The Dungeness Press Issue #1: Spring 2023

the dungeness press

issue #1 spring 2023 (death/rebirth)

table of contents cover art: rejuvenate - shreya gupta 1. editor's note (p. 1) 2. the summer of you and I - alysia price (p. 2) 3. funeral - brian guan (p. 4) 4. reflections - art by srividhya chandramouleeswaran (p. 14) 5. what stays in the box - surya uniyal (p. 15) 6. first breakfast after coming out sophia demoe (p. 24) 7. summer friends - thomas guo (p. 25) 8. trapped by time - art by srividhya chandramouleeswaran (p. 27) 9. then, now, and forever - sierra wong (p. 28) 10. grief - malini joseph (p. 41) back cover: deprivation - shreya gupta

editor's note Searching for profundity, I have traditionally turned to beginnings.

I prefer the car ride over southern California. Archaisms over fluorescence. Tension must weigh heavy so that climax will be revelatory. Writing is not words isolated but the contortion of fingers, fragile. A catalyst for immortality. What is more critical to a politician than her inauguration? To a literary magazine than its first issue? This is the attitude of the eternal optimist/fool.

Yes, I want to be real. I want to be infinite, not a half-kindled fire but smoke, churning, flying. Yet art is ephemeral by nature. Faded paint eats the Midwest. Because emotions don't stick, no matter the embalmment: movement, chalk, words.

What I'm saying is that I would rather not pretend. That introductions are monolithic, that every breath/beginning erupts into permanence, that May is not on the verge of supernova. Because fossilization is Spring's antithesis. Home is fated to unravel.

In this vein I present our first issue: "death/rebirth". Because it is after the flood that we find living. We find flight.

-Brian Guan Editor-in-Chief

1

the summer of you and I Alysia Price, grade 12

We were summer.

The sunlight beaming, felt just like fever dreaming.

Dancing under the spotlight rays, through the joy of seemingly endless days.

The sound of our laughter tinkled in the calm, still air, as time held its breath, daring us to forget it was there.

Eventually, the glorious glow grew weary, and the sun started to set; but we refused to acknowledge it, even as it bid us well met. ~ We were autumn.

Green turned to red, for it was all too intense, gold turned to brown, we grew up at naive purity’s expense.

When the sun showed her face, peeking from behind clouds of gray, the shadows followed, side by side with all the things we didn’t say.

The ground crackled below our feet as the leaves started falling, its echo a warning, that the end would soon be calling.

Crisp wind blew in, drowning out all that we had attained; it left as quickly as it came, carrying away with it what little still remained. ~

2

We were winter.

Long gone are the well-worn paths, the footprints we left, as if buried by snow, like faltering snowflakes, we both floated by with barely a hello.

Tears from the sky came pouring down, freezing atop the ground, gazes meeting across the floor of glass, we watched it break, but never made a sound.

The bite of the empty cold drains us of feelings that used to entice, the emotions that now only shatter like our bitter hearts of ice.

Blizzards blinded us, confused us, hurt us, with its bone-chilling ache, swallowing us, trapping us, within these storms of heartache. ~ We are spring.

Breathing in the sweet-scented breeze, at last we can start putting our minds at ease.

Little seeds of hope have started to sprout, I think we’ve finally found the right route.

Afar, you bloomed, but on my own, I did so too, despite believing that apart, it would be impossible to make it through.

A hint of a rainbow smiles down at us from above; maybe it can finally rest in peace, this childhood love. ~ Because even as the seasons pass by, we’ll always have those days of you and I.

3

funeral Brian Guan, grade 11

We’re screwing around in the back of his Ford-150, and as he dissipates the world burns blue. His face is contorted, flushed, a bad pantomime. Hair frayed like a melted record. He’s twenty-three and a good front: this morning over the subway’s scream he told me he interns for Goldman Sachs, the masochist he is. I said I’m an actor to a laugh of civility. Still, twisted around my body in a strip-mall parking lot, moaning/howling/burning alive, he’s no more human than the linen sweater I carved his body out of, tossed over the backseat how I am right now.

Ironic; despite my defensive apathy he is already gone. He was gone fifteen minutes ago, when beneath his restrained pant I heard the moment my saliva on his tongue became a spoil, not an offer. I hate how emasculating it is, how I still care. I don’t blame him; our bodies shift and so do we. Still, I am not here anymore. My frame is pinned down on his polyester cushions, curved like a high tide, waiting as he crashes down on me. He threads his fingers through my hair, forming mountains, breaking down. But really I’m standing on top of the neon billboard across the street, flashing with the chemical letters, a magic trick. Watching as the truck creaks, begs: the last voyeur in central California.

4

__________ Observing himself in the mirror, the boy sits alone, foreign. A black suit drapes him like a cape, and he adjusts his tie importantly. The thumb he’s slipped into its square knot reminds him of an old pacifier he can’t reach anymore, stored in some cupboard back home. He remembers how it used to calm, silence him. With pride, he remembers that he silences himself now.

It is Sunday. He knows this because it is the Lord’s day, the day he gets to hold his father’s hand as they climb up the steps to that great building called Church, right between the groceries and Margot’s house. The men up at the front say words he doesn’t know, but he sits there anyway, cocooned.

But today he is not at Church. Instead he is at a guesthouse in Ten-ness-ee, a name which twists his mouth like chewing gum. It is on his grandfather’s farm. He hasn’t been here before.

The door opens behind him; his mother walks in. Her hair, usually draped over her cheeks, is pinned back today. She reaches out an olive-branch arm; the boy grasps it with quiet hands. Bed time was bad last night; at 8 PM he’d crawled into his mother’s bed and nestled his head against her chest, their ritual. Gently, blankly, she’d sat him up and rubbed his hands in her palms like she was trying to start a fire and told him no and appearances and ignored the surprise leaking across his face like his father had hit him. In the next room the bed was cold, unfamiliar. Shadows painted the ceiling like imitation ghosts: fruit fly silhouettes, weeds or lost hairs, the moon, its limbs. Haunting him as he lay there, sleepless.

5

But today is a new day. The boy forgives like God. He grasps his mother’s hand, and as they walk out of the bathroom, she squeezes his palm how she does the morning after his birthday. Outside the rain sings Church songs; the boy hums quietly. ___________ He’s undone; or, he’s undoing himself. I watch as his waves recede, turn to sand. He lifts himself from my body and twists his hair around his finger, wringing out the sweat/shame inch by inch. Right now he’s pretty how a girl is. The curve of his jaw softened. Chest melted clay. Different from the him I know. Better.

But reforming himself, he sits up and stretches his fingers, brushing the small of my back. “That was great,” he says. “You were great.”

His lips are pretty when he talks, but it’s false: an obligation. Great, unreal -- same thing. He’s onto the next thing anyway, buttoning his pants, precise. I lie down and sink into his background, blurry. Face unapparent, his antithesis.

“So what now?” He asks it like it’s a question, but it’s a demand. I lack an answer, so I scrunch my face small. “I don’t know.”

“You’re being pedantic.” He rolls his eyes amicably. I nod, chastised, but I’m distracted by the cracks in his elbow, dotted with white, a desert. At those crevices I’m afraid he’ll spill out: the beeswax under

6

his skin, the rivers in his veins. His under-eye bags, lip-lining spit.

The ghosts of the girls he’s touched before. His gut. My soul. Me. I want to touch him, cover him up, but instead I laugh too loud.

“What does that mean? Pedantic?”

“Um, like. Vague. Overgeneralized.” Eyes dart up. “Cute.”

That’s not what pedantic means. I nod slowly, pretending to come to a conclusion. As I look up at the ceiling he’s calculating, ingesting me. Waiting for the click when I realize his compliment and smile pornographically -- the moment he wins. I decide not to give it to him and whisper take me home please. His smile stretches into a taut rope. Outside, the wind howls for our crude bodies, broken again. ___________ The truck is cavernous. He wonders if his heartbeat is audible, if it is escaping through the windows and into the cornfields, running away, free. His mother is in the passenger’s seat, quiet. Driving, his father is quiet too. The boy is afraid.

“Can you read that sign?” The man in front asks, squinting all-American at the rear-view mirror. It’s a test, and they both know it; the boy feels his legs tense. They approach the green sign hanging overhead like an omen, and he spells out the letters: S-O-U-T-H, M-A-I-N, S-T-R-E-E-T. He runs them through his head, on fire. S-O-U-T-H. S like song. OU like pound. TH like thunk. S-O-U-T-H, like his father’s home, like the hospitality he cites more than Scripture, like the family he’s pocketed away: white, convenient, forgotten. S-O-U-T-H. S-O-U-

7

“The words are too small.” The boy lowers his gaze and quivers his bottom lip, performing. “I can’t see.”

“Liar.” The man’s face weathers. To the woman next to him, he snarls. “How did we raise such a liar?”

The boy’s mother remains stoic, marbled. A discipline which, she’s told the boy, is in their blood: the bedrock of dynasties, of legend. She doesn’t say it, but this heritage is the last prize she has to offer him. She sits now as she did in those sepia images her son found last summer, the last imprints of a high school graduation far away. Broad smiles and teardrop eyes, like his own: almost alive.

(In bed, the woman tells the boy of her life back in China. How she was top of her class, exceptional. Silence ensues, and he knows that now she is nothing.)

Tapping his nails fervently, the man waits for a response. The woman stays mostly a statue but glances at the boy, an apology. Like an animal he feels the weather break. His father refocuses, shifting again. When he speaks next the boy shivers, a reflex. “I thought you was working hard on your English.”

Nodding diplomatically, the boy keeps his head low and spots a loose thread on his suit. “Speak up when I talk to you,” his father demands. Words punctuated like a sermon or a robbery.

“Yes.” A whisper. The boy pulls at the yarn and resents himself for it; the string grows, artificial. The defamation of wool, of himself. For the first time, the boy feels dignity and its loss.

8

The man’s hand bangs the wheel like a strung-out drummer’s. “Louder.”

“Yes!” The boy shouts now, for himself or the Lord. Tears well up, and he lets his body shudder before stiffening like a man. “Yes. I am working hard.”

Silence hangs in the air, bloody. Then: “Bullshit.”

Years later, the boy will realize the man is afraid. That birthplace aside, his son is foreign as his wife: American in theory, a statue in practice. After a second the boy’s father sighs and adjusts his white collar, reformed. Slowly he breathes a question.“Do you even remember him? Your grandfather?”

The boy shakes his head slowly, eyes down. “No.” “Three years ago. Your, um, fifth birthday. That train set you liked. He got you that. Remember?”

The boy nods, but he’s lying. He feels his father’s gaze dig into him, an assessment. He feels his mother’s stillness (their people built dynasties). He feels the truck shake and wonders if he could tell the difference between an earthquake and the end times. Slowly his father retreats. One hand out the window, the boy wills the wind to blow him away, because what is he if not a falsity. ___________ Tonight Interstate 5 is a ghost. Alone, we wind through its curves and promises, disparaging shadows and the speed limit. As he drives, I

9

hear echoes of the men I have known in the hum of our movement, transcribed in the cracked road ahead of me. The concrete admonishes me for my familiarity.

He drives mean and steady, eyes locked forward, distant. I look at him knowing he won’t see me and that he doesn’t care to. Truthfully I prefer it that way; recognition stings like citric acid. He’s put on his glasses, and in them I can see the night sky: cloudless and dull, how it is back home. For the first time in months, I remember God and feel ashamed. Of my sweat-stained skin and the reproduction I’ve become.

“You never told me where you’re from.” Suddenly I see my own eyes reflected, disillusioned in his lense. Surprised, I pull my head back, hitting his chest, and he laughs unabashedly: the first real thing he’s done all night. As I grin, fickle, he relearns me -- my lips, my bones, my tongue. A second language he can abuse.

“I grew up in Missouri.” I lower my gaze to his lap; he’s not wearing a seatbelt. He’s speeding; if we crashed he would slam into the glass, indifferent, his nihilism blatant and stupid, but what would that leave me? Alive, but good as dead. To be alone is to be gone.

“Missouri?” He looks me up and down. I widen my eyes and cover my skin, undoing my heritage. “I thought you were from, like, China, or something.”

10

My head shakes. “The South, actually.” He lifts the corners of his mouth, so haphazard I could scream. My skin is growing heavy; my palms drop in his lap. Eyes shifting, he runs his hand down my back, conducting me.

“Checks out.” He tilts his head back and laughs. “The way you move there’s no way you’re from Asia.”

I close my eyes and float. “What does that mean?”

“You’re not timid. You know what you want.” His eyes roll to the back of his head, remembering my body, his conquest. “A typical Southern whore.”

He howls, and I fade into the back of my seat.

(Our people built dynasties.) ___________ Hand in hand, they walk into the parlor. His father’s palm is greasy, and the boy squeezes his mother’s but she forgets to squeeze back. Rows of seats flood the room. At the front, a coffin lies on a slab like Jesus before His resurrection.

A woman rushes forward to greet the boy’s father. “My God, I haven’t seen you in ages.” Pasted from a family portrait in the back of the boy's living room, she flings her arms around the man and breathes him in like cigarette smoke.

“How are you?” she whispers, and the boy can tell she doesn’t mean it.

“I’m okay,” the man says. His drawl is back, the boy notices, words rung out

11

like a cartoon character’s. He didn’t know an accent could fade in and out like that; his mother’s seemed tattooed on her tongue, shameful. “Been better, for sure.”

The woman nods and looks down, smiling wide at the boy beneath her. “And who is this?”

“This is my son.” The man plasters pride across his face like a movie poster.

The woman coos and continues the conversation: polite and distant, how adults should be. Then, with a final “it’s nice to see you”, she’s off. The boy feels his father’s grip loosen. The man walks forward and he follows, his mother (the sculpture) left behind.

Every step echoes, booming like thunder. Quickening his pace, the boy stays at his father’s side and looks up, unreciprocated. Right now the man is a stranger, face not cold but pleasant, eyebrows raised and chin pointed up. The same way he walks into church. A beacon, the coffin inches closer and closer and I’m getting out of the car now, smiling pleasantly. “Thanks for a great night,” I mutter into his ear as I grab my jacket. Lying is a learned sin.

“No problem.” He waves a singular hand from the driver’s seat.

Under the overhead light his face blurs and suddenly the coffin is open; a man is inside. His face is wrinkled, white, blank. Too familiar. Dressed in black, like blanketed porcelain. The boy looks up at his father, who has started to fracture.

12

Driving away, he’s unrecognizable. I want to yell at him to come back, to stay rooted next to me, if only so I can make out his face and prove I am real. His chest heaves up and down, rhythmic. Tears erode his skin, filling in crevices, indenting new ones. Slowly his back deconstructs, and he is no patriarch; instead he is human, breaking for a face which will one day be his. The boy starts to cry too, not for the corpse he will never know, but for the remains of his father.

They sob side-by-side, strangers or family or something in between, and the boy knows he will never be this close to anyone again.

13

reflections

Srividhya Chandramouleeswaran grade 11 14

what stays in the box Surya Uniyal, grade 11

TW: Suicide For the first time in three years, Andy felt optimistic.

“Six more months,” she breathed in astonishment, sitting in front of her rickety old radio. Six more months until she could go back home, six more months until the world could unpause. In a year or two she could be back in school, she could have a job— she could start a family.

Three years ago, when the virus first appeared, she had thought that this day would never come.

No one knew where it came from, but it spread fast. Within a week of the first cases, half of the world’s governments were out of commission.

The early stages of infection were almost imperceptible; fatigue, muscle pain, shortness of breath, headaches— most people would write them off as dehydration or exhaustion. After a week or so, the fever would hit. After that, it would only be a day before the virus’s victim would be immobilized and bloated past the point of recognition with swollen, distended features and sagging, rotting skin. By day

15

three, the victims, without fail, would explode.

While still alive, their eyes would bulge out, blood would leak from their pores and orifices, and the pressure in their abdomen would cause them to burst open suddenly, splattering infected blood and gore on any unfortunate bystander.

The government tried to stop it, locking the sick up in containment chambers. Even then, a particle of blood or saliva blown through the ventilation was enough to infect ten people.

When that didn’t work, they tried to take the sick and lock them in small, airtight boxes. Oftentimes, they’d suffocate before the infection got to them. Citizens were encouraged to take metal shipping crates, cram as many of the infected in as possible, and seal them in with caulk or cement around the edges. Still, there are only so many shipping crates. In some cases, enough victims would be crammed in that, at the three-day mark, the crates would be blown open by the victims’ bodies.

Andy, by some miracle, was immune to the virus. She wasn’t the only one. She’d met five other people like her while traveling; an old man, a fisherman, a D-list actress, a war vet, and a young girl, no older than 11. All five of them were murdered by other survivors hoping to derive a cure from them.

Andy didn’t work in groups anymore.

16

She’d been in San Francisco when the outbreak started; ground zero.

They’d had no idea what was happening— she remembered the panic and the gore, the Bay Bridge packed with cars.

Her boyfriend was one of the first people to get sick. At first, they thought it was the common cold. She had noticed that he was getting worse, but all of the hospitals nearby were packed with people experiencing the same symptoms, so she took care of him at home.

When he exploded, she stayed locked in that apartment with his carcass for a week, waiting to come down with a fever, but it never happened. When she finally left the city, it was desolate, the streets smeared with blood and human tissue.

She had fled to the countryside, avoiding densely populated areas; even if she couldn’t contract the virus, she could still carry it. It wasn’t a very pleasant thing to witness.

She’d tried to set up camp with other survivors a number of times but, if the virus didn’t get to them, hysteria would. She had been in five camps, and, even though only three of them had outbreaks, all of them ended in blood splattered across the streets. She had been the only survivor from all five, burning the remnants and moving on.

By year two, she had taken up an abandoned old farmhouse. Luckily, humans were the only animals affected by the virus. She was often grateful that the virus had never evolved. In the early months, after the internet had gone down, Andy and other survivors had used dogs for protection and messenger birds to communicate with other

17

camps. She knew that those practices were still vital in other surviving encampments, but all she needed was a source of food and her radio. She gathered up the remaining cattle and scraped together a farm, just her and the animals. And that’s where she had been for the last 13 months.

Every morning, she would listen to her old radio intently, catching snippets of transmissions between other survivors' camps. She didn’t really have a reason. She had no intention of leaving her farm or ever attempting to send a message back, but she supposed she found the crackling, broken words to be a source of comfort. It wasn’t like there was much else to do, anyway. Sometimes, she found herself wishing that the apocalypse had been zombies or aliens. At least then there would be something to fight against.

She would never admit it to herself, but every day she faintly hoped that, through the radio, would come crackling the words “we found a cure”. She sat by that radio 8 hours a day; when she wasn’t wrangling cows or foraging, she was in the decaying old barn, crouched down on her sleeping bag, listening. She didn’t get much sleep, these days.

Today, though, Andy finally heard those words. They’d found a cure.

A camp down near L.A. had made a cure, a simple injection, that could reverse the effects of the disease up to 20 hours after the victim came down with a fever. It was over.

They predicted that, in six months, they would have enough resources to produce the antidote en masse. They called for any

18

remaining survivors to make their way to L.A. Hours after the announcement, she heard other nearby camps confirming the message. Like a ripple, all established camps within a 30-mile radius of L.A. were receiving the antidote and reporting miraculous recoveries.

Andy almost couldn’t believe it. Things could be normal again— the world could recover.

When she got the transmission, she had run outside and spun and danced in the fields. She screamed and whooped and laughed and cried. For the first time in 13 months, she was going to leave her little safe haven. She was going to L.A..

It was a long journey. With nothing but the clothes on her back, an old revolver she’d found on the barn, and a rusty Ford F150, she made it almost all the way to Bakersfield with no issue. She stopped at a dilapidated old gas station, hoping to refill her tank and scavenge some snacks that hadn’t already been looted.

Andy tapped her foot impatiently as she filled her tank. For the first time in three years, she was excited for the future. Her mind raced with possibilities. What were the people in the L.A. camp like? How could she help? She found herself hoping they’d have running water there. She’d kill for a warm bath.

19

She hadn’t spoken to another human for over a year, now. She chuckled to herself as she realized that she wasn’t quite sure she knew how to anymore.

For the first time in three years, she stopped to listen to the birds chirping.

The scene inside the gas station was about what she’d expected. The shelves were all knocked over and empty chip bags and cans were strewn across the floor. She found nothing but a granola bar and a half-full bottle of Coke. She was almost desperate enough to drink it — she’d had nothing but milk and dirty water for a year.

Despite her optimism, she found something unsettling about the place. She hadn’t left her barn for so long that she found it almost unbearable to be anywhere else. The cement tile floors seemed cold and unwelcoming, and there was a nagging voice in her head telling her to be content with her findings and leave.

Still, she continued to the back room, hand lingering at the holster on her hip.

It was dark in the back. With no windows to let in the natural light and a door that had gone unopened for the greater part of three years, the air was thick with dust and cobwebs. The room was mostly empty, with boxes lining the walls. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, her fears were proven to be unfounded. That is, until she took a step forward.

20

She felt a squelch under her boot. She froze, slowly bringing her gaze to the floor. She prayed that she hadn’t just stepped in some poor person’s guts. And she hadn’t. But that was almost worse.

Below her boot was the bottom half of a raccoon. The top half was a meter away, its glassy eyes bulging out, dried blood caked around its rotting ears and mouth, and its stomach blown wide open. The odor hit her all at once.

Her heart dropped. It was impossible. It should have been impossible. All around her lay the bodies of animals— rats, squirrels, dogs, cats— at least a dozen corpses were scattered across the floor.

The more her eyes adjusted, the more she saw. Blood and liquified guts were caked on the walls and floor. Now her shoes were coated too. She was sure that, just by being in the room, she was covered in the virus.

She imagined she could feel it, sticking to her skin, filling her lungs and making it hard to breathe. She’d never seen an infected animal.

Had this happened before? Surely she would have heard something on the radio. Surely, with the fast-spreading nature of the infection, it would have reached her farm? The more she thought about it, the more she came to the seemingly impossible conclusion that here, in this very room, the world-ending virus had evolved to spread to a variety of mammals.

21

She came to the even more difficult conclusion that, if the virus ever left this room, civilization would be doomed. If she left that room, she would track blood out. She didn’t even know how much the virus had evolved— would she infect birds? Bugs? Was that worth the risk?

What were her options, really? If she spread this virus, she would eliminate humanity’s main food source. No one could use messenger birds or guard dogs. Could it spread from animals to humans? Even if the cure moved fast, animals could always move faster.

Her chest felt tight. She was vaguely worried that the hammering in her ears would make it impossible to hear someone coming. Not that it mattered much anymore.

Slowly, without turning around, she pulled the door shut behind her.

It was as if the outside world faded away, and all of her short-lived optimism with it. She should have known it was too good to be true.

She would give the rest of humanity a chance—she could never leave this room.

All of a sudden, Andy was in her studio apartment, blood caked on her body, face dripping with what used to be her boyfriend. She saw his mouth hanging open, his teeth rotting out, his eyes wet and shriveled like raisins. There was nowhere else to go. The news hummed faintly in the background, like the flies buzzing around her.

22

The smell, it was…

She couldn’t tell if she was screaming.

She couldn’t stay in this room, either. Not again.

Pandora took the pistol from her hip and placed the barrel inside her mouth.

23

first breakfast after coming out Sophia DeMoe, grade 10

bruised nectarines, chipping china, lace the color of sand. it's not nature to care for the broken things, the things creaking, the ones imperfectly whole, but here you sit in front of me without judgment. this moment waits in silence & we do not object. you’ve always carried love within the still. soon, heat slicks your touch as you hug me, removing daughter from your vocabulary. (it’s a mechanical sort of grief to be loved so gently)

24

summer friends Thomas Guo, grade 9

Each morning the summer sun would beam through my dreary windows and rudely awaken me. For the first days of summer, I sat miserable and alone in front of my monitor. I had nobody else to share the hours with.

But, the days went on, and I found two new friends to accompany me during those sticky summer days. Outside my window and in my backyard were two squirrels, climbing up my apple tree and stealing the fruit.

One of them was a plump gray squirrel, the other a skinnier red one.

A couple minutes after dawn, the squirrels leapt out their burrow and surveyed their surroundings. They straightened their bodies like planks and swiveled their heads. After three long head revolutions and a quick belly rub, the squirrels would drop flat onto the ground and tip toe towards the tree.

It resided on the other side of the backyard, quite a treacherous journey for such tiny creatures. With each step, their heads sprung around. The occasional gust of wind and clatter of leaves rattled them, causing them to panic and rock their tails. The gray squirrel fainted too, or maybe played dead, I couldn’t tell.

25

The red squirrel arrived first at the roots of the apple tree. With haste, she grasped the tree’s bark with her two paws, and shot herself up the thin stalk. The gray squirrel was never too far behind. When he reached the base of the apple tree, a sense of relief seized him, and he embraced the tree like it was his own mother, then heaved himself upwards.

The two friends reunited on a thick branch near the tree’s apex and slumped against each other's furry backs. They paused for just a moment to catch their breath and take in the beauty of summer all around them.

But of course, the two creatures never lost sight of their goal. They threw their hands up and chose a nice round apple, hopping and tugging before ripping the fruit right off of its branch. Their tails perked up and they flailed their arms in the air. It seemed this happened often when the two were jolly. They ate their fill and let the rest plummet to the ground.

Every morning I sat and enjoyed this adventure behind my greasy window. The summer weeks went on and the two squirrels started to grow accustomed to my backyard. Some days I even wished to go outside and say hello.

But soon, the days passed, and I no longer had the time to squander. I woke up too early and returned home too late to witness the squirrels’ daily escapade. I came home exhausted, but I always smiled knowing they were still there. Because every time I looked through the dirty window pane, beneath the tall scrawny apple tree, there lay a nibbled apple.

26

trapped by time

Srividhya Chandramouleeswaran grade 11 27

then, now, and forever Sierra Wong, grade 11 Scene 1 Downstage left: Two WORKERS place a device on a table and walk out.

CHRONIA opens an instruction pamphlet and inspects the device.

CHRONIA: (inspecting) So, first I need to turn it on. Where’s the button, where’s the button… Ah! Here. And then the date on the number dial.

Then I just hit play. Huh, that’s easy. Let’s try a date…

There is a knock at the door. CHRONIA puts down the pamphlet, turns, walks to the door, and opens it. MARION is standing at the door.

MARION (stretched out): Heyyy!

CHRONIA: Hi Marion. How are youMARION steps in and peers across the room. They walk to the device and inspect it.

CHRONIA: (sarcastically) Oh, yes, just walk in. No problem.

MARION: What is this?

CHRONIA: A memory projector.

MARION: Dang. I swear, technology is getting out of control.

CHRONIA: Yeah, probably, but it is pretty cool.

28

MARION: What are you gonna do with it?

CHRONIA: Reflect on my life, see what I did wrong, where I messed upMARION: (interrupting) Chronia. Chronia. (laughing lightly) How about a memory collage.

CHRONIA: Hmm, that’s actually not too bad of an idea.

MARION: (mock flattery) Why, thank you.

CHRONIA laughs and watches MARION continue to inspect the device.

CHRONIA: Would you like to try it out?

MARION: Uh, YEAH! CHRONIA pushes both Marion and the button to turn on the projector.

CHRONIA: Okay let me see… I need a date.

MARION: (nervously) You wanna go on a date?

CHRONIA: (chokes on words) Um. Nono, as in time, a date, like Monday the 22ndMARION: OH. Um, how about that time we went ice skating? Must’ve been in December?

CHRONIA: 2019?

29

MARION: Oh OH it was December 16th 2019, ‘cause it was that day when we saw that play by uh- what was his name? John Calamari?

CHRONIA: Cariani?

MARION: I like calamari better.

CHRONIA: December (turns the dial), 16th (turns the dial), 2019 (turns the dial).

Two “past” versions of CHRONIA and MARION appear from downstage left and stand in front of the “projector.”

CHRONIA: Wow. Three years ago. We look so young.

MARION: I look amazing (hair flip) as per usual.

CHRONIA rolls her eyes and hits play.

PAST MARION and PAST CHRONIA are ice skating gently.

PAST MARION: (laughing) Hey! Look at ME! PAST CHRONIA: (softly laughing) Slow down, you’re going toPAST MARION falls.

PAST CHRONIA: (holding back laughter) fall!

PAST CHRONIA helps PAST MARION up. Maintaining eye contact, they pause, hands clasped. Beat. They let go.

30

CHRONIA hits pause.

CHRONIA: Wow, that’s amazing. (starts to laugh a little). And you falling was just the cherry on top.

MARION rolls their eyes, but laughs a little too. CHRONIA analyzes the projection, critical.

CHRONIA: (seriously) Why was I wearing such an ugly sweater, oh my gosh.

MARION: Oh, please, it’s just like my outfit now.

CHRONIA: (laughing) Exactly, ugly.

MARION: (teasing back) Ouch… You know, I’m pretty sure right after that you fell right on your face.

CHRONIA: Uh… well the guy in front of me suddenly stopped and I swerved then fell, so it’s his fault I fell, not mine. You managed to fall on your own accord.

MARION: (teasing) Ooh. Someone is getting a little defensive over eating ice.

CHRONIA: Well, you’re just trying to one up me, so that sounds like a you problem.

MARION: (scoffing) Uh-huh. And falling is a YOU problem… at least until you need help getting up.

31

CHRONIA (faux defensive): Uh, what? I always get up on my own just fine.

MARION: Um, last time I remember you were stuck on the floor for about a minute while I came around because you couldn’t get up on your own.

CHRONIA stares passive aggressively.

MARION: I’ll take your silence as ‘Wow Marion you’re so definitely right, what would I do without you!’

CHRONIA scoffs while MARION checks their watch.

MARION: Shoot, I gotta get going, we’re still on for later right?

Hangout, thing?

CHRONIA: Yeah, of course, I’ll see you later.

MARION: And I’m kidding you know? I care about you a lot.

CHRONIA: I know I know, see you later.

MARION leaves. End scene.

Scene 2 CHRONIA inspects the device more.

CHRONIA: Hmmm, what are some good dates- uh er good days…

(CHRONIA pauses then smiles) oh I know one, February (turns dial) 6th (turns dial) 2020 (turns dial). My birthday.

32

PAST CHRONIA and PAST MARION are standing and trying to cover themselves.

PAST CHRONIA: I chose the gardens because the weather report said it would be sunny! Where the heck did this rain come from?

PAST MARION: (jokingly) I thought you were prepared for everything.

PAST CHRONIA: Well, only within reason!

PAST MARION: Shhh I’m joking… herePAST MARION covers PAST CHRONIA with a jacket. PAST CHRONIA pushes the jacket so that it covers the both of them. They smile together.

CHRONIA pauses it. Slowly her grin sours.

CHRONIA: Awkward… I’m still awkward around them even today. I wish I wasn’t, that it was just easier, that I was just a little bit… easier.

To deal with, exist around … (snapping back) Okay it’s fine, it’s fine. Let’s look at something else. Hm, what about that day during spring break, uhh, (turning the dial to the numbers) April 18th, 2020. That sounds like a good date.

PAST MARION and PAST CHRONIA sit down on the ground facing the audience. PAST CHRONIA is holding PAST MARION’S hand.

PAST CHRONIA: (pointing their hands upwards) Okay, that is the Antlia constellationPAST MARION: Wow… that's gorgeous.

33

PAST CHRONIA: (still pointing) and there's Leo, and next to it- that’s Leo MinorPAST MARION: Isn’t Leo a zodiac sign?

PAST CHRONIA: (rolling her eyes) Well, yes, and that’s the constellation that represents it. Leo is the lion, named after the Nemean lion that was in Greek and Roman mythology. That’s the lion in the myth of HeraclesPAST MARION: Who? PAST CHRONIA: Greek name for Hercules.

PAST MARION: Oh… you mean HUNKules…

PAST CHRONIA: (rolling their eyes) Anyway, the Nemean lion was killed

by Heracles. Come to think of it, Heracles put up with a lot. Mostly because of the Gods. It wasn’t even really his fault he got into all of that mess. Although… maybe he shouldn’t get that much credit, I mean he did sort of cheat on half of his wives sooPAST MARION is staring at PAST CHRONIA. PAST CHRONIA: (nervously) What? Is there something on my face? WhWhat are you looking at?

PAST MARION: I-uh no it’s nothing.

CHRONIA pauses the device.

CHRONIA: Look at me! Talking about random Greek mythology like

34

some weirdo while they look at me like, “Hopefully they’ll just stop talking so I don’t have to pretend to be interested’. Ugh, I’m such an idiot.

CHRONIA: (plugging in another date) You know what here something random. (spins dial) March (spins dial) 14th (spins dial) 2021.

PAST CHRONIA is laying on the ground as PAST MARION reenters. PAST MARION walks up to PAST CHRONIA. PAST MARION: Well… you look like hell.

PAST CHRONIA (sarcastic): Thanks, that helps, Marion!

PAST MARION’S face drops a little. PAST CHRONIA notices and sinks a little lower.

PAST CHRONIA: I’m sorry.

PAST MARION sits down next to PAST CHRONIA. PAST MARION: (pulling PAST CHRONIA up) Okay, up you go.

PAST CHRONIA: I hate you, just let me- I don’t know- melt into a puddle of abject failure and disappointment or something.

PAST MARION: Okay, I have no idea what the word abject means, but I have to get you up because if I don’t, you won’t get yourself up. (pauses) What happened today?

PAST CHRONIA: Math quiz.

35

PAST MARION: I know what I say doesn’t change what happened, but it’s okay, Chronia. Stuff like this happens. Do you know what you did?

PAST CHRONIA: Same as usual. I studied, did my work, freaked out, and then missed easy points.

PAST MARION: You know that you didn’t really get a bad grade right?

PAST CHRONIA: I didn’t tell you what I got.

PAST MARION: Oh, please, I know it wasn’t bad. Tell me. What was it?

PAST CHRONIA: B minus…

PAST MARION: See? This is what I mean! You beat yourself up over small things, and for what? It doesn’t do you any good. It’s not helping you learn and it's just… it’s draining you, Chronia.

PAST CHRONIA: I know. Trust me if I had a choice, I wouldn’t be doing this! It’s like… it’s automatic. Like a survival response or a reflex or something.

PAST MARION: (pauses) I-...is…is there anything I can do for you?

PAST CHRONIA: (pauses) Can you, well-I know this is going to sound weirdPAST MARION: (interrupting) Chronia.

PAST CHRONIA: (fast) Can you hold me? Just for a moment. I need someone or something to make me feel like I’m actually here and not just floating in a pool of my disappointment and-

36

PAST MARION cuts off PAST CHRONIA and holds them.

PAST MARION: Shhhh. It’s gonna be okay. Someday, I promise.

Someday it’ll be okay. You’ll be in the city… in a pretty high-rise apartment, with big windows… a puppy for sure… hot cocoa or a mocha latte… and a ton of ramen.

PAST CHRONIA: (laughing softly) I like ramen.

PAST MARION: I know you do. We’ll- I mean you’ll be all warm and cozy and happy. Someday, I promise.

CHRONIA pauses the device.

CHRONIA: I hated that math quiz, it killed me inside for like… no apparent reason. Ugh, why is life just punching me through these memories. I just want some happiness. I have to find happy moments, yes, happy, uhh… maybe ice skating again.

CHRONIA punches in the dates. PAST CHRONIA stands while PAST MARION walks out.

CHRONIA: Wait… where… where’s Marion going?

PAST CHRONIA is taking off her shoes, walking left upstage.

PAST CHRONIA: (excitedly) Hey Mom, I just had the best time with MarMOM: (as a voice offstage) Did you see their last test grade?

37

DAD: (as a voice offstage) Yes… I mean, a D? Really?

MOM: Maybe they aren’t smart enough for this class.

DAD: Yeah… I mean they’ve been saying it’s hard, but their friends are doing well in the class.

MOM: They just can’t do it.

Scene 3 CHRONIA pauses the device. They slowly move to center stage and sit. They start to break down. There is a knock at the door.

MARION: Hey Chronia you in there? (opening the door) You are, like, way late for our date- or hang out-thing, not that I really care what we call it. I know you take forever to get ready but reallyMARION sees CHRONIA on the ground and rushes to them.

MARION: Chronia? What’s going on? Are you ok? (pauses) Did you go too far?

CHRONIA: How is it possible that almost every memory I have just reminds me of how much I hate myself? How can I have nothing that makes me feel good about myself? Well… I suppose I can answer that, now can’t I? It’s because I’m terrible and I suck, and even though I try with all the energy in my body not to, I do. Everything I do is terrible.

I’m either awkward, or do something idiodic, or just prove that I am stupid to myself again and again. Why is nothing I do ever good enough? My interactions, my grades, my performances, none of them are ever good enough. Do you know how painful it is to constantly live

38

with being subpar all of the time. It’s excruciating to not live up to the standards that others put around you. And you know what’s worse? I can’t even live up to my own standards. I’m not even good enough to live up to my mediocre, lowly standards that don’t even mean anything.

It feels like my soul is being ripped apart, everything I do, everything I look back on is so terrible and it feels like genuine physical pain. I'm never going to be good enough, I wasn't good enough then, I'm not good enough now, I'm neverMARION grabs CHRONIA and holds them. Gently, MARION pushes CHRONIA away. They are arms-length away from each other.

MARION: You’re always enough, Chronia. You’re here, and that is enough. You have survived and persevered to be here and that is worth so much. The past has passed. You can’t let what happened before rip you apart now. And you can’t let any of those bullshit standards rip apart your present or your future. You’ll be left with nothing.

CHRONIA: I know, but how, how do I even start doing that?

MARION moves to the device.

MARION: I promise to pay you back for this, butMARION destroys the device.

MARION: I know this doesn’t automatically make everything better, but I do know this; you only have what is now and you will only be happy if you pay attention to now. (pauses and takes a breath) What I don’t know is… if you want to spend that now with me. Like “with me” with me. Like, maybe your start can be spending that time with me. I mean, of course if you don’t want to-

39

CHRONIA gets up and hugs MARION. CHRONIA: (slight smile) That… sounds like a good start. What do you think about ice skating? I want to see you fall again.

MARION: (happily) Oh, please, you’ll be the one falling.

CHRONIA: But you’ll be there to help me up?

MARION: I promise. Then, now, and forever.

MARION clasps CHRONIA’s hand, and the couple leaves the stage.

END

40

grief Malini Joseph, grade 12

Grief weighs unspeakably upon my soul.

It writes itself upon my bones, And fills my blood and every vein.

It is not the grief of death, Though my family knows well its chains.

It is the grief of the living that sits upon my chest, That weighs down my every day.

It's the grief of friends you no longer see, nor talk to.

Because of falling outs, and lost time.

It's the grief of being unheard.

Of constantly fighting to be noticed, until your voice sinks once more into silence.

It's the grief of wanting to be loved, But not wanting to ask, for fear of being a burden.

It's the grief of wanting to stand up and fight for yourself, But knowing it will be futile.

Knowing that no matter how hard you try, They would just laugh in your face, Crushing your spirit, letting dreams die.

Sometimes it's hard to breathe, with how heavy this grief can be.

Sometimes, I want to let this grief wash me away, Off the face of the Earth.

41

But I can't.

For fear of those I love calling me lazy.

I hold so much grief in my body, Though my years on this planet are short and few.

But I'll hold on for a while longer, For those whose love for me is unconditionally true.

I'll hold on and help breathe life and hope into my words and the people I love most.

For though grief consumes me, And makes it hard to breathe, There are people on this Earth worth loving, And even more sights to see.

42

ABOUT THE DUNGENESS PRESS The Dungeness Press is a literary magazine based in the Bay Area publishing work from writers ages 13-19. ​ e publish short stories, poetry, dramatic W scripts, personal essays, media criticism, and select pieces of art.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Brian Guan ART EDITOR Shreya Gupta MANAGING EDITORS Sierra Wong Saanvi Aneja OUTREACH DIRECTOR Tweesha Chugh