Brooklyn Stories XXI

Brooklyn Stories

Brooklyn Stories XXI

Cover: “Alex's Power" by Sophia Zweig

Staff

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

Yang (Ryan) Fei

Wenyu Deng

Christy Joseph Monica Saw-Aung

LAYOUT EDITORS

Zainab Nathani

Radhika Singh Jeanine Rashed

ARTWORK EDITORS

Julia Felsenstein

Sonya Kalani

Ping Ping Zeng

PHOTOGRAPHY EDITORS

Aida Israeli

Sai Akhila Reddy Bhumanapalli

Thy Vo

WRITTEN EDITORS

Naveera Arif Ariel Ben-Ezra Maryam Choudhary

Eve Frangopoulos

Brandon Grill Kelsey Hackett

Emma King

Jemy Paulson Anuradha Shetty

Lulu Wei

Andy Li

Notice

The editors reserve the right to refuse acceptance of submissions, as well as to edit submissions as needed. While Brooklyn Stories welcomes the submission of unsolicited manuscripts and artwork, it cannot accept the responsibility for loss or delay, or engage in related correspondence. Manuscripts will not be returned or responded to unless accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope.

Bennett Publishing Corp. 1087 Utica Ave., Brooklyn, NY 11203

© 2022. All rights revert to authors and artists, unless otherwise indicated.

Acknowledgements

THE ALUMNI ASSOCIATION OF THE COLLEGE OF MEDICINE MEDICAL STUDENT COUNCIL UNIVERSITY COUNCIL OFFICE OF THE DEAN OF THE COLLEGE OF MEDICINE

For those who recognize the art in medicine— thank you.

Letter to the Reader

Dear Reader,

SUNY Downstate Medical Artists' Guild is very excited to present to you Brooklyn Stories XXI!

Made and designed by Downstate students and faculty, this book is an annual publication that is comprised of artworks, photography, poetry, prose, and short stories by members of the Downstate community.

We hope that you will thoroughly enjoy this year's collection of works and be surprised by the amazing talents of Downstate’s student body, faculty, and staff with each page turn.

The mission of Medical Artists' Guild is to nurture the creativity and humanity in our community as it helps us to better understand who we are and connect with each other, our patients, and our colleagues.

We are grateful to all our talented authors and artists who contributed to this year’s publication and to the Alumni Association, Dean’s Office, University Council, and Med Council for their continuous support for 21 years!

We would also like to thank you for taking the time to pick up this book and hope that you continue to enjoy our publications in the future. Feel free to contact Brooklyn Stories at sunybrooklynstories@gmail.com if you are interested in being a part of next year's publication!

Sincerely, The Brooklyn Stories Staff

Table of Contents

Artwork

1 Sunset Over Astoria

acrylic paint

Sophia Zweig, COM/2025

3 East River Nights acrylic paint

Sophia Zweig, COM/2025

20 Black Queen oil on canvas

Kerry Thelusmond, SOHP: DPT/2024

27 Zygomaticus Major acrylic on canvas Kerry Thelusmond, SOHP: DPT/2024

48 untitled ink pen PZ, COM/2025

64 Docs! oil on canvas Mohamed Sylla, COM/2023

65 Kitchen Mess oil on canvas Mohamed Sylla, COM/2023

66 Mountain Sunrise oil pastel Joyce Mathew, COM/2022

67 Under the Bridge watercolor & gouache Wenyu Deng, COM/2022

78

Joy Over Winter (unfinished)

acrylic paint on canvas Amanda Onoichenco, COM/2025

79 loading...

pencil, pen, marker Christy Joseph, COM/2024

80 44

watercolors on canvas Stefan Adams, SOPH

81 Beautiful Women color stencils on a drawing pad Stefan Adams, SOPH

82 Her acrylic on canvas Kerry Thelusmond, SOHP: DPT/2024

83 African Woman oil on masonite board Mohamed Sylla, COM/2023

84 Clementine Awakening digital art Safae Bennani, COM/2025

85 untitled acrylic on paper Lila Nadelmann, SOHP: OT/2022

87 Drifting digital Salvatore G. Volpe, COM/2025

88 Growth digital Salvatore G. Volpe, COM/2025

91 Blackboard Dreams digital Zainab Nathani, SOPH/COM/2024

92 Study of Alena Kovaleva digital Wenyu Deng, COM/2022

100 Crashing Waters oil on masonite board Mohamed Sylla, COM/2023

101 Dr. Daniel Hale Williams oil on masonite board Mohamed Sylla, COM/2023

108 Rose Bud digital Sumer B., Dept. of Dermatology

112 Returning ink on paper Safae Bennani, COM/2025

115 Cavernous Hemangioma (Ophthalmology & ENT) pencil & pen Wenyu Deng, COM/2022

117 Reflex Hammer oil on masonite board Mohamed Sylla, COM/2023

118 Sanguine Skies acrylic on ceiling tiles

Nancy Li, COM/2024

119

Coastline of South Africa acrylic on ceiling tiles Nancy Li, COM/2024

120 Ophthalmology in the Operating Room pencil & pen Wenyu Deng, COM/2022

123

Physicians Hard at Work pencil & pen Wenyu Deng, COM/2022

134

Glowing Embers and Sand acrylic on canvas Naveera Arif, COM/2024

135

Zindy digital Sumer B., Dept. of Dermatology

Lady of the Lake pen on paper Thy Vo, COM/2023 137

136

Lemon Poisson graphite Sumer B., Dept. of Dermatology 138 Reflection watercolor on canvas Naveera Arif, COM/2024

140 untitled acryllic on paper Lila Nadelmann, SOHP: OT/2022

141 untitled acryllic on paper Lila Nadelmann, SOHP: OT/2022

143

Offering ink pen PZ, COM/2025

145 Woods

pen on paper Thy Vo, COM/2023

146 untitled ink on paper Sophia Zweig, COM/2025

149 Alex’s Power acrylic paint Sophia Zweig, COM/2025

153 New York City Skyline oil on masonite board Mohamed Sylla, COM/2023

155 Strange Fruit oil on canvas Kerry Thelusmond, SOHP: DPT/2024

157 Flower Field oil pastel Joyce Mathew, COM/2022

159 Fall Leaves oil on masonite board Mohamed Sylla, COM/2023

164 Al Aqsa Mosque oil on masonite board Mohamed Sylla, COM/2023

166 Matanzas, Cuba acrylic paint Sophia Zweig, COM/2025

4

Brooklyn Bridge

Sabiha Rahman, SOHP: OT/2023

6 Confetti Shrapnel

Joanna Palm, SOHP: OT/2023

Photography

2 Washington On Your Side Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

7

8

Fresh Prince Of Bel Air Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

Grand Army Plaza Sasha Imas, COM/2023

9 No Sleep Till Brooklyn Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

10 Reflections Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

11 Can I Speak to the Meownager Please Joanna Palm, SOHP: OT/2023

12 Library Pictures Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

13 Closing Time Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

16 18th Ave PZ, COM/2025

17 Rising Up from the Weeds Joanna Palm, SOHP: OT/2023

19 untitled Priscilla Varghese, COM/2024

21 SeaSpace Lulu Wei, COM/2024

24 Park Slope is Dope Joanna Palm, SOHP: OT/2023

25 Orange You Glad I'm Here

Joanna Palm, SOHP: OT/2023

26 Governor’s Island

Sasha Imas, COM/2023

29 Winter Blue skies

Derrick Chatad, COM/2025

30 Back to December

Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

31 Sestri Levante

Sasha Imas, COM/2023

32 Brooklyn, You're Killing Me Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

Waking Up In Vegas Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

34 Cotton Candy Sky on Clarkson Sabiha Rahman, SOHP: OT/2023

35 New Hope Dolka Fareaux, Dept. of Urology

36 Summer Evening Thy Vo, COM/2023

37 Wynwood

Sasha Imas, COM/2023

39 Remember

Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

41 untitled Alejandro Vega, COM/2023

42 Thinking Out Loud Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

43 untitled 35 mm Sarah Davis, SOHP/2023

46

Apple Picking in NYC

Arvind Rajabhathor, COM/2022

untitled Alejandro Vega, COM/2023

Brooklyn Giants

DorianValentine

SOHP: OT/2023

Brooklyn Giants

DorianValentine

SOHP: OT/2023

50

Snow Day Vignettes

Marc Moscatelli, COM/2023

Snow Day Vignettes 2 Marc Moscatelli, COM/2023

Wake Me Up When September Ends Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

Gummy Bears Priscilla Varghese, COM/2024

untitled Priscilla Varghese, COM/2024

if only

Edeline Mitton, Office of CME, Director

untitled Edeline Mitton, Office of CME, Director

untitled Sabiha Rahman, SOHP: OT/2023

59

A quiet moment among the chaos

Sabiha Rahman, SOHP: OT/2023

63 Scenic Hudson Park

Athena Vallejo, COM/2023

93 Boo

Edeline Mitton, Office of CME, Director

94 Behind the Scenes: Splotches, Berries, and Crunchy Leaves

68

Damselfly on the banks of the Haliacmon

Kastoria, Greece

Raphael A. Kirou, COM/2025

69 Mossiness

Tré Pálo, COM/2022

70 Imperfection Series: Curve

Elaine Kuang, SOHP: OT/2023

71 Soundview Park

Athena Vallejo, COM/2023

72 Behind the Scenes: Nature Edition

Elaine Kuang, SOHP: OT/2023

73 Imperfection Series: Growth

Elaine Kuang, SOHP: OT/2023

74 Earth

Elaine Kuang, SOHP: OT/2023

75 A summer hike

Athena Vallejo, COM/2023

76 Far From Home

Arvind Rajabhathor, COM/2022

89 Lost in the Trees

Joanna Palm, SOHP: OT/2023

Elaine Kuang, SOHP: OT/2023

95 Dog Days Are Over

Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

98

Snail Takeover

Lemnos, Greece

Raphael A. Kirou, COM/2025

99

Sarcopoterium among sand dunes

Lemnos, Greece

Raphael A. Kirou, COM/2025

102 Spiritual Paraphernalia

Tré Pálo, COM/2022

103 Hartshorne 35 mm Sarah Davis, SOHP/2023

104 Peak Perspectives

Tré Pálo, COM/2022

106 untitled Priscilla Varghese, COM/2024

109

Peace in the midst of the storm

Tracey Nubian, CON: WHNP/2022

110 Prospect Park Prodigy

Joanna Palm, SOHP: OT/2023

111 Brooklyn Giants

DorianValentine

SOHP: OT/2023

116 untitled

Arvind Rajabhathor, COM/2022

121

The Bannered Bone

Gallus Gallus domesticus vertebrae, acrylic paint

Tré Pálo, COM/2022

122 Peer Health Exchange II

Lulu Wei, COM/2024

132 untitled

Priscilla Varghese, COM/2024

133 Sunset Corfu, Greece

Raphael A. Kirou, COM/2025

139 Kenilworth

Aquatic Gardens

Athena Vallejo, COM/2023

144 snow babies

PZ, COM/2025

147 A Day In The Life

Marcos Vargas, COM/2024

148 Munich Market

Sasha Imas, COM/2023

150 Brooklyn Trees

Sasha Imas, COM/2023

154 untitled

Priscilla Varghese, COM/2024

156 Fall Upstate

Sasha Imas, COM/2023

160 Sun-Kissed Monarch

Wenyu Deng, COM/2022

161

Lush

Elaine Kuang, SOHP: OT/2023

162

163

Trees...

Tré Pálo, COM/2022

Blooming Cacti

Lemnos, Greece

Raphael A. Kirou, COM/2025

165 Summertime Bliss

Lagos, Portugal

Bruno Ifebi, COM/2025

Written

5 Brooklyn Streets

Jayce O'Shields, SOPH

14–15

subWAY

Richard Sabel, SOHP: OT/Clinical Assistant Professor

18

Mental Maissa Trabilsy, COM/2025

22–23

The Paradox of Light

Andy Li, COM/2025

28 Blue Serenade

Naveera Arif, COM/2024

38 City Stars

Michelle

Abdurakhmanova, SOHP: OT/2023

Regret

Sumer B., Dept. of Dermatology

49 Younger Days

Sumer B., Dept. of Dermatology

53 Echo and Shadow

Richard Sabel, SOHP: OT/Clinical Assistant Professor

60–62 The Last Jigsaw

Armaan Shah, COM/2025

77 On Time

Amanda Onoichenco, COM/2025

86 Exhale

Richard Sabel, SOHP: OT/Clinical Assistant Professor

90 The Gift

Richard Sabel, SOHP: OT/Clinical Assistant Professor

96–97 To the Light: Winding Edition

Elaine Kuang, SOHP: OT/2023

105 The Note

Richard Sabel, SOHP: OT/Clinical Assistant Professor

107 She Stands

Richard Sabel, SOHP: OT/Clinical Assistant Professor

113–14 First Day

Jeffrey P. Weiss, MD, PhD, Dept. of Urology

Courage!

Irene Innya, CON: ABSN

99.9%

Richard Sabel, SOHP: OT/Clinical Assistant Professor

151 A Moment of Peace

Naveera Arif, COM/2024

158 Autumn Naveera Arif, COM/2024

Meet the Team

168 Medical Artists' Guild Executive Board

169-72 Brooklyn Stories XXI Editing Team

Index

Index works organized by creator

Sunset Over Astoria Sophia Zweig

Washington On Your Side

Vargas

East River Nights

Brooklyn Bridge Sabiha Rahman

Brooklyn Streets Jayce O'Shields

Honk!

A wordless urban ego flung like arachnoid filaments to attach at distal nodes project grand designs: a dog barking at furry reflections at cement crosswalks, even at dim, wee hour intersections, a horn chirp before and after at the graffitied eyelids of nighttime storefronts, just in case.

Exhausted sirens weave through a rush hour cacophony of chants clashing with tense elbows and wrists on leather wheels. Deafened, I hear my own timid horn suddenly beeping louder in my chest and curse the physiological provocation of Buddhist meditation. Grand pressured cans of choral reminders, the sanguine staccato that needs to be heard.

Confetti Shrapnel Joanna Palm

Fresh Prince Of Bel Air Marcos Vargas

No

Till

subWAY

Richard Sabel

The homeless man stretched out nodding off, among the yard sale arrangement of his belongings, consuming a bench for 3, no mask, just the vertical smile from the crack of his ass

An acquiescence among the passengers, sitting silently, unresponsive shielded and alone behind their masks

Rushing from the 4, to the Q, there on the platform a man supine eyes closed with a divine smile surrounded by a moat of his belongings marking his castle his throne

A sweeping glance from those flying by, a fleeting moment of concern, which is subsumed, consumed, then exhumed from their corporeal being, to keep that protective barrier, that distance, from their internal rage .

Rising Up from the Weeds Joanna Palm

Mental Maissa Trabilsy

Sedated.

Why couldn’t you help me? Why couldn’t you save me? My mind was racing, I thought I was flying, I saw an “S” on my chest, a red cape around my neck, and I wanted to flee, so I tried and tried. But I couldn’t, with restraints around my arms, until I could. And I soared, “Security” is what they called for, You held me down, beat my head into the ground, until I bled. Why couldn’t you help me? Why couldn’t you save me?

“Violence” is what they called for, not one person, not one human. What is wrong with me?

I didn’t know, they didn’t know, But no one thought to know. Blood gushing out my head, until I was sedated, Illness.

The Paradox of Light Andy Li

I used to remember walking the streets after dark, one ear entranced by music and the second: alert, anticipatory and waiting. When the wind blew, the amorphic shadows would shiver, and I wondered if a hunter would be shrouded within. There were nights that were silent, save for the faint trill of cicadas diagnostic of summer’s apex. Other times, the hushed variants of jazz, television commercials and arguments drifted towards me. I could only imagine how intense they must’ve been at the epicenter. Once, an explosion singed the air, a dance of fireworks on land. But its origins were much more sinister; not a fuse lit, but a trigger pressed, and it was then that primal fear invaded. Running was easy, but restraining myself from glancing behind was exacting. In the presence of danger, our minds tend to conjure nightmares otherwise lost in slumber. I homed in on the nearest flickers of light, and yelled at the owner of the deli to barricade the doors. We slumped against the wall until eventually, our heavy breathing and the low hum of the refrigerators were the only sounds in an otherwise silent world.

I’ve always been told that light eradicated all darkness, as if divine justice was an occupation whose hours mirrored the solar cycle. And yet when the sunbeams arrived, it only illuminated what the night had concealed. The streets were cracked with age, with debris strewn across the pavement. The shadows had retracted to reveal the annual deposits of dust on now faded store signs. One could witness the trees bent with age; their once vibrant leaves now disintegrating with the wind. But isolation begets community, and when the world insists that you don’t exist, that you are invisible: a seed of resilience is sown. The spray painted murals of a blooming, musing artist emerge. The fragment smell of an open barbecue, wafting through the air intertwined with serenading music. I could stride down the street and be greeted by a multitude of the elderly, resting on plastic crates underneath the stores’ awning. I would lean in and listen to their playful gossip; descriptions of people and places of times old. Other times, their faces darkened briefly when they recalled their lost loves, faltering communication with their children, or dreams they had never dared to utter aloud in their prime. Their melancholy vanished as quickly as its onset; hidden by the beaming light of their recovering smile.

When we imagine how our world changes, it's often drastic before and after images that flash in our minds. The devastation of a hurricane, the billow ing smoke from forest fires, and perhaps the sprouting of a new illustrious tower from arid soil. But we often refuse to accept that with each passing day, events unfold just a tad different from the last; we ignore the minute differences until the final mutation prevents us from averting our gaze. We failed to comment on the development of a well stocked supermarket until the grand opening. We chose to ignore the luxurious condos rising in our backyards. When small businesses finally hung up their foreclosure signs in defeat, we thought we had scored the deal of our lifetime; rushing in to clear out the shelves before the rusted gate snapped shut. When it finally reopened, it had transformed into a petite bakery with a rustic charm.

But how could we detect the maliciousness dwelling behind community upgrades? After all, it gave us access to fresh food, better apartments and luxurious coffee. Right? But the renovations weren’t meant for us. It was meant to attract those who couldn’t comprehend the meaning of limitations; who wanted to work hard, then frolic in a city that was ten minutes away by transportation. It was for those with wallets large enough that an entire galaxy could fit within. A miniature crystallized world constructed by esteemed connections and endless resources; that shelling out fifteen dollars for a buttered scone would hardly dent their pearly white foundations. And when we tried to peer in, it was then that we realized it was us on the other side of the looking glass. We watched our world burn away and were helpless to stop it. We saw our diversity fall as the prices rose, and by the time we uncovered the monster treading silently amongst us, it had already enveloped us in its abyss. A silent killer indeed.

Nowadays the nights are as radiant as day, with blue uniforms pa trolling uncut corners. Every crack in the pavement had been sealed, every mural erased, and vivacious flowers had long strangulated the shade casted by once upright trees. A new kingdom had been built from the embers of the old. It was like we had never even existed. All that remained were fragmented recollections of our past lives whenever we traveled through. Memories and stories that no one cared to hear. We no longer had a place in this world, not even a plastic throne. So we smiled, and let the artificial reflection of sunlight from their hun dred windowed constructs cover up our truth.

Park Slope is Dope

Palm

Orange You Glad I'm Here

Palm

Governor’s Island

Blue Serenade Naveera Arif

When we say we are singing our blues, we mean our thoughts, our feelings, our hearts, our souls, and our very beings. The notes of the song play the tune to our pain, anger, sorrow, fervor, and ecstasy. It carries itself out of our bodies to greet the outside world. It diffuses into the spaces around us, whether that be the confines of our room or the far echoing reaches of a concert hall. We spill our tears and emotions into every note, and if you have mastered the art, the breath that creates our voices remains strong and unwavering, open for the world to understand the value of each note. It is, in the end, up to those that listen to our blue serenade, to hear the person underneath that screams and laughs and cries, composing the song from behind the façade of our outside appearance. Those that hear us will understand, and shed tears with us as we communicate our hearts in one single song. Indeed, it makes all the difference in the world; Why sing our blues if there is no one to serenade to?

Winter Blue skies

You're Killing Me

Waking Up In Vegas

Vargas

Cotton Candy Sky on Clarkson Sabiha Rahman

New Hope

City Stars

Michelle Abdurakhmanova

Sometimes I look up at the night sky,

And wonder if that’s a star I’m looking at. Every time, it blinks and lets me know it’s not.

Why did I get my hopes up?

Are they even real?

Is anything real?

Twinkle twinkle little star…

How I wonder if you are.

Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place. They say in the city you can’t see stars.

Our light reflects back onto the sky.

We challenge their existence.

Do they hide from us?

Or are they within us...

They say in the city you can’t see stars.

Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place.

Regret Sumer B.

The Wind is dancing In your favor

To help you move along.

To forget the days

You swayed away

On a path you knew Was wrong.

But in its course

It blew along

The regret you felt With time.

Ah that’s why

Again and again

You always cross that line.

Thinking Out Loud

Vargas

Brooklyn Giants

Valentine

Brooklyn Giants

Dorian Valentine

Younger Days

Sumer B.

Younger days

I’ve grown to love

Too soon

They have passed.

And when I see Your innocence

I’m thinking Would it last?

And all the time You stole from me

I still hadn’t Moved on.

But all sweet things Never last

And too soon You were gone.

Snow Day Vignettes

Marc Moscatelli

Wake Me Up When September Ends Marcos Vargas

Echo and Shadow Richard Sabel

I hear your voice, the words echo in my mind.

Is that what you said?

The memory is strong, but at the same time elusive.

I feel your presence, I turn thinking, is it you?

Of course not, it’s just a shadow, shapeshifting as I make my way, dissolving as I turn the corner.

I look up, there before me, a sight I know you’ve seen, enjoyed. I smile.

For a moment we stand together

Gummy Bears

A quiet moment among the chaos

Rahman

The Last Jigsaw

Armaan Shah

As a child, January was a month of happiness and melancholy. My birthday fell in its first week, but towards the end of the month I would have to bid farewell to my grandparents for their return to India. Every year since I was four, my dada (paternal grandfather) gifted me a jigsaw puzzle before he left. Not one of those picture puzzles with pieces as big as your palm, no, these puzzles were intricate; some had more than one thousand pieces and would display a map or a scenic landscape when completed. My dada knew that it would be impossible for me to complete these puzzles overnight, or even in a fortnight, but it was all a part of his plan. He was a tactful man, a clever one, and not just because he was a renowned dentist back in India. He was clever because he knew I would miss him and my grandmother. This was his way of telling me that every time I got closer to completing the puzzle, I got closer to seeing him again on his next visit. He was a man of few emotions, but if one looked deep enough into his amber eyes, like pools of honey, they would see a stoic mix of gentleness, empathy, and ancient knowledge. But for such a kind man, life did not reserve the same compassions. Age caught up with him, and with it, the most horrid disease.

At first, he would forget to check the weather before going to work or sometimes he’d let bills go unpaid for a few weeks - two things he was always punctual about. But then, it started to affect his dental practice. Patient charts would start to blend. Treatment procedures became hazy. Soon, our family decided to sell the clinic to a younger dentist. My dada knew it had to be done, both for the sake of his patients and for his reputation to remain intact, but no one looked into his eyes the way I did. The sense of stoic knowledge was lost, muddled with a feeling of ineptitude and self-doubt. Since then, dada stayed at home. He watched old sports highlights and nature documentaries but gradually forgot how to use the TV remote to get to his channels. The effects of Alzheimer’s had begun to worsen.

The day I became most cognizant of his disease was the day he forgot my name. I video called my grandparents and expected my dada to greet me with the usual, ‘Kem che Armaan beta’ (How are you my son, Armaan?). But this time, I was greeted with a simple nod and empty smile. No words. Just a distant, glossy eyed stare. I felt my throat clenching and my face became flushed, the onslaught of hot tears one blink away as the magnitude with which the disease was affecting my dada set in. Biting back the tears, I smiled and greeted him, asking him about his day. ‘Good,’ he said. That was it. He smiled once again, the skin around the edges of his eyes crinkled, and he passed the phone back to my grandmother. I would later find out that the degeneration of his brain had reached the Broca’s area; a part essential for producing speech. This limited him to being able to say only a few words: food, good, yes, no, cricket (the sport, his favorite).

Over time, I noticed that I wasn’t the only one affected by his condition. My grandmother, sharp as a tack, began to wear down over the years. As my dada slowly began to age backwards, she had to remind him to bathe and feed him personally. She was the frontline that bore the brunt of his ailment. Throughout it all, her love for him endured. One expects to be taken care of at an old age, not to be doing the caretaking, but my grandmother never once complained. Not even after seeing the man she loved for more than fifty years become someone else. She took control of paying the bills, maintaining the house, and completing daily errands, all things my dada used to be able to take care of. Now he had transitioned from being dependable to being dependent. My mother and father, thousands of miles away from home, could never see the daily struggles my grandmother faced.

My family and I would try and visit my grandparents every summer since my dada was not able to travel anymore. I was apprehensively excited to see him and not keen to find out how his disease had progressed. The creeping thought of what else had it taken from him festered within my mind. Time in India moved slow and I would spend most of my time at home. My parents would be busy visiting extended family and running errands, leaving me

alone with my grandparents. The more I was exposed to my dada’s condition, the less I feared it. Instead, I began to question it, tried to find ways to fight it, all efforts in vain to find a way I could bring an inkling of my dada’s old mental state back. One article I read online stood out to me. It described daily activities such as reading and writing that could help slow the effects of the ailment on the brain. The article also mentioned something else, an activity that would help a patient use their brain and potentially strengthen connections within it. The activity was jigsaw puzzles.

Immediately after reading this article, I found the closest toy shop and purchased a jigsaw puzzle. Not as intricate as what my dada used to gift me, it was a small puzzle for children. Nevertheless, it was a start. I went home and presented it to my dada. He was perplexed for a moment, but I sat down with him and pointed to the pieces and then to the picture on the box. As I assembled the first few pieces, he understood what I planned to do. With a sense of excitement, I had not seen in a few years, he joined me. That summer in India, my dada and I completed eight puzzles, each a little bit more difficult than the last.

January of 2009 was the last time my dada would gift me a jigsaw puzzle before he left for India. He purchased it from a pawn shop, so it came in an unlabeled white box. He had assembled the puzzle beforehand to ensure none of the 1500 pieces were missing, before disassembling it and gifting it to me. Since there was no picture on the box, I had no idea what the puzzle would form once completed. Even to this day, I do not know. The box sits in the corner of my closet, unseen, unless one knows exactly where to look. I know my dada’s degenerative condition will never allow him to help me assemble such an intricate set ever again. So, there it sits, and will continue to, because I know it’ll be the last puzzle I’ll ever receive from him. One day I’ll muster up the courage to finish the last jigsaw puzzle. Maybe one day.

Park

Vallejo

Scenic

Kitchen

the Bridge

A summer hike

Vallejo

On Time Amanda Onoichenco

Seeing the lights flicker and dance in his eyes the fray of his hair curling in the balmy air the lithe sway and tone only youth can loan to you for a while until it asks for it back.

How strange it is to think that the body, his dear body could contain a multitude all at once. It felt inevitable that I’d love the grubby, gap-toothed sprite with dirt caked under his fingernails the slouching, hands-in-pockets teen the upright young man starting to wear his skin a little better, and the sighing old man whose skin drapes around in folded swathes.

Women

Adams

African Woman Mohamed Sylla

Exhale Richard Sabel

Lying together

faces nestled cheek to cheek feeling your warmth your breath brushing the side of my face

A shared life synchronized steps waffling through the mire and joys and all in between

It’s there finally the last breath it brushes my cheek I breathe deeply taking it all in letting you circulate within holding on to this last moment of you knowing I must let go I exhale

Salvatore G. Volpe

Lost in the Trees

Palm

The Gift Richard Sabel

The want

slithers through the fingers unattainable until somehow, sometimes. . . it’s there. . . only to slip away again by a mind seesawing between past and future unable to accept the unadorned uncluttered present

Study of Alena Kovaleva Wenyu Deng

Behind the Scenes: Splotches, Berries, and Crunchy Leaves Elaine Kuang

Dog Days Are Over Marcos Vargas

To the Light: Winding Edition

Elaine Kuang

I wish we spoke more about the imperfection in nature, The curving of plants reaching towards the sun, Asymmetrical and Without a mathematical sequence. How the plants perched near a window may vine in C’s and L’s, Inching towards the sun, The way trees branch with Twists and curves.

If we folded them in half, Their sides would not be a perfect match. They twist, twist, and twist, Reaching for the sun, Aiming to gain light for their leaves while Tilted by gravity, Strengthened by wind. Those that wilt from a lack Rise again when their needs are met.

If given too much sun, Their leaves can get sunburnt Orange, yellow, and brown, But can still produce new growth, Green.

If we look at the bends, Splotches, Rips, Spots, Gaps, Crunchy leaves, In nature and we love them still, What does that mean for us?

Would we be as excited

About our victories

As a plant parent is When they see the ribbon shape

Of new growth

Unfurling like a scroll?

What happens if we see our curving branches

As a true product of nature and nurture, Of circumstance, And of the chaos of life

Instead of blaming Only nature, Only ourselves?

Maybe we would trust in new growth And wait

To unfurl.

Maybe we would find beauty

As we are,

Love processes in our lives, Not only the results.

Trust that we form branches to access the most light And form stability

In ourselves

From the wind.

All while stretching towards the sun. We will have our version of Effort, Water, and fertilizer. Maybe then we would recognize Our resilience. Our growth. Green.

Sarcopoterium among sand dunes

Greece

Raphael A. Kirou

Dr. Daniel Hale Williams Mohamed Sylla

Spiritual Paraphernalia

Hartshorne

Sarah Davis

Peak

The Gift Richard Sabel

A man, a palate of emotions, boundless, yet contained. Rising, he defies the pull of gravity, scaling tree tops.

Springing boughs fuel his ascent to the clouds.

Riding the moving mists, he’s drawn further upward, transcending the stratosphere, eclipsing the mesosphere, going beyond the thermosphere and exosphere.

To stillness.

A quiet unveiled, the curtain drawn.

A subtle vibration felt. A note.

The same note, within and without.

She Stands

Richard Sabel

Enveloped by ragging winds, heat, sun, politics, and the metronome of time. She stands.

An unyielding symbol, a gift of hope and continuity. A bridge from those gone, to those that will be. She stands.

A parable perhaps, harboring our best, as we flail beneath the water, attempting to rise.

Staid and steadfast amid our chaos, She stands.

Peace in the midst of the storm Tracey Nubian

Prospect Park Prodigy

Palm

Giants

Valentine

First Day

Jeffrey P. Weiss, MD, PhD

The date: July 1, 1978

The place: Ravdin 7, Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania

Mr. Cooper is postop day 5 following open heart surgery by Dr. Horace MacVaugh. He is doing well. The intern on the case is sitting at the nursing station, trying to figure out his role on the hospital’s most high-powered service. It is his first day of his surgery residency. Irv Herling, the cardiology fellow, takes a seat next to the intern and says, “Don’t worry… we’re here to help you.”

The cardiothoracic surgery fellow, Dr. Mike Johnston, wants to know if Mr. Cooper still needs his pacer wires. He instructs the 24-year-old intern to check and see if the patient’s heart is beating on its own. The intern is a “doctor” in name only, having received his medical diploma 4 weeks earlier from a medical school in Pittsburgh. The intern timidly inquires of the formidable CT fellow how the test should be done. Dr. Johnston’s impatient reply: “Just turn it down and see if he is still pacing.”

Not wanting to appear stupid, the intern ambles into Mr. Cooper’s room and explains that he will check to see if he still needs his pacer. The patient, looking fairly chipper despite the huge, healing median sternotomy incision, agrees that this is a good idea. Progress!

The helpful cardiac nurse in the stepdown unit stands by the EKG monitor at the nursing station, within the direct line of sight of the intern and Mr. Cooper. The intern checks the box and sees… TWO dials. Oh shit. Which one should he turn down? One says “rate” and the other says “mA,” which the intern figures means “milliamps.” Does it matter which he adjusts first? Would you be hearing this story if it did not?

The intern takes a shot at it. He slowly turns down the mA dial. The helpful nurse, who is looking at the monitor from across the hall, indicates that the EKG is firing off. So far, so good. He dials it down a little more and sees that the nurse is still smiling. He then decides to turn his head and look at the patient, whose eyes have just rolled up in his head and is falling in slow motion from his original seated position to supine. The intern places a hand on the patient’s back to ease the fall. The patient is now out, lying flat, and appears to be dead. A quick calculation tells the genius intern that the next move is to turn the patient back on. He dials up the mA back to where it started. The patient opens his eyes and asks the intern, “Is everything alright?” He replies, “Everything is alright.”

Soon after, Irv Herling gently explained that the correct move would have been to turn down the rate dial, and if the EKG rate dropped commensurately, the patient was clearly pacing and would only require the pacemaker for a few more days until his own internal pacing mechanism returned to function. Mike Johnston was not so gentle. Forty-three years later, the intern never forgot his inauguration into the world of surgery.

Reflex Hammer Mohamed Sylla

Sanguine Skies

of South

Jemma walked into the sitting room and found Jaja watching the news. There, on the screen, was the face of president Magufule again. All summer it had been “Magufule this, Magufule that”. He wondered who this man was. He wanted to ask Jaja but his grandpa was keen on the news and when he was into it, there was no interrupting. He would have to wait and ask Ms. Apolot at school tomorrow.

Jaja dropped him off at Tororo Primary school early in the morning as he did every day. Jemma could see children trickling in from the corners of every school building, as if the imposing 6-foot iron gate was just for show. The barbed-wire fencing that was attached to the gate at the time the school was built was compromised. In many places, the wire had been pulled apart to make room enough for a boy of his size to crawl through. He had seen some unfortunate boys get their white cotton uniform shirts caught in the wire and ripped straight down. The bell rang and he made it to P3K just as Ms. Apolot was getting ready to close the door on any late-comers.

“Phew!” Late comers were dealt with in ways he was not accustomed to and still struggled to understand.

The school was broken up into Lower School consisting of grades 1 to 3, or as the locals would say, primary 1 to primary 3 or p1 to p3, for short. And then there was Upper School which consisted of p4 to p7. The children were scattered in small groups across the school yard, playing in the luscious grass or in the dusty red paths that snaked their way through like tributaries pouring into the main

one that led to the back gate. Past that gate, across a small street surrounded by tall, dense trees, stood Upper School. Jemma hung upside down on the small monkey bar, just as he had seen the small pigmy monkies do in Jaja’s compound when they came around looking for food. He watched upside down as Sulae and his band of friends approached. He hoped they were coming to ask him to play with them. He uncrossed his legs, allowing them to drop to the ground three feet below. He rubbed blood back into his pale hands.

“Jemma, tell him. Is it true that in America when children are late they do not get beaten? I told him but he does not believe me.” In Jemma’s elementary school in New York City, teachers never took a cane to the boys and girls no matter what. It was considered child abuse to beat a child, but here, he frequently heard the phase, ”spare the rod and spoil the child.”

“In my school, teachers never beat students. If they did, the police could arrest them.” He watched a few jaws drop.

“So what ha-ha-happens when you’re l-l-l-late?” Julius’ stutter was followed by a burst of laughter from the other children.

“L-l-l-late.” Mimicked Eddie, followed by another burst of laughter. Jemma stood watching quietly until the laughter died down. He noticed Julius, who had been standing near him, had moved a few steps to the back of the crowd and now had his hands in his pocket, shoulders hunched forward. Having recovered from their exuberant outburst, the other children now watched Jemma expectantly.

“You get written a late slip.” He replied.

“What is that?”

“That’s a piece of paper that says you’re late.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?” Jemma inquired, genuinely confused. “Then what happens to you? How do they teach you a lesson?”

“Nothing happens. It goes on your record and you might not get on the principal’s list or make it to honor roll. That’s when you get all good grades, are on time and never absent, and your name is called at assembly…” Jemma stopped talking because the entire group of boys had burst into laughter at something he had said. Some of the boys were slapping their knees, bent over double, others stared at him in disbelief and others high-fived each other. He heard

one say, “I want to go to this America too. It sounds like heaven!”

“Jalme twodo.” Sulae said and they all turned to leave in agreement with his declaration. Jemma did not speak the local languages but he understood enough to know when he was being called a liar.

“I’m not lying! You would get in trouble. Your parents would be notified if you came to school late....” Jemma made another attempt to explain.

“Oh, so then your parents will beat you, eh?” Davin eagerly concluded as if that was the only way to make sense of what Jemma was saying. A few of the other primary three students’ nods ended abruptly when Jemma said,

“No, parents are not allowed to beat their children either.”

“See! he’s lying. Let’s go dig out the ants.” Sulae walked away dragging several of the boys with him. Jemma felt tears sting his eyes. He had just told the truth. Why would Sulae call him a liar?

“I’m not lying.” He felt his voice break and said nothing more, afraid he might burst into tears and draw more shame. No one had ever called him a liar before. He walked away from the remaining boys and crossed the field, squatting behind an Acacia tree. He poked the red dirt with a stick he had found and couldn’t help the fat teardrop that fell onto the dirt and was immediately soaked up leaving a deep red circle. He wiped the tear away from his other eye as he heard foot steps approach.

“S-s-sorry they c-c-c-called you a l-l-liar.” Julius said. He took a piece of cloth from his pocket and held it out to Jemma. Jemma did not know what it was,

“What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s a h-h-hand-k-ker-kerchief.” Julius managed.

“Oh, in my country, it would be a box of tissue.” He took the handkerchief and rubbed at his eyes. Somehow it felt ok for Julius to see him cry.

“T-t-t-tissue.” Julius tried it out like a piece of candy on his tongue.

“Tissue.” Jemma repeated encouragingly, looking up at him with the ghost of a smile.

“T-tissue.” Julius said, eyes tightly shut at the effort. Yeah, tissue.” Jemma repeated.

“Tissue.” Julius said and they both jumped up in excitement grabbing at each other’s hands in recognition that he had not stuttered that last time. When the bell rang, Jemma returned to class but was so distracted by the day’s events that he forgot to ask Ms. Apolot who Magufule was.

Jaja was waiting for him in the pick up truck as usual outside the main gate when the end of day bell rang and kids scattered in all directions, reluctantly leaving the football game that had been the highlight of their day.

“Hello Ejakait!” Jaja called with a big grin.

“Hi Jaja.” Jaja’s gaze lingered a moment before he asked,

“How was your day?” Jemma wondered whether to tell him about the incident with Sulae and his band. He did not want to seem like a complainer or snitch. Grandpa did not push him and that made Jemma feel safe so he decided to talk.

“I made a friend today.”

“Oh!”

“His name is Julius.”

“I want to know all about this Julius.” So Jemma told him.

***

The bell signaling the beginning of class had not yet rung. Julius walked to his seat near the back of the classroom, eyes downcast, books clutching to his chest. Jemma watched him, trying to make eye contact. As Julius made his way down the square rows of desks and chairs, Sulae stuck out his foot, making Julius stumble and knocking his books out of his hand. Jemma reached across the narrow aisle and grabbed Sulae’s wrist, twisting just like he had practiced in his Aikido dojo.

“Ahhhh! Sulae’s high pitched cry was unexpected, totally crushing his image as ring leader and reputation as trouble maker. Someone snickered.

“What is going on here?” Silence. “Do you know you are disturbing the other classes with your noise? What is it with you

two-are you fighting?!” It was Ms. Apolot, the Math teacher, who had arrived on the scene. The bell must have rung during the ruckus but nobody heard it.

“I WILL NOT tolerate this kind of negative attention in my class! Sulaeman, Jemma, see me after class.”

Jemma thought of a few four –letter words kids at PS 102 would use to describe his situation but managed to keep them all in his head. He had come to learn that here, “see me after class” were words famously spoken when the teacher meant to give you a whooping. The thought of it gave him goose bumps and he felt like his stomach might turn inside out! This doubly hurt because at the time he would be getting his hiding, all the other boys would be heading to the field for a game of football. Sulae shot him a nasty look as if the whole thing was his fault. Once again, Jemma wondered why mom had left him in this godforsaken place.

After class, Jemma went to see Ms. Apolot as she had instructed. He walked into the staffroom after lingering as long as he could in the boys’ bathroom. Sulae was already there, standing with his hands behind his back, face cast towards the ground. He looked so remorseful Jemma almost believed he was sorry. Jemma took the same stance, standing next to him. Julius had warned him to be apologetic because Ms. Apolot might feel sorry and beat him less.

Jemma watched Ms. Apolot from the corner of his eye as she chatted with Mr. Kato from Social Studies class.

“Now what have these two done?” Mr. Kato said.

“Can you believe I caught them fighting in my class?, Hm!” Ms. Apolot responded.

“Eh Eh! Look at them! And this ka zungu is still new but already misbehaving! You beat them well to teach them a lesson.”

“You two, come here.” She needed no further encouragement.

Jemma could see that she was holding the cane with her right hand. She tapped it on her left hand repeatedly and let it slide across her palm as if in anticipation of the caning she was about to do. Jemma palmed his khakis to get rid of the sweat on his hands. His heart felt like it would burst out of his throat at any moment. He told himself to breathe. They had now reached Ms. Apolot. Jemma tried to

hang back so that Sulae would go first. He wanted to know how bad it would be. Sulae seemed to be in no hurry either, giving him a side glance that said, “this is all your fault.” Jemma stared back with what he hoped was his most defiant look. It all seemed so unfair that he was going to receive the same treatment as Sulae when he was only defending Julius.

“Lie down.” Ms Apolot said to no one in particular. No one moved.

“I SAID. LIE. DOWN!” Jemma was frozen. He tried to comply but it was as if he had lost the ability to control his body movements.

Sulae dropped down in front of her and received three sharp strokes of her cane on his bottom.

“Next. Time. Behave.” She said as if to punctuate each stroke. “GO.” She yelled pointing with her stick in the direction of the playground. He scrambled, holding his bottom as he ran. She turned her stern stare at Jemma. Jemma lay down with his eyes shut, buttocks clenched as if he was about to do a push up, like he used to do with his father. He did not want his shirt to get dirty on the dusty floor so he supported his weight on his arms.

“Mmmm” He tried to hold it in but the anticipatory sound escaped him just as her cane came down on his buttocks, turning into a full-blown squeal.

“Eeeek!” his arms gave way and the weight of his body hit the floor at the surprising sting of her switch.

“Mummy!” The word slipped out as the cane came down once again. Jemma heard her say in a rather quiet tone,

“Go, you only get two this time because you are new here.”

Tears stung his eyes and snot ran down his nose as he got up and left the staffroom.

“Sulae deserved it. But what about me?” He thought, “I’ve done nothing wrong!” He had an urge to say or do something bad so that his punishment wasn’t for nothing!

“How is my Ejakait doing today?” Jaja greeted when he picked Jemma up that evening. Jemma did not respond. He climbed into Jaja’s pickup truck.

“Everything sucks!” are the words that crossed his mind but

he kept his silence.

“What’s wrong Ejakait?” the way he said it made Jemma feel really sad and he could not help the tears welling in his eyes.

“I want my mom.” Jemma sat sideways in the shotgun seat facing Jaja and waited expectantly. Jaja did not reach for his cell phone and hand it to him like he did every time Jemma expressed longing for his mother. Instead he looked at Jemma and quietly said,

“Tell me what happened.”

“Ms. Apolot is a stupid teacher!” Jemma knew this was the kind of thing you did not say about adults and get away with but grandpa could be trusted. He continued,

“She beat me for standing up to bullies. Sulae knocked the books out of Julius’ hands and I made him stop and I got in trouble. It’s not fair!” The air rushed in and out of Jemma’s flared nostrils to match his thready heartbeat.

Silence.

“And I wanna go home!”

After a moment, Jaja said, “Jemma, you did the right thing and got punished for it. That is not fair at all! You are angry and sad and I understand that. I am sorry this happened to you. I will have a word with Ms. Apolot tomorrow.”

“Really?“ Jemma looked up at Jaja. That was the kind of thing his mother did. Like the time his sister got called the B-word by an eighth grader and mom went to speak to her teacher. Jemma felt better now that he knew grandpa was going to do something about this injustice. He shook his head in wonder at the situation.

“No good deed goes unpunished.” He echoed the words he had heard his father say many times before. He finally understood their meaning.

“Jemma, do you know who Magufule is?”

Startled out of his reverie, he looked at Jaja whose eyes remained on the road.

“No. But he is on the news a lot. Who is he?”

“He is the president of Tanzania, our neighboring country. Do you know why he is on the news a lot? It is because he is very popular

for his good deeds. Like you, he tries to do everything he believes is right for his people and his country even though

he knows as you say, “no good deed goes unpunished.” It shows he has the courage to stand up for what is right regardless of the cost. Have you heard of Nelson Madela?”

“Yes. Everyone knows Nelson Mandela!. We celebrate him during Black History Month” Jemma responded. By this time, his cheeks were no longer on fire and he was listening intently to Jaja.

“Did you know that he spent 27 years in prison fighting for his country to be free from apartheid?

“Apartheid?” Jemma had never heard that word before. “Discrimination based on one’s race.” Jaja explained.

“Yeah.” Jemma nodded in understanding. He was very familiar with the topic!

“27 years…wow.” He repeated in awe.

“He sacrificed so many years but his struggle resulted in equal opportunities for the black people of South Africa. Likewise, you sacrificed your backside for good reason-you stood by a friend and maybe life will be better for Julius in the future. This makes you a boy of character! And that, my friend, is rare and special.”

That night, Jemma lay on his stomach because his bottom was still sore from the canning he had received. He could still hear the crack of Ms. Apolot’s whip, which had sounded like a firecracker up close through his khaki uniform shorts. He lay awake thinking about the things Jaja had said. Thinking of Jaja’s comparison of him to Magufule and Mandela filled his heart with pride. By that yardstick, he saw himself as a man of courage and even his pain was somehow diminished.

***

Priscilla Varghese

Glowing Embers and Sand

Lady of the Lake Thy Vo

99.9% Richard Sabel

Your color, banter, rhythm, clothes, beliefs, are different than me, but genetically, you, me, are 99.9% we.

A Day In The Life

A Moment of Peace Naveera Arif

(Disclaimer: Contains lyrics from Troye Sivan’s “Ease”)

Wind whistled through the bars of the fire escape, caressing her face and lifting her hair slightly as she laid her head back against the railing. Her eyes stared straight up, the sky, blood red and deep purple from the fading sun, fixed in her line of sight. Puffy cheeks flushed red and tears streaked down her face as she lost herself in her thoughts. She sat nestled under a comforter, the fire escape burning under the light of the sun that set it aflame. A vine of fairy lights wove itself around the railing, twinkling against the crisp clear sky like the lights of the city nightlife. She let out a weak sigh and closed her eyes as if the atmosphere was weighing heavy on her eyelids. The weight was tangible; she felt it sinking down into her very bones, freezing her in place without even a drop of energy to move forward. Thoughts raced across her mind, reliving the moments of pain and tragedy, held back for so many years that she didn’t even realize they were there until now. Here, she finally had a moment to let herself feel, feel everything come crashing through the walls that had weathered down from the constant stream of tears on her face.

As if of their own accord, her lips parted and her voice graced the air tinged with tears,

But all this driving, is driving me crazy

And all this moving, is proving to get the best of me

And I've been trying to hide it, but lately

Every time I think I'm better, pickin' my head up, getting nowhere—

All of a sudden she hears someone come through the window. Pushing back the silk curtains, a woman with long black hair and a grey sweater pulls herself out onto the fire escape. She sits down and takes in the other’s ragged appearance, her dark eyes filled with concern. Her hand reaches out and wipes her damp cheeks, a small comforting smile gracing her face. She retracts her hand and together they laid their heads back against the railing. Her eyes flutter close again and a feeling of serenity washes over her as she turned her head to the sunset, the vibrant orange of the sun’s final rays illuminating her face and glinting off her tears. She turns back to the woman beside her and offers a small smile in gratitude. Her head makes its way to the other’s shoulder as if allowing her to share the burdens that had plagued her mind, constricted her breath, and crushed her bones to dust, making it bearable. The weight lifts with every moment that passes sitting in comfortable silence with a person who cares about her. Her tinkling voice rises from her mouth once again,

Take me back to the basics and the simple life

Tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease.

New York City Skyline

Mohamed Sylla

Joyce Mathew

Autumn Naveera Arif

Bright red, gleaming gold, rich forest green, a mere fraction of the palette of the colors needed to properly describe this autumn day. The leaves were brilliant, hanging on the branches of the towering trees, sparkling like shards of a stained glass window as they cast faint shadows on the dirt path. The wind cut through the forest, sharp enough to slice through the weak stems that held the leaves on the trees. They fluttered to the ground, bringing a part of the rainbow from the sky to the earth.

Black boots crunched with each step the woman took as she followed the path underneath the colors of the trees, the sun high in the sky yet offering not a drop of warmth. Her breath rolled out in an opaque mist in front of her as the cold slipped through the folds of her wool coat and pricked at the skin underneath. She clutched a steaming thermos of hot coffee, her only heat source on her walk through the forest.

Her eyes widened with each step, taking in the vibrancy of the world around her. Breathing in the freshness of the air, the earthy smell of the trees that filled her senses all at once as a small smile tugged at the corners of her maroon-painted lips. Taking a sip from her thermos, she walked a little ahead and sat on the weathered wooden bench with black iron handles. A sense of tranquility washed over her, as she took a second to study the sycamore in front of her, its vivid amber leaves blazing from the glaring sun that shined behind them. She was in awe of this moment, this one moment, of this one autumn day, that shined among the gloom of all the others. For one moment, everything was perfect.

Raphael

Al Aqsa Mosque Mohamed Sylla

Meet the Team

Yang (Ryan) Fei, COM/2022

President 2021-2022, Secretary 2019-2021

I've always seen editing as a process of polishing people's good work until it's their best work. It was thrilling working with such fine raw material from the Downstate community this time around. Hope to work with everyone again next issue. Write on!

Wenyu Deng, COM/2022

Vice President 2019-2022

Wenyu is a passionate scientist and lover of learning who also happens to draw a lot. Her blue light blocking glasses helps her look smart and slightly jaundiced. She’s still striving someday to be the next Netter.

Christy Joseph, COM/2024

Secretary 2021-2022

Christy is a new third-year medical student. She is from Rockland County (not upstate), NY. She enjoys watching the seasons change and observing the way light falls in different settings. Cilantro is her favorite flavorproviding leaf. Basil is a close second.

Monica Saw-Aung, COM/2023

Treasurer 2019-2022

I am a lifelong learner with a degree in English and a penchant for freeverse poetry, digital art, and eclectic music. I believe in keeping the spark of creativity alive regardless of profession. Find me for the perfect cup of tea or a lively discussion about fine lit.

Zainab Nathani, COM/2024

Zainab is a third year MD/MPH student from Long Island. She loves nature, badminton, and cat videos, as well as learning about languages!

Radhika Singh, School of Graduate Studies

I am a first year graduate student and moved to New York last year. Originally, I am from India. In my free time I love reading, baking cakes and exploring NYC.

Brandon Grill, COM/2024

Brandon Grill is a third-year medical student from NYC. He is passionate about the transformation of medicine into a more humane and empathetic field. The participation of clinicians and patients in the creation of art and written works is one of the ways he hopes to improve the lives of everyone involved in healthcare.

Jemy Paulson, COM/2024

My name is Jemy Paulson, and I’m a third year medical student from Westchester, NY. In my spare time, I can be found curling up with a good book, perfecting my banana bread recipe or on the hunt for my new

Jeanine Rashed, SOPH/2022

Jeanine is a multifaceted, artistic and inventive individual. She loves to express herself through her creativity, which transcends into all aspects of her life— the way she designs her interior space, organizes notes, packs a luggage, or even cooks a dish.

Sonya Kalani, COM/2025

I'm a first-year medical student from NYC. In my spare time, I enjoy exploring and photographing the world around me, writing short snippets of poetry, and reading satire/ dystopian novels. I also indulge in playing Super Smash Bros, fueling my system with caffeine, and shower-singing alternative rock.

Ariel Ben-Ezra, COM/2025

Ariel is a first-year medical student. She loves reading, writing, and observing creative work. She hopes that creativity will always be a part of her future. In her spare time, she likes to cook elaborate meals, spend an unhealthy amount of time in cafes, and gaze longingly at large bodies of water.

Julia Felsenstein, COM/2025

I’m a rising second year in the college of medicine and plan to focus my career on the intersection between environmental and public health. I’m passionate about reading, (particularly poetry,) and believe that writing is a powerful facilitator of empathy and understanding.

Anuradha Shetty, COM/2024

Anuradha Shetty is a MD/MPH candidate for 2024. She has been the Asylum Clinic Director at the SUNY Downstate Asylum Clinic for the last 2 years and thinks it is important to be able to step away from school and pursue creative interests. She is also on the lookout for the best cupcake in the city so please send recommendations her way.

Ping Ping Zeng, COM/2025

Hello, my name is Ping Ping and I'm a first year medical student from Brooklyn. I like to overwater my plants and collect cool rocks.

Lulu Wei, COM/2024

Lulu is a third year MD/MPH student from Queens, NY. Her favorite punctuations are the semicolon and swung dash. Ask her about her pet worms if you see her around campus!

Naveera Arif, COM/2024

“…and medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.”

-Robin Williams, Dead Poet’s Society

Eve Frangopoulos, COM/2025

I wish I got to sleep as much as my cat. My favorite hobbies include sleeping and drinking coffee.

Thy Vo, COM/2023

My name is Thy Vo, and I am currently a fourth year medical student. I love to draw and paint during my free time. Nowadays, you can find me either studying in the Downstate dorm, running around on my clinical rotations, or taking pictures of stray cats across Brooklyn!

Maryam Choudhary, COM/2023

Maryam Choudhary is a writer and editor particularly interested in satire, literary analysis, and short stories. She holds a BA in English from Brooklyn College.

Aida Israeli, SOPH/2022

My name is Aida Israeli. I am a Master of Public Health (MPH) graduate, Class of 2022. I am a wife and a mother of 2 boys and a girl. I like photography, watercolor painting, and traveling with my lovely family.

Andy Li, COM/2025

I am a medical student interested in reading and writing fiction. When not napping at odd hours, catch me studying. Oh and of course, reading the latest world building fantasy novel.

Kelsey Hackett, COM/2024

Kelsey is an aspiring writer turned medical student. She is very grateful to play a role in bringing this publication to life!

Sai Akhila Reddy Bhumanapalli, SOPH/2024

She was always known as the weird doctor that had poems and sonnets peeking through general surgery and pediatrics notes. Like being a doctor that fuels on writing poems was not enough, she also happened to be a professional wedding photographer. Today, here she is channeling her passion for writing!

Photo Credit: Wenyu Deng

Photo Credit: Wenyu Deng

Photo Credit: Wenyu Deng

Alejandro Vega

untitled

untitled Amanda Onoichenco

On Time

Joy Over Winter (unfinished)

Li

The Paradox of Light

Armaan Shah

The Last Jigsaw

Arvind Rajabhathor

Apple Picking in NYC

Far From Home

untitled Athena Vallejo

Scenic Hudson Park

Soundview Park

Soundview Park

Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens

Bruno Ifebi

Summertime Bliss Lagos, Portugal

Christy Joseph

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Derrick Chatad

Winter Blue skies

Index works by creator

Dolka Fareaux

New Hope

Dorian Valentine

Brooklyn Giants

Brooklyn Giants

Brooklyn Giants

Edeline Mitton

only

untitled

Boo Elaine Kuang

Imperfection Series: Curve

Behind the Scenes: Nature Edition

Imperfection Series: Growth

Earth

Behind the Scenes: Splotches, Berries, and Crunchy Leaves

To the Light: Winding Edition

Lush

Irene Innya

Courage!

Jayce O'Shields

Brooklyn Streets

Jeffery P. Weiss, Md, PhD

First Day

Index works by creator

Joanna Palm

Shrapnel

I Speak to the

Up from the Weeds

Slope

Dope

You Glad I'm Here

in the

Park Prodigy

Joyce Mathew

Sunrise

Flower Field

Thelusmond

Black Queen

Strange Fruit

Nadelmann

untitled

untitled

Wei

Health

Trabilsy

Moscatelli

Day

Day

Marcos Vargas

On Your Side

Prince Of Bel Air

Sleep Till Brooklyn

Pictures

Time

to December

Killing Me

Up In Vegas

Out Loud

Me Up When

Ends

Days Are Over

A Day In The Life

Abdurakhmanova

City Stars

Mohamed Sylla

Mess

Woman

waters

Daniel Hale Williams

Hammer

York City Skyline

Leaves

Aqsa Mosque

Nancy Li

Skies

of South Africa

Naveera Arif

Blue Serenade

Glowing Embers and Sand

Reflection

A Moment of Peace

Autumn

18th Ave

untitled

Offering

snow babies

Priscilla Varghese

untitled

Gummy Bears

untitled

untitled

untitled

untitled

A. Kirou

Damselfly on the banks of the Haliacmon Kastoria, Greece

Snail Takeover

Greece

Sarcopoterium among sand dunes

Greece

Sunset Corfu, Greece

Blooming Cacti Lemnos, Greece

Index

by creator

Richard Sabel

and Shadow

Gift

Note

Stands

Rahman

Bridge

Cotton Candy Sky on Clarkson

untitled

quiet moment among the chaos

Safae Bennani

Clementine Awakening

Returning Salvatore G. Volpe

Drifting

Growth Sarah Davis

untitled

Hartshorne

Sasha Imas (@sashpics)

Army Plaza

Governor’s Island

Sestri Levante

Market

Trees

Fall Upstate

Index

by creator

Sophia Zweig

Over Astoria

River Nights

untitled

Alex’s Power

Stefan Adams

44

Beautiful Women

Sumer B.

Regret

Rose Bud

Zindy

Days

Lemon Poisson

Thy Vo

Summer Evening

Lady of the Lake

Woods

Tré Pálo

Mossiness

Spiritual Paraphernalia

Peak Perspectives

The Bannered Bone

Trees...

Tracey Nubian

Peace in the midst

the storm

Wenyu Deng

Under the Bridge

of Alena Kovaleva

Hemangioma

& ENT)

in the Operating Room

Hard at Work

Sun-Kissed Monarch

Zainab Nathani

Dreams