Nocturne

Nocturne

Plaid Magazine

Volume LVIII

2020

The expanse of darkness just before dawn

Nocturne

Inspired by, or evocative of, the night

Dreamy, pensive, or mysterious in character

TABLE OF CONTENTS

*contest winners

poetry Psalm 91.................................................Margaret Balich.............................8 Stage Fright............................................Liam Kress...................................12 Ghost Story.............................................Esmé Bessor-Foreman................15 Dark Heart.............................................Ayisat Bisiriyu..............................16 Quarter to Ring......................................Rocco Turano...............................19 Trapped In My Thoughts.......................TyLynn Gault...............................22 Sinking into Beautiful Chaos.................Mikayla Leimer...........................29 Mid-Summer Night’s Reality.................Xiohan Zhang..............................32 Raw Lungs..............................................Rivers Leche................................35 Vermillion Tears.....................................Eli Dorsey....................................36 Last Night, An X-Ray Woke Me Up,

and Here Is What It Told Me.....Elie Stenson................................40 Why? Stay safe. Come home..................Dulce Sappington........................45 Identity Crisis of a Black Woman..........Adia Glen.....................................52 For Elliott...............................................Esmé Bessor-Foreman................54 Last Winter, 1945...................................Jizhou Jiang................................57 Soot.........................................................Rivers Leche................................64 Dysphoria...............................................Eli Dorsey....................................66 A Sonnet for Mrs. de Winter..................Julia Stern....................................71 Monster..................................................Cyd Kennard................................75 My Parents on Throwing a Party...........Elie Stenson.................................76 Wings*....................................................Alexander Sayette.......................78 Socotra - Land of the Aliens...................Jinqui Rose Li............................80 Dear Sequoia..........................................Annabelle Small..........................83 Grandmothers and Lovers.....................Margaret Balich..........................86

prose They Came for Me,

They’ll Come for You..................Nicole Shigiltchoff......................24 Crazy for Crosswords.............................Johnny Stern...............................30 Gym*......................................................Claire Hughes..............................42 Catalog of the Body................................Margaret Balich...........................48 Wind-Swept Cherry Blossoms...............Aria Eppinger..............................60 A Single Life Hidden in the Shadows....Lily Apostolopoulos.....................72

TABLE OF CONTENTS

*contest winners

two-dimensional art Nocturne.................................................Esmé Bessor-Foreman..........Cover Starry Night............................................Sophia Nicholls.........Inside Covers Idol..........................................................Esmé Bessor-Foreman.................9 mon amie................................................Kate McAllister...........................10 Painting with Light.................................Alexander Sayette........................11 Untitled...................................................Sarah Gimbel..............................13 A Little Spice Makes

Everything Right........................Max Dunham...............................14 Hidden in Steel.......................................Benjamin Gutschow....................17 streets of spain.......................................Omisa Raja..................................18 Aqua........................................................Jayanthi Simhan........................20 Fragments...............................................Jayanthi Simhan.........................21 Trapped In My Thoughts*......................TyLynn Gault..............................23 Dweller....................................................Rivers Leche...............................25 For Omi...................................................Laura Childs...............................28 checkmate...............................................Kate McAllister............................31 Leaf.........................................................Aria Eppinger..............................33 Age of Reflection*...................................Olivia Sobkowiak........................34 flu kidz....................................................Margaret Balich..........................37 Cubs........................................................Rachel Kuzmishin.......................38 Zebras.....................................................Oscar Nigam................................39 Ancient Bicycle.......................................Eli Dorsey....................................41 Cloudy Thoughts....................................Ella Duch.....................................43 Black Swan*............................................Yixin Cai.....................................44 Beads.......................................................Helen Zhang...............................47 While We Are Still Here.........................Jocelyn Hayes.............................49 After Dark...............................................Esmé Bessor-Foreman...............52 Swerve.....................................................Christopher Porco......................55 Audrey Hepburn.....................................Hannah Chang............................56 Scrawl.....................................................Esmé Bessor-Foreman................58 Reflection*..............................................Eli Dorsey....................................59 Untitled...................................................Hannah Chang...........................60

two-dimensional art Addicted to Pixie Thoughts....................Phillip Leong...............................67 Hand from The Musicians

by Caravaggio.............................Eli Dorsey....................................68 Earthen Veins.........................................Alexander Sayette.......................70 Desert Rose.............................................Rivers Leche................................73 Toilet.......................................................Jinqui Rose Li.............................74 la republica dominicana.........................Omisa Raja..................................77 Swept......................................................Max Dunham...............................81 Night Sky................................................Martine Ferrency........................82 The Riot of Colors in the Ruins.............Jinqui Rose Li..............................84 One-Track Mind.....................................Benjamin Gutschow....................85 Gaze........................................................Esmé Bessor-Foreman................87

three-dimensional art Untitled..................................................Mina Andrews..............................46 Circe*......................................................Cate Sindler.................................50 Man and the Moon.................................Jack Anderson-Jussen................51 Soot Artist’s Book...................................Rivers Leche................................65 Chi Wara Mask.......................................Nicole Shigiltchoff.......................69 Moth.......................................................Emma Stewart.............................79

Psalm 91

Margaret Balich “I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’” hands held together

in silence, in séance—one bird flying to the dirt hole where her babies rest; another

about to hatch. medication to ease the pain of existence, to carry on abysmally

while praising the indefinite. I still kneel, cross my ankles,

sit up straight as cedar, as Christ, bones belted by psalms. how does one quit

restarting, not started, lying like pew.

I am a good Catholic, good woman—rebaptized, reborn.

Idol

Esmé Bessor-Foreman

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11

mon amie

Kate McAllister

Painting with Light Alexander Sayette

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Stage Fright Liam Kress

- Forget who you are to see exactly who you want to be Fleeting words are such an image when letters fall empty, losing meaning as Earth crashes down in a whirling mess.

The blue marble, created for the people, starts to deteriorate when you fail to remember what it is you’ve written.

Stage fright keeps pages tight with meaning as second-hand embarrassment contorts into people.

The script that you have been writing bends limbs while no one can remember that you fueled the fiending fire that messed up your flow, which exists only in your imagination.

When the image of everyone watching loses meaning, silence breaks the mess of your speech for the people.

Don’t try to remember; just read what is written.

Jumbled stories are taken from all you’ve written with darkened audiences and flying images of memories you didn’t want to remember.

What could be the meaning of the fright of failing that people have imposed? You are a mess.

While rightfully contained within the messy web of darkness that you’ve been writing for yourself, your person encapsulates the imaginary scenarios of meaningless fiction. It’s tough to remember when the feeling first hit; do you remember the first time the world broke form into the mess you’ve become? Serpentine sereneness of meaningless emptiness awakens when the world has the right to write your outcome; humiliation or humility? Imagine that you were to fail yourself and your people.

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“The world is your oyster; friends are your people.”

Standing there, paying all your mind to remember that your wandering-yet-focused imagination could be the sole reason that you’ve messed up your present and future; the writing on the page has paged your meaning.

Untitled

Sarah Gimbel

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Ghost Story

Esmé Bessor-Foreman They say the full moon makes lunatics of us all and I agree when I look at it, floating through the chlorine.

I decide that it controls more than just the tides.

My hair latches onto my skull when I kick myself upright and I agree when I look at him as I’m treading water that he must not be here, that this can’t be happening.

My hair latches onto my skull when I come up for air and breathe deeply, drinking in cricket chirps and reminding myself that he must not be here, that this is all happening inside of me, just chemical reactions. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, drinking in cricket chirps and forgetting what it felt like to be held on the hot concrete, eyes closed, all those chemical reactions flipped inside out as the hot sun baked us into bits.

What did it feel like to be held on the hot concrete?

I try to ask him but he’s too far away to hear.

I know that the hot sun baked us into bits, but I wonder if it ever really mattered, any of it.

I try to ask him but he’s too far away to hear.

The water’s cool arms hug me tight and he stays still.

A Little Spice Makes Everything Right Max Dunham

I wonder if it ever really mattered, any of it.

Blood spills from my sole when my foot catches rough paint, but he’s still while the water’s cool arms hug me tight.

I stare at him in defiance of my life and his lack thereof.

The blood spilling from my foot blooms near the bottom and I wonder if it controls more than just the tides.

I stare at him in defiance of my life, his lack thereof, and the fact that the full moon makes lunatics of us all.

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Dark Heart

Ayisat Bisiriyu I long to go away into the dark.

That great escape of night makes me feel light; I’d want to make the world feel like my heart.

I know that it may seem like an odd arc, a break into a world of nice and bright.

I long to go away into the dark.

I wish to be somewhere that I can start to breathe in dawn and dusk to make things right.

I’d want to make the world feel like my heart, to make the pain of light fail to embark.

I’d see the gleam of onyx fight for life, I long to go away into the dark.

I wish to go against the looks of larks, the lovely hues of warmth are a sore sight.

I’d want to make the world feel like my heart, a scary place of fear, torment, and art, a mess of laughs, and pains, regrets, and cries, I long to go away into the dark.

And there is where the world feels like my heart.

Hidden in Steel Ben Gutschow

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Quarter to Ring Rocco Turano

As the coin falls, a dial tone rings like a church bell in the early morning, announcing it’s time for me to request from you the individual I will be speaking with.

The pause of a finger that hovers over your icy keys, casting doubts on my intentions.

Will anyone pick up?

Or will I have wasted another quarter on a call that leads to a disconnected number?

I wish you could promise me something, but you can’t because what do you know but the personal details of the thousands that confide in your tinny plastic receiver?

You can’t guarantee me anything, I know that.

But I wish that you could at least tell me someone heard a ring.

I’m sorry that your vocabulary is limited, but I don’t want to hear the same message on repeat: the number you dialed is unavailable or no longer in service.

streets of spain Omisa Raja

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Aqua

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Jayanthi Simhan

Fragments Jayanthi Simhan

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Trapped in My Thoughts TyLynn Gault

I feel trapped in my thoughts Don’t know if I’m thinking or not I’m feeling locked in Injustice can’t win

Dear black child Let’s shine a light on poverty

We say Black Lives Matter They say all lives do too A protest to my protest Now what am I supposed to do?

I imagine being normal Or just being the majority I am confused and afraid too I run with Antwon, please don’t shoot

I live in it too I go through a lot I mean WE do But we can make it through

Dear black child You can be anything A lot of people doubted me But I build myself up with truth I had to recognize the inner me I’m the chosen one And God is my proof

Dear black child Don’t let the media fool you Our Lives Matter Too

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They Came for Me, They’ll Come for You Nicole Shigiltchoff

On that day, eight years ago, my parents and I found out that my sister Anna was dead.

The first thing that had been found was her empty yellow violin case. It was left by the bus stop on the edge of town, near the place where the woods began. Security footage from that station showed Anna getting off the bus, putting the case down, getting out her violin and bow, and heading into the woods. It was the most bizarre behavior anyone in the unit had seen, one of the officers had commented when my parents rushed to the police station after being called over, having brought me along. Searching the surrounding woods was not easy: it had already gotten dark, and it was still drizzling from that afternoon’s storm. But, after hours of scouring the forest floor for any tracks that might not have been washed by the rain, the police finally found her.

Anna’s death was ruled a homicide—it seemed too outlandish to be anything else. Her bizarre entrance into the woods was attributed to the stress of high expectations, and her case was eventually closed for lack of evidence.

My parents never recovered. My mother quit her teaching job and stayed in bed until she almost starved, while my father disappeared from the house for over twelve hours each day. As for me, I’m resentful towards my parents for seemingly forgetting that they have a son, but I understand: it’s crippling not to know what really happened to your daughter.

Maybe I’m still functioning because I know. I know, with almost complete certainty, what happened to Anna that night.

—

“Hi, Jack.” Anna let herself into my room and sat down next to me.

It was the first time I had seen her smile while we were alone.

“Hi, Anna.” I hesitantly smiled back.

After years of silently trying, I mustered up the courage to ask what had bothered me ever since I could remember. “Are you okay? Why do you always scratch your cheeks and never sleep?”

She shrugged and giggled. “I’m okay. Touching my cheeks is just a habit. And I do sleep, I just like thinking in the dark.”

Even though I was only six, I knew she wasn’t telling the truth.

Whether it was human instinct or a sibling connection, I knew that the shrug was too nonchalant and the giggle too heavy. “You’re lying. You never slept when I was little and you would watch me all night.”

Her expression darkened. “You haven’t told Mom or Dad, right?”

I had been too scared of what Anna might do if I did. I knew enough about crazy people to know that repetitive motions and constant vigilance were symptoms. I shook my head. Anna’s forehead relaxed slightly.

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“This has to be our sibling secret, okay?”

Deeming my already mortified expression as insufficient confirmation, she added, “or I’ll tell Mom and Dad you snuck out of your room last night. You’ll never get cookies ever again.”

I nodded as cold expanded all throughout my body.

“No more questions, alright, Jack?” Anna began to look unsettled again.

I nodded again. “Okay.”

Anna stood up and left.

—

A few weeks after I encountered her dark, cheek-scratching stare at night, school got canceled due to heavy snowfall. I was left alone with a babysitter all day because Mommy and Daddy still had to go to their jobs and Anna’s middle school was still open. The babysitter left me to my own devices, and I went about doing what I loved most at the time: I explored everywhere I was not allowed to go when the rest of my family was home.

I had always been envious of Anna’s violin-playing skills. She had begun playing when she was ten, and our parents told me that I could start when I was ten, too, because a six-year-old clearly could not be trusted with an expensive, fragile instrument. But I didn’t want to wait four more years: I wanted to play now. So I snuck into Anna’s room and pulled her yellow violin case out from under the bed.

I sawed away at the instrument for at least ten minutes in the way I had seen her do, before giving up trying to sound anywhere as masterful as she did. As I was putting away the violin, a side compartment on the case suddenly sprang open, like the lid on a treasure chest. I must have inadvertently hit a hidden latch. Curious, I reached my hand inside and pulled out a set of books—two were battered-looking music books, and another was a new-looking, spiral-bound notebook. The music books didn’t have anything interesting in them: just a bunch of stripes, dots, squiggles, and numbers. But the notebook did.

I had just found my older sister’s diary, and I was about to put my newly-learned reading skills to use. I flipped open the blue cover and began my examination.

The first entry was from a few weeks ago: 11/9/93 Dear Diary, My little brother walked into my room yesterday night while I was mentally talking to the Harmonizers about what dress I should wear to the school dance. I was scratching my cheeks to make them stop because they were starting to get annoying, and then Jack came in and panicked because I guess I look weird staring into space and scratching my face.

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Dweller

R i v e r s L e c h e

I tried to tell Jack that everything was okay, and that I was sorry for scaring him yesterday, but I think he knows about the Harmonizers and I’m afraid he’ll tell Mom and Dad. They’ll think I’m a freak and won’t love me or be proud of me anymore.

I want the Harmonizers to go away because the songs they sing are getting kind of creepy. There’s a lot in them about death.

Love, Anna

This left my six-year-old brain whirring. Who were the Harmonizers? I couldn’t just let my sister talk to them if she thought they were creepy. And songs about death?! While first grade doesn’t teach a kid to fully comprehend the gravity of a life being over forever, I did know that it was an awfully somber subject to sing about.

But I also could not tell anyone that I had read Anna’s diary. Anna

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would kill me, and she had threatened to tell my parents that I stayed up too late at night, for which I would surely get in big trouble. She would likely act on that threat if she learned of my infringement... or she could do something worse: not only say that I stayed up too late, but make up that she saw me stealing cookies from the pantry at night...or say that I snuck out of the house after dark... Besides, the Harmonizers were just voices in her head, and couldn’t actually hurt her—when I had walked in on her talking with them, there was no one in the room except for her.

Anna came into my room the next evening. “Hello, Jack,” she smiled. She must have meant for it to look warm, but I only felt cold settle into my stomach as I looked up at her from where I sat on the floor. I mustered up my best innocent expression and greeted her back.

“If you’re looking for something to read, I have some books that I can lend you.” Anna tilted her head like a dark-eyed predator. “Just don’t read anything without asking, because some of my books might be kind of scary. I don’t want you to get any nightmares from my teen vampire novels.” She giggled again in her too-heavy way.

Her threat was obvious, even to my young mind. If I read anything I wasn’t supposed to, my life would be turned into a nightmare. And it would be caused by my sister, not teen vampire novels.

I nodded. “I’m good for now, but I’ll tell you if I want a book.”

Anna shifted her weight from leaning on the doorframe but turned back towards me with a smirk. “Don’t tell Mom or Dad about my vampire novels. It’s kind of a personal thing, and I don’t want them to get mad at me for reading what they think is dumb.”

I nodded dutifully, knowing that if I spilled anything personal about her, the consequences would be unpleasant. I didn’t dare go snooping for my sister’s diary after her threat to me.

Much later, when Anna had disappeared and my family had been called to the police station, I thought of the Harmonizers, thinking that maybe they had somehow influenced her death. I wanted to tell my parents about them, and even the police when I was questioned, but I knew that no one would believe a third-grader giving vague descriptions of imaginary voices. What would it have changed, anyway? Imaginary voices can’t kill. Anna would still have been dead, and my parents would still be mourning their daughter, lamenting all of the stress they had put on her to be successful. And they would still continue to essentially ignore my existence.

After Anna had died, my parents didn’t ever bother telling me what really happened. All they kept saying to me on that fateful night at the police station, and for years afterward, was that she was gone. Everyone refused to tell me more, even years later. I had, however, heard enough smatterings of adult conversation to know that something about her disappearance and death was eerie and strange.

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Sinking into Beautiful Chaos Mikayla Leimer

A pantoum I don’t remember meeting you, we were too young.

I remember you were my best friend, it was the only thing that mattered.

You gave me a world of bliss in a mess of beautiful chaos.

Not a night went by that we weren’t playing in our imagination.

I remember you were my best friend, it was the only thing that mattered.

We thought the world would forget about us if we hid from it.

Not a night went by that we weren’t playing in our imagination, so why don’t you come to the treehouse to play pretend?

We thought the world would forget about us if we hid from it.

For now, we can believe that you and I can sail far away, so why don’t you come to the treehouse to play pretend?

I know sailing is your favorite, but we will sink if we don’t anchor.

For Omi

Laura Childs

For now, we can believe that you and I can sail far away.

You used to say my eyes were like the vast ocean because I was hopeful.

I know sailing is your favorite, but we will sink if we don’t anchor, and my eyes will no longer be the ocean’s friend.

You used to say my eyes were like the vast ocean because I was hopeful.

That was before our ship inevitably sank below the beautiful waves of chaos.

My eyes are no longer the ocean’s friend.

Our hands clenched together, but the current was too strong.

Our ship inevitably sank below the beautiful waves of chaos.

Now we have to swim alone through this mess of beautiful chaos.

Our hands clenched together, but the current was too strong.

Sometimes I find myself back at our ship, reaching for a hand that’s not there.

Now we have to swim alone through this mess of chaos.

I don’t remember meeting you, we were too young.

Sometimes I find myself back at our ship, reaching for a hand that’s not there.

You gave me a world of bliss in a mess of beautiful chaos.

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Crazy for Crosswords Johnny Stern

If I said I was a senior and I start every day with a crossword, you would think I’m 70 years old. But no, I’m a high school senior and an avid cruciverbalist. Solving crossword puzzles is an intense hobby of mine that has given me profound growth and countless gifts and experiences.

I mostly do online, daily New York Times crosswords, which progress in difficulty from Monday to Saturday. A major milestone for me was when, last year, I tried to solve my first Saturday crossword alone. I woke up feeling refreshed, retrieved my laptop, and opened the puzzle. The wide-open grid and devilishly tricky clues were daunting, but I took a deep breath and set to work, starting with the shorter, easier answers and gradually filling in each corner.

In the center-left, there was a clue about a one-eyed movie villain. I thought for a few seconds, then entered “HAL” from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Just one year prior, I would have been completely lost. My knowledge of trivia was restricted to history and geography; any other topics, such as entertainment and sports, were completely outside my wheelhouse. I couldn’t list Oscar nominees or discuss NFL stats. However, diligently solving the daily crossword for months had drastically widened my ken. To complete the puzzle, I needed to be fluent in vocabulary and French history, mixology and Russian literature, Hollywood stars and astronomy, and so much more. As I googled unfamiliar clues, I began to appreciate and research these previously unknown topics. I love how crosswords unlock so many new doors, whether they’re Roy Rogers movies (or Roy Rogers cocktails), or learning about Japanese cuisine through NORI, SASHIMI, and AHI. Moreover, I’ve been more conscious of my style and word choice when writing, often using vocabulary from crosswords.

I’ve also seen my writing grow more logical and detailed, which will help me as I study civil engineering in college.

I proceeded to the next corner, sifting through archaic words and obscure names. Yes, crosswords force you to think logically: you must count the squares in an answer, often go through the five (and sometimes six) vowels, and make sure the conjugations of the clue and the answer agree.

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checkmate

Kate McAllister

But they also force you to think creatively. The clues are replete with witty wordplay and clever puns that require you to think outside of the box. In this instance, the clue was “Really clicks with a partner, say?” What could the clue mean? In my mind, I slowly went through things that click. Camera shutters click … computer mice click … tap shoes click … Bingo! I grinned as I realized that TAP DANCES was a perfect fit. These brilliant “Aha!” moments are what I relish the most. Solving crosswords has taught me the power of thinking unconventionally and creatively. It’s taught me that if you trust in your mind and dive into a problem headfirst, you will eventually get an answer. And it’s taught me that despite quick, easy access to the Internet, putting time and brainpower into memorizing obscure information pays off. Frankly, solving crosswords has given me countless tools that I will use in college and later in life.

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Mid-Summer Night’s Reality Xiaohan Zhang

Stars in mid-summer, How to sleep under their gaze.

Universe watching.

Or refreshing breeze, puppeteer of worldly play.

His hands lift my mind.

All the roots tangling, stretching, breathing, sucking up all the humidity.

So we melt down, reach to the planet’s burning core Or dance in the wind.

So the universe smiles, seeing her play well-acted, casts well-performed.

So all the stars laugh, in their theater, that mid-summer night.

Leaf

Aria Eppinger

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Age of Reflection

Raw Lungs Rivers Leche

I wish that I could bottle up the smell of salty cold air that feels like gulping in your first breaths.

The feeling of old-world stones, cold and smooth and heavy against freshly scraped skin.

I wish that I could bottle up the way everything is beautiful.

The heave of the needle-green sea, the stiffness of my limbs, the rotting corpse of a fish.

I wish that I could bottle all of that up and hold it tightly in my pocket, so I could feel it when I want to get low again, not just on my fingertips in the ink of a journal.

Olivia Sobkowiak

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Vermillion Tears Eli Dorsey

I can bleed freely now.

Precise incisions stitched down my thigh.

I’m crying ‘cause I can’t feel the sting anymore.

My tears embracing the part of me they impulsively obsess over.

Huh, and they call me the freak.

I guess I’ll never realize my winters are capped with blues, springing forth long summers and booze.

But autumn loosens life’s grip, and lets you fall softly in celebration for being the most unordinary.

I relish in the sweetness of this short day.

Only one night when creep is credit, scars are sealed, and people’s words are stuck with glue to the back of their necks.

Tongues, unable to curse through mouthfuls of tacky gum wedged between their molars.

The aftermath of a Halloween dare.

flu kidz

Margaret Balich

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Zebras

Oscar Nigam

Cubs

Rachel Kuzmishin

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Last Night, An X-Ray Woke Me Up, and Here Is What It Told Me

Ancient Bicycle Eli Dorsey

Elie Stenson

My hand is broken into ten sporadic places like a peninsula upon which sand does not grow and the stars shake sheer crops of tainted fruit into sleep. Now tell me what have you done with your life?

Tell me have you traveled far?

Have you gone to Spain to sing with the bulls, have you shipped off to Kenya where the sky sizzles under the rocks?

I have been to the jungle where I curled around the snakes and leaped at the trees to shake my fists like rattles grating into the bark because I am furious that the smatterings of leaves above my head do not allow me to count the specks of dirt on Orion’s left hand.

Tomorrow I want to breakfast with those birds that flow with the rhythm of the clouds and finish crosswords with the bugs who I hear are brilliant of their own accord.

Tell me have you ever been to New York?

I have and I believe it’s a bloody monster of a place where queens can eat rooks and the sunsets are green and a slice of it would make you sick

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but I would like to go back there and live below the ground to count the twinkles of footsteps cascading down Fifth Ave and I want to live in your city but my courage is lacking to the point where I am hesitant to open my back door for fear of crying at the melancholiness that rings from the amateur fantasies of the people in your city

I long to be sedated by your somber touch although our meeting is improbable because I like to despise the world yet you cradle it in the depths of your eyes and in the hollows of your consciousness;

ponder this and call me on Wednesday night because if I have nothing to do and you have nothing to do we might as well breach the surface of infinity together.

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Gym

Claire Hughes It’s 3:10 on a cool, October Monday. Class has just finished. I pack my notes away, wave goodbye to my friends, and march across the street into the school’s athletic wing. Once I’ve changed into my usual postschool outfit—shorts, a tank top, sneakers, and a pair of compression socks—I head out of the locker room and push open a large door, revealing a mysterious room filled with strange objects obscured by darkness. I flip on the light switch and the room’s contents are revealed: rows of dumbbells lining the wall, spinners cast at odd angles throughout the room, a rowing machine spread long and proud in front of a pull up bar. I sigh in awe and anticipation; it’s truly a beautiful sight.

Ok, so, maybe not so beautiful for everyone, but the sight of gym equipment never fails to bring a smile to my face. I wasn’t always this way, though. My love for all things fitness stems from one fateful spring afternoon four years ago, when I joined the distance track team at my high school. It was easily the best decision I’ve ever made; however, it wasn’t easy. When I first started running, I showed a fair amount of promise, but, as I became more invested in the sport, my performance worsened and worsened. A year and a half later I learned why: a rare vascular disorder called Popliteal Artery Entrapment Syndrome was ravaging my running and soon, my life too.

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It was supposed to be a (relatively) easy fix. Months of pain could be cured with just one surgery on each leg. But then surgery went sideways, and, with limited options, I tried an experimental procedure, which only made things worse. Another year passed and the only progress made was my intensifying pain, while my future as an athlete kept looking dimmer and dimmer.

One of the greatest lessons sport teaches is the reward of hard, consistent effort. Unfortunately, I have not been so blessed to experience this. Despite a strict dedication to the sport, the last time I ran a 5k, I stumbled across the finish line fifth to last out of nearly 200 runners. Despite consistent, intense cross training, my diseased arteries have prevented measurable improvement of my fitness over the past year. And despite countless hours spent in doctor’s offices, the condition of my legs has only worsened since my diagnosis.

I told myself that continuing to train was just a desperate reach to chase a dream already long gone, that I was just making the pain of losing running worse. But, for whatever reason, I kept going. I rowed when I couldn’t run, I lifted weights when I couldn’t walk, and I swam when I couldn’t stand. These hours in the gym became a painful ordeal that I was privileged

Cloudy Thoughts

Ella Duch

to experience and wise enough to enjoy. And they inspired a confidence that crept into all areas of my life: if I could prevail during a two kilometer erg test, then certainly I could hold myself a little higher when confronting the doctor. Or raise my hand during class to ask that question burning in the back of my mind. Or even apply for that long-shot internship I don’t think I’m quite qualified for. Slowly, my unimpressive training log didn’t matter anymore. The gym became a beacon of hope in a life filled with CT angiograms and

doctor’s offices, and looking back at the past few years, I wouldn’t have done it any other way.

Unfortunately, as much as sport has lifted me up, it can’t change the harsh realities of my situation. But on this particular cool, October, Monday afternoon, I just slide my feet into the foot plates of the rowing machine and pull confidently on the handle. It’s going to be a hard, painful, excruciating hour, and I’m going to love every minute of it.

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Sitting on the wooden oak bench, I was waiting for you.

Praying for you to come home safely, So I could finally let out a breath.

I was waiting for you To come walking across the bridge, So I could finally let out a breath, Knowing that you were finally home.

Why? Stay Safe.

Come Home.

Dulce Sappington

To come walking across the bridge, Relief spreading around my face, Knowing that you were finally home, Running so I could finally hug you.

Relief spreading around my face, Finally knowing that you were here.

Running so I could finally hug you, To see your sweet face again.

Finally knowing that you were here, Not having to worry anymore.

To see your sweet face again.

Praying you could stay with us.

Not having to worry anymore, Hoping you didn’t have to leave for the fifth time.

Praying you could stay with us, Ready for your mother to be happy again.

Black Swan Yixin Cai

Hoping you didn’t have to leave for the fifth time, Why did you want to do this?

Ready for your mother to be happy again.

Please, I begged you, give us a reason.

Why did you want to do this?

We didn’t know this was a dream, Please, I begged you, give us a reason!

I just wished you would have told us.

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How could we know that this was a dream, Just praying for you to come home safe?

I just wished you would have told us, Sitting on the wooden oak bench.

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Beads

Helen Zhang

Untitled

Mina Andrews

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Catalog of the Body Margaret Balich

I. Nose Your nose is pressed close to the bathroom mirror, scarred from your fingers. You squeeze its open pores in the early morning long before the sun rises. You’ve never felt like this before, high on sleep deprivation, contacts dry and aching. It is after prom; no, after a long night doing homework; no. Breathing in heavily but steadily, you strip your fragile body of its clothes and stare at your naked form in the mirror. Its stomach. Its legs. It, it, it. The water in the shower turns on and heats to your temperature. You enter the tiny streams, singing under your breath, as you gather your hair in your hands and pull it to the top of your head. As you step out onto a damp towel, you shiver. This is what you remember.

II. Blood The first time you try to donate blood, you’re a failure. Your iron levels are too low—your hemoglobin doesn’t reach 12.5 of that unknown unit. Bummer. When you tell your mom this, she calls you anemic. You’re not anemic. She likes over-exaggerating.

That’s why you take the new vitamins, similar to the ones the crazy nutritionist gave you. They’re not as green as the old ones, but they taste even worse. Every time you try to swallow them dry, you gag. They stain your piss highlighter yellow. You pee before you get your blood drawn again the fall of your senior year, overhydrated in preparation. The iron reaches 14.0 this time, and your heart races at 96 beats per minute sitting down. When the needle punctures the vein in the crook of your elbow, the metal stings. The tube that connects to its plastic bag becomes warm with fluid as it lays on your arm. Your eyes open wider and wider as the world darkens. You hold onto consciousness like your mother’s hand. This is how you come back.

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While We Are Still Here Jocelyn Hayes

III. Teeth Do you remember the clear rubber bands and gross-tasting glue that chained metal into your mouth like shackles? Can you still feel the space between your two front teeth with your tongue?

Those braces didn’t last very long—only 11 months—but the embarrassment comes back around in flashes. I guess you’re lucky.

Bad things only stick around for a little, just like the braces or the pieces of popcorn and apple skin stuck between them. Then you’re okay again. Except sometimes thoughts latch onto you and you can’t shake them off, similar to the permanent retainer latched to the backs of your bottom teeth. Your hands will shake and your heart will skip a few beats, or you’ll cry. You won’t stop for an hour or two. There is a certain art to distracting yourself, you’ve learned—pore strips, Crest white strips, and Frank Ocean.

This is how you blunt your own corners.

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Man and the Moon Jack Anderson-Jussen

Circe

Cate Sindler

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Identity Crisis of A Black Woman Adia Glen

Welcome beautiful black girl for this is now your healing space, Coarse dark brown kinks and curls suspend down your back, Like vines from trees in the wild.

When you walk, the bounce of your coils springs up and down, Like little children hyper on sugar.

Welcome beautiful black girl for this is now your healing space, B is for beautiful black girl, You are a melanated magic maker, Master manifestor from the motherland, Always turning lemons into lemonade.

Girl, you are gorgeous.

Hold your hoop earrings and head up high, For they deserve to be seen, Embodying your effervescent energy.

Welcome beautiful black girl for this is now your healing space, Your eyes are deep pools of auburn that glisten lightly in the sun’s rays.

Your skin is a deep brown that holds your African roots, prideful and strong.

Your skin contains gold undertones, illuminating your wide nose and full lips.

Welcome beautiful black girl for this is now your healing space, Most people blow you off at first glance, but you are a queen.

The crown you wear atop of your curls and coils is covered in coconut oil, Knowing yourself and keeping your kinks.

Welcome beautiful black girl for this is now your healing space, It’s too bad no one else sees it that way.

They don’t know your story, or where you come from, But the pride that runs in your blood and throughout your veins proves them wrong.

After Dark

Esmé Bessor-Foreman

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For Elliott

Esmé Bessor-Foreman “Grabbing onto whatever’s around / For the soaring high or the crushing down” -Elliott Smith, “2:45 AM” His blue body was stiff long before it happened— a slice between bone, no hesitation.

The case is cold but to me he’ll always be a sad man in a big house in Echo Park who hurts himself because everything means nothing.

His voice is slack with breathy restraint and a soft tension that warms the blood, timid throat coaxing me to join in on all the things that bred his little misery.

Find me curled around myself in the dark, replaying what happened on my closet door, guitar slides slipping through my wet hair.

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Swerve

Christopher Porco

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Last Winter, 1945 Jizhou Jiang

Inspired by the movie “Jojo Rabbit” This is the last winter of the 1940s.

The cold air spins a sapphire butterfly.

He follows the path of the little butterfly, smells the smoke leaking from charcoal brick walls.

The sapphire butterfly spins its tiny wings, flies higher and higher up to the stagnant sky.

He smells bloody smoke devouring the charred town.

He sees red high heels hanging in front of him.

His vision flits higher, with the butterfly.

He sees her red lips cracking in the frigid wind.

The red high heels sway in front of him.

A bomb is dropped inside of him and explodes.

The frigid wind rips her red lip, tears their liveliness.

The warm smile he used to know, his mom’s.

A bomb is dropped on his pumping heart, then, like this little German town, it starts to explode.

He tries to wash away her tender smile he used to love.

But the teardrops magnify the despair in front of him.

He stares at the exploding little German town— like his mother, it is burning into ashes.

Audrey Hepburn

His teardrops magnify the fear; they fuse with smoke.

If that Jewish girl had not hidden in his attic, maybe his mother would not have burned to ashes.

But, this is the last winter of the 1940s.

Hannah Chang

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Reflection Eli Dorsey

Scrawl

EsmĂŠ Bessor-Foreman

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Untitled

Hannah Chang

Wind-Swept Cherry Blossoms Aria Eppinger

Cherry blossoms are the ultimate polygraph test; the trees bloom for only a few days in early spring. Prior to their bloom, cherry trees are quite lackluster, a hodgepodge of various grey-green leaves atop a crumply muted-brown stem.

Suddenly, on a bleak day in early spring, “Pop”—behold the most gorgeous petals of pale pinks and vanilla-bean-froyo creams, tied up with toffee-colored stems. In an equally rapid manner as their arrival, the cherry blossoms wilt and fall. The petals, swept off by the wind, never return to their life-

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bearing tree. The tree is left barren for 358 days until the next bloom.

And despite their short, infrequent bloom, cherry blossoms have become an internet sensation. Featured on album covers, sweatshirts, quilted sneakers, and almost any product imaginable, cherry blossoms have become the background of choice for Instagram photos. Yet who can get a September Insta-pic with a blooming cherry tree? A photoshopping liar.

There are lots of photoshopped backgrounds that are more biologically correct. Envision the classic Insta-squat pose next to the late bloom of a pink drift rose.

Imagine the arms-raised, back to the camera picture in front of a local garden; a garden filled to the fence with Solanum betaceum, a common tomato plant whose flowers are the most beautiful because of their edible properties. Or how about a double-peace sign and smug facial expression with a background of strawberry-ice-creamcolored Impatiens? The options for seasonally-correct plant backdrops are endless. But I understand: life gets too busy to consult a botanist about the background of every photoshopped Instagram picture.

And life is as busy as a bee.

Boy are those bees busy! With the continual decline in pollinator populations, the bees better pick up the pace if the ecosystem is going to survive. We all rely on pollinators because without them, much of plant life shrivels up. There goes our food supply and us along with it! Often I feel like a busy bee: the work piles up, and if I don’t keep up, I won’t survive. Worse yet, if the pile of work squishes me like an insect between a newspaper and a hard place, I will let the expectations of my family, my mentors, and my coaches—in other words, my ecosystem—die.

This bee is worried: scared about an uncertain future. I barely think about the present anymore; my consciousness is fully consumed by the road that lies ahead. Previously, I would ponder some of the most profound questions in life: the time of sunrise and sunset, the shortening of daylight throughout the change of seasons, and the shortening of my time. Now I am preoccupied, the constant fury of futuristic thoughts buzzing around my brain.

Budding college essay ideas keep running around my mind like a dog chasing its own tail. Some ideas flourish like cherry trees in bloom, and some crumple like cardboard-colored leaves, piled on the street corners of my neural pathways. There are so many heaps, but I keep searching. I sift through the leaves until my hands are ingrained with the sweet smell of decomposing amylose. Sadly, all I find is the smell and no flourishing green leaves to decorate my applications with. And when the weather fronts change and a breeze rattles the leaves around my brain, my mind is a haze of ideas. It’s a leaf blizzard, and I’m scared I won’t be able to rake the ideas back into neat piles. My sympathetic nervous system kicks my adrenaline into overdrive. There’s no going back; my mind is an anxious frenzy.

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It’s a frenzy of swirling fears and self-doubts. All I can fixate on are single-digit acceptance numbers: 9%, 5%, 6% and don’t forget about 4%. I will be laid forth to be judged like a golden heirloom tomato at a county fair. I’ve spent years under the sun awaiting ripening. I know there are millions of eligible tomatoes, but I put in the extra effort, rotating myself to yield an even glow and sucking up extra water into my cells’ vacuoles to result in the juiciest taste. Even after all this preparation, I wonder: will I be in the 5% that makes the judge’s tomato shortlist? Regardless of my quality, I will end up on the cutting board to be slaughtered.

The judge will rip through my flesh and squeeze the juice out of my veins. All this stress and agony only for me to end up below par, a bogey tomato rejected from every college and institution.

Perhaps the worst recurring thought is that I am overripened by the day of the county fair. I have already reached my pinnacle at the old age of 18. I’ve won other prizes—a business competition, a national science fair, and a citizenship award. The expectation is for me to win the fair’s blue ribbon.

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While the previous ribbons increase the odds of receiving another one at this year’s county fair, the expectations have begun to squish my cellulose-limited tomato skin.

I fear not living up to those expectations; not only have I diligently worked for this fair, but my farmers have also nurtured me tirelessly. I am thankful for my farm family’s water, fertilizer, and minerals—I don’t want to seem like a waste of nutrients. And so this scenario swirls, with fear and angst, endlessly throughout my mind.

College essay ideas, fears, doubts, expectations, and perhaps a sane thought all circle my mind like helpless leaves caught in a microtornado of wind. I wish I could stretch my hand into the wind, grasp a leaf, and hurl it out of my backyard. Unfortunately, the laws of nature prevent me from having innate leaf-snatching abilities, so I dream of fast-forwarding. Instead of moving in endless circles, I could race forward—at light-speed— through the next four months of my life. I could remove the tireless journey through fields and valleys, mountains and streams, and seek the end result at some haven, or rather heaven.

I’ve watched too many becareful-what-you-wish-for movies to know there must be a catch. If I speed forward, perhaps a heaven is coming: a place with eternal summers, long days, pool parties with friends and family. I could eat never-ending, mint-chocolate-chip ice cream without bloating, allergic reactions, or even sugar highs.

This feature seems wondrous, yet what if heaven is not at the end of this tedious path? What lays ahead may be a winter of barren, cracked, dehydrated dirt. My future may be grass-less—how odious—and there may never be a rejuvenating spring to replant it. And regardless of the ground that lies ahead, I will go forward on this journey, missing all the little heavens along the way. I realize it is best to bear the journey; it’s best to never fast forward.

Sadly, I notice that I’m already fast-forwarding, removing myself from the present and into the future. I have fast-forwarded movie nights, curled up on the couch with my mom. I have forgotten to laugh at my swim coach’s

dad jokes. I have chomped through delicious home-cooked dinners and rushed off to finish homework. I have sped through picnic lunches under the oak trees and the beefsteak-tomato-orange sun. I have forgotten to pause and enjoy all the little heavens.

Moments are fleeting, passing by me at 650 TeraHertz, at the frequency of medium blue light.

650 TeraHertz moments are gems to hold onto: droplets of childlike happiness and anxiety-free calmness. It’s a color of ignition, a brush-starter of a joyous bonfire to roast marshmallows over under the fading summer sun and heat of early fall. It’s the blue of friendship and of an unexpected, day-warming act of kindness. 650 TeraHertz blue represents moments of instantaneous heavens—escapes from my mind’s fury. I hope to hold on to 650 TeraHertz moments instead of rushing through them at the speed of light; I’m missing those cherry trees’ blossoms, and even photoshop cannot get them back.

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Soot

Rivers Leche I thought burning down the house would set me free. An obscene divinity, when the light, licking flames turned to an ephemeral glow, letting everyone know that You Were Dead.

Smoke and fumes choked the dog next door, broke the serene energy of the night.

No bullets, blood, nor sword, just your charred corpse lying in prayer on the living room floor.

I relished in your screams, orgasmic to my ear, I jeered at your moans of pain.

Your transgressions not forgiven, you found primitive justice in my hands.

Soot Artist’s Book Rivers Leche

After the flames died, I came back to the void where the house used to stand, as low as I had ever been.

Tears stained my suede boots, not for your memory, but knowing that I would never feel so high again.

I drove away in the old blue truck, rusted over, and sighed as it came to a start.

I watched the waterfowl soar as rain poured from above, maybe trying to mirror my heart.

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Dysphoria

Eli Dorsey

A blue-dark curtain falls across my eyes.

Magic, like Harry’s cloak I am concealed In hopes no one can see me when I cry.

I know my chromosomes are not XY. And I know, still, my experience is real.

Real, like the dark curtains around my eyes.

People turning around, they look surprised.

I double-check that my mask is on, sealed, hoping no one can see me when I cry.

I’ve worked so hard to create this disguise So no wandering soul can tell how I feel, even with dark curtains around my eyes.

How much I long to sever unclean ties with my skin and my fat, I want to peel away, hoping no one will see me cry.

And even now as I try to smile, I scrutinize my body in the mirror.

With blue dark curtains underneath my eyes, I am the only one who’ll see me cry.

Addicted to Pixie Thoughts

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Phillip Leong

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C h i Hand from The Musicians by Caravaggio

W a r a M a s k N i c o l e S h i g i l t c h o f f

Eli Dorsey

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A Sonnet for Mrs. de Winter Julia Stern

Last night, I dreamt I went to Manderley again. I saw the bricks that built the walls, the verdant bushes blocked the summer scene.

The ivy climbed the manor’s daunting halls.

Outside my windows, roses fresh were bloom’d, and twixt the handsome rows, a summer peace.

The sun of Monte Carlo lay entombed, in mem’ries left on white cliffs by the sea.

But bays of dread rest close to flow’rs perfumed.

The seas, once bright, now plagued with tacit gloom, for deep in waves a lass with beauty true, her shadow now a force of wicked doom.

Earthen Veins

Alexander Sayette

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I’m wed to Max so home it has to be, but fair Rebecca haunts the youth in me.

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A Single Life Hidden in the Shadows Lily Apostolopoulos

W

here do you wish to take your last breath? When will your eyes close for eternity? Our climate is dying as we pollute the air, pour waste into our ecosystems, and throw plastic into our oceans. You may not have that choice anymore. The effects of climate change will soon crush our ecosystem, our earth, our home—this place—that seems to be ideal for us. Darkness looms over us as this “concept that is false” will soon impact our lives forever unless there is change. Where will we go?

Plants that once grew in areas native to their heritage sit in silence, dead, as the weather fluctuates. Climate temperatures rise and fall like the stroke of a paintbrush moving along a canvas. Animals aren’t able to thrive in climates once traveled by their ancestors, and deep down into the dark depths of the ocean, oxygen becomes limited as microscopic particles of plastic are ingested by fish, slowly eating up their insides.

Humans have generated these problems concerning the earth through our means of transportation, our littering, our creations of pollution being spewed up into the air, and our obliviousness to the dangers of the ever-so-changing climate. There is a new element of hope despite all of the darkness and the feeling of hopelessness. The earth is crumbling and evaporating rapidly like it has a restricted airway; the resources necessary for it to thrive are being eliminated because of the devil in the details. Our primary sources of oxygen, the tiny plants, as well as trees that line our streets and gardens, are being cut down in distant places due to deforestation and are dying from these harmful gases we release into the air. A scream in the dark. Who can hear this cry for help? How can we escape from this? The answer is us. We have the ability to create a chain reaction regarding climate change, and we have the resources needed to do so.

A small shrub sits alone in an opening in the roof. As the late afternoon sun warms its leaves, moss grows along the sides of the rusted metallic surface, and tiny roots stretch for nutrients, a place unheard of to hold new elements of life. A factory once producing immense amounts of iron ore with gases able to cover skin in ash and color the air black now sits abandoned. A room that was known to contain iron ore with a heightened temperature of a thousand degrees is now overcome by the growth of nature. Humans were unable to breathe in it for long periods of time. A place where workers clung to life and searched for sanity now is able to sustain plant life, which seems impossible in a location that once housed darkness.

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Desert Rose

Rivers Leche

A single shrub’s ability to grow through even the harshest material proposes a new hope for change in our treatment of the environment around us. There is still hope for humans to create change for the better in this place of darkness. We are the deciding factor in whether our earth will live or die.

Will we be the pocket of light in a dark room? Will we be the savior of our home, or will we perish without a thought? A dainty plant craves to

live, breathe oxygen, gather nutrients, and absorb water. Similar to us, it doesn’t want more than to be free. We want to be able to run in a field yelling as loud as we can because no one is around, thrive as we interlock hands with someone we love, and live the way that we wish to. They wish to not be caged in anymore, to grow freely anywhere, to hold hands with their kind, and to exist in their living conditions without the risk of dying.

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Monster

Cyd Kennard The monster hidden in the cave of our shadows, Even in the brightest of light, she looms behind us still, And when the world around darkens she races free.

We could cover our eyes, pretend she’s a friend, But she’s shown her true colors day after day.

We could soar up to the stars where the clouds won’t let her pass, But we seem to have outgrown our wings.

And so she leaves us no choice but to flee, Rushing across the crumpled grass, Over the concrete buckling from the weight of our tumultuous feet.

We run in a pack, chased by the beast, Small and unnoticed as she slips slowly from our sight.

The winds with their wicked glares laugh down on our skin, Our muscles slicing through air laced in ice, And the chill of the snow silencing every broken breath.

Yet there are no hands pushing us back, No voices telling us what is right.

We have found the escape.

But when our aching legs reach the end of the road, And the scene around us stands still, The monster returns in all of her wrath, Ready for another hunt.

Toilet

Jingqi Rose Li

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My Parents On Throwing a Party Elie Stenson

“Gentlemen, you can’t fight in here! This is the War Room.” ~ Doctor Strangelove (1964) There I sat, debating relative expressions, when Bikini Atoll was put to shame and broken by the mushroom-clouded envelope dropped off at my kitchen door. It delivered a grand nuclear explosion that popped over the center island, and I thought, can life be any more beautiful?

down into jaded pacificity when the sky broke up and slipped, nay, dropped a nuclear bomb in the backyard. Can life try to be more beautiful than the view from the rocket I landed on Mars when I sought to escape the kitchen enveloped in tightly powdered crystalline expressions?

In my kitchen, a missing glass or two can let off a nuclear blip. On Mars, expressions of love come in envelopes daily. On Mars, Earth is full of blue, a misadventure of an island.

Orion was tip-toeing the horizon, beautiful in definition, bountiful in expression, wearing a musty grin. I hauled like Orion past the island to inspect the damage, the glasses that were broken or missing when the bomb decided for us that the new clear ones were fancy enough to crush into an envelope like the anthrax scare that enveloped a whole nation in the ‘00s, but in my beautiful kitchen the temp is 97 thanks to the nuclear bomb that chuckles in the smoke alarms. Expressions were drawn at the crime scene where broken throats had to be sewn back together on the island which turned into an operating table for the ill. The island was littered with crumbs from a recipe sent in an envelope return addressed ‘my mother’s study’ - a recipe I broke out because above my head a beautiful bird flew on colossal plumage, expressing gratitude that it had finally been let free in a nuclear blast that shook the batter in the oven where, now clear to me, happiness can lie as if on a tropical island with a tumbler or a tall glass and an expression of ease, because no one can say there that it’s enveloping class or disgracing culture by not drinking beautifully rusted rum and coke from a highball. My kitchen broke

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la republica dominicana Omisa Raja

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Wings

Alexander Sayette You shut your eyes and find that the darkness is not blackness.

And that creatures squirm behind clasped eyelids.

Pressing together, colors invert.

Lines of static wiggle from left to right. Splotches of vibrant colored light blossom and collapse, dancing across your vision’s palette.

You feel the warmth of imaginary starlight comforting you.

The world expands and empties, and there you are, floating untethered in spotted, speckled space.

And you consider that you can stay right here forever. And yet you hold back your fingers from grasping at tendrils of light and indulging lavishly in the warmth.

Moth

Emma Stewart

Tickling at taut eyelids, something reminds you of your waning wax wings. Ghosts of Icarus warn of warming air. Home beckons lovingly, a memory of watching the moon chase the sun from below night’s velvet curtain.

You open your eyes and beautiful light rushes in, sweeping through, clearing dreams from drowsy eyes with strokes that scatter the dust into disappearing wisps.

To come back home you had to sever your wax wings. Re-emerging from silent solitude, singed feathers, a fiery flurry glistening upon entrance to the atmosphere. Discovering true wings, you now glide through clear skies below.

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Do you know, old tree, how lucky you are that you have always been alone? Enclosed for so long you know nothing about the outside— wars that wrack your mother, bombs that batter your friends.

I’m happy for you.

Socotra - Land of the Aliens Jingqi Rose Li

One eye broke free from that body millions of years ago.

Forgotten in the ocean, it became wild and bountiful a Neverland in a backyard untouched bright and tranquil.

NOTE: Socotra is an island, part of Yemen, with plant species such as dragonblood trees that can be found nowhere else on earth.

Finally, your friends remember you (Poor you!)

They warm you up, get you ready for a total upgrade, nudge the storms towards you.

Soon, only the rising temperature marks the passage of the years.

You’re stripped.

No rhyme of seasons.

No sign of life.

Wind blows the fragrant frankincense of Boswellia trees into the nostrils of a creature.

He sneezes and curses in a language no one understands.

Wind blows, ruffling the crest on an Egyptian vulture hopping across the sand.

Wind blows.

The glittering golden sand and caresses the fuchsia adenium obesum, the blooming elephant leg that juts from Socotra’s burning desert Defiant.

Swept

Max Dunham

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Dear Sequoia Annabelle Small

Dear sequoia, As I look to the heavens, I see you.

Your might spreads through the constellations.

Your grace blooms through the night.

Your branches dance with the wind.

As the choir of birds inhabiting your body sings with the breeze, You listen.

You dance.

The sky is your home.

The stars are your friends, and The moon is your mother.

Your family outstretches to you as I do.

Sequoia, as I look to your wisdom and age I feel at home.

I feel safe.

I feel protected.

Dear sequoia, You embody life.

You embody home.

You embody me.

Night Sky

Martine Ferrency

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The Riot of Colors in the Ruins Jingqi Rose Li

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One Track Mind Ben Gutschow

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Grandmothers and Lovers Margaret Balich

intimacy in red light—chair of tenderness sits in the corner, waits for teen lust to overtake its weak, wooden frame staring at the crucifix during Sunday mass, I idle in the scent of myself—what I can’t have now I will overconsume moldy lemon—rotting appendix—grandma on Christmas day, she will drown in my flood, alive too long to float I will drown, sink into your brown couch, sick and naked queen of change abandoning closure like half-zipped clothing how many mixtures of snot and spit make familial bonds while nana rocks back and forth in a home

Gaze

Esmé Bessor-Foreman

leaky holy spirit, I itched my leg and it bled sticky hate for this headache of stone, my hand’s tendency to fit into yours bent over for affliction, show me how to take control, to live—to mother—to kiss— disconnection

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LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

MISSION STATEMENT Plaid is a representation of the abundant creative capabilities of the students at Winchester Thurston School. It aims to celebrate student artistry. It is a place for exploration, a place for the upending of expectations. Plaid receives many more submissions than it can fit within its pages but attempts to highlight as many pieces as possible.

Dedicated to representing our varied students’ voices and the spirit of inclusivity, Plaid is a professional-level forum for personal expression, discourse, and communication. It is a celebration of artistic visions and the minds that produce them.

COLOPHON Plaid is published annually by the Literary Magazine Staff of Winchester Thurston School. Plaid Nocturne was created using Adobe InDesign CS6 and Adobe Photoshop CS6. All body text was set in Georgia, and all titles were in Franklin Gothic Medium. Art and writing attributions were in Georgia (Italic). Plaid is a free publication, available to all members of the Winchester Thurston School community. It is created entirely by its student staff with additional help from our faculty advisor, Ms. Sharon McDermott, and our technology advisor, Mr. David Kallis. All WT high school students are encouraged to submit their work throughout the year. Submissions are chosen by the staff for publication based on quality, length, available space, and adherence to theme; we aim to publish the best work by as many artists and writers from all grades in as many mediums as possible. All non-digital work is either scanned as a digital file or digitally photographed. Plaid is an award-winning member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and the National Council of Teachers of English.

To our beloved readers,

This year has been off-kilter, to put it mildly. While the year started off smoothly with fab writing workshops, rad poetry readings, and a slew of swell submissions, we quickly had to reevaluate and reimagine our lives in the context of the COVID-19 pandemic.

It’s hard to process this catastrophe while we’re living in it—here we are on a Zoom call in the middle of the night, trying to write with the same enthusiasm and hope that have defined previous letters from Plaid editors of years past. Thankfully, throughout our hours stuck inside, one thing has remained constant: art. That’s why we’ve decided to continue our work with Plaid. Although it’s difficult, there’s much worse happening. We need to provide some levity in this time of darkness—a song in the night; a nocturne.

In the past few years, Plaid as a whole has tried to adhere more closely to its chosen theme. We first committed to the mysterious and moody theme of Noir. However, after reviewing this year’s submissions, we realized that the artwork and writing we had received did not confine itself to the strict boundaries of the Noir genre. Instead, we found the submissions to be focused on personal and societal reflections, stark images, and sometimes melancholic musings of the collective unconscious. Thus, we changed the theme to Nocturne. The broad tenets of Nocturne encompass the emotional depth of the work we received—ones that consider and evoke darkness, but with varied, vibrant brushstrokes.

Our winners this year created beautiful works that spoke to this dark, introspective theme: Allison Cai ‘20 for painting, Eli Dorsey ‘21 for drawing, TyLynn Gault ‘23 for digital art, Claire Hughes ‘20 for prose, Alex Sayette ‘23 for poetry, Cate Sindler ‘23 for 3D art, and Olivia Sobkowiak ‘20 for photography. We also had an influx of freshman staffers who brought enthusiasm and fresh perspectives in droves.

Hopefully, you’re reading this during a more opportune time than a worldwide pandemic, but, if not, follow these instructions very carefully. #1: Put on your favorite song. #2: Write a haiku. #3: Cry, laugh, dance, trip over your words. Try to feel something, even if it’s not happiness.

Nocturne is not about positivity; it’s about taking a second look at the shapes in the shadows. It’s about rain and cicadas and grey-toned vision.

It’s easy to become stuck when you’re physically stuck in place, so we hope we’ve broken your monotony.

Regards, Esmé Bessor-Foreman, Margaret Balich, and Rivers Leche, Senior Editors

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THANK YOU

Plaid would not be the magazine it is today without the help of many wonderful people. Their dedication, creativity, and passion remain critical in the process of creating this publication. We would like to especially thank the following: All of the incredibly talented students who submitted their amazing work to Plaid.

And finally, Ms. Sharon McDermott for her dedication, encouragement, commitment, vision, and unconditional support for Plaid. We couldn’t be more thankful for all that you have done for us and this publication, and truly don’t know what we’d do without your guidance, kindness, and talent. Plaid would not be the publication it is today without your support, and we would not be the writers and artists we are today without your inspiration.

Our fantastic editors, Margaret Balich, Esmé Bessor-Foreman, Rivers Leche, Christopher Porco, Nicole Shigiltchoff, Anna Nesbitt, and Emma Stewart, who contributed countless hours to create the 58th edition of Plaid. To our senior editors, we can’t thank you enough for your leadership and dedication to this publication, and we can’t wait to see everything you do in the years to come. To our junior editors, we can’t wait to see next year’s issue of Plaid and all of the places you’ll take the club in your senior year.

The incredibly dedicated Plaid Staff, including Isabel Lowry, Lila Ost, Julia Stern, Anisa Callis, Elie Stenson, Vishal Banderu, Mikayla Leimer, Sydney Gray, Yasmina Andrews, Angela Hayes, Sophia Scheatzle, Shuyi Li, Helen Zhang, AJ McCreary, Sofia Mangiafico, Addie Zwicker-Jones, Jenny Zhang, Kate McAllister, Sarah Gimbel, Jizhou Jiang, Abby Patterson, Tylynn Gault, Eli Dorsey, Marysia Brown, Jayanthi Simhan, Eric Jiang, Hannah Chang, Cate Sindler, Daniel Pellathy, Mathias VanBriesen, Ayisat Bisiriyu, Johnny Stern, Alexander Sayette, Joel Williams, and Zoé Soteres for their incredible layouts, support in all Plaid events, and passion for the club as a whole.

The English and Visual Arts Department faculties for their continual support of Plaid writing workshops and poetry readings, and for inspiring WT students of all levels to create and submit their artistic and literary work.

Dr. Scott Fech, Dr. Anne Fay, and the entire Winchester Thurston Administration for their unwavering support of this publication.

Mr. David Kallis for his continual technical assistance and support of Plaid.

Mr. Dave Gilbreath and Knepper Press for their support in the printing and distribution of Plaid.

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OTHER CREDITS

Cover photographed and designed by Esmé Bessor-Foreman Inside cover designed by Margaret Balich with artwork (“Starry Night”) by Sophia Nicholls Definition page photographed and designed by Esmé Bessor-Foreman, with definitions by Esmé Bessor-Foreman and Margaret Balich

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Pittsburgh, PA

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412-578-7500