Helm, Spring 2013

HELM

Harker’s Eclectic Literary Magazine 2012-2013

HELM Harker’s Eclectic Literary Magazine

Volume 14 Spring 2013 Member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist 2012

Letter from the Editors Helm is essentially a body of works from the students and faculty, and as editors we try to keep as invisible a presence in it as we can. Our sole editorial intent is to give each piece enough space and balance the magazine as a whole. This school year’s assortment of art and literature was selected based on quality, completeness, and originality. We have constructed a collection of works diverse in both form and subject matter, and we believe they reflect the different passions and insights that our student body and faculty have to offer. We hope that our publication may continue to inspire the artists and writers in all of us.

- Justin Gerard, Senior Co-Editor It was 12:00 a.m. I sat on the floor inside my bedroom, a messy amalgamation of the various submissions sprawled across the rug. For the past few hours, I had been toiling to not only match up the submitted images with works of writing that possessed a similar theme, but also arrange them in an order that would mirror a “story arc” of sorts (starting off with works regarding childhood, then friendship, then love, then marriage, and finally decay and death). Engulfed in a state of callow, first-time-editorial bliss, I dozed off feeling rather confident with my meticulous, calculated arrangement. The next morning, I presented the idea to H.E.L.M.’s Senior Co-Editor, Justin. After a couple of minutes spent in meditative silence, he encapsulated the very essence of the editorial process with these words: The job of an editor is not so much to asses the single theme or meaning of the art in question, but rather to present it in a way that highlights it as it stands on its own, multi-faceted and open to the appreciation and various unique interpretations of its audience. The work can speak for itself; as editors, we are not its voice, simply its door to the waiting world. The truth of his words resonated with me powerfully, and at that point, Justin and I deconstructed the constricted prototype of 12:00 a.m. So this year, we’ve approached the magazine a little bit differently. There will be no glaringly obvious correlation between the art that neighbors a piece of writing, no clear-cut arc. This H.E.L.M. is the new H.E.L.M. Organic. Unprocessed. Open to a million different interpretations. Thanks, and enjoy!

- Juhi Muthal, Junior Co-Editor

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Table of Contents

Writing

Pomergranate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 08

Sahana Rangarajan

Noir . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

Efrey Noten

Mrs. Pardo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

Emily Wang

A Lion’s Share . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Richard Fan

Tin Roof Blues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Svetlana Petrova

An Ode to Tea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Vivian Isenberg

Here in the Dark. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Cynthia Hao

Crumbling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Lori Berenberg

Broken Glass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53

Kimberly Ma

A the Last Leaf Falls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56

Anika Radiya-Dixit

Essence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

Katie Gu

Unrequited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

Elizabeth Siegel

The Herd . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Connie Li

04

Photos & Art

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Rachel Freed

San Francisco . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

Joy Li

Home is... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Vasudha Rengarajan

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Eric Swenson

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

Natasha Mayor

A Ride in the Sky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Safia Khouja

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

Huckleberry Vaughan

Stare . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Tara Rezvani

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

Sophia Luo

Lonely Road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

Shay Lari-Hosain

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Sarika Bajaj

Golf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Sarina Vij

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Juhi Gupta

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Megan Prakash

Feather . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Tara Rezvani

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Alicia Wu

05

Star Spangled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Svetlana Petrova

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Natasha Mayor

Niagara Falls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Shannon Hung

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Megan Prakash

Reflections . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Safia Khouja

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Juhi Gupta

Celebration. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Shay Lari-Hosain

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Eric Swenson

Waterfront . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Joy Li

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Natasha Mayor

Blue Swirls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Rachel Freed

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 Huckleberry Vaughan

Ice Crystals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Shay Lari-Hosain

Sunset in the Woods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Safia Khouja

Mt. Fuiji . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 Svetlana Petrova

Reborn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 Anika Radiya-Dixit

Orion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64

Christopher Spenner

Nature’s Seraph . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66

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Anika Radiya-Dixit

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Sapna Suresh

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 Megan Prakash

Cover photo by Samantha Madala (Grade 10)

07

Pomegranate Sahana Rangarajan Grade 10

Grass sprouts around me An ocean of jade My palms weathered with use Hold the Sun, an Immense ruby Blushing, blooming in its Flowering golden age-A ripe pomegranate.

Its rosy rind yields to my grasping fingers Seeds fall out-Tiny gems Lime memories Many sweet, many bitter All beautifully formed All glowing in my mind Eternal lights in a fluid, Mercurial skyline

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Rachel Freed faculty

09

San Francisco Joy Li Grade 12

10

Home is...

Vasudha Rengarajan Grade 10

11

Noir Efrey Noten Grade 11

12

“But your conditions are horrible here. Even jail is better; why stay underground?”

“I don’t want to live up there. Up there is where the evil is. Up there brought us down here.”

The circumstances leading to this exchange beneath the city of Paris were nothing short of extraordinary, even to someone as jaded as me. I was technically an explorer, although I had no interest in the new and untamed; at least, not in the traditional sense. My interests lay in the old, the dejected, and the had-beens of a civilization plagued by a sickening obsession with “the next big thing”. My sojourns took me through train yards, sanatoriums, prisons, boomtowns and quarries, all partially reclaimed by creeping tendrils and years of rot and oxidation. I found morbid solace in the fact that there could never be a “big thing” big enough to reverse this process.

When not breaching chain link fences with bolt cutters or dodging buckshot from disgruntled groundskeepers, I frequented an online message board where other explorers like me exchanged ideas,

catalogued abandoned sites, and disseminated useful advice. With the knowledge of other users, I began to plan a tour of Europe’s more obscure sites for my first trip abroad. I was ready to begin my research until a respected member of the website, known only by his user name Cassini, replied to my inquiry.

Cassini’s post was quite cryptic: “Paris. It’s not what you think.

Message me for info”. Paris was home to many abandoned buildings, none of which saw peace from taggers.

Nevertheless, Cassini had piqued my interest. Subsequent communication with him revealed he was an American ex-pat living in Paris. Fluent in both English and French, he agreed to act as my guide. However, my attempts to discern the site we would visit were politely turned aside or simply ignored.

After two months of unrelenting frugality and French flash cards, I found myself seated inside a café facing the Seine, where Cassini agreed to meet me. What was a light sprinkle an hour ago had turned into a steady downpour. I browsed the sea of passing overcoats and umbrellas, searching for a man who fit the preconceived image in my head. The man who ultimately entered the café

and scanned its tables and barstools had the classic appearance of a convicted felon. Unshaved, unkempt, and trapped in a permanent scowl, his countenance was reminiscent more of a hermit. A large canvas tote bag was slung across his shoulder.

As soon as I established eye contact, he set down his bag and squeezed into the booth. I extended my hand in greeting, but he ignored it and began to delineate his plan without formalities.

“I don’t usually have outsiders tag along. But I’ve seen your name around in the explorer community and you seem competent enough to help me. Beneath this city there lies a vast network of old tunnels, catacombs, collectively “l’abysse noir”. Couple this with the fact that the new mayor, Guillaume Potier, has enacted a very tough policy on the homeless. In the past weeks he has been imprisoning homeless people for ‘loitering’ and for being ‘public nuisances’. Out of fear, many of the poor—no, thousands of the poor—have begun squatting in the noir to escape the authorities.”

“So what do you intend? Wander the noir and break up squatter camps?

And you never told me your name.”

The man was visibly repulsed.

“I’m not on Potier’s side. The corruption in city hall is nearly palpable. ‘We need to do something about the crime syndicates,’ he says. Then he turns around and shakes hands with the mafia under the table. They want us to think the

man sleeping on the park bench under a newspaper blanket is the enemy.” He scoffed. “I’m not purging the noir, I’m mapping it. That way those who need a safe haven know exactly where to go and where it is not safe.”

I was stunned. Mapping layers of tunnels built over hundreds of years beneath one of Europe’s largest cities was a mere pipe dream. “What have you done so far?” I asked.

He shoved aside the salt and pepper shakers on the table and unrolled a detailed map of the city.

“The regions marked in green have been fully mapped. The regions in orange are currently being explored, and these red areas denote high police activity. The ‘X’ marks are the entrances we use.” A small patch in the central city was colored green; a thin orange corona surrounded it.

“We? I thought you worked alone.”

“I am not the only one doing this. I teach a civil engineering course at the university. I offer this work to the students who are particularly interested in the topic and are not likely to speak to the police. They do not work directly alongside me.”

“Why do you need me?”

“I do not, but you must admit— this is exactly what you were looking for two months ago.” I nodded my head slightly in concession. “I believe I have answered enough

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questions for an afternoon. Meet me at the Madeleine metro station at six sharp. And wear this. Hepatitis is a terrible way to go.” He kicked the tote bag on the ground and began to make his way toward the exit.

“No, I need your name,” I called after him.

“Professor will do.” The man chuckled and stepped out into the storm; a small bell jingled as the door swung shut.

14

That morning I arrived at Madeleine station a transformed man—literally. I had donned the garb of a Parisian metro maintenance worker—complete with steel-toed work boots, a blue jumpsuit, and a name tag that read “René”.

After a few minutes of waiting, a white Mercedes van pulled to the curb.

I instantly recognized the driver as the professor and assumed the other two young men who jumped out to be his students. He briefly spoke with them in French and pointed them to the other side of the metro station across the street. He then pulled a tool bag from the truck and approached me. “Good morning, René. Slept well?”

I scoffed in disbelief. “Well, thanks to jetlag I slept two hours and I’m quite sure I’m being kept conscious by caffeine pills.”

The professor laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous! You’ve lived in Paris all your life!” He slapped me on the back.

“Come, René. I hear a heating duct needs replacing.”

We proceeded down the steps to the station platform. Groggy early-morning commuters fixated on the oncoming train paid us no heed as we noisily forced open the door to the maintenance area.

We continued down a dimly lit corridor and several flights of stairs until we came to a door that read “CONDAMNÉ”.

“Before we go through this door, you must understand something. These people have nowhere to go. They would rather have their freedom and sleep in human waste than face the authorities. You will not utter one syllable. We are here to chart the path of this sewer, mark its features, and leave through a storm drain located 412 meters away.” I nodded. “Wear this headlamp and this flu mask. Sometimes there are elevated recesses in the walls.

If you see one, show it to me.

Otherwise, not a word.”

The professor fumbled with the knob on the door, then pushed it open with his shoulder. A smell which before was merely a faint odor now became so virulent that my eyes began to well up with tears.

I stepped down from the doorway onto the floor of the sewer. The layer of sewage was deep enough to envelop several inches of my boot. Not a minute later, we quietly crept past a woman sleeping in a recess, covered in canvas a mere inches away from the fecal river.

“Professor, this—” “Is not the time. I pity these people too, but I cannot pull them from poverty.” He sighed quietly and sketched a recess into the map of the tunnel. After several minutes of walking, the sheer density of the population in the noir came to astound me. We had passed by six individuals and one “camp” built on sheet metal directly over the sewer floor. At some points, the stench of the sewer grew so strong that even the professor coughed violently. According to him, human waste was burned for heat if it grew too cold. Rats were hunted for food and sunlight came only from storm drains which would often flood the tunnels in rainy weather.

The remainder of our subterranean sojourn passed without conflict. The professor pointed to a ladder leading up to a large steel grate. “There is the exit. My students should have moved the van—” Suddenly I felt a strong hand grab my shoulder and throw me to the ground. I landed with a sickening squish. The professor and my assailant blindly exchanged punches, until I heard the professor scream and gurgle in pain. I fumbled for my headlamp, but my attacker pinned me to the ground. “Explain! I explain!

Stop moving!” It was a woman’s voice yelling into my ear. After it occurred to me she had not stabbed, shot, or otherwise maimed me, I cautiously sat up. The professor lay in a heap at the foot of the ladder. A large laceration on

his neck caused blood to pour over the ground. I leaned against the wall of the sewer to prevent myself from collapsing.

“You…is he dead?” I couldn’t quite believe my eyes.

“Yes. If I did nothing like always, you would die as well.” I recognized the woman as the same one I had walked past earlier.

“What the hell are you talking about? He was mapping this tunnel and I was helping him!”

She shook her head and picked up the professor’s tool bag. She removed a socket wrench, a power drill, and a small revolver. “He is a member of the Parisian Renaissance. It is a... they call it a crime syndicate.” Her English was heavily accented, but comprehensible. “They want to bring change to Paris. They want it to become modern and clean. They bribe our politicians to write laws that limit immigration so there is less poverty. They bribe the mayor to build new prisons for the poor.

The map this man was drawing has no purpose but to attract people like you. They bring you down here and leave you to rot. They threaten us… horrible things if we report them.”

“Who are people like me?”

“People who know that new is not always better.”

“But your conditions are horrible here. Even jail is better; why stay underground?”

“I don’t want to live up there.

15

Up there is where the evil is. Up there brought us down here.”

Over the centuries, the city had naturally renewed itself and coated the old in a fresher layer of concrete; ancient Roman catacombs in the noir were evidence of that. I came to realize that the Parisian Renaissance and all it stood for was a symptom of a radically changing world.

As I waited for my returning connection flight in New York, I caught a brief glimpse of a newspaper headline as the man reading it turned the page: “37 BODIES DISCOVERED IN PARIS UNDERGROUND; MAYOR POTIER MYSTERIOUSLY RESIGNS”.

I smiled. At least for the time being, the next “big thing” had been rotted, oxidized, and reclaimed by its rightful owner.

16

Eric Swenson Grade 12

17

Natasha Mayor Grade 10

18

A Ride in the Sky Safia Khouja Grade 10

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Mrs. Pardo Emily Wang Grade 12

Mom says that if you look deep inside every unhappy couple, you can find a happy one.

Sometimes, when I watch Marie fold laundry, hot and pillowy, fresh from the dryer, I squint to see if I can find a happy Mrs. Theodore Pardo in her, maybe in her fingers, long lily-stems, maybe in her wrists as they fold bleached sheets.

Marie has the prettiest hands, hands to charm and conquer all of Europe. When she tells stories, her hands – they rise and fall, fluid, a man on wire, ready to dip below. Teddy fell in love with Marie’s hands before he fell in love with her.

That’s my theory, at least.

I asked her once what it was like being in love. Her hands came alive; her eyes didn’t.

Marie and Teddy. No, Marie and Theodore. Their wedding invitations were embossed with gold leaf and lovely, looping cursive. May we join in celebrating the holy union of Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Pardo. Par-do, with the accent on the “doe.” Teddy was kind to agree to invite me to their wedding when I was just some marooned kid Marie had picked up while doing laundry on Sundays. Mom said I couldn’t go (because someone would have to come

20

with me, but who? Mom and Dad worked at the Laundromat all weekend), but I kept that invitation in a shoebox alongside pressed flowers and perfume samples from department stores. My box of pretty things. Sometimes, I slide the box out from its cubbyhole and run my fingers over the cardstock.

She didn’t do laundry the weekend after the wedding – they honeymooned in Paris, I think, because the next weekend, she told me all about Rive Gauche, even spelled it out for me (L a R i v e G a u c h e – you will love it there!) on the back of a drugstore receipt and told me to save it for when I grew up and married.

2 JONES CREAM SODA 1.29 1 BAYER ASPIRIN – 100 CT 7.99 2 ORAL-B TOOHBRUSH 1.99 1 WLG SANITIZER 2.99 1 CLRBLUE – PRGNCY TEST 2 CT 9.89 THANK YOU FOR YOUR BUSINESS! That last item – I didn’t realize what it was until I pulled out the receipt two years later. She must’ve tested negative, though, because one time, I asked Marie why there weren’t any kids clothes in her laundry pile. She frowned, stiffened, and said that they didn’t have any. Why not?

Why not? Because kids were hard, she snapped, and marriage was already hard enough.

I didn’t mention kids again until Eliza

called me over the phone, sobbing, she was pregnant with a baby and her parents wanted her to give it up. For adoption? No, give it up, you know.

Well, what did she want to do? She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure. We were both silent. I didn’t know what to say. I listened to her breathing, in, out, in, out, hoarse from tears and screaming and confusion, and then the soft click of the receiver. The landline static clung to the peeling paint on my bookshelves and forced its way into the thin plaster of my bedroom walls. From the window I could hear the faint rumbling sounds of the Laundromat below.

I told Marie about Eliza and her not-quite-baby, and Marie looked at me and looked at me, tearing up. Her hands rested flat along the lid of a dryer, vibrating from the rattling of the machinery (inside, Teddy’s slacks and Marie’s sweaters and their invisible baby’s clothing tossed and tossed and tossed). These problems are not kid problems, she said, shaking her head.

These are adult problems.

What’s the difference?

Kid problems fade away over time.

What about adult problems?

They find a corner in your ear and whisper to you when the apartment is quiet and everybody is asleep. Or they lodge themselves behind your jaw

and click click click until you can’t speak without some of these problems falling out of your mouth along with your words.

So Eliza has an adult problem.

Yes, Eliza is a child with an adult problem.

What should she do?

I don’t know.

Then we both fell silent, and the aisles of machines washed and dried, washed and dried, and the clothing inside turned and turned and turned. Marie’s hands reached for a forest green cardigan from her laundry pile and folded it as delicately as a baby blanket.

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Huckleberry Vaughan Grade 11

22

Stare Tara Rezvani Grade 12

23

24

Sophia Luo Grade 9

A Lion’s Share Richard Fan Grade 12

Why do people chase wealth like a cheetah to a gazelle, pin it to the ground to relax for a month.

But they’re not enjoying it, no they’re fending off the hyenas and the lions, whispering, fidgeting so that it won’t go away, and leave them with a shaking belly churning only bile.

Or maybe people chase money like every steak and diamond ring that goes to feed their belly strengthens the empty hunger in their mind that it froths and howls for the wealth just out of reach.

But when they clutch it with their talons and lift it to their mouth, their sweeping eyes already look out for more, in all-seeing blindness to the truth.

Or maybe they need it to loosen the mottled grey shackles and snap the rusted chains, to liberate the soul and give wings to their feet, That they rise above the cold smoke stacks, breathing the night and the sun, until they glance to the Stars and compare where they are to where they could possibly be.

With their chin on their chest and their hands to their cheeks, defeat crawls out of their eyes and onto the drooping withered wings lying by their feet.

The wings that had brought such joy.

But the scouring shackles slide into lock and, jangling to the dirge of slavery, the chains link once more.

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Lonely Road Shay Lari-Hosain Grade 9

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Sarika Bajaj Grade 11

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Golf Sarina Vij Grade 12

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Tin Roof Blues Svetlana Petrova Grade 12

Everyone loved to listen to the music, Loved to hear it crackle through The crowded rooms, Weave in and out of conversations Like an old confidant.

They breathed it in, Tasted the smoke of it on their cigarettes As it sidestepped and shimmied This way and that Staling a drink here, Catching an eye there.

Notes wove through each other One up, one down Never meeting With soft interjections from the piano As though it wanted to say something But never got the chance.

The melody twisted and turned, Wrapped itself into lives Drinks, memories and they watched As it walked among them, Smoked a cigarette Doused itself in a flapper’s perfume.

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Juhi Gupta Grade 10

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Megan Prakash Grade 11

31

Feather Tara Rezvani Grade 12

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An Ode to Tea Vivian Isenberg Grade 10

As rivers flow into the ample waves So too, you join with aromatic leaves.

Through a bitter chill that churns; your warmth saves Breathes in the calm that is an ocean breeze.

But while I ail with troubles in my heart, I sit, consoled, consumed by your embrace.

My single friend in which you play the part Brimming over to fulfill the vacant space Long days as dark overstays his welcome, Amidst long nights, I may remain awake, As warmth returns, your use isn’t seldom.

Instead, cool cubes of ice their place will take.

The key simplicity, serenity Nothing matters but such a cup of tea.

33

Alice Wu

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Grade 9

Star Spangled Svetlana Petrova Grade 12

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Natasha Mayor Grade 9

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Here in the Dark Cynthia Hao Grade 9

Wesley admits that today is not his best day. Getting knocked out and kidnapped, not to mention stuck in a cave with no food and no escape?

Yeah, not exactly what he had in mind when he woke up, either.

And now he’s just sitting there, and he’s all alone, and he’s chained to a wall like a freaking idiot. He doesn’t know why they took him; he stopped thinking about it after the first couple hours. They confiscated his phone, too, so he can’t even play something while he’s waiting for someone to show up and kill him.

Wes is expecting a psycho with a chainsaw, or some hot chick packing heat, or a mutant octopus; apparently he couldn’t think of a better way to keep himself entertained than by imagining his no doubt tragic death in increasingly creative and gruesome ways.

The one thing he didn’t think of is the guy that comes up to the mouth of the cave, all sharp cheekbones and leather and scruff, only a few years older than Wes. Wes thinks he might be gorgeous if he wasn’t probably the one who chained him up in the first place.

The guy’s got a smirk on his face, as if Wes’ pain amuses him in some way. He gets all up in Wes’ personal space and asks, “You’re really still here?”

As if he wasn’t the one who made sure Wes couldn’t leave.

Wes scoffs, “What, did you think I

would just get up and walk away? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m still chained to the wall here.” He jingles the shackle on his left wrist.

The guy shrugs and gets up, obviously about to leave Wes to whatever horrible doom he’s concocted.

“Wha—hey, wait! You’re just going to leave me here? Great manners, man. I mean, at least introduce yourself. Or give me some food or something.”

The guy pauses and half-turns so Wes can see his raised eyebrows. “Name’s Jared Haden. I don’t have any food on me, sorry.

Guess you’ll just have to starve to death.” Then he’s gone like some kind of freaking ninja.

Wes groans and resigns himself to a long, long night.

It turns out Jared’s not completely soulless because when Wes wakes up he can smell the glorious smell of food. (“Come on, did you really think I’d let you starve?”) Wes digs in, sparing a minute to tell Jared how much he hates his stupid smug face. After the hamburger’s been demolished and the curly fries ravaged, Jared says, “So I never got your name.”

And whoa, is this like, his creepy way of making friends? Because Wes is pretty sure that kidnapping someone does not a welcoming overture make. But the hamburger was pretty much the best one Wes has ever had, so why not?

“I’m Wesley.”

He should probably rethink his priorities.

It’s too late now, though, because Jared is

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smiling a little and it’s nothing like his smirk was, it’s open and fond and how could Wes say no to that face?

He is so screwed. Like, never getting out of this cave, ever, screwed.

Jared apparently doesn’t realize what his face is doing and smiles even more. Then he starts telling about his life, his interests, his apartment on Construe Drive. (Which, who knew? Jared looks like a guy who lives in some burned-out old house in the woods.)

Wes finally realizes that this is his attempt at normal conversation.

And then, just because he’s an idiot, Wes has to cut in with a “Listen, Jared. You seem nice, but don’t you have any friends?

Like, other than me?” It comes out much harsher than it’s meant, making Wes cringe in sympathy.

Jared drops his smile like it’s poison, and his intimidating I-will-rip-your-throat-outwith-my-teeth look is back. As he stands, he snarls, “I was trying to be nice, but since the concept of kindness seems foreign to you I guess I should just take my food somewhere else. I don’t see anyone lining up for your company out there. You need me to survive.

Don’t forget it.”

He’s so angry that he looks red, like he was dipped in a tub of barbecue spice rub.

Wes looks up to find Jared staring confusedly at him, which tells him he’s thinking out loud again. Whoops.

Jared asks him, carefully, “You can see it?”

Bewildered, Wes says, “You kinda looked like you turned red there all of a sudden? Am I seeing things, or is your craziness rubbing off on me, or what?” And seriously, is the guy bipolar or something?

Wes could have sworn that half a second ago Jared was furious and literally bright

red, and now he’s moving slowly, gently, as if he’s trying not to scare Wes off. He’s still red, but a softer hue, like velvet curtains instead of burning metal.

“Wesley, you need to believe me when I say this, but this glow? It wasn’t just then, I glow all the time. Everyone glows all the time.

They’re called auras, and the fact that you can see them without any training means that you have really strong magic.”

What?

Wes can’t even think right now, just-magic? And him? Yeah, no, never going to work. Plus apparently everyone glows all the time like some firefly on steroids. He wonders what color he is.

Jared’s shaking him like he’s gone into a coma, repeating his name over and over.

“Wesley? Wesley, come on, I know it’s a lot to take in, but answer me here. Wesley, wake up. Wake up, come on. Wesley!”

“Don’t call me Wesley. It’s Wes, got it?”

“That was all you got from this conversation? I tell you magic is real and you comment on my use of your name?” Jared sounds indignant, but he’s smiling that fond smile again. Wes takes that as a good sign.

“Hey, hey, I believe you-- I’m not currently screaming and making a futile effort to run away, am I? But magic, seriously. I’m just... in shock, that’s all. And you’re still red, just so you know.”

“I know.” Jared’s grinning now; like he’s so excited that someone actually listens to him.

“I can teach you how to use it, if you want?”

And how could Wes say no to that face?

“Okay, so the trick to magic is like, believing it’ll work? What is this, Pixie Hollow?”

Jared sighs. “Yes and no. We’re not fairies, Wes. We don’t just wave magic wands.”

“Yeah, but like, I could do anything with

this! Dude, awesome. That aura mindreading thing is pretty cool, too. Let me try it.” Wes examines Jared. He’s grown used to the red surrounding Jared during the time he’s spent learning, and he’s noticed it’s not Jared’s skin itself that’s red, but the air around him. Theoretically, he should be able to tell how Jared is feeling by his aura. Right now it’s pulsing around Jared, content-- if a little irritated.

“You love me and my magical learning prowess right now. C’mon, you know it,” Wes teases.

“I’m starting to love it a lot less,” Jared mock-grumbles, but he doesn’t deny it. He’s been overwhelmingly patient with Wes, actually. “You’ve still got a lot to learn. If you want to be proficient in magic you need time, training; you can’t just BS it, even with talent like yours.”

“So you admit I have immense talent!”

Wes gestures to show just how immense his talent is, but the movement’s cut short by the chain on his wrist. Ugh, he hates being reminded that he can’t leave, that Jared’s probably only teaching him because he doesn’t have anyone else to talk to that can’t walk out on him; and after only a few days he hates the suggestion that Jared would do anything to harm him.

Wes wants to believe Jared’s a pretty decent guy, except he might have trapped Wes in a cave for possibly eternity.

“You okay, Wes? You look a little pale.”

His stupid concern about something that he caused in the first place just makes matters more complicated.

Wes tries not to let any of his emotions show, but he’s pretty sure his aura has disappointment and self-pity written all over it. “I’m fine. Just tired, from all this believing.”

He smirks and it’s hollow, it’s a mask and

they both know it. Thankfully, Jared doesn’t comment: unlike Wes, he knows when he’s pushing too far.

Wes wakes up to the now-familiar scene of Jared and food. Over the past few weeks it’s become something of a routine: Jared brings him breakfast and teaches him magic, then Jared brings him lunch and teaches him magic, and finally, Jared brings him dinner and teaches him some more magic.

Sometimes Wes wonders who’s really the one in control here.

They start out as usual, with Jared coaching him on basic techniques. Wes is a fast learner. He’s made a lot of progress in the little time they’ve had. Jared seems impressed and apparently figures Wes is ready for a test.

“Okay,” he says, “Now let’s see if you can get those shackles off you.”

“What?” Does Jared have amnesia in addition to being bipolar? Because Wes is pretty sure that once you kidnap someone successfully and even have them all Stockholm Syndrome’d up you’re not supposed to just tell them to escape.

“You heard me. Do it. Get rid of any doubt you have in your mind. It won’t work if you don’t want it to.”

“Okay, hold on, I will! Jeez, gimme some time to warm up or something.” He forms the belief in his mind: I will be free of these chains.

Then, as he speaks it, he pours his energy into the belief. He thinks about how badly he wants to get free, draws on his longing to see his family and his house and anywhere not the inside of this cave again. He can feel the magic building up, knows it will break the chain.

But then he catches Jared’s eye, and his belief falls apart. If he gets free, he might never see Jared again. Jared, who has sustained him for three weeks without fail, who introduced

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him to the magical world, who taught him with a seemingly never-ending supply of patience and encouragement, who-Who trapped him here. Who never offered to free Wes even though he certainly had the means. Who Wes knows nothing about, come to think of it. Jared’s never mentioned his family or his past, or, for that matter, explained why he’s hanging around teaching sixteen-year-olds magic in sketchy caves.

Why should he care if he ever sees Jared again? He shouldn’t-- but the thing is, he does.

The shackles don’t break.

Jared sighs and says, “Well, it’s a start.

But I know you can do better, Wes. I’ve seen you do better. So my question is: what’s stopping you from believing? Unless I’m wrong and you just can’t.”

Wes is actually offended by that. Of course it’s in his power to break out. He just doesn’t feel like it right now. And it’s for Jared’s sake that he’s still here, anyway. But now Jared’s acting so freaking nonchalant, like he wants Wes to leave, like the possibility of never seeing Wes again doesn’t bother him in the least. It hurts.

“I am perfectly capable of busting out of here. I just-- I don’t want to, okay? Can you just leave me alone for a second?” Wes is well aware that he sounds like a child right now, but suddenly he has all these feelings that he doesn’t understand and really doesn’t want to talk about, especially with Jared.

“No, I can’t. Wes, what’s stopping you?

What? I didn’t teach you all of this so you could hold back on me. I taught you so you could act. Tell me.” Jared’s aura is an angry red like when Wes first saw it, the color of a slap.

“Have you even considered that maybe

you’re stopping me? That maybe I don’t want to leave because I want you to keep teaching me? Three weeks here, and I haven’t thought about escaping once since I met you because I thought you wanted me to stay. I thought you liked me. I thought we were friends. I guess I was wrong.”

Wes is breathing hard now, and he’s wearing a bitter little smile because he can’t believe how stupid he was. “Silly me, huh?

Obviously friends don’t kidnap each other.

Obviously friends don’t keep each other trapped in caves. Obviously friends actually enjoy each other’s company. But now I can see you were just itching for me to leave. One last question, before you go: if you wanted me gone so freaking badly then why didn’t you just tell me? No, you had to lead me on, you had to make me think that you liked me? Do you just enjoy seeing me in pain-- is this all some game to you? Get out.”

Jared looks gutted, like he’s the one who’s been hurt, but it barely even registers right now because Wes is so mad. He can’t breathe-- he can’t take back the words bursting out of his mouth, either, doesn’t think he would want to.

Jared leaves, and Wes doesn’t stop him.

Wes is both relieved and disappointed that Jared isn’t there when he wakes up: relieved because after what happened last night he’s in no mood to talk, and disappointed because he’s seriously starving and he’d forgotten that no Jared equals no food.

Then he realizes someone else is there, like, watching him while he sleeps, and promptly freaks out.

“Ohmygod who are you what are you doing here?” He realizes that’s not exactly the most dignified of responses but figures it’s how most people would react in this situation

anyway. Taking a better look at the guyswho-aren’t-Jared, Wes can see that they’ve got cloaks on, (seriously, who even wears those anymore?) and one is holding what looks like bolt cutters.

Even after Wes’ startled outburst they don’t pay much attention to him, and he catches a few muttered phrases: “three people dead already. We need to find him, fast--” “the monster won’t be appeased unless we give him up--” “he was here, I can feel it--” “got the wrong one, this boy is too weak--” “Hey! I asked you what you’re doing here.”

They finally turn to look at Wes and he says, “If you’re freeing me you should get on with it, but if you’re just gonna stand around looking shady and holding bolt cutters, find somewhere else to do it.”

Then he adds as an afterthought, “And if Jared sent you, tell him to come himself.”

Mentioning Jared gets him more of a reaction than raised eyebrows; one of them steps forward.

“You know Jared Haden?”

“Uh, yeah. He’s the one who got me into this mess. Y’know, tall, dark, the emotional range of a lamp? He left yesterday. If you see him again, tell him where he can stick his condescension.”

More whispers are exchanged, then Bolt Cutters Guy asks, “Do you know where he is now?”

“No, but I know where he lives. Some apartment on Construe. He told me about it the first day here.”

Another bout of hushed arguing later, Bolt Cutters says, “He’s wronged us as well.

If you give us his location, we’ll cut you free.

Think about it. You escape and we enact your vengeance.”

He’s starting to sound like a cartoon villain now, but honestly the idea appeals to Wes because he finally has a way out of this cave and the chance to go back to his life.

He’s obviously not going to give up magic entirely now that he knows what he can do, but he would like to see his family again. And he doesn’t really want revenge on Jared, per se, but a little selfish part of Wes wants Jared to at least regret what he’s done.

“Fine. It’s a deal.”

The guy with the bolt cutters smiles and advances.

Wes is such an idiot.

He’d told himself that as soon as he was out of the woods he would go back to his old life, but now here he is, hiding behind a tree across the street from Jared’s building watching the cloaks follow Jared in. So much for Jared’s supposed magical super-senses.

He wonders if creeping on creepers counteracts your creepiness or doubles it. He’s pretty sure it’s the latter.

Waiting until the cloaks are almost inside, Wes slips in through the closing door. He’s got a vague idea of what he’s doing, but nothing specific. He isn’t even sure why he’s here; thinking ahead’s never been one of his strong suits. His plan right now is just to follow the cloaks following Jared and hopefully not get caught.

Jared’s at his apartment door now, and as he pulls out his keys, the cloaks clamp something over his nose (chloroform? Wes isn’t sure he wants to know). As Jared’s struggling grows weaker, two guys pick him up and not-so-stealthily carry him to their car.

Wes heads to his own trusty Volvo and tails them into the woods. He’s not very stealthy either, but they don’t seem to notice him. He parks his car a little ways back from

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the clearing they’ve entered. It’s distantly familiar, but he can’t place it until the guys carrying Jared stop at the entrance to a cave.

His cave.

Wes jumps behind a tree when one of them turns around, noticing that the guy is nervous and scared. Which, weird, because what’s there to be scared of? Squirrels?

Rabbits? Wes thinks not.

The cloaks disappear into the cave for a while and come back without Jared. Wes doesn’t bother trying to get a closer look because he knows they’ve chained Jared up the way Wes was chained just a couple hours ago.

They form a little huddle some yards away from the cave entrance. One of them stands in the center and says in a trembling voice, “Was the offering we made you before not to your satisfaction? You told us you would stop killing innocents when a sacrifice was made, yet three people are dead and the tribute alive. Answer us!” It sounds more like a question than a demand.

Hold on, what? Were they the ones who’d kidnapped Wes as-- as some sort of sacrifice? To keep some Big Bad from killing innocent people? Who’d decided Wes wasn’t innocent?

Wes is still fuming from behind his tree when he draws the logical conclusion: Jared didn’t do it. Jared never locked Wes up, or misled him, or hated him. Jared never wanted to hurt him.

Because Jared would never hurt Wes. And that threw everything that had happened in the cave in a new light. Wes replays their fight in his head, from Jared’s point of view. He’d stayed with Wes for three weeks, brought him sustenance every day without fail, comforted him, taught him, been friends with him, all for Wes to blow

up for almost no reason and accuse him of kidnapping. No wonder he’d walked out.

But now Jared’s the one in the cave, he’s the one trapped; he’s the one hurt, angry, defeated. Wes hasn’t hated anyone as much as hates the cloaks right now.

Wes feels sick. He’d let them exploit his anger at Jared for their own ends. Which, apparently, are capturing Jared and standing in a scared clump looking at the sky.

He takes another glimpse and sees them staring up in a mix of fear, awe, and disgust at the freaking dragon landing in the clearing holy crap-Wes shrinks behind his tree and bites his fist, fighting the urge to scream like a little girl.

The dragon is rust-red, with scarred sides and huge muscular limbs and a maw full of teeth that are definitely more isosceles triangle than equilateral. It’s facing the group of cloaks, its back to Wes. “When I said ‘take a red aura’, I didn’t mean that.” It curls its lip in disgust. “The boy you gave me was untrained, ignorant. His magic would have been nothing more than a snack to me. Your new sacrifice, however-he’ll be a feast. If I’m satisfied with him, I may even let you live.” Its voice is raspy and slow, somehow managing to sound superior and amused at the same time.

The cloaks quake in their boots, all pretense of control lost. Wes watches with a detached sense of horror; he really doesn’t want to see this but somehow he can’t tear his eyes away.

Evil talking dragon-beast pauses. “Oh dear, I completely forgot appetizers. You’ll do.”

Then it lashes out with claws and teeth, and a cloak is dragged into the air—Wes recognizes him as Bolt Cutters. He struggles at first but falters, and the dragon drains all the color out of him. His jade-green aura is ripped away

from him like a physical thing by the dragon’s jaws, and he’s dead before he hits the ground.

The other cloaks blanch (ha! Somehow Wes isn’t above making puns when his captors are dying) and run, but the dragon snaps up two more auras. By the time Wes sneaks into the cave, four people are dead, their auras torn from them by isoscelestriangle teeth.

Jared’s slumped against the far wall, pale and unconscious. Wes runs over to him, cradling Jared’s face with his hands. He’s barely breathing, and his aura is a sickly pink.

“Hey, big guy, wake up. C’mon, I know we didn’t exactly part on the best terms, but I don’t have time for this right now. We need to get out of here.” He shoots a cautious glance at the cave mouth. The dragon still hasn’t finished killing the cloaks, but there are only three left. They’re screaming, fighting back, but their efforts are futile and they know it.

Wes turns back to Jared, shakes him a little. Jared’s eyes crack open and he asks drowsily, “Wes? I thought--” “You thought wrong, now let’s go.” Wes gestures to the chains. Jared looks at the shackle on his wrist with surprise, breaks it with his magic.

Wes bends down and slings Jared’s arm across his shoulders so he can prop him up. They lean against the wall; the drugs in Jared’s system haven’t worn off yet, and Wes isn’t about to face the dragon alone.

“You okay, Jer?” There’s no response, so Wes keeps talking. “Listen, about what happened last night... I’m sorry. I thought you were those idiots out there. I know you didn’t have to come back and feed me that second day, or teach me, or any of those awesome

things you did, which I’m totally thankful for, just so you know. I just assumed you… y’know.

Didn’t think, just exploded on you. So, really sorry. And now there’s a dragon out there slaughtering everyone because it didn’t want to kill me, and--” “Wes?” Wes cuts off his rambling and looks at Jared, expectant. “Shut up. I forgive you, you idiot. And it’s partly my fault, too. I didn’t deny anything when I first met you. You just drew the logical conclusion.” Jared steps away from the wall, relying more on Wes for support.

“Wait, wait, no, don’t try to blame this on yourself. And don’t go yet, there’s still a rampaging dragon outside.”

As if on cue, the dragon pokes its head into the cave. “Why hello, dearies. You’re to be my main course, I assume?”

Wes and Jared exchange looks. “No, no, we’re fine, really. He tastes sour like-like brooding and darkness, and you said before I’m, like, a snack. Crumbs. Totally unappetizing. I’m sure you’re still full from all of the others you ate earlier, so if you don’t mind we’ll just...” Wes motions to the cave entrance.

Wes had hoped his babbling would distract the dragon enough that Jared could get away, but for all his pointed glances Jared refuses to take the hint and stares obstinately back at Wes. So much for that plan.

The dragon, ignoring Wes, says, “I think I’ll have him first and save you for dessert. I do love a talker.”

Jared steps forward. “You already have me. Let him go.”

“Why should I settle for one red aura when I could have two? You humans, no ambition,” it chides. “So afraid to think a little bigger.”

Jared says, “I am thinking bigger,” and

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the ceiling between them crashes down in a shower of dust and boulders. He grabs Wes’ hand-- “Let’s go!”-- and pulls him towards the back wall of the cave. Just as they’re about to collide with the wall, Jared opens up a tunnel with his magic and seals the space behind them.

So they’re running underground in a moving pocket of air which probably breaks all the laws of physics, hand in hand, breathing hard, and Wes has no idea where they’re going, but he trusts Jared. When they finally surface, they’re across the street from Jared’s apartment and it seems like Jared’s magic is exhausted: he sags and Wes has to half-carry him up the stairs. He drops Jared, who has passed out from fatigue, on the bed.

It’s been a long few weeks; Wes is bone-tired and sore, and his shoulders hurt from supporting Jared’s weight. His left wrist is rubbed raw, and he’s covered in scratches he doesn’t remember getting. He settles down on the sofa, watching Jared and the door in turns, and before he knows it his eyes slip closed.

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Wes wakes with a start.

Jared’s rustling around in the kitchen, making what smells like pancakes. Wes hadn’t even known Jared could cook, but he’s ravenous and therefore doesn’t complain. When they’ve eaten, Wes awkwardly stands up and says, “I should get going. My parents are probably out of their minds with worry by now, and I don’t want to intrude.” He’s kind of way past intruding already, but he feels like he should at least mention it.

Disappointment crosses Jared’s face, then acceptance. “Okay. I can drive you home?” It’s a question, as if Jared’s not sure Wes wants to associate with him now that he

has a choice.

Jeez. They’ve saved each other’s life at least twice by now, Wes is pretty sure they can be considered friends.

“Yeah, hold on, I gotta pick up my car--” Wes freezes, suddenly remembering exactly where he parked the Volvo yesterday. “Shoot, I left it back in the clearing. I need to go get it.”

Jared scoops up his keys.

The clearing looks almost peaceful, except for the various corpses strewn around and pile of rubble. Wes is checking his car for damage when Jared jogs up to him. “Wes, it’s still breathing. You need to hurry up.”

Wes, immediately on edge, asks “Has it woken up yet?”

“No, it’s unconscious.”

“Then we can still kill it.”

Wes isn’t stupid. He knows that when the dragon wakes up, it’ll come looking for them first thing. They’ve got a better chance of survival if they kill it now than if they keep running away, because once they start running, they’ll never be able to stop.

Jared seems to agree reluctantly. “Fine.

But if there’s any sign of movement you get out right away, understand? Don’t get hurt.”

Wes nods, cataloging their options. He doesn’t keep a gun or knife on him, and he suspects Jared doesn’t either. That leaves him with magic, and the only magical attacks on it he’s witnessed were indirect or unsuccessful.

He’s looking around at the bodies so he knows what not to try when something on the ground glints, catching his eye. Examining it, he realizes it’s a dragon tooth.

Perfect.

“Jared, come over here!” As he calls out, the dragon shifts, dislodging rocks and earth.

“Shoot! Shoot shoot shoot, Jared!” Wes runs up to the dragon, but he’s too late. The

dragon is up, snarling, and now he’s right under its nose.

“Jared?” Wes knows he doesn’t have the magical training to fight the dragon on his own. His best bet is to kill it while it’s disoriented. He grips the tooth tightly, raising his arm up so he can get in a good stab at the dragon’s neck.

“Wes!” Jared finally emerges from the trees, shocked at the sight of the dragon. Its tail catches him in the side, tossing him into a tree. The dragon slashes at his face before he rolls away, shouting. “Do it now, Wes!” Wes draws his arm back and slashes across, severing the dragon’s neck muscles with its own isosceles tooth. Warm blood sprays from the wound, staining his clothes and hands black. He stumbles out of the way before the head can crush him, searching for Jared’s fallen form in the mess of bodies.

He spots Jared struggling to sit up, clutching his side, scratched and bruised but otherwise okay. They help each other to Wes’ car, Jared leaning heavily on Wes but supporting him with the other arm. Wes grips the steering wheel, panting hard.

“Okay. Okay, that was horrible, we are never doing that again, ever, ohmygod. I can’t believe I just killed a dragon. I can’t take-- I am so not prepared for this right now.” Wes stares at his shaking hands. He’s holding the steering wheel so tight they’re turning white.

Jared reaches over and takes one of Wes’ hands in his. “Wes, what you did back there-- I know you’re still kind of traumatized by all this,” he makes a vague hand gesture in the general direction of the cave and the bodies and the dragon that Wes killed. “And you have every right to be. But you pulled through it. You did what you had to even when you were scared out of your mind,

and you shouldn’t have had to. And I know I haven’t been the best person to be around through all of this, so I understand if you want me and-- and the magical world to just stay out of your life. It’s your choice, Wes: I’ll always understand.” He lets go of Wes’ hand, which has stopped shaking, and winces as he opens the door to climb out.

“Wait.” Wes reaches out and grabs the hem of Jared’s shirt. “Hey, it’s my choice, right? That doesn’t mean you can just leave whenever you think that I don’t want you. Yeah, you’ve been an idiot sometimes, but so have I. You’re stuck with me now, whether you want me or not. I don’t know what I’d do without you anymore. Okay?” Wes’ voice is gentle, but he makes his point clear.

A long moment later, Jared’s kickedpuppy expression softens to one of surprise, like he can’t believe Wes. Then—finally-- a tentative, hopeful, oh-so-careful smile. Jared gets back in the car.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Wes squeezes his hand as they drive away from the clearing and out of the forest.

“Then come on, Jer. Let’s go home.”

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Niagara Falls Shannon Hung Grade 9

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Megan Prakash Grade 11

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Reflections Safia Khouja Grade 10

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Crumbling Lori Berenberg Grade 12

As my feet punch the ground, your words ignite my skin, my ears, me.

The escape, there’s no use.

I crumble in place as the smell of my once fresh skin, now overcooked ashes, pierces nearby noses.

Although you might desire to pretend, to fib, to make your myths, it’s just your poison trying to cram through my lips, my teeth it clings to my throat, leaving its trace.

But I close my mouth, The gates to my vulnerabilities, my insecurities, my breath or lack thereof.

I say nor move no more.

You win, I’m here, I’m listening.

Fill me with your suffering, your desires. Inundate me with your cries of loneliness of self-destruction.

How dare you? Speak of how hurt, how alone you are.

You make me ache and shake, for goodness sake, Look at my tears and my red ears.

You pity yourself, but don’t you see what you do to me?

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Juhi Gupta Grade 10

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Celebration Shay Lari-Hosain Grade 9

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Eric Swenson Grade 12

Broken Glass Kimberly Ma Grade 11

I stare at her silently; she stares straight back.

I wave a hand and crack a grin; She cordially copies me once again.

Every move I make; she does the same.

Eventually, the upturned corners flip upside down— My smile at her antics becomes a frown.

Peering into her face, I see the wrinkles, gray hairs.

Half scared, half frustrated, my hand flies through the air— To smash into the illusion, praying it would disappear.

Like water droplets held up under the sun, The shards glitter bright scarlet in a stream of black.

As I silently watch the sullied red drip down onto the floor, I still see a face, though now a broken mosaic of gore.

The newfound pain comes not as a shock, But my heart almost stops at what she has become, No longer a hobbling self—oh no—I stare now into the eyes of the black hooded One. I turn, trip, then run and run—quickly, away—from that devilish gleam.

Yet the pain in my flesh reminds me gleefully— That I will never wake up from this godawful dream.

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Waterfront Joy Li Grade 12

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Natasha Mayor Grade 9

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As the Last Leaf Falls Anika Radiya-Dixit Grade 12 In memory of my grandfather, who passed away two springs ago.

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Sitting, staring out the window, Bored, yet at the same time anxious, And at the same time afraid.

Hours since my last meal, Days since I’ve been home, Years since our last conversation.

Birds soar and clouds drift happily Outside the window -Contrasting the dreary ambiance around me.

A deciduous tree stands tall, yet vulnerable; Its green knights have gone with the wind.

There remain only three, Gripping with all their strength, Determined to protect their mother.

A constant beeping in the background Nearly faded in the back of my mind; Yet a constant reminder -A hope -- that the life beside me still exists.

A cruel zephyr drags a leaf from the tree with it, Sending it into worlds unknown; Only two left clinging with all their might.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

A purple butterfly flutters across, Moving its delicate wings Elegantly like a dancer; A symbol of hope, A harbinger of life.

Another breeze threatens the other green knight As it shivers violently, another blows by And knocks it off its last stronghold Into the distance Never to be seen again.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The temperature of the air in the hospital room drops; My thin black shawl is the only source of warmth, Even my beating heart fails to provide comfort.

Another breeze – A portent.

How vengeful can this wind be?

What hast the tree done to it to be treated with such unkindness? The last leaf -Let it be.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Please. Let it be.

A zephyr shakes the leaf heartlessly; Hold on, Don’t let go.

A mighty blow -The last knight has fallen.

A salty drop escapes down my trembling cheek -- The last leaf has fallen.

The machine mocks me with its cruel silence -- The last leaf has is dead.

And so is the sad soul on the bed.

Oh green knight, Oh grandfather, May you both rest in peace.

Ice Crystals Shay Lari-Hosain Grade 9

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Huckleberry Vaughan Grade 11

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Blue Swirls Rachel Freed faculty

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Sunset in the Woods Safia Khouja Grade 10

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Essence Katie Gu Grade 11 To be, and the essence of it all — what a thought.

Standing, eyes closed, under the embrace of the daylight rays, shifting my toes around the warm blanket of speckled grains of sand.

The wind on my shoulders tossed the strands of playful, salt-streaked hair across my lids. The roar of the crashing waves, the squalls of the seagulls, and the hushed voices of the surrounding beachgoers, as muffled as morning voices over my pillow-shut ears on lazy Sunday mornings colored in my surroundings with noise. And they said heaven is a place on earth? I beg to differ; it most certainly is a place where salt and sand mix and separate like dressings, where the hues of the sea and the breeze of the wind chase twirl each other in the most fantastical dance, and where I could stay, forever. I dared not open my eyes, as I felt as if to see were to break this beautiful instant, and shatter it into the granules as speckled as the sands below me. At that moment, I felt that this heaven was truly where I was meant to be.

Breathing in the soft, cooling breeze infused with droplets of water from the overhead waterfall, inhaling the sweet scent of pine and spruce.

I was resting underneath a tree’s cool shade on top of the Rockies. There, my musical soundtrack was composed of the delicate chirps of birds, occasional chutters of the yellow pine chipmunks, the swooshes of the centenarian pine trees, and the rush of the torrents of churned water. Below me ran a canyon so vast that the very attempt to fathom its depths seems entirely convoluted and abstruse. Millennia of vigorous torrents of water had run their course, shaping the surrounding crags into delicate stratums, and exposing the layers of differenthued rocks that composed the walls. The air was calm and still, and I could help but feel completely at ease, almost in an ephemeral balance with everything around me. That ambience of equanimity and peace felt like what it was like to be.

Trekking through the passages of American literature, thoughts and philosophies of past authors whirling around my head.

Although only composed of three letters, this word has served as the foundation for all of man’s curiosity, imagination, and ambitions. The most momentous, yet compact single word I had ever encountered in my petty existence.

The “why”, the true purpose of “to be”, found its way through the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson: “I have found that the purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.”

And so, as I follow along the path of those past and carve out another fresh trail on my own, I continue to stumble upon old and new traces of “to be”. The essence is endless.

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Mt. Fuji Svetlana Petrova Grade 12

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Reborn Anika Radiya-Dixit Grade 12

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Orion Christopher Spenner faculty

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Unrequited Elizabeth Siegel Grade 9

“I’ll give you the world,” he said and, together, they dance across the bright midnight over lofty peaks of bottomless chasms her hair spinning like glue, his eyes reflecting nothing.

As they finish their celestial interlude her feet touch the ground.

Now, she replies devoid of tone “No, thank you; I have my own.”

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Nature’s Seraph Anika Radiya-Dixit Grade 12

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Sapna Suresh Grade 11

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Megan Prakash Grade 11

The Herd Connie Li Grade 11

In the shade of maple trees and your mother’s pastel arms, you read your first book, a book that coaxes first hesitant syllables out of your mouth, then words: sixteen, maybe, paranoia.

You feel the gates give and burst, as you watch beasts tumbling out, your eyes as wide as stars: your flummoxed herds of borborygmus, your passionate katzenjammers lurching in the ether.

And although the dust rising from fluttering wings seeps into your lungs, and the thundering hooves of consonants jostle your heart beat, your mother’s fixed smile still hovers serenely as you ask, mama, what does it mean to die?

In Shanghai, your first footsteps shatter the neon characters who swim in litter-filled puddles and plant dreams: the old smell of karaoke and nightlife worms its way into your thoughts, memories murmuring that you’ve never left.

But you peer into the filmy eyes of the men fused to the tile of the sidewalk; rusted saplings crouching in the dank cracks, the feeble melody of their frosted breaths and cardboard songs: please, please my wife lost legs eyes,

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words but thoughts so sown in your ears, already more familiar to you than the beat of your own heart.

In the sunset, you look one last time upon the creases in your daughter’s face, always carved far too soon, the taste of the first book still dancing fresh and crisp on your tongue.

The abyss yawns forward wistfully.

You sigh and take your last, echoing step and set free your last word, muscles shuddering, wings tossing the air as it soars to her ears: goodbye, come to find a new home.

And in the dark, a wild animal finally joins the herd.

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The HELM Staff Our sincerest thanks to the following people for making this publication possible: Dr. Douglas, for guiding and mentoring us throughout the process Ms. Desiree Mitchell, for handling the production of our copies Harker’s Administration, for its commitment to our club Mr. Hufnagal, Head of the English Department, and the English Department, for supporting this publication Head Designer: Emily Chu Club members: Rebecca Fang Katie Gu Cynthia Hao Shrreya Jain Nitya Mani Efrey Noten Anika Radiya-Dixit Elizabeth Seigel Serena Wang Everyone who submitted this year!

Thank you!

- Juhi Muthal, Junior Co-Editor & Justin Gerard, Senior CoEditor

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