Harker Eclectic Literary Magazine (HELM)

About

We are the student-run literature and arts publication of The Harker Upper School.

500 Saratoga Ave; San Jose, CA 95129 (408) 249-2510 HELM is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

Editors-in-Chief: Alex Zhai & Sophia Gottfried Junior Editors: Alina Yuan & Reagan Ka Contact us @ HarkerHELM@gmail.com

Editor’s Note

April 2021. It has been more than a year since we went into quarantine. A whole year of being confined to our homes. Although one might look at this situation as destitute imprisonment, our community has continued to thrive despite all expectations. Even locked within our rooms, art and writing always offer a bit of freedom. Thus we hope the 2021 theme, Escapism, will feel rather appropriate. We hope that the 22nd annual issue of HELM will stir your imagination and sweep you off to worlds far away.

What is escapism? According to Merriam Webster, it is the “habitual diversion of the mind to purely imaginative activity or entertainment as an escape from reality or routine.” It’s getting lost in the beautiful bioluminescence of Pandora, breezing along The Winding Road in a forest of gold, floating unhinged in a surreal sky like a ghost, taking a serene Stroll Along the River, an otherworldly night Under Electric Lights, or falling down into the wonderland of the eternal mathscape. This issue of HELM contains all these worlds and many more to explore. So we hope that you will enjoy getting lost within these pages, wherever they may bring you.

—Alex Zhai & Sophia Gottfried, Editors-in-Chief

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Contributors

Voting Club Members: Members vote to decide the issue theme and the submissions to publish.

Aastha Mangla • Alysa Suleiman • Angela Jia • Aniket Singh • Anna Lee • Arely Sun • Arya Tandon • Brian Chen • Camilla Lindh • Christina Rex • Claire Chen • Cynthia Wang • Dawson Chen • Diya Mukherjee • Elliot Kampmeier • Emily McCartney • Gloria Zhu • Hari Bhimaraju • Iris Fu • Jack Yang • Karina Chen • Kevin Zhang • Kyle Chang • Malar Bala • Maria Teplova • Michelle Liu • Paulina Gicqueau • Ritu Belani • Sarah Mohammed • Shounak Ghosh • Siddhi Jain • Tessa Muhle • Trisha Iyer • Varun Fuloria • Vivian Bi • Vivian Jin And a special thanks to our advisor, Ms. Schimenti, for her crucial support and unwavering guidance, and the English department for funding and promotions

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6 - Capsule I Vivian Jin 7 - Mirror I Maria Teplova 8 - Everbody Wants to Rule the World I Alex Zhai 9 - Drive I Sophia Gottfried 10 - Red Rain I Alina Yuan 11 - Butcher’s Shop I Vivian Bi 12 - View from Heaven I Alina Yuan 13 - When the Sun Drowned I Alysa Suleiman

Table of Conten ts

14 - mask I Elliot Kampmeier 16 - Pallas I Aastha Mangla 18 - Flesh I Arya Tandon 20 - Mountain Goats I Maria Teplova 21 - Sisyphean Sonnet I Sophia Gottfried 22 - Software Development Life Cycle I Trisha Iyer 23 - Big Tech is Watching You I Alex Zhai 25 - Movie Night I Maria Teplova

26 - Salmonberries, The Hobbit Hole I Alex Zhai 27 - A mixtape I Claire Chen 28 - To Walk Into Vertigo I Christina Rex 29 - Engineered Exploisions I Shounak Ghosh 31 - Another Day I Michelle Liu 32 - tidal spell I Ms. Lizzy Scimenti 33 - 星空 I Karina Chen 34 - Monotony I Gloria Zhu 35 - Does the sun rise only to set? I Claire Chen 36 - Illuminated Fumes I Reagan Ka

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37 - upside down I Cynthia Wang 38 - Pandora I Siddhi Jain 40 - How to Deplete I Trisha Iyer 41 - Where Home Was I Sarah Mohammed 43 - a new direction I Iris Fu 43 - Beethoven Piano Sonata No. 17 in D minor, Op. 31, No. 2, Movement III I Daniel Wu 43 - Blinded I Dawson Chen 44 - Under Electric Lights I Tessa Muhle 45 - New Haircut I Gloria Zhu 47 - A Moment Away from the Chaos I Gloria Zhu 49 - Emotional Baggage I Reagan Ka 50 - Alcatraz Island, King of the Skies I Shounak Ghosh 51 - untitled 3 I Aniket Singh 52 - Still Together I Alysa Suleiman 53 - Quarantine Prayer I Sarah Mohammed 54 - Sunflowers I Iris Fu 55 - the endless math scape I Dr. Lola Muldrew 56- #228b22 I Varun Fuloria 57 - The Winding Road I Alysa Suleiman 58 - lost I Elliot Kampmeier 59 - growing up I Hari Bhimaraju 60 - atlas I Tessa Muhle 61 - ghost I Elliot Kampmeier 62 - Venice in Vegas I Aastha Mangla 63 - A Stroll Along the River I Ritu Belani 64 - Color I Jack Yang 65 - Escaping Reality I Camilla Lindh

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Capsule Vivian Jin ‘21

I have never been encapsulated, never known the comfort of being dashed— into powder and hyphenated, described nor had all my vertices circumscribed never been poured into a plastic embrace, never been floored and tamed by a pretty face, never kept up a rhyme scheme nor expectation nor facade for too long without changing.

I have trembled on the brink of a lip, been drowned by someone who wished to wash me into the past, hoping the memory would go down easier if I were compacted by the Wednesday garbage truck.

I have not yet been copied and cloned, rattled in a translucent orange vessel, prescribed to the yawning mouth of late stage capitalism, packaged as a “hard worker” with “good leadership skills” nor labeled formally... not yet.

I have never died before.

I don’t know what it would feel like to be buried in the ground for exactly a century, forgotten until the date when my progeny uncover me, uncap, unscrew my container, and marvel at the ancient treasures unsullied by time inside.

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mirror

Maria Teplova ‘21

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“Everybody Wants to Rule the World” Alex Zhai ‘21

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Drive

Sophia Gottfried ‘21 We swell with rising tides of sea While dancing under cosmic candles Through all atrocities and scandals We ants climb up the Norse ash tree.

Fighting, writing, striving, dying.

By suns and seasons spiraling on Our statues reach the clouds and star Ideas stir souls sleeping from afar From Atlantis to Avalon Speaking, preaching, painting, reading.

The quill, the brush, the spear, propel Into abyss into Eden As both angel and as heathen To our magnificent hell.

Laughing, crying, willing, driving.

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Red Rain Alina Yuan ‘22

I open my eyes slightly. In the hospital, there are white walls, a white ceiling, white sheets,and numerous machines connected to me through tubes. I hear a faint beeping somewhere to my left. My pillow and sheets reek of disinfectant. I turn my head slightly to the right. I see the doctor whispering something to my mother. She nods, her eyes blank. She squeezesmy hand lightly as tears well up in her eyes. I don’t understand why she’s crying. It’s not like I’m dying or anything. They told me they would cure me in no time. They told me the illness wasn’t even that severe. They told me I was getting better every day. Why is she crying? I have a strong urge to sleep. The aggravating beeping noise fades into the background as I sink back into my pillow that stinks of disinfectant. To the right I see my mother slide off her chair, kneeling on the ground, her head next to my arm. The doctor stands next to her alongside a few nurses, his head down, and I can’t see his eyes. She is shaking intensely, sobbing loudly. She thinks I’m dying. I’m too tired to tell her it’s alright. I close my eyes and fall asleep. Thousands of images flash in front of me. I see memories I had forgotten from when I was only an infant. I see myself with my friends destroying cars, vandalizing houses, robbing the local convenience store. I hear a shrill shrieking and a deafening cracking sound, like someone crushing bones, and my hand feelstingly, as if I’ve been gripping something tightly for a long time. I get the sensation that I am sitting in a puddle of something warm. After a few minutes, they had all faded away. What an interestingly familiar dream.

I’ll make sure to tell my mother about it when I wake up. I am falling down now, surrounded by a golden atmosphere, my white hospital gown flapping in the air. I am enveloped by the warm light and I relax as if I am in my mother’s welcoming arms. I land on a white road. Above is the golden, cloudless sky. Below is a dark pit, emitting loud screams every few seconds. There are multiple paths leading to a huge floating ring of waterfalls. In each waterfall is an elderly man or woman standing beneath a gateway and behind a black marble bowl on a black marble stand. Periodically, each waterfall turns blood red, light blue, or lavender purple, then back to normal. Above me more people fall from the golden sky onto the roads. Some are wearing old sweaters and spectacles, some are wearing sweatshirts with band names on them, some are wearing sneakers. I walk forward to the stand. The elderly man in the waterfall greets me and hands me a needle. I look into the bowl. All I see is water, rippling and swirling of its own accord. I see the word “afterlife” engraved in the bottom of the bowl. He motions at me to prick my finger with the needle. The person on my right does the same, and the blood drips into the bowl. The waterfall turns blue, and he floats up into the golden sky. Tomy left, the waterfall turns purple, and she goes forward into the gateway.

I pick up the needle and prick my finger. When the drop hits the water, the floor beneath me vanishes, and as I fall, I can only see the red water raining down on me as the screams of pain grow louder in my ears.

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Butcher’s Shop Vivian Bi ‘23

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View from Heaven Alina Yuan ‘22

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When the Sun Drowned Alysa Suleiman ‘23

In the Tanmei mountains, rock and sand and slabs of grey boulders overlapped, draping and dividing atop each other as if they hoped to see which would reach the heavens first. Here thrived a beautiful city of gold and wealth and beauty, but also a city of secrets.

Sun spent each morning in solitude. Waking at the first light of dawn, golden and soft through the silk curtains, she would briefly kiss the morning breeze before beginning the day’s work of slaving to Amma’s every command. They worked in Tanmei’s infamous beauty business, crafting and smuggling dainty trifles and sparkling ornaments to cater to the women of the city.

There were foreign men in the mountain city today. They had golden beards and tanned, red skin peeling from sun exposure. They wore traditional mountain clothing, but rather than passing as respectful and traditional, they stuck out like cockroaches amongst the city’s serene, celestial butterflies. Sun knew why they were here, and she suppressed the violent urge to vomit.

Sun smoothed her hair down, hands trembling slightly. Small, rugged braids usually threaded through her thick and luscious mane, just the way she liked it. It gave her weight, grounding her to the earth as she climbed the precipitous mountains, foraging for jewels buried beneath the mountain soil. But today, Amma had made sure that every last strand of hair was held back in place, the tresses wound tightly under a stiff headdress. Cheap kohl, made from mixing ash and river water, outlined the edges of her feline-shaped eyes. Glancing at her reflection in the mirror, Sun felt nowhere near the mature, soonto-be married woman she was supposed to be--the kohl produced a rather childlike look of vacancy, widening her eyes with fear and trepidation. Her lips were tinted as pink as the ripe peaches of summer, but her mouth was bitter with anxiety.

Amma was beside herself with worry. Her usual arrogance and cold demeanor was all but gone as she scrambled around the house, nagging at Appa as he laid back on the sparse couch, pudgy fingers picking at the dirt and pipe ash under each fingernail. Normally, Amma and Appa rarely cared much about Sun. After all, as a daughter, she was just another mouth to feed and offered none of the fortune that sons could bring.

But today was different. Today marked the fruition of Amma and Appa’s wishes. One week ago, they had unceremoniously dumped the news on her and commanded her compliance. Sun was to be married, and to none other than the city magistrate, the wealthy foreigner. He claimed her fair features would serve him well as a concubine--his two current wives were both aging, unattractive creatures, and even though polygamy was promoted and even encouraged amongst the wealthy to ensure a healthy batch of sons, the magistrate lusted after the city’s women because he wanted a new plaything.

Sun glared down at her ridiculous marriage costume. Red silk wrapped around her figure, outlining the hills and valleys of puberty still developing beneath the cloth.

Laces of gold thread ran through the length of her gaudy headdress, and heavy jade bangles clinked with her every step. One glance at her attire and even the finest ladies of the city would choke in jealousy,

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mask

Elliot Kampmeier ‘21

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but Sun felt utterly miserable. Barely sixteen, but already sentenced to eternal prison under the iron grip of the magistrate.

Just the thought of him made Sun recoil with revulsion. He was a head shorter than her and even pudgier than Appa from excessive alcohol parties and roasted meat, not to mention at least three times her tender age. His beady little eyes were calculating and greedy, roving over her virgin body with the craze of a feral wolf.

Needless to say, the gilded city of Tanmei liked to hide its disgusting underbelly. Here, exploitation was a game and a competition. Beauty was a currency. To become the property of a man, particularly a wealthy one, was a conquest each girl was taught to pursue.

In this city, the magistrate’s mere existence was almost legendary. He had transformed Tanmei into a city fit for fine women. Women in colorful silk scarves, flitting through the city like the springtime butterflies. Women draped heavily in gold trinkets, the glittering paraphernalia threaded through ear holes and headdresses, laced across foreheads and willow-slender waists, and circled around pale white wrists and ankles. Sun knew better than to fall for his lucrative trap, but she simply had had no choice.

Standing on the rickety tiles of her roof, where the sun-dried paint cracked and peeled with her every step, Sun scanned the shining city, smiling ruefully as she held her tanned hands up against the midday sun. She looked nothing like the molded butterflies of her city. Her golden eyes and dark skin were exotic and alluring, and as much as her rugged appearance differed from the city’s colorful flower maidens, she drew curiosity and attention, not excluding, unfortunately, that of the magistrate.

The jangle of gold trinkets threaded through the luscious manes of Ferghana horses sounded through the street.

Clip, clop, clip.

Each hoof against the packed sand road counted down the seconds until Sun’s marriage sentence.

All at once, the procession, led by a magnificent palanquin, came to a stop. A gong rang loud and clear, echoing through the street in waves of resounding doom.

“The magistrate has arrived!”

The announcer’s reedy, whining voice buzzed through the still air, and he glanced upwards with distaste at the girl atop the roof, who stared down at the parade with fierce defiance.

Numb with dread and resignation, Sun watched as Amma rushed out, her best jade bracelets clinking sharply against one another. Appa strolled out behind her with measured steps, a mask of false calm layered over his ruddy cheeks as he hid his twitching fingers behind his back.

Through the silk flappings of the palanquin, smoke curled upwards in thin tendrils. With a surreptitious sniff, Sun detected the sickening, hazy euphoria of asa hemp. How utterly revolting. With a soaring

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Pallas

Aastha Mangla ‘23

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leap, she landed directly in front of the gleaming palanquin legs, calf muscles rippling beneath her cloistering marriage robe as her feet hit the packed dirt with a dull thud.

“Magistrate,” she bowed, gritting her teeth as she quietly forced out the bitter greeting. The shadowy lump inside the palanquin shifted slightly--her presence had been acknowledged.

Amma threw her a furtive glance, clearly less than pleased at Sun’s wildly unseductive composure.

“We are honored that you have considered such a humble maiden to become a part of your esteemed kin, Magistrate of Tanmei.”

The full honorific rolled off Amma’s honey tongue, as smooth and beguiling as the false speech of a serpent. From within the palanquin, Sun heard the sharp snap of fingers.

Immediately, two women servants, clothed in lavender uniforms, materialized in front of her, placing firm hands on her arms and urging her towards the silk flap. As per the city mandate, their eyelids and lips were sewn shut, with only a pair of delicate ears left untouched to receive the indefinite commands of the magistrate. Sun trembled, repulsed at her visible display of fear. She frantically searched the silk flap, eyes roving over the fitting serpents embroidered on the front. Their magnificent, fiery golden eyes seemed to come alive on the silk canvas, twisting and turning as they trapped Sun with their magnetic gaze. She felt her breathing slow and her chest close, and a scream tore silently out of her dry mouth.

How stupid I am. The hemp smoke, the hemp smoke, Sun thought, right before her vision turned dark.

When Sun woke, she found herself in an unfamiliar setting.

“Get up,” a malicious voice hissed in the dark.

She stirred. Tried to move. Failed as jolts of pain racked through her body with the force of a lightning bolt.

“Get up.”

The voice grew louder, impatient and more emphatic.

“GET UP.” Sun felt herself being dragged upwards, body limp as a rag doll and limbs swinging uselessly at her sides. Groggy, her eyelids slid open, adjusting to the dim light. Black lanterns hung across the cavernous ceiling as far as the eye could see, forming an intricate, shadowy web. She felt sharp nails dig into her back, her shoulders, and she cried out in unbearable pain. Fear shot through her veins, weighing her down like lead. A flabby mass of stomach, covered in unruly hair and flaking skin, slapped against her bare breasts. All around her, skeletons lay about, covered in bits of decaying, torn silk.

Silk. Even covered in grime, the colorful scraps were unmistakable Tanmei-crafted. Gleaming white bone lay underneath the cloth, one half buried deep into the dirt. And it was in that moment she knew that all around her lay the skeletal remains of Tanmei’s beautiful women. Which meant that the looming

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Flesh

Arya Tandon ‘21

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shape above her...

Clamping her mouth shut, Sun flailed about in a helpless rage, stomach churning with acid. She could not die here, would not die here.

“Foolish girl,” the voice purred with pure malice. “NO ONE escapes the magistrate.” The voice was everywhere and nowhere at once, oozing into her pores and solidifying her blood into lead. This time, her scream pierced the air, but the deafening echoes just bounced off the walls, again and again without end.

10 years later.

The ocean was a mirror. Smooth as glass, calm and collected. Sun lay flat against the scratchy, makeshift raft, staring listlessly into the sky. Sunset had just settled in, transforming the expanse around her into a volcanic eruption that glowed with both fire and ice. In the dimming glow, the divot scars on her back flared as clearly as the memory of the fateful day of her assault.

Sun glared, bolting upright. Here she was, a floating particle in the middle of the ocean. Temporarily safe. Pain was no stranger--she had grown accustomed to the cycle of capture and escape, a masochistic game of cat-and-mouse. Even though she had witnessed the magistrate’s lair, an open grave brandishing the genocide of the Tanmei women, an entire decade ago, the memory continued to haunt her with nightmares of torn bodies and bones under torn silks.

Nowadays, she was an insurrectionist, wanted by the magistrate for a gargantuan price. The open waters were her only safe haven, but she was tired of running. Glancing across the indefinite expanse, she shivered at the thought of what lay ahead, nor did she know if she would be able to handle the consequences. No doubt the magistrate would soon receive wind of her whereabouts yet again--he was taking no chances at the threat of a revolution.

Shutting her eyes, Sun inhaled, the long, shaky intake of air burning her lungs with the salty whiff of brine. Oh, in the glowing sunset, the golden rays warmed her back, her cheek, her hands, and closing her eyes, she felt for just a second like the girl she once was.

Just then, a gust of evening wind whistled past her ears, and her eyes snapped open as the idyllic moment vanished. In the rippling water, an unfamiliar reflection, wearing the dull lines of exhaustion, grimaced back. The mirage followed her movements, and she watched herself lift rough fingertips to her right cheek, ice-cold in the shadowy eclipse of the sun. Where used to be warm flesh and smooth skin was replaced with a gouged out pit of festering scars and barely-healed infections. New, pink skin stretched tight over the bumpy ridges, a cruel souvenir from her escape.

A great shudder ran throughout the length of her body, and she thrust her fists into the still water, pounding and thrashing until the grotesque image was but an indiscernible phantom of seafoam.

Suddenly, thunder broke overhead, and the indigo sky split open with heavy, grey raindrops.

Throwing her head back, she relished the cold against her burning face, and howled into the empty expanse.

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Mountain Goats Maria Teplova ‘21

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Sisyphean Sonnet Sophia Gottfried ‘21

Oh you absurdly happy fallen king Of whom I think when logging on To digital school cycles in inside spring Ennui overtakes all with meaning gone To scroll through feeds as Google’s trifling pawn While walking technological traced trails Where flashing screens broadcast the next black swan We live only through fables, fantasies and tales We run confined to these supply train rails, Before a little engine that could win Now praying my wasted will prevails Just so once more I can do it all again I know this chugging is just simply life, So I will fight to love even this strife.

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Software Development Life Cycle Trisha Iyer ‘23

Maybe somedays if you have time to look in the mirror, the gift to your vanity and debt to society.

When you snatch a moment of craning your neck upward from a textbook, straining even in your rest, You can catch a moment of clarity.

And see, in the flutter of a waist and the knob on a knee, the rhythm of your building blocks Scrutinized by a heavenly, primordial council that could perch in the clouds and watch: up, down, up, down, rectangle on a square, semicircle on a rectangle.

“This isn’t right,” you could hear a god say . . .

Isis considers the image: squat clump of legs, long torso, sunken head.

“Perhaps the head should be more formed?” suggests an angel looking for a promotion.

Lord Shiva scratches his nose. “Try defining the legs more?”

And so your God tries again— Up, down, Up, down, Rectangle on rectangle, smoothed-out hips, the head a full globe unfurling from sturdy shoulders ready to bear a world of stressors (with Atlas’s patented design).

The human prototype enters Round Two of testing and feedback.

But eventually: up, down, sculpt, sculpt, sculpt, here you are.

They took you and shoved a bunch of spices inside, too, Like a spongy brain with lots of wrinkled paths almost too big to be held up by just two legs And one spine.

And maybe a bit too much salt.

And far too much fire.

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Big Tech is Watching You Alex Zhai ‘21

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It takes a hundred deities and a thousand creator spirits— but finally, you are formed. And born. And here.

And given a life to live, which you do, oblivious to the fact that you are complete and utter perfection.

That is your security.

That is your guarantee and your lifetime-long warranty.

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Movie Night Maria Teplova ‘21

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Salmonberries, The Hobbit Hole Alex Zhai ‘21

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A mixtape Claire Chen ‘23

A mixtape, From Me to You, Of all the little things, That stop me from feeling so blue.

Look up!

And feel the sun’s warm welcome, Lay down as the gentle grass pokes your back numb, Take me to where the racing clouds could be from, While nature plays her soft anthem.

Do you hear it?

The soft humming of bees in the sky?

Although, as a child, they used to make me cry, But now I watch the yellow blurbs peacefully pass by, Oh how I wish they would teach me how to fly.

Smell that in the air?

Each breath filled with lavender bloom, The perfect place for an empty afternoon, If only I could be out here longer than the moon, Why does time always have to leave so soon?

See how even a simple leaf can help heal some grief?

Might as well enjoy it while we can, Even if nothing ever does go to plan.

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To Walk Into Vertigo Christina Rex ‘24

Leon stepped from the shotgun seat of Clément’s Packard. With his jaw clenched, he stopped to remember the ominously short note that led him to this moment, staring down the front of an abandoned factory off the coast of Sicily, presently complying. Clément was devastated when he came to deliver the news of his young daughter, Madelle’s kidnapping. That look of absolute ruin --he was by now quite used to it. He had seen that face many times in many desperate faces, but he never could have guessed that he would one day see it in his own brother’s. The piece of flimsy paper with this address was crumpled as he clenched it in his first; he couldn’t believe someone would use a child to get to him… it was disgusting.

Alone, he continued through the heavy rain and dark to finally reach the entrance of the building, stopping for just a moment at the french doors to calm the nerves that were building up inside his chest. He couldn’t help it: apprehension seemed to always set in during a moment of stress, always.

As he stepped inside, he surveyed his surroundings: nearly pitch black, isolated, and long evacuated. No wonder they chose this place for her pickup; you may never see them again. He searched for a lightswitch in the foyer, but, to his dismay, the power had been shut down completely. Likely a result of the storm brewing outside in the cold, he reasoned. As he moved cautiously through the darkened halls, he kept on high alert, still unsure if the emptiness was a sign of relief or worry. The silence was deafening.

He heard nothing but the occasional gust of wind and rain thrashing up against the windows and the slight ticking of the clock hanging on the wall of nearly every room he passed. It was like one of those few moments you will experience when life seems to be unreal and somehow dreamlike, like swimming in the rain at night or staying overnight at the hospital. The light-headed vertigo of unsteadily feeling his way to the elevator made him almost sick, but he continued on as the light became scarcer. Finally seeing the elevator doors, he stepped inside, choosing the second floor, just as the note had proposed. He was so nervous and thrown off balance that he could have sworn he was going to pass out. As the doors parted, Leon’s eyes adjusted to the dark of the larger windowless room to reveal Madelle, alone, her near lifeless form slumped against the back wall, shadows distorting her face.

He zeroed in on her, clearly recognizing her dark hair was matted, her clothes the same as she had last been seen in; her breathing was weak, yet definite and steady. He fell to his knees and rolled back the girls’ shoulders to hold her. She was weak and falling in and out of consciousness. He made it a point to reassure her of his good intentions as he picked her up and rested the five-year-old against his chest. Leon felt tears well in his eyes and a smoldering resentment built in his chest. She was truly the most innocent among them. She had done nothing wrong and would never comprehend that these doings had nothing to do with her; they were merely done out of spite for others. He froze for a heartbeat, looking back at the elevator with the child in his arms. He reasoned that taking the same elevator down may not be the wisest choice, as he had taken his eyes off of it for one moment too many to be comfortable. Choosing to obey

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Engineered Explosions Shounak Ghosh ‘22

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his first instinct, he turned and started to feel his way down to the ground floor. As Leon began his descent down the stairwell, the child buried her head further into his shoulder. Knowing that this ordeal would be frightening for any child, he talked down to her: “I know sweetheart, but I don’t have a light.”

Without her response, the realization of complete silence dawned upon him. The clocks that had been ticking lightly and continuously since he stepped into the building died away for a moment. Leon’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“Oh please, allow me...”

Leon jumped and turned to the voice. A match flared to life maybe three steps below them, illuminating the face of a man. As his startled eyes attempted to adjust to the form before him, he remembered what Clément had always assured him: “If a man is completely comfortable showing his face to you, he isn’t planning on letting you go...” ***

Clément gazed down at his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time. It had been maybe thirty minutes since Leon vanished into the front building. He had made no contact since, and the fear for his brother and child rose in his gut as he waited out the storm in the vehicle. Decision made, he pulled away from the car, stepped into the cold, and walked the rest of the way toward the abandoned facility.

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Another Day Michelle Liu ‘22

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tidal spell.

Ms. Lizzy Schimenti your mood like the moon burgeons with time each tide pulling you further from the depths of your mind waxing & waning are all but a phase to lace balance & measure throughout all the days so when we feel the waning pressure imparting on you just know soon enough all good things start anew

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星空 Karina Chen ‘23

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Monotony Gloria Zhu ‘22

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Does the sun rise only to set?

Claire Chen ‘23

Day by day, on a wooden swing, Back and forth through monotonous things, Life’s stuck in a song on loop, the same four chords strummed over and over in a group, The sour melody causing throbbing headaches, sending constant flashbacks to previous mistakes, Longing to walk in tangible grass, to feel warm sunlight and not just through glass, I seem to have lost my grin, the longer my bedroom walls cave in, Too much time spent in this space, there has to be a way out of this place, My room spins faster than my mind, As I crawl on the floor trying to find, What I once thought was mine, The world feels so small, And I haven’t even lived through it all, At last, the scariest feeling is nothing at all.

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Illuminated Fumes Reagan Ka ‘22

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upside down Cynthia Wang ‘24

our sister comes in iridescent waves— ebbing and flowing with the breeze. flamboyant storms ravage me, along with the coasts that erode the cliffs in our bleached minds. wicked, wicked wounds overwhelm the ephemeral reef. the heart of our own is very much like the sea.

yet even after all this time— no one dares to raise their fist. why should i care? questions a farmer, even as thunderstorms and tornadoes tear apart the fruits of his labor. why should i worry? inquires a doctor, even as blistering marine heatwaves send thousands to the hospital. why should i bother? asks a businesswoman, even as damages from natural disasters devastate her company’s lifeline. the answer drifts around the globe.

we are swept away by the tide— like a drought in our tongues; no one outruns the tsunami. it bears the brunt of our faults and the burdens from our past; not enough, never enough. soon we will be silenced: spit acid on the pale reefs as our siblings bleed black, but all is at peace, we chant; of course, it will all go away. it’s hard to escape the whirlpool when it’s all we’ve ever known. we always want more, don’t we?

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Pandora Siddhi Jain ‘24

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i am my mother’s daughter— it’s our turn to pick up the shards piercing the sand; the nefarious graveyard far too littered for lifetimes. seventy percent of our world is finally rising on the international agenda. and now we speak, our words like matches, our bodies made of fury and flame & hearts beating to the rhythm of the sea.

we do not forget— when our president withdraws from the Paris Agreement, dismantles the Clean Power Plan, rolls back emissions standards, cuts climate budget by 31 percent, we kneel by our poison sea and fill our palms with the ocean’s song. blow our conch shells to the skies— the water rises, and so do we. oh, my lovely cerulean girl, it all comes down to you.

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How to Deplete Trisha Iyer ‘24

is so easy to learn, you just—

reach deep into the hollow collarbone of the Earth and dig up Her heart, carbon coal crusting under your fingernails, natural gas wisping across your veins, oil latching onto and through the soft skin hammocks of your thumbs—

leach the good, the earnest thrumming of life into your ice-blood like the damp—

send the evil puffing smokestacks through your teeth up over Oregon, turn it all orange—

stomp the bad into cratering footsteps, floods, fracked-up valleys, catastrophes, grind the stone back into the peach and turn it all to ash in the mouth.

So you are the greatest con man of all—absconding with the soul of the world, but its heartstrings

tangle under your arms and pull you back like Scylla, and

wrench your eyes open to see— So many other stories, and their solutions that could have been: the wilted-winged bees, bowed appendages trying to scrape homes back together, the withered-raisin boys starving in Sudan, their guts trying to lean out of bodies, Indian not-in-schoolgirls who can’t spell “period poverty,” dignity trying to leak out between their legs.

And before we can change all that, we must Have a home to change.

And when we old and frail and brittle-boned we will be bitter-tongued too, wishing that you wrote a better world for us in your will, that you hadn’t learned how to deplete—

dear Dragon, whoever you are and might be: Don’t.

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Where Home Was

Sarah Mohammed ‘23

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Blinded

Dawson Chen ‘22

Beethoven Piano Sonata No. 17 in D minor Op. 31, No. 2, Movement III Daniel Wu ‘22

a new direction Iris Fu ‘24 43

Under Electric Lights Tessa Muhle ‘21

The house shook from yelling as Alice tried to fall asleep. Staring at the sharp slice of moonlight on the ceiling, she laid back with her arms crossed behind her head as she waited for the shouting match to end.

“What the hell were you thinking, hiding this from us?! We’re just trying to help you, but all you want to do is sit around in your chair doing nothing! And God forbid we tell you to study?! Honestly, Thomas, what are we supposed to do?!”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realise I needed to tell you about every little assignment I got! I don’t need you micromanaging my goddamn life!”

At last the shouting faded away, replaced with slammed doors and thundering footsteps. Alice continued staring at the ceiling, wondering about the reasons behind the explosive argument. She turned so she was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands resting on the frame as she gazed ahead. Forcing herself up, Alice stood and stumbled across her room, cursing when she banged her elbow against the chair she had forgotten to push under the desk the night before. She opened the door, wincing at the low-pitched creak that arose from its hinges.

Entering Thomas’ room, she shielded her eyes against the bright lights and the angry muttering coming from her younger brother as he sat hunched over his computer. He didn’t look up at her when she came in, just said flatly, “What do you want.”

“Wow, rude much? I just wanted to see what all the yelling was about.”

Thomas leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “It’s nothing important,” he muttered.

Alice nodded, leaning against the doorframe. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” She paused, considering her brother. “Do you want to go for a drive?”

He looked over at her in surprise. “What about Mom and Dad?”

She shrugged. “I’m in college. I’m over 18. What will they do, ground me?” She scoffed, “I don’t think so.”

“Ok then, if you’re sure.” He stood up, stretched. “But no questions about our argument.”

“Deal.”

They walked out to the garage and to the car, unconsciously moving closer to resist the cold.

Pulling out of the driveway, Alice relaxed with her hands on the wheel as Thomas sat back and scrolled through his phone. The car coasted down the street, the only sounds the gentle thrumming of the engine as headlights and streetlights flashed by in the nearby distance.

She continued staring fixedly at the road ahead of her, only ever seeing a few feet ahead as she drove. Finally, Thomas asked, “Are we going anywhere specific? Or just, like, driving around?”

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New Haircut

Gloria Zhu ‘22

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Alice hummed and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Well, if you want, we could go to Somerset Park.” She said slowly. “But if you’re too tired, then we can just head home. I know how you need your beauty sleep.”

Thomas frowned, a line creasing his forehead as he thought. “Somerset Park... that’s where we take the dogs?” At Alice’s nod of agreement, he clapped his hands and sat back in the seat with all the authority of a 5-star general in Call of Duty. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

Alice rolled her eyes and turned the car towards the park.

With a destination in mind, the drive flew by like a summer breeze, with intermittent headlights twinkling like fireflies. Thomas rolled down the window and the cool air rushed in, curling around them in a wintry embrace as Thomas’s hand rode the wind outside. At last, Alice spotted a faded sign on her left that marked the entrance to the park.

After she parked the car, Thomas climbed out and walked into the park, heading towards a bench on the far side of the grass. Alice followed close behind him, her eyes focused above.

“Shoot.” She cursed when she nearly walked into the fence, catching herself on her hands.

“Whatcha doing?” Thomas snickered from in front of her.

She swatted his arm. “Shut up,” she said without any heat. “I’m counting the stars.”

“Oh yeah? How many are there?”

“4,” she murmured, still tilting her head up. “Just 4.”

He nodded and lifted his head up, his eyes casually searching the sky. Lifting one hand, he pointed at a light over the horizon. “5.”

“That’s a plane, Thomas.”

“Hmph.”

They reached the bench and sat for some time, soundlessly staring out at the black grass and the remaining stars on the horizon. At last Alice leaned back and tilted her face up towards the sky. “Do you want to talk about what happened back home?”

Thomas exhaled and leaned back to look up at the sky with his sister. “The short story is, I have a test in two days that I didn’t tell them about because if I did, they’d draw up a schedule and start nagging me to study every minute in the day. I know how to study; I don’t need their stupid worry!” As he talked, he stood and started pacing, his hands gesturing wildly as his frustration grew.

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A Moment Away From the Chaos Gloria Zhu ‘22

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Alice hummed in response as her brother continued. “I mean, it’s like all they think about is school and college and jobs! We’re watching a movie and I say something like, ‘Oh, I wonder if this is based on a real war’ and Mom says, ‘Well, Thomas, you should look it up and write about it. By the way, how’s that history assignment coming along?’ Or I’m talking to my friends and Dad comes in and says, ‘Oh, you don’t have time for that. You need to finish your homework’ as if I hadn’t spent 5 hours working on assignments and tests and projects.” He laughed without any humour. “Literally, it’s the only thing they ever talk to me about.”

Alice looked at her brother. “Are you done?”

He sighed and slumped down next to her. “Yeah. It’s just... I wish they would trust me.”

“I know.” She hesitated. “I... it’s just who they are, I think. They did the same with me, before I went to college. Always checking in, seeing what I’ve done or what I need to do.”

“It’s exhausting.”

“Yeah.”

They sat together in silence, listening to the faint chirp of insects and the hum of midnight travellers far away on the highway. Finally Alice stood up and stretched her arms up, saying, “It’s getting late; we should probably head home soon.”

Thomas nodded and stood up, following Alice to the car. They climbed in and Alice started the car as Thomas stared out the window. He spoke quietly, “Hey, Alice?”

She rested her hands on the wheel as she turned her head to look at her younger brother, who continued, “I... I just wanted to say, thanks, y’know? For talking to me... and for letting me talk. Yeah.

Thank you.”

Alice smiled at him and leaned over, pulling her brother into an awkward seated hug. He struggled at first but soon stopped and wrapped his arms around her. They broke apart and Alice pulled out of the parking lot. “Anytime, Thomas.”

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Emotional Baggage Reagan Ka ‘22

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Alcatraz Island Shounak Ghosh ‘22

King of the Skies Shounak Ghosh ‘22

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untitled 3 Aniket Singh ‘23

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Still Together Alysa Suleiman ‘22

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Quarantine Prayer Sarah Mohammed ‘23 Because I don’t know what it means to begin anymore.

Because questions taste too much like sticky parchment on my tongue.

Because the prospect that I could beg and someone bigger might answer is too beautiful to pass up. My hands gasping into prayer like a flower, white petals. God, teach me what it means to forget the sound of my mother’s heartbeat, what it means for the world to always feel out of focus like a greasy film, what it means to be so, so afraid. Tonight, tell me your secrets so I can wrap my fists around something soft and new. Tell me how you answer prayers so I can learn to be something better, too.

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Sunflowers Iris Fu ‘24

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the endless math scape Dr. Lola Muldrew (in 1999)

Mathematics, the language, was created to describe the world in which we live. As a language, it is a metaphor for our physical surroundings and for the bodies we inhabit. Mathematics is a cup within a cup within a cup, each holding as much as it can then brimming over into the next larger challis.

I count as I walk One and two, three and four, five ...

Heartbeat counterpoint.

Sometimes I drive in my car with the windows down, no radio on, just the rush of the wind in my ears.

I meditate on clouds in the distance and then suddenly realize that I have been counting in my head.

Already I am at one thousand forty-three.

I categorize everything, grouping things in parentheses and brackets and braces. All my ideas, plans, interests, history have their place in my brain, a multi-dimensional grid. It is not a static framework and as each moment progresses, different categories come to the forefront. I dream of matrices, wake up and, while still in dream-state, see that my alarm clock is more than just a marker of time ... it is a streamlined digital outpouring of secret messages sent to me from parallel dimensions.

Mathematics is magically within the beauty that sometimes leaps out at us, sometimes lays quiet and hidden waiting for us to stumble upon it, gratefully. Mathematics can be coy one day, a charmer the next.

Blossoming roses.

Their petals spiral outward, Sequencing delight with awe.

People are drawn to different aspects of mathematics. It depends on how their brains have been wired over the years. I have always been fond of games and tickled by those puzzles that were quite obviously linked to math (as opposed to those paradoxes and quandaries that certainly required analysis but seemed to have little to do with numbers!).

I have also been forever appreciative of the reliability of mathematics, the black and white, the right and wrong. The upside is that this provides a level of security for me – believing that nature knows what she is doing, that there will be an ending. The downside is that too much “black and white” can lead to (my) rigidity.

Fortunately, we can lift all restrictions and behold that mathematics is still there waiting to greet us again! And we realize that no matter how we try to bound and limit it, we cannot because there is always more than we can hold ... it slips through our fingers like sand.

The endless math-scape, An infinity of sand ...

And yet within me.

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#228b22

Varun Fuloria ‘24 Standing on the slim dirt path, I inhale deeply, the pine trees above me, leaves reaching towards their brothers and sisters fall short. It’s me and the forest — the rabbits, the squirrels, the birds. I can hear them, but where? Why can’t I see them? Now propped up against a tree, I feel the soft ground underneath my hands, still damp from yesterday’s downpour. The noises continue — rustling, scampering, chirping. Where? Just out of sight.

Too far. I’m by myself, with only the trees. The scent of sap relaxes my body, and I lie down. I’m at peace. I’m slipping and falling into Green.

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The Winding Road Aylsa Suleiman ‘22

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lost

Elliot Kampmeier ‘21

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growing up

Hari Bhimaraju ‘21

lying on our backs on blades of soft grass, we watch a doggy drift across the vast blue chasing an old woman with an umbrella? or maybe it’s sweet tea she freshly brewed. it’s hard to tell what the white puffs spell, but we giggle anyway and think they’re true until we grow up, grow out of imagination and the heavens fade to weather stations. the crisp navy of fresh denim carries a thrill of feeling the holes close and a chapter begin. we take cute snaps and flaunt our bills, proud to wear fashion’s

“NEW BIG THING” but soon we miss that comfortable drill of stretchy fabric that seems to mold our skin. so when the cerulean fades into familiar gray, we almost welcome it until next pay day. life reminds me of clouds and jeans. at first, we listen to mystic twinkling of dreams but most everyone learns to grow up and out, until we’re just rain and grayscale printouts wondering: why doesn’t happiness last forever? the problem with growing and trying and fading is that we build a routine that’s suffocating. we sell our friends and nights and souls to companies that lap us at every post, making us pay toll to enter our own minds — which we trampled, in our addiction to the grind. it’s because we’re taught to value destruction, success has no meaning without obstructions. i want to be i don’t want to grow updifferent i just want to grow

with out

all the build up. i’ll know the weather, but still look at the clouds for i believe there’s wonder in those fluffy shrouds.

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atlas

Tessa Muhle ‘21 i am cosmically tired. my bones are fossils; my heart, a solid weight of lead dragging me down down d o w n to a place i’m regretfully familiar with i look up to see rainbows flitting around taking the forms of birds and flowers and fantastic things. i cannot reach them around me there is nothing but dust and stone and rock and bone. i scratch words into the prison wall with a crumbling fingernail. is this what atlas felt like? with the weight of the world on his back, twinkling stars just out of reach of his grasping eyes?

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ghost

Elliot Kampmeier ‘21

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Venice in Vegas Aastha Mangla ‘23

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A Stroll Along the River Ritu Belani ‘24

Nothing you’ve ever encountered in this world holds a torch To the magic, the mystique, the bone-shivering delight Of a stroll all alone along the dreamy river, Just you and Nature hand-in-hand at midnight.

Submerged beneath a spell-like slumber, the electric city snores Through the gently-lapping ripples of abstraction.

As sound lulls on its dull night shift, sleepy frogs croak, Attempting to warn you of a danger you could never imagine.

Snug under the warm blanket of a black cosmos, You wish the Sun could stay in bed forever—or at least till you’re gone, Dreading that it will soon rise, cast off the star-speckled sheet, And repaint the sky’s canvas with a garish orange dawn.

You inhale now, longingly, and the peace-purified air Relays the soft sways of blue tulips by the shore.

They dance delicately, entrancingly in the light night breeze.

Rhythm-driven, whim-ridden, you shift ways—let there be one more.

Your eyes imbibe the shimmering moonlight.

Like a strange silver liquor, it steers your mind.

Guiding you down as you tiptoe to the water’s edge, Somehow in the mud and darkness you accomplish the climb.

Silky slivers of speech tug you closer to the river: Bent over the banks, you squint at the water, only separated by inches.

It pleads starry-eyed innocence with a mesmerizing reflection.

Mirrored in this being, your pockets gleam with all of Earth’s riches.

Whirling whispers that vow the world persuade you—come into the water.

So you sever your anchor and let the currents take you where they wish.

Alas, the frogs strived to alert you to the beast’s trap, But you became another foolish sailor the Sirens’ song would bewitch.

Syrupy-smooth waves stroke your arms—all tension now evaporates as Rising vapor hisses for all your mental command to buckle.

The River that pledged your new beginning will deliver your end, And as its jaws wrap around your body, out rings an eerie chuckle.

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Color

Jack Yang ‘24

The menacingly overcast blanketed the horizon for as far as I could see. I took off my shoes and trekked through the sand until cold, unwelcoming waves lapped at my toes. Shivering, I waded farther into the vast and turbulent ocean. Suddenly, I was knocked off balance as a current swept me under.

Tumbling and twirling, I tried to stand to breathe but did not know which way was up. Salty, briny water cascaded into my mouth as I started to panic. My nose was stinging and I felt like throwing up because of the horribly salty water. The hungry, relentless waves came one after another as if it were their life’s mission to drown me. My lungs were burning from the salt and they were about to burst from the lack of oxygen.

Suddenly, I felt solid ground under my feet, and desperately propelled myself upward. Thrusting my head out of the water, my lungs breathed a sigh of relief as fresh, crisp air filled them up. For the first time, I realized that the clouds were moving away. Clearing my eyes from the dripping saltwater, I noticed the beach was not far away from me. Cruel, never-ending surges of water crashed into me, but I stroked determinedly toward the sea of sand. Finally, I felt soft, comforting sand under my toes and lay down, exhausted. Gazing across the peaceful and smooth ocean, I could not believe this was the same savage, tempestuous vortex of water that almost took my life. Completely soaked through and wondering if this taste of salt would ever leave my mouth, I found myself looking up at a sky of blue.

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Escaping Reality Camilla Lindh ‘22

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Mission

HELM encourages and celebrates student artwork and writing, including multimedia works, by giving students a space to have their work discussed and publicly displayed alongside the creations of their peers each year. By the same token, HELM allows the Harker community at large to view high-quality student produced art, allowing for our creative tradition to thrive.

Info

The 22nd volume of HELM was created in Adobe InDesign. The physical issue will first be distributed, and an online issue will be available after distribution of the physical issue, free and in public domain.

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Editorial Policy

HELM reserves the right to publish versions of accepted submissions in print and online.

In collaboration with authors, some submissions have been edited to remove errors or content that would prevent them from being published in an English department publication. The content in this magazine was solicited from the Harker student body during the 2020-21 school year. All submissions were anonymized for selection, and published submissions were selected through member voting and discussion. The concepts and ideas expressed in published works reflect the viewpoints of the contributing artists and not necessarily those of HELM staff, Harker admin, Harker faculty, or our club advisor.

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HELM Volume 22 | Escapism