Quarant-Zine by SJSU Poets and Writers Coalition

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Poets and Writers Coalition at San Jose State University

“Quills in Quarantine!” A collection of short stories, poetry, art, and recipes!

Issue #1

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Table of Contents

Who We Are Our Staff Contributor Bios Letter from the Editor Descending Since the Last Time I Heard Your Voice Donald Alonso: Modern Don Quixote RECIPES: Vietnamese Waffle & Ham and Lentil Soup Trichotillomania The Tax Man RECIPES: Flan-demic & The Quarantini twenty twenty Plucking an Orange Tree Break RECIPES: Monster and Vodka & How To Make Black Alternate Timeline: What if COVID-19 didn’t happen? Faded Shelter A Life in Every Mirror Shelter in Place an open letter (to you, specifically)

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Who We Are The Poets and Writers Coalition is an organization created to support the artistic community at San Jose State and the outlying Bay Area public. We strive to support any artistic avenues as a community of writers from all backgrounds who come together and write! We welcome all majors and levels of experience. We do casual group prompts, larger events such as Murder Mystery Night, and the Legacy of Poetry festival.

“Quills in Quarantine!”

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Our Staff Chief Editor & Layout Designer: Rebecca Lee Art Director: Ryan Wada Development Coordinator: Emily Greulich

Contributors:

Photo by Elaina, Modeled by Moneypenny

Coco* Cocoa+ Candice Phelan+* Joshua Cruz+* Ryan Wada+* Wesley Hovatter+* Oliver Cervantes+* Sabrina Kwong+* Elaina+* Emily Greulich+* Rebecca Lee+* Jackie Friedland+ Kelsey Ward+* Sabrina Kwong+* Evan Villaflor* Cynthia Lee*

Models:

Moneypenny the Parakeet Marshmallow the Cat

Special Thanks to:

Professor Tod Edgerton A Teacher in the Art Dept Professor Alan Soldofsky Dr. Noelle Brada-Williams, SJSU English Department Chair *Artist +Writer

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Contributor Bios

Oliver Cervantes writes from sunny Los Angeles where he spends his time hiding under friends’ houses and cars.

Elaina is from Southern California and will one day figure out how to carcinize, and then you’ll be sorry, you’ll all be sorry.

Emily Greulich is from San Jose, CA. where she spent the pandemic with two cats and a tarantula.

Rebecca Lee is the President of the Poets and Writers Coalition and has made thousands of paper stars.

Joshua Cruz has been writing since he was 15, and he likes to shop for cheap suits (the one in this zine is yellow).

Ryan Wada is a man.

Sabrina Kwong is a digital media artist and likes to eat a banana with a fork and knife.

Falcon Ly is born and raised in the Bay and likes to bullet journal.

Candice Phelan is from San Jose, CA. where she writes poems and reads.

Jackie Friedland is the Vice President of PWC and spends their time feeding crows. Wesley Hovatter is from San Diego, and is a fan of both birds and frogs.

Cynthia Lee is an artist/ teacher from San Ramon, CA and enjoys hiking with her family.

Kelsey Ward is an animation/ illustration major specializing in visual development and story. She has a betta fish and is bad at skateboarding.

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Letter from the Editor Hello Readers, The creative writing club makes great work every semester, but this one was different. We wanted to create a collection of original pieces to showcase that. There’s something amazing about people coming together to make collaborative work! This semester, the Quarant-zine contributors have focused on personal experiences and gotten creative with each other. We started out making a small zine in quarantine and I’m really proud of the work we’ve created. With the major themes of escapism, quarantining, and adapting to the online experience, the Quarant-zine captures our resilience and general thoughts. We started with a group of writers who didn’t know each other outside of class or the PWC club. We brought in talented artists, pet models, and all of our collective brainpower to make this happen. I want to hear what other people have to say through their art. I want to bring people together to do that. We have to process and create and move forward as students and writers and artists. PWC’s Quarant-zine was created to provide that space. We aim to grow as artists! I’ve learned how to bring new skills to the table and filled in what was needed. Thank you to each of my contributors. Thank you to everyone who stepped up to help. Thank you to our advisors. Thank you for sharing reminders of what your quarantine was like. For all the ways we’ve changed, we can still get to know each other. With hope, Rebecca Lee Chief Editor Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Descending

Written by Candice Phelan We’re under house arrest Day 23 the cat and I Have come to an understanding

Were the rumors true? Is this a zombie apocalypse? I’m scared to leave my apartment.

Not too long ago we were concerned about fires in Australia

Day 302 the plants knock Against the windows At all times in the day

Day 45 of me and my small space. Have you watched a plant grow? It doesn’t take as long as I thought.

I have no idea where the wind is coming from. Never do they go near the door.

I lay awake. How can I sleep when I’ve done nothing but eat?

Day 364 It has been a year The plants are my friends. They tell tales of the outside.

Day 102 I stare at my phone. I haven’t received a text in days. How long has it been since I talked?

I never go near the windows. Those are the plants territory in the apartment.

I hear doors open and close And people walk away I haven’t heard any come back again

They offered me the door, but I didn’t want to go near it, so I stay on the bed.

Day 167 I fear I’m alone here. My cat ran away. My home has descended into silence

The plants wanted my bed, but the bed is mine. They have broken the contract.

My plants are creeping across the floor at night I swear I see them reaching to knock things off tables.

I ate a friend today. They did not bleed. but they had a solid crunch

Day 276 It has almost been a year My power was turned off I haven’t heard any news in days

The door opened to my landlord, the face was the first I’d seen In months and months and months. Illustration by Candice by CandicePhelan Phelan

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Since the Last Time I Heard Your Voice Written by Candice Phelan I wish I could kiss you and that the night sky glowed as brightly as I do when I think of you. Even though I’m alone right now, I know soon I’ll be together with you again, and for a moment, I’ll know exactly how world peace should feel. Every post I send, every random comment, is just another moment where I’m happily thinking of you. Even if we’re miles apart, I want you to know I’m thinking of you even if I don’t message you.

Illustration by Candice Phelan Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Donald Alonso: Modern Don Quixote Written by Joshua “Duh Wizard” Cruz

“5G Towers?” yelled the triumphant

Donald Alonso. “Charge!”

Armed with an AR-15 blessed by the Grand Wizards of Alabama. Clad in a bulletproof vest passed down from the most powerful army of the world. The knight with the tin foil helmet charged at the fearsome dragon. Its neck scraped the sky as its many mouths breathed invisible cancer rays. The dragon was planted by the Dark Lord of the White House to transmit a terrifying virus against the people of the American Kingdom. Those fiends! “Charge!” Donald Alonso unleashed a horde of bullets on the tower. To prevent contracting the virus and cancer, he covered his Make America Great Again hat with foil. To prevent that from microwaving his head, as everyone knew, he ate raw steak to absorb the radiation. The absolute worst thing, according to credible resources read on the internet, was to wear a mask. The Dark Lord hid microchips inside the fabric to monitor thoughts and lower sperm count.

Illustration by Evan Villaflor

The dragon did not even stand a chance. Donald Alonso stood over the metal dragon and unleashed the last of his bullets into the air. “People,” the knight said to the gathering crowd below the hill. “You are free! Remove your mask, for I have defeated the monster with 1000 faces!” The crowd in paper masks, the “sheeple” as Donald Alonso read, did not look pleased. He knew they would be disappointed. He read

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

on the internet that radiation from phones activated the rage chemical. That’s how the Dark Lord controls the masses. Donald Alonso removed the foil on his hat, and the crowd seemed to understand their powerlessness. They switched from anger to clarity and continued their routes. The police dispersed the crowd, not wanting to deal with the aftermath of such a man. An American hero. A protector who acts for justice and God’s will! A reporter approached the crime, but Alonso saw the logo on their van. “Mindtakers!” Donald Alonso yelled. “Charge!” The knight had read that all news media with certain logos were harvesting the brains of children-- they were coat of arms for rival knights. They were using code. They were mindtakers. The only coat of arms that could be trusted was the Free Opinion of America: the only credible news outlet for American facts! Donald Alonso pledged $50 dollars a month to the serpent who holds the American flag. Its tail cut to represent the lost “sheeple” who refused to join the cause, and the serpent lashed out with the flag in its mouth. But Donald Alonso didn’t have bullets to challenge the Mindtaker. He muttered, “Damn gun conspiracy. Bullets DO grow on trees, damn it!” The knight began slamming the van with his gun. The reporter, who was six feet away with her own paper mask, turned to the camera and gave her commentary.

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

“Don Alonso,” the reporter began. “Once a staple of the community, now a minor nuisance. What changed? Tell us, Alonso, what brought you to these conclusions?” “I’ve read the truth!” “And where did you find your truth?” “In books and on websites,” Donald Alonso said, his mouth free of the mask. “Ever since the pandemic was unleashed, I’ve had time to read about the knights of old. They knew that there was a great evil in the world, and they banded together to face it. They did quests! I fight for not only the honor of my country, but the original king of England: King Arthur! The internet and the president told me that I should take up my sword, my AR-15, and fight for my country. I am more than a hero. Mightier than a superhero. I am a vigilante!” “There you have it, folks,” the reporter continued. By this point, Alonso was too caught up in his assault to listen. “You may know an Alonso. Let me be clear, you may know an Alonso. Donald Alonso wasn’t a man you would see by the bus station. He wasn’t the man who would protest with pictures of God and a fetus. Donald Alonso was my husband. He was a lawyer. A war hero. A father. But he fell victim to the conspiracies generated from the pandemic. Little did we know, he, like many Americans, was a Don Quixote in waiting. He, like many Americans, is in danger of falling victim to baseless conspiracy theories and the melting line that distinguishes fact from fiction. This is Gene Alonso, signing off.”

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Vietnamese Waffle Ingredients: 2 cup pancake flour (or regular should work ok too) 2 cup tapioca starch 3 tsp rice flour 3 cups milk or 2 cans of coconut cream 1/2 cup sugar 4 eggs Pandan flavoring/paste (optional: add coconut shreds to the batter) Mix everything and batter should be thick.

RECIPES

Dump the batter in the waffle pan. The batter should cover the square of the waffle pan. If your waffle pan has some light indicator or sound, flip it when that light turns on or when the sound is emitted. Otherwise, cook according to the instruction of the waffle pan.

Illustration by Cynthia Lee

Ham & Lentil Soup Ingredients: 1 quart Chicken Stock 1 pack Canadian Bacon/Ham 1 bag Dried Lentils (or split pea, barley, or other) 2 Carrots, Celery Garlic Salt to taste Water (5+ cups) Wash the lentils, carrots, and celery. Chop and peel them into bite-size cubes. Cut the ham/Canadian Bacon into small bite-size cubes. Fill a pot with water, boil it. Put lentils in before it boils so they begin to cook. Continue a rolling boil. Once the lentils are softer, add in the ham, carrots, and celery. Canadian Bacon is pre-cooked. If you substitute chicken, put it in to cook with the lentils and it will be done quickly. Add garlic powder and salt to taste. Illustration by Cynthia Lee

Remove from heat and serve! Possibly with bread. It’s good with bread. Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Trichotillomania Written by RyeWizard

[No one should read this, ever] “I just want a single day of peace!” His voice echoed off the massive walls of the small room. Every pore in his body squeezed cold sweat drops from his body. His hair greasy and unkempt dripped with blood in places where he scratched, and scratched, and scratched, and scratched. But we are your sanctuary, thou looked for a safe haven, and it is thine eden here in these embracing walls. The stucco, the egg-shell paint, the smell of fresh dry-wall caressing your nostrils “You say haven, I’m telling you it’s fucking purgatory! You say eden and I see only wasteland.” He smiled as tears tore down his cheeks. His arms formed an embrace around him. No thought. No speech. He hugged his own body and pulled on the extra skin of his inner elbows. “This is real… this is real…this is real…” His words sounded fake, like plastic washing ashore a beach made of crystalline mockery. We are real the screen said to him. The beautiful pixels caressed his eyes, he felt his optic nerves being massaged, no, not being, the small pixelated hands extended out from the T.V. screen and gripped his nerves, but not too hard, just enough to feel a warm cushion of that sweet mental release. “Hah, haha, ah!” His disjointed laughs bounced like rubber marbles against the blank walls. How long did he stand in that one spot? A week? A month? A year? Eons? It’ll be ok my dearest son, you are safe, we love you, we’re here for you The tears felt like acid, he knelt before a massive jar with a lead lid fastened shut. It screamed Epimetheus! And rending the lid off he cried in silent glory for the ultimate sin. Something horrid and terrible gnashed from the bottom of this great jar, this fire stolen from the gods in the ancient lost mountains. “This is real!” He called to his roof. The roof smiled back, white slits for eyes and a row of impossibly sharp teeth smiled above him. Shoe rack. Chairs. Table. Particle board. Electronics. Sweet, wholesome, copper wire taste in his mouth, the tendrils of the electric fingers ironed his tongue. “This is real, I am loved, I am safe.” Over and over he massaged his arms. Scratched his hair. Clawed his cheeks. He lived here, now, nowhere else. The crawling thing slithered against the jar, the lead lid now spinning on the hardwood floor. A cacophony of howls and screeching filled his mind. “You can’t make me more mad! I’m mad as fuck, and I just don’t care!” He laughed at his own voice, he didn’t say it, it wasn’t him, but he heard it. Child, calm thyself, all shall be made clear in the revelation of death and pestilent. Millions have died. You are nothing and only one. It is here in thy room of safety that thou shall find balm for the soul. Surrender thyself as those of the southern lands did, drink deep of the sunsets end. “Be quiet, you’re a fucking microwave! A toaster! A nothing and silvery lies! You don’t give me peace, you melt my eyes and tear my mind with a serrated knife left in the garden filled with patchy blood!” He must keep kneading himself. His hands, slick with old skin and sweat, tore at his cheeks, tore at his hair. Clumps of blood and bits of grey skin fell on the hardwood floor. The roof laughed at him, the T.V. ended its massage and screamed the void towards his eyes. That crawling thing now, prehensile tendrils squirmed from the edge. Good god, gods, divine Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

beings, preserve him he had let loose the jar and all the world would suffer. His shit apartment, filled with disappointment and pain, his empty coffers and coffins and coffee lurched in jubilant glee, a wicked, vicious, uncouth glee. Shh, soon now my child, soon now. You are safe in my arms. The walls are your castle. The furniture your holdings. The paintings are your subjects. See how the paint bows before you and the light shimmers in your glory? You are safe child. Safe. Safe as a harlot in a flagellants dungeon! That damn toaster. Or maybe this time the oven spoke to him? It looked like a mouth ever grimacing…no this motherly tone quilted safety in his ears. His liquor? The one safe haven of havens? Perhaps. “Speak again, please saint Ethena. Ol’ the soul upon my young body begs your speech again…” Silence there, and nothing more. The crawling horror slopped from the lid of the jar. He fell upon his knees. Raising his hands up in supplication he screamed to the ceiling, those horrid eyes now cried through the stucco wall great rivers of blood. But the rows of teeth still shone in a massive grin. The thing from the great jar coiled and shuffled towards him. He opened his body, his soul, his mind, he accepted this constricting mass of chaos. His life, his everything meant nothing. The plague took everything, why not take this?

He awoke, all a dream? Something lurched…

Illustration by Kelsey Ward

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

The Tax Man

Written by Wesley Hovatter John was an average man, who wakes up on time and does his taxes, just like normal people who don’t commit tax fraud do. John would never commit tax fraud, that’s illegal. Unlike his brother Gary, who commits tax fraud left and right. One day, it was Thanksgiving and John and Gary met face to face for the first time since Gary got out of jail for tax fraud. “Do not commit more tax fraud”, John said in sorrow, he knew his words would fall on deaf ears, because Gary is deaf. Gary, naturally, didn’t hear him and accidentally did more tax fraud. The lack of Gary’s taxes caused the IRS to go bankrupt. John still did his taxes though, because he is an average man, who wakes up on time and does his taxes. He would put his money in an envelope labeled “To IRS” and place it in the mailbox, but eventually the mailbox filled up, since the IRS couldn’t afford to employ anyone to pick up the taxes. John decided to get another mailbox. This went on for thirty long years. John currently owns 478 mailboxes, filled with a total of $8,005,302 in cash. John’s house is wall to wall mailboxes now. He can’t escape. Occasionally Gary comes to check up on John, to which John cries out for help. But Gary is deaf, so every time he leaves thinking his brother hates him to the point of not even answering the door for him because of all of the tax evasion he committed. Because he can’t leave to get it himself, John has to order food. Most of the time the delivery person tries to put it in an inaccessible mailbox, so John has to order again and again, hoping the delivery person puts it in one of the mailboxes he can reach. Everything smells like rotten food. He wants to one day break free from his self-imposed prison, but he knows if he did he would be breaking one of the core tenants he lived his life by: waking up on time and doing his taxes.

Illustration by Wesley Hovatter Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

“Flan-demic” Ingredients: 5 eggs 1 can of condensed milk 1 can of milk (use the condensed milk can to measure) 1.2 tablespoon of vanilla extract Sugar (one layer that covers the bottom)

The “Quarantini” Ingredients: Place in a 1 metal shaker: 1 cup of ice 1 Meyer Lemon, juiced 1 Blood Orange, juiced 4 ounce of soda water (ginger ale or sprite) 2 -3 shakes of angostura bitters 2-4 ounces of your favorite methanol-based hand cleaner or Vodka, Tequila, etc (optional) Shake in a shaker until chilled and mixed. Strain and pour into an 8 ounce chilled martini glass. No ice.

Photo by Joshua Cruz

To Garnish: Curl 1 zesty peel of the lemon, rubbed around the rim of class, then hung on rim. Drop in 2-3 Blackberries to substitute for some olives. Serve Immediately. Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

RECIPES

Prep: 1. Melt sugar in pan until caramel colored (the darker the more bitter taste). Then pour the melted sugar in the mold and spread (or melt the sugar in the mold directly to avoid more mess). Set aside to cool. 2. Blend the eggs, condensed milk, milk and vanilla extract in a separate bowl and Pour the egg mixture onto the hardened caramel (sugar). 3. Cover the mold with aluminium foil and steam in boiling water for 30 minutes. 4. After 30 minutes, check if it’s cooked thoroughly by Illustration by Sabrina Kwong using a toothpick. If it comes out clean it is cooked.

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

twenty twenty

Written by Oliver Cervantes breathing in the black mold we hold the words we heard; we’re groped in herds. we’re scared to death under our beds and covered up from the mandate’s mark that makes us all afraid of the dark. unlock the screen and hear their screams; disbarred, eyes scarred, feeling maimed and marred. we’re laid these days along razorblades of piercing barks from the rich man’s remarks ––no breaks to take, no goddamn regard. left to test, arrest life, leave death... over cliffside’s edge with arms left outstretched we can’t reach skin’s touch because it’s too much. staring sleepless at night––frowns showing the stars that stark days steal time to cry for those disembarked.

Illustration by Oliver Cervantes Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Plucking an Orange Tree Written by Sabrina Kwong

I close my eyes and An image of an orange tree appears With you in front of it. An image of an orange That sits in the back Of my head As I hear you pluck it down That sits in the back of my eardrum Where the vibration of the leaves shook my ground. Of my eardrums I close my eyes And hope to be To have you in front of me.

Illustration by Sabrina Kwong

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Break

Written by Sabrina Kwong Like a glow Stick Like two double popsicles Like the top part of a Crème Brûlée Like a pair of wooden Utensils I hope my heart is breaking in all the right places

Illustration by Sabrina Kwong

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Monster and Vodka

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Ingredients: 2 shots Vodka Original Can of Monster (Others are ok but NOT SUGAR-FREE) Sip some monster gently (2 shots worth). Put Vodka in Monster. Drink. Try to forget how lonely you are in quarantine. Sit in front of a mirror in the darkness.

Wake up. It was all a dream. You are not a parakeet.

Illustration by Kelsey Ward, Modeled by Moneypenny

How to Make Black Ingredients: Eggs, existential dread, warm socks, cinnamon, cigarettes, 1 live band, lightning bolt, 1 herring (deboned), herring bones, binaural beets, a DUI on your record, flour

RECIPES

Become a parakeet. Be sad.

Step 1: Close eyes aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaafhcsdadsffgvhgjgfyfhfugugugjbjvjghghthghghgjgfjgjvnbkvjchcjvn mbjvjfjcjvjgkgkgkgkgkgkvkvkvkvjguturyryfjvjgjfjfjfjgjgjdhfhfhcjgheyfigiehcjgurydjgkrydjgjghfnvnfjfjcbcjfbccncbvnvjfjfjgjguryfufjgurutugjdgdyetdhdhwgsydugugjgigufjgjgufugigkbjvjvjvjxufufhdydyrugkbkhudyeyfigkgjgudycigjvjvjchdysydyfigututugihihohigufyryfututufufjgihigigihihknlnpjigugufufydydydteyrufuchvjvjguhfhfufhfududucjvydydhcjvjhjfugigkhohueutihojitityrydhcjvhigutufyfihigydtdyfyfygihihigugugigydtrihigufydyruguguftereyfubkbonlhufyfhfjvhfuvjvjjvydtsrrihlbydtduhiftdihudtrigytyeygihueygihuftdhvudyvjvjbjvgstfuhugyfyfuguguftetduih cyfhchcbcbxvxvxhxgsgsgsgzfzgxvxvxvxvzvxbchfhfhfjgkgjfjfhcjvkgjgjgjgkhdhfugjvufhryrugigihigufjgjgufugigkbjvjvjvjxufufhdydyrugkbkhudyeyfigkgjgudycigjvjvjchdysydyfigututugihihohigufyryfututufufjgihigigihihknlnpjigugufufydydydteyrufuchvjvjgubihohonlhufhgibiyrtdtdhgkbjghfhfjfjgjvjvjfhdhfjvhfhfufhfufjvjdyrufsdfsdfsdfdsfsd ialfhas;difunvaewiofaufescfunoaewufcnqaufncliaesuncfasdunfcoaescfeifahihieyeugjvjvhfhfufhfududucjvydydhcjvjhjfugigkhohueutihojitityrydhcjvhigutufyfihigydtdyfyfygihihigugugigydtrugijojifyfyfugugugugugugugudtrygihihigufydtdyfugjbohuftdyfufyfugibkhihjgufyfufugjgigyryfufugugugigihihihigufydyruguguftereyfubkbonlhufyfh bihihutyrteyuchchvhchdtdydhcjvjvjcugihohjojonkbjcydtstatetrufhcjvjgigigigufufugjgjgrufugibonohjfyrtwtsyfhcjgobkbjbkbhfyducjvidyfyeugiguryfhcjfhfuetfivjgivjvihiflbkbighgivigiigigifetshchgu

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Alternate Timeline: What if COVID-19 didn’t happen? Written by Coco

Illustration by Cocoa expressing concern for me since he saw me taking two AP classes. I told him that I would be fine and he signed my form. Several weeks later, I realized that taking two AP classes was a bad choice since I remembered how I nearly died the first semester of my junior year since I was taking honors and an AP class. I studied more for my AP class than my Rewind to near the end of my junior year. I have honors class which explains why I had a bad grade survived my junior year in which I was taking for the honor class in the first semester of that year. both physics honors and Chinese Ap class. (First semester, I nearly died since I put too much effort I still remember me talking to one of the school psychologists and freaking out. Then, she arranged into Chinese AP class, but little in physics honor a meeting with my counselor. It was kind of awkclass. Second semester was much better). I have to choose classes for my senior year of HS. When ward with me standing there with my academic counselor and one of the school psychologists there filling out the form, I remember writing down AP Statistics, AP Environmental Studies, Capella, since I rarely talked to my academic counselor. My British Literature, and US Government/Econom- academic counselor said that there were other math ics. In order for me to get the classes that I sign up options beside taking math AP classes. I was like, no thanks. After several minutes of awkwardness, I for, my teachers have to sign the form. I rememwon’t have to take math class my senior year of HS. ber my sophomore/junior year math teacher Senior year of HS, the last year that I’ll be in high school before graduating and half of that year was gone because of the lockdown, but what if the lockdown didn’t exist? What if I can rewind time? What would I have done differently?

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

The reason why I stopped taking math? The last unit of HS pre-calculus class (vectors and parametrics) killed me. I think it was around the same time, I had to audition for choir, but this year, we practiced in class. When it’s time for my choir audition, I went into the room, sang the Star Spangled Banner, did some sight singing, and did the usual stuff. This time, the piano accompanist lady (who usually helps us choir kids with our notes and also choreo) was there. I did my audition, but was really nervous. If I mess up, I feel like she’s silently judging me. At the end, my choir teacher said that I have a wide singing range and asked if I want to be moved to another vocal section. After several minutes, I was like, idk??? So, in the end, I stayed in the same vocal section. During the beginning of my senior year, I got into Cantos (advanced all ladies choir) instead of Capella (advanced mixed, both male and female, choir). Back then, I was really disappointed since it has been a while since I sang with people of a different gender. Because I was taking four classes and have a lot of empty spots in my schedule, I decided to be a TA for my choir teacher and my junior year English teacher. Being a TA isn’t easy work. Besides grading music theory, taking out the trash, putting stuff from the lost and found box in the lost and found in the school, I also have to take care of trivial stuff (making sure people turned in their fees when due) and carrying stuff from the room we have for choir to the stage or the green room. I still remember the time where I had to single-handedly drag four or six clothes racks full of clothes from the small room that the choir had to store stuff to the theater. It was really hard because not all four wheels cooperate, not to mention that I have to drag it up and down some slopes. I’m really glad Peter helped me with the last clothing rack since the rear right wheel was extremely wonky. TAing for my English teacher is really easy. I don’t have to do a lot of grading, so most of the time, I just hang out and do my homework. I remember forgetting to go to that class. The next time I went there, that teacher asked me if I want to continue to be a TA for her and I said no. I kind of regretted that because sometimes, I would hang out on campus waiting for my mom and I was

wasting time. It would have been better for me to spend that time doing homework, so I won’t have to do them when I get home. Senior year went pretty normal for me, except for something which I did not see coming. In the beginning of my senior year, my choir teacher gave a presentation on the choir tour since the people in the advanced choir classes can go. This year, we’re going to New York City. We were really excited. It was around late February that COVID came and we have bad news, we might not have our choir tour this year. In early February, the two soloists for the March Concert paid a visit to my choir class. After they sang their song, we sang some of our songs. We sang two songs, but for one of them, while we’re singing it, we noticed that the harmonies part of the song disappeared. Luckily, none of the soloists didn’t notice, but we gave each other weird looks. I’m not sure if the choir teacher noticed that. After we sang, the soloists were impressed. Then, we were allowed to ask them questions. Around that same time, my freshman year geometry/sophomore year Martial Arts teacher joined my choir teacher’s church choir. During the tutorial, (because I sat in her classroom during that time), she asked me if she can come to the choir classroom during the second period. I said sure and I said that I am a TA during that period. Then, during the second period, she would come in and sing with the choir. During that same time, Cantos was kind of behind, so my choir teacher encouraged all TA to sing their vocal parts with the choir during the period that they were TA for. Sometimes, if I have time, I would stop what I’m doing and go stand in my vocal section of the class and sing with them. Other times, I would grab a copy of the music and silently follow along. Early March, we knew that COVID. That means it’s totally ok if we don’t come perform in the March concert if our parents are worried for our health. In the end, a lot of people decided not to come. In the evening, as time passed by, the concert was about to begin. My choir teacher came into the room where we choir people were hanging us and scolded us. At that time, it seems like we didn’t really care. I still remember Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

how the men responded to his question: “Are you ready?” At first, they said yes (responses all over the place). Suddenly, they whispered, “1, 2, 3… YES SIR!” (with the military salute) The concert went fast quickly with us performers being live streamed. After the concert was over, my choir teacher asked the tech guy if the camera’s recording was cut. The tech guy gave the thumb up, but the camera’s feed was still running. My choir teacher said that he has an announcement. We all held our breath until he said that refreshments will be served as normal and we cheered really loudly. There was only performers in the refreshment room and the people in charge of refreshment gave us performers candy and chocolate. I think it was late February when we choir students knew that choir tour was going to be postposted. At first, my choir teacher suggested that the trip would be postponed to June, but some people are already on vacation. Then, he suggested August, but some people might be away. Then, it looks like the choir tour might not happen. Early March, I remembered my classmates and I walking into the choir classroom and being very confused. Where’s the choir teacher and the piano accompanist? Why is one of the vice principals here? What’re the papers that he’s holding in his hand? One of the vice principals asked where the choir teacher was and someone in my vocal section pointed him toward the Green Room. He left. A few minutes later, the choir teacher and the piano accompanist lady walked in. The choir teacher apologized for being late. He, Mrs. Won, (the piano accompanist lady), and that vice principal were discussing what to do. He knew that we and our parents (who probably paid for the trip) were disappointed, so they tried negotiating with the vendors and he’ll let us know how much of our trip’s money will be refunded. Several days after that, on March 14th, it was a Friday morning. I was in my APES class and we were doing a lab after making a circuit with a powerful lamp powering a solar panel. (Solar panel part of the circuit, the lamp was not). We used different gadgets (motor, a mini speaker, a fan, or even a piece of colored plastic sheet). Most of the different gadgets, except for the colored plastic sheet, were part of the circuit to see if the lamp can power the circuit. For Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

a bonus, someone would put the colored plastic sheet between the closed circuit and the lamp to see if the lamp can power the solar panel. That morning, the principal made a solemn announcement. Today was the last day of in-person school and that we would transition to three weeks of online school. Someone in my class was shocked that he didn’t pay attention to what he was doing and he moved the plastic colored sheet closer to the lamp. Part of the sheet melted. He freaked out and the substitute teacher said that she would tell the teacher. The teacher would understand. We students had a week off, so the teachers can prepare for online school. I told myself, it’s three weeks, it would pass by quickly. I was wrong. In early April, we received an email from the school saying that it would be an online school for the rest of the semester. I was crushed. The last choir performance of the school year was cancelled. We choir kids recorded ourselves singing our part of the music and sending it to the choir teacher. My class was going to perform The Broadway Show: Wicked. Beside recording ourselves singing our part of the music, we would also write reflections of our part in the concerts when school was still in-person. Even though I’m really disappointed by not performing Wicked and the trip being cancelled, I will remember graduation prep and graduation drive through. For graduation prep, I picked up my diploma, got my graduation picture (with me wearing my graduation robe, hat, and me holding the diploma), and picking up some goodies. Graduation drive through was the best. I remember because I was busy with schoolwork, I forgot to clean the van and decorate the van for the graduation drive thru. On the day of the graduation drive-thru, I was going to be late. My mom said that my brother can drive me there, but I said no since the email that I received said only parents or guardians can be the driver. I was the last one to arrive there and I waited a while in the line of cars. As my mom’s car entered the driveway in front of the main office, one of my senior year of HS teachers said my name out loud. Some of my teachers and some of the school officials (students) were there. There were two people who

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

took photos and one of them took a photo of me. I remember my freshman geometry/sophomore year material arts teacher making the “I love you” sign in sign language. At that time, I didn’t know how to respond, so I awkwardly smiled and waved back. As I head off to college, I had no idea that my senior year of HS would turn out to be like this. My first semester of online class in college was chill since most of my professors knew that I (a freshman) was new to online schooling.

IF COVID DID NOT HAPPEN:

Rewind back to late junior year. I have to fill out a form to register for my classes. I will put down Cantos, (advanced all female choir), AP Environmental Science, British Literature, and US Government/ Economic class. Around this time, I have to audition for choir. When I’m done with my audition, my choir teacher will notice that I have a wide singing range. I will tell him to not move me, but ask if I can help the other vocal sections. Fast forward to my senior year. My schedule has so many holes, I will ask to be a TA for two teachers, my choir teacher and my junior year English teacher. Being a TA is a rewarding effort since not only do I do tasks, but I will get to know the people in those classes and they will get to know me. Also, I get to eat snacks when being a TA for my choir teacher during the second period. I know that I can’t help out with playing piano for my vocal section during my choir class since there are a lot of people in my vocal section who knows how to play the piano, but maybe during the choir class that I ta for, I can help out with playing piano for a vocal section since the choir teacher do not have to play two vocal sections’ parts at the same time. Then, the early part of senior year is college applications season. I will first research all the colleges that I want to apply to. Then I will make a list of all the colleges that I want to apply to. After I checked everything off that list, I will stop applying to colleges and then focus on my schoolwork. Come March of every year, my high school chamber orchestra and high school choir will collaborate to give a performance. In January and February, only choir people in the second period

will go over to the chamber orchestra classroom to rehearse with them. Fast forward to the day of the concert. It will be two nights of performance, one on Friday and the second one on Saturday. After each performance will be refreshment time. I think the people in charge of refreshment will hand pizza or some goodies to us performers. I will invite some of my friends along with the rest of Decibel 107 (former high school band) to see the performance. During refreshment time, beside talking to my friends, I want to take pictures with both of the soloists. The last concert of the year is the Springshow concert. For this year, my class is performing the Broadway Show: Wicked. After receiving sheet music of the song, we’re going to learn it in class. After a while, we will memorize it. The choir teacher will tell us to put down the music and then feed us lyrics. (we would sing and then he would say what is coming next). Around that time, certain people in the class will be selected to choreograph moves for a song. After the moves are decided, the entire class will get together to practice the moves along with singing the songs. Early May, the choir teacher will do auditions. I hope to get either Elphaba’s part in What is this Feeling or Elphaba’s part in Defying Gravity. I also hope to get the female soloist in the closing song, Seasons of Love from the movie, Rent. I do know that every year Jerry, the person in charge of special effects for performances, does a really good job with the special effect for performances and I wonder what he will make for our Cantos’s performance of Wicked. Fast forward to graduation. I didn’t want to leave behind my friends, but I hear that graduation will be really good. Not only will we have Capella choir singing, but chamber orchestra people will play a song at graduation. And of course, I can’t forget me walking across the stage to get my diploma. And during my walk across the stage, I will see all the teachers there including the teachers who taught me during my high school years. My high school years have a lot of ups and downs, but I will forever remember my graduation.

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Faded

Written by Jackie Friedland The world is a loud place When you live in one of the busiest cities in the Bay Area Banging, shouting, crashing, It never stops, Even when you honestly wish you could just sleep at 5 am It drove me insane Screaming, falling, Blasting It never stops I tried everything Ignoring, muting, deleting I thought nothing would ever silence the city Then it did The noise that drove me insane, Made me listen to music at Unhealthy volumes It stopped Quiet, Empty, Silent The city stopped fighting me I thought that I had finally won the battle But it turns out that when your world is a city, The noise is what gives it life It is the people Bustling, laughing, running Without it a city is merely Uncanny, broken, Sad Faded

Illustration by Kelsey Ward Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Shelter

Written by Jackie Friedland Shelter A place to hide, to run, to escape One does not want to go to a shelter Shelters are a last resort Transitory, Impermanent, Fragile Yet in we go Fleeing, Sprinting, tripping The faster you get in, the quieter it gets The doors can then be shut Locked, Barred, Swallow the key But the thing is, you can’t stay in a shelter forever Something is gonna break it down Elections, Trolls, Reality You are going to have to come back out Face the things you were running from But for now Disassociate, Huddle, Breathe Shelter

Illustration by Cynthia Lee

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

A Life in Every Mirror

Written by Rebecca Lee Enter: Empty Zoom call. Host is in the meeting. Rebecca is now the host. Zoom is a mirror, a reflection of the self apart from yourself. It’s easier to see your facets reflected back in other people. They shine differently through the focused lens of their identities. They’ve had the space to think about themselves. To stop observing and observation. To settle questions we’ve long since forgotten. During quarantine, Rebecca stared into her own eyes a lot. Into her own lives lived a lot. She sees me and I shy away. We’re chasing the hands of the clock in an endless circle And the initial thought was that we would all finally get a break But we didn’t. It’s Tiring. She finally starts listening to podcasts and catches up to the episodes made before the pandemic. It’s funny to hear, to relive that moment of realization. The one-after-another moments jolting out of the script. A reassurance from a past-time that I’m not privy to anymore. It’s nice to hear them anyways. The comfort of a similarly-stricken past. I remember that panic vividly. Am I different now? Different in the way that you’re different after vacation or a summer camp or a concert? What has changed? Now, I’m translating my fullbody motion to a hitbox square. I’m a Zoom box lurking among the mosaic. I am multi-tasking with myself and sorting what I can. I’m a tightly-wound core of possible time. I am returning to the things I remember. As much as she’s missed the sound of music out loud, her family’s voices, the way she can walk without worry. She’s missing the journey from today to tomorrow. Rebecca looks for the new open-heartedly. The host has ended the meeting! Ok.

Collage by Rebecca Lee Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Shelter In Place

Written by Emily Greulich The virgin bumble bee leaves the hive to mate, then the whole colony dies — except for her. Huddled in a thumbprint of dark earth through a hug of long winter she grieves. Little bee, when you are cold, do you think of your past or your future, for warmth? And will you love the bees of rebirth who only see the spring and summer? Do not hibernate nor thaw? Who will never know of death and life, like you do? Emerge, queen bumble bee, even long winters must end.

Illustration by Emily Greulich

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

an open letter (to you, specifically) Written by Elaina

I think that it would have been easier if the end of the world as we knew it had been violent. A massive meteor, imperialistic aliens, famished zombies. Maybe, even, if we had been lucky, Yellowstone would have exploded, and we could have had some beautiful sunset days before the ash swallowed us whole. Anything but this slow, never-ending death. It’s like that scene in the Nutcracker, when the Rat King is stabbed and spends two minutes waltzing across the stage, staggering, flopping, reaching for his henchmice with trembling fingers. God. Just keel over already. Just stay down. We know how this ends. It ends with us, alone. Made into an island overnight, cast to sea, formed without the loving care of the practiced, intent hands of creation, devoid even of the brutal temperatures and physical pressure of the entire world and ocean above. We woke up one morning, and that was it. The world went to shit and all we got was this half-assed stay at home order. It ends with feeling like, I call my friends, we play games and laugh, we make meager conversation about the birds at our windows. It ends with feeling like: I changed my shirt but I’ve been wearing the same sweatpants for seven, eight, nine days; like everyone I love is a collection of pixels; like I haven’t spoken to my sister in three months. It ends with feeling like, I’m talking to myself, and we’re all laughing about it. It ends with me thinking, damn, I wish it had been San Andreas, I wish it had been gamma rays, I wish it had been an army of Megalodons—then, at least, I could complain. Because, now, I’m not really alone, right? I’m fine. (We’re fine, except for the people who are not fine, because they’re dead, or worse, left behind by the dead, but we don’t talk about them. The dead or the not-dead. It’s impolite.) The shore is right there: They’re right there. I close my eyes and we’re Pangea again, almost. But I wake up anxious, and I miss my people’s ugly faces and sweaty hands and too-loud laughs and pointless, frustrating conflicts that come from being too much in the same space, and I miss being able to walk out of a room and not carry them with me in my pocket, in my heavy heart, and they’re right there, on my little black-screened rectangle of miracle and death, and it ends with feeling like, my island is unmoored, I’m drifting right over the edge of the world. Goodbye! Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that I wish that it was worse. I’m just saying, I wish that we couldn’t ignore that it is worse, these pandemic days. We have a stranglehold on normalcy, and

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

our fingers are mangling its neck beyond repair, our eyes are crossed as we hold it too close to our faces, blotting out all else that there could be. Soon enough we will have squeezed all the life and shape from it, and the only things that will remain will be clay beneath our nails and crescent indents in our palms, and our heads in our hands. See, the thing about disease is that you cannot see it, and the thing about people is that they are hesitant to believe in what they cannot see. The thing about people, too, is that they are selective about what they see. I think that it would be hard to ignore a zombie. But we didn’t get zombies, we got coronavirus disease, we got two million confirmed deaths and we got a slew of racism, we got concerns about the economy, we got masks and anti-mask protests and quarantine and lazy curfews and essential workers, heroes, human people, that barely break minimum wage, that get sick and die. We got six hundred dollars and no rent control and the inescapable phrase, in these unprecedented times. It makes me want to laugh, hearing that. It makes me want to scream. Because, really? Haven’t we been warned for years, decades, generations about the fallacies of the American medical system? Haven’t we had global summit after global summit on public health and safety? Haven’t we set up all those committees, sub-committees, ad hoc task forces and oversight boards and, and, and, and. And yet. Here we are. So many pieces of paper, so many worthless words, so much insincere sincerity. Yeah. Our promises may be empty, but our graves certainly are not. So, it’s hard to not be angry, these days. It’s not healthy, or so I’m told, to be angry all the time, but come on. What’s left, without anger? Depression and her ugly sister, apathy? Yeah, no thanks. I like feeling things. Call me a masochist, but I don’t want to go back to the sick embrace of numbness. Sometimes, though, when I’m tired, down in my bones and all the way through my fingertips, when anger slips from my grip, there is something else that is raw and wretched and painful beneath, something not meant for open air. When I’m all out of anger and laughter and lung capacity, it just makes me want to cry. There is so much wrong in this world, and I am one person, and I know there are others like me, just over the horizon, but I am in isolation, I am an island. They are other; I am other, too, and I don’t think that I am kind. But music soothes the soul, and the sun is warm on my skin, and it’s not all bad, when I look at it like that. It’s hard to be angry, all the way through, like that. If I’m selfish for just a moment.

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

If I close my eyes, think only of the grass under my palms, the lazy buzz of insects who are unafraid, uncaring, in the kindest possible way, if I breathe deep the salt air and faint scent of petrol, if I lay back and look up and there are fat low clouds, clouds that scrape at the sky, clouds like a scrapbook page, overlapping and overlaying and offering taunting glimpses of blue beyond: It’s not all bad, like that. And then, when it’s like that, when it’s not all bad, when my lungs are full and my head is clear, I’m glad that it wasn’t Yellowstone. There’s no coming back from that. I think that we can come back from this. We watched, from the audience, as the Rat King bled out, as his soldiers lifted his twitching body and hurried him out the door. They could have held his hand. They could have caught him before he fell. We rooted for him to hurry up and die: He was the bad guy, and when we know who our bad guys are, it’s easy to want them dead. But we didn’t know he was the bad guy, it’s just what the program told us. He wasn’t even real—how messed up is it that Clara invented him just to kill him off?—and sure, it’s cleaner, easier, to tie up those loose ends with a nice stabbing or gunshot wound, but it would have been easier, too, if it had been a massive meteor, if it had been quick and inevitable and un-ignorable, if there was no wreckage to pick through, so, fuck easy! We’ve made it this far without easy, and we’ve made it abundantly clear that we don’t know anything at all. It didn’t have to end like that. It doesn’t. Our old world is smoldering, and we can pull kindness from its ribs, we can carve out the rotted and cancerous bits and make space for the phoenix, or for that other thing with feathers. I’m mixing my metaphors, sorry. There’s a lot to say about rats and fire and hope and islands and apocalypse, and my Venn Diagram of the five is looking a bit like a swimming pool, or a petri dish. There, see? A simile, just for you. Wait, wait, I’ll do you one better. : ) There, see? A smile, just for you. Alright. Now that we’re all grinning, let’s get to bearing it, yeah? Just the weight of the world, right? Just a bit of heat and pressure and our own careless, tender design. Yeah, we’re islands, now, did you know? We’re not corpses. We’re sanctuary, a sailor’s best friend, a place for the birds to roost. And, sure, we’re in the middle of the ocean, just endless horizon all around, but below, we all hit sand and rock at some point. Nothing settles, out here, and the tectonic plates are still grinding, still angry, but that’s okay. There’s a kind of solidarity in an earthquake, if you keep an ear to the ground for the tremors, if it moves you and you know that it moves us, too. (I shouldn’t speak for everyone. Know that it moves me, too, please.)

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

You should take a walk, when the shaking becomes bearable. Feel the sun on your back and the sand between your toes (the sand goddamn everywhere, who are we kidding, but that’s part of the charm, isn’t it?), and feel the cold night air wreaking havoc on your throat. Keep an eye out for coconuts—I’m going to float you some, from my island, across the Atlantic—and watch the sky, because the stars are clearer than they’ve ever been and I’m pointing the Arctic terns in your direction. You should take a walk, if you feel like stretching your legs. I’m sending you a message in a bottle, if you want some company, and I’m shore it will wash up soon (haha!). Not a treasure map (sorry), or a cry for help (really, I promise). Just an, oh, hello. I’m out here, you’re out here. We are apart, yes, but we are not detached, we don’t have to be, and we are our kind.

warmly, Elaina

Poets and Writers Coalition Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Quarant-Zine Spring 2021

Illustration by Candice Phelan