ECG Literary Magazine 2023

LITERARY MAGAZINE

Acknowledgments

The editors of Sweetgum would like to extend a thank you to the student body, whose creative talents and artistry made Sweetgum possible Thank you also goes out to the Early College at Guilford's Parent Teacher Student Association for their support of the magazine, allowing Sweetgum to continue without need of advertisements/patrons

Colophon

Sweetgum is produced by the publishing club at the Early College at Guilford. Electronically, the magazine is distributed via ISSUU. 50 print copies of the magazine will also be made.

The design of the magazine is created by the editors of Sweetgum through Canva. The fonts used in this volume of Sweetgum are Playfair Display, Brittany, and Proxima Nova. This magazine features fiction prose, artwork, photography, and poetry.

Thank you for reading Sweetgum.

Sweetgum Literary Magazine

Editorial Policy

Sweetgum, the literary magazine of The Early College at Guilford, is created by the Publishing Club. All members of the student body may submit, including students who are in the Creative Writing and English classes All submitted pieces are carefully reviewed by the magazine editors, who then assist in copyediting and polishing The artwork and photography is selected by the staff depending on how well the pieces fit the theme of the magazines, as well as the quality of the work. The staff are selected by members of the Publishing Club based on their interest and dedication to the magazine. The staff reserves the right to edit manuscripts for clarity of writing, punctuation, spelling, and grammar The views and ideas expressed in the magazine do not necessarily represent the views of the Early College of Guilford or the Sweetgum Literary Magazine staff. All rights are retained by the author/creator.

Sweetgum believes that all students are writers.

"Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited, imagination encircles the world. "

~ Albert Einstein

"Cover Art: Synesthesia" by Merritt Brewer, Oil Painting

"Endings" by Jiyu Hong, photography

Editor’s Note

ECG LITERARY MAGAZINE

Every year, hundreds of students flock to apply to the Early College at Guilford (ECG) from all over the county. The result of this process is a close-knit class of 52 students with unique perspectives on the world–especially after spending the past 3 years with the uncertainty of online interactions and relationships. Each student has their own story to tell, their own instances of struggle and internal battles to improve Their journeys are brought to life through creative outlets Through their artwork, writing, or photography, they can escape from hours of AP classes, extracurriculars and the self-inflicted pressure of attending a prestigious university.

Essentially, our lives are chaotic.

Chaos, by dictionary definition, is “complete disorder and confusion. ”

Who would want such discordance?

But chaos has a secondary meaning to it In physics, chaos is “behavior so unpredictable as to appear random, owing to great sensitivity to small changes in conditions ” In the hectic lives of ECG students, small events seem life-changing, and are blown out of proportion. We forget to remind ourselves that a bad test grade or a rejection doesn’t mean the world is ending.

Editing a Literary Magazine for the first time had its own set of challenges, ranging from learning how to format a magazine to selecting submissions that encompassed our theme As we reviewed our submissions, we came to the realization that within the sudden plot twists, dramatic storylines, and eye-catching art, there were submissions that brought tranquility. These pieces were less about presenting a peaceful story and more about filling our hearts with an excitement for something new, and depicting a brighter side of life. We rested our eyes and ears, for artistry placated our emotions. There is a fine balance between order and chaos

And so we present to you the 2022-2023 ECG Literary Magazine!

Tanisha Golla

Editor-in-Chief

BEHIND THE SCENES!

Sweetgum Staff

Editors

Tanisha Golla

Jiyu Hong

Staff

Soyu Hong

Mary Wicker

Melanie Huynh-Duc

Adviser

Haile Espin

"Phoenix" by Sarah Zhou, origami

Writing

Editor's Note

Page 2

The Darkest Nights Light Up With You | Kaley Jeon

Page 7

Time Heals All Wounds? Not Quite. | Emily Zhang

Page 8

Obvious Feeling | Jaya Koneswaran

Page 10

Saturday, that is. | Ryan Johnson

Page 10

C Minor Scale | Camille Helms

Page 11

Half-Past Five | Dishita Agarwal

Page 13

1000 Days | Ally Hoffman

Page 14

West | Chloe Harnphanich

Page 16

Receipt For All The Little Things | Soyu Hong

Page 17

Syrian Woman | Efia Yeboah

Page 17

A Trip to Ecuador | Madeline Chandler

Page 18

Memories Of Youth | Jiyu Hong

Page 21

Synesthesia | Merritt Brewer

Cover Art

Endings | Jiyu Hong

Title Page

PArt&hotography

Phoenix | Sarah Zhou

Page 1

Sun-kissed Twisted Pine | Abid Hussain

Page 6

Fall Leaves | Ella Yu

Page 7

Meadow | Tanisha Golla

Page 10

Rite of Spring | Karissa Sitepu

Page 11

Shifting Sands Collection | Caroline Boone

Page 12

Summer Day | Cindy Wang

Page 14

Lake Sunset | Abid Hussain

Page 16

Cloud 9 | Sam Aycock

Page 17

Janky | Eli Menser

Page 18

Reflecting on A Reflection | Azreen Anwar

Page 20

"Sun-kissed Twisted Pine" by Abid Hussain, photography

The Darkest Nights Light Up With You Kaley Jeon

Whenever I’m stressed out, you shrug it off It’s like you never confront burning pain

When you know the answers I want to scoff You know all the world’s knowledge; it’s insane

Your quotes trigger trapping irritation “Failure is a catalyst for success” Your endless wine bliss considerations Your optimism sometimes brings me stress

Yet you are still the light that sparks my life Your sweet radiance brings delight in gloom A force that cultivates internal drive Your jauntiness brings forth hope over doom

Although your humane is hard to attain You’re still my best friend, a roof in the rain

"Fall Leaves" by Ella Yu, photography

Time Heals All Wounds? Not Quite. Emily Zhang

That night was a night for celebration, and every shop was closed but one. Paint peeling, rotting wood panels creaking and banging in the wind. A single flickering lightbulb illuminated the peeling sign on the window, which read Flowers for Sale in faded letters that may have once been red The wilted flowers in the window display seemed hopeful for a little more attention before the last of the shoppers retired into their homes. Creak, bang. A tall, narrow figure entered the shop, and the door coughed out a puff of dust as it slammed shut behind him

Inside stood businessman Kenneth Harry Tucker VIII, though the world seemed to know more of the business conducted in his bed than the one he managed by day Despite the storefront's neglected air, the interior of the shop was relatively clean however, the dampness emanating from the walls was almost palpable His knee protested; despite what his doctors had said, the old injury continued to bother him in such places. Trying not to wince, he walked forward, searching for a bouquet that met his standards. Creak, bang.

A door in the back slammed shut, and a young woman appeared, looking at the businessman with shock He guessed that she hardly ever received customers Perhaps she would treat him pleasantly seeing as he was the only other person there.

“Good evening, miss. ” He tipped his hat at the woman “I’m looking for a Christmas bouquet for ” he paused, realizing it might not be tactical to speak of his wife, “ the occasion ”

The florist gestured to an arrangement. “What about this one?”

It occurred to the businessman that she was quite pretty There was an intensity in her eyes that countered the softness of the rest of her face She reminded him of one of his favorite ex-wives.

He bent over to examine the bouquet. It was tasteful, he thought, with pinecones and pine needles, cinnamon sticks and blood red roses Fitting for the season. “Yes, this will do. ”

The woman smiled. “Fantastic!”

An idea struck the businessman. “Do you have anyone to spend this Christmas with?”

The woman regarded him with slight confusion

“Well, no, but ”

He acted as if he hadn’t heard her. “I have a wonderful meal prepared back home, which is really too much for the few people in my household. I am in need of some fresh company, after all Would you care to join me?”

“I would love to!” she exclaimed. Delight, mingled with bewilderment, shone in her eyes.

He had expected the woman to hesitate, even decline, but he supposed she was just that lonely “Wonderful, ” he said, trying to conceal his excitement What a pleasant surprise this was!

He purchased the bouquet, taking notice to pay her only the amount on the price tag and nothing more He was no charity, after all He gestured for her to follow him, but she turned around and asked him to wait as she hurried into the back room, returning a few moments later with her hands in the pockets of a freshly donned coat Creak, bang. The rattle of the shop’s old paneling was the first thing to welcome them as they stepped outside The businessman watched as the woman fumbled with her keys. Should he help? Oh, how he was tempted just to seize that excuse to touch her hands! No, no, best not to seem too eager so early Even so, it took all his selfcontrol to only watch as she struggled to lock the shop door with one hand, the other hand safely in her pocket to avoid the cold.

What a beautiful hand she had at least, until he noticed the scars crisscrossing it, as if it had been repeatedly struck by something long and thin. The sight seemed familiar to him somehow, but he pushed the thought aside. He wondered how a beautiful woman like her could deserve such punishment

He noticed how the florist tried to conceal her surprise as they walked inside, her eyes flicking from the old chandelier on the ceiling to the crooked chest of drawers he’d gotten as a wedding gift Now that he thought about it, he didn’t remember which wedding it had come from. "Finally, you’re home, ” said Anne, his wife, as she appeared in the doorway, wearing an emerald green gown She paused, narrowing her eyes at the florist “Who’s this?”

"What a beautiful hand she had at least, until he noticed the scars crisscrossing it, as if it had been repeatedly struck by something long and thin." ...

He noticed, not for the first time, the faint wrinkles beginning to appear around Anne’s face “This young lady was kind enough to… sell me some flowers. She has no one to spend her Christmas with. ”

The suspicion on Anne’s face seemed to deepen She did not press the subject, however “Well, then, come on!”

As Anne led the florist into their dining room, the businessman went to the kitchen, where he stuck the bouquet into a plump vase

He noticed the tray of salt shakers lying on the counter and decided not to wait for the cook to bring it out. Besides, he thought wryly, he never did much to help out around the house. Maybe this would improve Anne’s mood

Anne and the florist were seated when he entered the dining room, and the warm lighting did nothing to conceal the indifference emanating from Anne. She sat stiffly, watching the florist with doubt.

He leaned over the florist’s shoulder to set the bouquet on the table, catching a whiff of her perfume as he did so. She smelled wonderful. Carefully, he set the salt shakers down, making sure to give Anne the best one, and making sure she noticed. He needed to have her in a good mood

“Let’s eat, ” he said

The food looked delicious: filet mignon, corn with pine nuts, and a platter of plump grapes and figs. To top it all off, a large bottle of Greek wine stood on the table, half-full, its contents already poured into their glasses “So, what’s your name?” asked Anne, tugging a grape off of its stem.

“Madeline, ” replied the florist after a moment’s pause “Pass the salt, please, ” she said, reaching for Anne’s ornate salt shaker

“You have one in front of you, Madeline, ” said Anne, pulling her salt shaker toward her own plate and sprinkling some onto her steak. “Don’t go reaching for mine ”

“Ah, Anne, don’t hurt our guest’s feelings, ” said the businessman, who’d heard Anne’s accusatory tone

With visible reluctance, Anne gave Madeline the salt. When Anne stood up to go to the bathroom, she leaned over to whisper in the businessman’s ear “Don’t think I don’t know why you brought her here ”

“Anne, don’t spoil the mood, ” he said loudly, slurring his words. “It’s Christmas!”

Relinquishing the glass altogether, he reached for the bottle and took a long swig

“This was the best meal I’ve ever had, ” said Madeline.

“Enjoyed it, did you?” said Anne with a frown, fanning her face “I thought the steak was overcooked Too bitter I think I’ll go out and take a walk I shouldn’t have had so much coffee with the pie. ” She shot her

husband a warning look before pulling on her coat and leaving, not even bothering to change out of her dress.

The moment Anne left, the businessman stood up, turning towards Madeline Ignoring his pounding head, he said, “Stay the night, won’t you? You’re a very pretty one, you know ”

Madeline took a step back. “No, thank you. ”

“It’s very comfortable, I assure you!” He took a step forward, reaching for her hand, but the next moment, he was on the floor He wasn’t quite sure if it was due to the force with which she’d slapped him or the bout of dizziness that had sent the world spinning.

She showed him her hands, her wrists, her arms Though his head spun so forcefully that his vision blurred, he could tell they were covered in angry white scars Some spanned the length of her forearm, others were as small as a grain of salt. “Salt, ” he muttered suddenly. “You used the wrong shaker ”

Amid the distracting ringing in his ears, he thought he heard sirens He attempted to push the sound away, swiping vainly at his ears.

She ignored him, too absorbed in her own world now “I thought you recognized me when you saw me today I thought you were sorry, so I came Instead, you wanted me out of pure greed I don’t even think you know who I am. But rest assured I won’t be helpless this time. ”

She pulled a small handgun out of her coat pocket, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she raised it She stepped onto the floorboard that always squeaked.

He couldn’t help but think that hers would be a wonderful face to look at as he died

“Good-bye, Father ”

Creak, bang

“You really don’t recognize me, do you?” she asked him, her face twisted with mingled satisfaction and fury.

“After everything you’d done to me?”

Obvious Feeling

Jaya Koneswaran

O, why this gap between us swells like fire?

For faux describes not my ardor for thee Because of thee, my heart burns with desire

Evermore, still, I am thy devotee

Vanilla compares not to thy sweetness

Even chocolate cannot cure my craving

I guess this proves my infinite weakness

Let nothing steal the love that I’m saving

Observe thy lovely face and soul do I

In hell and heaven, thou art on my mind

Undone am I if thou shalt say ‘goodbye’

Now cursed am I; my heart is intertwined

So now I’m forbidden from cherishing

Gravely I lie; my love is perishing

Saturday, that is. Ryan Johnson

I hated that day-Saturday, that is--

Because it was the wooden swing on a poor child’s playground. This was supposed to be fun. Why am I so splintered? And the nights-Saturday nights, that is--

Were spent in an empty tub with a stomach moaning hallowly

And the layer of oil that formed between beige feet and soap scum. And the hours-Saturday hours, that is--

Were contumelies Loud, loud, loud, loud, loud, loud, loud, loud, loud, loud I didn’t even bother to scream The noise might get inside of me then And the minutes-Saturday minutes, that is--

Always lasted 84 seconds because that’s what the timer would say when I measured How long could I press a pillow to my face before lung’s instincts overcame mind’s will And the seconds-Saturday seconds, that is--

Murderous increments, I will spare you the details. Maybe instead, I will tell one good thing. Saturday seconds were linear, not cyclical. A second passed is a second gone. And if Saturday’s taught me one thing: what is gone is never coming back Not ever

"Road Trip" by Tanisha Golla, photography

C Minor Scale

We got a tangled history, the two of us. Intertwined by chords of joy, of mourning, of vitality, The vibration of my black and white tiles match the vibration of your black and white memories

My mellifluous notes become so quickly discordant when touched by the wrong hands, much like your life.

A melody to be sung from the hilltops of youth, turned to a cacophony that repels open ears.

Do you know how it feels to be so secretly beautiful while everyone hits the notes that turn you hideous?

Of course you know

Arguments that make you say things you don’t mean. The parts of life that make you ugly-cry. Desires to show the world the person you keep locked in out of fear of being seen but misunderstood.

But when they really feel us, out comes a beautiful harmony, Unexpected as it may be Until there’s no song left to sing, No story left to tell.

"Rite of Spring" by Karissa Sitepu, broken viola strings, pins, string, gouache

"Shifting Sands Collection" by Caroline Boone, photography

When the sun sets at half-past five, the distance obscures my view, but I sense tension turning from azure to ashen and vermillion. Cardamom and coriander aromas buzz through the air, and warmth radiates from the stove, though even this cannot pierce the chilled air that swamps them

There’s no one reason why they’ve become this way, distraught 9 to 5 workers radioactively combusting once the windows turn jet-black and the leaves go yonder. But, I’ve come to anticipate the affair –it’s the crux of each night

When the sun sets at half-past five, I ease into the downy leather seats in our fluorescent kitchen and stare at her and him, realizing that if a person gives in, stress can override their existence Down the depths of their bare skin, are dark gnarly taints adorning their silhouettes. It is as if one plunged their knife in deep mahogany and carved it into the caverns along their cheeks, the bodacious coils below their eyes, the pulpous trenches across their thighs, and the mended ridges that embellish the widths of their collarbones. Stress is a solicitor knocking at your door, treading through wind and snow to reach your haven. It knows its presence irks you, yet its yearn to convert you never unravels

When the sun begins to set at half-past five, his verdant herb garden evanesces, and her fiery ardor for cooking dissipates Exhilaration flows out of our spruce home, and back into dismal labor buildings. While the berries and vegetables they nurtured over the summer still find their way onto the dinner table Sometimes, I can’t help but mourn for them, for they are obligated to reside in such dissonance. Winter, why must you have such a frosty aura about you? You bring back my memories in and out of fumigated hospitals,

Of whetted, angled, sterile metallic tools, And that pungent inescapable smell -a mix of astringent Clorox bleach with a hint of coppery silver gore. Your rendezvous brings us misery, while our misery imprisons me in desolation

A faded meander lies on the basal of my pulpous hand, traversing from shades of carmines to rust. The miniscule maim gives way to an indelible blunder of your doing, a serrated shard of glass that flew from an icy wine bottle fractured from frigid weather, and stabbed me right in the palm.

Why don’t you notice us clamoring our dishes, contorting our legs, and ramming our heads?

You must be so selfish, causing all that you encompass to descend into depression. Funny thing though, Soon the sun will set half-past seven, and time will no longer be in your favor. What will you do then?

You poor thing will be overtaken by summer!

Half-Past Five

Dishita Agarwal

Ally Hoffman 1000 Days

The first day, they locked her in the basement in funeral clothes with a glitchy TV and a kiss goodbye. She was glued to the news reports with abstract terror, unable to feel anything but the tears dripping down her face She organized the canned food by flavor She yelled for her parents She pulled out pieces of her hair. Eventually, worn down from everything, she drifted off.

The second day, the fear set in. The news was still playing with no information she hadn’t already heard. This was real. She searched the basement, trying to find anything to hold her attention Instead, she found three yardsticks, a toolbox, some candles, and a radio. She arranged, then rearranged, the toolbox twice. She turned off the TV but couldn’t stand the silence upstairs, so she turned it to the static. She used the toolbox to open a can of beans and ate all of it cold with her fingers, falling asleep remote still in hand

"Summer

Day" by

Cindy Wang, pencil

The eighth day, the door unlocked. She jumped up from her spot in front of the TV and bolted to the door, screwdriver in hand as a makeshift weapon. Instead of her parents standing there, she caught a glimpse of a woman shoving a boy into the basement before the door closed, leaving the both of them stuck inside. She didn’t hesitate, throwing herself at the door with all her strength. It didn’t budge. She screamed as loud as she possibly could, feeling like a little kid throwing a tantrum, but it wasn’t fair He tried to say something to her, but shut up, jumping back as she wildly swung her screwdriver at him before collapsing to the ground in tears

The ninth day, she handed him a can of food, a silent apology He accepted and pulled a fork out of his pocket, more well-prepared than she was They exchanged names and pleasantries and he told her he needed to draw diamonds around himself or something would attack him and she taught him her food organizing system. Neither of them talked about the news.

The fourteenth day, he tried to open the door. She had a panic attack and dragged her nails up and down his arms when he tried to touch her. She didn’t break skin. The TV stopped working.

The thirty-first day, she woke up to a diamond drawn around her with his chalk. She let him take the larger half of their can. She told him about how her parents had dressed her in funeral clothes, not expecting her to survive. He told her how his parents said they’d come back She proposed to wait 1,000 days If they didn’t come back, they would break their way out He agreed

The sixty-fifth day, they practiced fighting with the yardsticks she had found earlier to prepare for the outside world. They were both a little hesitant at first, but by the end their knuckles were bruised and their energy spent. The hundred eighth day, the basement light flickered out She reached out and brushed his shoulder, making sure he was still there. He pulled out a small matchbox, brushing her fingers against the rough part. She grabbed a candle

The hundred seventyseventh day, she heard someone upstairs He snuffed their candle out and she grabbed her screwdriver before they both jumped backwards, scrambling away from the door. They waited there in fear for hours, terrified of being found by someone –or something– dangerous. He grabbed her hand in the dark, and that’s how they eventually passed out, clinging to one another for safety

The two hundred and first day, he ran out of chalk He was inconsolable, yelling at her, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. He settled on drawing diamonds out with his blood. She bandaged his finger with cloth torn off from her funeral dress.

The three hundred sixty-fifth day, she mourned.

The four hundred seventy-third day, the static on the radio shifted to something understandable They huddled around the radio in the blanket they had been using as some type of comfort They were sleeping next to each other every night to save his

blood. The radio program was a sermon. It called the outside an apocalypse. It called on them to repent. It asked for donations. She prayed that night while he was making his diamond.

The six hundred sixty-sixth day, the radio program didn’t run She viewed it as a coincidence that it was the number of the beast, coincidence that she had tried to move the radio to the opposite side of the room, but he didn’t. That side of the basement was bad, he explained, dragging their supplies away. So is six, he added, staring mournfully at the radio.

The eight hundred sixty-first day, everything broke. The TV screen exploded, lodging glass in her skin and limiting their basement space even further. He ran out of matches, plunging them into darkness. One of their yardsticks broke. She curled around him and sobbed as he tried to learn how to negate the sixes

The nine hundred ninety-ninth day, she picked up a piece of the TV glass while he was sleeping. She cautiously stepped over his diamond, knowing he’d be furious with her in the morning, and spread her hand until she felt glass. She grabbed it, ignoring every childhood lesson she had learned, and stared at the lock. She was getting out of here. She took a deep breath and slashed the glass against her palm before pressing it to the door, soaking the wood with blood The door was getting wet and she was getting lightheaded, so she wiped her bloody hands on her funeral clothes before banging her elbow into the bloody spot in the door. Maybe it was because the door was old, or her blood had weakened it enough, or because the day didn’t have a six, but she was able to slam through the door to peek to the outside world.

And as the sun rose on the thousandth day, they were free

"She curled around him and sobbed as he tried to learn how to negate the sixes."

Chloe Harnphanich West

Oh, how shall I describe my thoughts to you, When even words cannot contain my sighs? Your threadbare pants and wrinkled shirt were too, Just add-ons with your murky, clouded eyes. Your sharp and loathsome words that made me fret, Gave much more sense about your withered heart But then the wind blew sadly with regret, And soon I saw I wanted a restart I’m sick of how I treated you just so; The selfish, cunning ways my words had flowed. Your humble soul was far fairer than foe, But now you’re gone and left by overdose. Oh, brother, how at fault I can’t express, Now when the sun rise East I just look West.

"Lake Sunset" by Abid Hussain, photography

Receipts for all the Little Things

Soyu Hong

If I had a receipt for all the little things

I’m sure I’d keep them stacked up neatly with a spike receipt holder like the one they use at the local donut shop

I’d collect them from every good morning and good day, from the vending machine that doesn’t swallow my money, from the little girl who danced to my music, and from myself, when I manage to wake up well rested to the morning alarm. I’m sure I’d hoard them preciously, like a dragon refusing to leave it’s treasure trove, and once the pile is high enough, on cold days, I’ll spread out all the receipts of the little things across the dining room table and sew them together into a patchwork large enough to cover me safely

Syrian Woman

Efia Yeboah

In those first months–there is still a hope distilled that the tents are part of the set and shall be removed soon

In those full green speckled eyes she stares towards greater distances

then the months become a year and a year plus its half in the times of darkness she points her child’s eyes up to the stars and speaks of a nature who’s only blemish is the mind

"Cloud 9 " by Sam Aycock, photography

A Trip To Ecuador

Maddy Chandler

We walk on roads flanked by earthen mounds, resurrected the night before last Burning tires and cylinders of raw lumber are interspersed between the piles of gravel and dirt, serving as intimidating and effective roadblocks The whirring of motorcycle and car engines is absent, leaving a void that renders the city unrecognizably silent Acrid smoke forces our eyes to draw water. When we arrive inside a small cafeteria through a backdoor entrance, the owner quickly slides the dead bolt into place This is the first day that I begin to feel trapped.

It is nearing the middle of the night, and we are on a rental bus heading for the small Ecuadorian volcano town of Otavalo On the stereo a local station plays Katy Perry and Flo Rida between commercials for “fruta fresca, cereales, y todo que deseas en un supermercado local!”

“Well, I guess this is the last time we’ll be speaking English tonight, ” Clara, the girl from Raleigh whom I have only met today, grimaces

“Yeah, you're right. Are you ready for this?” I can’t help smiling in anticipation of the next two weeks

“I don’t know Honestly, I am not great with my Spanish, so we’ll see how this goes. ” We both laugh despite our sleep-deprived state. Our group is now nearing 24 hours awake, but as I glance around the bus, I notice that nobody is asleep. We are all anxious to meet our host families.

As I am lugging my backpack out from the underbelly of the bus an unfamiliar voice calls out my name. I turn and find myself facing Senora Mediavilla I recognize her from the photo she sent me through Whatsapp of her and her family She hugs me before reaching to take my bag from me and bring it to her car

When we arrive at the gated facade of her house I feel my body begin to tense up as she unlatches one grate after another, followed by a large deadlock whose opening click reverberates through my body. The kitchen is tiny, but no different from my own in that it is the heart of the house In and around the kitchen the rest of the family waits up to greet me with hugs and introductions

“Hola!” a girl who can’t be more than five shouts from behind her older sister's legs. I don’t recognize the two young girls from the family photo, but I can easily pick out Senora Mediavilla’s children: two young men and a girl my age, along with her husband, who promptly introduces himself to me with a handshake The youngest girl who is wearing bright red lipstick, clearly self-applied, and a big grin, runs up to hug my legs

“These are my nieces, ” Señora Mediavilla says. “They wanted to stay up to see you. ” My body unclenches itself as it gives in to ease and then exhaustion When the nieces leave with their parents for their house, my host mom shows me to my room My roommate, who arrived the day before, claimed the larger of the two beds, leaving me with the slightly curved Spongebob-themed bed Regardless, I have never been more grateful to see a mattress Slipping on wool socks and pulling on a down jacket to remedy the absence of a heater, I am asleep almost immediately after my host mom latches the door.

They told us in advance to expect rain daily during this time of the year, but I wake to streaky sunlight I open my eyes to a strange room 2,500 miles away from my own and dewy air, scented by waterfalls and frying eggs The breakfast placed before me as I sit down at the kitchen table is enough to suffice as breakfast, snack, and lunch A heaping mountain of slick papaya, a four-egg omelet with peppers and onions, yogurt, banana, granola, two juices, and one cup of piping milk. I finish everything placed in front of me to the pleasure of my generous host mom, setting a dangerous precedent

"Janky" by Eli Menser, model and photography

*

After a half-day of introductions and Spanish classes, I receive another impossibly large meal for lunch at a local restaurant, complete with appetizer, soup, juice, salad, chicken, rice, beans, plantains, and dessert The bill comes to three dollars total, with the inclusion of a 50% tip Walking back to the school with my group, dogs of every genetic variation follow us with their eyes from the porches of fragrant panaderías. Others pay us no attention, weaving in and out through our group and even through our legs. In the park surrounding the enclosed school young boys shoot baskets while older women use exercise machinery nearby. Everything in the small city is fizzy and gold-hued, a place I would willingly spend the rest of my summer in if I had the chance

On June 11th I checked my bag for the last time. I set my alarm for two-fifteen am, and I left for the airport with only the stuff I was able to squeeze into my oversized backpack In the backpack, I toted a headlamp, Deet bug repellent, a flashlight, extra batteries, a whistle, and a sleeping bag All things I would never end up using. My first week items, the clothes I would wash and rewear countless times during the Spanish immersion portion of the trip occupied the space above these impossibly tightly packed items

The first week of the trip was scheduled to take place in Otavalo, Ecuador and to be an opportunity to take Spanish classes during the day and to spend time with a host family at night The second week was to be an adventure: backpacking through the Amazon \Cloud Forest with local scientists for tour guides and a focus on herpetology, geology, biology, sustainability–promises of wild animal sightings and rainwater showers

I was filled with expectations and hopes. I had packed and prepared meticulously and printed schedules with each day planned to the hour. Schedules that would become increasingly irrelevant as the trip advanced

On my second day in Otavalo, by the time I sit down to eat my once more heaping plate, I have already been up since the crack of the South American sun, having run around the bustling outdoor track between rounds of haciendo plancha with my host mom. As I take a sip of my tomate de arbol juice, Cami passes her iPhone to me so that I can choose the next song up for judgment We discovered over breakfast that we both love Reggaeton, and now I am attempting to convince her that Maluma is better than Bad Bunny as she counters by playing “Gasolina” and other classics. In the middle of our

heated debate, my phone vibrates in my lap

The message is from Lesley, the trip leader, and reads, “Plaza de Ponchos is closed due to a smallscale strike by the indigenous community We have rescheduled for tomorrow See you as planned @9 at the front of the school. ”

This is the 13th of June, one day after our arrival, and the day that the Ecuadorian protests of 2022 officially begin By the end of the day, the immense and iconic indigenous marketplace--Plaza de Ponchos--is still on strike. Regardless, when our host families come to gather us from the deserted school (the regular school day had been canceled due to the strike), many approach Lesley, swearing a speedy end to the disturbances and a return to normalcy by morning Our trip leaders too predicted the strike to be so brief and isolated that the market was rescheduled for the next morning

Tonight Cami asks me to go to her friend Ana's house with her for dinner and board games When we arrive after walking the two blocks from Cami’s house it is already dark outside but inside the house radiates light and the aroma of frying tortillas At the dinner table, I find myself speaking Spanish without having to think, laughing along with the family at the sarcastic jokes of Ana’s older brother, and holding conversations with her parents surrounding their work and my family in America By the time we have depleted the two-liter bottle of Coke, the conversation has turned its focus on the strike. Cami and Ana lose interest and head off to Ana’s room prompting me to follow, but I respond that I want to help clean up and that they should go on without me Five minutes later I am still seated at the dinner table, glued to the conversation taking place between Ana’s father and brother about the strikes in the nineteen-nineties. The two agree that the same thing is beginning once again and that the nation must brace itself.

“What happened in the nineties?”

The father glances up at his wife who is taking up the plates and she shakes her head, but the brother doesn’t catch on and begins to explain what he has only heard stories of from his parents Soon enough the father too has joined in to emphasize and validate the points made by the brother.

“No water, ” the younger man shakes his head knowingly

“That’s right, they shut it down, we had to drink from the rivers, and collect our bath water there too. ”

“But at least there was water to boil and drink, food was another story ”

“That’s right They closed all the roads Nobody in or out, no food in or out. ” The father grimaced at this memory from his own youth

I don’t know how to react I laugh because I think that it is an elaborate joke but nobody laughs with me

“Well, our group leader said it will almost certainly be over by tomorrow ” I say it more for my own sake than for anybody else’s but now it is the men’s turn to laugh

Everything in the small city is fizzy and gold-hued, a place I would willingly spend the rest of my summer in if I had the chance.

"Reflecting On A Reflection" by Azreen Anwar, charcoal, colored chalk, crayon

I.

Memories of Youth

Jiyu Hong

They say that curiosity impresses lines upon one’s face, but strangely enough, I’ve never seen such lines trace yours.

They mark every fragile soul that passes by in coffee shops and parks where you walk your dog, but your own is unmarred. I’m fascinated.

Whenever you bend down to stare at the odd weed pushing through sidewalk cracks, the trees sway with you, or perhaps the wind is bending for you. Riders on bicycles trace paths around your small body that’s huddled up. Your limbs are tiny but the atmosphere around you radiates with warmth.

Now, I look at your face in the mirror, and I wonder when these fine wrinkles have appeared. I’m certain that they didn’t exist a few years back. I touch your skin and feel the littlest bit of sag from cheeks that were once full and red as apples

II.

They say wisdom comes with age, but I’m sure that you’re wiser than I. I’m sure you’re chiding me for missing your youth right now, how you’re thinking that I’m wasting the waning time on Earth I have left.

But to some degree, I’m sure you relate. While I miss you, you missed younger versions of yourself, never realizing that you were at the moment, the most beautiful you would ever be

My, I would give anything to see you prance about the streets in your ridiculous hats that were wider than the extra-large pizzas you had when your friends were over, washed down with a few bottles of alcohol mixed with juice because you can’t stand the bitter taste. Those friends are long gone at this point, but I wish that you’d still throw oneman parties.

III.

They say that you never lose the spark, but I think I gave mine away some time in the past decade. Somewhere in that stretch of time, I started to feel my joints ache and my legs wobble if I stood up for too long. You’d laugh if you saw me now, but I don’t think you’d feel ashamed

I hope that I donated mine to a spontaneous spirit like yourself At least that way, I’ll know that it’s being put to good use Don’t worry, I might have given up my energy but my heart’s still going strong.

I haven’t lost everything, not yet. I’ll still water the overgrown basil plants in the sodden pots out on the front porch, and I’ll still hum the melody to your favorite symphony when I feel restless. Throughout the week, I’ll write stories using your imagination, and on Sunday afternoons I’ll bake cakes.

I’m glad you found the time to return to my memories, even if it’s been a while since I last called you. I doubt you will have missed my old face, but I greatly missed yours.

I remember you when I feel the weight of my body sinking into the couch, my burdens and regrets diving with me You used to tell me that I filled my head up with too much fluff, that my mind was littered with unnecessary scraps.

I’ll be forever grateful that I can see you in the reflective surfaces of water, on the gleans of windows of shops we frequented.

I hope you visit more often, my long time friend.

"You used to tell me that I filled my head up with too much fluff, that my mind was littered with unnecessary scraps."