Rhapsody 2019

RHAP S ODY Vo l . X L I V

2018-19

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Cover Art: Lauren Li

Layout/Graphic Assets: Connie Liu 2

rhapsody literary arts magazine Upper Dublin High School (&District) Fort Washington, Pennsylvania 2018-19

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RHAPSODY Upper Dublin High School / Volume XLIV / Est. 1975

Editor’s Note: Every year each new edition of Rhapsody is different, each carries its own memories whether it be fervent editing sessions or bustling review meetings. More importantly, each edition captures the thoughts and imaginations of each of its members, of all of us. Through the ups and downs of life, we transcribe these moments onto paper, where they remain a testament to our high school days.

With that thought, the theme for this year’s magazine is chiaroscuro, the juxtaposition of light and dark. Purportedly invented by Renaissance painter Leonardo da Vinci, this technique has become a timeless centerpiece in the art world. But beyond the pictorial realm, chiaroscuro can be generalized to the mundanities of life, as our darkest moments are often dotted with brief respites of laughter and vice versa. As you peruse through this magazine, you’ll notice that it is deliberately ordered to spark a contrast between two adjacent pieces. We’ve paired together dark foreboding tales with hilarious monologues along with a the occasional middle man in between.

We hope these clashing pieces causes each individual one to shine brighter and speak louder. Ultimately, we hope that this magazine can provide you with a reflection of what life really is—an interplay of victories and defeats, new beginnings and endings, or simply—the good and bad.

Yours,

Connie Liu 2019 Senior Editor

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EDITORS Senior Editor: Connie Liu Junior Editor: Lauren Li Writing Editors: Belinda Jin Robert Frazier Art Editor: Emma Yoon Social Media: Anna Zhou Coordinator Faculty Advisor: Mrs. Stern

GENERAL STAFF Norah Alavi, Annie Cheng, Caleb Cho, Andrew Duan, Katie Farley, Michelle Furmansky, Wendell Gaskins, Katherine Hong, Irene Hong, Joshua Hong, Nicole Huggins, Cecily Johnson, Zoey Joseph, Daniel Kaplan, Annabelle Laughlin, Bryn Malizia, Stefan Obradovic, Zizi Terentini, Maisie Weiss, Eileen Xiao, Hannah Xiao, Jane Zhou 3

TABLE OF CONTENTS Poetry & Prose

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18

9

22

11

24

12

26

15 17

39

50

40

52

42 44

28

47 48

34

4

55

56 58 60

’

7

16

35, 37

48

’

8

21

38

51

11

23

41

53

13

25

43

56

14

26

45

57

15

30

46

58

47

61

Art & Photography

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The Gray Area Anna Zhou I watch those surrounding me in this lush green woodland: all of these seedlings— budding. all of these wildflowers— blooming. all of these trees— blossoming. each and every one of them— growing, flourishing, thriving.

Yet, here I stand, not a sapling, nor a forest my feet rooted firmly to the soil, passive and dubious— the shadows of those taller than I blocking me from the sun.

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Eileen Xiao 7

Charity Foster

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Grass Annie Cheng Grass has always been mutilated. My ancestors trod on it lightly while stalking prey, and millenia later, I do the same. Maybe the grass I now cut is of a different breed—domesticated, perhaps, by my front lawn. Grass has always been quiet and submissive; it does not draw attention; it is not like the sky, which puts on a show every day to draw the paparazzi of the human gaze. Grass is demure; it accepts the trampling and cutting without words and allows itself to be engulfed by vicious weeds. It is defenseless—but not unhappy.

Sometimes I wonder: if I were to be grass, would I be happier than I am now? Grass is rooted in the soil, not in the fleshy thoughts and desires of our sentience. Grass does not weep over changes in the unforgiving universe. Grass does not feel because it does not know how to. I think, then, I would be happier if I were a blade of grass in the lawn of this cold galaxy.

But then I realize—no human is content to be a blade of grass. Though we would not feel pain, we would not feel pleasure, and though the pain most certainly outweighs the pleasure in this game of life, our innate desire to take risks always tips the scale. We, the fools that we are, love gambling. In our twisted minds, we always outweigh the good over the bad. Some call this optimism. I call it stupidity. In fact, the essence of human sentience is our willingness to gamble. We will always gamble on the worst things, expecting the best and receiving the worst. Life is a casino, but I—I will not gamble my life on a blade of grass.

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Kira Ariyamitr

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Swimming on Land

Stefan Obradovic

When you look up from the bottom of the ocean, the rest of the world is unseen.

At the surface, we can spot the fish but their view just stops at our knees.

To see the beauty above them, these creatures must be oh so keen to emerge on the sand, dying at ease to feel a few moments of breeze.

It begs me to wonder if space, just like water, hangs above us like a screen.

We cannot see through it– the stars, if we knew it, are there just to give us a tease.

Who are the creatures looking down at us and why are we stuck in between?

Oh what I’d give just to glance at their world even if my body would freeze.

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Some Things Belinda Jin I punched a guy today.

It wasn’t a real hard punch, but he started crying, so I guess it was kind of a big deal. Some teacher, an English guy with real hairy arms, dragged me out of there. I guess he thought I’d punch the kid again, but I hadn’t even thought about that. I just wanted to see what it’d feel like. Anyways, this kid was crying because I knocked his glasses into his face and there was a crooked red welt on his nose where the little bridge thing had hit him. He was kind of a wuss.

Crying and all. He wasn’t even trying to hide it—like, he was full-out bawling when I left. The English guy lectured me the whole way to the principal’s office, hissing and spitting in my ear. I wasn’t really paying attention, just kind of watching as some strangers pulled the kid up and asked if he was okay. That made the teacher real mad. He spun me around and stared at me, telling me how it was wrong and all that, but all I could see was the little bit of gunk in the corner of his eye and the way the hairs on his wrinkled forehead moved as he spoke. I think he could tell that I still wasn’t really listening because he just kind of sighed and let go of my arm and kept walking. He probably expected me to follow him, but the second he turned the corner I kind of just sprinted out of there. Didn’t even stop to grab my stuff.

I slowed to a stroll after a little bit, figuring I’d check out the dumb town and all, but then a police car drove up and some guy came out. My palms started sweating, but I tried to keep it cool and gave him a nod. Before I could leave, the officer grabbed my arm. He was frowning. Asked me why I wasn’t in school, and I shrugged.

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Then he asked me if I was Scott’s kid, and I said, yeah, that’s me. He frowned a little more. Told me my dad was doing some great stuff and I should get my crap together. Not like that, of course, but that’s what he meant. I guess what he didn’t know is that my dad’s a real piece of work. I mean, most people don’t know that, and I don’t really expect them to, but it’d be nice if they did, you know?

Anyways, the officer let me go and told me to get back to class. I shrugged and started walking up to the school again, but when I figured he wasn’t watching anymore, I turned around and headed home.

My place is this dumb old piece of junk apartment. The stairwell is dirty and there’s beer cans everywhere, and the lady who lives above me is old and dumb and hard of hearing so she never tells Hannah Xiao her dog to shut up, and the guy who lives below me kind of sucks but he smiles a lot so nobody thinks he’s too bad until they hear him screaming at his girlfriend late at night. My mom put a welcome rug outside our door to spruce it up, I guess, but nobody really comes by because it’s that much of a dump. The lock’s old and I have to jam my key in to get it to fit, and once I do it doesn’t even come out, so sometimes I just leave it there.

Inside it smells like cat litter and cigarettes ‘cause my dad smokes and we have a cat and all. Not sure where she is though. Anyways, both my parents work late, so it was just me, like usual. Figured I’d 13

take a shower, scrub away the memories of the day, you know? But the water was cold and it wasn’t really getting warmer, so I just gave up. Went to my room like I’d done something wrong—and I guess I had—and kind of just lay on the floor and waited for something to happen. Nothing did.

Jamie Sacramento

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Khiasmos Caleb Cho

I read about arms and men I write with fingers and pen of excitement and epic battles the classics sound full however in reality they are really quite dull why should I study Caesar, Cicero, the whole lot when they are dead and dead I am not.

Taylor Kang

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Megan O’Halloran 16

Dear Valley Girl Diary Robert Frazier Being a good samaritan sucks! Why in God’s name do I ever help other people? Whoever once said no good deed goes unpunished was a genius! Whenever I try and help someone or do something nice, it just blows up in my face. Oh my God! Like today, I saw a child who dropped his ice cream. So I scooped it up off the ground with my own two bare hands, brushed off, like, half the ants, and tried to feed it to him, but apparently that makes me an insane person. So your son is crying, but what about me? My hands got sticky and a little bit dirty. It was just like a couple months ago when Jenny got furious at me since I tried hook up with her boyfriend.

Like, God, Jenny, he was a total tool anyways and I was doing you a favor. Why would she want a man who would, like, cheat on her anyways. God, this all goes back to when I was a kid and I made a cake for my mom’s birthday and it was supposed to be a surprise.

They loved it so much that they tried to make me do it every birthday. Like, God, mom, I have things to do. I can’t constantly be baking cakes for every relative like Uncle Steve and his creepy lazy eye. So I knew I had to, like, stop this charity ‘cause it was just biting me in the butt, so I made Uncle Steve’s cake really gross. But, like, oh my God, how was I supposed to know he was allergic to shellfish.

That was an awkward funeral, especially since they didn’t even appreciate when I brought an apology cake and some apology lobster. Whatevs, the next little brat I see asking for help I’ll just scissor kick in the face.

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War Stories Emma Campbell At exactly 12:01 on Saturday, Brandon stares down the barrel of a dirty semi-automatic.

The man behind the gun is more of a boy, really. His hair is disheveled, which almost annoys Brandon for some reason, and his ears are prominent and reddish. About thirteen young soldiers stand behind him, guns lifted. The young man doesn’t fire.

Behind him, Brandon’s platoon raises their own guns.

Nobody fires.

The mutual hesitation has stolen the breathless panic of battle and the air grows tight and tense. A sharp laugh cracks from Brandon’s lips before he has the chance to swallow it. The other men lower their guns and, slowly, so does Brandon’s platoon. Both sides stand across from each other, staring at the frighteningly human features of their enemies—the bags under their eyes and the tousled hair and the man’s flushed ears.

“It’s hot out,” Brandon calls. The other man nods. He must know some English.

Brandon sits down slowly in the dust and places his gun next to him. He can feel his heart pounding in his fingertips, but he sits.

The men on both sides watch him.

At exactly 12:04 on Saturday, Martha sits on her beat-up couch. Across the coffee table sits Stacy, her legs tucked to one side like some wide-eyed schoolgirl. They are both holding iced tea.

“Have you heard from Brandon in a while?” Stacy asks, and Martha tries not to grind her teeth before answering. “He sent a 18

letter two weeks ago.”

Stacy makes a sound of pity in the back of her throat. “How’s Charlie holding up?”

“He’s fine,” Martha says.

Stacy sips her tea, glances at the beat-up couch, and kicks it lightly with her toe. “How long have you had that thing?”

Martha presses her lips together and smiles. “A while, I guess.”

“Why don’t you get a new one?”

“Haven’t had the chance,” Martha says tightly. Stacy sips her tea.

At exactly 12:06 on Saturday, Brandon watches as the young man with the gun lowers himself onto the dirt. “It’s hot,” he repeats in broken English, and his wide eyes blink twice, rapidly.

The two platoons watch warily, guns lowered but gripped tightly, eyes flicking to each other in curiosity. Seconds tick past.

The living room is tense.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Stacy cries. “I was making small talk. You didn’t have to explode.”

“You didn’t have to make a comment about it,” Martha spits.

Stacy looks offended. “I think you’re overreacting.”

Martha stands quickly and glares at the woman across from her. “You do this every time. You always come and criticize everything you see.”

Stacy’s mouth drops open and Martha continues to glare at her, angry tears filling her eyes.

In the dust sit both platoons of men, wary of each other but 19

seated nonetheless. The man with the gun watches as Brandon and his men clink their canteens of water together and sip, and Brandon whispers, “for Charlie.” After several minutes, the man with the gun pulls out his own bottle of water and holds it out hesitantly. Brandon taps his canteen against it and they drink. The sun is warm on their faces and the air is placid. A mellow breeze stirs the dust.

Stacy storms from the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind her with a bang. Martha wipes her tears and stares after Stacy for a second, watching her climb into her car and speed from the driveway. After several minutes, Martha turns and slowly cleans up the half-drunk iced tea glasses. A sound comes from the stairs and Martha sees Charlie standing there quietly, eyes wide and hair disheveled.

“What happened?” he asks.

Martha sighs. “Go to your room and lay down.” The boy turns and disappears back up the stairs.

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Lauren Li

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Loopholes Maisie Weiss “No boyfriends until you’re 17,” My parents said.

Fine. No boyfriends.

Even though there’s this person who I really really really really really like.

I am a good kid.

I try my best to never lie.

However, is it really lying if the person I really really really really really Like Is a girl?

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“No boyfriends until you’re 17,” My parents said.

“Ok,” I replied.

So An

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All the Same Lauren Li With the small world around you asleep, you find yourself unconsciously unlocking the back door and pacing in circles on asphalt illuminated by a single streetlight. You will never be able to understand the stigma associated with staying up past midnight, but that is okay. Aside from the low, subsiding hum of crickets, the rest of the world is still for you to think.

But nevertheless, you cannot think, and instead, your gaze fixates on the unusually large lump of toad in front of you. You’ll approach it, cautiously, and with ultimate precision—don’t you wish you could hold this type of focus throughout the day? Don’t you wish you could be this vigilant and delicate with your actions and reactions to other, real people? Maybe if you could forget about them, this would be okay. But even your best endeavors and ironwilled concentration fail to prevent the fat toad from leaving, and now you’ll feel something stir inside of you—it’s a familiar feeling that you’ve always felt but can’t manage to shake off. Something between frayed wires without tech support and the turbulence after rejection. Come back, you want to say, listen to me, you fail to say, but you know it’s no use. Because people always leave, as will this toad, and by the end of the night it’ll just be you, marooned and alone, as it always has been—all the same, and all the same.

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Jamie Sacramento

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You are Your Own God Connie Liu Before, I was always looking For some other god unnamed To sweep from the Heavens above And from my calls bring rain.

With his smile spring would come Coaxing brushes from the earth Making the tatters all seem numb By sewing back together my worth.

Austin John

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One day, a light shone in the sky, A meteor came hurtling through Rain and sun interspersed and why, From the ground he grew.

A fiercely amiable god he was, Sparks and flame abound In gentleness, he spoke rough As he could not be kept around.

Despite our festivals, our gifts, Our offerings of undying daysGods are fickle, oh how swift Did he decide to part ways.

The sun still rose, my hands still bled My heart still cried out in pain.

No amends were to be saidAll was done in vain.

Desperately, in temples I prayed: If only, if only gods could love Then would he have stayed?

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My Humble Southern Socialite Ben Fischer Allow me to spin you a yarn of a small Southern town that lies just beyond old Little Tallapoosa River, ‘round about Georgia way. In this agrarian society lives my humble Southern Socialite of a wife.

She is adorned in the finest powder blue cloth and spiced with the scent of mulberry and raccoon feces—a staple of domestic perfume.

It was of these things which I became so enthralled in her, standing there amongst a pile of hickories, and decided to make this humble Southern Socialite my wife. I approached her with a heavy foot, as to make myself noticed, and asked her plainly, “My dear lady, I have spotted you coring these hickory trees like an absolute champ, which I find to be most admirable. Though I am a statesman-like Northern Socialite with a degree in Botany from Cornell University, your sub Mason-Dixon essence has truly caught me. Might I ask if you sprayed yourself with the finest perfume of mulberry and raccoon feces?”

She turned to me, wiping her sweat-drenched brow, and said, in the sweetest of Southern drawls “WHAT?!”

I took it upon myself to reiterate: “My dear lady, I have spott-” “CAN I GET YOU SOMETHIN’, MISTER?!”

“No, nothing at all! I was just remarking on the sweetne-” “WHAT?!”

My friends, at this point it had become quite apparent that my lovely Southern Socialite, who smells of mulberry and a raccoon’s latrine on a summer day, was hard of hearing to say the least. No matter! Such is a small price to pay for such a ravishing and elegant woman. I began to speak of my intentions again, but she had 28

returned to chopping wood aggressively and seemed disinterested.

“May I take you on a carriage ride, my sweet?” I attempted to speak in a clear voice, so she might understand me better.

“WHAT?!” She seemed to have a look of panic and pure annoyance on her face.

“CARRIAGE RIDE!” I paused, hoping that maybe she had gathered my intentions of courtship. Her countenance turned from one of distress to one of pleasure.

“OK! I WILL GET MY THINGS!” She threw down the hatchet she was using in such a haphazard manner that it nearly took the bottom fourth of my leg off, but I knew that her lack of grace was her playing hard to get. It was 1857, after all, and playing hard to get was all the rage.

I hitched my horse, Esteban, to my finest carriage and came by her estate at around half past a freckle. Ha! I kid! It was about 1:30 in the afternoon. It was 1858, after all, and telling that joke was all the rage. Ha! I kid again! It is still 1857. As you can see, this part of the story is more for filler as I waited in carriage for several hours. I did not realize that it was tradition in Georgia to knock on the French doors of the estate and wait on the porch swing, eating a comically small clementine, until one’s lover emerged in her finest carriage ride attire. I was accustomed to the New York tradition of spurring one’s horse to let a notifying whinny of arrival, and then circling city blocks trying to find adequate stables. Only then would a fine love emerge from her Fifth Avenue apartment in fine carriage attire.

When my darling Southern Socialite walked through the French doors of her estate out into the damp Georgia air, visibly annoyed, she called out to me, “SHOULDN’T YOU BE EATIN’ A COMICALLY SMALL CLEMENTINE ON MY PORCH SWING RIGHT 29

‘BOUT NOW?!”

Again, not knowing the traditions, I exclaimed, “CAN IT, JANET. GET IN THE CARRIAGE.” Luckily, she did not take notice.

Whether it be her hearing troubles, or the fact that her name may not have been Janet (I hadn’t bothered asking her what her name was), who is to say. She stormed across the creaky boards of her porch, kicked a couple rogue ant hills in her yard, and lunged Dukes of Hazzard style into my carriage[1].

“My dear, you look as lovely and crystalline as the Little Tallapoosa River, and have the scent of feces-covered raccoons bathing in that same river.”

Madison Jameson 30

She scowled. “YOU’VE GOT A GROSS AVUNCULAR[2] CHARM, BUSTER.” Such reproach from a lady of such standing. As any man would do, I ignored her comment and shoved a bouquet of flowers in her face.

“This is a new breed of flower that I invented. It’s a crossbreed of a Chrysanthemum and a foxglove which is meant to mimic the smell of mulberry and raccoon feces.”

She took a big whiff. Like, my god, wow. She took the biggest whiff of those bad boys. Such powerful nostrils for a lady of such standing.

“I enjoy these. Thank you.” Her deafening voice somehow turned as sweet as those mulberry and raccoon feces smelling flowers.

“Oh, my dear lady, I’m glad you enjoy them so!”

She looked back at me with a sweet gaze, big blue eyes set against a well-blushed and powdered face, and then she smiled.

Jeezy Petes, I’ve never seen teeth so contorted. It was like my humble horse, Esteban, had tread upon her unhinged jaw so, so, so many times over. Just wow. “My dear, have you considered going to a doctor of tooth[3]?” She turned to me again. This time her face was inexplicably stuffed with almond croissants. In the time that it took me to realize that her teeth were beyond mangled, she had taken what I assume was sizeable tupperware, filled to the brim with almond croissants, from her purse. Between gulps and smacks, she answered me.

“I ain’t never seen one. My Pa says they’s witches.” She had finally finished swallowing her pastries, and her powder blue carriage gown was coated in flecks of dough, almonds, and confectioner sugar. She began powdering her face as the exertion of eating seven almond croissants and discussing doctors of tooth 31

became too much for her.

“Ah, well he is quite smart for thinking that. Now tell me, my beautiful Southern Socialite, how do you have such a mystique about you?”

“I like to say it always starts with my perfume. A concoction of the finest mulberry and raccoon feces my butler, Dog, can source.”

I did not care that her butler was named Dog, or that she would frequently request for him to fetch sticks and newspapers. I was just enthralled by her every sentence. That, and her pungent aroma of mulberry and raccoon feces. I brought her to the finest restaurant in the entire state of Georgia, which was in Northern Florida because the food in 1857 Georgia was wholly inedible. They were charging a full ten dollar bank note for a literal pile of spiced mare feces. Ridiculous! One can not even combine them with mulberry to create an adequate perfume for a Southern Socialite.

Anyhow, I digress. We sat down at DaCorello’s, the only Italian eatery of note in the South, and enjoyed traditional food, such as spaghetti and meatballs cooked by a man with the single most impressive moustache that I have seen to date . That is truly saying something.

I figured that since I, a respectable New York botanist, had rolled out the proverbial red carpet, I should ask this Southern Socialite to join me in marriage. “My darling Southern Socialite, whose teeth look like a garbage fire, who is crass, and smells like mulberry and raccoon feces, will you take my hand in marriage.”

She paused. “WHAT?!”

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?! ARE YOU BEING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?! REALLY?! I JUST CAN’T WITH YOU!” It appeared that she had gone into another lapse of deafness and, though I hate to admit it, I became very short with her. I stormed out of the restaurant, knocked over one of those ceramic [4]

[5]

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Italian chefs holding the daily specials menu[6], and rode Esteban off into the boiling Georgia sun.

A few hours later, I found her hitchhiking on the side of an Alabama interstate. How she managed to make it from Florida to Alabama on foot in one hour is an absolute mystery to me. I asked her how she did it, and she yelled “WHAT!?” to which I responded with only more aggression.

We eventually did get married because of tax purposes, and the fact that I was trying to disguise the fact that I was previously married to a Possum wearing a scarf[7]. I tend to mistake woodland animals for humans with a great degree of frequency. It is probably because they smell like mulberry and raccoon feces—the smell of my Southern Socialite.

[1] [2] [3] [4]

[5] [6] [7]

Footnotes Yes, I did have knowledge of the 1979 CBS comedy Dukes of Hazzard, in 1857. Please, do not question it.

“Avuncular” as in relating to someone being kind like an uncle.

I’d like to think that dentists were referred to as “Doctors of tooth” in 1857.

Floridian cuisine is far better than that of its Georgian counterpart, which is saying something because Floridian cuisine is horrific. Just god awful.

Some years after writing this, it was discovered that this man was actually a well-disguised cat. Fool me once!

It occurred to me a few seconds later that it was just a very rigid man, and not a ceramic statue.

Our marriage was annulled in 1854. We are not yet on speaking terms.

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From the Smithsonian Archives Robert Frazier From the Smithsonian Archives: Entries in the Journal of Sir. Steven Edwards, member of the 1922 Uncovered Expedition to the Arctic 02/02/1922: It’s a great fear that we feel deep in our bones. Ancient.

Carved in by our very first ancestors. “Fear the cold. Beware that which survives the freeze.” One day soon, I believe that we shall realize these fears and thaw out an ancient mastodon, and with it force awake a forgotten virus that has slept for a million years. It will rip through us with vicious speed, our only knowledge of it being the fear. I come to the Arctic now to try and conquer this fear, to see the beauty in the ice that others have claimed to find. As I sit in front of my tent I see some of the beauty of which they talk. The auroras dance and warp in the night sky above me. Pale greens and deep violets entrance me, leading my eyes off towards something unseen.

Something long past the horizon.

02/04/1922: My fear for this place is leaving me for hatred. The lights continue to blaze through the day. They flare bright enough to drown the sun as the converge to our true destination. There is geographic north and magnetic north, and now, there is our north.

Polaris shifts and fades, our compasses spin in all directions, the radios short out, and our maps have been torn to shreds. They say it was arctic mice in the packs, yet the food is fine. So all we have to follow are the lights. A pale green that makes me sick to my stomach.

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So An

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I just want to vomit. There’s something in all of us. Deep within us.

Each night it gets colder, and the frost reaches further in.

02/15/1922: They lie to me. They all do and I hate them for it. I see them.

Beneath the ice. Shifting and changing, frozen in place but still aware.

Deep in the blue, eyes follow us and forms shift in vain attempts to leave. They call me paranoid, just animals watching us in hopes of food. It’s barren now as we reach the end of the lights. Violet has left us and now it is all the pale green. Our eyes are stained by it.

02/16/1922: Frost. Frost. Frost. It is all within us. I understand the words of Frost so clearly now. Life is lost here. No desire, no warmth, no hope. It is just the freezing cold and the hate in it. The world will end in ice. I hate it so. It is so cold, I know not how we survive.

03/01/1922 (Date of last known sighting) The lights are gone now after leading us to long cracks in the ice. Deep beneath my feet I feel the hate. No longer do I see deep blue beneath ice but endless black. There are countless of the shifting things below. Their frozen forms are stuck staring up at a starless sky with a dead moon staring back. They must be filled with so much hate, the hate that chills all our bones, the hate that is me. It must be how we survive, driven by it. Tonight, I will venture out for they must not thaw. I must not thaw. For now, I have survived the freeze.

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So An 37

Haley Rasmussen

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Love Goes Both Ways Bryn Malizia Love is horrible You will never hear me say that It will all be ok In the end Because I know Love is a lie You can’t convince me that Love is worth the risk Because I realized that A life of love makes you miserable Never say that You aren’t confined by someone’s thoughts of you Deep down we all know that Others words are our definition I have been told That love is incredible But I am determined to say Love is built off jealousy Some will speak that It will only get worse With time So don’t tell me Love is a beautiful thing 39

Ubuntu Michelle Furmansky (Nguni Bantu term meaning “humanity”) I am because of You I have become for the benefit of others Grew into this soul to satisfy The tongues of teachers and lovers When they spit out calculated praise Churned blood to keep this body humming Ready For the endless battle between awake and alive Sometimes I come unbound With no one new to mold me I am Shapeless, Faceless, Nameless In search of a self I lost years ago And have abandoned hope of finding

Pen clenched between my fingers I learned an unlikely Eden An endless Eden

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For the first time in my semblance of a life I tugged at the constellations Dragged their light closer And slowly breathed into the paper Infusing it with the life and lies Of an almost Woman

Annabelle Laughlin 41

Supermarket Flowers Cecily Johnson The stupid ones are always the sweetest.

The fragrant scent of the flowers reaching my nose and speaking words I’d never be brave enough to voice. My palms ached from gripping the thorny stems too fiercely, and my chapped lips stayed firmly locked between harsh teeth. The once beautiful soft petals sat curled and dry, my hope that she would like them making them look all the more ugly. Her eyes graze the dead flowers, then sweep over me. They are smiling, but I know she hates my gift. She takes them from my hands, hissing when a particularly rude thorn stabs her in the finger and draws crimson blood.

“I’m sorry.”

“I love you.”

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Emma Yoon 43

Emptiness and Light Joshua Hong After exhausting my daily summer routine of Netflix, video games, and sleep, I found myself at the local supermarket in an attempt to break the cycle of boredom. I didn’t have any reason to be there, but I decided to pass the time by scrutinizing every price and label I saw.

After passing by Tony the Tiger from Frosted Flakes, I thought it’d be fun to choose only items with animals on their covers. I treated my adventure with enthusiasm until I hit the pet food section. Seeing dogs and cats plastered on every single item, I abandoned my mini game and left for home.

Driving back, I couldn’t help but feel like the whole experience was purposeless. Just because I wanted to escape the cycle of boredom, I went out and chose items with animals on their covers. St. Jerome once said that “Action without a name, a ‘who’ attached to it, is meaningless.” My actions felt like they had neither name nor meaning to them.

But what does it mean to have purpose? Is our purpose a profound epiphany that strikes us in the middle of our sleep, revealing all that is good and true? Is it a goal that our whole lives are devoted to? And if there is such a thing as “purpose” then there must exist a “purposelessness”. What makes something devoid of purpose? I think when we ascribe meanings or purposes to things, we are saying that it lends to the betterment of something. It might improve ourselves or the world around us. Yet, does that discount the things 44

we enjoy that might not be improving other things? Technically my time at the supermarket didn’t improve anything. So was it purposeless? Or was there something else?

Jason Won

Carl Jung once said, “As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.”

This idea can be interpreted in many ways. Maybe, the “darkness of mere being” represents the conflicts and struggles that humans go through, which means Carl Jung is suggesting that lighting that darkness is our purpose. So in simpler terms, our purpose is to help others. It makes sense; it aligns with our original thoughts of purpose.

Still, I feel like that isn’t the end. I think this “darkness of mere being” shouldn’t be limited to these grandiose ideas of human conflict and 45

struggle. Yes, bringing light to these things is good, but thinking that way makes most of what we do purposeless.

For me, the “darkness of mere being” is emptiness. The feeling of emptiness varies from person to person. Emptiness can come from being alone or from being surrounded by too many people. It can come from exhausting the daily routine of Netflix, video games, and sleep. And if this emptiness is the “darkness of mere being”, then I can agree with Carl Jung. Our sole purpose is to bring light to our emptiness.

To light our emptiness, doesn’t mean we have to do extraordinary things. Sure, having a giant flame would be nice, but a small flickering candlelight can do the job just as well. In the end, whatever pointless and small in the eyes of others, we are the only ones who can determine our own meanings and purposes.

Rachel Tetro 46

Giving

Elisabeth Deschene I tried to keep what I’d earned, But then they called me selfish.

I gave till I had nothing more, And then they called me selfless.

I said I had nothing left to give, So now they call me useless.

Now whenever I look back, All I can call myself is stupid.

Leena Jang

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Kayla Marra

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Black is Me Kayla Brown Black is in my hair and in the air Because Black is everywhere.

But Black can be when you walk into a room everyone stares, Black can be a world that’s unfair, Because they don’t care.

To know what it was like to not be free, They don’t know what it feels like to be me.

To feel unwanted walking into a room, Or being scared of my dad ending up in a tomb!

Why? Well because he’s Black!

And people are scared of what they can’t crack!

But that’s because we are strong and proud, And no crowd of evil can stop us from being loud, Or prevent our voices from being heard, blurred, or slurred!

Because at the end of the day Black is still me.

And no one can stop me from becoming who I want to be!

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Home is a Place I’ve Never Been Nicole Huggins Before I was anything else, I was my mother; I was born during lotus season, my petals opening to soak in the summer sun.

The women in our family Have always harvested a particular talent for growing a bounty from barren earth.

I remember something that grandmother taught me while gardening in her small plot of land behind the house in Philadelphia: all vietnamese herbs are weeds; plant a single sprig of diep ca on american soil and it grows beyond control, through fences and cracks in the pavement and beyond the confines of anything made to contain it.

I think I am a little bit like diep ca, I leave a bitter taste in the mouth and grow back in spring, when the soil has yet to thaw and the snow melts on the ground.

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The garden grandmother tends now was not always so forgiving.

Once, it was dirt, dry and unforgiving.

Now, she buries her hands in the soft earth and plants a sprig of basil.

She has worked endlessly, tirelessly, to reap the fruits of her labor.

I will not forget it.

Connie Liu 51

You Look Pretty When You Cry Maisie Weiss

when i cry (that’s often) my eyes get really red and my face gets puffy but at least my eyes are greener and my lips get really full and my mouth hangs open in a pouty expression just like i’m a model posing for photo shoots though there are tears in my eyes but hey— i still look pretty when i cry, right?

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Haley Rasmussen 53

Naomi Kaufman

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Swan Song Katherine Hong My heart sings its finale to you Riddled with holes, it bleeds Deep scarlet, nearly black.

I sing my precious last words Not of misery, not of sorrow But of joy, light-bringing joy, More joy than when Demeter Reunited with her daughter And cried pearly tears, More joy than when the snow melts Ending the bitterness of winter And bringing the birth of life.

I sing to you, an inspired muse Who is moved by emotion, entranced.

With my final breath My last bit of energy My last strand of life With all of my power “I love you!”

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Songbird’s Hymn Bryn Malizia How far does the melody travel?

Does it get caught between the golden bars of the intricate cage, Or rather does it get lost and changed with each gust of the wind?

And if it reaches the ears of the valley, Who listens?

Not the men with their beautiful lies, nor the women who choose to believe them.

Perhaps the songbird is just a token— a knick-knack tucked away under the floorboards.

Resting its weary head against words of regret Scribbled onto crumpled pages.

The songbird cries, tears fall like dripping ink for the notes strung about its head are able to escape the enclosure while it watches as they travel far beyond its sight.

The songbird is left to question what occurs to the beautiful music it has sung: does the dark of night engulf its song, allowing it to forget the simple silence that surrounds them, as each of the notes dies in the twilight?

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Do songbird’s ever tire of singing a tune that no one can hear, being told to wallow in their pretty feathers, while sitting on the same perch, in the same cage, with the same melody?

It does not matter, For it is just a songbird.

Jessica Borghise

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What the Heck is a Poem Anyway?

Connie Liu Is it the way I Space These words out so One Seems more Important Than the Other?

Is it the metaphors?

The mellifluous phrases that roll so easily off your tongue, glued together so meticulously, atoms in an element so perfectly filling its requirements?

Jessica Borghise

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What am I supposed to talk about? nostalgia, sadness, change.

But why Can’t it be everyday moments? going to school, talking to friends— those sorts of things.

In fact, they don’t have any purpose other than to exist.

Just like us: particles bouncing together in some meaningful way A sort of poetry— a stream of consciousness ideas, moments to create some meaning out of nothing.

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Ocean Belinda Jin in my mind I am at sea white-capped waves are lilting this way and that like the sing-song voice of a schoolteacher: “come here” “over here” it is hard to separate wrong from right fact from fiction myself from my mind— my prison

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in storms, I fall into pits where I cannot swim up only further down deeper and deeper and even deeper yet water weighs on my chest and words are difficult; when I open my mouth only bubbles rise.

Jane Zhou

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