Amelia stored this information in the back of her head and began focusing on the task at hand. Head held high, and with a lonely heart, Amelia left her building and faced the world in front of her.

Amelia spent most of her walk watching people. She noticed everything about everyone.

Her favorite game was guessing where people were headed. The game was always fun to her except in the rare moments when she couldn't figure a person out. This peculiar situation always happened to her with the homeless people who lived on the streets. Amelia could never decipher where they were going or coming from. It was difficult for her to pick apart their body language and decide what kind of person they were. To make herself feel better, she decided they weren't people at all. Because nobody knew who they were and she couldn't figure it out, she decided to pretend they didn't exist. It was easier that way.

After a few hours of milling around playing mind games, Amelia wandered over to the restaurant to meet her mother. Unsurprisingly, her mother was already sitting down when Amelia arrived. After sitting down, they stared at each other. Amelia stared at her mother, chin high, trying not to show how bothered she was that she had to be here. Her mother stared at her, eyes piercing, trying to figure out what her daughter was feeling. She never could. Amelia guessed this was because most of the time, she didn't feel anything at all. The conversations that transpired over lunch were…most unpleasant. Amelia wasn't surprised, but it still bothered her.

Olivia poked and prodded, asking why Amelia wasn't dating. Why wasn't she smiling? Why didn't she have friends? Why didn't she have a job? Why did she insist on being alone? Why did she look so miserable all of the time? Her mother then proceeded to tell her that she needed to find something that filled her with energy and fire. Amelia figured her mother was clueless on what to do with her and was down to the last straw. At this point, Olivia would do anything to see her daughter laugh or her eyes fill with some emotion. It confused Amelia because she had been this way her whole life. Her best guess was that her mother was sick of it.

Leaving lunch, Amelia felt bothered. She felt worried that she couldn't handle these normal emotions like her mother and everyone else. Amelia just wanted to feel something.

Anything. Sometimes in a human's life, the body moves and reacts without the soul being present. This feeling is how Amelia would describe the next few hours of her life. She walked back to her apartment, passing by shops and watching people. In the alley by her apartment, Amelia paused and watched a young woman crawl under a blanket. Another non-existent person, she thought. Continuing on her way, Amelia went back to her apartment and sat down. She sat in her chair for about 12 minutes. Then she was moving again. On Amelia's way out the door, she grabbed a knife and a few trash bags.

The next thing she knew, she was in her car, a black Range Rover that she took out on rare occasions. Suddenly she was parked in the alley by her apartment. Amelia sat there for a few minutes staring at the small, frail woman. She proceeded to get out of the car and plaster her well-practiced fake smile on her face. Gently, Amelia asked the woman if she would like to go out for lunch. The woman, never having known kindness, accepted immediately. Amelia drove

for a while until she reached a park. The woman was confused; she didn't know where they were.

And then, as if time itself had jumped, she was suddenly over the women, and the strangest thing happened. As she plunged the knife down, Amelia felt something deep in her chest. Because she had never felt much before, she couldn't quite pin down what this feeling was. Whatever the feeling was, it made her feel alive. Finally! Like a ball of energy shot from her heart and spread throughout her entire body. She was alive. It worked. The feeling lasted briefly, and as Amelia stared down at the body, she didn't feel guilt. She just felt…nothing again. Frustrated and angry, she cleaned up the mess. Amelia wanted that feeling again; she needed to find it. After disposing of the body, she returned to her apartment and sat on her balcony.

Amelia sat. She felt more in control now that she had gotten through the day. Snuggling into her blanket, Amelia looked up at the stars. She wished she could find that feeling again. The only way to do that would be to repeat today's actions. She decided then and there what she would do to find that feeling continuously. Amelia would go after the people who didn't exist.

Because who would look for them? Who would miss them? Who would report them gone?

Nobody. Amelia smiled to herself. For once, she had something to look forward to and plan for.

It wasn't as if she was hurting anybody anyway. These weren't real people. They weren't known to the world, which meant she could make them disappear as she wished. Setting her cup of tea down, Amelia stared down at the figure huddled against the street lamp in the pouring rain. She got up and began her way outside with a smile on her face.

Dashiell del Barco–Where Comic Art Goes to Die

A Flock Descends Into the Pentagonal Garden Toby Irikura

A flock descends into the pentagonal garden From the skies A million paper cranes Aimlessly swimming through Pale blue skies.

Jasper Johnson-Weinberg–Colors

Toward the Sea, I Toby Irikura

I. A flock of Cranes descend Mount Fuji Towards Kyushu they dance, one-thousand paper strands.

II. Bright red sun, will they burn or rather decay like a tree in arid earth?

III. Lotus flowers bloom near Hakone The Onsen perfume the air with Sulfur Watching the earth ebb and flow

IV. Crane’s flight Towards the ends of earth Fall with grace into soft, white sand.

Tatiana Lorich–What Tourists Think New York Looks Like

Yat Fei Chen–Jackson Pollock 2

Patriotism Toby Irikura Bringing out the Dead June, 1945 Rice Fields Perfumed with Ash I hear the water dreaming

Sammy Voit–First Cow

New York, January 26th, 2022 Toby Irikura

Spring Snow drifts upon leaves Butterflies withered ash-colored roses fall meeting the cold ground maintaining their grace Breathing the wind, I inherit the earth.

Paradise lost, paradise regained.

It is time to be washed away Like Midas of Old And by doing so, Become anew.

Sarah Silver–Ink

Memory Poem Eugenie Kourti Ferrante

Behold, the past birth of me!

An inkling of a star descended upon earth Impregnated my mother’s memory And out of the womb in a palm’s worth I still held the vibe anterior to life Of a milky flow on a slide of dreams Too otherworldly for life, too free to be death But a pair wanted a mortal by all means To assume a pragmatic existence, employ my limbs.

Lucie Richards–Colors

Coral Island Toby Irikura

There is nothing mundane about a grain of sand millions of years to end up on beach in Florida

Alexandra Su–The Final Cut

Homage to Allen Ginsberg Toby Irikura

Broken finger, Shit & puke.

Eugenie Kourti Ferrante–Portrait of Charlotte Brontë

Masthead Editor-in-Chief: Tobias Irikura Editor: Eugenie Kourti Ferrante Editor: Isabelle Kauffman Arts Editor: Dashiell del Barco Arts Editor: Zsofi Markus Faculty Advisor: Jeffrey Laguzza