Penchant3.1

THE

PENCHANT RESTLESS NIGHTS Where did it come from, where did it go, And who made that noise, would I ever know?”

TO CHERISH WHAT YOU LOVE MOST by karl

SWEET THINGS WE DREAM OF by ingrid lu and aarya mongaonkar

DREAMCATCHER

by sanjana shinde

Irvington High School’s Creative Writing Club is a student-run, interest-based club dedicated to providing a welcoming environment for writers of all kinds to convene and share their ideas outside of an academic setting. Members get a taste of publication through submitting to The Penchant, our online literary magazine. Meanwhile, monthly prompts, in-club competitions, and major writing contests are provided to allow members to explore the implications of writing, improve on their own techniques, and receive feedback from their fellow peers. Overall, our collective mission is to enable the students of Irvington to write what they wish and have their voices heard.

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Creative Commons Photos: Cover, 10: retrieved from Pixabay To learn more about us, go to penchantlitmagblog.wordpress.com/.

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the penchant Irvington | creative writing club EDITORS IN CHIEF Athena Xue Sashrika Pandey CONTENT EDITORS Felicia Mo Catherine You LAYOUT EDITORS Sushrut Borkar Janice Park

CONTENT Sashrika Pandey Athena Xue Tammy She Suyash Lakhmani Nichelle Wong Kay Krachenfels Sophie Mo Arielle Ho Ting Ting Gu Jacquelyn Chen Madison Ngo Christine Song Ingrid Lu Aarya Morgaonkar

LAYOUT Yale Han Shreya Srinivas Roland Zhang Zeynep Yakay Harnoor Nagta Rosalyn Weng

6

november 2019

TABLE OF

CONTENTS

7

1

5 dream catcher

3

4

9 Featured Prose 1| Restless Nights

By Sanjana Shinde “Where did it come from, where did it go, And who made that noise, would I ever know?”

9| To Cherish What You Love Most

By Karl “He can't seem to get rid of the feeling trapped in his ribcage - the feeling that overturns his stomach and pulls on the strings of his emotions.”

6| Sweet Things We Dream Of

By Ingrid Lu and Aarya Mongaonkar “Marilyn’s eyes darkened. It was the only time that her pupils had ever shown any soul.”

7| House of Dreams by Felicia Mo 9| To Cherish What You Love Most by Karl 12| Just A Dream by Nichelle Wong 15| Sweet Things We Dream Of

by Ingrid Lu and Aarya Morgaonkar 17| Strike A Chord by Sashrika Pandey

Poetry Photo/Art 1| Restless Nights by Sanjana Shinde 3| The Worst Nightmare & The Most Beautiful Dream

by Zeynep Yakay 4| Within the Depths of Love by Pranav Angadi 5| Asleep by VERB 6| Pinpoint by Kay Krachenfels

Srinidhi Sankar, 1 Iris Kan, 3 Jaime Wang, 4 Eliza Luo, 5, 7 Janice Park, 6 Lily Yang, 8 Mahitha Gollapudi, 13

POETRY

I opened my eyes.

I was surrounded in a dark forest, the stars and tall trees looming over my head.

Looking around, I saw I was in graveyard, surrounded by the dead.

My heart was pounding, my feet not working, and my brain not thinking.

How did I get here, the thoughts were flowing and I was sinking.

I was supposed to be in my bed, waking for my chemistry test in a few hours.

Not be a small figure under the trees that looked like towers.

Just then, I heard a cacophonous scream, panicked and frightening.

My body shivered and I spun around, my fear was heightening.

Where did it come from, where did it go, And who made that noise, would I ever know?

I heard thumping of feet on the hard, dry ground, I looked up and saw a large burly man, holding the leash to a hound.

The hound’s beady eyes glared, while blood dripped from his teeth.

I began to wish I was like the dead around me, long gone and beneath.

I connected the blood and the scream, and fainted from their frightening stature.

Until I awoke from the dream, realizing I had a broken dreamcatcher.

RESTLESS NIGHTS by sanjana shinde

SANKAR, 2017

1|The penchant||NOV 2019

FEATURED

SHINDE

Where did it all come from, where did it go, And who made that noise, would I ever know?

NOV 2019||The penchant|2

POETRY

THE WORST NIGHTMARE I have the worst nightmare My mom is crying in the airport She has silent screams Nobody hears them but I do I am not in control and it is real I have the worst nightmare One day we wake up and She is called a “traitor” What did she do? We don’t know I am not in control and it is real I have the worst nightmare She tells me it will be okay That she is just among the people who Are betrayed by the country they served I am not in control and it is real

by zeynep yakay KAN, 2017

3|The penchant||NOV 2019

&

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL DREAM I have the most beautiful dream The “American Dream” it is called I find peace, justice, and freedom in it It gives me a future with hope I am not in control and it is real I have the most beautiful dream My mom’s eyes are shining I see a luster of confidence in them It gives me power, it gives me trust I am not in control and it is real I have the most beautiful dream I go to a school full of people from far away I taste the sweetness of diverse knowledge I feel the smoothness of belonging I am not in control and it is real

WITHIN THE DEPTHS OF LOVE

Don’t take me for granted, Don’t let me fall.

Don’t step in this darkness,

by pranav angadi

However small.

Don’t take me for granted, Don’t let me fall.

Don’t step in this darkness, However small.

Don’t let this pain seep through this heart, Nor let me be forever far.

To fill this arch with apple trees, Or fill it in with bumblebees To step inside with heaven’s grace, To get the sleep upon disgrace.

To quiver not very small, The birds singing their merry song.

Upon the bough to rest awhile, The white birds come, Sprinkling like the snow of winter.

WANG, 2017 WANG, 2017

NOV 2019||The penchant|4

POETRY

ASLEEP by verb

Bloody slashes all over a page The marks of a red pen Slowly running out of ink The ticking of a clock Sounding deafeningly loud In the silence of the classroom The ringing of a bell Controlling everyone yet Still not enough to alarm Fluorescent lights raining Down onto white papers Curiously blank of ideas Bubbles of disillusionment Neatly filled in with the sharp Tip of a number two pencil Sore shoulders and heavy Backpacks, the weight of Every single responsibility Lost dreams and forgotten Names, tears shed over Passing a failing system There was something more But it’s a long-ago whispered word That blew away in the breeze

5|The penchant||NOV 2019

LUO, 2017

Wishing that it’s entangled somewhere Within the strings of a dreamcatcher Watching over the sleeping students Who have forgotten how to dream

PINPOINT by kay krachenfels The leaves, budding green desperate yellow then orange, in the trailing rays of the sunset drift down to the dirt, whispers of their life still unsettled. but The ants see crinkled fragments, broken hopes and dreams, carry the pieces home to be fulfilled for another day. and The books, pages previously treasured, dog-eared and worn, now laying forgotten on dusty shelves sit patiently waiting, knowing they will not be reopened. but

they write their own stories PARK , 2019

The words, all that remain on faded paper, are still alive in the people and they write their own stories even as the sun moves on. for The sun sleeps but the stars do not, even if they are eclipsed when most needed.

by felicia mo NOV 2019||The penchant|6

PROSE

It was the night before October 31, 2019 and, at 10:30 pm, the boy was already in bed.

It was a school night, but the boy was not the type of high schooler to stay up late like most others. He had a strict curfew; be in bed by 10:30 and get a good eight hours of sleep so he could be fully functional the next day.

In this case, he was recharging himself for the great Halloween binge tomorrow night that would most definitely break his curfew.

At 11:55 pm however, the boy woke up thirsty. It took him a minute to tiptoe to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water. At 11:57, he stumbled back into bed.

At 11:59, he closed his eyes.

The Dreamworld had a cap on the number of people who could dream at once. Spots were determined on a first-come first-serve basis and those that remain entered a “dreamless sleep” zone. But because the boy slept so early, he always earned a place in the Dreamworld.

Tonight, the Dreamworld was starring a special Halloween festival, and the boy had been selected to participate. His dreaming consciousness came to him slowly, groggily, as he transitioned from the real world to the Dreamworld, and the first thing he felt was a soft wisp of fog against his arm. Then his sight returned suddenly; it was an odd view, being able to see without opening his eyes. It was as if he were wearing a pair of sunglasses; everything was a shade darker and foggier than normal.

The boy stood in the midst of a green street. It wasn’t the trees that gave it its color; the only trees he could see were the vague twisted outlines of rotting wooden claws that crisscrossed above his head.

The green color came from the air, from the perpetual fog trapped in the neighborhood, moving only when someone else moved.

7|The penchant||NOV 2019

Soon, the boy realized that navigating the fog proved impossible. The air was the same, the ground felt the same, the sky looked the same: green, green, and green. He zigzagged; U-turned; ran straight for a long, long time.

Finally, he bumped into a girl.

She fell backward. Her mouth was open but the boy couldn’t exactly hear anything she was saying. He reached out a hand and pulled her up.

The boy felt they needed to stick together. So when the girl began jogging into the fog again, he followed her. He kept her hair (he didn’t know what color) in sight as the green air pressed around them.

A while later (it was hard to keep track of time in the Dreamworld), he heard a groaning sound that made him pause. His dreaming ear didn’t actually register the sound, but a tickling feeling in the back of his head told him to turn around. The girl also paused to look back.

The fog behind them was twisting with shapes. A wrinkled hand flashed into view. Hollow face, tattered white shirt, skinny arms, and clawed fingers. Blood stains everywhere. The fog gave it a green glow.

The boy very clearly heard the girl scream, “Zombie!”

The fog was in violent motion now, writhing with the blurred outlines of people. Other dreamers. The boy couldn’t see them, but he could feel their presence nearby and hear the blend of all their voices. They were all waiting for Dreamworld’s latest installment.

A silhouette took shape in front of the boy, and there was a sudden hush that made him shiver and realize how cold the fog was. A bright orange color appeared, then a pale face below it. White teeth smiled at the crowd.

“Dreamworld,” said the ginger-haired man. “What a wondrous place!”

His next words fused together in the boy’s dreaming mind.

Without explicitly hearing the man’s introduction, the boy knew the man’s name was Dominic and that he was the host of the festival. The boy understood that he was part of a Halloween game. But that was all the boy knew before Dominic threw open his hands and said, “Ready.

Begin!”

Suddenly, there was chaos.

There was screaming and the fog was teaming with shapes that hadn’t been there before. The boy spun around and tried to gain a sense of direction, but he didn’t know what he was running from. He only had a strong hunch that staying in the fog meant death. He spotted an opening in the tumbling, green air and ran for it.

HOUSE OF LUO, 2017

DREAMS by felicia mo

They bolted in the opposite direction. The boy had always thought zombies were slow, but it felt as if this one was right on their heels, its gnarly fingers closing in on them.

Suddenly, the boy remembered the rules of the Halloween game. It may have just been his imagination—as the Dreamworld was to begin with—or his urge to manipulate the story, to bend the rules. He believed that he hadn’t heard Dominic clearly the first time, but now that he reflected on it, those rules made more sense.

They were to slay the monsters of Halloween.

The boy stopped. The girl stopped. Somehow, she had realized. Or rather, he imagined she had realized. He looked at her briefly, then turned to the zombie.

It looked much smaller now, more fearful and cautious as it retreated under his gaze. He held out his hand to it and the zombie shrank away. The fog cleared around them, forming a wall around the three figures.

In the Dreamworld, dreamers with a greater control of their dream activities could essentially include anything they wanted into the dream just by thinking of it. The boy speculated that he’d been in the dream long enough to have that control.

So he imagined the ability to kill anything (gruesomely) simply by touch.

The zombie whipped around and ran. But the girl was suddenly in front of it, barring it from the safety and obscurity of the fog around them. The boy walked up to the zombie before it could turn and touched its shoulder.

He woke with a start. His alarm clock was playing a pop song from the radio it was tuned into.

School was interesting.

Friends showed off their costumes. Others waited for the trick-or-treating spree. The boy was the part of the latter group.

When he came home, he finished his remaining homework.

By 8:30 pm, he was getting ready in his costume. 9:00 and his friend knocked on his door. The boy painted another streak of red on the tattered white shirt he’d cut up and stepped out of the house a zombie.

They started down the street. It was a foggy night. They waved at some familiar friends they’d spotted. A few houses and “trick-or-treats” later, the fog was becoming so dense that they were having trouble seeing the ground.

They kept going.

At last, they spotted the silhouette of two figures in front of them. The boy thought they looked like the kids who sat behind him in math class. He called out. He reached out a hand to wave.

The figures fled. The boy, thinking it was all some elaborate prank, chased after them through the fog, leaving his trick-or-treating partner behind.

He almost caught up to one of them and stretched out a hand to grab him.

All at once, both figures stopped. The boy stumbled to a halt too and doubled over to catch his breath. When he looked up, however, he recoiled.

The first one he saw had the largest, bulging eyes he’d ever seen. The eyebags sank into several layers and the eyelids were flipped inside out. It’s mouth was puffy and black, pulling against glistening, fleshy stitches. A trillion wrinkles lined the corners of its mouth like a bunch of thinned fish gills, and there were bloody horns forcing themselves out of its forehead, like a claw was trying to carve its way out from the inside.

The boy took in this much and immediately turned to run.

But the second figure blocked his path. This one had scissors in its hands. The exposed part of its mouth and jaw were sinuous stretches of flesh not too different from meat that had been processed through some kind of slicer.

The boy almost threw up.

Before he could, he felt a touch on his back.

Then he was beyond feeling anything else.

YANG , 2017

8

PROSE

TO

CHERISH

WHAT YOU LOVE MOST He knew there was something terribly wrong with his mother.

She wasn’t eating as much; her figure became slimmer, and she lost weight. Her eye bags seemed darker than usual, accompanied by sunken cheekbones. She started taking more pills than usual, and she had been going to sleep later and later.

He knew that there was something wrong with his mother, but he chose not to do anything about it.

He focused on his schoolwork instead, devoting all his time to studying, often ignoring his mother to finish his homework.

"I'm going out," his mother said one night while he had been working.

He could barely hear what his mother had said due to the loud volume of his earphones, so he replied with an 'mhm'.

The front door closed with a soft click, and within a few seconds, he heard the roar of the car as it exited the driveway.

He had expected his mother to come back in a few hours, just as she'd always done.

Except this time, she didn’t.

His mother never came back.

The first time Alex has ever taken anything for himself in his cousin's house was when his aunt told him to clean out the boxes in the garage—the ones he had brought in when he moved into the house.

"It's for exercise," she told him.

9

Of course, Alex never complains about any of the chores assigned to him. He knows his aunt and uncle cared more about their own son than Alex himself, but he's grateful that they gave him a place to live and that they pay attention to him. Well, most of the time, anyway.

Alex grunts as he heaves the last box off the ground. He brushes his hands on the front of his jeans, then proceeds to wipe the sweat off his forehead using the back of his hand.

"You could've asked for help, you know."

Alex turns his head to the doorway, his posture straightening almost immediately.

"I don't really need your help..."

His cousin, Oliver, sighs as he shoves his hands into his pockets, surveying the boxes lined against the walls.

"So, what exactly did mother want you to do?"

Alex shrugs. "Clean out the boxes, she said. Nothing else."

"Well, have you found anything worth keeping?" Oliver bends down, rummaging through the cardboard boxes.

Alex collapses onto the ground with a huff, propping his head up with a hand. "No. Nothing's worth keeping. I wouldn't want to keep anything, anyway. You could burn it all for all I care."

Oliver hums, his arm scouring for something inside the box. "You sure?"

No.

"Yes, of course, I'm sure.

Burn everything!" Alex snaps instead, his brows furrowing.

"Even this?" In Oliver's hand is a masterpiece, an elegantly woven charm hanging from a piece of string.

"What is it?"

"It's a dreamcatcher.

Haven't you heard about them?"

"No." A flat, straightforward answer.

"Well," Oliver continues, unfazed by Alex's cold tone, "it's rumored that when you sleep at night, the dreamcatcher catches the nightmares that come to you with this net here." Oliver points to the top of the charm where there’s a hoop with intricate designs in the middle.

"The nightmares fall to the feathers here," Oliver points to the three feathers dangling from the hoop, "and they disappear once the first rays of sunlight hit the dreamcatcher."

"That's nice and all," Alex says, attempting to avoid sounding sarcastic; however, he's certain that Oliver can hear it dripping from his words nonetheless, "but I don't need it.

Throw it in with all the other stuff.

I'll haul it to the dump tomorrow."

Alex is about to turn away when Oliver says in a light voice: "It's from your mother, though."

He stops short in his tracks, his jaw clenching. Something caves in his chest, deep and hollow.

"So?" "You should keep it at least.

As a memory of her."

Alex can't suppress the sudden rage bubbling in his chest, burning at the back of his throat.

"My mother's dead," he spits, "I'm not taking anything she owned, whether she left it to me or not. I don't want anything. End of conversation."

Without another word, Alex stomps away with his fists clenched at his sides, leaving Oliver amid all the scattered boxes in the garage. ~

FEATURED When Alex returns from school the following day, the first thing he sees on his desk is the dreamcatcher, laying idly next to his textbooks.

"Oliver!" he roars, storming into his cousin's room.

Oliver is not in the slightest startled by Alex's appearance as he swivels around in his chair.

"What?"

"Don't you 'what' me," Alex hisses, shoving the dreamcatcher in Oliver's face.

"Oh." "Why is this in my room?!

Didn't I tell you to toss it with the other junk?!"

Oliver absentmindedly twirls the pencil it between his fingers while his eyes stay locked with Alex's.

"Didn't want to."

"Well, fine. If you're not going to do it, then I will."

Just as Alex's about to rip the dreamcatcher apart, Oliver pipes up: "It might help you with any of your nightmares."

"No, it won't," Alex replies almost instantly, "It's just a folktale.

It's not real. Forget it."

"It's the last thing your mother left you, Alex. At least keep it for a while."

"And why should I?" "As a memory, as I've said before. A memory of when she was alive."

Alex scoffs, the dreamcatcher swaying from side to side with his hand movements.

"No, thanks. I'd prefer to get rid of it myself, so I won't have to see it again." He grips the feathers of the charm with such intensity that his knuckles turn white.

A funny feeling makes its way to Alex's gut, twisting his insides and causing his stomach to flip involuntarily as he walks out of Oliver's bedroom.

His footsteps stop to a halt next to the bedroom's door frame, his gaze falling to the dreamcatcher in his hand.

Alex hesitates, doubt clouding his mind. He's doing the right thing, he tells himself. Get rid of the dreamcatcher, and all the lingering memories of his mother will disappear, and finally, he will be able to forget about the thing that's hurting him the most.

Tearing his eyes from the carpet, Alex shoves his doubt aside and places the charm into his jacket pocket.

He has better things to worry about right now, anyway.

Alex finds himself in the park after leaving the house in a rage. He swallows subconsciously, a wave of nostalgia rolling over him.

He remembers the first time when his mother had taken him to the park, right after his father had left them with a full suitcase.

Her eyes had been puffy and red, but nonetheless, she pushed Alex on the swings, laughing along with him - his tiny, stubby little legs swinging back and forth.

He hadn't even known the cause of her sorrow at that time.

He remembers when he came home late one night, having studied past school hours. His mother had already retired to bed, but she had made him dinner even though her work tired her. She had left a note on his door, saying she made him something and that it was sitting in the microwave, ready for him.

A funny feeling squirms in his gut, twisting and pulling at his feelings.

Alex remembers the time when he passed his mother's room; the lights were turned off, and a lump had settled on the bed. He remembered vaguely hearing muffled sniffs from her room when he stopped by the doorframe, just out of her sight.

He had brushed it off, believing that it must have been a minor cold.

The sensation curls in his stomach again; he bows his head at the feeling.

He wants to forget.

KARL

He wants to forget about his mother, about how she was the only person he could depend on entirely. He wants to forget about how she'd been so kind to him even when she was weary from her job.

He wants to forget how inconspicuous he was to her kindness, how ungrateful he'd been toward her.

He wants to forget about the sirens - the vibrant blue and red lights, blinding in the dark. He wants to forget the paralyzing sensation he felt when he received the phone call, wants to forget the stuffy smell of rubbing alcohol and rubber gloves in the hospital.

He wants to forget about her smile, her laugh, her cooking, her cheerfulness and motivation directed toward Alex when he was down in the dumps. He wants to forget how he'd pushed that all away, how he'd neglected his mother for schoolwork and his social life, how he never spent any time with her.

It causes him agonizing pain that gnaws at his soul, eating him from the inside out. It hurts and hurts and hurts, and he can't make the pain stop.

Alex grits his teeth, balling his hands into fists as he tilts his head toward the sky.

He can't seem to get rid of the feeling trapped in his ribcage the feeling that overturns his stomach and pulls on the strings of his emotions.

The dreamcatcher turns heavy in his pocket, and Alex takes it out with a damp palm, taking a seat on one of the benches.

His breaths turn ragged, tears burning at the back of his eyes as he rapidly blinks them away.

He told Oliver he'll throw the dreamcatcher away by himself, but he just can't bring himself to.

He wants to push it all away - all the memories and the pain; at the same time, he wants to hold everything his mother had left him to his heart, wants to savor those memories and clutch it to his chest, never to let go.

10

PROSE He wants to destroy the dreamcatcher, splinter it into pieces with his bare fist so he wouldn't have to think about it again.

He wants to hang it up in his room as a reminder that his mother was still here by his side at all times, even if she had passed away.

Bile rises in his throat as the two thoughts collide, his vision swimming while thoughts cross his mind at an alarming rate.

He's been pushing things away for far too long. He's pushed his friends away when he'd moved, cut off all connection with them; he's pushed away his memories about his mother, has compressed them, and threw them into the depths of his mind.

Tears leak down his face, leaving stains in their wake. He muffles his broken sobs to the best of his ability, bending over to hide the shaking of his shoulders.

Alex can't possibly push this away - not the last item his mother gave him before she died.

It felt wrong, as if a piece of him were to go missing if he got rid of the charm. He clutches it in his hands as he cries, his head bowed as tears slip freely from his eyes and onto the dreamcatcher.

And from next to him, Alex can feel the comforting presence of his late mother, her hand caressing his cheek as she'd done so in the past. He can see her smiling at him, telling him that all will be okay in the end.

The familiar tender touch of his mother's hand leaves his cheek as quickly as it had come, and once again, Alex is alone on the bench.

Though his breaths are still uneven, Alex's tears have stopped, and he gathers himself back together again.

With shaky legs, he stands up, exhaling deeply. He places the dreamcatcher in his breast pocket, close to his heart.

This time would be different, he promises himself.

11|The penchant||NOV 2019

This time, he would cherish the things that he loved most.

by karl

by nichelle wong

JUST A DREAM

“Mommy, what are the figures on this dreamcatcher?”

George asked. He picked it up from one of the old boxes she was sorting through and turned it over in his hands.

“Hmm? Which ones?”

“The small ones, right above the feathers.”

“You mean the ones on my dreamcatcher?” His mother paused and glanced up. “I haven’t seen that thing in a long time. Give it to me so I can take a look?”

George obediently handed it over.

“I remember this!” his mother said, her face lighting up.

“This one here is an owl. Owls are known for being wise.” She pointed to a round figure with a pointy triangle where a mouth would be and two large circles for eyes.

“Owww-wul.” George sounded out the unfamiliar word.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a bird,” his mother explained. “It has a beak—see this over here?—to help it eat. Owls have large, round eyes that can see at night. They have two wings at their sides that are made of feathers.

When they want to, they can stretch their wings out and fly.”

“Fly, like an airplane?”

George asked, awestruck.

“Yes, like an airplane,” his mother said. For some reason, her voice held a tinge of sadness.

“What’s the other one here?

The one with the really long nose and pointy ears?”

“This here is a wolf, darling.

Wolves are known for being noble.

They were—sorry, are fierce predators with sharp teeth. That means they hunt animals and eat meat. Wolves can run really fast.

That’s why they have such long legs.”

“Do they eat people?”

George asked, shrinking away from the dreamcatcher.

“No, sweetie. They only eat other animals.”

“What’s an animal?”

His mother’s eyes widened.

“Y-You mean they haven’t taught you that at school?”

George shook his head.

“Nope. Am I supposed to know it?”

“Yes! You’re in 4th grade now...they really haven’t...they didn’t, did they?” his mother muttered to herself. Her brow creased.

George tugged on her sleeve. “Mommy, what’s an animal?”

“It’s...a creature, sort of like a human. It eats and breathes and moves like us. But it eats different things and acts differently.

Animals live in what used to be the forests.”

“The forests?” George said, shivering. “You mean places where trees and scary things used to live?

Before the Great Extinction?”

“The forests used to be so much more beautiful back then…”

His mother trailed off in thought.

Her fingers absentmindedly tapped at a book beside her.

George glanced at the cover. At first glance, it seemed like any other worn leather notebook.

But then he saw the nametag.

“Nature Journal,” he read aloud. “Hey, that’s Daddy’s notebook!”

His mother stiffened and pulled the book closer to her.

“Ah—yes.”

George leaned closer.

“There’s an owl and a wolf on the cover! So Daddy knows about animals too! Is the dreamcatcher his, too?”

“He gave it to me,” his mother said slowly, sounding almost reluctant.

“Mommy, I want to see an animal!” George declared.

“Sweetie…”

“If Daddy likes animals, I want to like them too. I want to know so many things about Daddy, but you don’t ever talk about him.”

“I-I don’t—” His mother was staring blankly at the wall.

George tugged on his mother’s sleeve again. “Mommy?

Do you think he’s coming back?

Can he take me to see an animal?”

His mother covered her hand with her

12

PROSE

NAME, 2017

13

GOLLAPUDI, 2019

mouth and was quiet for a long time.

Bored, George lay down on her bed and studied the dreamcatcher.

The owl’s direct gaze seemed to pierce his soul, as if it could see everything he was thinking. It made him feel uncomfortable. Almost unconsciously, he turned his head to focus on the wolf.

The wolf’s nose was tilted to the sky and its mouth was wide open. It was perched at the top of a high stone. Above its head rose a wide, round moon. The sight made George feel an unexplainable sense of longing.

“It’s howling, dear.” His mother had come over without his noticing.

She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer to her. George squirmed in her grasp.

“Mommy! I’m not a baby anymore!”

His mother sighed and let go. “You said you wanted to see an animal, didn’t you?”

George nodded so fast he bumped into his mother’s chin. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“Well, then. We would...we’d have to go to the zoo to see them.”

“The zoo? What’s that?”

“It’s a place where they keep all the animals.”

“Ooh! I wanna go!”

George’s mother ruffled his hair. “I don’t know if they’ll let us in.”

“But we can try, right?

That’s what Daddy always said. It’s better to try than to give up, right?”

His mother placed her hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “You are just like your father, George Jr.” “I am?”

His mother tapped his nose affectionately. “You are.”

“So this is a zoo?”

George looked disappointedly into the small white cubicle. A single gray chair was placed in the middle, with a pair of glasses on the seat. The glasses were connected to a few wires protruding from the ceiling.

WONG

NAME, 2017

“You have to put on the glasses to see the animals,” his mother said gently. “Go on. Just sit down.”

George picked up the glasses and sat down in the seat.

“And then I put the glasses on?

Just like that?”

His mother nodded. An inscrutable expression passed over her face for a second, so fast George thought he had imagined it. “Go on.”

George slid the glasses onto his face.

Instantly, the world transformed. Instead of a barren cubicle, transparent walls lined a long hallway. Behind them were colorful creatures of all shapes and sizes. Some were tiny. They scurried around the enclosure, glancing up from time to time.

Others were huge, stretching up far above George’s head to nibble leaves on a tree.

Trees! There were real trees, with solid brown trunks

and a mass of green leaves.

George could hardly believe his eyes.

“Real trees!” he shouted in joy.

He ran to one of the glass panes and pressed his hands against it.

“Wolves!” he cried out.

They were long, sleek, and gray. Long noses sniffed the ground or rested on weary paws, often with a pink tongue poking out. Their eyes seemed to gaze into the depths of the universe.

When a wolf noticed him, it slid seamlessly into the trees, sunlight dappling its coat as it went.

“They’re beautiful,” George whispered as he gazed through the glass.

A little farther behind, a pair of employees stood talking.

“Aren’t we forbidden to show this to the young ones now?” the first said, glancing at the cubicle. His foot tapped nervously against the ground.

“Relax,” said the second, leaning back against the counter.

“You know that kid? That’s George.

His dad got taken in for leading the protests on saving the animals, remember? It was all over the news back then.”

“You mean that whole case with the Great Extinction? It was that kid’s father?”

“That’s what I said. It’s a pity those gorgeous creatures had to die, ain’t it? But what can we do when the government thinks humans are worth more than animals?”

“We were running out of resources. Something had to be done. It was either the animals or us.”

“To each his own, I say. That man really did love nature. Some say, even more than his own namesake. Or at least, enough to get jailed for it.”

“The kid’s going to need to face the truth someday.”

Both employees glanced at George, who was waving his fists at some imaginary animal. “Can we keep this one, Mommy?”

The second employee shook his head. “Let him believe for now.

After all, it’s just a child’s dream.”

NOV 2019||The penchant|14

PROSE There are many kinds of monsters that lurk in our dreams, slipping between the shadows in our minds. They pull our hope out in tangled, dusty ribbons, and fill us with doubt and fear. The monsters under your bed, hiding in your closet, lurking around the corner of a tucked-away alley––these are the ones you fend off and march bravely away from.

But there are debilitating demons, the ones that cripple you forever, the ones that shatter your heart and your mind and your soul.

These are the devils that burn in hell and hope to take you there with them.

Little Theodore Lane suffered from manic dreams that flashed a violent, bleeding red. The nightmares suspended in his mind haunted him,followed him around the schoolyard, tiptoed around his bedroom. They would walk behind him around for what would feel like an eternity to a terrified eight-year-old boy. *** This afternoon, Christmas Eve came to and drifted through the Lane house, casting sparkling enchantment over their heads. It brought the scent of snickerdoodle cookies and marshmallows bobbling in hot cocoa with it, and momentarily, Theodore let go of his nightly horror and allowed himself to take it in.

But all of a sudden, that joy dissipated into cold, frosty winter air.

Theodore’s aunt and uncle arrived on their doorstep, at the minute they were set to arrive. Aunt Lola and his cousin Marilyn were beaming with bright red painted smiles, the kind you usually saw on faceless marionettes. His uncle came toting their suitcases, a neatly pressed tie tucked into his nicest suit.

Marilyn, who was slightly less than a year older than him, was visiting his family. He had never particularly liked her. She had never been mean, or cruel, or anything that she wasn’t supposed to, and yet every time he was in the same room as her his blood ran cold, and the dreams that night were worse than ever. In his mind, she was to be feared, and yet he found a familiarity between them. It seemed to Teddy that they were connected, through something that ran deeper than blood, something he recognized in the deep recesses of his mind but could never truly comprehend.

His mother and father beckoned them into the house, and dread shot through Teddy’s veins as he stood back, allowing the bookshelves to conceal his frame.

Marilyn floated past him, her beetle-black eyes boring into his as she tilted her head and examined him.

SWEET THINGS WE

DREAM OF by ingrid lu and aarya morgaonkar 15|The penchant||NOV 2019

The way she scanned him sent shivers fluttering down his spine and reverberating through his skull.

“Hello, Theodore. It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

Aunt Lola undid her coat and casually tossed it over a chair, embracing Theodore’s mother.”It’s so wonderful to see all of you again!

How old are you this year, Teddy?”

He bristled at the nickname. “Eight.”

While Theodore’s father and Uncle Ferris prepared dessert in the other room, his mother and Aunt Lola ran off to have tea and catch up, leaving Theodore all alone with Marilyn.

“Why don’t you take little Marilyn outside to play, Teddy?

You two haven’t seen each other all year,” was all his mother said before she disappeared into the sunroom.

It had been a rainy week, and he hadn't had a chance to play outside at all, which is why he jumped at the chance, even though he had to take his cousin along.

There was a park nearby with a pond contained in the very center of it, and his father suggested that Teddy take Marilyn there. Upon their arrival, he sat in the grass, clutching his stuffed horse, while she stood behind him, eerily silent with the same smile that always graced her face.

“So how’s school, Teddy?” she asked, sweet as black licorice.

“Don’t call me that,” he answered bluntly.

Marilyn stared at him, eyes empty. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Theodore’s eyes averted to the ground, against his will.

Marilyn always scared him, no matter how friendly she seemed to be.

“You didn’t answer the question,” she repeated, colder this time.

“It’s good,” he mumbled, moving away from her.

FEATURED She caught his arm, kneeling down slightly, and the mud began to pool in the fabric of her snow-white dress. Theodore’s attempts to wriggle loose were nothing but futile.

“Now tell me, Teddy. Have you ever had a nightmare?”

Teddy curled up silently and watched her, on the verge of tears, simply nodding. She smiled, and took a step closer to him.

“You do, don't you? What happens in your nightmares Teddy?

Something you fear isn't it? Now whatever could it be?”

She had been circling around him this entire time, like a lioness preparing to strike. She stepped in the puddle, water rising around her patent-leather Mary Janes, and asked him, “What could you be afraid of? Spiders?

Monsters? The dark? ” He shook his head, an involuntary whimper rising in his throat.

Marilyn’s eyes darkened. It was the only time that her pupils had ever shown any soul.

“At least when you wake up, all of your nightmares are gone. I can’t ever wake up from mine.

When my alarm rings in the morning I’m not relieved. Because I know that they will never ever stop, no matter what I do.”

She stomped her foot down into the puddle, splashing rain water over Theodore’s brand-new sneakers, and began walking in the direction of the house.

“I want to go home. We’ll be expected for dinner soon.”

He stared at her silhouette as she walked away, sheer horror flooding his veins. As he slowly rose onto his feet, the clouds began to spill rain onto the concrete, pouring down in heavy sheets that slid down his face and dampened his clothes as he ran.

Teddy woke up in a flash, his pulse twice as fast as it should be, sweat drenching his bangs. His stuffed horse, dirtied with mud from the day before, sat on his nightstand, black pupil-less eyes silently mocking him.

He slowly untangled himself from his sheets, forcing himself to climb out of bed.

It’s Christmas! You should be celebrating!

He gripped the doorknob shakily.

You will be absolutely fine.

He turned it, unexplainable tears escaping, streaming down his face.

It’s okay.

Plodding down the stairs, a blanket pulled around his shoulders, Teddy caught the smell of his father’s coffee and his mother’s floral perfume. He could detect the scent of Marilyn’s sickly sweet shampoo, overwhelmingly sticky and pink.

“Merry Christmas, Theodore!” Aunt Lola welcomed him cheerfully. “We have breakfast for you on the table.”

“Why don’t you open presents first?” Marilyn beamed at him, her tone detached and warbly. She pointed to a bright red box, tied in pearly gold ribbon.

“That’s from me.”

“I don’t — I don’t want it,” he coughed, his voice sounding feeble even to himself.

“Theodore!” his mother gasped. “Apologize right this instant —” “It’s okay,” Marilyn answered merrily, meeting Theodore’s eyes. “Open it.”

Swallowing, he tugged on the ribbon, and the bow collapsed onto the floor, tangled up in a miserable pile. He pulled the lid off.

A dreamcatcher lay inside, a perfect circle of wire and string intertwined to create something remarkably beautiful.

Stained-glass beads and feathers were strung up at the frayed ends, casting rainbows onto the walls of the box when the morning light hit them just right.

“Well, what is it, Theodore? Take it out,” his father urged excitedly. With trembling hands he reached out, and the moment his fingers YANG, 2017

LU & MONGAONKAR

brushed against the woven string, he regretted his decision. There was no turning back now. He unknotted it, and created a gasp across the room.

Lying in front of him was an intricate and beautifully woven dreamcatcher, and yet he saw something dark. The colors were beautiful, but the way they were woven together. Theodore Lane had never seen this dreamcatcher, and yet he could remember it.

“I wove it together myself for the past few weeks.” Marilyn gloated. Her eyes were sparkling, and he could see genuine happiness in them, which scared him. Marilyn was never happy.

As his aunt and uncle packed up their things and loaded their bags into their car, his parents begged him to express his gratitude to Marilyn for such a ‘sweet and wonderful gift’. He certainly did not want to interact with her more after the events of the previous day, but the steely gaze of his mother propelled him forward. When he went to thank her, she leaned in and whispered in his ear.

Sweet dreams, Teddy.

It would resonate with him for the rest of his life. Theodore had not felt truly free in a long time. And yet as he walked away from the classroom which he had taught in for the past year, he was satisfied. His nightmares were less frequent, the night terrors almost completely gone.

“Thank you!” came the voice of one of the students who had idolized him the most, to whom he had given his “special” dreamcatcher. He looked back at her and smiled somberly. “No problem. Sweet dreams, kid.”

A piece of frayed, torn up ribbon flew across the road, carried by the wind,

the wind that knew a terrible secret.

NOV 2019||The penchant|16

by sashrika pandey

STRIKE A CHORD

PROSE

NAME, 2017

17

The swinging chords of the Parisian band suddenly die out from my left earbud, leaving the echoes of the instrumental to my right. I frown, confirming that the wire is nestled into my laptop’s adjacent port, then dispel my brief annoyance with a shrug. Perhaps a break from the music will give my ears a moment of respite.

I go through my nightly routine and collapse onto my bed, the exhaustion of the day settling in as the hour hand on the clock shifts to 1 AM. Not too bad – after all, it’s the weekend, and I don’t have any particular interest to get up early tomorrow morning.

The house is silent except for a few occasional creaks in the kitchen. Fears of a thief, enveloped in the darkness of the night, prick at my mind, but the warring warmth of my room assuages my concerns.

Still, the creaks persist, and before long, I find myself slowly rolling out of bed and limping over to the corner of my room. I absentmindedly flick the lights on, mentally calculating when I will have to wake up to get my required six hours of sleep, and yet the light ushers in a scene that is anything but my room. I blink twice to recollect myself as I see my desk and lamp turn into air as my small room expands into an auditorium, fit for the performance of a talented opera singer. Golden walls encase the room with a ceiling that stretches up to the heavens. I am at once disoriented, finding myself on polished floors where I can see my own confused face. My bed has been replaced with a grand piano, but as I spin around, I find that the greatest shock awaiting me is the band sitting on a stage a few hundred feet away.

The conductor is seemingly suspended in the air, his baton glinting under the light of a flickering chandelier. The strings are in various stages of playing, some flourishing their bows with the elegance of practiced artists, others bowing to accompany the virtuosos. Behind them are a set of noble woodwinds, soft but assertive

in their own right, and beyond them, I can see the glints of the brass, ever-present and effervescent. My ears pound, suddenly overcome with intense pain, but I cannot see a single movement among the musicians. They are suspended in time, a three-dimensional still life extracted from a photograph. I take a single step forward and it is as if I have unknowingly resumed the scene as the music floods into my ears. The auditorium glows as a decadent symphony seeps into the room.

However, the piece is far from classical, for I can hear rich chords from the woodwinds and flighty trills from the brass.

The band has not moved – the musicians continue to be suspended in time – but the conductor turns, wearing a clay mask that disguises his features. I blink once more, but closing my eyes even for a moment causes the world to spin around me as if I am re-experiencing my entrance into the room. The golden walls and floors envelop me, falling towards me and pulling apart all at once. I try to run, but I slip on the clear varnish and when I turn around I can only see the conductor moving forward as the static symphony encases me. His steps are slow and deliberate, the baton tapping the side of his suit as he glides across the inescapable floor. I fall to my knees, aiming to crawl away, but the music pushes against me, begging me to stay. It tries to lull me into a sense of security, to open my eyes and years and become one with it, but I frantically try to pull away from its allure. Yet the battle is a lost cause – plugging my ears only exposes me to the booming bass line, which beckons me forth.

The conductor stops in front of me. He kneels. I am terrified of the blankness of the mask and its lack of emotion despite the blooming chords of the ensemble. His gloved hands reach to his mask, carefully removing it with the hesitance of a child yet the precision of a performer. Before I can get a glimpse of what lies behind, however, I fall backward, the shining lubricant of the floors catching me off guard as my head slams onto the

ground. Yet I continue to fall, deep into a never-ending pit that continues to channel the blasting music.

I hear the dulcet tones of the untouched piano and the audacious melodies of a tenor line as I plummet into the depths of the hole. A pit orchestra, I muse despite my overwhelming terror. Now all I need is the pendulum, whooshing past me in the dead air that somehow carries the lively chatter of the ensemble.

Suddenly, the blackness gives way to metallic walls, and finally an enveloping veneer of brass as I am deposited on the bench of the grand piano once more. The stage is empty.

The conductor is gone. In front of me lay the keys. To escape? It doesn’t matter, for I know what has to be done.

I have not played in ten years, and yet my hands immediately find their positions on the white and black rectangles. It’s all a dance after all. My fingers race across the alternating colors as I replicate the symphony I just heard. I capture the vivid tone of each instrument, each musician, even though I am constricted to the ten digits of my hands. They fly across the keyboard, performing a piece that necessitated thirty-odd instruments, and I am afloat.

Yet I feel no pride in playing – if anything, I feel the need to continue playing, keep the music alive until the band returns – I play for the entire night, replicating the melody that I had only heard for a few minutes and stretching it for hours on end. At some point, I hear others walking across the glistening floors. I do not need to remind them about its lack of traction, for they amble slowly across the vast stretch of the auditorium. I feel sympathetic looks cast upon me – no, empathetic ones. I spare a moment to look up and see the musicians. Their faces are unrecognizable, a medley of distinctive features coalescing into an indistinct blur. I am aware that the music has not stopped – my hands continue to fly across the keyboard. The only breath that my fingers can take is in their brief journey from one key to another.

A violinist steps forward, producing a mask from the depths of his cloak. His face should be

memorable for some reason, but I am certain that I wouldn’t be able to remember it even if I stared at it for millennia. I don the mask. It fits naturally.

The musicians leave me, carrying their burdensome instruments as they ascend the stairs to the stage faraway. The piano’s ballad continues.

The conductor appears at some point. Perhaps he emerged from the floor or entered through some secret doorway. I do not care, for the music grips me. He raises his hand automatically, and my own hands freeze mid-arpeggio. He doesn’t spare me a glance, yet that treasured currency suddenly worthless in comparison to the promise of the baton’s movement.

Let me play.

Please let me play.

He boards the stairs to the stage, takes his place at the conductor’s helm. The musicians have placid faces, yet I see the mournful panic in their eyes, reflecting my inner torment.

He considers his baton without looking to me. My eyes bore holes in his back, silently begging him to start the journey. The memory of the music is rapidly fading from my mind and I am anxious to preserve its pattern in my dexterous hands.

He lifts his baton, then, almost as a parent offering an indolent child a sweet, flicks it with unmatched grace. We are off.

The golden walls enclose me once more, yet I am unafraid, for, despite the exhaustion in my arms and the repetitive chords, I feel both comforted and horrified by the melody,

knowing that it will not end.

NOV 2019||The penchant|18