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Chinese Wisteria Wisteria sinensis
From The Editors
HANNAH GUPTA
AUDREY NGUYEN
KATELYN WANG
VIBHA BESAGI
JESSICA LI
EDEN LIU
CAROLINE TIERNEY
SHIRIN PATEL
CO-HEAD LIT EDITORS
LIT EDITORS
HEAD BUSINESS EDITOR
BUSINESS EDITORS
HEAD COPY EDITOR
COPY EDITORS
ANOUK FREUDENBERG
SARAH WENG
ETHAN LOI
NAVAMI MULGURMATH
AMY LI
ZION BROWN
Bleeding Heart Lamprocapnos
AYANKA KUDALUGODAARACHCHI
ADA LAVELLE
SUKANYA MENON
JESSICA JOSEPH
ELISE GERSTLE
COLE MARSHALL
EZOZA MUKHAMMADONOVA
ARCHANA NAIR
Monkey Orchid Dracula simia
Table of Contents
Peony Paeonia
Lily of the Valley Convallaria majalis
Bird of Paradise Strelitzia
Violet Cort Cortinarius violaceus
Venus Fly Trap Dionaea muscipula
The Pond
The Conservatory
Sukanya
Sukanya Menon Trail Angels
Dear Readers,
After a long few months, shades of green have finally begun to overtake the cold grays of winter. At The Folio, we are once again looking for new inspiration in this revitalized world. Saplings begin to stretch towards the sun, rising above the scattered leaf litter. Birds return and chirp again, singing to us their daily chorus.
During a time when the world seems to be descending deeper into political division, turmoil, and apathy, we invite you into this lush space for a moment of serenity. As you walk through our sprawling meadows, wade through the crystalclear pond, and stroll through our conservatory, we hope you find not only a sense of solace but a spark of inspiration. Every flower and tree was planted with careful intention, blossoming into pieces of pure artistry. Consider their nuances and their colors, proudly displayed here for all to see. The flowers bloom, petals extend like the digits of an outstretched hand. We hope, in all sincerity, that you find peace, rest, and delightful respite after entering through our thriving arbor.
Thank you to our wonderful writers and artists for curating the lush botanical garden we stand in today. A special thanks to our advisors, Mr. Smith and Mrs. Wilson, for creating and maintaining the space where our creativity can flourish. We’ve wandered these spaces with our staff, gathering poems, stories, and artwork like botanists with notebooks in hand, discovering the beauty of expression. Take your time when exploring these carefully planted pages. Let the words take root within you. Plant a seed of your own, and watch it grow.
Sincerely,
The Editors
The Meadow
In the soft afternoon light, a faceless child wanders through wildflowers across a meadow, brushing their hands against the petals. If you look closely, you might catch a glimpse before they disappear among the blooms...
Sunlit Summer Nostalgia
Photography
Hasini Chejerla
Jayna Grossman
If you saw the way I looked at you, you’d be disappointed that no one else’s gaze is quite the same. They see you—that’s just the problem. I see you with me. We feed off each other’s happiness so often it’s like being drunk on a presence rather than a substance. I am only this way with you. And I fully believe that you are only this way with me. I can’t see anybody else allowing you to rest your head in their lap, or pet your hair or both. I can’t comprehend you requesting a dictionary at anyone else’s dining table. And no one will understand the gut response when you say “hi.”
“I love you.”
Not “hey,” not “hello.” Not any other variation. One of us can only get out that one word before the other is professing unwavering love. And there should never be any other provocation besides the fact that you are next me, humming a Beatles song you don’t even remember listening to, but that I will nonetheless recognize. Today it was “Eight Days a Week.”
You always hum when you’re content. It’s usually when you think I’m not listening, but whenever you open your mouth I’m paying attention, no question. I still haven’t figured out if your eyes are green or hazel. Doesn’t much matter. They shine like a forest. Like a forest thriving.
I’ll make sure we arrive early at the train station tomorrow, that way I’ll get enough physical contact to last me a few minutes after it occurs that you’re gone. For another month. Or two. Or six.
AnofEvolution Escape:
An 8-year-old running away. Ridiculous but not surprising for the younger me. What had compelled me to storm off? A remote. It was my turn to choose what my brother and I watched, but my brother refused to hand over that black stick of power and choice. So, I packed my tiny sparkly pink Disney princess backpack with two pairs of clothes, one sock, one jacket, my favorite stuffed animals, and absolutely nothing else— not even water. Clearly, I had my priorities straight. What did you expect from an 8-year-old? Don’t worry, though; I learned from my mistake, and the next time I attempted to run off, I WikiHow-ed what to pack. Undoubtedly, this escape attempt was doomed from the beginning. I only reached the end of the street before my irate mother’s shrilling voice whipped me right back around.
As children, we all go on these escapades for silly reasons. We laugh at those memories, looking back. As if making a getaway would solve all our problems. Growing up means our issues become profoundly tangled messes, increasing our need to withdraw from the world and its realities. But growing up also means we can’t act rashly as we did as children. Our escapes become slight actions, occult, and sensible—more thought out.
Those little running away stunts got me in an immensity of trouble, so when I was 10, I knew I needed to seek somewhere else to flee. I did find that space: my closet. I didn’t flee to my wardrobe for foolish reasons such as TV. I fled to my closet for a more somber reason: bullies. Among the clothes was my harbor because in the darkness, I could not be seen—seen with salty tears dripping and dropping down my numb cheeks, nor heard as the sobs were suppressed by thick fabrics. All this because of my “friends” calling me a fat munchkin. One day, though, my haven was unveiled when I didn’t come down for dinner—the sound barrier worked both ways, you see—and my parents thought to check the closet. That was it; my sanctuary was not mine anymore because my parents knew where to check.
I was kicked to the streets again, with no sustenance, shelter, or comfort. The streetlights were an agonizing brightness, opposite to the comfort of the dark.
So, I found myself looking for refuge. At this juncture, I discovered it neither in a place nor an action. I realized it to be something forever with me: books. They became—and were from the time I could read—my solace, allowing me, as Jhumpa Lahiri
writes in The Namesake, “to travel without moving an inch.” From the start, books were my companion, like the Magic Tree House series, where Jack and Annie traveled through time from their hometown in Pennsylvania—a town like mine! I could imagine myself with them on their adventures.
Cracking open a book is like activating a portal to another life away from my friends, school, and family. The fantastical universes contained within pages offer me asylum, let me soar freely through the sky, become a warrior—both the soldier and the cat, transform into a proper lady in a Jane Austen book, take on the role of a clever detective—such as those in Agatha Christie novels. I can become anything and anyone—someone not myself—when I read.
I’ve come to realize that escapes have different forms. The version I find most valuable is understanding—about life, others’ experiences, and even myself. There is comfort in knowledge and knowing that you can find compassion embedded in pages.
I always viewed my mother’s criticisms of my physical appearance as her way of telling me I was not good enough. It was through Waverly Jong’s tumultuous relationship with her mother, in The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan, that I understood my own. I see now it was out of love; in censuring me, she hoped to protect me from societal rejection and mold me into someone who fit within the socio-cultural standards that she grew up with. Esther Greenwood, from Sylvia Plath’s novel The Bell Jar, showed me that I’m not a freak for my depressive thoughts and sudden moments of emotional numbness. It was as though Plath had plucked the thoughts from my head and strung them into cohesive sentences. It was just like C.S. Lewis said, “We read to know we are not alone.”
Escapes evolve as we evolve. For me, impulsive childhood flights driven by minor matters became retreats into the world of stories. For you, reading may not be your getaway. But know it or not, you escape daily. Maybe it’s through watching Tik Tok after school, making you laugh—howl even, triggering the release of endorphins and enhancing both your physical and mental state. Maybe it’s through taking a hot bath after a long day of work, listening to the running water solitarily with your shower thoughts. Or maybe it’s through singing your heart out to the lyrics of your favorite song. While the chubbiness of our cheeks may fade, the desire for refuge never will.
Metaverse
Found Object Sculpture Katelyn Wang
Sol de Mi Vida
Austin Wang
Author’s Note: Dealing with loss can be tough. But you should cherish what you still have, and try to laugh in the moment, knowing that things will get better.
Under the vast, golden sky, a little boy and his mother lay side by side, the warmth of the sun wrapping them in a tender embrace. The air was soft with the promise of summer, and all around them was the scent of grass and earth. The boy’s small hand rested in his mother’s, her fingers wrapped gently around his.
“Do you see that sunlight?” asked the mother, her voice a gentle murmur.
The boy’s eyes followed the beams of light that danced across the horizon. They shimmered over the earth, weaving between the leaves and filling every corner with a golden glow. It was like magic.
“It’s like a painting!” the boy exclaimed in awe, his face lighting up with wonder.
The mother chuckled softly.“The sunlight’s been waiting for us to appreciate it,” she said, her voice full of warmth, like a lullaby in the breeze.
The mother sat up, the sun making her dark hair glow as she looked out over the vast field. The boy followed, sitting beside her, the soft grass cool beneath them. Together, they watched as the day stretched endlessly in front of them, the light endless and pure.
“There’s so much sunlight,” she continued, “so much warmth in the world, even when we can’t always see it. It’s amazing, isn’t it? To live in a world where the sun always returns, even after the coldest, darkest nights?”
The boy nodded, a big smile stretching across his face. “It really is amazing,” he said, heart full of wonder.
“Now, I want you to close your eyes,” the mother said, dropping her voice to a whisper.
“Imagine you’re in the sunlight, surrounded by all that warmth.”
The boy closed his eyes, feeling the sun’s heat press against his skin, as if golden rays were wrapping around his arms and curling into the folds of his shirt. It was almost too much. But somehow, it felt safe, like being wrapped in a hug.
“It’s a bit hot, isn’t it?” she teased.
“You’re right!” the boy said, laughing.
“Now imagine that I’m right there with you, holding you close, keeping you safe from the heat,” she said. Her voice was like a cool breeze brushing over his skin, pushing the warmth back just enough. As long as she was near, the sunlight never felt too strong.
“That’s a bit better,” the boy whispered. The heat didn’t press on his skin as much now. It was as if her voice had chased it away, like shade under a tree. He leaned a little closer to where he imagined she was.
The mother softened her voice even further. “Oh,
sol de mi vida. Never forget that my love is like the sunlight. It’s always there, to keep you warm. It will never leave you, no matter what.” A promise only a mother could give.
The boy opened his eyes again, his gaze turning to her as the golden sunlight bathed them. In that moment, he could feel the warmth of her love, the certainty that no matter where life took him, it would always be there, like how the sun always returns to the sky. The mother held a jar up to catch a beam. She tapped the lid of the jar and handed it to the boy.
“Here, some extra sunlight for when you need it.”
The boy took the jar, holding it in his two small hands. It felt warm, even though he knew sunlight wasn’t really in it.
The boy’s mother started spinning him around. Her laughter filled the air, light and musical, without a care in the world.
“Come on, dance with me!” she said, her voice alive with joy.
The boy’s small hands gripped hers, his feet stumbling to match her steps. She twirled him faster, her long hair catching the sunlight.
“Why are we dancing?” he asked between giggles.
“Because,” she said, her eyes crinkling with a smile, “the sun is shining, and we’re alive. That’s reason enough.”
The boy closed his eyes again, wishing time would stand still, wishing that this moment would never end.
Lucius woke up with tears on his pillow. It was that dream again. He wiped his eyes and stared at the ceiling for a long time. The grayness of the room was somehow more suffocating than it had been the night before. His mother’s laughter used to echo throughout the apartment. Now, even the silence felt louder. He used to wake up to music, her old records spinning, full of violins and warmth. Now, the player sat untouched, silent beneath a thin layer of dust. He’d taken down the colorful paintings she’d hung in the hallway, hoping it would make things easier, less painful. But without them, the walls just looked bare, and the apartment felt even smaller. The curtains stayed closed more often than not. Sunlight still tried to peek through the cracks, but it never quite made it in the way it used to. It’d been two months since she had died, and yet, the emptiness in his heart felt as fresh as the first day she was gone. He couldn’t escape it. It clung to him like a shadow, always chasing his steps, always looming just behind, no matter how hard he tried to move forward.
The apartment felt cold, even with the sunlight
streaming through the window. He didn’t even notice that soft beam of gold anymore. Lucius sat up and rubbed his eyes. His body was stiff, the remnants of a restless night settling into his muscles. He’d been waking up like this for weeks, trapped in the same cycle of grief. Sleep brought him memories, but when he woke, all he was left with was the aching absence of the one person who had ever truly understood him.
The world had grown quieter since his mother’s death, and he struggled to fill the silence. No more pots clanging in the kitchen as she hummed to herself. No more soft footsteps padding down the hallway in the early morning. Her favorite chair by the window sat empty now, untouched. Even the old clock on the wall had stopped ticking. Its battery had died weeks ago, but he hadn’t replaced it. The quiet wasn’t just around him, it was inside him, too.
Lucius reached for his phone. It sat there, charging beside the bed, its screen dim. Another unread message from his former boss. Another missed opportunity. The words he’d read the night before still stung. We’ve decided to go in a different direction, and we won’t be needing you anymore. You’re useless to us. Your time at the company meant nothing, and you should just go pack up your things now. Well, that’s not what it really said, but it’s what it sounded like to him. The job he had spent years building his life around. The career that had meant so much to him. Gone.
his head on the cabinet door he’d forgotten to close. Everything felt like it was inching closer, shrinking in on him, like even the walls were tired of holding space for his grief.
Lucius opened the fridge, but there was nothing inside—only a half-empty carton of milk, some stale, probably expired bread, and a jar of mustard. He closed it quickly, turning away from the emptiness.
“The memory of his mother seemed to fill the room like the sunlight itself.”
With a sigh, he poured himself a cup of coffee, the dark liquid a poor substitute for the warmth he so desperately craved. He let his fingers linger on the edge of the cup, the heat seeping into his skin but never reaching the ache deep within. He wished that something, anything could fill the hole inside him, the way his mother’s love always had. Lucius leaned against the counter, the cool ceramic floor pressing against his bare feet. He could still feel the ache of her absence, the space she’d left behind. Even the sunlight, once so comforting, now seemed to mock him. It was always there, he knew that. But he couldn’t seem to catch it anymore. No matter how hard he tried, it slipped away, like water between his fingers.
The sound of birds chirping outside woke him from his thoughts. As the morning sun rose higher, it bathed the kitchen in a soft, golden light. Lucius inched closer to the window. For a moment, he could almost hear her voice again.
A lump rose in his throat. What was he supposed to do now? How could he keep going forward when everything felt like it was slipping away?
Lucius got out of bed and stretched, his body aching from the weight of a life that felt more and more distant from the person he used to be. What happened to his mother’s bright, young boy, the sol of her vida?
Lucius dragged his feet across the floor as he made his way to the kitchen. He ignored the unopened bills that had piled up. The apartment felt smaller now, and it didn’t help that he was claustrophobic. He bumped his shoulder against the hallway wall on his way to the kitchen, then smacked
“The sunlight’s always here, even when you can’t see it.”
The memory of his mother seemed to fill the room like the sunlight itself. He stood there for a long time and felt the faintest stirrings of hope, like a spark trying to catch fire.
Lucius’s eyes caught on an old mason jar sitting on a cluttered shelf above the sink. It wasn’t spe cial—-just something he’d kept around to store ran dom things. But, for some reason, Lucius reached for it. He turned the jar in his hands, the glass cool and smooth against his skin. He glanced back at the sunlight spilling across the counter.
On a whim, he lifted the jar towards the light.
The golden rays bent and scattered through the glass, and tiny spots of color spread across the walls. It was such a small thing, a childlike gesture, but something about it made him pause. The jar couldn’t really hold sunlight—Lucius knew that. It was common sense. But in that moment, it felt like he really could keep a little piece of the morning for himself. Lucius set the jar down on the windowsill, letting the sunlight fill it. He rested his fingers on the glass, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. It almost felt like his mother was still there, like if he closed his eyes and held on tight enough, he could be back in that field with her. But the weight of reality was still there, pressing on him. He was standing in a kitchen that felt too small, trying to catch some sunlight in a jar. It was stupid. Lucius stared at the sunlight pooling on the floor. He wanted to hate it for daring to shine when everything else in his life felt so dark. A thought floated across his mind. What would she have said? His mother had always known how to make him feel better, how to see the world with new eyes, even when it felt like everything was falling apart. It was then that something shifted. The sun, which had been so cold just moments ago, began to grow warmer. Lucius felt a strange pull, an urge to move, to do something, anything, to just stop standing still. Without thinking, Lucius pulled the blinds up, letting the sunlight pour in fully, bathing the
Lucius’s body began to move, began to sway. Slowly at first, hesitant, as though testing whether he could still feel joy. His feet shuffled, his body still reluctant, but following some kind of invisible pull. It felt awkward. His body wasn’t used to the rhythm of happiness anymore. He raised his arms, and before he even realized it, he was spinning, twirling in the sunlight like he was a child again.
His mother was spinning him around in a golden field, her arms warm and steady, her laughter ringing in his ears. He could see the brightness in her eyes. He started to get a little dizzy, but he twirled faster, his heart racing with the freedom of the movement. It wasn’t just a dance, no, it was a moment of surrender, of remembering the warmth his mother had always given him. It was always there, he’d just forgotten!
When he stopped, he laughed. And then he laughed even more. He couldn’t stop laughing! It was strange. It was a sound that felt foreign to his own ears. He opened his eyes, half-expecting the world to be different, to have maybe changed in some way. But no, the room was still the same. And he still didn’t have a job. And his mother was still dead.
Lucius stood there, continuing to laugh. “Why were you dancing, Lucius? Why do you feel so happy?” he asked himself. His laughter collapsed into sobs. The flood of emotions overwhelmed him— grief, joy, longing, all tangled together into a single knot. A knot that started to unravel. The tears that had threatened to come all morning now began to flow. He pressed a hand to his chest, his breath uneven. The tears kept coming, but they felt different. They didn’t only carry sadness, they carried something else too—relief.
The sunlight kept pouring in, illuminating every corner. Lucius came to an understanding. The sunlight didn’t have to fill him up entirely. It didn’t have to replace what he had lost. But maybe, just maybe, it could help him find his way back to himself. The sunlight was still here. Even when he couldn’t catch it, even when he couldn’t always feel its warmth. After all, the sun always returns after a cold, dark night.
Lucius sealed the jar and placed it back on the shelf. He would save that sunlight for when he needed it.
For the first time in a long while, Lucius realized that it didn’t really matter. So what if he was happy? So what if he was dancing?
The sun was shining, and he was alive. What more reason could he need?
Watercolor & Pen Shirin Patel
A Year and Two Thousand Miles
Elise Gerstle
Every time I look at my brother, I wonder if he knows it. At three years old, does he see his friends playing ball with their dads and ask, “where’s mine?”
I don’t imagine he knows it. But I imagine he feels it–a hole, a gap. A crater, maybe. I know I can. A crater thinly veiled with texts, long letters, and–if we’re lucky–the occasional FaceTime. But an express-mail bouquet sent to Mom is not a father. A flat, pixelated image on a tiny screen is not a father.
Maybe he does know it, I think as he screams and throws plastic toy trucks. Maybe that’s why he won’t touch his vegetables or share his soccer ball. He’s waiting for someone to kick it back to him. He’s waiting for a pair of legs to hide behind.
As for me, they tell me I’m lucky it’s peacetime. I’m lucky it’s our country’s border, not a foreign country’s conflict. But it will be a year and two thousand miles before I feel lucky again. I won’t be grateful; I’ll be biting my nails and checking the news, jumping every time they say “trouble down in Texas”. And I’ll be babysitting my brother while Mom works two jobs, wondering if he feels unlucky too.
A year and two thousand miles is a lot, I’ve tried to explain to him. A lot for a little kid. The jump from two years old to three is exponential. It’s not at all like the jump from fourteen to fifteen, from seventeen to eighteen, or from thirty-five to thirty-six. Jumping that far without your role model waiting to catch you if you fall? That must be scary. It is scary. And my brother must know it.
He can’t count a year and two thousand miles on his fingers, but I wonder if he knows that it’s coming to an end. Can he see the winks grown-ups give him, like they know something wonderful that he doesn’t? Can he see the twinkle in Mom’s eye as she cleans the house, anticipating a fourth family member again?
A year and two thousand miles later, I’m shaking my little brother awake at three A.M. He fusses and whines, and I almost feel guilty–but I know it’s worth it.
Because, when he sees the man in our doorway, still in uniform and smelling of the airport, a year and two thousand miles doesn’t matter to him. He throws his arms around Dad like not a day has passed.
Bowl
Acrylic Kate Orr
The Meadow
Victorious Colored Pencil Kate Orr
Leo the Lion
Water Color & Marker
Vibha Besagi
Love, The Zoralopolis
Claire Arnault
Have you ever seen the Whompus with his fur wet from the rain?
Have you ever seen the Roodul In the middle of the lane?
Have you ever come across a Kerthumpen hidin’ underground, or the great Gargantasaurus, not as big as she may sound?
Did you ever catch a peek of Dizzy, Doo, Drub, or Skoo, with their tails of purple feathers and their eyes so big and blue?
Well, listen up and stand together. I come from out of town, but I’m the worst of all of them, and I’m gonna gobble you down!
Love, The Zoralopolis
the oceans that separate us carry your suffering to me. your tears are the seafoam brought ashore by the waves of heartache this world has wrought upon you. since my birth, i had played in the tides, blissfully unaware of the anguish that lay in the waters.
but i have grown up now, aiya. now that i see you carrying the world on your back, my childhood naivete has vanished like a seashell swept back into the blue depths. i see the mountains carving crevices on your shoulders, the deserts burning through your skin — i see everything now.
i know that i am the one blessed with the easy life, where everything is given to me as long as i want to take it. but aiya, just this once, i want you to have it too. you have struggled more than i know how, you have held the whole world up even when your legs trembled with exhaustion and the ground began to cave in. i’m not the one who deserves this life.
Kudalugodaarachchi
atlas reincarnate Ayanka
Author’s Note: aiya means "older brother" in sinhalese, but can be used to refer to any male family member that is older than you.
i know that more than i dare to tell you. and i wish that we could switch places, that i could drown underneath the waves while you sail across the sea.
i want to hold your hand and tell you that you don’t have to pretend to be a titan anymore.
i hope that one day, the world finally crumbles to ash on your back, and you will be able to stand up straight again, tending to your wounds before you become everything that you wanted to be.
i hope that one day you can become more than just atlas reincarnate.
i hope that you can be human. you deserve to, more than i ever did.
the space between breaths
Crayon Hannah Gupta
Kaleidoscope
Acrylic & Watercolor
Rey Bandyopadhyay The Meadow
Ophelia’s Arrangement
Jayna Grossman
If the rushing water should call to me too clearly
And I succumb to the bubbling warmth
With it’s assurance of youthful eternity
Keep the price of my bouquet at eight flowers:
A bloom of Aloe, steeped in grief
Its healing properties useless trapped inside a leaf
A bunch of yellow Daisies, the picture of innocence
Color so bright, it’ll blind you from my wickedness
Some Nightshade, ultimate killer of truth
The likes of which hide behind a lying tooth
The drooping Thorn-Apple, purple in its deceitful charm
It’s tactics often successful to emotionally disarm
The rounded Yew, meant purely for sorrow
And no one left to feel its effects on the morrow
A Rose or two, perhaps, red with vivid love
Might grant me salvation from the lord above
Bergamot to wish me restful sleep,
Though I am too despondent to even weep
Slim Cranberry Flowers, my last offered cure for heartache
Though it will do nothing, my pain the only thing I’ve never had to fake
Lay these with me when I am put in the Earth
So that I might feel some small comfort from Nature
Since there will be none present who still care for me
Only those that saw me as a puppet and now wish my worthless bones farewell.
The Chrysanthemums Pen & Alcohol Marker
Mel Sau
Inside Point of View
Photography
Elise Gerstle
a Chill Green Guy
Just
Photography
Elise Gerstle
Figgy Pen
Ada Lavelle
Meadow
raindrop race
Rey Bandyopadhyay
plip
a bead of water on the car’s window plop another speeds by close behind the first my hands twist together the second drop is gaining ground you can do this, little drop warm breath fogs up the glass my nose presses the window to get a better look i imagine a stadium cheering it on the tiny raindrop joins with another looking like it’ll take first place at the last moment splash a large raindrop hits the window running overtaking the others almost to the bottom the tiny drop’s fans boo skid the raindrops all stop in place reflecting the glowing red i huff at the traffic light soon, all the raindrops shine bright green as the race restarts the large raindrop is nowhere to be seen eliminated
a slow raindrop is gathering an army as the car picks up speed and the raindrops get ready the crowd is buzzing with anticipation the slow raindrop has joined four others together, they dash the edge of the window is in sight the tiny drop challenges this new team pulling ahead, falling behind my heart rate quickens it looks like it’ll be a tie at the last second the tiny raindrop joins another takes the lead and crosses the finish line swish the invisible ribbon splits in two the audience erupts in applause the slow raindrop slips away as well with a humble third place we arrive and i say goodbye to my drops and the crowd’s cheers slide away with the rain
The Pond
At the edge of a quiet pond, a child tiptoes over an old wooden bridge, sending ripples of magic and dreams across the water. Their footsteps are light, and they’re never too far from view.
only an echo
Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi
Author’s Note: this piece is based on the greek myth of Narcissus and echo. the left side of the poem is Narcissus’ perspective and the right side is Echo’s. anything written in parentheses are their internal thoughts and everything else are things that are spoken aloud.
in the search of water, a fluid that is the sustenance of life itself, i found, instead, a new source of vitality: a deity whom i yearn to touch, but cannot. i sit here in my melancholy until i am recognized as a worthy suitor, though it seems that day will never come. unrequited love is a crueler curse than i had thought.
i don’t even notice the time that passes by because the deity’s beauty is as alluring as a siren’s song. perhaps even more so because of the mystique that encircles every detail that i desire to know like the back of my hand. everything is blurry, and yet everything is clear. i long for one glance of lust, even if for an instant.
unrequited love is a crueler curse than i had thought. (oh, but don’t you see? you crave an unattainable love, while i pine for you, as you pine for this deity. a deity that is you, even if you don’t know it. unrequited love is a cruel curse, yes, but it is worse to watch your lover waste away.) i long for one glance of lust, even if for an instant. (do you not realize that your reflection is not even close to your beauty under the light of the moon and stars? maybe you would have loved me, if you hadn’t loved yourself so much. maybe you would have loved me in another life, in another universe.)
i can feel myself slowly decaying. and yet, i feel more alive than ever.
perhaps the lingering feeling of hermes’ presence, the cold hands that trace my beating heart have only strengthened my desire to be loved for a single moment. the deity’s beauty has never once wavered, so neither shall my love.
i only hope that i will feel the warmth of a touch, before the cold pulls me under.
i am drowning. it is terrible and wonderful all at the same time.
it’s an end to my curse, but it pains me to leave without the love i have seeked for so long.
i only hope that i will feel the warmth of a touch, before the cold pulls me under. (i wonder how you can still feel lust as strong as before, when you can feel life slowly leaking out of your chest. you believe that the deity is your source of vitality, but it is the source of your suffering, your agony, your ruination. and you, the deity, are slowly ruining me too.)
an end to my curse, but it pains me to leave without the love i have seeked for so long. (i am disappearing like a breeze, gone before you can glory in it.)
i am fading into nothing.
i am fading into nothing.
(i will become only an echo.)
Close Calls
Acrylic Raima Saha
The Knowing the Unknowing
Sukanya Menon Content Warning: Blade
It is a cycle, a ceaseless loop, a wheel that grinds bone to dust. Life stretches beyond these few years, It lingers until my skin is tissue-thin, a parchment of regret. Until my smile lines carve trenches, not the way a blade might, not the way steel whispers against flesh, but the way small, desperate hands once tore through sand, digging, always digging, searching for something never there. And then, it crashes: the knowing, the unknowing, how little now matters, how much it does.
I do not know how to hold it, whether to let it drown me or drain away. I do not know what to feel, everything, or nothing at all.
Once upon some years ago
There lived a girl named Iris
She was admired by all the beaux
The girl with the color-changing dress
Some days it was a gorgeous lake
Her eyes—rich sapphire blue
And other days it chose to take
A leafish sort of hue
On these days people of the town
Revered her, called her queen
She’d take to dancing in her gown
Skin taking gleeful sheen
They said that she must be divine
Eyes shining under sun
Her lengths of hair were light and fine
Until the day was done
One day her dress took another shade
A dark and luscious brown
It looked like midnight in the shade
But when she danced in town
The people scorned, “You’re wearing dirt”
With hair as dark as eyes
Who knew that she could feel such hurt
When she’d just been a prize
She sat back home, her head in hands
Dress pooled around her feet
She once was maiden of the lands
Forlorn, she heard a tweet
A young man hummed an off-key song
With eyes a lovely brown
And Iris saw that she was wrong
In those eyes she could drown
Under light they shone brightest of all
The others, green or blue
If eyes like those were hers to call
She shouldn’t cry, she knew
She leapt off of the window ledge
Into the bush below
Her brown dress swept through the hedge
As she ran, it trailed ablow
And with a smile, he stopped and turned
Seeing a princess behind
She told the boy that she’d been charmed
His eyes had left hers blind
The two departed, hand in hand
With no townspeople to convince
An ending that might seem unplanned
Iris had found a “dirt” eyed prince.
thetearsinever toldyouabout
Amy Li
Dear Daughter,
I never told you about this, but I cried the day I first dropped you off. Tears filled my eyes as I drove on my way to work, and it got so bad that I had to make a pit stop at a local Dunkin’ Donuts so I could collect myself.
I was sobbing uncontrollably for minutes on end in that parking lot, unable to think my way through it all.
You were clearly ready to let go. As all the other children clung on to their mothers, you were already on the slide and testing out the see-saw. It was as if you were born to let go, born to test out your wings.
A teacher whispered to me as we watched you giggle and play with plastic dinos. “You must be so lucky,” she mumbled to me, “to have a kid so independent.” I nodded, heart quaking, as I told myself I was indeed lucky.
I listened as all the other mothers complained about how clingy their kids were; I would sometimes agree and laugh even if I didn’t believe in the words I was saying. When they asked me how you became so self reliant, I would tell them that’s just the way you are: a lovely free spirit.
But when I drove away that day, I didn’t feel so lucky. Letting go of you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but it seemed like it was one of the easiest things you’ve ever done. When I watched as little four-year-old you immediately ran to the slide, I felt those little tugs on my heartstrings. It was hard to see my daughter so independent like that for the first time.
As I sobbed in the parking lot of Dunkin’ Donuts, a kind old lady tapped on my window to ask if I was doing okay. I told her I was fine, it was just that I was processing a lot after dropping you off. She told me it was one of the pains of being a mother, and that she’d cried countless times in learning to let go of her son. I don’t remember what she looked like anymore or what she wore that day. But I remember her story, her words, and the way she made me feel just a little bit better.
When you went off to college, I was as proud as a mother could be. You had worked hard for this, and I couldn’t be happier for you. I thought I had prepared myself for your absence, but when I drove home and glanced at your empty, untouched room I couldn’t stop the tears from coming.
I thought I had done it all, packing your suitcase up to the brim with my homemade food, hoping you would think of me whenever you took a bite of my famous brownie recipe that you love some much. I made you promise to keep in touch, and reminded you that there was always a place for you at home.
But nothing I did could have ever prepared me for the emptiness inside our home. I cried for
a few hours, sitting on your bed and looking at all the childhood toys you had left behind. You weren’t a child anymore, I knew that, but I couldn’t help but picture your four year old self, running around on that preschool playground, so ready to fly off and forge a new future for yourself.
And you did. You became a beautiful young woman, strong and independent. You’re kind and loving and most importantly, you’re a good person.
The hours ticked by and then suddenly, I got a call from you. I quickly wiped my tears away, not wanting you to see how sad I was. When I answered it, you were beaming, quick to introduce me to your roommate and share what you had for lunch. I smiled, so happy that you were happy and we chatted for a bit until I pestered you to get your things in order and go get what you needed to get done done, even though I really wanted to stay on the line with you for just a while longer.
When you finally hung up, I fell back onto your old bed, letting my tears fall onto your blanket. It would take a while until I could accept the feeling of your absence, but even so our home would never feel the same again.
The day you told me you decided you were going to move to England, it came to me as a shock. To soften the blow, you told me about your plans with your fiancé and all the job opportunities there. You also promised that you would still keep in touch, calling often and traveling back for holidays. I nodded, immensely proud of you, but I felt those little tugs at my heartstrings again.
If it was up to me, I would have packed my backs and moved to England with you, but you know because of grandma I couldn’t. I was stuck here, and you were going to move all the way over there, and I knew I would have to bear the weight of the distance. Even though I was so happy for you, I couldn’t help but feel a bit hopeless.
When I dropped you off at the airport, your eyes were gleaming with possibilities and new hope. I felt a sense of pride watching you and your light blue suitcase pave the way to a new life. I waved you off and reminded you to be safe and to be careful, and never to wander the streets alone. You met me with a soft “I know Mom,” as you hugged me one last time. I don’t know if you noticed, but I clung on to your coat just a bit tighter than usual, soaking in the feeling of holding you in my arms.
“I love you!” I called to you as you were dragging your suitcase inside.
“I love you too!” You called back. As soon as you disappeared from my sight, I headed back to the car, not wanting you to see the tears that had accumulated in my eyes.
I cried there silently, gentle tears streaming down my cheeks, not a care in the world to the fact that I was holding up traffic. I didn’t know when I would be able to see you again, and I wanted to keep your image in my mind for just a while longer.
My child, my beautiful baby girl, you had finally flown away to carve out a space for yourself in this great big world.
And as much as I want to keep you here with me forever, I know I have to let you go.
It’s the pain of being a mother, and a pain I would gladly bear for the rest of my life just for the honor of having you to call my daughter. Love,
Acrylic Lauren Sweet
Katelyn Wang
OUt of Bounds
Watercolor & Sharpie
Rachel Mozhdehi
Lover’s Swamp
Lucy Schwarz
This murky fen in the abyss Is where old lovers go. They say devotion tends the trees, On toadstools love can grow.
They’ll sit upon the wet and whisper. Sweetness in the fog, Unaware of a marshy fate, Too lost within the bog.
Vines are creeping through the mire, Mud curdling with a whomp. The muck will feast on their desire, Beware the Lover’s Swamp.
Digital
Vibha Besagi
Pithru Paksha
You Make Me Blush
Watercolor & Ink
Cole Marshall
Selfish Teen Says Selfish Things
Sarah Weng
Sometimes
I feel like I have to move Heaven and Earth
To be good
My mother asks me,
“Is he good?”
“Is she good?”
And I know she means
Those good boys and girls
Who work without wasting their time
And make money and make change
Whatever grownups want to see these days
I just know those good kids are things she wishes I was
It’s gotten to the point where my self-hatred
And my complacency with my flaws
Blur together like oil paints
I always feel like I’m doing everything wrong
And that there’s something wrong with me
But I’d hate to address it,
Because it would make my feelings a reality
But if I believe I am fine, Am I really doing anything
But dismissing an opportunity to improve?
I get this rotten feeling that I always need to be better
These days, I make like a shark
I can’t stop moving
Or the cold depths will claim me
But I just want to slow down,
Stop even
And feel the warmth of sweet idleness
Of a slow morning, sleeping in
Of someone’s arms, perhaps
And living wholly and genuinely for myself, Just once
Sometimes
In my mind,
I think of a girl, Nameless and faceless
Who parties and travels and kisses her boyfriend
Who spends school nights anywhere but a desk
“Never in a thousand years would I wish to be you,”
I think
“I wouldn’t want to be you either,” she replies
“But God, do I wish I knew what it feels like.”
“To what?”
“To not care. About anything.”
yale more like bail? christian bale man MIT more like suck my d UCLA? more like you will not see LA Bowdoin college? more like bow down college
UF? more like FU
UFW? more like you are NOT a W duke university? more like dookie university
Amherst university? more like you am the worst brown university? more like caca university
princeton university? more like peasant university dartmouth university? more like shart mouth university stanford university? more like stuntford university/also accept shunnedford
UPenn? more like uCANT CIT? more like ZIT
Mechanical Bloom Duo
Colored Pencil & Pen
Sukanya Menon
Wooden Jellyfish Wood
Sukanya Menon
The Wise Cat and the Mournful Man
Austin Wang
Content
Warning:
Thoughts of suicide
Author’s note: I know how difficult life can be, how it can sometimes feel like there's no way out, that the only solution is to just die. But PLEASE value your life. Even when things seem at their darkest, remember that better moments lie ahead. You’ve made it this far, and that alone is something to be proud of.
The Boy in the Rain Simon only had one friend in his entire life. Though, he couldn’t remember what he’d named it. It might’ve been Shadow…or maybe Smokey…or Whiskers. But what stuck was how its fur was as black as midnight, save for a single patch of white on its chest, shaped like a star. The way its golden eyes would narrow just so, as if it understood him better than anyone else. And its tail, long and sleek, always flicked back and forth like it was deep in thought. And for some reason, the cat always smelled faintly of damp leaves, or fresh morning grass, even when it was dry.
It had been a stray, one he found on a cold, rainy day, huddled beneath a trash can in a narrow alleyway. Simon had been walking home, head down as always, when something brushed against his leg. Startled, he froze and looked down. There it was––a small, ragged cat, its coat drenched. Simon could see its ribs beneath its wet, matted fur. He could count them. The cat stared up at him with its sharp, glowing eyes. Simon knelt down slowly, expecting it to run, but the cat didn’t move. It just watched him. It trusted him. Slowly, he’d scooped it up, pressing its tiny, shivering body against his
chest. Its claws dug lightly into his arm, but it didn’t struggle. He could feel its heartbeat, rapid and fragile against his own. A strange, frail thing. But for a moment, if only a moment, the world hadn’t felt so harsh.
The last time Simon saw the cat, it’d also been raining.
“Get up! You still owe us your lunch money!” shouted a group of kids, snapping Simon out of his thoughts.
Simon was used to the taste of dirt. After a while, it wasn’t so bad—just a little bitter, like dark chocolate. If he closed his eyes and imagined hard enough, it almost tasted like chocolate pudding. But the world was cruel and didn’t allow much time for pretending.
“Hey! Did you hear me?” barked the tallest boy, stepping closer. His shadow loomed over Simon, like a storm cloud.
“Give us your lunch money, or we’ll make you eat more dirt.”
Simon got up onto his knees, patted the dirt off his thighs, and slowly got to his feet. His face was streaked with mud, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. He kept his gaze on his sneakers as he reached
into his pocket. His fingers trembled as he pulled out his wallet, holding it out without saying a word.
The tall boy snatched it from his hands and rummaged through its contents with practiced ease.
“You’re pathetic, you know that? Even my little brother could beat the crap out of you,” he said, laughing as he took out all the cash and flung the empty wallet in Simon’s face.
Soon, the tall boy and his entourage were gone, but their laughter still echoed in Simon’s ears. Simon stayed where he was, slumped on the wet ground, his shoulders trembling. The cold, sharp rain pierced his skin, soaking through his clothes until the cold bit deep into his bones. He was drenched in rain and shame.
With a slow limp, Simon walked. Back to what some might call a dump, what others might call a rat hole, and what Simon saw as all of the above. It was a crooked little house on the edge of town, its paint peeling and windows cracked.
“What happened to you, boy?” his father barked the moment Simon stepped through the door.
The sharp scent of alcohol clung to the air. His father stood in the living room, a half-empty bottle in one hand and a belt in the other.
“Didn’t I tell you to fight back? What kinda man comes home looking like that?”
“I’m sorry,” Simon mumbled, his voice barely audible.
“Sorry don’t mean nothing! Useless, just like your mother,” his father spat, taking a long swig from the bottle.
“Go on, get outta my sight before I give you something to cry about.”
Simon slipped away to his room, shutting the door as quietly as he could. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, flinching at the sound of his parents shouting in the next room.
Eventually, the house fell silent, with the occasional creak of wood, the distant hum of rain. When it felt safe, Simon reached under his bed, pulled out a cracked bowl, then tiptoed to the kitchen to fill it with milk.
He was greeted with a soft meow as he set the bowl down on the floor.
“Here you go, buddy,” Simon whispered, stroking the cat’s silky fur as it drank up all the milk. “At least someone around here’s happy, huh?”
The cat meowed back, rubbing its head against
“‘You ain’t ever gonna be seeing this thing again.’ his father growled, throwing the cat out the front door.
Simon and purring softly. Simon sat down on the cold kitchen floor, and the cat cuddled next to him. He gazed at the stars, their light fractured by the cracks in the window. But even so, they shined beautifully. He wished this moment would never end.
Simon woke to shouting. His heart jumped before his eyes even opened. Then he heard it—a yelp. A panicked meow.
He sat up just in time to see his father storm into the room, holding the cat by the scruff of its neck like it was something filthy. The poor thing dangled there, legs twitching, eyes wide with fear.
“No…” Simon whispered, frozen.
“What the hell is this?” his father roared. “We barely got enough food in this house already, and you think we can afford to feed a stray?”
“Please! Don’t hurt him!” Simon begged, rushing forward, but his father shoved him back.
“You ain’t ever gonna be seeing this thing again.” his father growled, throwing the cat out the front door. It landed with a startled yelp, disappearing into the rain-soaked yard.
“No!” Simon cried, lunging toward the door. His father grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back inside.
“You don’t listen, do you, boy?” his father hissed, pulling off his belt.
The first strike burned across Simon’s back. The second made his knees buckle. And by the third, he’d stopped counting. He wasn’t in the house anymore. He was in the alley again, holding the cat in the rain. Feeling its heartbeat.
That night, Simon lay curled up on his mattress. He bit his lip until it bled, trying to keep from
sobbing too loudly. Rain lashed against the window, drowning out the sounds of his parents screaming at each other in the next room.
Somewhere out there, in the cold and the dark, his little cat was gone. It was suffering and starving. Simon pressed his face into his pillow and cried until he had nothing left.
The Voice in the Wind
Tonight, the stars were heartbreakingly beautiful. They shined and sparkled, like shattered glass scattered across the sky—sharp, cold, and so out of reach. Too bad Simon would never see them again. They say your brain plays your best memories when you die. A final send-off, a peaceful departure into the afterlife. But what would he see when he hit the ground? What were the good memories that would be shown to him? Did he even have any? His birthdays? Nobody ever celebrated with him. His prom dance? Yeah, right. He got rejected by everyone he asked. His highschool graduation? As if. His parents didn’t even bother coming. His first paycheck? All of it wasted on beer that barely drowned out his sorrows. And his friends? Haha, very funny, Simon. He’d lost his only one.
Simon tightened his grip on the railing, the freezing metal biting into his palms.
Maybe I should’ve written a note. No– it wouldn’t matter. No one would care. No one would find it. I could carve my name into the railing, but why bother? I can already feel the world erasing me. I’m just a whisper no one hears.
What was the point of it all? What did he have left in this world? Who would miss him when he’s gone? Who would even notice? He was just a speck of dust in this sad, lonely world that wasn’t meant for him. Maybe in his next life, he would be happier. But that was just wishful thinking.
And yet, for some reason, 300 feet suddenly seemed very tall. Maybe he just had bad eyesight, but the ground below seemed to be blurry. Am I hallucinating? The cruel, harsh wind blew in his face, forcing him backwards. It whispered in his ears, calling him names he wished he’d forgotten.
Maybe I’ll just jump off backwards. That way, I’ll be looking at the stars when I die.
Simon took two steps backward. He could hear the beeping of the cars, the stray dogs barking in the distance. Simon took two more steps backward.
He could tell he was on the edge now. Just one more step, and he would be falling. He would fall for maybe 5 or so seconds, and then he would be dead. Gone.
“Ignorant human. Why do you wish to waste one of your precious lives?”
Simon jolted, searching for the source of the voice. But there was no one there, except a small black cat sitting by his feet, calmly licking its paw.
The cat sat there, unbothered by the cold night air—black as a living shadow, shifting with the wind. Dust and city grit clung to its coat, and its eyes were an unsettling shade of yellow. A small white patch shaped like a star marked its chest.
Something about it felt…familiar. Memories flickered in Simon like candlelight.
“How the hell are you talking?” Simon whispered, half wondering if he’d finally gone mad.
The cat blinked slowly. “I could always talk. The question is how you can understand me.”
Now that Simon listened closely, he could tell its voice wasn’t human. But it wasn’t entirely foreign either. It was the whisper of the wind, the hush of the rain. Something he’d always known, even if he’d never heard it before. It sounded…eternal.
Simon paused for a second, uncertain. “Why does it matter anyway? What do you want?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” the cat replied, curling its tail. “Why do you wish to throw away one of your lives?”
Simon laughed bitterly. “Lives? I only have one.”
“All the more reason to hold onto it.”
Simon scoffed. “It’s not like it’s worth anything.” He gestured at the skyline. “No friends. No family. No one gives a damn about me. Besides, you’re just a cat. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“A fair point,” the cat said, unbothered. “I am just a cat. But I’ve had lives, just like you. Nine of them, in fact. But you, you only get one life. Don’t let despair take it so easily.”
“You don’t understand,” Simon snapped. “I’ve been miserable for as long as I can remember. Nothing’s ever gotten better, and it never will.”
The cat’s eyes gleamed as it stood and began to pace. “And look at you. You stood strong when the world felt heavy, when every step forward seemed impossible. So you’re wrong. The world has been cruel to you, yes, but cruel things don’t last forever. Neither does happiness. Life is meaningless, huh?
That’s precisely why it’s worth holding onto. If it doesn’t matter, isn’t that freedom? If there’s no point, then why not see what tomorrow brings?”
Simon’s grip on the railing eased. “Tomorrow?” he repeated softly.
The cat paused, gazing up at him. “Tomorrow, and the day after that. I am on my 9th life now, and I still am excited for what the next day brings. I’ve seen so many sunsets, and you know what I’ve thought at the end of each day? That I’m proud of myself. Proud to be here, despite everything. And that means something.”
“When you were younger, you fed that stray cat, didn’t you? Even when no one else would. You’ve shown affection, even when the world didn’t deserve it. You hold so much kindness in your heart. Don’t you think you should give some of it to yourself?”
Simon opened his mouth to argue but stopped. Those golden eyes—sharp and ancient—stirred something deep within him. A memory resurfaced. A rainy day, a ragged cat with matted fur, and a boy who’d found comfort in someone who didn’t leave his side.
“You…you remind me of a cat I used to have,” Simon murmured.
The cat’s tail flicked lazily. “Perhaps that’s why you can hear me.”
Simon’s chest tightened. He stepped back from the railing, legs trembling.
“But I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.
“Neither do I,” the cat said simply. “But that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? Each day is a chance to figure it out. If fate has decided for your life to be miserable, then defy it. Change it with your own willpower and pry out of fate’s hands a future in which you are satisfied and happy.”
The cat sat upright. “So, you see, in a world as cruel as ours, we can only dream of a kinder one. But why not ignore the bad parts? Why hold onto the past? By despairing, you’re only wishing for something you can’t get back, or prolonging what was already unbearable. So I say—choose your own happiness. Think about good times yet to come. They’re out there, Simon. You just haven’t seen them yet.”
Simon stared at the cat, tears flowing down his cheeks. He looked up at the sky, at the stars that now seemed less like shattered glass, and more like
tiny, distant fires. They weren’t warm, but they were still burning. Still alive.
A soft patter on his skin made him glance up. It was rain. But it wasn’t sharp or cold. It didn’t bite like it had before. Instead, it was gentle, almost soothing. The droplets kissed his face, washing away his despair. Simon exhaled, slowly. He took a step back. Then another. The cat watched, satisfied, its tail flicking in something like approval.
Simon hesitated, then turned to look at the cat. “Will I see you again?”
A gust of wind. A rush of rain. The cat is gone, like it was never there at all.
Simon stood there for a moment, the city stretching out before him. His heart pounded. His legs were unsteady. But he slowly turned from the edge, walking one step at a time. He didn’t know where he was going, but maybe that didn’t matter.
And in the hush of the night, Simon swore he heard the faintest whisper.
“See you in the next life.”
And for the first time in a long while, Simon let himself believe there would be a next life to see.
Just Keep Swimming
Acrylic Caroline Tierney
the halfmoon’s rose
The scent of your hair when freshly washed
Eucalyptus and sage.
The way it bled like midnight between my fingers.
Your tired brown eyes
And the way they swam with amber when the light hit them.
The fingers you wore each ring on.
Jet black nail polish.
Each scar and how it got there.
Things I Must Forget
Each laugh you had for different kinds of humor.
Foreheads pressed together in a slow dance
With your hands around my waist.
Skin taught with worry and kneading it out with your thumbs.
Our limbs intertwined
As we slept through late afternoon.
Every picture and poster lining your bedroom walls.
The names of your sisters
And your mother’s favorite flowers.
The playlist you made me.
The foods you would and would not eat.
The ring I had to throw in the trash.
The sweatshirt still sitting in my closet.
Each and every relic of our time together.
Let me leave behind the tangible.
I do not need more physical evidence of the ways
This was almost Love.
No, you are not real
You never were.
I refuse to believe that I once held you between my hands
But that you slipped away.
Are there claw marks on your mind
As I raked and ravaged for proof
That you felt the same?
I fantasize about the litter I left in your life
About the Crescent-shaped cuts on your arms
As I begged you to stay
About the versions of me I scattered
Across your memory
So that you feel the reverberations
In a thousand little goodbyes
Just as I do.
But
These days
I’d like to believe I have more dignity
Than to cling to maybes.
I will tell myself that it all meant nothing
Because
It hurts more to believe you cared
But that it couldn’t be enough
To fix this.
Audrey Nguyen
another universe
Chastity Ly
maybe in another universe, we stayed the best of friends. then maybe you wouldn’t have hurt me, in ways i can’t comprehend.
maybe in another universe, you wouldn’t have fallen so hard. cause then she wouldn’t have taken you, and left me as a disregard.
maybe in another universe, you didn’t see me cry. you left me sad and heavy, and never apologized.
maybe in another universe, you saw that I was scared. i was hurt, alone, and angry, but mostly, unprepared.
maybe… in another universe… you cared.
The Conservatory
Beneath a wide glass dome, filled with the hush of night, the child stands among leafy vines, gazing up at the stars. They blend into the shadows, but if you linger, you’ll feel their eyes watching too...
Isabelle Bolton
Catalan Gothic Etching Print
The Storm Takes It All
Sukanya Menon
The thunder gnashes its teeth. The trees kneel, brittle-knuckled, offering their bones, their spines, the slow snap, the wrench, the hollow sob. They are obedient. They give their limbs, their quiet grief, their shelter split at the seams. The storm is a mouth. It swallows. And when it has had its fill, when the sky exhales, streaked and spent, when the light peels itself open like a wound, they call the rainbow beautiful. And there the fallen trees remain, bare and shamed.
On Holidays
Sitting around the fireplace with my family, amidst the sea of torn wrapping paper and presents, I gaze out the window at the stunning display of holiday lights, illuminating the perfect blanket of snow against the night sky as my dad chucks balled-up paper from the floor at my brother. I can smell the dinner my mom and grandma are making in the oven from the other room, blending with the subtle scent of the tree, adorned with trinkets and treasures, under which my cat sleeps, curled up on the tree skirt. I’ll fall asleep with the taste of Christmas cookies still stuck to my teeth, buried under thick layers of soft blankets, dreaming, filled with excitement of the next morning: my brother and I racing down the stairs, opening the mountains of presents under the tree, then spending a few days with my extended family. Playing games, giving and getting gifts, sharing food and stories, staying up too late with my cousins- this is what the holidays are all about. While cheesy commercials and years of Hallmark movies have spoon-fed society this idea of “holiday cheer”, it’s unrealistic. I’ve spent the later years of my childhood trying to force myself to feel joy because I’ve been told that I am supposed to, but really, I feel an unsettling feeling of dread, creeping deeper into my life each year. Holidays are portrayed as heartwarming times of the year spent expressing
for someone to blow up and start a fight.
When I was younger, it wasn’t always bad. Under the shield of my innocence, I latched on to games of hide and seek, Mario kart tournaments on the Nintendo, and sneaking downstairs at night to get second helpings of dessert. My early memories of the holiday season are filled with the happy experiences that used to prevail over any conflict. Now, I look for excuses to leave or hide in my room, away from the danger. I count down the days, the hours, the minutes, even, until I can be alone again. My family is distant, angry, tense, and worst of all, completely opposed.
My parents are relatively liberal. They don’t hide it, nor do they have any reason to. They were raised with different religious backgrounds, but currently do not practice any. My mother is agnostic, and my father is an atheist. They are well-educated schoolteachers. My dad’s oldest brother, my Uncle Charlie, and his wife Jen, and their kids are also liberal. Alternatively, both sets of my grandparents, my dad’s middle brother, my Uncle Mike, his wife Ruth, and their kids are all extremely conservative and are evangelical Christians. My mom’s brother Aaron is also a strong conservative, but in more of the redneck, all-American kind of way. Regardless,
Gigi Prothero
“Every time I see them makes me hate the holiday. But I could never hate my family.”
a family gathering with this level of polarization is a recipe for total disaster.
For me, the cherry on top is that I feel caught in the middle. I don’t always agree with my parents about politics. I’m seventeen, I can’t vote, and I have very chaotic, misguiding access to information. But while my views aren’t solidified, I still have them. I don’t feel that I am as far left as my parents. I lean liberal, but I wouldn’t consider myself an extremist. Despite how unsure I am about my political identity, I always feel obligated to pick a side.
The division within my family didn’t happen overnight. I started to feel the pull of the tension when I was younger, especially with little interactions, such as this one time when I was about eight or nine years old, and I walked in on my cousin Emily, the same age, trying to explain her religion in detail to my four-year-old brother. Or a few years later when I asked her how she would react if I was gay, and she told me she would “love me but not support me,” whatever that’s supposed to mean. Obviously, these things made me uncomfortable, but I got over it, because what else was I going to do? I couldn’t cut my family off—I wasn’t even a teenager when these things happened. She and I were always close; I could live with knowing she and I disagreed sometimes.
Last year, on Christmas, we were all at my dad’s parents’ house, and my dad and Uncle Mike got into a screaming match. No matter how hard I try to forget it, I remember the fight vividly. I was hiding in my grandma’s closet, two floors away, curled up in a corner and sobbing. The yelling lasted about half an hour, and while I’ve blocked out what they said to each other, I remember the sounds of their voices as if they’re still fighting inside my head.
After the ceasefire, Emily was the one to find me. We ended up sitting in the closet for an hour, just talking. She listened to me, and I listened to her. We skipped dinner exchanging opinions and doing everything we could to support and understand each other. She told me about her own religious identity and how she found Jesus on her own timeline, and I opened up about my mental health. We still don’t agree on most things, but that conversation was so enlightening that I can confidently say that we are closer now than we ever were.
Emily and I might have made amends, but my dad and uncle never apologized. There is still tension hanging in the air, and it gets stronger, bonds severed further every time we get together as a family. I can’t say that I believe it will get better, because in truth, I’m scared. I don’t think there’s much that can be done to fix the damage done to the connections we used to have. My grandparents are getting older every day—my grandpa is turning 93 this year—and they physically cannot keep hosting all twenty of us for three days each holiday, but no one else in my family is willing to, and we already host Thanksgiving at my house. But my grandparents won’t live forever, and I don’t know what will happen when they pass. I wouldn’t be surprised if my relatives never spoke to each other again.
I hope that I’ll keep up with my relationship with Emily. I wish I could say that I’d be okay if we never spent Christmastime all together again. I could never hate my family, even when every time I see them makes me hate the holiday. But while I won’t be okay when it happens, I’ve made peace with the fact that we’ll never have the holiday celebrations that we did in my childhood, and soon we might never have any again. And I hate to admit it, but it’s for the best.
We don’t have a fireplace to hang stockings on or sit around, and it rarely snows on Christmas anymore, but there are still bits of the traditional holiday celebration that I am lucky enough to enjoy. I am grateful for the Christmas tree in my living room, adorned with trinkets and memories. I am grateful for my mom’s cookies, the ones my brother and I have helped her bake for years. I am grateful for the presents under the tree, be there many or few. I am grateful for the family I have, no matter what comes between us, forever and always.
Letters in the Pocket of a Dead Soldier
Austin Wang
July 4th
My Dearest Margaret,
Today is hot, hotter than any summer we had back home. The air is thick with dust and heat, but if I squint, I can still see your face in every beam of sunlight that sneaks through the cracks of this barren place. How are the roses in our garden? I imagine you out there, I can picture it in my head. You always trimmed those flowers while humming that tune you always hum—the one I pretended to forget but never could. How did it go again? Ba-dum, dum, dum, dum dum, dumdum dum dum. Something like that. I’ll hear it again when I’m home. I’ll hear it again when we’re together.
You make me smile even here, Margaret, in this forsaken land filled with smoke and ashes. Even here.
I’ll write again soon.
With love, — Henry
August 12th
My Dearest Margaret,
The stars tonight remind me of the time we lay in the field behind your father’s barn. We counted them until we lost track, remember? And you fell asleep, resting your head on my shoulders as I ran my fingers through your hair. I never told you how soft it felt. Like silk. These stars haven’t changed one bit. Isn’t that so strange? How the same stars shine over us both, even though we’re worlds apart?
Margaret, if this war ends—no, when this war ends, we’ll finally get married. And those flowers you smell like—flowers as beautiful as you—will sprout up from the soil and fill the earth with a colorful hue. We’ll sit in the shade under the pale, blue sky and lay on a soft field of grass as it rustles gently in the wind. And our children will have your beautiful blue eyes and maybe even my dark curly hair. We’ll laugh together, laugh until our sides ache. And when we’re done laughing, our lives well-lived, we’ll be buried next to each other. Imagine that. On our tombstones: Margaret and Henry, forever together, forever in love.
And don’t worry. I’m keeping my promise, Margaret. One day soon, I’ll come home, and we’ll build the life we always talked about. I can see it so clearly: you, me, our children, the little house, the garden, and the dog that we’ll name Patch. I’ll hold onto that picture in my head.
Forever yours,
— Henry
October 3rd
Margaret, my love, I’ve seen things here I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but still, I hold onto hope. I hold onto you. These letters are the only light in this darkness. The men laugh when I read them aloud, not out of mockery, but because they, too, long for those they love back home. I wish I could send them to you. But I don’t want to. They’re too precious to me. I’ll hold onto these, for now, until I can give them to you in person. Until then, I’ll write to remember all the things that happened. We’ll laugh about all of this someday. I know we will. I miss you more than words can say. I’ll write again soon.
— Henry
October 20th
Margaret, my dear, Today, I met a boy who reminded me of your little brother. Just seventeen. He should be home playing ball or chasing girls, but instead, he’s here, caught in this mess, this madness. I’ve promised myself I’ll look out for him, the way I’d want someone to look out for me if the roles were reversed. His optimism is contagious, and he laughs just like you. I envy him. He still believes in the goodness of this world. And maybe, just maybe, he’s right. With love, — Henry
November 7th
My Dearest Margaret, The rain hasn’t stopped for days. It turns the trenches into rivers of mud, but it also reminds me of home. Do you remember that summer storm when we were caught in the middle of town? We danced in the rain, soaked to the bone, not caring who saw us. I remember how your hair clung to your face, and we laughed as the ground glistened beneath our feet. That’s my happiest memory, Margaret. I replay it in my mind over and over. We’ll make memories like those again soon.
— Henry
November 22nd
Dear Margaret,
The days are harder now. Remember the boy I told you about? He didn’t make it. I can’t stop thinking about his mother. How do you tell someone their child, their loved one, isn’t coming home? I pray you never have to hear such news. With love, as always,
— Henry
December 16th
Margaret,
When the night is dark, and the world feels so empty and lacking in warmth, I think of you. You always smelled like flower blossoms. I cannot even imagine that smell now. I reek of dead grass and fallen leaves. But I’ll come home soon.
Yesterday, it snowed for the first time in what feels like years. I’d forgotten what it looked like–fluffy, white, and endless. There were so many snowflakes. They felt so soft on my skin. And when I looked up at the night sky, illuminated by the moon, I couldn’t tell the snowflakes apart from the stars. Maybe it’s a sign that something better is waiting for us.
— Henry
December 25th
Margaret,
I dream of bright blue skies, laced with fluffy cotton clouds. I dream of fields of apple-green grass, and tall, strong trees sprouting from the earth. I miss the cold, sharp rain that kissed your skin and the soft sheets of fresh snow. I even miss your terrible cooking.
But here, I only see the dust-choked skies, and missiles raining down like tears. I see the endless, muddy ground, streaked with blood that runs like rivers. I see mountains of rubble, and the pale, white bodies resting upon them. The forests have vanished, Margaret, and I am alone, gripping this rifle with hands so stained by sin. Hands that took the soul of an innocent man. I killed a man, Margaret. I saw as the life left his eyes. He haunts me, his cold fingers still clutching at me in the dark. I’m scared, Margaret. Scared of what I’ve become. Why are we still fighting this war?
— Henry
January 1st
Margaret,
I killed another man today. I remember his eyes were full of terror, his face smeared with dirt and blood. But as he lay there dying, he grabbed onto my pants, his hand trembling, his voice weak. And with his shaking fingers, he handed me a photo. It was a picture of his wife and children.
Margaret, they could have been us.
I can’t stop staring at this photograph. The children are smiling, their faces bright with so much joy. And his wife has the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen, just like yours.
I couldn’t understand his words, but I’m guessing he wanted me to keep it safe for him. Now I’m wondering: Isn’t the enemy just like us? Aren’t we all human? Don’t we all just want the same things? Peace, love, and a family to come home to? Haven’t we both suffered enough? How much longer until this war ends? It doesn’t make sense anymore, Margaret. And maybe it never did.
— Henry
January 23rd
My Dearest Margaret, I’ve tried to write for weeks, but the words wouldn’t come. The days blur together, each one more unbearable than the last. I’m so tired, Margaret. So tired.
I carry these letters with me everywhere. They’re folded and worn, but they remind me of everything I’m fighting for. When it gets too dark to bear, I read these words and imagine your voice responding. I see your face in the sunrise, in the rare quiet moments when the world is still. I whisper your name a thousand times, and a thousand more, hoping I could see you if only just one more time. I hate to admit it, but I’ve forgotten what you look like. I’ve forgotten the shade of your eyes, the color of your hair. I’ve even forgotten how you looked when you smiled, and what your laugh sounded like. What’s become of me?
The men say the war will end soon. I hold onto that hope, but it feels distant, like a dream I can’t quite remember. I don’t know if I’ll make it. But just know that I loved you with everything I had.
I love you, my light in the darkness, — Henry
Crimson Cavalier
Digital
Niki Chen
Puppet King Digital Niki Chen
Muse
Audrey Nguyen
Content Warning: Body hatred, discussion of weight
She is deep cuts
And the churning of dark matter
Toughened muscle
And strained fingers
Movement
Something with history.
She is a marble statue
Bone-colored flesh
Sleep wounds and nightmare scars
Carved into her eye sockets.
You don’t know why
But you find it beautiful
The way her blood vessels
Snake beneath the surface of her skin
And crawl into her tired eyes
The way her bones protrude beneath flesh
So that one would believe
A silk cloth was simply draped over
You stare in the mirror at your own face
Pinch the fat that pools around your jaw
Rub your almond eyes until they’re sore
And smear them like
Blurring the edges into something Poetic.
Draw the eyeliner out so sharp
It cuts like a knife along your temples
Even though the more ink you add,
The more invisible you feel,
The more nights you spend
Wiping it off,
The more of yourself seeps into the cotton pad.
You wish your eyes were naturally deep
Like you weren’t drawn on paper
But a story branded in stone.
You want to feel like you are important
Worthy of a life
Cut in marble and skin
So you weave her into every song of yours
Each lyric an incantation
Each word a prayer of possession.
But if singers were only blessed
Once broken
And love was only remembered
Once tragic
How much blood must you spill
Before it turns into ink?
How much hurt must we seek
Before we realize that
The beauty of our art
Will never satisfy
Our own burning desires
As beautiful?
A Broken Jar
Chastity Ly
Content Warning: Emotional abuse
My stepmother strides into the kitchen, feet stomping. Without a word, she hurls a glass jar onto the tile. I watch unfazed as it shatters, the shards surrounding my feet. I find myself turning towards the pantry, reaching for the broom out of habit. I sigh quietly and familiarly, realizing everything about this is familiar. Her random temper tantrums, always resulting in something shattering… or rather, someone.
I lift my foot to step over the glass. She yells at me not to move. I put my foot back down, raising my eyebrow in confusion. Now this… this part is new. She walks towards the pantry doors, and I think, Well, good, maybe she’s finally decided to clean up her own mess.
But, she slams the doors instead and I look at her, bewildered. What does she want from me? Then she says there could be tiny shards of glass. I tell her she’s crazy as I start to step over the mess. But she screams again, warning me that I could get hurt.
Who’s going to tell her she’s hurt me already?
I ask her for her idea, and she proposes building a wall around the glass shards. I tell her she’s being irrational, that she’s trapping me inside as well. She tells me it’s fine, I’ll adapt.
I tell her she’s crazy, again. I tell her that she’s going to ruin my life by keeping me away from the people I love the most.
But, she doesn’t care. She never cares.
She begs me to listen to her, that it will be better this way, that she’ll be happy having her piece of mind; knowing that no one can step on the glass.
Or rather, no one can step on the glass except for me, because she never cares when I’m the one being hurt. She never cares when I’m the one left to pick up the pieces of our shattering family.
The family that she broke.
Well, this was never about a broken jar.
but i cannot stop
Anouk Freudenberg
I
love you
Nothing good can come of it but I cannot stop
I have tried
Clamped jaw, clutched fist,
To drown you out I fill my life with other things
Try sleeping more
Try honey in my tea
Try violence
Try believing in God just to feel something different
Try exercise, write poems, burn incense
Walk barefoot in the bitter cold just to see what would happen
Commune with spirits talk to the stars, take oaths
Of patience and virtue and light candles, keep secrets hang crystals in the window
learn Spanish
learn Saxophone
Learn silence
Learn to speak so different I become unrecognizable
Still there is nothing for it
You remain within me like a promise I whispered in the dark I love you
Nothing good can come of it
But I cannot stop
oh nawr!
Acrylic Hannah Gupta
Here Lies Hope
Jayna Grossman
In my grave I am born
With spider lilies and white roses adorned
Upon the headstone, effortlessly upturned
Though with the sun’s rays I am easily burned
I don’t believe I have a name
I only know I am meant to persevere
So I allow the sun to scald me
And to apologize as it disappears
I know not where it goes
Only that nobody knows
What becomes of the radiant star
Except that its light reaches far
I am left wishing and waiting and wanting
For its presence to grace me once again
I find I am hungry for its heat
Though its offered nourishment is given instead to men
Perhaps the sunlight will strike my cradle
Before something befalls me that is fatal
For without it I could not long survive
The cold dark winters only Death could contrive
So it is fitting that I should be born in a grave
Waiting faithfully for my Sunshine’s warmth
As the first flakes of snow make landing on my head
And the wind carries my executioner thenceforth
Death Directs the Bullet (Ekphrasis Poem) #2
Niki Chen
Author’s Note: The number 4 is commonly associated with death in many East Asian cultures due to the words’ similarities in pronunciation (including Vietnamese) and so I incorporated that aspect throughout the piece.
Heavy —
The feel of fingers too frail, too delicate, Trails along the back of a soldier, thin digits run down his arm. Suffocating him with its desires, his index wraps around the trigger
Heavy— was the weight, resting on his shoulders. Comrades gone too soon, their essence, their soul Now all that encompasses is the thick fog in his mind.
Heavy —
His vision clouds, and his breath wavers with each exhale. The soldier lowers his gun.
Would they feel the bullet dig at their flesh?
Would they look to their friends, their families, their woes?
Will he be seeing them on the other side?
Fruits
Photography
Sukanya Menon
Struck to the Core
Sukanya Menon
Thwack.
The first strike lands, clean and sharp. The blade tears into the tough surface, ripping through the bottom and top. Each motion is swift, peeling away layers of coarse fibers, exposing something hidden beneath.
The skin splits, shredding with each precise slice, until nothing remains but smooth, pale flesh. With one final blow, the blade cuts through, and clear, sweet blood spills forth.
The knife strikes three more times, finishing the work. You sit back, lift the coconut to your lips, and sip the cool liquid, savoring its sweetness. When the last drop is gone, you tear into the tender flesh, leaving nothing behind but the hollow shell.
Trail Angels
Elise Gerstle
j
A gymnast and her exhausted father, the chauffeur, pull into a Wendy’s drive-thru in desperate need of renovation at six in the morning. The athlete’s voice shakes as she orders a burger and a Celsius over the vandalized intercom, hoping the drink will kill her nerves. Coming right up, chirps a bright, staticky voice. The driver sighs, muttering about catching up on sleep as he pulls through to the pick-up window. His daughter cracks her knuckles, eyes watering, knees bouncing, staring at the pitted pavement in front of the car.
The lady who hands them their food in a brown paper bag has a headset on. Want fries with that?
No, the gymnast starts to respond, but the lady just smiles and taps her headset. As she fills their drinks, she takes another person’s order at the same time. You two must be here for the meet over at the Expo center, she adds to the car at the pick-up window. Good luck!
You’re a great multitasker, the girl tries to say, but her father, not yet accompanied by his morning coffee, has already pulled away. For the rest of the car ride, the gymnast stops imagining a failed dismount or a poor tumbling pass. She thinks back to the lady at the drive-thru; her effortless multitasking and her sunny smile; working the dull morning shift with the burden of at least three people on her shoulders, wishing nervous strangers good luck.
k
Home Depot is a great backup when your parents don’t want you to waste babysitting money on art supplies, so the young artist is back for the third
time this month, perusing the paint samples.
The paint associate has started to take notice of her. She’s always taking paint samples, never buying paint. It’s a strange sight. The teen takes notice of the paint associate, too. His job is to mix paints. A certain ratio of primary colors, a wood stick, a metal bucket, and poof–he perfectly matches the color with the slip of paper a customer brings to the counter.
How does he do it? She wonders in awe. Does he memorize a million paint ratios? Does he do it just by looking? Today, she has the courage to ask for a pint of ‘dreamy mint’ paint, crisp babysitting bills waiting in her palm.
The paint associate accepts her request, examining the pale green card. His jeans are splattered with paint. He uses a pint-sized bucket filled halfway with white and adds green, beige, and a tiny bit of blue, using a plastic measuring cup. As he works, he asks the young artist questions. Is she going to paint her room a new color? Why does she have so many paint samples?
She responds simply–she cuts up the paint samples for collages. She’s gathering a portfolio to apply to art school. She thinks it’s so cool that the paint associate can make perfect color ratios with just a bucket and some paints and a wooden stick.
They start up a conversation. The paint associate likes art, too. When there’s extra, unused paint from the day, he takes it home instead of letting it go to waste and sells paintings as a side hustle. He’s also in law school, studying for the bar exam in three months’ time. The artist tells him it’s hard to find adults that like art as much as she does, especially adults in law school with big, impossible ambitions
like hers.
The paint associate and the young artist strike up a deal that day. Whatever paint is left over to be thrown out will be split between the two of them.
And so it goes. Once a week, the two painters catch up, asking about art projects and law school and high school. Once a week, they share a bucket of paint, a few colored cards, and the excitement of finding a kindred spirit in a mundane hardware shop.
lThe boy tries to hide his limp as he gingerly walks his bike into the nearest outdoor sportswear store. The frayed wrist brace and band-aids adorning his elbows tell a story of a painful love for a dangerous game. One more injury, his parents say, and they’ll take away his bike. They won’t really, he knows, because they know how much he loves the sport. But he has to be more careful so he can make it to the next mountain biking race.
The worker that fixes his bike almost monthly looks up. Again? He says and shakes his head. The boy waves a credit card in front of the mechanic’s face, earning a chuckle.
I think I need a chain replacement and a lot of lube, the boy says hopefully as the mechanic walks the bike behind the counter, effortlessly lifting the heavy frame onto a stand to examine it at eye level.
All that’s left to do is pay and watch the master at work, so that’s what the boy does, enthralled. The mechanic’s hands fly over his workbench, reaching every tool without looking down. Blue cloth towel to wipe off the dirt, revealing dents and pockmarks all over the frame. A few spins of the front wheel, a pinch of the handbrake to check for squeaking. A spritz of something pungent on the disc brake.
The boy likes to talk while he watches the job, which is how he’s learned over the years that his buddy the mechanic bikes ten miles every morning, rain or shine, and wins state cycling races. His buddy the mechanic has kept the bike he’s had since high school in such good condition that he still uses it. His buddy the mechanic has broken fourteen bones, the only person the boy knows who can beat his record of nine.
Your job is awesome, he blurts out to his friend. I wanna win races and be a mechanic when I’m older.
The mechanic barks a bitter laugh. No you don’t, kiddo. We get paid zip.
The mechanic thinks, but does not speak about,
what being paid ‘zip’ means. The occasional skipped meal. Long bike rides because money for gas is sparse. His own son, much younger than the boy in front of him. The boy in front of him, who pays for repairs almost monthly, the money saved up for a small, shiny red bike and a college fund, and all the wonderful things the mechanic’s son will have that he never got.
The boy at the counter, to his part, tries to hide his surprise, but can’t help but feel a little sad to hear such a thing. He imagines his friend in a nice suit, wondering if that alone is the factor of his income.
For now, all he can do is smile with gratitude and swipe his card, leaving all his loose change in the tip jar.
High schoolers can be cruel, which is why the girl at Macy’s hides behind thick glasses and long hair in the checkout line, fingers nervously drumming on a bottle of concealer. You don’t need makeup, her friends say, but TV stars and vicious classmates alike tell her otherwise, and their opinion matters more.
The cashier running the makeup stand waves her to the front of the line, elegant acrylic nails flying across a keyboard, keeping the polite smile retail calls for glued to her face. It’s been a long shift, and standing in front of her is yet another timid girl buying makeup in bulk because some nagging feeling tells her it’s a necessity.
The customer pulls out her wallet, placing an array of bottles and boxes on the counter. The cashier looks up at her client as she scans the products. The girl looks away, biting her lip, only as beautiful as she lets herself be.
Well, hello, lovely! The cashier says, placing the products into a bag. That makeup will look fantastic. You’ve already got such a pretty face.
Her client looks up and smiles, confirming the cashier’s suspicions. Thank you.
At home, the teenage customer opens the products, brushes them on her hand, and looks in the mirror at the face that a stranger could praise. She takes off her glasses and puts her hair up. She tries some mascara, but out of intrigue, not necessity. She imagines thanking the cashier, again, for taking time out of what was surely a long and exhausting shift to brighten someone’s day.
n
The school cafeteria smells like cheap pizza and spilled juice boxes and sadness. Someone sits alone at a table, head in his arms. Inside his black phone case are polaroids of peace signs and smiles and someone he’ll never see again.
Don’t cry, he thinks, that’s dumb. But it’s impossible to avoid, so he tries to pretend he’s asleep. Don’t cry, he thinks, because the last thing he wants is someone to notice. The last thing he wants is people looking and whispering and pointing. He’s stuck–he can’t leave the table until his tears are dried; he can’t dry his tears until he leaves the table to wash his face.
The kids nearby awkwardly turn away. Start conversations. Seeing grief is scary. It might be contagious. He might want space. They won’t pay attention to him until later, when fingers fly across screens and rumors spread. For now, they look away.
But someone is still looking out for him.
The janitor makes her rounds, spraying seats and tables and wiping with a rag. She wipes the table in the corner, empty but for a boy with his head in his arms. His shoulders are shaking. He is not asleep.
Someone taps his shoulder. Frantically scrubbing his face with his sleeve, he looks up. A fresh pack of Kleenex waits in a blue plastic-gloved hand.
Go on, says the janitor, her English halting and hesitant, yet gentle. Cry. It’s all right.
He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he nods and accepts the tissues. A few lingering students look on, but pretend not to see. If they looked too carefully, they’d see someone with every excuse to remain a bystander–broken English, a chaotic job, resentment for noisy teens that leave garbage everywhere–help another person, completely of her own free will.
Across the cafeteria, someone’s left a puddle of chocolate milk, a banana peel, and a pile of trash for someone else to deal with.
The janitor’s work is far from over, so she pats the boy’s shoulder and continues making her rounds, mopping away the smell of cheap pizza and spilled juice boxes, and maybe the smell of sadness, too.
***
Five high schoolers gather at a local coffee shop, exchanging study guides and stories. Listening to one another, the group hears about a successful gymnastics meet, a stressful chemistry lab, another bike repair, a new makeup brand, a difficult quiz, a paint sample collage, an essay due Sunday night, and five people with unmatched talent and kindness found in mundane, unexpected places.
As they order their drinks, the students dimly recall overbearing parents and concerned relatives drilling the same message through them. Study hard, or you’ll end up in a repair shop getting your hands greasy. Study hard, or you’ll end up mopping tables in a school cafeteria. Never have they been told that circumstance has nothing to do with value. Never have they been told that the term “skill” can expand beyond a suit and a Master’s degree.
They discuss college and careers, final GPAs and senioritis. They mention successful classmates and older siblings, off to Ivy leagues and Division I sports, but while such titles spark initial admiration, it is the fleeting, simple acts of kindness that, when a name is spoken, leave an aftertaste of respect. They lean back in their seats, sharing laughter and appetizers, praising the many ways a person can use their talents for good.
Succumb to the Shroom
Lucy Schwarz
Long-forgotten villages overgrown with time, Remnants of an ancient, unforeseen crime. Soft umber streets touched by new pride, Within the tall trees there is nowhere to hide.
But if you should dare overlook the new head And unwarily challenge what exists in the dread Before you step foot in what is now your green grave The fungi are ready for you, who they crave.
You are not the first to face this spotted doom To struggle is pointless, Succumb to the shroom.
Photography
Jessica Joseph
Stars of Frosted Blooms
The Cliffs of Moher
Photography
Hannah Gupta
The Cartographic Scrap
Pencil & Pen
Ethan Loi
Elise Gerstle
Serene View at Longwood Gardens
Photography
Jayna Grossman
You belong in my arms. I’ve carved out a special place just for you. How tired my limbs are from waiting in this position, I could not tell you.
No, you’d have to take me in your arms and feel for yourself. I’m amenable to that too. I’m amenable to anything. Just come back. Allow me the privilege of looking at the outside world within the reflection of your eyes. My favorite film. My only film. Let me watch it one more time, and perhaps that will give me the power to let you go. It will be better for you.
I was not meant to be looked at for very long. My roughened features have been widely described as “not unpretty.” Would you agree? I’ve been sitting here waiting for someone to explain it to me, but no one stays long enough to do me the honor.
Unlike me, you are not immobile. Every time you return, I feel I am opening to a random chapter farther down your life. I plead with you now: stop shifting between us. Stay. Comfort me. Let the plot go. Cling to me as I would to you if there was nothing preventing it.
But I know the truth, though I dread accepting it: Love needs a heart, and someone already chiseled mine into separate pieces. If you decided you felt the same as I do you, would you hold the halves together as tenderly as I wish to hold you?
The Mound of Gro Tesque epiderMis
Cole Marshall
Content Warning: Mild violence
Mike put his shoes on. He did it methodically, slowly. Had he been walking with friends, by the end they would’ve been screaming at him, begging him to speed up, dropping to their knees,
walked toward his car which was waiting for him in the driveway. There was something beneath it, though, huffing, puffing, bubbling and breathing, oozing and wheezing.
Mike peered beneath the dark undercarriage of his car, slow as molasses. He met his eyeline with the creature; a small mound of flesh, three eyes involved, with seemingly no bones. Hairs poked out of it—stray and scattershot. Mike backed away with a blank face, allegedly cautious though one would never guess. The mound of grotesque epidermis slowly puffed up and then back down with its huffing, puffing, bubbling and breathing, though this time it seemed notably absent of its
Mike walked around to the driver’s side of the car, got in, and turned on the ignition. He went into reverse up the driveway slowly, until he could see the near-motionless skin gremlin in front of him. He adjusted the wheel ever so slightly while still pressing on the break and then shifted into drive. He cautiously drove over the mini beast, listening
And there it was. He then backed up a little bit, and parked. He turned off the ignition and got out of the car, leaving his door open. He walked around to the spot the creature was, where it still was. Mike looked… he evaluated… a couple hairs, a flattened body of skin, a teeny puddle of blood, and a few unmistakably squished eyeballs… and then he shrugged, got into his car, and drove to his job at the skin goblin destruction plant.
The Art of Cultivating Leeches
Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi
OOne could say that using medicine from the old ages in this society is like buying a product after its warranty expires. Their methods are old and tried. They’re unreliable. Unhygienic. Dangerous, even. And yet, the use of leeches in medicine has persisted, from before the 1500s to today. They’re used in plastic surgery and other medical procedures to reduce blood pressure, help with the healing of wounds, and prevent blood clotting.
It’s ironic to think that such a lowly, disgusting creature could save someone from dying. I think about this idea often, as much as leeches disgust me. Leeches are rotten creatures; thick, black worms that suck blood like a dollar store vampire. It shocks me that something bad could become something good when cultivated in the right way. At what point does something become too rotten to ever be converted again? How can rot be turned into gold? Is it really turned into gold? Or is it just a gilded surface hiding decay underneath?
I wonder which leeches are too bloodthirsty and which aren’t worth the risk of cultivating in the first place. Some leeches can transmit viruses and bacteria to the patient if a doctor isn’t careful. Some suck too much blood if they’re neglected. How is it possible to decide which leeches are worth the effort, are capable of being cultivated, and which are too far gone?
tainting the soul beyond cleansing. There are some leeches who have corrupted themselves from the inside out, with the blood they sucked churning in their stomachs and the pieces of flesh lodged in their denticles. These are the ones who hide in the muck of a lake, underneath the dead leaves and slick sediment. The ones you only discover after they’ve attached themselves. After it’s too late.
If you’re lucky, you remove them a minute after they bite you and you can replace the blood you lost in a couple of hours. But some will find their fingers grasping at the creature, swollen and bursting with their red blood cells and plasma, while disease slowly works its way through their bloodstreams. And of this selection of people, some will escape with a bacterial infection, while others will fall victim to P. falciparum, more commonly known as malaria.
“With a leech, you never know what you’re going to get. A lifesaver or a death omen. A medical device or a parasite. A blessing or a curse.”
With a leech, you never know what you’re going to get. A lifesaver or a death omen. A medical device or a parasite. A blessing or a curse. They’re fickle little things, and what lies underneath their slippery black dermis is unknown.
I want to believe that every single repulsive worm could be turned into something valuable and lifesaving, partially because their very existence disgusts me, and partially because it’s hard to believe that leeches are revolting to their core. I want to believe that they can redeem themselves, become more than they were destined to. But some small part of me — deep, deep down — knows that there are some stains you can’t wash off, some blackness
There is a sort of an art to selecting the optimal medicinal leech to cultivate. It’s an art that most wish to perfect during the course of their lifetime. All of us choose wrong at least once; it comes with the job description. The only thing you can consider a success is to not be mistaken twice. Because when you misjudge for the second time, no matter how much anesthetic the leech produces to lessen the pain of the bite, you will feel the malaria-infected cells clogging the blood vessels in your heart.
One by one, your red blood cells will betray you and stop the blood flow to your heart altogether. And no amount of regret or what-ifs will be able to fix the mistake you made.
a moonlit veil
Colored Pencil
Hannah Gupta
Where the Candle Wax Goes
Audrey Nguyen
You gave me a lilac candle once
Lighting it every time you came over
And putting on one of the old, one-dollar vinyls
That I picked up from the record shop.
We’d waltz on creaky wood panels
Between backpacks and piles of clothes
And the sharp corners of my furniture
I am still spinning,
I am still dizzy.
You’d lift me off the ground,
Tackle me to the bed,
And we’d giggle like children
Like secrets weren’t sinful
But something to treasure.
It was on those nights I felt that I was
Burning away,
Becoming half of something
In order to become a part of our whole.
To fuse limb with limb
Arm with arm
Leg with leg.
The sheets are too thin now, and yet,
I am still tangled, still melting.
Our whispers were
The veil of smoke,
Blanketing my room
Your laughter
The flame,
Still shuddering against my neck
Even though
The matches are now simmering in the trash
And the wax has dwindled
To low tide.
I am still sitting amidst the ashes
Even as the embers
Are fresh and glowing in my mind.
Tell me,
Where does it all go?
Does it cling to the walls like sweat and soot stains?
Can it truly just evaporate
Mere moments after it burned brightest?
I cannot understand how you simply
Dissipated like smoke in the rain,
How you had the privilege
Of an exhale,
While I had to smother
All the words I had yet to say
And suffocate
In the burning building
Of my body.
What’s the point of screaming
When you’ve stopped listening,
Begging when you’ve refused to bargain?
You told me you still loved me
Even as you were snuffing out the light
But I wonder
How long the scent will linger in the air
Before there is a new flame
Dancing in your eyes.
You told me you would never forget me
As if I am dead.
I wonder if you know how much it hurts
To be made into a memory
When I am still
Fucking
Here.
To Be On The Limit
Digital
Maggie Ng
Deep Carmine Digital
Niki Chen
Beneath the Surface
Austin Wang
Content Warning: Descriptions of dead bodies
There had been three murders in the past week, and yet Detective Peterson had no lead. It was strange, the way each victim’s bodies were twisted and disfigured. Even the most experienced police officers turned away in disgust from the grotesque contortions of their limbs. The autopsies were not at all clear. The doctors could only shrug their shoulders each time Peterson asked for answers. Each body had several bruises and fractures, but no conclusive signs of how they died. The damage was brutal; it was almost as if the killer wanted to leave as many potential causes as possible. The only common feature was a peculiar set of three scratches across each victim’s chest.
“Thanks, I’ll get off here,” Peterson mumbled, handing 20 bucks to the gray-haired taxi driver, Gus Jones, whose face had grown as wrinkled and weathered as the cracked leather seats in his cab. He was a man of few words. He had served in the army decades ago, and some people joked that he still wore his old uniform beneath his coat; a bit of a quirky character, no doubt, but he often drove around the streets Peterson always needed a cab at.
One thing Peterson had always noticed, though, was how strangely clean Gus kept his cab. Not just tidy—spotless. The leather seats, though cracked, were scrubbed down daily. Not a speck of dust on the dashboard, and the floor mats looked almost new. This was the kind of obsessive cleanliness
Peterson had only seen in people who need control over something.
“Very well, Mr. Peterson. I wish you luck with your case,” Gus replied in his gravelly voice. He watched as Peterson slowly exited the car, his face barely visible under the brim of his worn cap.
Rain pattered against his hat, droplets slipping down in thin rivulets as he stepped onto the wet pavement. The city’s ever-present drizzle clung to his coat, the neon reflections of streetlights shimmering in the puddles at his feet.
Peterson sighed as he walked into the building. As renowned as he was, being a detective didn’t pay very well, and cases often took way too long to solve. They also weren’t good for his mental health. It was unlikely that the gray hair on his scalp was caused by aging, given that he was only in his early 30s.
At the office, Evan, his young assistant, greeted him. “Welcome back! You solve your case yet?”
“Very funny, Evan,” Peterson replied, hanging up his coat. “Get back to work, please. There’s a pile of paperwork I need you to do, and if you’re not gonna help me with this case, you best get started.”
“Paperwork? No problemo, Detective. Not that I would’ve been much help anyway. This brain of mine is only good for busy work,” Evan quipped, picking up the stack of files with a dramatic sigh. He was barely out of his teens, an eager kid who’d somehow ended up working part-time for Peterson.
Peterson sat at his desk, examining the case notes scattered across it. For some reason, he felt someone watching him. As he reviewed the latest autopsy report, his eyelids drooped a little.
They got heavier…and heavier…and…
“Hey! Mr. Peterson! Wake up! I finished the paperwork!”
Peterson jolted awake, knocking over the cold mug of coffee on his desk.
“Yeah, sorry,” Peterson muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Lack of sleep’s been hitting me hard.”
“I can’t believe you fell asleep! You must be very tired with your case, so that’s understandable, I guess. But come on, Mr. Peterson! Slacking off? Unbelievable. I went out to get some food, and when I got back you were still sleeping!”
“Anyways, here’s my work for the day, so I’ll be expecting my payment now,” Evan said with a laugh, though Peterson couldn’t really tell if he was serious or not.
Evan handed him the paperwork, most of it filled with messy scrawls.
“What is this? It’s mostly scribbles! Half of it’s illegible!” Peterson exclaimed, squinting at the notes.
was eerily familiar. The body contorted; arms twisted at bizarre angles; the signature three scratches on the chest. Yet this time an axe had been found at the scene, completely clean from blood, lying abandoned a few feet from the body. It was left-handed.
Peterson stared at it, frowning. A weapon, discarded like trash, but not a single trace of blood? That made no sense. Had the killer wiped it clean? Why go through the trouble? People who killed like this–messy, brutal–didn’t usually care about cleaning up after themselves.
“We’ve already dusted it for prints but came up with nothing. It is likely that the perpetrator wore gloves,” reported one of the crime scene investigators. “However, we have three suspects who were close to the crime scene at the time. They’re all left-handed.”
“He felt someone watching him...”
“Oh, yeah, I wrote them with my right hand. I’ve been practicing writing with my nondominant hand,” Evan replied sheepishly. “I read that ambidextrous people are smarter, and wanted to test if it’s true.”
Peterson rolled his eyes.
Before he could reprimand him, the phone suddenly rang. Peterson picked up.
“Hello? Yes, this is Peterson. Another? Where? Got it. Be right there.”
For a while now, he’d had no leads, losing so much sleep. But now, a new murder! Sure, rest in peace to the victim and all that, but this could lead to him solving the case!
The murder scene was only a short drive away, near Evan’s favorite late-night diner. Evan decided to tag along, insisting it would be “educational.” He was probably just avoiding the paperwork.
When they arrived, the sight that awaited them
“Perfect! Show ‘em to me!” Peterson exclaimed with a smile on his face, excited by such potentially promising leads.
A short drive to the police station later, and Peterson’s smile slowly faded away.
The suspects were an elderly woman who probably didn’t even know where she was, a young boy with a lopsided grin who was trying to balance a pencil on his upper lip, and a middle-aged, sleep-deprived man whose eyes were practically closed.
“What is this? A joke? How can any of these be the suspects?”
“Well, they are the only leads we have. The murderer’s not giving us much to work with here,” said the investigator, looking a bit discouraged.
“You know, you should at least be grateful,” another officer chimed in. “Our police department worked hard to track the suspects based on the security camera footage and…”
Peterson covered his face with his hands, tuning out the cop’s words.
Useless.
The next few days bled together in a haze of sleeplessness and dead ends. Peterson felt his patience start to wear out. He lost track of time, sometimes unsure if it was morning or night when
he left the office. More than once, he showed up to work without his badge or notebook, only to find them sitting on his desk where he’d left them the night before. He fell asleep in his chair so often that the lines of case files and autopsy reports blurred into his dreams, images of twisted bodies melding with half-formed memories. He worked himself to the bone, redoing all the paperwork that Evan filled out with scribbles, plus another dozen-or-so folders of papers on top of that.
His thoughts were tangled like a knotted rope, slipping whenever he tried to grasp them. He kept retracing his steps, convinced he had forgotten something–his keys, his badge, the last thing he ate. His whole body ached, joints stiff as if he’d spent the whole night digging trenches instead of sitting at his desk. He’d examined the clues over and over, and deduced that it was simply unnatural the way the victims had died. The scratch marks didn’t match any known weapon or tool. Too jagged to be from a knife, too uniform to be from an animal. No signs of defensive wounds either–if the victims had been attacked, they hadn’t fought back. And then there was the axe. Why would it be here at all? No blood, no signs of impact. Just lying there, like a prop left behind in a scene that no longer made sense.
Peterson had also started noticing strange things. His own fingerprints had been found at one of the earlier crime scenes. Though he had been there investigating, the forensic team found them in places he had no reason to touch. Evan had once mentioned seeing Peterson leave the office late at night, though he had no memory of it. And for some reason, he always felt like someone was watching him.
Then, one morning, Evan stopped coming in: “Taking some time off,” he’d said, “Family stuff. I’ll probably be back after three days.”
Not that he did much work anyway.
Evan did not come back after three days. Nor four. Nor five. Peterson began to feel a gnawing suspicion but couldn’t explain why.
One night, a week after Evan left, Peterson was woken up from his restless sleep. A new murder had happened.
This time, the body was found deep in the forest, its location given by an anonymous tip. The police were too busy solving another crime, so they left Peterson to go investigate by himself.
In the night, Peterson found himself riding in
Gus’s taxi once again, the old man unusually quiet as they drove toward the edge of town. As he looked out the window, fragments of memories came back to Peterson’s mind, along with a heavy, disorienting sense that he’d been here before.
His mind swirled with questions and hazy images he couldn’t piece together.
“We’re almost there,” Gus said as they entered the dark forest, his voice a low rumble. The car’s headlights cut through the fog, casting eerie shadows on the trees.
Apparently, there were four bodies. They looked as if they had just been dug up.
A middle-aged man’s…
A young boy’s…
An elderly woman’s…
And… Evan’s.
They had no scratch marks on their chests, however, and no disfigurement. Nothing at all. They were just… lifeless.
Wait. These are the same suspects of the other murder. And Evan? Where did he go? How did he die? What is happening?
A twisted feeling gnawed at his gut. He could’ve sworn he’d seen these people just days before, alive and unhurt. But now… here they lay, all suspects in his latest case, dead with no sign of struggle or explanation. Only their vacant, glassy eyes, seemingly staring into his soul. And strangely enough, he felt no pity for them, not even Evan.
“Strange, isn’t it?” Gus’s voice broke through the silence, almost sympathetic, as if the scene before him was something he saw everyday.
“You’re looking at them like they’re strangers, Detective, but I’d bet this isn’t the first time you’ve laid eyes on them in this exact spot.”
Peterson turned, a chill creeping down his spine. “What are you saying exactly, Gus?” His voice started to shake a little, but he tried to keep it steady.
Gus took a step closer. “You were here last night. I drove you, remember? You brought me here, in that sleepless haze of yours, burying evidence right
before my eyes. You’ve been living with one foot in your dream and one in your own nightmare, lad.”
Peterson’s head throbbed, flashes of the forest flickering in his mind. Oh my god.
In the memories, he was alone, holding a shovel. His hands were coated in dirt, and something sticky and red was on his gloves. But no… this isn’t right… he had no memory of coming here last night… only faint impressions.
“I don’t remember… I don’t…” Peterson stumbled over his words, desperately trying to make sense of it all.
Gus chuckled softly, almost to himself. “Don’t remember, eh? Funny thing, memory. Sometimes we block out things we’d rather not face. Like the dirty work of burying all your problems. You don’t want to remember it. How many times did you wake up with dirt under your nails or blisters on your hands? The smudges of your own fingerprints where they shouldn’t be? Evan told you he saw you leaving the office at night—where were you going, Detective? And that axe? No blood, wiped clean just like everything else you’ve been trying to scrub from your mind. You’ve been trying to solve your own murders. Every clue points back at you.”
Gus smiled. “But it’s all right, Detective. We all have our burdens to bear.”
“Why… why would I…” Peterson stammered, feeling his mind teeter on the edge of understanding… no… something far worse-–recognition. Have I been here? Did I kill them?
“B-but why would I kill my own assistant? Why would I kill any of these people? They aren’t my problems! I was going to use them to solve the case!”
“That’s not what you told me last night. Need I remind you, Peterson? You said that you would set
things right.”
Suddenly, the dull thud of footsteps echoed through the forest, snapping him back to reality. Two police officers emerged, weapons drawn.
“Detective Peterson,” one of them said sternly, “you’re under arrest. We received a tip that you commited these murders,” He took a step forward, grabbing Peterson’s arm, “You need to come with us.”
Peterson opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was overwhelmed with parts of memory he couldn’t put together. His eyes darted to Gus, who just stood there, watching with a passive smile.
“Breaking News! Detective Peterson, a previously celebrated investigator, has been arrested for committing a series of gruesome murders. An anonymous tip led to his arrest, and so far, police have found a substantial amount of evidence linking him to the crimes.”
The news anchor continued, listing the bodies identified at the most recent crime scene, including that of Peterson’s own assistant, Evan. They displayed a grainy, black-and-white photograph of Peterson, looking weary and a mess as he was led into the station in handcuffs.
In the dimness of a small room, Gus sat watching the broadcast with a smirk, a faint glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. He turned to the axe lying on the table beside him, running his fingers over its polished blade. Not a speck of dust. Not a streak of blood. He took a cloth from his pocket and wiped the surface again, ensuring it remained pristine.
“Ah, Detective,” he murmured to himself. “You made it so easy, convincing yourself you were the culprit. Just a little push, a bit of suggestion here, a nudge there…” He lifted one hand, and from it dangled a hypnotic watch, its glass face gleaming under the dim light. His fingertips elongated into curved, claw-like talons—razor-sharp, yet eerily spotless, as though they had never touched a thing.
“You did the hard work, Peterson,” he whispered as he sharpened his claws against the edge of the axe. “And I merely made you believe it was all yours.”
The television droned on in the background, but Gus was already focused on his next masterpiece, a sinister smile creeping across his face as he imagined it.
Eruption
Elise Gerstle
Content Warning: Bullying.
She’s a smile and a nod away from eruption.
You might think you’re sneaky about it, but she saw it– the whispers behind hands, the smirks, the slight shaking of heads. Ever the peacemaker, she apologizes, smiles. Takes the blame. Stands down.
But now she’s shown you that she can be smothered into submission. So the next time, it’s a little less subtle. It’s a snide comment. A chuckle. An eye roll. Tiny, almost imperceptible tremors that warn of distant peril. Not even thinking to protest, she meekly excuses herself, abounding in politeness and excessive “sorry”s.
Only after the fact does she realize that perhaps you were in the wrong, not her. Next time, she thinks. Next time, I’ll stand up for myself.
Next time arrives. You’re getting bolder, she realizes while picking up her scattered papers, scrambling to find a new seat and new friends now that you’ve taken hers. Next time I’ll say enough’s enough. Next time I’ll put a stop to it.
Next time comes and goes. She manages to catch herself before your subtle shove sends her tumbling down the stairs, but she can’t find the confidence or the words to say something. She mumbles apologies and bows her head, but don’t be fooled. Underneath, she can feel an unspoken retort pounding in her ears, stinging her eyes, sitting on her tongue. Heat lurks beneath her skin, flushing her cheeks. Next time will be the last straw, she vows. Next time you won’t get away with this.
And so it goes– an array of next times. You seem to get stronger every time she lets a comment slide or peels the garbage off her things. She postpones the last straw until she’s brimming at the edges with wrath. She needs to let out the heat soon, before she loses control and explodes. But it never seems like the right time, so next time it is.
The thing about postponing that last straw, though, is that it can only be held back for so long. One day, one minute, one second–
Time runs out. The words on her tongue can no longer be choked back. She finds herself fresh out of smiles, apologies, and next times.
The anger she once suppressed with a thin layer of courtesy pours out, and nothing is left to hold it back. The scalding words she’s harbored flow out, unbridled. She’s let go, like she wanted to, but it gives her no closure, like she’d hoped.
It’s all different, it’s all wrong–too violent, too free. She never realized she could hold such brutality in her hands– the kind that she’s endured from you and wishes on no one else. She doesn’t know– and neither do you– how this could have happened.
But with time, you’ll see: eruptions don’t run on human clocks. Fire and wrath, magma and fury, bubble to the surface, accommodating for no one’s agenda.
She erupted for you–at you– but you were miles away when time ran out. The people close to her, though, weren’t so lucky.
She has some apologies to make. Real ones– not the tentative, resentful mumblings you’re used to hearing from her. You may have been the catalyst, but it’s her eruption. She’s the one who will have to clean it up.
You got lucky this time. How many other people have you beaten down until they’re on their last next time? How many others close to you are a smile and a nod away from eruption?
Manufactured Aurora Borealis
Photography Elise Gerstle
Withering
Content Warning: Self-harm ideations
Audrey Nguyen
I cannot sleep, Exhausted,
Yet my body refuses rest. Maybe my mind does not turn off Because it knows that if I pass out, You would haunt me in a nightmare, Or worse, Come back to me in a lovely dream, And I wake up lingering in the coffin of our bed Stone-cold under the veil Of threadbare linen. I cannot eat. Hungry Yet no appetite. Maybe my body is starving itself Because it knows that Nothing Will satiate the emptiness, The negative space You have carved out of me.
I wish you would wrap your arms around me And make it stop aching, Even if I know that I am above Licking honey off of sharpened knives, And downing poison from pretty glasses.
But a part of me wants this. I hope you see the dark circles beneath my eyes My loosened jeans And thin wrists. I would destroy myself Just so the guilt burns in your ears And bubbles up your throat
To form an “I want you back”. How sick must I be To not want to get better?
Digital
Niki Chen
Photography
Sukanya Menon
tick, tock
Content Warning: Blood, horror.
TGigi Prothero
he doll lay sleeping in her ornate wooden box, tucked away into a small corner of the attic. A decade’s worth of dust defined the folds of her elaboräte dress, her pale face framed by perfect brown ringlets. Though she was forgotten, her miniature gold pocket watch still ticked faintly from the grasp of her porcelain fingers…
On the eve of Sylvie’s tenth birthday, her mother unburied the box and blew the veil of time off the doll’s figure. She gently removed the doll from the box and rested her in a small bag and set it with the others. Carefully wrapped in blankets of tissue paper, the doll awaited dawn, when Sylvie would wake.
The next morning, Sylvie and ner parents rose with the dim light of the sun hidden behind clouds. As she opened her array of birthday gifts, a pile of toys replaced the mountain of colorful packages. She lifted the doll out of its bag. Stunned by the elaborate perfection of the gift, Sylvie embraced her parents.
As the weeks passed, her engrossment with the inanimate girl dissipated. The doll began to collect dust once more, sitting gracefully atop the dresser in her bedroom. The pocketwatch began to tick quietly again.
Sylvie grew paranoid in the doll’s presence, Her infatuation turned to unease as the ticking echoed in her ears. Time seemed to... stop. The clock over her dresser stared her down as she slept until she awoke suddenly. The ticking grew louder, and the world fell to unnerving silence. Sylvie could not hear her father’s deep snoring from the couch below her, or the flutter of her mother’s books as she read before sleep. The solitude was unsettling. She glanced at the clock on the wall and was disturbed to see the hands dead still. Even more off-putting was the absence of the doll on the dresser. Sylvie pushed back the covers and made her way to where the doll had sat, only to find the gold pocket watch hands spinning out of control. scratched into the wood next to the watch were to words that made her blood run cold.
TIME’S UP.
A clock chimed, but the piercing scream that followed was what shattered the silence. Sylvie sprinted down the dark hallway to find the lights in her mother’s room flashing like a strobe, all the clocks in sight spinning like the pocket watch. Sylvie shrieked at the sight of her mother’s bloodstained body, slashed in the gut. Her face had been carved away, an ornate clock in its place. Sylvie spun around, trying to find anything to explain this, until the clock chimed again.
She didn’t even need to hear the scream before she scrambled down the stairs and found her father mutilated, his state resembling that of her mother’s. Her hands covered her nouth to silence the sobs as she cried on the floor of the living mom underneath the flickering light. Alone now, she searched through her father’s soaked jacket pocket until she found his phone, dialing 911 as fast as her shaky hands could manage. The minutes following dragged to an eternity as she waited for help.
The kitchen light flickered, and the dolll stepped into the light, covered in blood, knife in hand. Sylvie ran from the terror in her bloody reflection, and shut quietly in the depths of the dark coat closet, she tried to hold her breath.
The light flashed, but just once. Her howl of pain filled the house, but no one could hear. When the police arrived, the door was ever so slightly ajar. At the foot of the closet lay Sylvie’s broken body. As they closed off the crime scene, one officer noticed a hasty message scratched beside the body.
TOO LATE.
They searched the empty house from top to bottom, brought in private investigators, and did everything they could. Nothing, no trace of anyone, was ever found.
And so the doll watched from the shadows of the bushes in the front garden, admiring her work for one last time before disappearing into the darkness.
The
AFieldGuide eFolioStaf
Ashita Singh Sunflower Helianthus ananuus
Ada Lavelle Buttercup Ranunculus acris
Abby Dobsson Bleeding Heart Lamprocapnos
Akshaya Venkatesan White Rose Rosa × alba
Amy Li Lily of the Valley
Anouk Freudenberg Tulip Tulipa
Arima Agrawal Night-Blooming
Jasmine Cestrum nocturnum
Aufrey Nguyen Orchid Orchidacea
Austin Wang
Blue Spider Lily Lycoris sprengeri
Bhavika Marabathula
White Egret Orchid Habenaria radiata
Chloe Proud Peony Peonia
Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi
Skeleton flower Diphylleia grayi
Caroline Tierney Stargazer Lily Lilium orientalis
Caden Aldridge Chinese Wisteria Wisteria sinensis
Cole Marshall Ghost Orchid Dendrophylax lindenii
Claire Arnault Daffodil Narcissus
Eden Liu
Monkey Orchid
Dracula simia
Elise Gerstle Violet Cort Cortinarius violaceus
Emerick Lange
Cup Fungus Cookeina sulcipes
Ethan Loi Skeleton flower Diphylleia grayi
Evie Loi Black Bat Flower Tacca chantrieri
Hasini Chejerla Tiger Lily Lilium lancifolium
Jane Reynolds Amnesia Roses Rosa x Amnesia
Eva Cao Lily of the Valley Convallaria majalis
Ezoza Mukhammadomonova Mint Mentha
Jessica Li Spider Lily Lycoris radiata
Jayna Grossman Rose Rosa rubiginosa
Jessica Joseph Peony Paeonia Katelyn Wang Magnolia Magnolia grandiflora
Kyleen Zhang Bird of Paradise Strelitzia
Maddie Widner Forget-me-nots Myosotis sylvatica
Maggie Ng Lily of the Valley
Maira Usmani Venus Fly Trap Dionaea muscipula
Niki Chen Lavender Lavandula angustifolia
Pranavika Vijayabalan Parvathi Four O’clock Flower Mirabilis jalapa
Rachel Wang Purple Passionflower
Rey Bandyopadhyay
Riana Esenbaeva
Ridhima Parnati Tiger Lily
Sarah Weng Bleeding Heart Lamprocapnos
Shirin Patel
Rosa rubiginosa
Sukanya Menon Lily of the Valley Convallaria majalis
Ben Smith
Clary Sage
Salvia sclarea
Vibha Besagi Tulip Tulipa
Izzy Bolton
White Rose
Rosa × alba
Iris Zhang Belladonna Atropa belladonna
Zion Brown Jasmine Jasminum
Every leaf tells a story –thanks for reading ours. – The Folio Staff
About The Folio
We are a student-run literary and art magazine from Conestoga High School in Berwyn, Pennsylvania. Although we’ve only been The Folio since 2007, we have collected, compiled, designed, and published student-produced art and literature since 1967. Our staff members are dedicated to furthering their own artistic and literary talents and promoting an interest in the humanities school-wide. The Folio welcomes submissions from all ‘Stoga students. Applications to join The Folio open during course selection in February. More information can be found on our website: stogafolio.weebly.com. You can also find us on Instagram @stogafolio.
The National Scholastic Press Association has rated our publication All American.
The National Council of Teachers of English has ranked us as a First Class magazine
The Pennsylvania School Press Association has awarded us their Gold Rating.
