Penchant03 by The Penchant Literary Magazine

NOTE TO THE READER Irvington Creative Writing Club’s Penchant Literary Magazine was created in 2007, and this year we celebrate its 10 year anniversary. All the works within this issue are from 2011 to 2015. Throughout the 10 years, our core mission has stayed intact. We strive to create to a welcoming environment for writers of all kinds to convene and share their ideas outside of an academic setting. For the majority of its existence, the Penchant has been only made available through our various websites—the newest being https://penchantlitmagblog.wordpress.com/. Only recently was the Penchant transformed into a compiled magazine. To submit writing, artworks, and photography, email penchantlitmag@gmail.com. To get notifications for when new issues are in the making go to the previously mentioned website and see “submit to” or follow our page on Facebook @penchantlitmag and snapchat @The_Penchant for updates. --- Lily Yang CWC President

AGAIN 6 APRIL 2015 By Jenny Kim You won’t want to hear this, You tell me to stop But I’ll say it again As many times as I want I know, I know. It is too late. But hear me out, for on that day The skies were forecast and set to rain The asphalt smelled of burnt tires and oil stains Together we stood, our reflections muddled Swimming within the muddied rain puddles I know, I know. It is too late. But hear me out, for on that day Her dark hair was tied loose, strands all afloat Escaping the fire hydrant red of her cloak Shielding her from the sky’s weeping face But not from the street’s cold-blooded pace. I know, I know. I guess it is too late. But hear me out, for on that day. We were at the wrong place At the wrong time Going the wrong way At the wrong chime That day should have been one of many to come Now her last, her future gone You don’t want to hear this, You tell me to stop. But I’ll say it again As many times as I want. I know, I know. It is too late. But hear me out, for on that day…

I inherited my loneliness from him. He was my brother and the firstborn prodigal son of my all too often misty-eyed parents. They were both artists, and fit the stereotype perfectly. The timid and washed out stereotype, mind you, not the bold and eccentric one. No one ever said of my parents that they were Van Goghs or Picassos. They were rather one of the forgettable Victorian masters of pastorals. I say one because I feared often when I was a child that either of their miniscule personalities would be rooted out and ripped from its canvas if the other were to mysteriously return to dust. My brother was the Van Gogh of the family. He was the jarring stroke of scarlet or azure or glittery golden acrylic which rather rudely

interrupted the serene pastels of my parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; serene love and serene household and serene dayto-day outings one day when he came screaming and sprawling into the world. He was loud. His silence was deafening in its bravado. He never sat straight. He was an expert at crossing his legs in a thousand different impudent and flippant ways. I remember him sitting on the floor with a smirk on his face and his eyes cocked thoughtfully in my direction, as though daring me to ask him to conform and to listen and to be a young gentleman who was just like all the rest. I never asked. But I think that sometimes he did.

After the excitement of strutting when others slouched, of running wildly through the hallways of his high school reciting Shakespeare, of addressing every woman he met as “milady,” of jauntily whisking off his favorite top hat every time he saw an acquaintance who tried to look away, of ignoring the gossip and small talk to read existentialist fiction, of bursting into song whenever he felt so moved, of being the most ridiculous and yet most fascinating person any of our neighbors ever knew, he locked himself in his room and cried. My parents did not notice. I pretended not to notice. I don’t think he meant to pass that He cried loudly the first time. Wracking nightshade of loneliness on to me. He never sobs as he flung himself at his pillow and tried to thought about me much. But I know he would muffle the sound or suffocate himself or perhaps have wanted to take it with him to the grave both. instead of thrust it from his soul to mine as he joined the dead beneath the Earth in camaraderie By the next week, the tears were silent with Sylvia Plath and Socrates and that rogue and the door was unlocked. He would claim to Romeo. read Nietzsche, but the book remained open on his bed to the same page about truth each time as he I knew what mattered and now I cannot sat facing the wall. Examining it as though it ever be with the others because I understand why contained subtly hewn answers to the void of his he left. I don’t blame him. But if he had as yet left life when no human did as his eyes filled with me without my inheritance I think I would prefer water and dripped down beautiful rivulets which to have been one of my parent’s pastel shades fancied themselves powerful as they eroded the rather than the melancholy muddled black of the skin which stretched over his cheekbones. My very trappings and suits of woe which I have brother always had a mournful philosopher’s eyes become. and a starving man’s face. And I know it’s but the underside of his brilliant One day, the crying stopped. He lay crimson. peacefully with his eyes dry and open. I didn’t let anyone close them until we put him in the casket. I still don’t know how he did it. I didn’t ask. How doesn’t matter. And I already know what does.

BOUND 6 APRIL 2015 By Joyce Wu My mother says I look exactly like *Po Po. And at times it really does intrigue me. How on earth do I look like an old lady? How offensive. No, mother says, it’s not about age. Come, let me show you. Taking out a mirror, she shows us our faces side by side. Wide eyes filled with wonder Eyelashes short and stubby as mine A nose bridge that can’t prop up glasses properly Peach colored lips with a high cupid’s bow Features replicated on two faces. One young. One old. Po Po, we are exactly the same! I say excitedly. The glow I her eyes dimmed and she sighed softly. Indeed you inherited my features, but we are not the same. You are free. I am bound. She bends down and wincing in pain, gingerly takes off her slippers Revealing her contorted feet wrapped into itself like a withered lotus flower. Back then, girls were only considered beautiful if they have small feet. I once had large feet like yours too, but my family wanted to make me “beautiful.” I was bound for life. Each step I took felt like a dozen knives. Each time I saw what my feet had become, I felt a stabbing pain in my heart. But you, you do not have to be bound. You can take those big feet to bound and frolic through the world. For me *Po Po means Grandmother in Chine

HANDS TOUCHING THE SKY 15 August 2014 By Sharman Tan I am lost In a forest, Trees touching the sky. A million routes. I cannot see Through the cloud of fog that guards Me, Imprisons Me. All my companions, We walk the road hand in hand, Believing. Thinking. That we are together, That we all are lost; It’s not just me. But it is. In a moment, They are gone, Phantoms that have disappeared, Dissolved into thin air— No— Not dissolved. They have moved on. They have found their own routes,

Secretly. Why am I alone? Is it just me, Left here, Trees touching the sky? An endless horizon, But which path is Mine? What I like, Or what I do to live? My dream, Or Myâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; No, not My, my route. But which path is Mine? When did they let my hands go? When did they turn away, Without a second look. When did they leave me here, Without a map, Without a road paved just for Me. So many roads. Now Duck through the forest, Find the light, Find the sun. Straight ahead but not straight ahead, I am running, Yet I am still. Am I getting there? Will I ever find it?

My future My dream Or will I be left, Alone as I am now, In the forest, Where I can see nothing but the umber bark, Hear the rustle of leaves kissing the sky, The smell of a chilling freshness, Yet a chilling isolation, Because I am alone. My feet are balanced On the uneven ice, Sending a chill that reaches up With the trees, Touching the sky. And I shiver. They are phantoms. They are gone, And I am running, Desperately, And still Desperately. Still, Waiting a wind to push me one way, To bring Me along with it, To find the path that awaits Me, To find what I have been searching for, To find what they have long found,

And left me, Frozen, Without a place to call home. How can I look up and into the sky? How can I look the sun in its eyes? How can I touch, As the trees touch the sky Above every horizon? I am looking down At my feet so frozen and still. As I look up, Finally, I see through closed lids A Light. And maybe I will find that Light— My Light, Where I can touch the sky And open My eyes And begin My own Journey, When I can Disappear— Like a phantom— Away from this wilderness. Tears burning behind closed lids. When I can peel away this cover of blue gray white Ice Within a forest of trees, Touching the sky,

And find in its place Color. Color For Me to embrace Color That paints me Me To find My home To find where I am And where I will be And smile. I am lonely. But My hands touch the Sky. And I am now I and me is now Me.

he was beautiful, and everyone hated

her. Of course, they didn’t hate her at first. They all tried to make friends with her; humans naturally want to establish connections with good-looking people. And there was no doubt that this transfer student was the most beautiful person in the school. She could have made an abundance of friends and had access to all the elite social circles if she had wanted to.

But there was one side of her that made everyone hate her right away. She would only tell truths. December 17 “Would you mind not talking to me? I hate people who talk behind their friends’ backs.” The girl who she aimed this at stumbled back in shock, as if she had been shoved by the sheer bluntness of those words. This was the third person she had rebuffed. The other ones had all been discouraged in a similar fashion. It only took a few days before everyone realized that it was best not to approach this cold girl who seemed bent on not making friends. December 18 By nature, I am curious. I couldn’t help but be intrigued by her standoffish manner. So during the break, I approached her, plopping myself into the seat in front of her.

“Hi.” She turned towards me, her large black eyes calmly making contact with my own brown ones. “Hello.” Her voice was smooth and pure, like clear water in a stream. Not expecting this normal greeting, I took a moment before continuing. “So what did you mean by what you said to that girl the other day? About not wanting to talk to her?” She sighed. “Exactly what I said. I have no wish to associate myself with that kind of person. She’ll turn on anyone as soon as they’re out of earshot.” I myself had heard that girl complaining viciously about a friend of hers only days before, so I couldn’t really object to that observation, but that wasn’t my point. “Let me put it another way. Why are you so blunt? You could have refused her politely. There might be trouble for you later, you know.” She stared out the window for a moment, not speaking, and I wondered if I was going to get a reply. Not knowing what to say, I waited patiently. Finally, she opened her mouth. “The world is going to end in 3 days. So there’s no point in putting up a farce. I want to live the last of my days honestly, without having to lie to other people for the sake of making nice with them.”

I was taken aback. “What? Don’t tell me you actually believe in that 2012 stuff?” “It’s real,” she replied shortly. “I know it is.”

December 19 The last rays of the setting sun illuminated the empty classroom. It was after school, and everyone should have gone home already. I had fallen asleep in the library. When I woke up, I hurried towards the room with the intent of getting my bag. When I arrived and slid open the door, though, I stopped. She was sitting at her desk, contemplating the wood before her. That image of her sitting so quietly and thoughtfully at the desk evoked a deep feeling of loneliness inside me. She seemed frail, like a small, newborn animal. The breath caught in my throat, and I couldn’t breathe. It seemed that if I made but a sound, I would have shattered the world. It was that kind of inexplicable moment. I broke the spell and approached. As I did so, I noticed that there were things carved onto the surface of the desk. They were cruel and vulgar, as expected of high school students with too much time on their hands. She tilted her head up to look at me. “It’s funny, what they will do just to make themselves feel better.” December 20 I was not prepared for the scene I saw when I rounded the corner. She was sprawled on the ground, bleeding from a multitude of cuts. Her long, sleek hair was a tangled mess. The skin around her left eye was beginning to look puffy, and the right side of her mouth was swelled up. By normal standards, her injuries weren’t severe enough to require an ambulance, but it was obvious that she had taken quite a beating. “What the hell…” I managed to say. She opened her eyes at the sound of my voice. When she saw me, she struggled

painfully to sit up. Rushing to her side, I helped her to her feet and brushed her off.

“This is going too far,” I said angrily, muttering to myself. “Even if you were cold to them, there’s a limit to what they should be able to do.” She pushed me away. “It’s okay. Let them have their fun. You don’t have to help me. In fact, I don’t want you to. You should be off doing something you enjoy instead. “The world ends tomorrow, after all.” December 21 When I woke up, the sky outside was clear and blue. Not a cloud was in sight. The promised apocalypse had not occurred. It was going to be a perfect day. She was on the roof of the school when I found her. She laid there, an arm over her eyes, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She must have heard my footsteps, but she chose not to indicate that she had. “The world didn’t end,” I commented as a way of starting a conversation. “That is correct,” she agreed, still not moving. “So you were wrong.” “Yes.” I noticed that she had put bandages on her wounds from the fight the day before. “Are you in pain?” “Not particularly.” I waited for a moment to see if she would say anything more. When she didn’t,

I couldn’t help but repeat, “So, the world didn’t end.” “It did not,” she said. After a pause, she added, “But I wish it did.” “Why?” “Because there is nothing in this world worth living for.” I thought that over carefully. I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. It was the truth, after all. Or rather, it was the truth as she saw it. And that is the kind of truth that cannot be disproved. It can be avoided, it can be ignored, but it cannot be disproved. We stayed like that for a long time. A cool, refreshing breeze blew by. The painful deep indigo of the sky seemed like it would swallow us both into its depths. I desperately wanted to explain to her that there was hope for the world yet, but I didn’t know how to convince her.

Finally, though, I arrived at the answer. It was an answer that would satisfy even me. With confidence, I opened my mouth. “But there is.” She finally removed her hand from her eyes to look at me. “What?” “There is something to live for.” She sat up, her eyes sad and unseeing. It was clear she had long given up. “And what might that be?” I took a deep breath. “The next apocalypse.” She looked at me for a long time without saying anything. At last, she smiled. Then she laughed. “The world ends in three hundred sixty-five days…”

25 JANUARY 2015 By Jenny Kim We are connected by invisible threads. Some link sisters to brothers, mothers to children. Others link teachers and students and employers and employees. They wrap around our arms and legs, our chests and necks, extending towards and connecting us to the people we love, the people we know, and the people we glance past on the streets. It makes our actions produce reactions, and our pulls to produce tugs. Eventually, we would all be connected by these invisible strings: our every movement, word and breath a slight change in the bearing of the world. A slight change, yes, but a change, nevertheless. So perhaps it is impossible to be truly isolated. Isolation means to be alone, away, apart and detached. But if we truly are connected by all these invisible threads, there will always exist someone else at the other end.

ATHENIAN 25 JANUARY 2015 By Arya Sureshbabu We were Athenian together. Not in the exalted superficial sense of the word, the kind that evokes bearded philosophers huddled whispering about democracy and the meaning of life. We didn’t like them. Thought they were phony. No, we were Athenian because we were wise and at war. Our appearances made it evident, I suppose. Both scrawny with large eyes. But he’s blonde with hair straight across his face and nearly enveloping his blue eyes, looking the incarnation of Apollo. Me? A female version of what I’d fancy Hades to be like. Dark and unruly curls with nearly black eyes. Some idiot told us we made a pretty picture together. He hardly made it out alive. We were rivals or enemies or competitors, whatever you want to call it. We defined ourselves through our opposition to one another and reveled in our differences. Screaming matches were common. We never cared when anyone else disagreed don’t know what to do with my legs. with either of our ideas. I think it was because we were too similar to tolerate any differences among Stand? Sit? Kneel? Surrender? Midnight, but I ourselves. don’t care. Graveyards stop being spooky when We tried to ignore the things that were the you realize the dead are less menacing than the live. But I couldn’t have come when it was light. same. The shared obsession with facts and No, people would wonder, make up sentimental connections, the love of myth, the hatred of hogwash, speculate, or worst of all jump to hypocrisy, the awkwardly strong moral values. conclusions based upon their narrow minds The fact that neither of us could take pleasure in without giving me a chance to defend myself eating, or dance with people watching, or be happy because silent accusations are worse than those with Christmas gifts because we were too far screamed. inside our heads and our hearts to worry about the I compromise and squat. Stare straight into outside world. the tombstone and look at that name. That name. Instead, we magnified the things that were And remind myself that he’s dead beneath my feet. different. I stand where his heart should be. Sic semper His obsession with appearing important, my tyrannis, with me as Athena. But it’s a hollow obsession with appearing un-phony. His obsession victory. with recognition, mine with anonymity. His

obsession with happy endings, mine with tragic ones. But it didn’t mean anything. Because in the end, I don’t think it mattered that we were more similar than we were different. It mattered because I think we understood each other. I could read his mind when he spoke or his eyes when they flashed and he could do the same for me. He knew what I would say but waited for it to stall for time to think of a counter, and I’ll confess I did the same.

And regardless of what I tell myself or want to believe, there are some parts of me that only he will ever know. The vengeful, spiteful side of who I am is a secret he takes to the grave. And that’s when I realize that I am all alone. Because the only person who came closest to me was the person whom I detested the most and I cannot endure his death because I’d prefer to be hated outright for who I am than to be loved or ignored casually for who I am not. We should have killed each other. Because archrivals cannot exist alone.

RAINBOW 6 APRIL 2012 By Praveena Motupalli

The deepest crimson of a twilight rose with pearly drops of dew clinging to the petals A soft orange veil of silk, shot with glimmering gold The creamy yellow of buttercups, smiling in the spring The slender fingers of sweet grass, waving to friends all around Depths of magnificent ocean blue, sparkling under a dazzling sun The dusky lavender of a sea-smoothed stone, waiting to warm someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pocket A rainbow of colors, filling in a world that is a painters dream

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY ___________________ ANKUR MANIAR

‹‹ “Stolid” 4.21.11

“No End in Sight” ›› 4.21.11

“FATHER AND SON” 4.21.11 ANKUR MANIAR

_________________ WILLIAM CHENG

‹‹ “Flatten Night” 4.21.11

“Life of Pi” 4.21.11 ››

__________________ CHRISTINA WANG

“Twas at Sundusk” 4.12.11

___________________ WILLIAM TAN

Untitled 4.12.11

____________________ BEKKY SHIN “Beginning After the End” 5.16.11

“Peach Sky” 5.16.11

___________________ ANCHI WU

“Good Morning” 5.17.11

“Golden Greed” 5.17.11 ANCHI WU