The Folio / Spring Issue / 2018

THE FOLIO

a literary and art magazine

THE FOLIO a literary and art magazine

Conestoga High School Berwyn, Pennsylvania May 2018 | Volume L, Issue II

Copyright © 2018 Conestoga Literary Magazine Staff Internal design © 2018 Ally Wynne and Brooke Pellegrini Cover photo © Kayoung Kim Copyright © of each work belongs to the respective author or artist.

Second edition 2018 All rights reserved. All works are copyright of their respective creators as indicated herein, and are reproduced here with permission. The Folio is a public forum for student expression produced by the students of Conestoga High School.

Published and printed in the United States of America www.stogafolio.weebly.com Find us on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter @stogafolio

Dear Reader,

We welcome you to the 2018 spring issue of The Folio. In years past, we have published one issue per year, but we now are delighted to offer you this second edition of Volume L. As you will notice, if you are holding a copy of this magazine in your hands, it is particularly hefty. Every year, we receive hundreds of incredible pieces from writers and artists of all grades at Conestoga and collect them in one display of creativity, and this spring has yielded an especially wonderful showing of work.

As you browse The Folio, you will explore the dazzling fruits of our creative collective.

Between these covers, we present to you our theme - the vivacious and rejuvenating power of spring. We chose this theme when we noticed a common thread running through the pieces we received. Springtime is a season of rebirth and redemption and we invite you as you look through our magazine to notice the ways in which the elements of spring seep into the writing and art. In reading, perhaps take pause to note the beautiful design elements inspired by spring’s glory. Our art editors contribute significant time and effort to styling the layout of our magazine. Most importantly, remember the universality of spring. We all in our own lives experience the fresh awakening that the season offers, and so you may consider this issue a guide to the many ways we undergo this annual change.

This is the second issue in a year of several firsts. We hope to continue to publish two issues per year with the intention of bringing to our readers a greater amount of the wonderful work we receive. We now also have a website, at stogafolio.weebly.com, which we use to provide, among other things, advance content of upcoming issues and full copies of past issues. The website, along with our various social media accounts (Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter @stogafolio), is regularly updated with fresh information and content. With these new developments, we strive to continually improve how we select and share the best creative work that Conestoga students have to offer.

Many thanks are in order to every person who has helped us produce this issue of The Folio.

To everyone who has submitted work to be considered for print, we thank you for supporting our artistic cause. By sending us your work, you are promoting culture at our school and we only hope that we can do you justice with each successive issue. To our staff members, we owe endless gratitude; you are patient through the changes we make, insightful and intelligent in constructing the magazine, and you create the most amazing atmosphere to work in. Thank you for your contributions; the editors could never succeed without you. We also thank Mr. Smith, our faculty adviser, with sincere love and admiration. Who else could head this publication the way you do? Your dedication both to The Folio and to each student who works on it has made all the difference to us.

Last of all, we thank you, the reader. Without your support and encouragement we would have nothing to show for our joyful work. Please enjoy this issue of The Folio.

With thanks, Literary Editors Grace Lanouette and Danica Merrill Art Editors Brooke Pellegrini and Ally Wynne Copy Editors Laura Liu, Laila Norford, and Ally Ross Business Managers Thomas Jenson and Anna Kovarick

TABLE OF CONTENTS 7:55 California Springs The Hollow Ones Mask Off Whisper Held Pavo Feeling Blue The Croupier of Sinsburgh Mr. of the Year The Phoenix Autumn Leaves 2 Peter Pan Bank of America Skate(bored) Certain Men Gloria Cul-De-Sac The Morning Rush Heat Part 1 Heat Part 2 If I Am Found Dead In The Morning Grasping At Shadows Snake Charmer God in a Bowler Hat Blackbird's House College Collage Senioritis A Heartfelt Letter to the Parent-Picking Committee Red Robin Evening in July Michaela

1 2 3 4 5 5 6 6 7 7 8 8 9 10 11 12 13 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 29 30 31 31 35

Anne Lockhart Mady Dudrear Madeline Murphy Quinn Simpkins Alexandra Ross Anthony Mao Brooke Vail Lara Briggs Isabelle Burns Quinn Simpkins Brooke Pellegrini Anna Donahue Lara Briggs Anthony Mao Mady Dudrear Sebastian Castro Danica Merrill Alexandra Ross Anthony Mao Mady Dudrear Mady Dudrear Lara Briggs Anthony Mao Kayoung Kim Kayoung Kim Quinn Simpkins Thomas Jenson Kayoung Kim Kayoung Kim

36 37 38

Mady Dudrear and Thomas Jenson Lara Briggs Gabi Miko

Thought in Three The Curious Case of Trayvon Martin Choked Out A Message Two Guns One Bullet Race in 2017 On Finding Faith Moments Not Mine Psychadelic Powers The Ocean Rough Sea That Was You Phase Riga Black Too Loud Skulls On Inattention Third Period The Pond in My Backyard Gather Ye Rosebuds I Am Not A Sports Person Nokota On Yosemite On Childhood Slow Airport Thoughts To somone who will never read this.

Wheelchair Parallel Parking Minutia Lewes, Deleware What Friends Are For Recreation Pockets Zoom Janus on the A Train

39 41 42 42 43 44 45 45 46 47 48 49 51 52 53 54 55 58 59 60 61 63 64 65 66 67 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79

Anthony Mao Anna Kovarick Anna Kovarick Anna Kovarick Anna Kovarick Grace Lanouette Alexandra Ross Sebastian Castro Caroline Shank Anna Kovarick Ian Hay Anonymous Anthony Mao Alexandra Ross Anonymous Mady Dudrear Isabelle Burns Caroline Shank Isabelle Burns Anthony Mao Laila Norford Brooke Vail Madeline Murphy Grace Lanouette Mady Dudrear Isabelle Burns Isabelle Burns Mady Dudrear Mady Dudrear Jessica Frantzen Ally Wynnne Jai Hall Anthony Mao Sebastian Castro Mady Dudrear Laura Liu

Philadelphia, Pennnsylvania Imagine if I Were a Statue Bennjamin Franklin Gets Grabbed A Poem About Things HB2 P41N7 C1455 Raging Sea Naiad Jackalope The Love I Keep Ophelia Anahita Sunnyside Out Burdened Hands Morning Laura Kitchen Table Greece Photo Reflection Structural Integrity Man in Doorway On A Home Where Am I From?

No Direction Expectation Restoration Hardware Entropy To You Garden of Love 'Do Rice Bowl II A Still Life Mothman Dread Speeding Safe Driving

84 85 86 87 88 89 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 99 100 101 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 115 116 117 118 119 119

Ally Wynne Sebastian Castro Quinn Simpkinns Sebastian Castro Anthony Mao Rosha Chittuluru Brooke Pellegrini Brooke Pellegrini Kavya Singh Kayoung Kim Kavya Singh Anthonny Mao Laila Norford Mady Dudrear Anna Kovarick Gabi Miko Laila Norford Isabelle Burns Laura Liu Gabi Castro Laura Liu Elizabeth Holton Mady Dudrear Angeline Ma Anthony Mao Angeline Ma Anonymous Brooke Pellegrini Danica Merrill Angeline Ma Anthony Mao Brooke Pellegrini Madeline Murphy Mady Dudrear Danica Merrill

Matthew 16:27 Cover in Quotes: A Clockwork Orange Nonchalant Strike 3 Domino Actress Yumboe The Last Stop Memento

124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132

Jeffery Gao Thomas Jenson Noah Lanouette Aryaj Kumar Gabi Miko Grace Lanouette Brooke Pellegrini Anthony Mao Jessica Frantzen

7:55

Anne Lockhart

1

California Springs Mady Dudrear

I dream in California springs, With sunlight filtered slowly Through soft, white curtains, And oak leaves rustling In the gentle Pacific breeze.

The doors are left open After the first warm day, So the birds will fly inside To make a nest in your bedroom, And the sunlight will wash away All the dust of the winter months.

As I close my eyes, A gentle touch finds me-Mother Earth, Reaching through the open doors.

For months, The only way to see the world outside Was through the window, Dirty with snow and salt, Hiding fragile bodies From the bitter cold, But now, the sisters meet again.

In the living room, With the wide windows, We hold our reunion.

In this February springtime, We ask the grass to grow, And the trees to sing, Until the California spring returns to Earth Triumphant.

It is our hands that move the seasons Onwards, forever.

I dream in California springs-Winter lost at the threshold And sunlight returned to its rightful place Upon your pale cheeks.

2

The Hollow Ones Madeline Murphy

We paint pleasure on molded smiles, counting comments like currency, in a blurry daze of likes.

We swim around in a galaxy of fantasies and illusion, a celestial network of false companionship.

We hiss out harsh hate because we’re better than them anyway, yet are aghast when hostility returns to us.

Are we even living?

3

Mask Off

Quinn Simpkins

4

Whsiper

Alexandra Ross your words hang between us, their meaning shrouded by the fog of your mid-december breath, and I wonder at how the cold makes your cheeks so pale and so flushed all at once.

Held

Anthony Mao

5

feeling blue

my heart is swirling like the sea Lara Briggs it’s back and forth and chained and free the navy waves where my thoughts land the tide moves me out from the sand and take me where I shouldn’t be.

Pavo

Brooke Vail

the whisper of words is in flight like the sun-shape of a kite against the back of an open sky with stars and moonlight passing by as surely day will become night. violets don’t quite fit the place of sweet red roses’ sugared face let my forget-me-nots grow strong for when my crimson love goes wrong my downcast soul won’t feel disgraced.

6

The Croupier of Sinsburgh Isabelle Burns

The croupier of Sinsburgh had a laugh made for war. It was jagged. It was cold and harsh and judgmental but impersonal and reeked of calculated irrationality. It wrapped around his teeth and curled past his lips and cut away from his face and traced lines in the air. It danced around every room and froze the gestures and slowed the talk and darkened the glances until the contrast was so sharp, one could see every poorly concealed flaw, every twitch of a wayward muscle, every drifting pair of eyes.

7

The Phoenix Brooke Pellegrini

Autumn Leaves 2 Anna Donahue

Princesses exchange red chrysanthemums.

Sorrowful echoes of a dying year surround them And a gust of wind crowns cropped hair with gold.

Mr. of the Year Quinn Simpkins

8

Peter Pan Lara Briggs

Clasping my hand, you said to imagine, To close my eyes and wish I could be anywhere but here.

You told me that we would stay young together, And I wanted desperately to believe That the starlight tears in your eyes Would crash on a lonely planet somewhere.

Then we could escape together To the world you had created Just for the two of us to share.

If only I’d known that Neverland was never ours.

The twisted roots were too shallow, Digging with futility into the sand.

If you were Peter Pan, I would be Wendy; You left me for your world made of dreams.

Bank of America 9

Anthony Mao

10

Skate(bored) Mady Dudrear

11

Certain Men Sebastian Castro

There is something awfully peculiar about certain middle-aged white men. The ones I’m talking about have a beer gut, a plaid button-down, and baggy jeans. They have a very delicate sense of manhood. They’re the ones who “know a thing or two about cars”.

It was a hot afternoon, right outside a Barnes and Noble. I sat in my mom’s car while she was trying to help my dad restart his car. They were connecting the jumper cables and, as far as they knew, everything was where it should have been. As frustration set in, one of said middle-aged white men walked outside. He looked at us with a slightly scrutinizing expression, as if sizing up the situation. He approached us.

“Having a little trouble with your car there?”

My parents looked up, surprised someone was talking to them. My dad answered first.

“Yeah, we’re just trying to restart my dead car battery, but it’s not working.”

“Huh. Mind if I take a look?” he asked, his hands already on the car hood. “I know a thing or two about cars.”

My parents didn’t even bother responding.

“Yeah, I think I see the problem.”

I stopped paying attention, catching glimpses of the man talking loudly about what my parents were doing wrong with the car. Failure after failure prompted my parents to thank him for his “help”, but insist they were going to just get it towed. As he walked away, he gave explanations of why his manly knowledge failed him.

“Battery must be expired. You can be the smartest man in the world and you still couldn’t restart a dead battery.”

Instead of walking to his car, he walked back inside. This led me to realize that he hadn’t stumbled upon a family in need of saving by chance. He had seen us from inside, and decided to go out of his way just to demonstrate his mechanical prowess.

Recognizing a lost cause when he saw one, my father called the dealership and arranged for the car to be towed.

“Okay. Thanks,” my dad said, as he finished his call.

Less than a second after he hung up, I heard another male voice.

“Having a little trouble with your car?”

12

Gloria Danica Merrill

O

13

n the stage, bathed in a stream of hot, dusty light, stood a girl simmering yellow like the stale popcorn left at the bottom of the machine at evening’s end.

Erect at the top of a plywood staircase, poised with her back facing out to the mostly empty theater, she drew not only the rambling attention of its meager inhabitants but also the stray dregs of light left draining away to gloom in echoey silence. Even disregarding her costume, she looked regal: neck aloft, curved with the grace and condescension of the Hera Campana. One arm rested beautifically by her side and the other reached out—fingers splayed in a delicate wash to settle, with quiet potential and earthly power, like blown seeds.

As the light burned down, a boy, faintly illuminated by the glow, spoke. “Positions!” He shouted. “Act two, scene one from the top—can I have lights?”

A brief spark lit the bottom of my spine. He meant me. It had been but a few hours, but my arms already ached. I shouldered the metal handle attached to the back of the heavy spotlight and directed its clanky beam at the X marked in blue tape I knew to be under the feet of the girl on the stage. I watched particles of dust whoosh down on their journey from my sweaty hands to the blue X, settling on the worn planks like icy flakes after a blustering blizzard wind.

My arms felt the first tendrils of spasming deep in the muscle. The lights were old and finicky; the automatic locks meant to keep them steady in place had long since worn themselves away to nothing.

Unlike the boy holding up my light’s twin, thirty feet away from me on the other side of the maintenance balcony, I was no lighting pro. That day was my first day on the job, but unfortunately, not likely to be my last. My roommate, Pedro, asked me to step in for him—he caught the flu a week and a half out from the premier and was holed up in bed coughing out phlegm onto our rolled-rag rug. He promised that I would only have to hold up the light until he was well enough to keep it steady without taking a break to vomit into a bucket.

On that day, there was a week and a half to go until the show started, Pedro sick in bed with the plague, and I had no fucking clue how to work a spotlight.

I aimed it down where the director told me to, crossed my fingers (as best as I could while gripping the stupid metal bar), and prayed to Jesus that Pedro’s hardy Peruvian immune system would prevail.

“Action!”

The command brought me back to the spectacle unfolding in front of me; as a lone flute cued the melody, I redoubled my efforts to keep the light straight. I felt like I was pointing a fireman’s hose down at the girl on the stage; I found it as difficult to hold steady and as potentially harmful to her.

In high school, I was never a theater kid—they repulsed me slightly with their brazen loudness and compulsion to sing at all possible moments. The concept of having so many friends confused me, too: how did one remember the names of all the rest? And just what was it about sheet

music that got them so riled up?

Hence, I had no idea prior to arriving at the theater that day (a quarter of an hour late, a mistake I shall never make again should I ever be invited to another rehearsal as long as I live) of quite how strong these spotlights are; it was not until I spied the massive, frightening metal tumor of batteries and wires and asked naively if it controlled the light and was told that, no, that mutant mechanism lit merely a single bulb in the heat-fueled death trap of eight bulbs that is the spotlight.

The girl on the stage, understandably, was sweating. It streamed from her temples, running in slick rivulets down the graceful arc of her neck, across the plain of her upper back, and disappeared into the tight zippered expanse of satin edging on her dress.

The scene began.

A plywood door leading from nowhere, set in the faux-paneling lining the set, opened on stage right. A young man in an ill-fitting three-piece suited stepped in and shut it behind him.

“Gloria,” he said.

The girl didn’t move, she didn’t twitch.

“Gloria,” he repeated, taking three steps toward center stage, toward the base of the staircase. “Your father sent me,” he continued, setting his left hand down upon the banister, her mirror image.

Although Gloria kept her back facing the theater, looking over her right shoulder to stage left, the young man’s torso pivoted toward the rows of empty seats.

Still, she did not move. The young man ascended the staircase until he was two steps below Gloria, the top of his head roughly level with her shoulder blades. “Gloria, please, listen to me,” he said, and reached out with his right hand to her back.

At his touch, she stiffened and snapped her head to look at him. He drew back.

“I know he sent you.”

“You were expecting me?”

“No. But who else would have sought out your presence in my home?” Gloria’s voice was sharp yet soft, the prickly end of a goosefeather buried in the downy cushion of a pillow.

The young man sank to his knees. “Please, Gloria, darling, listen to me—”

“No, you listen to me. I did not ask for you to come. You have nothing to say that I want to hear. Please, leave.”

Although her lines were biting, each delivered with the cold, bright edge of contempt, she continued to speak quietly and mostly to the back of the stage.

“I love you, Gloria.”

“Leave me alone.” Barely above her speaking voice.

“I can’t—I love too deeply, too purely, the feeling runs diffused in my blood.”

“Do not speak to me of deep love, of pure love.” She was nearing a whisper now, charged with a spitting fire that just managed to carry her words up to where I perched, now perspiring and trembling under the immense weight of the spotlight. “You think you know what love feels like when it surges in your blood, replaces the life in your veins?” The metal bar was fighting my grasp. “If you knew, if you ever came close, it would kill you.” The beam on the stage shook ever so slightly as if it felt out of place illuminating Gloria’s stiff figure.

14

Yet even as she kept her back to the cavernous theater, shunning the listener, making him fight even to hear her words, I felt drawn to her in an inexplicable way. She did not broadcast herself to the viewer of the play. Everything she acted out was immediate and intense, buzzing in the air right around her stony expression, transmitted directly into the weaselly face of the young man kneeling at her feet, but transmitted right to me, somehow, too. Right to my core.

“Cut!”

The moment broke open like muddy water rushing the shore as the tides reverse.

Immediately, the young man straightened and turned around. “What now, Brad?”

The director looked at Gloria. “You’re not enunciating,” he said. “Your back is turned too.

Speak out to the audience, okay? This scene is supposed to be intense, passionate. You gotta play it up, make the audience see the inner turmoil.”

Gloria gazed at Brad with a face as empty as the one she had turned on the young man.

“The inner turmoil. Of course.”

“Alright, let’s go from the beginning of the scene again. Positions. And get we get that damn light a little steadier, please?”

The young man returned to the shadows outside the frame of the set, ready to push open the door again.

“Action!”

“Gloria.”

The pair moved through the scene as before, the young man kneeling and whining and Gloria looking down at him, from two steps above, her voice a touch louder than before but still with her heat-soaked back blistering the theater with cold electric anger.

“If you knew, if you ever came close, it would kill you. I have loved, Raymond, I have felt so deeply that I thought I would suffocate from bliss, I have endured heartache like a thousand ravaging wolves at the door.” Although her voice remained as tenaciously low, Gloria’s presence on the stage seemed to crescendo, a formidable rise of emotion building and building under her skin, tight and slick over the muscles in her shoulders, threatening to fly apart in quiet, lethal rage.

“You know nothing of what it is to love.”

“Cut.”

For a moment after the director spoke, butchering the atmosphere with his flimsy invocation, Gloria’s breath came in short gasps of air, the strained pants of someone losing her mind.

I swear, just for a second, I saw right into her body—right into the heart of her—and there I witnessed a divine quiver, a rush of emotion too strong and too real to be filtered out into the gaudy gestures of the stage actor. The only way she could show it was to be small, and quiet.

Gloria closed her eyes. The young man stood up, made a frustrated noise. He crossed his arms and waited.

Brad vacated his seat, walked up to the stage and leaned against it. The wooden planks ran right across his chest. He tilted his head up to look at Gloria, who had yet to move from the plywood staircase.

“Darling, you’re practically whispering. You have to speak up, it’s the first rule of acting.

You’re talking to the whole audience, not just the person in front of you.”

15

“I don’t see it that way.”

Brad opened his mouth, but didn’t speak for a moment. “Well,” he said.

What’s the way you see it? I wondered.

“That’s not the way it’s done.”

“That’s the way I do it.”

“It’s the wrong way, baby, you can’t be an actress mumbling words that don’t reach past the edge of the stage.” He raised his voice, backing away closer to the seats. “Positions, please, let’s start it from the top of the monologue. And for God’s sake, Gloria, speak up this time.”

Gloria made her way through the lines, voice loud but unaffected, empty of any semblance of the authenticity it held before. She burned under the light, reciting words with all the feeling of the radioman giving us the weather.

“Cut!”

The young man stood and rubbed his eyes. Gloria said nothing.

Brad rose again, this time striding quickly to the stairs at the side of the stage, the bridge between audience and actor.

“What’s the matter with you, anyways?” he said, stomping up to the stage. “Why can’t you just say the damn lines how I told you to?”

“Don’t get like that, Brad,” she said, choosing not to turn and face him.

“Turn around, for God’s sake, I’m talking to you.”

“Run the scene again,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow with her left hand, the one not resting on the banister.

“How many times have we been over this? I can’t even hear you and I’m sat right in the front row.”

“Run the scene again.”

“No! You’re just going to do the same damn thing again. Turn around and face me, dammit!” Reaching the plywood staircase now, Brad stepped up to Gloria, grabbing her arm from the banister and yanking her around. She ripped her elbow from his grasp and shoved him in the chest; not hard enough to send him crashing backwards, probably to crack his head open on the hardwood stage, but enough for him to lose his balance and have to hang on the the flimsy plywood banister to avoid falling.

“Jesus,” he said. “Shit, what was that about?”

The rest of the audience, or rather, the audience of this little episode, watched in rapt fascination. The actress assaulted the director? This was much more interesting than the scene.

Gloria pushed past him, and as she descended the plywood staircase, the metal bar on the back of the spotlight finally slipped from my sweaty hands. “Asshole,” she said, loud enough for the entire theater to hear, and swept offstage. The metal casing around the light banged loudly against the rigging, punctuating her insult and reverberating as she left.

She marched down the stairs Brad had walked up, grabbing her bunched skirts in both fists, and snatched something from one the front row seats.

“Where are you going?” Brad demanded.

She kept going, up the middle aisle toward the back of the theater, a displaced heiress storm 16

ing out of her drawing room. “Taking a break,” she said, and was out the door at the side of the theater with it slamming closed behind her.

“Hell,” said Brad. “Fine. Everyone has five minutes.” And he followed her.

I stood for a moment, behind my spotlight, thinking of nothing but how hot that beam must have been on Gloria’s skin and how fresh and biting the February air outside would feel for her now.

“You know, dropping the light like that is really bad for the bulbs,” said the other spotlight kid.

I turned and went down the stairs from the maintenance balcony to the lobby.

I crossed the entryway quickly, with no plan in mind but wanting only to continue to watch Gloria. I wanted to hear her speak more.

Once outside the theater’s side door, in the narrow but relatively clean alley that ran alongside the building, Brad and Gloria were not immediately visible—but I heard raised voices from around the corner, on the pavement outside the theater front. I got as close to the corner as I dared—I didn’t want them to see me eavesdropping on their conversation.

Although barely four o’clock, nighttime loomed just over the tops of the buildings across the street, and a lethal breeze ran knives over my neck. I leaned my head against the brick siding of the theater and listened.

“What the hell was that?” I heard. Brad.

“Stop telling me what to do all the time.”

“I’m the goddam director, what do you expect? That’s my job, I tell everyone what to do.”

“You humiliated me in front of the whole cast and crew.”

“You weren’t doing what I told you to—every time I told you to speak up, you kept on with your goddam whispering.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to be, Brad, can’t you understand that?” The bewilderment in her voice, the genuine surprise at his failure to grasp that, made me want to see her face. What was her expression like, right at that moment?

“I know what it’s supposed to be. It’s the emotional climax of the goddam play and you’re not even facing the audience to do it justice.”

“I don’t—Gloria doesn’t do it like that. She doesn’t face the audience—why should she talk to them? I’m—she’s—I’m talking to Raymond, I’m only talking to Raymond, and I won’t look at him any more than I’ll look at a bunch of ugly schmucks gaping at me from the velvet seats.”

My fingers inched toward the corner of the building. I wanted to pull myself around, to look at her, see her face while she fell so completely into her character.

Brad voice dropped. “You’re not Gloria,” he said. “You’re not her. Stop talking like you’re her.”

“I am Gloria,” she said, just as quiet, just as fierce. “That’s what you don’t understand. I’m as much her as I am myself, as much as I’m yours. There’s no difference—her, me. The same.”

My ears were filled only with the sound of my own breathing, blood and air rushing past each other, keeping me upright and staring, so unmoving that I could have been Gloria, fixed on the plywood staircase.

“You know I love you.”

17

“I know.”

“I’m sorry it’s hard,” Brad said. “But, you know this is my dream. I’m gonna make it big, you know? I’m gonna be a big director. We just gotta stick it out. I need you to do this for me.”“I know.”

He let out a whoosh of air. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, I’m going back in. Are you—what are you going to do?”

I thought Gloria wasn’t going to reply, until she said, “I’m going to have a cigarette.”

I didn’t realize until he was right in front of me that Brad was going back in the side entrance. I needn’t have worried; he strode right past me without a second glance. After the door banged shut, I breathed deep into my lungs. The noises of traffic lumbering past the theater came roaring back into my ears. Then I turned the corner.

Gloria was crouched on the ground, skirts gathered around her on the icy, slushy ground like a soiled napkin crumpled after a meal. She was rifling through her handbag.

She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and patted her breast absentmindedly.

Awareness sprung into her eyes. “Shit,” she muttered, smoothing her skirt and crinkling her brow.

She reached into the bag again but came up empty-handed. “Shit,” she said again, looking up from her squatting position and catching her eyes on me for a split second.

Her gaze flicked over me, then flicked away immediately, then slid back to me and stayed there. She stood, slowly, still holding her unlit cigarette. I could see the perfectly formed goosebumps raising hairs on her arms; the sleeveless costume gown did her no favors in this weather.

“Have a light?” she asked me, holding up her cigarette.

I reached into my pocket. Thank the fucking heavens. “Yeah,” I said, and stepped closer to her with my lighter in my open palm.

She said nothing, only placed the unlit cigarette between her lips and looked at me.

My hand shook; I don’t know why. I stepped closer to her, I was so close, close enough to see the tiny tremors of her body from the cold, to see the veins in her eyes, the sweat dried along her hairline.

I cupped my hand around the end of her cigarette, not quite touching her face, and clicked my lighter once—twice—three times, and the flame stayed. I lit her up and put the lighter back in my pocket, but I didn’t back away. She was still looking at me—right at me, right into the backs of my eyeballs—and I couldn’t move.

Gloria inhaled, the light valleys around her collarbones and at the base of her throat hollowing out. She held the smoke in for a moment, then tilted her head back and blew so as not to get it right in my face. She was perhaps five inches shorter than me, but we were only that distance apart.

Wordlessly, with her index and thumb, she put the cigarette to my lips. I parted them and took a drag, shallow; I wasn’t used to the sensation. I didn’t let the smoke into my lungs, and blew it out, not in a graceful stream like she had, but in one lumpy cloud into the crook of my elbow.

A smile crept onto her face. “You don’t smoke,” she said.

I smiled too, though a little embarrassed. “No, I don’t.” I handed her back her cigarette.

“How could you tell?”

“As soon as you touched it,” she said. “You don’t hold it like you smoke.”

“And how does a regular smoker like yourself hold a cigarette?”

18

“Casual,” she said. It rested, slender and acrid, between her index and middle fingers. Her wrist relaxed, her elbow turned to liquid. She held it with the same effortless style and poise as she had lain her hand upon the plywood banister: light, airy, careless.

“Although you should know,” she continued, “I’m not a regular smoker. I’m a semi-regular.

A somewhat infrequent visitor.”

“I didn’t know you could be a semi-regular. Doesn’t that contradict the meaning of ‘regular’?”

“Well, there are those who only smoke when they drink. That, in a way, is a form of regularity.”

“Especially if they are regular drinkers.”

“Especially then.”

“And you?” I asked. “What’s the semi-regular occasion of your smoking habit?”

“That’s a secret,” she told me. I didn’t know what to say to that.

She inhaled again, and I watched the tendons in her neck strain forward and then fade back into smooth skin. “Some girls don’t like when they can smoke better than a boy,” she said. “ Are you ‘some girls’?”

“Do you think I am?”

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully.

She smiled again, seeming genuinely pleased with my answer. “Here,” she said, and grabbed my hand. “Let me show you how to hold a cigarette.”

Gloria placed hers between her lips, like some hardboiled P.I. from a picture. She held up my left hand between us. “Relax your wrist, like this,” she said, and showed me. I showed her a wrist that looked like it had been stepped on by a horse. “No, no. It has to be more graceful—you can’t look like you need a splint just to keep it up.”

She bent my wrist back and forth, like a lever on a fulcrum. “Did you ever do ballet?” she asked me.

I laughed. “No,” I said. “I probably would have killed myself trying to stay upright on my toes.”

“Oh,” she said, furrowing her brow. “Piano?”

“Yes, actually—started lessons when I was five.”

“Perfect. Look, pretend you’re playing the piano.”

“What?”

“Just put your hands up—right, like that—and just pretend that there’s a piano in the air and you’re about to play it.”

Feeling a little silly, I raised my hands level with my stomach, poised in ready position over the imaginary keys.

“Good. Now keep your hand exactly like that.” Gloria guided my left forearm away from my right and perpendicular to it. “There,” she said, and pulled the cigarette from her lips. Then she placed it between my fingers, a little girl tucking a plucked flower behind her ear.

I stared at my hand in amazement. “Why, it looks just natural!”

“I told you.”

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“You’re truly a gifted teacher,” I said to her.

“Now take another drag.”

“I think,” I said, waving the cigarette around my head in mock pomp, “I will leave that particular function to you.” I puffed out my chest, held the cigarette aloft. “Why, madam, I think I’m just as apt to hold it like this as in any other way you could teach me!” Deepening my voice, I adopted the air of a stuffy butler or a caricature of a twenties oil tycoon. Stepping away from her, toward the curb, I said, “Oh yes, yes, all very grand. With the finest cigarettes money can buy, fantastic specimens such as these, why there’s really no need at all for any pretensions of smoking.”

Gloria laughed, apparently amused by my ridiculous impression. I kept going, waving my arm in the air, standing at the edge of the curb and looking across the street as if it were the Manhattan skyline and I owned it. “Cigarettes are for men of class, Gloria,” I said. “Highborns like myself, we don’t need to pretend to play the piano while we smoke! We have servants to play the piano for us. And we may hold our cigarettes any way we like.

“I like to hold mine like this,” I said, and lifted my left hand high up, out in front of me, like I was toasting the hordes of guests in my massive, crystalline ballroom.

I turned around to look at Gloria, whose head was thrown back, laughing. Wiping her eyes, she pointed behind me, and I turned around yet again to find a yellow taxicab idling at the curb. Confused, I stared at my warped reflection in the backseat window before the door opened and hit me in the shins.

It was Gloria, handbag in tow, climbing onto the worn leather seat, still laughing. I looked on, not comprehending.

“Are you getting in?” she asked, beaming at me.

“Where are you going?”

“You called the cab,” Gloria said, her voice rich with hilarity, and pulled her skirt aside to make room for me on the seat. “Well?”

Her eyes were wide, shining. Her cigarette, still in my hand, burned dangerously close to my fingers. “My coat is inside,” I told her.

“So is mine.”

I dropped her cigarette on the pavement and stamped on it.

I bit my lip. “Rehearsal,” I said.

She said nothing and smiled.

I stood only a moment more, and then I jumped forward into the cab and yanked the door shut, tumbling up against her and tangling my legs in the satin costume skirt.

“Where to, mister?” asked the driver.

Gloria said nothing, and smiled and smiled.

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Cul-De-Sac Alexandra Ross

The cul-de-sac still rests at the end of the street, but it did more than just rest back when I spent most of my days there. It was alive, spilling over with the energy of elementary schoolers that had nothing to do on summer afternoons. I can no longer separate each day spent there from the others, but the fragments of memory that remain in my mind blur together into a kind of montage. I remember how chalk smeared on driveways and lingered on fingers. I remember the crinkle of a lemonade Capri Sun in my hand, the disappointment of picking one up to find it empty. I remember the bitter consequence of holding a bubble wand too close to one’s mouth. I remember the four-square ball slapping against the palm of the Ace, climbing the air above our heads to unreachable heights. All of our favorite recess games would be recreated in the street or in the yard, and when there were no more games to play we would make our own. Trees were mountains, swingsets were wings, forsythia bushes were wide caverns covered in magical moss. Twigs cast spells and hammocks were deadly traps. Though we created the games, we didn’t create the adventure—it had been born long before us; it had a life of its own. Day after day it would lead us along as we hopped from point to point on an unpredictable timeline. At times it would prompt us with new ideas, if the game got slow. Even at the end of the day, when my mother would venture to the end of the street and call me back in for dinner, it didn’t go away. It simply nestled into the corner of my brain and whispered ideas for the next sunny afternoon.

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The Morning Rush Anthony Mao

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Heat Part I Mady Dudrear

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Heat Part II Mady Dudrear

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if i am found dead in the morning Lara Briggs

If I am found dead in the morning May they declare it to be genocide The swan song of morality and justice Others who have cried wolf At society’s constrictors Have had their cries unanswered But I am not one of them I know that they will come for me With deceit in their eyes And venom on the tips of their teeth If I am found dead in the morning Tell my daughter what I stood for And remind all of these children Who kneel, palms out Desperate for a morsel of clarity That they will have power in their later years Unless they keep their mouths shut Because only the truth can set them free If I am found dead in the morning Pray that the truth will not be buried with me.

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Grasping at Shadows

Anthony Mao 26

Snake Charmer Kayoung Kim

Her gaze was soft, with a gentle disposition that was both bashful and alluring. When she yawned, her mouth parted like two cherry red petals rustling in the breeze, and her restless eyes and fidgeting hands painted a picture of modest beauty in the crowded trolley. Her fingers stopped their movement occasionally to check that her wide brimmed hat was still in place, then slid down to dance around her neck to ensure her hair was all tucked in as well. As she swayed with the constant rhythm of the cable car, she peeked out the window to watch the trees speed by in an erratic tempo.

“Headed to the beach?”

She turned, startled. A girl grinned at her, bold lipstick flashing against her teeth. Adjusting the strap of her tote bag, she nodded at the adjacent empty seat. “This seat taken?”

“No, go ahead.”

The stranger slid easily into the seat, setting down her bag and stretching out her legs. Brushing her hair back, she held out a hand and said, “I’m Penny. You?”

“Angie.” Shaking Penny’s hand, she glanced at the girl shyly. Angie checked her hat once more before adding, “I’m not going to the beach. I’m getting off a couple stops earlier.”

“Weird. That’s kind of the middle of nowhere, isn’t it?” Penny leaned her elbow on the window ridge, hand supporting her cheek as she faced Angie.

Angie gave her a small smile. “Yeah, it is.” She smoothed out her pink dress and tucked her hands underneath her legs, ceasing their anxious motion. “I live nearby.”

“You should visit the beach sometime.” Penny looked out the window, pulling at the sunglasses hooked onto her blue tank top. “I go there often, and the water’s always so clear.”

Angie gave no comment, instead turning to see what Penny was so focused on.

“Also, my bathing suits are super cute.” Penny winked, drawing a laugh from Angie.

“I don’t have a bathing suit. Or anything suitable for the beach.” Angie gestured towards her ensemble—a long pink dress with rosy flats to match, complete with the heavy hat. “I’d look so out of place.”

“Well, you’re awful pretty.” Penny beamed. “Honest. You got real nice eyes, and I like your pink outfit. I think you’d make a nice addition to the beach.”

The tips of Angie’s ears turned bright pink, and she looked away to hide her grin. “Thank you,” she murmured. The two girls shared a comfortable silence, enjoying the other’s company as the trolley sped across the countryside. One of Angie’s hands wriggled free to touch her hat once again, making sure it was in place.

“Bad hair day?”

Angie pursed her lips. “Yeah.”

Penny nodded. “I get that.” She ran her fingers through her curls, inspecting a lock with an accusatory eye. “My hair just refuses to listen sometimes.”

“Mine too.” As Angie shared another warm smile with Penny, the cable car slowed down, the conductor announcing the name of the stop in a muffled voice. Angie looked up. “Oh—this is 27 my stop.”

Penny glanced out the window, frowning. “Too bad.” Angie stood from her seat, looking back at the forlorn expression on Penny’s face. She opened her mouth to say something, then looked away. As she started walking towards the door, Penny called, “Angie!”

She turned around.

“I’m at the beach a lot. You should come find me some time.”

Angie gave her a smile—but what a peculiar smile it was! Although the corners of her lips were lifted, her eyes were melancholy and somber, as if she knew in her heart she could never quite bring herself to enjoy the ocean breeze. Her departure was almost silent, the chiffon skirt of her pink dress swishing across the ground to whisper goodbye. Penny followed her mysterious figure with her eyes for a long while, even as she disappeared into the crowd and the trolley began picking up speed again.

Angie slipped past the bustling crowd, down the path she always took; as she ventured out into the woods the trees seemed to draw closer together like curtains, concealing her to any possible bystanders. She approached her cottage after a few minutes of walking and unlocked her door. Entering her home, she checked that the locks were secure before turning towards her vanity, placed next to the entrance. The mirror was covered by a thick cloth, which she removed with care. Setting the blanket down, she began a meticulous study of her face, running her fingers over her smooth skin, her pink lips, her soft eyebrows. She traced the shape of her eye, tickled her long eyelashes with the tips of her fingers, pressed her hands against her rosy cheeks. Although from afar her actions seemed conceited and vain, up close it was almost as if what the girl desired was not to praise her own beauty but to confirm that her features were still there. After this ritual had been completed, with her finally tracing the bridge of her nose, she covered the mirror with the cloth once more, securing it in place with practiced motions. Then she raised her trembling fingers to the brim of her hat, taking a deep breath.

The hat fell with a soft thud on the wooden floor and a flurry of serpents, all hissing at the sudden exposure to light, cascaded down her back in a majestic, writhing mess.

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god in a bowler hat Kayoung Kim

when I dream of god, all I see is a man in a bowler hat. my pastor always told me that god was beautiful. when I asked how he knew that, he laughed but never gave me an answer.

I saw a painting of jesus when I was seven. his somber eyes bore into my skull and I saw the chance to be redeemed.

I cried instead— the blood on his forehead scared me. eleven years later, he hasn’t changed— him or his father or his ghost or his eyes or his crown or his blood. but church coats my tongue with a bitter taste as if the ashes of a sinner dried out my mouth and left only their regrets behind. when I leave (and I will, eventually) all I will wave goodbye to is a man in a bowler hat.

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Blackbird's House Quinn Simpkins

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College Collage Thomas Jenson

Senioritis Kayoung Kim

Hi Karla!

I’m just checking in to see if you’ve filled out your Junior Questionnaire. I see that you have answered some of the questions, and I’d like to ask of you to take this seriously--I depend heavily on your responses to write the counselor recommendation letter. If you have any questions about the admissions process, don’t hesitate to reach out. I’m here to help.

Best of luck,

Laura Morelis

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Other than the activities listed above, please tell me about your other hobbies or leisure activities.

Other than the variety of activities I do above, I also enjoy long-boarding on the weekend. I find it helpful to relieve stress and a great way to connect with my community. I often go to Wilson Farm Park with my “cronies,” which is what I call my gang. However, because we live in the suburbs, calling us “gang” would cause alarm. Therefore, we have labeled ourselves Karla and the Cronies. And you ask, isn’t cronies a term for crooks? However, because of the poetic alliteration that is cleverly and cleanly connoted in “Karla and the Cronies,” it balances out the malicious intent behind the word “Cronies.”Other than hangin with my brahs, I also dabble in pottery. The local art store has provided solace in my times of worry as a high school student. As a rising senior I hope to submit some of my works into the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

What are the first words or phrases that come to mind to describe yourself?

The phrase “no one man should have all this power” by Kanye West greatly describes how I would define my personality. Not only does my family play his music every day at the dinner table, but Kanye West has helped me get through my depression and deprivation of human love without any worries. Indeed, no one man SHOULD have all this power. This is what I was told from a very young age; when I was four my father told me, “With great responsibility comes great power,” which I think is what Kanye is truly trying to say. Because I am an American (hopefully a full citizen in a year when I successfully pass my citizenship test) I also believe that no one man should have power of any kind. Democracy is a word that also comes to mind when describing myself. For I live for my country, and my country alone, the great United States of America God Bless. Because truly, in the words of Mr. West, “That shit cray.”

What do you consider your greatest strengths?

I consider my physical strength to be my greatest strength. As I say, “Brawn over brains.” I once lifted an entire case of water on my own. And, in addition to hydrating fully and completely, I also helped my family be hydrated just as much, if not more, as myself. My physical strength has also helped me to say “no” to alcohol, drugs, and sex. When a man came to me and asked for directions to the nearest bar, I instead said “no” and gave him not directions, but a swift beating. I will not bear any children for my abs are too strong and take up too much of my body to allow human life to form within my womb. For if I were to flex once, and only once, I would crush the easily impressionable still gelatinous head of my unborn fetus, thus making of myself an enemy of the Westboro Baptist Church. Like Gandhi I must not have any enemies when I nevermore die, for I shall remain immortal, forevermore.

Academically, what has been your most stimulating intellectual experience at Conestoga?

My most stimulating intellectual experience as well as my vow of chastity started at the Health Fair. As I was learning about all the clubs and drinking lemonade I saw the meaning of life, and the meaning of my years in high school, which I will not disclose, in fear of the government. I also coincidentally “LOVE.” The health fair challenged my brain to become more adept; as I scurried from booth to booth learning about clubs like “Poetry Club,” “Key Club,” and “Gay Straight Allowance,” I could see the full spectrum of our student body. It was beautiful. I also enjoyed the moonbounces. I practiced my knowledge in physics as I jumped on those humps filled with air. As I jumped higher, I could feel myself. Getting smarter.

What does leadership mean to you? Have you exhibited these qualities during high school? If so, in what ways?

Leadership means no leadership at all. The government, which I “LOVE,” promotes leadership most of all. Because Hitler, the opposite of America, promoted leadership, I reject and I am genetically inclined to reject it with every skin cell in my body. I break out in rashes at the words “Leader,” “ship,” and most of all “ship leader.” That is why I choose to stay away from the beach. Also

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because lifeguards promote leadership. Who are they to hold and judge human life? Sounds suspiciously German to me. To me, leadership means “fascism.” Let’s look at history. All the fascists were losers. Hitler, Stalin, Papa John, Lenin. All the winners were Americans. George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Ronald McDonald--all presidents, all great. And my personal hero, which will eventually become president, Kanye West. #Yeezy2036. I chose the year 2036 because by then I will most definitely be a citizen.

I have displayed what I like to all “guiding boat” (a phrase I have come up with so that I do not break out in rashes everytime I answer this question which is every day) in my underground clubs. My underground clubs are not registered officially, but they are more powerful than you will ever know. One such club is called the “Oulipo.” Our activities are secret, but we do discourage vaping. We crush vapes in our spare time. In fact, the reason why the month of June was free of accidental fire drills was because the Ouplio destroyed all vapes in the mainline area.

Congratulations! Your Junior Questionnaire has been submitted. Good luck on the rest of your college application process!

Tell us about a topic or issue that sparks your curiosity and gets you intellectually excited. How do you think the environment at Halford, including the framework of the Honor Code, would foster your continued intellectual growth? (250)

What am I interested in? Easy. One word, my life’s entire devotion: hats. Intellectual excitement doesn’t even begin to cover my passion for hats. I. Love. Hats. You ever walk down a street, see a gal wearing what, fifty to sixty hats at once? Hat on hat on hat on hat on hat? You’re looking at me.

That’s right, me. I got more hats than I do genes in my body. I got more hats than the number of dolla bills Bill Gates has stuffed in his pants. I got more hats than you can count. ‘A Milli,’ the hit song

by Lil Wayne. You ever heard of it? A million here, a million there. Think of that, but replace those bills with hats. I eat hats for breakfast. I take hats out for dinner. I breathe hats. So an environment like Halford, where the word “hat” is almost in the college’s name itself? Perfect. Someone who likes hats as much as me? They need some structure in their life. That’s what the Honor Code has. Structure. I like that. You know what Honor Code says to me? Hats. Bowler hats. Top hats. Bucket hats.

Hard hats. Trucker hats. Berets. Beanies. Boaters. You think I’m trying to fill in the word count with hat names? You’re wrong. I just like hats. Honor Code. It says I can talk about hats all. Day. All. Day. And people listen. Because you know what people will definitely have in Halford? That’s right. Hats.

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HALFORD COLLEGE Dear Karla, The Admissions Committee has carefully reviewed your application to Halford College. After much consideration, we regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you a place in the Class of 2022.

Although we appreciated the passion in your essays, we believe students of your caliber are more suitable elsewhere.

We appreciate the interest you have shown to Halford College. Best wishes as you pursue your academic goals.

Sincerely, Gordon Fatuga

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A Heartfelt Letter to the Parent-Picking Committee Kayoung Kim

To whom it may concern, My name is Charlotte Warvik and this is the fourth time this month that I’m filing for my Parents’ return. I have been sending in requests since fall of last year, and I don’t know if they have been lost in the mail or if you have chosen to ignore them. I can assure you that as long as my Parents keep ruining my life I will never stop attempting to fix my situation.

I have several complaints about my Parents, more so the Mom than the Dad, although both have their own set of problems to deal with. I understand each Parent is programmed differently with a unique personality or whatever, but my Mom’s functions are getting a little extreme. She undergoes several changes in her Mood each day, and now I cannot use the microwave because it makes her inexplicably angry. I can’t heat up my leftovers anymore. Do you have any idea how awful cold tomato soup is? Either the wires inside have been frayed beyond repair or I’ve broken her somehow, which I didn’t even know was possible—my friend Mary pushed her Dad down a cliff and he was in her kitchen the next morning making her French toast.

I have also mentioned in previous letters that my Mom occasionally has this crick that makes the spring system in her arm go off spontaneously. Yesterday I was telling her I wanted to take the car to get more gas and in the middle of giving me the keys she punched me in the face. I contacted your customer service and they couldn’t help me in any way. They told me to disable her torso machinery but I’m not a mechanic, I’m a senior in high school. I even tried taking her to the TechCenter; all they did was make the spring system weaker so next time she punches me on accident it won’t crack my nose.

It hasn’t always been like this. My Parents were fine up until the first year of high school.

That’s when my Dad’s ChildCare system went berserk and he went missing for 3 months. The police found him in some bush out in Cape May. He hasn’t been the same since, and he has to be shipped to the TechCenter for most of the day just to keep him running. I’ve noticed that the TechCenter services are very limited and their only goal is to drag out the life of the Parents by doing temporary bug fixes. I once got 6 notifications to get a tetanus shot within a week because my Dad kept identifying my ear piercings as wounds and sending alerts to my doctor, and all the TechCenter did was disable his ability to contact my medical advisors. I have stopped wearing earrings as of last year and now I schedule my appointments manually.

I understand that it’s my last year having Parents, and the contract is terminated once I upload my high school diploma into my ParentFile, but I cannot spend the last couple of months of my senior year like this. My Parents are literally driving me insane—and things are only getting worse as time goes on. The only thing that keeps me going everyday is the system shut down at 12:00 AM for my Parents to charge up. Most Parents charge automatically and function for 24 hours but the TechCenter granted me access after my Parents woke me up everyday last June at 3 AM to go on a road trip that I didn’t even know about. I’d like new Parents or at least a reboot of both my Parent’s entire systems. I am at my wit’s end.

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Please try to reply as soon as possible, Charlotte Warvik

Red Robin

Mady Dudrear and Thomas Jenson

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Evening in July Lara Briggs

The feeling of walking in grass had always bothered me. Thin sandal soles protected me from the earth below, but the untamed blades of grass found their way around my ankles, brushing my toes and the tops of my feet. I never enjoyed being outside in the summer; the air shifted between arid and humid, never quite settling, and there was always noise. Here, in the middle of nowhere, there were barely any cars around, and it was unusual without the ambient noise of traffic that I’d always known. But there were people-many people-and the sounds of chatter and laughter filled the air. This moment wasn’t one I treasured. I hated it at the time: the grass, the air, the crowds. I hate it now, but for different reasons.

I wish that I could go back to that evening in July, just so I could tell you a truth that I realized far too late. I would sit with you in the grass and we’d stare in wonder at the fireworks, paying no mind to the crowd around us. Now, I wish that I could reach back in my mind through my memories and grab your hand without ever letting go, tell you that yes, I feel the same way about you. I don’t know what it would have been, but it would have been better than this, alone years later with only fragments of memory and questions unanswered. Those feelings of the summer now carry a new and bitter taste, that of love unrequited and never meant to be. I wasn’t sure then, and I’m still not sure now, but you were the first person to ever love me.

And years later I fell in love with you too.

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Michaela Gabi Miko

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Thought In Three Anthony Mao

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The Curious Case of Trayvon Martin (NY Times Article) Anna Kovarick Found Poem Tray was gone 17-year-old Gunned down in Sanford Florida Somebody shot Trayvon: George Zimmerman (because the boy looked “real suspicious”) A physical altercation A gunshot A fatal bullet wound A lifeless body Why did Zimmerman Find Trayvon so suspicious?

Trayvon was black Zimmerman was not.

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Trayvon Martin Died February 26th, 2012

Choked Out Anna Kovarick

Eric Garner Died July 17th, 2014 I can’t breathe; I’m Choking, sputtering, gasping, hoping for Anyone to Notice the violence taking place.

Throat compressed between tree trunk arms, my Breathing shortens like coarse Ropes tightening around my trachea.

Each breath shoots biting pain Across my bruised lungs.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been Harassed and humiliated by officers Eager to escalate the situation.

A Message Anna Kovarick

Leave the past behind; It’s time to break the chains that bind us to our skin.

Black Lives Matter Founded in 2013

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Two Guns One Bullet Anna Kovarick

Tamir Rice Died November 23rd, 2014 One fake gun And one that killed Within this deadly web, a murder was spun.

One fake gun Determined the fate of somebody’s son.

Thick, red blood spilledOne fake gun And one that killed.

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Race in 2017 Grace Lanouette

Racism is dead because my brother can no longer be legally lynched in the street, he can only be shot for appearing suspicious by a cop who will never serve a sentence.

Racism is dead because affirmative action is alive and well, allowing people like me to go to college, since black girls can’t have brains of their own.

Racism is dead because we let a black man sit in the white house, because Disney deigned to animate a black princess, because we call it “the n word” now.

Racism is dead because I’m living in the past if I say it isn’t.

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On Finding Faith Alexandra Ross

I felt God in those hours we spent on your back porch the first time I slept over; The twittering background music of those few remaining birds of autumn, The smell of dew and new beginnings in the morning air.

My fingers curled tightly around the warm cup of coffee you made— Dash of cream, dash of sugar— Desperate for the warmth of indoors, just like the rest of me, But there I stayed, for the sake of your conversation.

Moments Not Mine

Sebastian Castro

I walk outside And see mist, Illuminated by moonlight.

I feel something brush off on me, Barely missing me.

I try to reach out and grab it, But I can’t find it.

I want to feel what’s happening.

I want to be a part of this moment.

I’m desperate, But I realize that The moment’s not mine.

It’s bigger than me.

So I walk away, And leave the moment, Shining in self-contained glory.

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Psychadelic Powers Caroline Shank

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The Ocean (A Series of Vignettes) Anna Kovarick

The day was calm. Resting beneath the bluest sky I had ever seen laid the wide expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Waves rolled up to the shore as if the world was in slow motion. The soggy sea air was thick with the weight of salt. My dad carried me on his back as we made our way down the path towards the beach. I leaned back, soaking up the rays of the sun on my small face. My dad trudged through the sand until we finally reached our family’s umbrella. He bent down to let me off his back; my arms tightened around his neck.

“Don’t let me go, Daddy!” I squealed, recoiling from the ocean of sand beneath us. “Don’t let it touch me!” Because of my fear, I refused to play in the sand for the next two years. …

The day was treacherous. Dark clouds strangled the sky into a mess of grey that hung over us ominously. Our parents warned us about the waves, but we chose not to listen. I raced my cousins to the water, tugging uncomfortably at my two-sizes-too-small swimsuit. We paddled out as far as we could, facing off against waves that were larger than anything we had ever seen before. Ducking and diving, I attempted to keep up with my cousins (all of whom were junior national swimmers) as we wade deeper into the current. My head barely hovered over the foam that covered the surface of the water, suspended only by courage and tired attempts at treading water. I jumped over the waves, each time getting closer and closer to submerging beneath the water.

Then, it came.

The wave was massive, overtaking my body in less than a second. I was trapped underwater by the tumultuous power of the ocean, barely holding on to my last breath. My lungs screamed for air as my arms frantically battled the waves for control. When I finally washed ashore, I laid on the sand, breathing heavily and holding back tears. I didn’t go into the ocean for another year. …

The day was young. My alarm sounded at 5:30 in the morning. Eyes still heavy with sleep, I stumbled out of bed and crawled into a change of clothes. I unlatched the screen door carefully, trying to keep the rusty hinges from waking my family. Blanket in hand, I made my way up the path to the beach in the dark of morning. The sand was cool against the soles of my feet and snaked in between my toes. As I looked out towards the ocean, light appeared on the horizon. At first a sliver, the flame grew quickly, spreading across the sky like a watercolor painting. Pink, purple, orange, and red smeared across the sleepy sky. I walked to the water’s edge, draping the blanket around my shoulders to keep the sea breeze from nipping at my exposed skin. The cold water rushed over my feet. I smiled to myself in the serenity of the moment. For years to come, the beach would be my favorite place in the world.

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Rough Sea Ian Hay

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that was you.

Anonymous

the concealer you left smudged on my cheek felt expensive, but it probably wasn’t. maybe it was the kind that you tried to get me to buy all the times you dragged me to Sephora and told me that i should try harder, that i could be pretty if i tried—but never outright, never in so many words, because that would be mean and you were never unkind, were you? the doorway that we were standing in wasn’t foreign to me. it was the entrance to a house where i’d always felt safe, a house that i could walk blindfolded. the same house where one late summer night, on a fairy-light-strung back porch amongst a sea of your friends, never mine, you called your ex-boyfriend “a fucking faggot” and everybody laughed and you made eye contact with me over the dying candles and empty soda cans and i thought your eyes would ask forgiveness but they didn’t. it was also the house where, after a good day, a really fucking good day, a mutual friend asked, in a sudden epiphany, “oh my god, this is the gay friend you got with, isn’t it?” i remember the way you froze at his words. you wouldn’t look at me so i left your house and called my dad from the street. the cross necklace i bought you was dangling across your chest. i bought it for you as a symbol of something i didn’t feel the same about, but accepted was important to you. that was before you blamed me for fucking up your faith and i told you i didn’t understand. that was also before you outed me to your family because you needed help “dealing” with me. me, a problem to be overcome, a burden to be suffered, set before you purely to make god hate you. the sound of my escalating heartbeat echoed in the silence between us. maybe i was imagining it, but i think i could hear yours too. it reminded me of all the times that that pulse almost stopped and all the times you told me i was the only reason it didn’t. it also reminded me of all the times mine almost did the same and all the times you weren’t there, how you were never there, not once. how you just didn’t fucking notice, not when your “best friend in the whole world” stopped eating, not when she quit every club, every sport, every job, not when she’d only leave her house to come to yours, not when she started pulling down the sleeves of every shirt to hide something that you were supposed to be the only one she could talk to about, not when she tried to crash her car on a rainy Thursday night, not when she set seven bottles of pills on the kitchen counter and stared at them for three hours on a dry Sunday morning, not when she finally called a suicide hotline instead of you because she knew you wouldn’t care. you didn’t want to deal with my shit because i was only necessary when you needed help, not the other way around. the aggression in your lips scared me.

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the same lips that hid judgement under three dimensional confessions and made half-hearted “i love you”’s seem legitimate and masked the lilt in your voice when you told me i was all that mattered, that it’d be just you and me for a thousand years, that you’d love me to the moon and back. what happened to that? almost hard to believe it was those same lips that asked me again and again and again to define what i “am”. what did you want me to answer with? age? ethnicity? gender orientation? future career aspirations? no, i knew exactly what you meant. you like the word “faggot” so much? great, let’s go with that. the look in your eyes reminded me of looking into the eyes of everyone you had told the next week at school, seeing the realization and the disgust and knowing it was shame they saw reflecting back from mine. i haven’t looked up from the ground since. because the story you left me with is one of shame. it’s a story that, when forced out by close friends, prompts them to add “as a friend” after every “i love you”, when that was never necessary before. maybe this is the same story you’ll laugh about amongst your college peers in a few years. maybe it already is. i bet you told them you were drunk. i bet you told them i made the first move. you could walk away from an inebriated, experimental mistake made in the misguidedness of youth, to boyfriends and prom dates and being honest with your family. you never had to walk into lies. you never had to walk into whispers in the hallways and elaborate stories as to why we don’t talk anymore and blatant bullshit in every truth-or-dare, every never-have-i-ever. you never had to walk into hate, because you’re the one who created it. i walked out of your house that night, but i’m not the one who got to walk away, not really. that was you.

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Phase

Anthony Mao

51

Riga Black Alexandra Ross

A chord echoing in my hollow rib-cage, A bassline humming through my veins, Reverberating in my bones, A soft melody winding through my brain.

Words trapped behind my teeth, Thoughts trapped behind my skull.

The song has no words, And yet it makes me think of you.

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too loud. anonymous

there are no words in the fleeting moment between i don’t want to be alive and i want to die. there is only white noise. walking down a hallway overspilling with bleached hair and goals and feeling it pound behind your eyelids and wondering if anyone else can hear it. i don’t want to be alive? saying goodnight to your parents when you need them the most and holding your breath as they walk up the stairs and wishing that they’d somehow sense you can’t be alone right now. i don’t want to be alive. sitting down on the floor of the shower and pressing your head against the tile wall after a long night and watching steam collect on the ceiling. i want to die? standing on the ledge of a hotel roof and looking straight ahead at the fluorescent vacancy sign and closing your eyes. i want to die. there is no comfort, no logic. it’s just too loud.

53

Skulls

Mady Dudrear

54

On Inattention Isabelle Burns

I

sit in the last row of Mrs. Bailey’s 5th period Honors Calculus class. Last Friday, my class was given a worksheet that had 2 math problems on it. We were told each problem should take about 10 minutes. My teacher spent the first 20 minutes of class working through the first problem in what I assume was great detail. What was I doing during those 20 minutes? I’m not sure.

Maybe trying to figure out why Mrs. Bailey would write “Day 12 Homework” on the board for my class but “HW Day 12” for next period which is weird if we’re the same level class because why not just write it the same way, why switch up the formatting, but even weirder if we are different level classes because what are the odds that two completely different courses would happen to be on the same day of a unit but then again if we are looking at odds, it’s statistically probable that that synchronization has happened before but wouldn’t I have noticed because I definitely would’ve been looking at the board except maybe I only started looking at that part of the board recently but actually that wouldn’t make sense because how would I have known what the homework is and wait, how long have I been looking at the board?

Maybe noticing that the girl with the hoop earrings has left to go to the bathroom twice since class started and it’s been five months since the school year started but I still don’t know her name and now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t think I can name a single other person in this room and that seems kinda sad because it’s been months and Mrs. Bailey says their names out loud all the time but in my defense they definitely don’t know my name but that’s probably because I’m a junior and they’re all seniors, I mean it’s not like they’d purposefully not know my name, because that would be bullying or something and I’m pretty sure this school is against that, with all the assemblies and posters, but can assemblies and posters really prevent something as vague and invisible as teenage cruelty?

Maybe wondering whether Jenny is in the same math level as me since we were in the same class last year and we passed each other as I walked in the door today so she must’ve been in the previous period but I thought she said she was going to take AB Calculus this year and I’m pretty sure Mrs. Bailey only teaches H Calculus and I’m in H Calculus, and we’ve never passed each other at the doorway before so she might not even be in the last class because wouldn’t I have noticed, considering how early I get to class, so maybe she was just visiting a friend or borrowing a textbook, but then again it’s not like I know everything about Mrs. Bailey and what she teaches, for all I know she could teach 4 AB Calculus classes and 1 H Calculus class, and I know she went to Bucknell and ran a marathon while eight months pregnant one time but how much do I actually know about Mrs. Bailey?

Possibly eavesdropping on the countless conversations around me that I can’t seem to tune out or picking at my fingernails and looking for a tissue when one of them starts to bleed or practicing my tap routine under the desk. Regardless of which aspect of the myriad of distractions present in a midday math class I was distracted by in that moment, I definitely had a pencil in my hand and

55

the worksheet in front of me. However, at the end of those 20 minutes, I had not a single thing written down and not a single clue what unit we were in, let alone how to do the one type of problem I was in charge of understanding that day. Is my class even still doing derivatives? I don’t know.

The next 20 minutes of class were devoted to allowing us, the students, to complete the 2nd problem on the page, based on what we had just learned about the first. And what did I do during these 20 minutes? Again, no idea. Maybe I was thinking about work or hieroglyphics or how to say “to increase” in French or that the boy sitting diagonally from me is wearing scrubs and a name tag which means he is in the Allied Health program and maybe I could ask him what he thinks of it since I’m considering doing it next year because we had a class together two years ago but on second thought he definitely wouldn’t remember that because I don’t think we ever talked and oh! the girl with the earrings just asked to go to the bathroom again and oh! someone just burst out laughing I wonder what happened and oh! the bell just rung, class is over, and I don’t have a single thing written down on this piece of paper and it was due by the end of class.

Then I have to ask Mrs. Bailey if I can take it home over the weekend to finish it and she says yes because she is an angel and I take it home and I tell myself I’m going to finish it that night so that I don’t have to worry about it all weekend and then when I get home, that backpack gets flung on a chair and forgotten about until Sunday at 5 pm when I decide I am going to be in bed by 9:30.

When that happens, I walk downstairs to get my backpack, get distracted by a Post-it note about Auto Insurance along the way, and before I know it I’ve spent 45 minutes eating a bowl of cereal, 20 minutes testing which light switch controls which light, 25 minutes looking out the window, 50 minutes talking to my brother, 15 minutes watching a YouTube video on Optimistic Nihilism, 30 minutes getting ready to take a shower, 60 minutes in the actual shower, 30 minutes brushing my hair after said shower, 10 minutes opening and closing the mirrored doors of my medicine cabinet to see where the light will reflect, 45 minutes researching whether or not an American can attend the Sorbonne, 35 minutes checking my email, and its 1:30 in the morning, I haven’t unzipped my backpack or even grabbed it from the place I went to get it from, and what have I been doing for the last 8 and a half hours?

So as I’m writing this, it’s 10:23 on a Tuesday night and I am trying to explain to my family why I can’t remember to close the garage door when I drive to work.

Inattention is everything in my life.

It’s having a work period in Lang & Comp and spending the entire 43 minutes creating a bizarre backstory for the large cutout of a man next to the door. It’s not fully understanding a single concept from the last 4.5 months of 11th grade. It’s having an individual behavior chart in 3rd grade for being so bored that I’d get up and walk out of class, when the only other kid that had a chart like mine got his for cursing at the teacher and threatening students. It’s the time we’re given for tests being too short for me to finish in but too long for me to stay on task. It’s copying Prutha’s notes because I genuinely didn’t notice that the teacher had been lecturing since the start of class and pages of pages of fabricated homework because I know I can’t concentrate long enough to read two sentences of a textbook. It’s everyone in Lit Mag thinking I don’t care when really I just can’t pay attention.

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It’s being constantly reprimanded at my old job at a grocery store for not being able to focus on one object long enough to put it back on the shelf and eventually quitting that job because I couldn’t stand still long enough. It’s finding a new job at a barn that seems practically tailored to an inattentive seventeen year old and still returning to the tack room every four minutes because I can’t remember the simple list of five tasks my employer gave me and making up songs to remember what I have to do and still forgetting to put the rake back or lock the backdoor or hang up Spur’s halter, even though it’s written in an itemized list two feet away from my face.

It’s backing up into the columns that support my porch and scraping up the side of someone’s mom’s parked car and going left on red lights because my mind was somewhere else while driving and wondering if I should tell my parents to take my license away.

But I don’t hate it.

I don’t hate having ADHD. It’s a huge part of my personality and honestly just makes me laugh sometimes. Going downstairs to grab a jacket before leaving for a friends house or the SPCA and not only returning without said jacket, but having eaten two entire sleeves of Ritz crackers even though I wasn’t hungry, wandered around the entire house, and poked the dog’s face for twenty minutes is funny. It’s annoying and energy-consuming and reminds me I have no perception of time but it’s funny. It’s why I talk so fast and get so excited and think about things from a unique perspective and that’s something I’ll always be grateful for. Don’t get me wrong, when I have a Gov test in twelve hours and I’ve been dancing to More Than You Know by Axwell Ingrosso on loop for the last hour and a half as part of a bizarre Hunger Games-but-with-dancing fantasy I concocted in the shower, it complicates my life in ways that others might not experience, often in the form of constant sleep deprivation and a frustration with myself for being unable to be efficient.

But I’m only 17. There is still so much that I don’t know and if I have to spend a little more time and effort than most people to solve a math problem or remember a chore or get ready in the morning in return for an ability to think outside of the box and a personality that is truly my own, I’m okay with that.

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Third Period Caroline Shank

58

the pond in my backyard Isabelle Burns

trying to read, like really read, with comprehension, and focus, and efficiency —the whole nine— is like trying to see the bottom of the frozen pond in my backyard. the image of the sentence, or cooking instruction, or word problem, whatever it is that i’m trying to read, rests on the silt floor, beneath four inches of ice, four feet of water. it’s blurry, obscured by distractions or pondweed, rippling with the effort of thought or natural currents, maybe paused by fatigue or a wandering fish, not yet sheltered for the winter, depending on the depth of this analogy. above the surface, the air is so loud it’s quiet, with an overload of stimulants combining into a blanketing silence. below the surface, the space is so quiet it’s loud, with a sharp clarity, generating intense focus.

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and i can tell something’s there, i know something’s there, but beneath the crystallization of nonmetal elements, the paradoxically rigid structure of noises, ideas, lights, fears, movements, i cannot derive anything deeper than the color of the silt, or the subject of the sentence. and i can tell how cold the water is, how hard the ice will be, but if i want to understand that sentence, or follow that instruction, or solve that equation, i have to make the conscious decision to quiet my mind, rid myself of the surplus of thoughts, equivalent to five radio stations blaring simultaneously, and dive head first through the unyielding barrier of ice and compressed colors, into the freezing water, shivering, shaking, straining, trying, and stay there.

even if i manage to crack the surface, shatter the ice, and focus through the antagonistic distractors, the urge to return to air, to warmth, is magnetic, tugging on the back of my mind as if hooked to my brain, pulling me upward, barring my goals, leaving a final question balanced precariously on personal strength, or spiderweb splintered ice:

is it worth it?

Gather Ye Rosebuds

Anthony Mao

60

I Am Not A Sports Person Laila Norford

I

found myself the night of Sunday, February 4, like much of the rest of the country, glued to a TV screen with a chip in one hand and a bowl of guacamole in the other. While many people were watching for the commercials and even more were watching for the game itself, I was watching out of obligation. As a Philadelphian and the daughter of an invested Eagles fan, I felt it was my duty to actually watch the Super Bowl.

On a scale of one to ten, I would rate my football knowledge around a three. I know what a football looks like, I know the three ways to score points (and how to score extra points), and I know what a down is. If someone would let me know why the clock sometimes continues to run and why it sometimes stops at the end of plays, that would be much appreciated. Despite my lack of background knowledge, by the end of the first quarter of the Super Bowl, I gave up on trying to do homework at the same time as watching--I was actually getting into the game, to the point where I can recall more plays in the game than anyone else in my family with the exception of my dad. I was yelling and cheering and booing and getting annoyed with the announcers, which apparently are all normal things to do when watching a football game.

After the thrilling conclusion of the game (and essentially a second New Year’s celebration), I wondered, If I, the near opposite of a football enthusiast, watched the Super Bowl, and if so many other people like me watched the Super Bowl, and if the United States was able to unite to watch this one game, then where are the differences between us?

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“The Uniting Power of Sports.” It’s a cliche topic. I am aware of that. However, I do think there is something to be said for how in one night, we can suddenly throw our political views behind us and find common ground with everyone else watching the same game. Yes, we may still be divided along team lines, but that divide is uniquely separated from politics, race, gender, and any other demographic you can list (aside from, maybe, geography). In Philadelphia, people were hugging everyone in sight, people of which they didn’t even know the names, let alone the politics. One of my uncles commented to me that if a tourist was walking through Philadelphia Monday morning, they would wonder how the cultural tradition of wearing green came about.

But moving past sensationalization, football is anything but apolitical, especially recently.

Take the Colin Kaepernick controversy. While kneeling during the National Anthem is removed from the game itself, this peaceful act of protest has turned into a battle among football fans, worsened by Trump’s involvement. Now, apparently, you can lose your job purely for exercising your constitutional rights. This Super Bowl had intensified divisions, as the Patriots are known for their connections to Trump while the Eagles stand out as a team committed to social justice. In my very political family, there was a blurry line between whether we disliked the Patriots just because they were against the Eagles or if we disliked them for their politics.

So while we may all watch the same game, our differences lie just beneath the surface.

Though I may never consider myself a sports person, I definitely would consider myself political.

However, in the increasingly tumultuous political climate, I think we can all ask ourselves if it is worth it to drag politics into even more aspects of our lives. What the players do in the stadium is beyond our control, and as fans, it is our only job to sit back and watch. So in the aftermath of the Eagles’ win, I’m celebrating being a Philadelphian. While I cannot guarantee I will watch the entirety of Super Bowl LIII, I can say with certainty that I will be an Eagles fan all season.

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Nokota BrookeVail

63

On Yosemite Madeline Murphy

I remember when I felt free. When I stretched out on a moth-worn blanket, searched the sky, and saw a million stars for the first time. Moon dust and diamonds were sprinkled across a sea of the bluest black, as horses and eagles and archers battled until dawn. I had never seen our galaxy so clearly.

Yosemite is the place of imagination.

The first time I ever traveled by airplane was on my journey to Yosemite at ten years old. I chomped down on gum so quickly my jaw hurt and closed my eyes as tightly as I could. But as the plane began to rattle and pick up speed, I opened my eyes and watched us soar. My heart lifted when we first left the ground as buildings began to shrink smaller, smaller, becoming the pebbles of a riverbank. The world is so much simpler from the clouds.

Two bus rides later—that took us across winding dust roads—and we stood beneath our cobblestoned hotel that almost blended in with the surrounding mountains.

Yosemite is where my adventures live.

It is the soft pizzicato of rain that crescendos to ear-splitting crashes of drums and silences every mountaintop creature. It is the place of sequoia trees that stretch higher and higher and higher, reaching nearly 300 feet, so ancient that they have witnessed our world slowly crumble at man’s destructive hand. It is waterfalls that lace through jagged cliffs, spewing out mist, bestowing stones with miniature rainbows.

I remember when I was too fearful to climb the peak of a mountain and was abandoned by my family, left in solitude. But as I stood fuming, the sky began to transform. Pinks, reds, and oranges were brushed across the sky with uneven strokes, and deep purples outlined the canvas. Cliffs stretched apart to reveal a golden orb that shone with such power that it transfigured pine trees to mere silhouettes against the sky. It was the moment of astonishment when one first steps into a grand cathedral, and stained-glass windows pour in light from the heavens. Yosemite is a thing of magic.

Yosemite is the smell of soaking moss and overgrown trees with drenched black bears and lupines peeking out along trails. It is the taste of scorching-hot food that burns your tongue after hours of climbing, but manages to warm your river-soaked body.

Now, life weighs me down. School and friends and SATs and whatever else loom over my shoulder.

Pressure builds from all sides, trapping me in a constricting box, and a constant heaviness never escapes me.

But when I think of Yosemite, all else dissipates. I fly with the birds to the upmost branches of trees and soar back down to the river rapids. I watch the sunset in silence, from the clouds, as the cicadas begin to awaken. I am free once more.

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Childhood OnOnChildhood Grace Lanouette you can remember jumping on the trampoline in your best friend’s backyard back when your bones were elastic and you couldn’t break them if you tried and there was nothing else broken about you you used to run around so much that the tips of all your shoes were scuffed and you wondered what would happen if you kept on going forever you liked to stay home sick, so your mom would pour purple medicine into a plastic cup and let you watch so many movies you convinced yourself you were born for a happy ending now,

you haven’t been on a trampoline in years and you and your best friend don’t talk anymore

you wear shoes that look brand new and when you run it feels like you’re running away

your pills are purple but they don’t taste like bitter grapes, and they don’t stop you from coughing they stop you from wanting to die (sometimes)

and you think you’re out of happy endings

you don’t leave a note because it’s impossible to explain how much you miss the feeling of floating how you’re sick from too many pills and from running away so now,

you jump, and for a second it reminds you

of the trampoline

and everything

65 And when you hit the ground it scuffs up your shoes.

Slow Slow

Mady Dudrear 66

airport thoughts Isabelle Burns

when: 6:41 PM where: Dallas Fort Worth Airport song: 1901 by Phoenix counting all different ideas drifting away I love making up stories about all the people I see in airports. past and present, they don’t matter, now the future’s sorted out They’re all going somewhere. watch her moving in elliptical patterns The lady sitting across from me is wearing a blue trench coat. think it’s not what you say, what you say is way too complicated She looks like she could beat a tsunami in a fight. for a minute thought I couldn’t tell how to fall out I bet she has a bunch of medals. it’s twenty seconds ‘til the last call For shielding twelve children from a grenade or something. going hey hey hey hey hey hey Maybe the boy wearing that Playboy jacket is on his way to an interview at CalTech. lie now, you know it’s easy I wonder if he knows everyone here can see the entire length of his boxers.

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like we did it all summer long

He’s been on the phone ever since I sat down here. and I’ll be anything you ask and more Maybe he’s calling a girlfriend. going hey hey hey hey hey hey Maybe he’s calling a boyfriend. it’s not a miracle we needed, and no I wouldn’t let you think so ABORT MISSION I just made eye contact with the trench coat lady. fold it, fold it, fold it, fold it She definitely thinks I’ve been staring at her for like ten minutes so that’s great. fold it, fold it, fold it, fold it Actually I probably have been staring at her for like ten minutes. girlfriend, you know your girlfriend’s drifting away I do that way too much. past and present, 1855 to 1901 I don’t even mean to stare directly at people, it just happens. watch them build up a material tower I also sigh very loudly, very often. think it’s not gonna stay anyway, think it’s overrated I legitimately forget to breathe. for a minute, thought I couldn’t tell how to fall out Well, I remember to inhale but then I forget to exhale and it’s a Whole Mess.

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it’s twenty seconds to the last call This milkshake is ridiculously good. going hey hey hey hey hey It better not be true that the big chain food places put horse hooves in milkshakes. lie now, you know it’s easy I still have four hours until my 11:00 connection. like we did it all summer long I should probably figure out what terminal I’m in right now. and I’ll be anything you ask and more Eh, that seems like a 10:50 kind of problem. going hey hey hey hey hey Why does this song always remind me of Thor: Ragnarok. it’s not a miracle we needed, and no, I wouldn’t let you think so That was a surprisingly good movie. fold it, fold it, fold it, fold it This song has been on loop for like four days whoops. fold it, fold it, fold it, fold it You gotta squeeze every last bit of potential from a song and then move on to the next one. fold it, fold it, fold it, fold it Am I right or am I right. fold it, fold it, fold it, fol69 Oh shoot my phone died.

To someone who will never read this.

Isabelle Burns

I would give anything to be nine years old again, riding my bike down Hawkweed Way with you.

I remember all of it: running down the street when you moved in because my mom told me there was a kid my age, being a month older than you but a grade younger, walking to your house every day in the summer knowing you'd be there, watching claymation movies (especially that bizarre french one with the cowboy that I never understood but loved anyway), drawing harp seals in your room for hours, pretending to be courageous pirates on your swing set but having to flee from bees every time, making the best cookies in the world in your kitchen with yogurt instead of milk, wanting to be the drummer but never knowing the songs when we made our own band, checking my family's answering machine when I'd get home at the end of the day to see if you'd called, losing the movie game in your pool every time because I would always choose Harry Potter (which you knew I would do), going through your ice-cream-shaped eraser collection, listening to you try to explain Doctor Who to me (which I still don't understand), getting so excited whenever I'd get to catsit Artemis because your house represented everything fun in the world, building a teleportation device out of a cardboard box with you, and when you tried to put metal foil in my microwave and almost lit the whole place on fire and I laughed so hard I cried.

There’s so much that I’m sorry for.

I’m sorry that I’m going to turn eighteen this year. Because then I am going to turn nineteen and twenty and twenty one and twenty two and you are going to be sixteen forever. Sixteen. A child.

I left you behind. You were a sixteen year old child and I was supposed to take care of you and I left you behind.

I’m sorry that I laughed twice the day I found out. I smiled, too. You’re not supposed to laugh on sad days. I didn’t mean to. I was so sad and so happy and so confused about being so sad and so happy about such different things at the same time.

I’m sorry for not talking to you for three years. I wish I could tell you why but I don’t know the answer to that. It was probably because you were everything I was too scared to let myself be.

I’m sorry that I didn’t go to the funeral. I blamed it on my parents but the truth is, I was scared. I was so scared. Because it couldn’t be true. Kids can’t die. They just can’t.

Most of all, I’m sorry for mourning an eight year old girl when I should’ve been mourning a sixteen year old boy. But also for being a coward who smiles on sad days and leaves people behind.

You were always the bravest, kindest person I'd ever known. You were optimistic and creative and open-minded and brought an incredible sense of hope and possibility into the lives of everyone you encountered. You were so comfortable with who you were, something I wanted so badly but could never make myself feel. I genuinely believe you wanted every single person on this planet to feel happy and safe and accepted for who they are. Growing up with you made me who I am today and I will never forget you or your family.

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71

Wheelchair (Left) & Parallel Parking (Right) Mady Dudrear

A note from the artist: "For my concentration, I decided to explore different aspects and moments of life that are common to the human experience through their relationship to road signs. I chose to work with signs that one typically sees while driving because roads are such a vital part of our lives that we often overlook or don’t think too much about. Roads are the bodies through which people come and go, connecting the pieces of our lives as we travel from one moment to the next. The fluid nature of the human narrative connects well to the way life flows through our roadways. Using signs as a point for consideration allowed me to connect this natural flow of roads with specific moments and emotions that we feel throughout our lifetimes." —Mady Dudrear

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Minutia

Jessica Frantzen The old player piano, gathering a fresh coat of dust, sat in the center of Mae’s Diner. Nobody had ever heard the sound of fingers against its old, ivory keys, and nobody particularly minded either, forming their own little worlds in the cozy 4-person booths by the windows. The low rumblings of chipper voices, from teenagers mumbling over their phones to young families trying to quiet screeching infants, had always been a sacred sort of cacophony, a generations-old tradition that was not to be tampered with. Even as subjects of conversations moved on to greater places and the days bled on into each other, the steady rhythm of clinking dishes and forks against plates never changed.

Each season brought with it a unique flavor of sorts, from summer’s bustling zest of returning collegiates to fall’s mournful flocks of newfound empty-nesters. It was in spring, carrier of fresh hopes and new beginnings, when the old world of Mae’s merged, for a split second, with something new, something unique that it could never become. On a Friday night, rife with adults trying to escape their children’s cloying pleas for attention, a single young girl escaped the eyes of her exhausted parents. Within the blink of an eye, she slipped to the untouched piano and sat herself on the rough wooden bench. Her fingers pecked at the keys and her feet barely reached the floor-height pedals but, still, she played. At first, nobody noticed the intrusion into their orchestra of noise— it was just another instrument among the other voices. However, as the girl’s simple melody grew louder and clearer, the voices stopped and the people turned to listen. Her playing was unsure and she made her fair share of mistakes, but it was so unusual, so unprecedented, that the ensemble of voices left her a solo. The room filled with a flavor much different from the one it had before; it was neither offensive nor heavenly, neither homely nor foreign. When she stood, her flustered father dragged her back to their abandoned booth seat. For a moment, the room swelled with curiosity and wonder at what had happened, unsure of the shift they had just felt. Shortly, though, the chorus of voices resumed its hum and the clatter of metal on glass sang out above. If Mae’s Diner had ever shifted it was for just a moment, a brief second, before it returned to its static predictability in an ever-changing world.

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Lewes, Delaware Ally Wynne

74

What Friends Are For Jai Hall

You: My tire’s flat, my eye is black My lips are chapped, I’m getting fat.

I’m late on bills, my schedule’s filled My entire life has gone downhill.

Friend: I’ll drive you home, I’ll give you ice, Here use my chapstick, you look nice!

Borrow some cash, try to relax-I think you’re going way too fast.

I hurt my back, my license snapped, I also really need a nap.

I’m still in debt, can’t move my neck, Was late to work--I overslept.

I’ll rub your neck, we’ll take a nap, And find you something for your back.

We’ll find your keys, here--rest your knee, It’s nice of you to save those bees.

I lost my keys, I hurt my knees, Got stung while saving angry bees.

I got all C’s, I ripped my sleeve, My stomach hurts from eating cheese.

I told you not to eat that cheese.

Here, walk with me if you can’t see, You’ll be fine, just stick with me.

Can’t really see, how this can be-Why is this happening to me?

And by mistake, I dropped your cake, Don’t know how much more I can take.

I got all D’s, I’ll stitch your sleeve And never mind about that cake, There’s more important things at stake, And at the store, we’ll buy some more

You: Gee, thanks - Hey! Friend: That’s what friends are for!

75

Recreation Anthony Mao

76

Pockets

Sebastian Castro I’ve got things in my pockets.

A scrap of paper, A length of string.

A few choice words, And an impossible plan.

Some love, Some gum, The universe, And a pen.

77

Zoom

Mady Dudrear 78

Janus on the A Train Laura Liu

August

The first time I see him is at 3:01 AM in a subway car I think is empty.

He doesn’t say much, just grabs one of my falling textbooks and lets me stumble in, reeking of sweat and alcohol. I thank him, but he is already putting his headphones on and sitting back down.

The second and third and fourth and all the other times in that first week are pretty much the same. I try to look over my notes from that day’s lectures, but somehow end up observing him. A large mole above his upper lip is a stark contrast to his pale skin and pencil-thin eyebrows. His hair, a shade more yellow than corn silk, dwarfs his pointed face, like a puppy with ears too big for its body.

He sits in the first car, right next to the doors, and extends his legs so his feet can tap rhythms against the pole, presumably of the music he’s listening to. His eyes are always slightly closed, but as soon as the train stops, they open, and his feet stop tapping, and he looks through the doors as if expecting someone to come in. No one ever does, except me. Every morning, he makes brief eye contact, nods, and then looks away. His stop is two before mine.

One morning, he doesn’t look up when I enter. Instead, his head flops over his collarbones, hair bouncing with the movement of the train. Sleeping. I try not to rustle the pages of my notes too much, but as his stop approaches and he still doesn’t stir, I give him a quick prod on the shoulder. He mumbles something and his body moves like he wants to roll over, but instead, he ends up sprawled on the floor. The doors open and he has just started to sit up, so I wrench him up, shove his knapsack into his hands, and practically throw him out the closing doors.

As the train lurches into motion again, I hear a faint “thank you” from outside.

The next day, he is asleep again. And the day after that. I try to wake him up as soon as I enter, but within a minute, his entire body droops. His mole is no longer the darkest thing on his face— it shares that title with two eye bags, which have been getting progressively darker. One Wednesday, out of desperation, I buy him a cup of coffee. He drains it in one gulp.

“Thanks.” His voice is low and raspy, like he’s recovering from a cold. “Sorry about the sleeping thing. I’ve even switched to rock music, but it doesn’t help.” He taps the side of his headphones.

“I actually think it makes it worse.”

Luckily for both of us, the coffee does its job. The fingers of his left hand twitch against his leg.

“So why are you up this late, anyways?” he says suddenly.

“I work at a bar,” I say. “You?”

79

“Insomnia. I compose best at night, anyways. Music,” he adds, seeing my expression. “It’s just a hobby though—I’m actually studying double bass.”

“Oh. Where?”

“Juilliard. My dad’s a conductor, so I’m basically obligated to like it. What about you?”

“NYU. Medicine.” The last word is acrid in my mouth.

He gives me a sideways look. “You sound excited about that.”

“My dad’s a surgeon. You would think, wouldn’t you?”

He hums. “So what are you interested in?” His fingers move faster, and I realize he’s air-playing his instrument. I swallow.

“I—baking. I like baking. I want to open a bakery, maybe.”

Graffiti on the walls zoom by in blurs of color. The train begins to slow. He nods and gets up.

“Nice. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Same time, same place?” I joke. He shoots me a thumbs up from the platform. The doors close.

He is wide awake when I see him the next day, and toting his own cup of something smelling of lemons. The coffee in my hand is rendered useless, and that sparks a story from him on when he broke his dad’s new car by filling the engine with coffee beans. Throughout the next two weeks, we fall into an easy schedule of eating and talking, and he occasionally lets me listen to his classical music.

He grew up in Massachusetts and is the youngest of four boys, all of whom have studied or are studying music. His father, as he mentioned before, is a conductor. His mother did play the viola, but got her arm paralyzed in a car accident and now manages a recording studio. He likes everything lemon-flavored and hates apples, except if they’re in pie. He has insomnia. When he was eight, his house was broken into, but only the bow of his double bass was stolen. His family likes calling him Alfalfa. His real name is Alfie—not Alfred, or Alfonso, just Alfie.

One day, we are so engrossed in conversation that he misses his stop and has to go off at mine. His apartment is close enough to get a lift to, but it is four in the morning, and we are both tired—that’s what I tell myself, anyway. I relegate him to the couch, but it is not two hours later when

I hear hammering on my bedroom door.

I open it. “What,” I say, slowly, “do you think you are doing.”

He blinks at me. A puppy. “Can we see the sunrise?”

80

We climb up four flights of stairs to the rooftop and maintain a seat’s worth of distance. The sun surges between the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges, making him look almost blinding, like a white-hot torch of hair that turns to me and says:

“I’m trying out for the New York Philharmonic soon.”

I almost think he’s joking. “That’s—that’s great? You sound excited?”

“Mostly terrified,” he admits. His hands ruffle his hair one way, then another. “I’ve wanted to play in it since I was little. It’s my only chance of anything.”

“No it’s not,” I tell him. “I’ve never heard you play, but I’m sure you’re amazing. You got into Juilliard. And your entire family is musical, so you’ve definitely got the genes for it.”

A flock of birds swoop past. Below, the wind ruffles the fast food bags crumpled on the ground.

“It’s not that,” he said finally. “It’s like, I’m not doubting my skill or anything, but if I don’t get in…I’m the only kid to get into Juilliard in my family. I can’t go anywhere else.”

“Will you be happy if you get in?”

“Of course. I’ll be one of the youngest. It’s a prestigious symphony. Of course.”

“Will you? Or will you just be happy because its reputation tells you to be?”

He laughs. “This is some awfully deep conversation for six in the morning.”

A pause, and then:

“Why don’t you?”

I squint at him. “Why don’t I what?”

“Do what you love.”

“I bake,” I say defensively. “Hygiene is…important to know when you’re starting a business.”

“Isn’t studying business better for starting a business? Unless you’re planning on only supplying first aid kits.”

“I—Medicine isn’t that bad—Stop giving that look!”

“What look? The one you were just giving me? The judgmental one?” he says, and his light-hearted tone drops. I look away.

“I’m under a lot of pressure, yeah, but at least it’s going to pay off for me in the end,” he continues. “I love the double bass. It’s my life. But you don’t want to be a doctor, or a nurse, or a researcher. You’re not made for that.”

“You don’t know that.” My voice is tinny. Delicate.

“Don’t I? You take your notes out every morning on the train, but never look at them. You’ll talk endlessly about a new recipe you found or the cute cupcake liners you got the other day, but the moment I ask you about your classes, you clam up. You hate it.”

“I don’t hate it, I say. “I don’t love it, but I can do it.”

“But why do that when you can do better? You can switch to business—it’s not too late.” He is looking at me and I am looking away.

81

“And what? Have my parents call me a failure? Cut me out of their lives?”

“Stop thinking about your parents. This is about you—“

“But it’s not,” I interrupt, voice growing in volume. “It’s really not. It’s about making my parents happy. I’ll be happy that they’re happy. That’ll be enough.”

“It won’t and you know it.”

Something breaks.

“What do you know?” I snarl at him. “What do you know? Nothing! You’ve had your entire life already determined before you were even born! Everything you have, you’ve gotten it handed to you on a platter! Your father is a famous conductor! Your mother was a famous viola player! All your brothers have gotten into Juilliard! You probably only got into it because—“

Here, I stop short. My words hang between the rays of sunlight between us. I am breathing hard. I do not finish my sentence. I count four seconds, five, six, seven—

He lets out a derisive laugh. “Well,” he says, and his voice is low and raspy, like the first time I met him, but crueler. “Well, what am I doing, worrying about some damn audition, when you’re standing right next to me? The audacity, isn’t that right?”

When I don’t say anything, he laughs again. “What a world we live in. I mean—“

“Shut up,” I say. My voice is raspy too, but in a different way. “Just shut up.”

Six floors below us, a car alarm goes off, but it isn’t enough to fill the silence. I breathe in, then out. I hear the sound of his boots on the concrete. Rocks skittering. Loud cursing. The alarm stopping. A door opening, and closing again.

---

82

November

The last time I see him is at 6:13 PM on a crowded subway car.

I don’t at first. I’m too busy trying not to spill my books everywhere while simultaneously grappling for balance. Every seat is taken; every inch of floor space is occupied. People sway like a sea of grain as the train picks up speed.

Beside me, a man is engrossed in an article about the latest presidential race, but another caption catches my eye. Alfie Henderson Second Youngest Ever to Join New York Philharmonic, it reads.

Below it is a photo of a man standing next to a double bass. It is in black and white, but my mind automatically fills in the colors—Pale skin. A dark mole. Hair a shade more yellow than corn silk.

The train screeches to a halt, and the resulting shuffle of people forces me into the center.

Someone bumps into me from behind, hard, and when I turn around, I am met with a shock of light hair against a dark coat.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hello.”

“Funny seeing you here again.”

He makes a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. His eyes are fixed on my books.

“That’s a lot of textbooks. Medicine?” He lifts his eyebrows but still doesn’t look at me.

“Ah—no. I, um, I switched majors. To business.”

The corners of his mouth lift up at the same time his head does. His hair doesn’t flop around anymore; he’s cut it.

“That’s great.”

“Yeah. I—Congrats on making it into the symphony.”

His smile widens. “You heard?”

“Yeah. You’re happy?”

“Yep. Headed off to practice right now, actually.”

“Your family must be so happy.”

“They are. Have you—Have you told yours? About your major?”

I let out a breathy laugh. “I’m going to in a few days. Over Thanksgiving. I got a job at a bakery, and I’m talking to the dean about culinary school, so I don’t think they’ll be too mad.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes warm.

The train begins to slow down. “Well, this is me,” I say. He nods as the doors open and people begin jostling around again.

“Good luck with everything,” he calls over the din.

“You too.” My voices floats briefly between us before being dissolved in the chaos. He smiles and raises a hand.

The doors close. I stand on the platform until the train melts into the darkness, and long after.

83

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Ally Wynne

84

Imagine if I Were a Statue Sebastian Castro

I would probably be sitting, Legs carefully crossed, The rusty freckles dotting my gray complexion And breathing life into my lifeless form.

I would be so still, So quiet, I would almost hear The indifference of pedestrians.

I would demand a casual respect, My frozen pride Refusing to be undercut By the pigeon shit on my shoulder.

85

Benjamin Franklin Gets Grabbed Quinn Simpkins

86

a poem about things Sebastian Castro

(haha nice original title that pokes fun at the seriousness of other literature) weird how pretty words can make up for a lack of substance but i dont have pretty words so what i say is invalid and this piece is BROKEN its rare to find something so fundamentally BROKEN huh to be clear this one sure is BROKEN in all caps because it has nothing of value or substance or a deeper meaning unless you make one up mmm SATIRE oh aren’t i so smart and cynical haha i make fun of everything but wait theres more because this isnt real SATIRE because im not saying anything IMPORTANT im just making fun of something but adding nothing of my own but wait theres even more because that self-deprecation can be seen as SATIRE so in the end im really just a genius again but even more so because im so confident that i can say outrageous things like that oh look at that im layers deep now and i called myself out for making fun of myself man arent i smart and self-aware ooh everythings meaningless but everybody pretends that they MATTER except me which makes me MATTER more than them wow look at that this can go on forever but we all know that the end result is that im super smart because im not and i know it enough to be really smart so by this point its a waste of time to elaborate so why dont you go read about something important. its not like it MATTERS

87

HB2 P41N7 C1455 Anthony Mao

88

Raging Sea

Rosha Chittuluru [Verse 1: Am F C G] I stare at the ocean Wishing you were here The sand beside me is empty And the future seems unclear [Pre-C 1: C G Am F] I try to take a step But the water is too deep I feel myself fall Slowly to my knees [Chorus 1: C G Am F] You said you’d be there to save me But yet I float away And I’m stuck in the middle Of this raging sea ahead [Verse 2: Am F C G] And I can’t help but think How much warmer it would be If you were sitting here Watching the sea with me [Pre-C 2: C G Am F] I take another step But the currents pullin’ on me Here I am again Slipping out to sea [Chorus 2: C G Am F] You said you’d be there to save me But yet I float away And I’m stuck in the middle Of this raging sea ahead 89

[Bridge: Am C Em G] I try to stay afloat But I’m drowning in this blue I just can’t keep up No matter what I do [Chorus 3: C G Am F] You said you’d be there to save me But yet I float away And I’m stuck in the middle Of this raging sea ahead [Chorus 4: C G Am F] I look around for you But you’re nowhere to be found But I’m stuck in the middle If this raging sea around

To listen to this song, scan the QR code!

90

Naiad

Brooke Pellegrini

91

Jackalope

Brooke Pellegrini

A note from the artist: "In my concentration, I take mythological creatures and cryptids and recreate them in a graphic, dreamlike manner. Through my use of pen, watercolor, and gouache, as well as experimentation with acrylic and colored pencil, I portray my already mystical subjects with vivid color, expression, and interaction with the viewer to create a surrealist effect." —Brooke Pellegrini

92

The Love I Keep Kavya Singh

The truth is I enjoy dreaming of dancing in the snow, kissing beneath the stars, and loving you until the end of time.

My heart dances on these silly little tunes, for each song I sing is simply an escape from our reality.

Blame my romantic heart, beating to these lies, breathing on such clichés, for it can’t get enough of this poison, we call hope.

Yet, I don’t mind dancing in the fire and burning into ash-the warmth feels like snow, the pain sings like love, and the flames light like stars.

And as I burn into oblivion, I dance my last song with you, with the feeling of loving someone even if you won’t love me too.

93

Ophelia

Kayoung Kim

94

Anahita

Kavya Singh Anahita didn’t know how to swim.

Every time she’d enter the lake behind her house, she’d float like paper before transforming into metal— sinking like the cries of a baby: loud and noticed. Her vision would blur and her lungs would fill with the very poison she’d try to defy. Even after all her private lessons with her father, Anahita always lost to the hands of water and gravity.

In her mind, the water was like quicksand. The more she tried to break free, the faster she was pulled down. Rather than saving herself, she’d bring herself closer to death. Every time she neared the cage they’d set up for her, her father’s hands would save her from her imprisonment.

And every time she got out, she’d go back in.

She’d run back into the clear water against the cries of her father and float before falling into the torturous arms of the lake. Because for those few seconds of tranquility, Anahita would lose herself in the sky, mesmerized by the blanket of blue, like a painted scenery from her mother’s work. Her fingers would trace the odd transformations of clouds as her imagination would create images that simply weren’t there. She’d lay there, the wind grazing against her skin like a trail of kisses, soft and delicate, and for once, she’d feel the calmness she was calling for.

Then a crack in the quiet, a shatter of peace, and a break in the beauty—the water would grab Anahita with its cold hands, entrapping her with its harsh grip as it would pull her down.

Transforming into a vicious monster, Anahita would feel the water pressing against her body, caving in on her from all angles. Her lungs would fill up with the poison as her heart would begin to weaken, slowly drowning on its own before stopping. Her legs would violently kick, like a baby being held in the arms of stranger. Her arms would swing and flail, trying to cling onto the air she so desperately needed to survive.

As time would go on and her movements would begin to slow, her body would stop fighting against the painful truth. Silence would surround her as her body slowly fell into the prison the lake had made for her.

And with her departure, Anahita would observe the speckled sun surface above her. She’d see the rays of the sun dance underneath the water and glisten like delicate stars in the night. And before she’d surrender herself into the darkness, to the prison made just for her, Anahita would feel rough, familiar hands bring her back up into life. The image she had painted in her head would disappear as the ripples of the water would distort the picture and the sound of silence would be replaced by a panicking voice, shaking like her failing attempts to live, that belonged to her father.

95

She’d cough. Spit out water. Feel her crumbled lungs come back to life. Hear her heart drain the toxic liquid.

And then she’d look at her father and smile, thinking the same thing she thought every time her father saved her: Again.

Anahita didn’t know how to swim.

But drowning? She’d become an expert.

Sunnyside Out Anthony Mao

96

Burdened Laila Norford

my soul does not belong in my body my body does not belong to me i can see my hands but not feel what they touch i can look into my eyes but not recognize myself i wish my body were clay so i could take away from places and add to others mold the curves and edges into my curves and edges my soul should be free floating on the wind but my body drags it down to the ground where i must be seen as my body and not as me

97

Hands

Mady Dudrear 98

Morning

Anna Kovarick (a found poem taken from “A Christmas Memory� by Truman Capote) An orange balances on the horizon: Morning.

The path unwinds to the farther shore and Enthusiasm sheds as though we were approaching An ocean Handsome as a sunset And rich as a silver star.

Knee-deep water above our heads, We droop like weighty ornaments Clasped together.

Lauren

99

Gabi Miko

The Kitchen Table Laila Norford

Eight feet long, four feet across, three feet high, surrounded by six vibrantly colored chairs, a reminder of energy and excitement even when all that can be seen through the surrounding windows are bare trees and crumbling leaves. Its solid oak is filled with accidental knife notches and glitter remnants of crafts past, usually covered by a seasonal tablecloth or runner. Though it sits empty for twenty-two hours each day, the kitchen table is a reminder of the spirit that envelops my household.

Every night around seven o’clock, after a call of “Dinner’s ready!”, all five members of my family—six if you count the cat—flock to the table to enjoy my mother’s latest dish, the smell of which has clung to my clothing all day. Each one of us brings a day full of stories, activities, stressors, and achievements to the table, ready for an hour of playful banter and political discussion, jokes that make my mom laugh to tears (a rare occasion), and, of course, the savory taste of salt and spice and love, all in one bowl.

Occasionally, the kitchen table enjoys greater company. For parties, as many chairs as possible are squeezed around it, rendering it invisible under the heaping plates of food and from behind the heads of twelve giggling, gossiping teenage girls. On Thanksgiving, the table becomes a jigsaw puzzle of the countless dishes brought by fifteen or more family members. The smells of creamy pumpkin soup, lemony rice, and buttery mashed potatoes float into the air to create a single scent of temptation. Collective stomach rumbling is audible, even over the laughter and shouting that is inevitable with so many people in one room. By Christmas, half of the table is colonized by a hodgepodge of cookie tins, concealing irresistibly scrumptious product of multiple days of teamwork, floured aprons, and neglect of the possibility of salmonella poisoning.

Three hours from now, the kitchen will turn warm with the working of the oven, and the aroma of a freshly made meal (who knows what it will be?) will float through the air, causing my stomach to remind me that it is time to go upstairs to set the table so that another dinner of laughter and love—of celebration of family—may occur.

100

Greece Photo Reflection Isabelle Burns

101

"So much of Greece, especially Athens, is plagued by this conflict between the vibrancy of Greek culture (pride, joy, expression) and the economic crisis (debt, tax evasion, homelessness) that the country is currently experiencing." —Isabelle Burns

102

structural integrity Laura Liu

shrubs line the unpaved roads on your arms, bumpy, crossed with stitches, like our star-crossed love. i still have the cheap medical kit you bought at the drugstore down the street when you wanted to learn how to stitch your life together— you practiced on yourself. soon, you wanted stitch everything back together— the frayed clothing, the chipped marble counters, the overgrown lawn— but never us. someday, i’ll drive along the bridges you built without looking at the water. the metal handrails will whisper to me, and i will look at them and think they are just perfect for wrapping hands around, and for letting go— i will think, but i will not know. i will look, but i will not be drawn in as you once were. i will look instead at the horizon, and i will cross the bridge and never look back— 103

i will not be tempted by you again.

Man in Doorway Gabi Castro

104

On A Home Laura Liu

The first noticeable object is a whiteboard, shining with the glare of a light, hanging above a table seared from a lack of placemats. It contrasts the fading floral wallpaper—one of the many reminders of the house’s first resident. Other reminders can be seen in the rutted floor where a rocking chair used to be, or the embroidered plaque that reads “Necessary Room” hanging haphazardly in the bathroom, or the strange French wallpaper downstairs of cartoon women with cartoonish beauty marks and cartoonishly large breasts. The first resident is in a senior living home now. The family that moved in after is still living in her seventy-year shadow.

The green lights above the oven flip to 2-4-8. A girl appears and shoulders her backpack onto one of the kitchen chairs—there are three, but only two are ever used at a time. She notes that its seams are coming apart. She can’t mention it to her parents, though, because they had already told her, proudly, that the chairs withstood Florida and Alabama and now Pennsylvania, all in the span of twenty years. Same with the off-white microwave, huddled between two cutting boards and a water jug.

The girl shoves a chair out of the way and stands too close to the whiteboard, close enough to get snapped at by her mother. She does it now because she is alone.

The words she writes are red—red, because black and blue are fading, and green likes to stick around for longer than it is welcome. After she notes her homework for the night, she sits down in the middle chair. She usually chooses the one on the end, closest to the patio door, but the middle one gives more space to spread everything out. She is facing a large window with streak marks on it from countless faces and hearts and the like drawn on it when it fogs up. The view opens into an unkempt backyard that her mother is always nagging her father to liven.

The lights flip to 6-0-5. The entire house rumbles and squeaks as the parents arrive, and the girl heaves herself up and transports her setup to the dining room table, using creative placing to accommodate the stacks of books already there. Plates of food are set on the emptied table; the father squints at the whiteboard as if it would help him understand it; the mother comes in after, swoops the plates off the table, and wipes it down; and the girl moves everything back in again.

1-1-0-3. The mother, who has retreated upstairs, citing a headache, reappears, hovering, asking when the girl will be done. The hum of a basketball game quiets as the father emerges from the den, gulps down his pills, and shuffles upstairs, staring steadily at a tablet. The mother sniffs at the both of them and disappears again.

1-1-0-8. A laptop closes and papers are shuffled and a backpack is zipped up. The hanging light is yanked into darkness.

6-2-8. The girl reappears. She plops down at her chair and eats her breakfast. At 6-3-9, she gets up and brushes her teeth and leaves.

The garage door rumbles once more. The refrigerator shudders a little and hums on.

105

Where Am I From?

Elizabeth Holton

I am from stories of strangers, From restaurant kitchens and delivery trucks.

I am from the baby book filled with unknown names and faces, solemn and grim.

I am from a place of regret, from the desire to erase the past, which burns fervently in the arms of a drifter.

I’m from planes and pop bottles, From questions with no answers.

I’m from almosts and maybes That come with colossal consequence if they were to differ.

I am from one shoe to no food, Tea cups and new families.

From the bearer so far, To the mother so close, yet not true.

Along the way there came a light, With a new beginning, A purpose that was trivial for the moment But would soon be indispensable to life.

I am from the unknown-For good reason, May never find me.

106

107

expectation Angeline Ma

chiffon gazes wrapped up in the cotton cries of midnight lit from within by its own urgency a star impatient to burn suffocated silence stretched tight over your mouth you’re used to it never mind that as a child your dreams bloomed far and wide soft and stubborn and infantile egg yolk before you so easily reached for shame and your heart where i last left it was raw from the burning eyes of God

No Direction Mady Dudrear

108

Restoration Hardware 109

Anthony Mao

entropy

Angeline Ma the trees take a breath their last one yet winter advances, hat in hand no time for the ramblings of a tired old woman (much too busy, sorry dear, perhaps tomorrow) sky boiling to a salmon-blue blend seared by the sun resolute at the center darkness elongated; we await the sun much-needed omen guiding the world that knows not what to do.

110

To You Anonymous

I

love you.

I hope you know that. I know my mouth never says it and it seems as if I hardly ever show it, but I hope you know that I do. I know we rarely talked and granted most of it is my fault, but even when we were wrapped in silence or simply on opposite ends of the world or room, I was always thankful you were there. Even when you were sitting outside your window watching the sunset as I watched it rise, waiting for a simple phone call from me, I’d hope you know that I do love you.

I know you wished I kept in touch more often and it always broke me whenever I heard your voice through the phone, always excited and happy when answering. How? I never understood and don’t think I ever will. You’d ask how I was, how school was treating me, and when the simple questions were done you’d begin to praise me, stating nonsense like I’d get into a great school or that I have a lot of potential and my favorite, that I will always be successful. You’d bless me with happiness and success, always ending the call with, “Keep calling, okay?”

And I’d always lie, saying, “I will.”

I guess I was never great with promises because rather than giving you weekly calls, they turned monthly or in most cases, every three months. My disappointment in myself would always increase, waiting for some sort of lecture, a string of words that’d make me break, but I’d always be greeted with happiness and excitement. But I guess those were the string of words that broke me. My excuses were always the same, yet you never questioned them. I never understood how you could hold me up on such a high pedestal when everything I screamed was disappointment.

After some time, you simply asked me to email you. Your demand was for me to simply tie a few words together and press send so that you’d have something to read. You always did enjoy my writing and to be honest, I never understood why. I still don’t. I found myself lucky to have at least one person who thought I held talent, but you were across the world, after all. You were oblivious to the gifted people who attended the same school as me.

Even though you’re gone, I can hear your aged voice echoing throughout the house as your radio station quietly whispers into the air. I can picture you in your wrinkled plaid shirt with your eyes either on the broken iPad on your hand or the stained newspaper in front of you, reading an article about economics or something political.

You always did have an interest in the current events.

111

I remember your pictures from your travels around the world, your tone of excitement whenever I told you my small accomplishments and the love and adoration that you held for me. It always saddened me to know that I’ll never hold the same faith in myself as you do for me, to not hold the same joy as you did for me. But you should know no one else held the same thoughts for me as you. No one else held the belief that I could do it, yet you did.

I guess what I wish to also say is I’m sorry. For someone who’s never lost someone, I took time for granted.

I thought we still had a couple of years left. I thought we still had the ability to make a few more memories. I thought there would be more family photos to add to our album of pictures. I thought you’d be there at my graduation, watching me go from an innocent baby who could barely crawl to a woman who finally grew up.

I thought you’d still be here.

But here I am, sitting in my room writing to you words I thought I’d get the chance to say. I don’t know how the afterlife works, I don’t know if your eyes will ever see this, but if they do, if somehow your eyes land on this letter that’s sort of a mess, I hope you know the truth. Even if I never said it, even if I stayed quiet and simply hid away, I hope you know.

I love you.

Garden of Love

Brooke Pellegrini 112

‘Do Danica Merrill

R

egardless of time or place, if you ask a woman about her hair, she will have a story to tell.

Hair, and the care of it, is intensely personal. It becomes a ritual unique to each woman. It’s also a collective act of spirit—whole communities of family and friends forming an expression of body and art. Hairstyles build empires and personas; I’ve been working on mine since I was about eight years old, the first time that someone compared the thicket springing from my scalp to Hermione Granger’s legendary bush. Although my hair is not my whole identity, it is an undeniable expression of self and a constant malleable projection of my condition. To explain, allow me to set the scene.

I was born with more hair than is usual. From my abnormally abundant locks as an infant to the waist-length tangle I had achieved by the sixth grade, I have always exceeded any and all expectations of what seems a typical or even reasonable amount of hair. Not only was it thick and long at my tender age of eleven years, but it also curled in heat and frizzed in humidity and in order to maintain any recognizable level of tameness it had to be straightened each morning by my mother and a hot iron. This daily regime was as hateful to me as is any enforced grooming practice on antsy and impatient children. It grew to the point where rising early every day to have my hair yanked and fried was simply intolerable—not to mention, I tired of strangers fondling and cooing over it. So I decided to put my foot down.

From my earliest memories of childhood, I was (and still am) impressed by the stunning image Emma Watson maintains. Hence, in an avalanche of inspiration, I hung my heart on capturing for myself her charming close-cut style. My mother, on the other hand, was not so smitten when I sprung the idea on her at dinner. From her place across the kitchen table, speaking to me over my sixth grade math worksheets, she warned of the message the haircut may convey. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Mommy, can I get a pixie cut?

Her: No! You don’t want people to think…you know…

Me: What?

Her: That you’re, you know, [glancing around, and in a lowered voice] playing for the … other team.

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I was confused not only by her vague phrasing (not understanding such delicate euphemisms in my pure and innocent state), but, after her meaning dawned on me, also by the strange notion that lopping off a bunch of dead cells could somehow alter my identity. I hadn’t yet considered what I know now—presentation is everything. Now, a good haircut makes me a new woman. I stand taller, stare straight, talk first, and aim my mind with renewed vigor. Often, a change in hair reflects a change in self, but it can also spur a change that I want to make—I can create a persona for myself and then live it. I look in the mirror and see a version of myself who embodies my aspirations.

When I was eleven years old, coming to the realization that I possess my own self, short hair was the passageway I needed to navigate me from child to young woman. My mother and I compromised with a short bob—yet even with this alteration, people treated me differently—more mature.

That was the small start I needed to see myself in a different light as well.

My next challenge after length was form. Still—still—my curls didn’t cut it. My mother— and therefore I—perceived my natural kinks as sloppy, so she carried on the daily straightening. High school, in all of its wild and diverse glory, introduced me to the concept of free will. For beauty’s sake, or for normality, or for some other person’s conceptual comfort—none of these reasons seemed sufficient obstacles any longer. I decided to wear my hair as I pleased, whether that be close-cropped or tied back or a different shade or scribbled about my face like a preschooler’s artistic interpretation of how a girl might look. This concept—that I am in possession of myself and therefore have ownership of my own presentation—is particularly difficult to internalize, and it doesn’t come naturally to me. I try to disregard offense by my existence. But that doesn’t mean I can’t straighten my hair once in awhile, if I want to.

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rice bowl ii Angeline Ma

of course i remember, back when you were so young, before you learned how to erase the breath of life in each word. i used to scold you when you crushed each grain with the tip of your chopsticks, but we giggled together all the same. being with you then made me feel like a child again, naïve and still beguiled by the gleaming surfaces of the world. sometimes the memory of your laugh, untainted by insecurity and guilt, still resonates in my mind. a souvenir of a time gone by, when i still had the luxury to be afraid of the inevitable. even now i feel exposed, soul-naked: do you know what i am thinking, what i have thought? and when we sit silently sipping zhou every night, i wonder the same about you: what are you thinking? but i’m proud of you, child, don’t for a second think otherwise. never forget the story behind it all: a thing as simple as a bowl of rice has its own history. don’t let them take that away from you. don’t let them take your history away from you.

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A Still Life Anthony Mao

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Mothman

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Brooke Pellegrini

Dread

Madeline Murphy Dread had always been a good runner.

Zooming through crowds of pedestrians, past stoplights, and with the hurried bustle of cars, her sneakers pounded against concrete so fast that figures blurred into mere silhouettes.

Dread could outrun any opponent, even if they had an hour head start.

While her predilection for overly baggy, overly dark clothes allowed her to seep into the shadows, when you finally spotted her in a crowd, the intensity of her gaze filled you with such anticipation, such doubt, that the only thing you could cling onto was her startling, gray eyes.

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Speeding

Mady Dudrear

Safe Driving

J

Danica Merrill

ust past the tops of the trees, stealthy and subtle as the first breath of spring come to melt winter’s frost, dawn creeps across the sky. Her rosy cheeks, fresh and ripe, blush the clouds. The dark inky depths of night lighten, retreating rapidly as she surges forward. I watch the pale newborn sky shed nighttime’s armor to reveal raw pink skin, turning the road ahead of me from chalky graphite to a sun-blessed.

Day hovers on the edge of appearing, feeble and hardly there at first, then stronger and stronger until all together the rich ripe sun, juicy as a blood orange, bursts over the tree line and bathes the country in sweet golden juice.

It drips across my dashboard and across my knuckles, locked on the wheel; it drips across my tense shoulders and tired eyes and I squint to keep them open.

Slowly, as slowly as the dawn’s inception, I let morning’s bright entrance relax my muscles and refresh my stagnant joints. Finally, night is over. I made it through.

Ten minutes pass, then a half hour, then an hour. Quickly, the road around me fills with traffic— morning people on their way to morning jobs, slow and sleepy as they suck down coffee and muffins and think about their rent checks and the work ahead of them. Like a slick silver fish skirting rocks in the current, I dart past their shiny sedans and bright young minivans. After I get past the city, just as the orange glow of early

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morning is being replaced by the steadier butter hue of mid-morning, traffic thins out until I am left alone again on the roads.

I find my stomach growling and I scan the signs plastering the freeway for an exit. Eleven miles ahead: a posted sign with a fork and knife on it. I cross to the far right lane and, with hunger motivating me, step on the gas.

The exit takes me into a town I’ve never heard of before. A signpost as I get off the freeway tells me that its population sits comfortably at 352. I follow the state-posted guides straight to the center of town, where the buildings seem most dense.

I pass a few cavernous warehouses, their windows dull and flat as fish eyes. On the main road, running from the freeway to the back edge of the town, I pass a boarded-up Blockbuster, a small cigar shop, two pharmacies, a Quik-E Mart, and, finally, a small diner. I do not pass any other cars, or any people.

At least the glowing morning light adds some semblance of color to this gaunt town; it is not as grim as I imagine it must be on an overcast day. I am glad I did not stop here during the night. I am glad for the pristine, cloudless sky.

Pulling into the empty gravel lot, I take no notice of the name of the diner. It doesn’t matter to me; the information is as worthless and flat as every detail I encounter. Forget the name, forget the road that led me there, forget everything that is not in the moment I am in.

When I cut the engine, a small part of my life suddenly vanishes. It has been a long time that I’ve listened to the dull roar of the pistons churning, that I’ve felt the dim vibration behind my stomach and knees.

Without it my body feels suddenly and violently stopped, like I’ve been thrown against a wall. In the passenger seat next to me is a black baseball cap; I put it on, flatten my hair under it. Dark-tinted sunglasses are in the glove box. Those go on as well.

My stomach twists, partly with hunger and partly with anxiety. But it’s been a long time since I last ate, and I need to refuel. I get out of the car, lock it. Double check that I locked it.

Dehydrated Queen Annes in black plastic tubs, probably the ones that they were purchased in, line the cracked cement walk leading to the doorway. The flowers tug a thread in my memory, but I ignore the sensation and push open the glass door.

At first, I think the diner must be closed, despite it being unlocked. Although the space is small, I see no one and the lights are off. Then, I notice a crack of fluorescent glow on the floor near the counter at the front: a light on in the kitchen. On the counter is a small bell, one of the ones you tap. I tap it and wait.

A moment later, a woman pushes open the kitchen door and comes up behind the counter.

“Can I help you?”

She is older than me, with prominent streaks of gray running through her ashy blonde hair. She wears a dark blue waitress’s uniform, edged with white. There’s a grease stain over her right breast and she brings with her the heavy scent of fried onions.

“Table for one, please,” I say. The diner is empty.

She nods and reaches under the counter for a menu, hands it to me. “Sit anywhere you like,” she tells me. “My name is—” But I’ve stopped listening. Instead, I’m staring across the empty diner, vinyl seats and wobbly tables on linoleum, to the booth in the far right corner, diagonal from the door I came in through.

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An old man, looking anywhere from sixty to eighty-five, is slumped over a plate of scrambled eggs. His elbow, cloaked in a heavy dark green jacket, rests on the table, and his open palm supports one withered cheek.

I see his sunken chest, nearly buried in the shadow of the jacket, rise and fall with the steady rhythm of deep sleep. His scrambled eggs are steaming hot; I can see the vapor trembling and swirling in the breeze from his exhale.

I look back at the waitress. She is still speaking to me. “…and I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready.

Just holler.”

I nod and she leaves.

For a minute, I stand, unsure. There’s nowhere for me to sit where I can see the man but he can’t see me. And for some reason, I want to be able to see him. I want him in my sight.

After a brief hesitation, I relent and pick the first booth along the wall with the entrance, close to the counter and directly opposite where the old man sits. Although I sit with my back to him, I can still see his shape in the reflection on the chrome paneling of the counter; it is greasy and smudged and spotted with rust, but I can see him.

The menu holds exactly the kind of plain diner food I would expect a place like this in a town like this at this crux along the freeway to offer. I decide on a plate of eggs, sunny side up, with two sausages and grits. I need protein to keep me awake and alert.

Not knowing the waitress’s name, I bite my lip and stand up again to ring the bell on the counter.

How did it not wake the man the first time I rang it? I don’t want him to wake up.

My finger hovers over the lever for several seconds. As I am about to ring it, the waitress suddenly reenters the dining area, startling me.

“Know what you want?” she says.

“Yes,” I say, and tell her my order.

Wordlessly, she takes my menu and tucks it under the counter, coming back up with a coffee pitcher instead. “Decaf or regular?”

“Regular,” I say, although I am not looking not at her but at a tiny dial-operated television set on a cabinet behind the counter. “Do you mind if I watch that?”

“What? Oh.” Her gaze follows mine. “Sure. I’ll put it on the counter for you.” She lifts it up next to her, and as she replaces the coffee under the counter, she tells me, “Turn the dial to switch channels. Watch whatever, just know we only get a few networks and the emergency alert station.”

I thank her and she returns to the kitchen. I hear the clicking of a gas stove firing up; she must be the cook as well.

The television takes two tries to turn on; the first time, the screen merely shimmers for a moment with bright blue stripes sliding up and down the surface before going dark again. The second time, the picture flickers to life with an eerie pop, shapes dancing across the screen in false, hypercolor vividness. Thinking of the sleeping old man, I turn the volume all the way down and switch on the subtitles. Onscreen, a salmon-colored preacher in a live studio TV set waxes on the perils of modern life, warning watchers of the impending second coming. I switch the channel.

It’s not long before I find what I want; as the waitress said, there are very few stations that serve this area. I tune in to a major news network and return to my booth with the coffee.

For a while, I only pay half attention, absorbed as I am by my hunger pains. I feel a little light-headed; the waitress is a slow cook. I curse her silently and will the preparation to go faster.

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F inally, she brings out my meal—a plate of staple American breakfast foods, frozen then fried and greased to their lukewarm peak of possibility. I set upon it greedily.

As I chew my sausage, rubbery and tasteless but wonderfully filling, the newscaster onscreen issues a silent call to viewers: breaking news. I watch his plasticky mouth open and close, forming silent words, gawping like a fish. The subtitles flashing across the bottom of the screen tell me what he is saying, transposed from the content editor to my brain without the obnoxious filter of the newscaster’s cheery voice.

I pick out a few phrases, ignoring the useless words and fillers the newscaster injects into his lines.

“Car found,” I read. “State police still looking…headed across the border…destination unknown…highly unstable…”

I stop reading and look at the picture, transposed into the top right hand corner of the screen. I’ve always wondered how they get those pictures of people that they put on the news. The eyes stare straight out at me. Familiar eyes.

The picture swells to fill the whole screen, though the newscaster keeps talking, his words streaming across the bottom. I read them in full this time.

“If you have any information regarding this situation, please call your local police immediately.”

Those eyes seem too real—I can feel them on me like flesh. I swallow grits and they stick in my throat like a dense lump of fear.

That’s when I happen to glance down—not at my plate, or my empty mug of coffee, but only a few inches below the television and those eyes that fill the screen. I glance down at the chrome paneling on the diner counter, and I see another set of eyes looking right into mine. A bolt of electricity convulses my spine.

We stare at each other’s reflection for too long. He shouts, “Sugar!”

I start. My fingers twitch toward the keys in my pocket. What does he want from me? Does he want… sugar? For me to bring him some?

Then the kitchen door opens and the waitress emerges. “What is it?”

“Sugar, I’ll have the bill now, if you please.” His voice is just as cracked and dusty as the rest of him.

“Sure thing,” Sugar says, and pulls her notepad from the pocket of her uniform. As she crosses the room to his booth, I think, of course. Her name is Sugar. She told me that.

Sugar stops at my table on her way back to the kitchen. “Still working on that?” I nod and she disappears, holding the old man’s empty plate.

I look at that plate, slick with grease from the eggs, until it disappears behind the door. How long has he been awake?

Although I know what’s coming, I still dread it. I hear the old man rise from his booth, gather his things. He walks up the aisle between my booth and the tables in the middle of the room slowly, a papery sack of bones and skin.

He pauses next to me, and my heart stops. He keeps walking to the counter and I breathe again.

Now, on his head, is one of those straw hats that fishermen always seem to wear in the movies. It’s pulled down low over his eyes, those eyes that startled me as I watched other eyes on the television. The old man rifles through the pockets in his big, dark green jacket, and pulls out a five dollar bill. In my peripheral vision, as I stare dutifully down at my plate of grits, I see him glance at the television, then back at me. My breath catches again—his eyes are too intense, to scrutinizing on me to be comfortable.

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“Watching the news?” he asks, casual, rough, a question obvious enough for me to know that he is not casual at all.

I look up part of the way, keeping my head down low enough that he can’t see what little of my face remains unobscured. I nod.

He grunts. “See that segment a bit ago? With the police?” I stay quiet. “All this commotion going on…someone on the loose…”

Again, he looks at me, but still I say nothing. “Good thing we got the police.” His tone is solemn, but something in it seems like mockery to me, like his very voice is winking conspiratorially. I do not like it.

Sugar comes out again and takes the bill from him, but he pays her no mind. “Where you headed?” he asks me.

“North,” I say.

He nods, rocking back on his heels. “No need for change,” he says to Sugar. Walking to thedoor, he pauses briefly to rest his hand on the back of the bench opposite mine. Sugar is gone. Back into the kitchen, I suppose.

“Strange things are happening,” he tells me. “Careful out there.” He gestures vaguely to the outside.

A bell tinkles as he pushes open the door to leave. “Safe driving,” he says, over his shoulder, and is gone.

I feel relief at his absence, sharp and sweet like ice cubes melting on parched tongues. My grits are gone, I stand up. I should call for Sugar to bring the bill but I want to leave as quickly as possible. On the counter, I leave a ten—more than enough for what I ordered. When she hears the bell as I push open the door Sugar will think I ran, until she sees the money.

I start up the car again, the familiar rumble soaking into my body and shaking out the strangeness of the diner. Out of the gravel lot, out of the nameless town, out of the exit ramp and back onto the open freeway.

The sun, so fresh and vibrant in its incipience, has withered as it climbed the sky. The light in my car, on my chest and hands and seatbelt, is not as poignant as before.

I shift into the next gear and feel the clunk of the engine powering through me. I drive on and forget what I used to know.

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Matthew 16:27 Jeffrey Gao

A growth of vines and leaves encase the stone walls of our house, suffocating each cobbled brick in sinewy tendrils. It’s hard to know if there is even wall underneath the chaotic sprawlings of woody stems. But by the time daylight stretches, preparing for the wet season, the mass undergoes a magnificent metamorphosis. Budding and blossoming, magentas replace the former evergreens. Linteras rosadas. Pink lanterns.

They blossomed on Sunday, the side of our house painted pink. God has done the impossible, I thought, he has graced us with such a beautiful arrangement of vibrancy. I walked to the wall, picking a couple and handing them to Mother. She pinned them behind the saddle of her ear.

We crossed the field to the white building. Mother hummed a song that her grandmother used to sing. The melody synced with her footsteps, and every few seconds, she would twirl around, dancing to an invisible beat to which only she knew the rhythm.

Mother loved Sundays, and although the church was far, she happily walked the entire length of the road that connected our huts to the church. I, on the other hand, trudged along, swatting at bugs and readjusting my breechcloth as the tropical sun burned my neck and nose. I craved for another bowl of sugar-sweetened porridge as I walked alongside Mother.

When we arrived, a few people had already started to seat themselves; it was not a large crowd, twenty or so. The priest, an old Spanish man with wrinkles that exposed his age, started as soon as everyone sat down. He began with the kyrie. Lord, have mercy, he began, singing passionately in a breathy voice that complemented his wrinkles. We repeated after him. Forgive us Lord for we are all sinners…

Then, a banging. The clash of metal on wood. Heads turned in unison. No infant dared to cry. No child dared to complain. No man dared to bow his head in prayer.

The priest piped up. “Madam! How lovely it is to have you. And to whom do we owe the pleasure?” The master and his wife—the Garcías—stood proudly, clubs in hand like scepters. The lady—and in that moment she was a lady—gestured toward a woman sitting a few rows from us.

The pointed-at woman wore a polished silver bracelet, looking uncharacteristically regal on her dark, slender wrist. Mother took in a silent breath when she noticed, acknowledging the situation to come.

Looking intently forward, the woman attempted to hide it, taking it off and, in her haste, accidentally dropping it to the stone floor. The clanging lasted a full second as the already quiet room became even quieter. The husband did not say anything but walked toward the woman, grabbing her arm and forcing her out of the pew. There was no struggle.

When the Garcías had left and the doors had closed, the priest immediately returned to his sermon, preaching on the miracles of various angels. Outside, we heard the cries, the shrieks, the thuds of clubs hitting skin. Still, even as he recited God’s word, we were silent.

Inviting us to bow our heads in prayer, the priest thanked God for our attendance and hard work. By the time we lifted our heads in closing, the shrieking had stopped. Amen, said the priest.

Amen, we repeated.

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Cover in Quotes: A Clockwork Orange 125

Thomas Jenson

Nonchalant Noah Lanouette

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Strike 3

Aryaj Kumar

Michael glanced at his watch. It flashed 5:32 PM. Exactly 32 minutes ago he had blew the game. He was pitching the final inning, and his team was leading by one. With just one minute left, it was looking for sure as a victory. The final batter stepped up to the plate, and though Michael’s arm was tired, he knew he could get through one more player. He wound up for his first pitch, and let the ball fly, straight down the middle. A swing and a miss. Strike one. Michael looked at his catcher, he put down two fingers. Curveball. With a swift motion, he threw the second pitch. The batter moved out of the box, fearing he was going to be hit. He was mistaken as the Umpire called strike two. Just one pitch remained, and the game was over. Michael would lead his team to the playoffs. The catcher put down one finger, and Michael got ready to throw his fastball. But something went wrong. The pitch flew out of the strike zone, and the Umpire called out “Ball one”. Confused, Michael did the same pitch again. Another ball. He attempted his signature fastball again, and again. He knew he had to make the final pitch, so he pitched it softly, going for accuracy. But the batter took advantage, and smashed the slow pitch out of the park. The batter and the runner on second both racked in two points, barely winning the game. Michael saw the other team break into celebration as they stormed the field and began yelling and cheering. He looked over to his own team, and felt the disappointment radiate from the team he had failed. The coach put a hand on his shoulder, and told him it was alright because “we all make mistakes”. Michael knew those were just words of pity, and that was why he was still on the field, long after the game ended. He set up a target at the batters box so he would know if he was hitting the strike zone. With a bucket full of baseballs, Michael began to pitch, throwing one after another. It seemed futile; he was failing. All his fast pitches were missing the target.

The sky roared with thunder, and it began to rain. But he wouldn’t let the rain stop him. As the sky thundered, and lightning sparingly struck, Michael began to get more furious. He looked down to see three balls left in the bucket. Visions of the game flashed through his head where he could have ended the game on the third pitch. Angrily grabbing the first ball, Michael tried to focus on his target. He grabbed the ball, wound up, and threw it with all his might, hitting the strike zone. Strike one. Lightning struck in the background. With the second to last ball, he used the same focus before and aimed straight for the center this time. The ball missed the center only barely, but still marked strike two as another bolt of lightning struck in the background, closer this time. Not satisfied, Michael picked up the last ball, aiming straight for the center. He yelled as he hurled the ball, which hit the center of the strike box perfectly. His eyes, wide in amazement, froze as his entire body was shocked, not by excitement, but by a bolt of lightning. Strike three. Michael was out.

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Domino Gabi Miko

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Actress

Grace Lanouette her skin is dark enough that she doesn’t even have to bother with makeup especially on the days when he’s careful but she still likes the feeling of transforming cocoa powder foundation cotton candy blush cherry tomato lipstick she leans on the sink and she’s always careful to blend at the top of her neck to brush until the edge of her hairline to prevent her mascara from clumping years of practice have made her methodical at nineteen she still cried so much that her eyeliner ran in twisting licorice lines down her cheeks at twenty two she still clenched her teeth when she grazed tender skin, letting bright red bleed onto her smile at twenty six she’s grown up she wears shirts that cover her back and skirts that cover her legs

and she knows how to make happy reach her eyes and she stands in the door as his car pulls up and the neighborhood watches him kiss her years have made her methodical and no one suspects a thing

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Yumboe

Brooke Pellegrini

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The Last Stop Anthony Mao

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Memento

Jessica Frantzen I never thought I’d actually find it.

I turned over every cobweb in the basement, Slammed every desk drawer that failed me, And nearly choked on the stagnant air of the attic, But the dusty old tome still eluded me.

And so I gave up, laying our memories to rest— Until I pulled them from their papery grave.

Five years past the worst day of my life, Beneath the warm glow of summer’s waning light, Something imperceptible shifted in the corner of my eye.

Was it nothing but a trick of the dimming sunshine?

Or was it a resurfacing memory, snatched from time’s grip?

Regardless, the phantom flicker intrigued me.

With only my heart to trust, I followed the light’s direction.

There it lay, trapped beneath piles of untouched documents.

I pried the book from its prison, unleashing a cloud of dust.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. I had found it.

There, inside the years-old pages, lay the irreplaceable; You and I, smiling, as if I had never lost you to the whims of time.

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FOLIO STAFF

Top, left to right: Noah Lanouette, Aryaj Kumar, Sebastian Castro, Jessica Frantzen, Madison Dudrear, Laura Liu (Copy Editor), Alexandra Ross (Copy Editor), Madeline Murphy (Web Editor) Middle, left to right: Ryan Casciato, Isabelle Burns (Web Editor), Alaina Puscar, Elissa Wilton, Kayoung Kim, Lara Briggs, Kavya Singh, Laila Norford (Copy Editor), Lydia Naser, Angeline Ma Bottom, left to right: Thomas Jenson (Business Manager), Brooke Pellegrini (Art Editor), Ally Wynne (Art Editor), Ben Smith (Advisor), Danica Merrill (Literary Editor), Grace Lanouette (Literary Editor), Anna Kovarick (Business Manager)