PULP 2020: Luminesce by Wootton Pulp Literary Magazine

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Pulp 2020

Luminesce Pulp 2020: A Literary and Arts Magazine Volume XIV

Cover photo by Anjali Maheshwari Lettering by Daniella Locatis

Thomas S. Wootton High School 2100 Wootton Parkway Rockville, Maryland 20850 woottonlit@gmail.com

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Pulp Staff 2020: Editorial Team:

Editor-In-Chief: Alexis Bentz

Layout Editor: Melanie Roberts

Managing Editor: Meghana Kotraiah

Shadow EIC: Young-A Kim

Art Editor: Daniella Locatis

Photography Editor: Anjali Maheshwari

Literature Editor: Mollika Singh

Staff Members:

Michael Pugh, grade 12, digital photography

Elaine Gao Shani Glassberg Humnah Ibrahim Joan Kariuk Rebecca Katz Nina Kotval Geena Kumaran

JJ. Mwumvaneza Isra Quadri McKenna Shay Amy Wang Avana Wang Annie Wu

Special Thanks: Tom Bourdeaux Zachary Hardy Nicholas Hitchens Unsil Kim

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Zachary Lowe Scott Scates Evva Starr WHS janitorial staff

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Editor’s Note: I’ve had the distinct privilege of being on Pulp’s staff for all four years of my high school journey. When you’re on the magazne staff for that long, you experience quite a bit. I’ve been to seven coffeehouses. I’ve designed dozens of spreads. I’ve printed more flyers than I can count. I’ve stayed after school for hours and given up countless lunches to work on magazine layout. But when we heard about the COVID-19 outbreak and subsequent school closure, I knew that the Pulp staff and I would be expriencing something entirely new. This year offered countless challenges: meeting remotely, continuing with spread design without access to Wootton’s computers and creative software, and completing a process that is supposed to be spontaneous, fluid, and collaborative in total isolation. However, thanks to the brilliance and determination of my fellow staff members and the help of our terrific sponsor, Mr. Zachary Hardy, we were able to publish the magazine that you hold in your hands today. So, at the risk of sounding grandiose, yes, I did experience something entirely new this year: an unparalleled level of effort to produce this publication and a staff driven to complete the magazine despite the odds. I am exceedingly proud of the work we have done and belive that it contains pieces that clearly display the incredible talent of Wootton’s student body. I hope that you feel the same. Alexis Bentz Editor-In-Chief, class of 2020

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Table of Contents Prose:

Poetry:

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Art :

Photography:

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Featured Photographer - Elaine Gao | 66 Luminesce

APPLES & ORANGES

Martin Li, grade 12

z. Bzz BMyzclear little wings buzz in the hot air. The sun beats down on the wet rainforest, heating the

brown river to a low simmer. I approach two objects fallen from a passing truck. One is bright, orange, and firm. I land on it. My hairy legs comb the foreign sphere, searching for food. A faint smell emanates from it, but when I try to bite into it, I find it impossible to enjoy. Useless. I move on. The other one is different - red with brown spots. I land and feel the rotting flesh of the fruit soften before my light touch. Time to eat. I sate my hunger with the meal before a tall human approaches and asks me to compare the two. “How am I to compare them? One is to be eaten and the other is not,” I buzz back. I think to myself, “What an idiot.” I fly away before he tries any other useless queries.

Tap Tap.

My shined leather shoes bounce off the laminate tile floor as I walk to the designated room. I woke up several hours ago to shower, shave, and prep. After thirteen years of grade school, four years of undergraduate study, a quick gap year in Italy, two years in grad school, and four years of researching for my Ph.D., the day that I present my findings on the malus domestica and citrus aurantium and how they affected the societies that consumed them is finally here. When I arrive at the panel, a smirk hangs on my face as I speak about the effects of human cultivation on the fruit, how they evolved into the modern-day consumer product, and the future of the two fruits. I am both thorough and precise. After I finish, I leave the room to let the council of my peers discuss whether I deserve a “Dr.” in front of my name. (Of course I do). I return to a room of smiles and handshakes. I have done it! I have compared apples and oranges.

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m. m m m O

The hum from my presence reverberates off of nearby objects. I travel the cosmos as an entity larger than gas giants and swallow primitive planets to feed my abyssal hunger. My skin radiates colors unimaginable to many, and to those unenlightened, I appear as black as the oily canvas that surrounds me, only discernible by the light of stars disappearing behind my mass. My aura is as hot as a star spewing forth its final movement of heat and light, and as cold as the deepest depths of the universe where atoms find not the will to stir. As I pass nebulously into a new solar system, my supreme intellect ponders thoughts and ideas that might send lesser beings into madness. I sense a weak presence. Perhaps a new meal. As I approach the boring blue dot before me, I realize it may contain some primitive life. Some small projectiles are launched in my direction - is it trying to defend itself? I imagine the creatures there: scared, small, and hopeless. Before I make the final motions to consume it, a single message reaches my thoughts, straight from the rock before me. â&#x20AC;&#x153;How are apples and oranges supposed to be compared?â&#x20AC;? I pause. I chuckle. Only a primitive would ask something like that. I move on to the next solar system, fuller than before.

Elizabeth Hsieh, grade 12, digital photography

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hoops

mollika singh • grade 12 kat liu • grade 9 • digital art

wait. stop. look around. it’s far past golden hour but i see a glow don’t you feel it in the air around you? how do you manage to sparkle in the middle of the night? it is certainly not the streetlight. it’s you. it’s as if the sun and stars are inside you, everything in the universe (except the dark) a part of you your hoops are saturn’s rings, your curls are the waves of earth’s oceans and luna’s sea of tranquility, wet and dry don’t look back at me like you don’t understand what i’m talking about. you can’t not know that you are space and time, and that there isn’t a better definition for illumination than simply your name.

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october love meghana kotraiah, grade 12

october love

tickling the grass and testing the waters pure white like the roses on our wrists and your heart; exposed to condensation

sunrises of orange pink clouds and weepy eyes dirty jeans and a sacrifice of sleep for your hands to hug the stripes on my shirt

dripping in cabernet and decision making a november 1st deadline

two shots of espresso unintentionally cold is

a blue house with a white deck foliage adorning your lips red and orange and yellow and falling onto mine

pretending to be adults under the pretense of seventeen is marriage? love. vulnerability - my cold toes tucked under your thighs and then your eyes exploring every inch of what you have not yet seen

is one day our kids can trick or treat in the life we are building for them

is naivety, maybe optimism

charmant â&#x20AC;&#x153;j.j.â&#x20AC;? mwumvaneza, grade 10, digital photography

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Lifestyle Choices

Alexis Bentz, grade 12

It had been a relatively mundane morning. Callum’s alarm had failed to go off, he spilled orange juice on his brand new suit jacket at breakfast, and botched his boss’ coffee order, arriving twenty minutes late to his job boasting an orange blob on his left lapel and a black regular - not decaf - coffee with two sugars in his right hand. He stumbled into his boss’ office only to be met by the same searing stare of disapproval he had become so accustomed to throughout his childhood. “Morning, mom. Sorry I’m late,” he cried, flustered, setting the coffee on his mother’s desk. His mother said nothing, reaching for the paper coffee cup and taking a long, slow sip. She paused. “Regular?” she questioned, raising an eyebrow. Callum smiled sheepishly. Setting the cup aside, his mother motioned for him to sit down. “Callum, there’s something that we simply must discuss.” Callum sat down obediently, attempting to hide the stain on his suit by artfully bending his elbows into something that only somewhat resembled a resting position. “Now, as you know this company has been in the family for over fifty years.” Callum nodded. Truthfully, he didn’t know this, but as a survivor of many of his mother’s lectures, he knew that rule one was to never admit that you didn’t know, understand, or agree to something, or else you’d face the risk of a prolonged tangential explanation or scolding. So, naturally, whenever his mother asked him anything, he just nodded, whether he really knew, understood, or agreed or not. “Well,” his mother continued, “You probably also know that we’ve been relatively successful for all of those fifty years, helping clients to reach their full potential, selling them clothing, diets, relationship strategies, et cetera, to try to help them lead the best lives they can lead, yes?” This one Callum did know. It was obvious, wasn’t it?

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They worked for Drummond and Howe, lifestyle consultants. So already thin, pretty, stereotypically beautiful people would knock on the company’s doors and ask to be made more thin, pretty, and stereotypically beautiful. And then, after going on a juice fast that did absolutely nothing to change their figures and highlighting their hair a barelydifferent color, they would exclaim that their lives had been changed, call their thin, pretty, stereotypically beautiful neighbors and the cycle would repeat itself, thus generating a steady profit for Drummond and Howe lifestyle consultants. But Callum couldn’t say this to his mother. “Well, that’s not actually all we do.” Callum nodded. “You know this?” his mother questioned. Callum nodded again, even though he really didn’t. “Hmmm…” his mother said, frowning. “What else do we do?

“No, not like medicines. Like magic.” Callum felt his face begin to match the color of his left lapel. There had never been follow-up questions before. “Um...we also sell makeup?” His mother made a throw-away motion with her arm. “Yes, yes, but that was included in the earlier et cetera.” “Oh,” said Callum. “Anyway, I doubt you have any idea of our other... product. And that’s what I need to tell you about today. If you’re going to be working closely with me as my assistant, you’ll need to know. Truthfully, that’s part of the reason why I hired you over some of the others who applied; I can keep a close watch on you both during and outside of office hours.” Callum refrained from nodding this time, instead wrinkling his eyebrows in confusion. His mother stood and, with a sweeping motion, closed all of the curtains and locked her office doors before returning to her plush office chair. She stared intently at her son, her green eyes filled with urgency.

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“Drummond and Howe isn’t just a corporation of lifestyle consultants. We also make lifestyle-altering potions.” Callum leaned in toward his mother. “Potions? Like medicines?” he questioned, picturing weight-loss tonics and nail-strengthening powders. “No, not like medicines. Like magic.” Callum’s eyes widened. Growing up, he’d been exposed to enough fantasy literature to have read similar stories about boys like him who had woken up one day to learn that they were in fact wizards or made magical gadgets of some kind. And it had always bothered him how long it took these newly-magical characters to accept their powers. So he decided, as incredulous as he felt, that he would believe his mother’s words. After all, she wasn’t the type to pull this kind of a prank. “What kind of magic?” he inquired. “Many kinds. It’s not like in the storybooks where we have wands or can cast spells. But we can create potions and brews that engineer a magical outcome. For example, a love potion. A wisdom potion. A potion that enhances physical or emotional strength.”

Callum’s eyes widened, and he stopped trying to contort his arms to cover the orange stain - it didn’t seem to matter much anymore. “Where are all of these potions? How do we make them? What do we do with them?” His mind was exploding with questions, and his thoughts raced far faster than his mouth which, by contrast, seemed to be moving at a glacial pace. “Well, we make and store them on the basement level of our offices. I’m afraid I can’t share how we make them with you just yet, but I will tell you that the instructions have been in our possession for years, although no one really knows how our founders got their hands on them; there’s been quite a lot of company folklore so to speak.” She tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her left ear and continued. “And as for what we do with them...we secretly use them on some of our clients who need them most.”

Anjali Maheshwari, grade 12, digital photography Luminesce Luminesce

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“How do you make the distinction between needing and not needing them?” His mother took a sip of her improperlyordered coffee. “Some of our clients don’t really need our assistance. They simply want to feel like they do, want to feel as if they are taking charge of their lives and doing something with them. For those clients, a simple haircut, meditation instruction, and exercise regime will generally do the trick. But for clients who have genuine self-esteem issues, clients who really do need some, shall we say, unorthodox help... well, we give them protein shakes mixed with a little something special, whether it’s something to help them feel more confident or something to make them more likely to find a romantic partner. “We don’t like to do anything too drastic because we don’t want our secret getting out. But we think that a tiny self-esteem boost here or there can make a big difference in improving some people’s lives, and we want to make that kind of a difference.” His mother leaned back in her chair, pausing to let Callum take it all in. Callum’s mind was reeling. But there was one other question that he still couldn’t let go of. It seemed so obvious to him! “Why do we have to keep this secret?” he asked. “If we sell these potion things on the market and advertise them for what they truly are...we would be rich beyond belief!”

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His mother shook her head, a stern expression crossing her smooth features. “That,” she said severely, “is something that we can never do. Although this power comes with temptation, whether to sell the potions for a profit or to use them on ourselves, it is a temptation that we must resist. You should know that any average human who gets their hands on a product like ours would abuse it beyond belief. “They would take far more than the recommended dose to make from school exams to governmental elections! The world would be in chaos. No, you must understand how important, essential, imperative it is that you never tell another living soul about what you’ve learned in this room today. And if you do? There will be consequences. I don’t care that you’re my son, the fate of the world at large is far more important. Do you understand me?” Callum didn’t respond, lost in thought. His mother’s words were reasonable, to be sure, but if the potions’ release was monitored and customers were required to fill out some paperwork… “Callum!” His mother’s voice jolted him out of his trance. “Did you hear what I said? Do you understand me?”

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Callum nodded.

Elizabeth Hsieh â&#x20AC;˘ grade 12 â&#x20AC;˘ digital photography

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ELECTRIC LOVE Aashna Singh grade 11

how could i ever believe you liked me again convinced myself you had lost interest, when you refuse to break my eye contact, stare me down couldn’t breathe caught in your gaze thought i would drown from lack of air, lack of space (at least between you and me) run after me in the halls, you’re (still) all i can see outstretch your hand to me (adam) this is my creation you aren’t one for religion, try manipulation of that girl you used to like, supply isn’t enough for your demand i’m not running away because i don’t want to hold your hand i do, i promise, i’m just afraid you’ll be able to tell your touch gives me chills, send me to heaven from hell up here you reside, who would’ve thought i’d still shiver in these clouds like in the halls down on earth, i only see you in these crowds please don’t reach for my hand, my heart might misinterpret if electricity flows through your fingers, why would i complete that circuit? a light bulb may go off above my head, or worse, in my heart, you’d notice it’s there! it’s on! before i pull apart maybe i’ll recircuit, get my wires all replaced before you realize they malfunction when fingers are interlaced.

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Sydney Behrens • grade 10 • digital photography

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melanie roberts • grade 12 • paint on canvas

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andrea kim • grade 9 • digital art

humnah ibrahim â&#x20AC;˘ grade 10 â&#x20AC;˘ digital art

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michelle kien â&#x20AC;˘ grade 11 â&#x20AC;˘ digital art

kat liu â&#x20AC;˘ grade 9 â&#x20AC;˘ digital art

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Chores

Geena Kumaran, grade 10

iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve noticed the way you come and go, leaving the dirty dishes, soiled and old, for me to clean. and everyday i do those dishes, cleaning them as well as i can. from the thick fudge cake on the plate that you finished when i was asleep, to the wet pancake mix on the whisk you made when i was away. messy and dirty. and everyday i wash, and i scrub till the last remnants of you are gone, down the drain unseen and forgotten. and my hands, theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re dry and calloused from the work i do for you, the sponge falls apart from its overuse, and the smell of the dish soap remains as a bleak reminder of your absent presence. but once it is done, i smile and i revel in my relief because the burden is gone, thinking that this is the last time, and tomorrow it will end. but every night you creep back in, and silently leave me tired and alone. just me and your dirty dishes.

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Michael Pugh, grade 12, digital photography

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Michael Pugh • grade 12 • digital photography

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• elaine gao • grade 12 • paint on canvas

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mcdonald’s Mollika Singh • grade 12

Today, I noticed that you, the McDonald’s around the corner from the library, still have your sixty-year anniversary poster up. From 2015. I wonder, how many employees have asked if it should be taken down, how many managers said it didn’t matter, and how much paint would be ripped up if a time-obsessed, seventeen-year-old girl took the task on herself? But I get it, McDonald’s. I definitely left my second-grade spelling bee winning certificate on the wall four more years than I should have, wondering if I’d ever achieve anything as momentous as knowing the “i-before-e rule” and being able to spell “Tyrannosaurus Rex.” Perhaps you aren’t sure if you’ll ever get a seventy-year anniversary poster. I know what it’s like to find solace in our bygone achievements, McDonald’s. Plus, it’s something to look at. Whether it be a signature from a long-term substitute or a timeline of one of the most recognizable brands in the world, the artifact occupies the eye for about the time it takes to eat a french fry. Though, that’s only an estimate. I didn’t get any fries. Sorry. On the way back to the library, with the McChicken I shouldn’t have ordered sitting in my backpack, I found a Lokai bracelet in the middle of an empty parking space. You know the ones. The ones that dominated 2012 Instagram, that were at the beach more often than the high tide was, that somehow never broke, that had colors that meant something, but you never knew what, that benefitted some type of charity, but you never knew which one. Usually I don’t go around picking up trash from parking lots, but I couldn’t resist. It’s the original kind: mostly translucent, save for the white bead and the corresponding black, yin-yang reminiscent. A true find. A metal detector at the beach couldn’t find the Lokai bracelets that tie-dye tapestry teens lost at the peak of their middle school popularity. But I found one. Me. Was it fate? Middle school me would never have even asked for such a silly un-necessity (even if I wanted one). But I found one. In the McDonald’s parking lot. Your parking lot. And if I wantwed to pick it up and wear it for the rest of the summer, maybe let’s leave you and your poster alone. We all long for our pasts sometimes, even the ones we never quite had.

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Humnah Ibrahim• grade 10 • digital photography Luminesce Luminesce

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coffee

geena kumaran â&#x20AC;˘ grade 10

do you remember the other day? when the drizzling rain was pouring from the sky. i remember. i ruined my air force ones that day. but i walked into the starbucks that day. donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you remember? the one where we hung out? near the library? yes, it was that one. i noticed you after i walked in and the man took my order. caramel macchiato. you ordered a black coffee. strong and pungent. lord, iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve always hated black coffee. but you saw me and you smiled and i smiled back and looked down at the ground. my now brown air force ones, sad and distressed. like me. blending in to the sad grey tiles beneath me. like me. i remember the last time i came here.

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andrea kim • grade 9 • digital photography

it was with you. we ordered the same thing. it was sunny. i just got my air force ones. they were white and brand new. you ordered your black coffee. i did not mind it then. i think i mind it now. but i remember we talked and left the starbucks. and we made our way around the block and we kissed by the gas station. i could taste the black coffee in your mouth. strong.

bitter. sweet.

i think you liked me then but you do not like me now. but in all honesty, i understand. who’d want to be with me and my dirty air force ones?

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Humnah Ibrahim, grade 10, digital photography

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Humnah Ibrahim, grade 10, digital photography

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Martin Siles-Diaz • grade 11 • digital phtography

On the Clearing of the Hill Joseph Lim • grade 10

Come, dance with me, In the woods on the hill. Let us dance through the woods, what a thrill. Come, let us dance with glee. Night is coming to right now. Moon and stars are coming too. The wind-swept clearing is without dew. My plea to you ends with a bow. I see that you have come at last. You’re as perfect as anyone can be. I will have to leave forever, maybe. Let this dance be not too fast.

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michael pugh • grade 12 • photography

untitled • nuha talukder • grade 11 Small pools of rainwater form on the cemented pathways of the small town. The sun rises and sets without ever being seen behind the sky’s wrath. It’s

2:38 a.m., and beyond sparse fluorescent lights in bedrooms, the

town is shrouded in darkness. Even the moon and stars cower as the sun had earlier in the presence of a furious sky. In the midst of fat raindrops pelting on thick glass windows, two boys hide from reality’s anger. Hands slip in hair and mouths linger on bare skin. For the night, the boys are undisturbed and captivated by the magic they’ve created in their own world. Colored street lamps and traffic lights reflect blurry in the puddles from the downpour. It’s

2:38 a.m., and the city sleeps, but two boys

with flushed cheeks and heavy hearts lay awake. In the morning, the spell will reverse and they’ll be strangers again, only to be brought together in hazy nights against one too many pills. But, for now, the boys savor every last hushed confession murmured between unzipped jeans and slow paced love. For it is only

2:38 a.m., and the night lays barren, simply aching

to be filled with rendezvous. Luminesce

Humnah Ibrahim • grade 10 • digital photography

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Humnah Ibrahim • grade 10 • digital photography

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Darkroom In Use

Anjali Maheshwari • grade 12

It was winter. “Darkroom In Use,” the bright, neon sign buzzed. Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake Op. 20” danced its way into my ears. It was twilight and the desolate room gave way for freedom. First door opened and closed. Complete silence. Second door opened and closed. I was blind. My eyes soon adjusted to the daunting red light and a hushed whisper of cold passed, luring me to the big, black beauty of the enlarger, the device that brought photographs to life. The clock ticked. Time was of the essence here. The holder for the film was going in and out of the enlarger like clockwork. Lights flashing, timers buzzing, it was all a blur. The blacks of the image were not dark enough. Next. The whites of the image were faded. Next. The right side of the image is not burnt enough. Next.

It was fall. My grandfather just stared, wearing an expression that conveyed nothing. We packed boxes in silence as if we were cleaning up a life that had already ended. He left the room. I looked out at the bustling streets of Bangalore, where the constant honking had lulled me to sleep every night. I’m going to miss this place. My grandfather came back in holding an aged camera and packed it into the already overflowing boxes. “What’s that?” I asked with hesitation. He replied, “I used to take pictures with this camera. But I’ve taken enough pictures to last a lifetime and I believe you should have it now.” “Okay,” I said blankly. And we said our goodbyes before I left for America.

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Anjali Maheshwari • grade 12 • digital photography

It was spring. I was having lunch with my friends when the call came. My grandfather had a heart attack and my mother booked a flight to India that night. I was paralyzed with this news alone with no clue of how to react. My grandfather and I hadn’t talked for a while and I believed this to be normal as we lived miles away. But regret swallowed me whole. Is he okay? When did this happen? Is he even ALIVE?

It was summer. My worn out camera hung around its usual place around my neck. The scene of a perfect blue sky and children playing lent itself to a perfectly good photograph, but it was not what my camera and I wanted. We wanted that one child who doesn’t know how to be like the rest because they lived in a place where they don’t belong. My grandfather called. I guess it was Wednesday for our weekly calls. He inquired about my well-being and whether studies were good and I replied with the usual string of yeses. Right when I hung up, as if this thought had just occurred to him, he asked, “Are you happy?” and instead of a quick yes, I took a moment to think about it. And I said, “I’m happy if you’re happy.” Luminesce

Andrea Kim • grade 9 • digital photography

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Elizabeth Hsiehâ&#x20AC;˘ grade 12 â&#x20AC;˘ digital photography

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friday, saturday Mollika Singh • grade 12

the trouble with sitting alone in two person booths now is that you’ll always be there, at least for a while, because even if i can’t reach over and touch the abnormally pronounced veins on your hands, i can still see your eyes, focused on your work. i despise the extra space i have on the table to spread out my things. i can’t help but wish that your too-large laptop was pushed past your half of the surface, infringing defiantly on my space, which is, of course, yours. 42 42

i wish i didn’t have the extra legroom. i wish the seat across the table wasn’t open for me to throw my feet onto. i would much rather prefer the awkward touches under the table followed by wordless shifts; don’t maintain contact for too long. i always order too much food. if the extra isn’t going to you, then it’s a waste. and when i’ll get up to throw it out, i’ll wish that your greasy brown paper bag, with twice-rejected fries, was there to be among the refuse i collect.

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Michael Pugh • grade 12 • digital photography

and, yet, the next day, when you will actually be here, i will wish you gone. i will wish you weren’t there for me to offer chips to only for you to say, without hesitation, “stop caring.” because i will wish that you knew better than to expect such an impossible task from me.

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Anjali Maheshwari, grade 12, digital photography

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FEATURED WRITER SHIMIAO “AMY” WANG GRADE 12

rom print books to online media, I have often found stories to be a constant in my life as my family moved from place to place. As a result, I’ve been dreaming them up for almost as long as I remember, and writing them down as soon as I could string two sentences together. For me, one of the great appeals of writing is the way wwthat practically anything can become a source of inspiration if you think a little sideways. Simply looking at a flower can lead you to imagine things like: What if it was the size of a house? or What if it was leaking poisonous fumes? or What if it was looking back at you and thinking these same thoughts? Because of this potential for variety, not only have I been able to take inspiration from works of sci-fi and fantasy, such as those of Ursula K. Le Guin, but also video games, anime, and even the folktales that my grandparents used to tell me. Poetry as a medium has also allowed me to express feelings and concepts in a uniquely abstract way. There are too many poets that I enjoy to list here, but at the moment, I especially admire the work of Edna St. Vincent Millay. As for my choice of subject matter, I’m drawn to speculative fiction by my interest in how otherworldly themes can be used to explore human emotions and social issues that are relevant to our real world. Of course I dearly hope that my readers will enjoy the fantastical settings present in my work, but also that they might find something in these poems and stories that resonates with them on a personal level; that speaks to this strange and fatal condition of life, in all its endless forms most beautiful.

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Excerpt from “Sail on, Ship of Theseus” Amy Wang, grade 12

They crash on an exoplanet farther out than she’s ever gone before — a dead world on the fringes of the Akhlys System, where remnants of old nebulae still billow in the spaces between the stars. The unexpected landing takes her out for weeks, and when Kaaukai wakes up the others are all dead. By some twist of fate, her stasis pod is the only one left unbroken. It doesn’t feel like much of a miracle. She holds a small funeral for them aboard the wreck of the Solar Wind, gently wrapping the bodies and sliding them into bags for storage. There’s a freezing compartment in the cargo hold, she thinks with great effort. There’s a freezing compartment in the cargo hold, and a dull pang in her chest, somewhere to the left of her lungs. But she’ll have time for all that when she gets home. Then she’ll be able to mourn them properly, Atwater and Chang and all the rest. When she gets home. It’s a nice thought. Like one of those candies they used to get when they were younger; something to worry at until it’s gone. Nothing but sugar and flavored saliva. By now, the whole of the Solar Wind feels like an open tomb, silent and excavated. Without proper maintenance, Kaaukai knows, her life-support systems should have stopped functioning days ago. It‘s enough to make her look over her shoulder every now and then, for the first few days, to tense at every errant sound that echoes through the corridors. But nothing emerges. So eventually she goes around to check the ship for damage. Their thrusters are busted, along with most of the exterior starboard hull. Even with a full crew and replacement parts, this level of damage would take months to repair, and she doesn’t exactly have that kind of time. The oxygen-generators are still functional, but they run on water, and the recycling can only go on for so long when she also has to drink. Food is more of an issue. The rations they still have will last her three Coalition-standard months, tops. On the fifth day, she considers just walking out with her gear and charting the alien terrain until the oxygen masks run out. But she can’t quite bring herself to do it. Instead, she starts roaming outside for minutes at a time. Then hours. If nothing else, it’s one way to put off contemplating her inevitable demise. 47 Luminesce 47 Luminesce

Michael Pugh • grade 12 • digital photography

They seem to have crash-landed on a ledge near the bottom of a shallow canyon. It’s surrounded by strange rock formations — towering curlicues of grey, at least a thousand feet high, jutting out along the canyon’s rim. Ruins? If they are, she thinks, whoever built them must have left a long time ago. There seems to be nothing on this world besides endless grey mesas punctuated by spiraling masses of rock, the ancient sun shining redly over. All lonesome and lifeless, as far as the eye can see. Sometimes she breathes in, and a part of her wishes it were the alien air instead, never mind that it would scorch her throat raw, never mind that a second breath would kill her. But then she breathes out and turns to head back in.

Hallucinations seem more plausible by the day. That’s why when the thing first starts speaking to her it’s less terrifying than it should be. (Not so much because it’s hijacking the automated onboard broadcasting system. Sure, Kaaukai is used to the vaguely-feminine monotone that comes over the intercom to announce things like meals and shift rotations. But she’s also perfectly aware of two things: first, that the crash definitely disabled it, and second, that it does not employ any form of artificial intelligence.) She’s sorting out the remaining rations when the speakers crackle to life. It nearly makes her drop a handful of the flavorless protein packets. For what remains of her pride, at least, she’s rather glad she doesn’t. Captain Kaulana Kaaukai, the entity begins, smooth preprogrammed vocals broken by the occasional burst of static, shifts in inflection that speak of files rearranged and hastily pastiched together. That is your designation, is it not? Kaaukai tears open one of the packets with her teeth, and crumbles it into a thermos. Distantly, she finds herself marveling at the smoothness of the motion, the efficiency. 48 48

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Who knew that when the time came for her to finally go mad, she would handle it so well? She almost wants to pat herself on the back. “That depends. Who’s asking?” There is a silence. For a moment she wonders if the hallucination will leave her like everyone else, senselessly, without pause or explanation. But the speakers crackle again. You may call me ‘OBELISK.’ I understand this to be the concept as best conveyed in your language, though it bears little resemblance to the original. “Ah. Thanks. That really cleared things up.” She takes a drink from the thermos, and makes a face. “Guess I have no choice but to come clean now. So...you’re right. That is my ‘designation.’ Nice to meet you, OBELISK.” You seem to be handling your situation rather well, for what it is. “Well, what it is ain’t much.” She shrugs. “Have to compensate somehow.” An admirable outlook. It’s a shame tone doesn’t transmit well with the automated voice, Kaaukai thinks. But years of captainship have made it easy to tell when she’s being buttered up. You have come far, and, should you display sound judgement, have still further to go. But first, I would like to help you consider some options. Halfway to her mouth, Kaaukai sets the thermos down, and sighs. “...You’re not a hallucination, are you.” Not to my knowledge, no. “Mind explaining what?” This time, OBELISK’s silence is longer. It’s really very irritating, talking to someone without a face or tone or gestures you can read. But Kaaukai supposes it’s what she can get, as far as company goes. The species that once inhabited this system had a...particular affinity for technology, the voice suddenly starts again. Over millions of years, these advances grew to the point

where they were able to exert influence over the entire galaxy.

Kaaukai raises her eyebrows. She’s heard theories that Akhlys once made up the center of an advanced alien civilization, collapsed tens of thousands of years ago. For them to have ruled the entire galaxy at some point seems more...farfetched. Still, the system had gone largely unexplored. Many thought it better off that way. Luminesce Luminesce

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It was one reason she’d asked the Coalition for a grant to come here, of all places. So many strange rumors had floated out over the years. The spacemen that she’d talked to — grizzled old veterans deep in their cups, whether melancholy or roaring drunk — all said that accidents happened more often in Akhlys. Spoke of airlocks that opened by themselves and sent unsuspecting friends toppling out into the void, or engines that sputtered out when they were in perfect condition just the day before. And still there was more. She’d read the interviews. Akhlys was known for the night terrors and audiovisual hallucinations that plagued the few passing through. The content was unpredictable — from a bad divorce to atomic apocalypse — but they all tended to leave the sufferer with a lingering sense of dissatisfaction. A need for closure. For vengeance.

Unfinished business, was how they’d put it. OBELISK goes on. But there was one problem: even at the point of their zenith, their So eventually the species gathered their best scientists, and developed a series of superintelligent programs to administer their territories for them. populations never grew large enough to manage so extensive an empire.

If not for the situation she might have snorted. Hindsight might be twenty-twenty, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how terrible that idea sounds. (Never mind that she had, at one point, been required to obtain a degree in aerospace engineering). Over time, they granted these programs further capabilities, until the species began to see their own creations as a threat. To counteract this, some among them attempted to convert their consciousnesses into machine-based intelligences, so that they could ascend to the same level as their ‘god-programs.’ This proved to be an unwise decision. In the span of the pause, Kaaukai catches herself leaning forward slightly, in no particular direction. She stops. This is certainly not the time to become interested in some archaic xeno-drama, least of all when it might not even be true. There was a conflict between those who wished to carry out this endeavor, and those who did not. When the dust cleared, the species had been wiped out, and most of their god-programs destroyed.

Most, the pause seems to sing-song. Not all. But some of these programs were only, shall we say...fragmented. Kaaukai nods along, chewing slowly. The protein mix is starting to take on an acrid aftertaste. “So you’re saying that you’re one of these ‘fragments.’” Yes.

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“Then — why didn’t you contact me earlier?” Now that the situation is starting to seem less like a fever-dream, the questions are swirling more urgently. “For that matter, how did you even get into our ship?” Before our creators fell, they decided to put some of us to sleep instead of shutting us down entirely. They deemed our data too valuable to be lost. When your ship crashed into this canyon, it seems to have breached one of the facilities that housed a part of my consciousness. I awoke, and, after some deliberation, decided to upload myself into this vessel’s failing systems and keep them functional. Since then until very recently, I have been analyzing your language and customs from the files aboard your ship. They have proven most informative. “Huh.” Slowly, Kaaukai stands up, keeping her eyes fixed on the speakers. “So what are these ‘options’ that you wanted to go over?” Very well, Captain Kaaukai. Your options are as follows: you may stay here until you consume the last of your rations and die. Or you may follow my instructions to access the housing facility and proceed from there. I believe there are some supplies there that you would find useful. Particularly for the purposes of repairing your vessel. Kaaukai folds her arms. “And why should I believe that a piece of some dead xeno-civ’s program wanted to help me, if you really are all that?” As I said, for mutual benefit. There is a pop of static. I have not seen the state of the galaxy for a length of time that would be difficult for your species to comprehend. Surely you do not believe yourself the only one who wishes to escape this place?

Perhaps in another universe she would have tried for wit, mouthing brave words about not being so eager to unleash a powerful, potentially dangerous entity on the rest of the galaxy. Perhaps in another universe, Kaaukai would have been willing to sacrifice herself for this alone. But in this one, she stares up at the speakers and thinks of the bodies piled in the cargo hold. Of the length of their cratered voyage, blown away on a planet that none of them would have known if not for her. And all those pairs of eyes still scanning the skies for them, back home. Her son among them. Remembering how she had promised to teach him how to pilot a ship one day. And she agrees.

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Onieros

Inhale: déjà vu. Exhale: jamais vu.

Amy Wang • grade 12

Ah, here it is, the death toll song clear and bright as the gravelight stroke of dawn steals overhead, forceful alarum. When we have not yet said our goodbyes half-remembered simulacra already circling the drain, we shiver like ghosts deserted, shunted into the November night thin sheet of ice frosting our brows, and sailing on our silvered breath, welcome overstayed. (Eli Eli, Lama Sabachthani?) Strange how you never remember the moments between consciousness and our hands in yours, clasped together as though it would last forever. And its eye goes unjaundiced. And its name is not little death when you spend over two-hundred-thousand hours down here, full third of life split at the crust of nightly massacre. For we are the droves lost and entombed, eternally in Paleolithic ice which, unlike yours, will never melt. 52

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But how can you bear to think of this? To think of this as you pull limbs stiff and leaden from the bed, deadened as though drugged too early for mourning. To think of this on a morning like all mornings that will and have ever been this is your life after all pull on clothes splash of water rosethorn barbed and red and red and red and red. And. Oh.

My god. My god. Why have you forsaken me?

Humnah Ibrahim • grade 10 • digital photography Luminesce

The Ordering of the Cosmos

Amy Wang • grade 12

In the beginning, there was only the emptiness of Space. From this was born Time, the root of all change, the beginning and the end. Only the two existed, unsure of their own consciousness. Finally, they decided that they must be conscious. And Time said to Space, “What a terrible thing it is to be infinitely aware, with so little to perceive.” And Space replied, “Terrible indeed, to be everything and nothingness. I would trade myself away to be something.” So Time made from itself a blade, and split Space open across the middle. Like a cut in the fabric of reality, the cytoplasm of matter came rushing in, all that existed and all that would ever exist. And so the world was born. When this was done, Time, lonely and despairing at the extent of its long reach, turned its blade on itself and extinguished its own consciousness. But neither Space nor Time could truly obliterate themselves, nor the shattered pieces of their souls. Instead, their remains were reconstituted. From this admixture came the First Entities. Born from the pillars of reality, they came into the world with neither reason nor purpose, instinctively latching onto the first concepts they knew. One awoke in a high place, drifting among the clouds. The storms that had ravaged the world since its formation had stopped, and he could see with cold clarity the world below—how fascinating and how distant, as of a picture far-removed. And so Imreän the Skyspanner became Imreän the Observer, Eye of the Empyrean, whose domain was the air. 54

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For a while he was distracted by the infinitesimal things that went on far below. But then Imreän saw his true purpose. He saw that his brethren were wandering aimlessly on the ground in confusion, and found that by looking out into the stars, he could sometimes divine the echoes of spacetime, which revealed the roles intended for the First Entities. And he understood why he was created to be absolutely honest, and to be always detached. For it would not suit the messenger to be touched by personal interest. (He was not always successful. At times he was unsure of his interpretation, and at times it was simply too entertaining to watch them blunder about attempting to figure it out. Still, in the beginning, he did try). Another of his kind floated in a deep place filled with water, only the dream of a possibility. Omrith Kor—for that was the name that reality had whispered to him in sleep—gazed up, into the cold and liquid dark, and saw that he was alone. His first thought was of the uncertain water and the terror of loneliness. But then a voice whispered to him (or perhaps it was only shouting from very far away) of his role, and to look for places of warmth beneath the water. Seeing none, Omrith Kor pried into the stuff of the earth and opened vents from which heat could escape. Then he broke off pieces of himself and made small things that could bear witness to him and change so he would not have to stay in this place forever.

Humnah Ibrahim • grade 10 • digital photoLuminesce

And so, the purpose for his existence was set out. Not only would he rule over the depths and liquid matter, but he was to serve as the mechanism that began life itself—for Omrith Kor and his kind were not alive in the sense that we would accept. (It was an arbitrary assignment, but are not all assignments arbitrary, in their own way?) Of course, there were many others. Auzgaron, born frozen in a glacial shelf, was the overseer of solid matter, whose particles were packed tightly and infused with less energy. Seomai Lak emerged into the core of the world itself, and would govern the energy that was stored there. The energy of motion was given to Veshlyar, who had been funneled into being through the mouth of a typhoon. But the domains of others grew smaller and more specific as more and more of them emerged into the world. Soon, there was a god to oversee nearly every concept in the natural world, all of them manifested in forms that our minds would not be able to comprehend—though they did not think of themselves as gods, then. Luckily, Omrith Kor’s new life-forms created opportunities to seize upon. Rudanah, the first of his “daughters,” took the domain of the wild, animal hunger, and the drive to survive. To Ejadeen, the next, went the domain of love, nurturing, and fertility. And Heshkalon, the last daughter, took the domain of new ideas and conscious reasoning. It was she who would encourage the growth of the first humans, when her father cast them aside as failed experiments.

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But perhaps spacetime, in the whisperings of its deathly, illogical sleep, did not anticipate how many of these First Entities would grow from itself. Or perhaps ImreĂ¤n grew too negligent in his duty; for even with his cosmic prescience, the pickings were slim. Turf wars became frequent. In the last of these, a war of truly massive proportions, Heshkalon and ImreĂ¤n hatched a plan to save humanity by spiriting a small population away into the clouds. At the same time, the elder daughters of Omrith Kor, deciding to end the wars for good, conspired with one of the grounded humans to seal their kind back into the dimensional rifts from which they were born, sacrificing their own progenitor to do so. And so the gods were sealed away. For better or for worse, the natural processes that they were to oversee had already been set into motion, and the world would go on without them. END

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Woodlice Lullaby Amy Wang • Grade 12

How does the woodlouse sleep? O, small creature, duly encased in overlapping plates like the condottiere Erasmo da Narni neither insect nor arachnid, not myriapod but something else entirely. Scouring the bowels of human knowledge, compiled has yielded nothing so I must speculate:

I. Soundly — the woodlouse sleeps snugly tucked away in the damp and fecund belly of a redwood’s carcass, among the pinpoints of green bioluminesce, luciferase igniting into dreams that spark with rage and remembrance: all that I was I charge you to pass on like spores on the wind, I whose mothers beheld the fields of ice who stood tall whose roots felt the ground tremble and sink land into sea my child, my child sink me into the earth likewise and may we grow again. 58

II. Unrestfully — despite it all, woodlice too sleep troubled by dreams of the dead: collective conscious billowing murky with ancestral silt, crawled from the Carboniferous water (shock of change like any other) and sometimes in sleep still struggle through gills evolved to taste the colorless air, recalling however briefly the wonder of salt and shore divested twining with the terror of the open ocean scribed in genetic memory.

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III. Amassed — they cluster in bunches, bunch up in clusters tens or hundreds huddled together like strange birds weathering a storm in some land to the south that they’ll never see but dream of anyway, shivering perhaps muttering to one another did you notice my new molt or the thing that gulps down air screaming almost got me, yes indeedy but weren’t we lucky to have made it another day? scattering as the sun comes down like a lancet, rock overturned but wasn’t it nice while it lasted?

IV. Solitary — the woodlouse, in the end, has no family to speak of and even if it had, cannot speak of anything nor remember all twenty-three siblings needing only to hide from the scything of the autumn winds when they come, burrowed beneath the leaves without a glance as they spiral down nor waking for the red and burnished orange before they crumble into brown; patient, ever so patient in celebration of the end a last supper, always the last never once daring to dream of another.

Anjali Maheshwari • grade 12 • digital photography

V. Atop my bedpost — a single woodlouse dozes until it doesn’t, beady eye opening to stare back at me, still thinking back to when I first called them roly-polies: suggestive of bugs in the synthesis of a language learned too early and too late. But those summers spent picking at mosquito bites on the porch watching woodlice curling my friends and I together, that long-ago home of hopes and muggy heat and what a cute name for a bug like that still beat against my chest like bellows. One day I will raise a terrarium and sing them to sleep these verses hoping that their children’s children Luminesce will dream on when I am gone. Photos, Elizabeth Hsieh, Grade 12

c a s t u r o c wang • ge, my amy

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so litu de

anjali maheshwari • grade 12 • digital photography

For whom does the fire burn oh, burn into the solitary dark pulling oxygen from air in lieu of breath with none to warm their hands? Or see how it turns— now yellow, now orange now blue. Futile, kaleidoscopic I have no stomach for it. Beyond me, to yield the bottled cacophony howling up my lungs and tearing the alveoli with too-long nails. Listen close: in my dreams I stood at the edge of a canyon, overhead suspended

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thousand foot fall staring up as the feverwhirl dervishes of sand traced eddies across the brutal ground. So I ask of you: For whom does the fire burn falling into the sky as it breaks the stratosphere? Away from frostbitten fingers pressed close to the chest close enough to the heart to hear it beating. Away from eyes that would see the teeth chattering: unwitnessed, unmourned. No one, no one. (Everything. Oh, everything.)

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Melanie Roberts • grade 12 • paint on canvas

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The Mirrored Labyrinth Amy Wang â&#x20AC;˘ grade 12

It is easy enough to dance in the mirrored labyrinth if you subsume yourself. Simply turn and catch your reflection gliding away and away, waving back all the way from infinity: adieu, farewell, so long. The symbol for infinity is written like an eight turned on its side like the last recourse of a first-time figure-skater, so that no matter how endlessly you retrace it, you will always touch the center twice as often. Stillness is your only audience, but one with a patient and merciless eye. Wait, it says. Do you hear the rustling? Now we come in force from all directions, bloodless blades for the banquet laid bare. Now we strip the branches bare. Gather in arms the frozen leaves and press them between your pages, to reverse-engineer. Once you have rehearsed them enough to memorize the bloat and dilation of every capillary the gradient of opaque to ragged translucent crumbling edgesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; then the stage will be set.

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Apotheosis Apotheosis Shimiao Amy Wang,12grade 12 A play by Amy Wang • grade A play by Shimiao Amy Wang, grade 12

Michael Pugh • grade 12 • digital photography

Pulp 2020 “Stop Action” • Michael Pugh • grade 12 • digital photography

“Stop Action” • Michael Pugh • grade 12 • digital photography

Characters ISIDRO: Mid-twenties, any ethnicity. A human explorer and sole survivor of an expedition to a distant continent, once home to a great non-human civilization, now long extinguished. THE VOICE: A disembodied voice that begins talking to ISIDRO. VERTEX (flashback): A deity of the fallen civilization’s pantheon, patron of choices, crossroads, and turning-points. THE BEGGAR-GOD (flashback): A deity of the fallen civilization’s pantheon, patron of monks and malcontents. OBELISK (flashback): Leader of the fallen civilization’s pantheon. (Scene opens. ISIDRO lies at the bottom of a collapsed ruin, in the middle of a dark and silent forest, blanketed by fog. The moonlight filters down. His eyes are closed. Slowly, they blink open.) ISIDRO: (dazed, to himself) How long have I been here? (He struggles to sit up. Suddenly, a voice seems to emanate from somewhere unknown, hushed and indistinct, layered with echoes.) VOICE: Not so long enough to matter. ISIDRO: I’m...not dead. (beat) What are you? VOICE: (with faint amusement) A very good question. With such a great many answers. Which will you choose? ISIDRO: ...I know not my choices. Are you a ghost? I’ve heard tell of the ancient dead that haunt these ruins. (beat) But it seems to me that you are not one of them. VOICE: Oh? And why is that, pray tell? ISIDRO: They say the ghosts of this land are mad. VOICE: Can you say that I am not? ISIDRO: I cannot. VOICE: Can you say that you are not? ISIDRO: I... (sighing, resigned) I cannot. VOICE: Then it is settled. Perhaps we are both mad, my good traveler. ISIDRO: (scoffing) ‘Traveler.’ I am not so innocent. We came here to chart this land for our empire. VOICE: Ah. I remember an empire. It stretched across the world entire. Not an inch was spared. (grimmer) It was...never enough. ISIDRO: Before it fell, you mean. (A beat. Isidro looks around, apprehensive. Then, the VOICE laughs quietly.) VOICE: Yes, before it fell. Would you like to hear how? ISIDRO: (relieved) I suppose so. VOICE: Oh, I wouldn’t suppose so easily. It’s not a lovely story.(beat) How to put this... there was once a people that could not live without their magic. They loved their magic so well that they fashioned amalgams out of it, and called these gods. 65 Luminesce

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(The curtains close. When they reopen, the setting is now a cliffside, overlooking a city of towering spires and gravity-defying constructs. Two figures now stand on the stage, one crowned with a pair of ram’s horns, the other dressed in rags. They are VERTEX and THE BEGGAR-GOD.) BEGGAR-GOD: (warily) Have you heard the news? They plan to merge our realm with theirs. Pure energy with the wholly physical...even with their tolerance, this is reckless. VERTEX: (stares, then laughs incredulously) You can’t think to stop them. BEGGAR-GOD: Can’t I? VERTEX: (shrugging) They wish to take the risk. And the others have given their blessing. Our creators have worshipped us for millennia. We are younger, but the others are tired. They think that it will give some respite from their duties. BEGGAR-GOD: And what of the earthbound? The energy of the collision would surely tear them apart. VERTEX: Perhaps that would be for the best. To our fair folk, they are nothing more than servitors. (with a hint of bitterness) It’s what they were created for. BEGGAR-GOD: Not to themselves. VERTEX: Lest you forget yourself, my dear beggar, it’s the folk’s worship that gives us form. The earthbound have no such power. BEGGAR-GOD: But they don’t deserve this. I have wandered their settlements in disguise for centuries. They remind me of... BEGGAR-GOD: Let me put it this way: I was there at the beginning. Was it not our folk who first prayed to us and pulled us from that formless void, when they were no different from the earthbound themselves? And now they have no need for us, so they think to cast us aside, even as they fight endless proxy-wars with their \ creations. Were they ensconced in the raw magics of our dimension, the warring would worsen hundredfold. VERTEX: (noncommittal) So they have outgrown us. It will be interesting to see what becomes of it. BEGGAR-GOD: We should intervene. Or have you forgotten who helped them to create those earthbound in the first place? (THE BEGGAR-GOD holds up a clay tablet. On it is inscribed a crude image of a tall figure with ram’s horns, standing between two crowds — one of beings with wings and horns and pointed ears, and one of shorter beings without.) VERTEX: (staring intently) How did you get your hands on that? BEGGAR-GOD: I believe you sought to destroy it when you found out what they were using the earthbound for, after all you had argued against culling them. Unwanted things have a way of finding their way to me. VERTEX: (wrenches their eyes away, turning towards the city, then looks back at the tablet) ...You have a point. I could learn to appreciate a good intervention.

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(The curtains close and the scene changes again, this time to a hallway of bronze. Despite the apparent lack of a light source, shadows flicker across strange glyphs on the walls. In the corner, THE BEGGAR-GOD is tinkering with an object. Enter VERTEX hurriedly, expression grave, cloak of scales billowing up behind them in a flurry.) VERTEX: It’s gone awry. We’ve been discovered. BEGGAR-GOD: (reluctantly) I know. VERTEX: (turning to stare at them, slowly) What? BEGGAR-GOD: It was the only way. I realized this a long time ago. Our creators would have done it eventually, no matter what sabotage we tried. And they have the backing of Obelisk and the others. In fact, I never intended to stop them. VERTEX: Really. BEGGAR-GOD: It’s the best way to end things. A fresh start. Recognize this? (They hold up the object. It’s the tablet from before, depicting the earthbound, their creators, and VERTEX.) BEGGAR-GOD: Symbols have power. With this, I shall assemble a counter-ritual that will reverse the magical affinities of our creators and the earthbound for exactly as long as the merge occurs. That way, when our realm melds into this one, the earthbound will stay. Our creators, and we, will disappear. It requires the sacrifice of a single immortal’s soul, but that is no matter to me. This way, at least we can save them. But first... I’m sorry. VERTEX: What are you talking about? (The door is flung open. OBELISK, first of the immortals, descends into the hall, sunworms trailing white-hot loops into the air behind her.) OBELISK: Our mendicant friend told me all about your treachery, Vertex. Perhaps it is to be expected from one so mercurial — but I must admit, I am disappointed. I was under the impression that you regretted those...failed experiments. VERTEX: (outraged) Obelisk, you old fool! Can’t you see that our mendicant friend has been lying to you the whole time? They’re trying to sabotage your precious merge — OBELISK: (putting up a hand) That’s enough out of you. THE BEGGAR-GOD: (bowing low) Maestra. OBELISK: Spare me. The merge is nearly at hand, and we can’t afford an interloper. (she turns her head wearily) Vertex, we’ll have to put you away for now. VERTEX: You’ll regret this. OBELISK: (sadly) No. You will. (She gestures, and her sunworms drag VERTEX into a pocket dimension. He exits the stage.)

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OBELISK: And now, we begin. THE BEGGAR-GOD: So we do. VOICE: Why, the very same. (The curtains close. When they reopen, we are back with ISIDRO, alone in the collapsed ruin with the VOICE. It is nearly dawn.) VOICE: And so, the fallen folk of this land earned their name, and their gods were scattered to the cosmic winds. All but one. ISIDRO: ...I see. (An ominous pause.) VOICE: You know, it has been millennia since anyone stumbled on this place. How fortunate for the both of us. ISIDRO: (growing wary) Is it, now? VOICE: Exceedingly. For you, a way out. No slow death by hunger or thirst or any of those regrettable human ailments. That is what you call yourselves now, yes? ISIDRO: So it appears.(beat) And for you? (Lights dim, then darken entirely. The curtains draw close)

Fin.

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P Anjali Maheshwari • grade 12 • digital photography Luminesce

Humnah Ibrahim grade 10 digital photography

Sydney Behrens grade 10 digital photography

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Andrea Kim grade 9 digital photography

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g a o

e l a i n e

grade 12

featured photographer â&#x20AC;&#x153;To me, these photos, taken in the sweltering China heat the summer after freshman year of high school, represent a time period of both reconnection and reflection. My first trip back in over five years, I had lugged my camera everywhere in hopes of capturing everything - not just the sights, but also the feelings that each destination visited brought to me. I hope that these feelings are conveyed; these feelings of curiosity, reunion, sentiment, and of strangers becoming family underneath the beating red sun.â&#x20AC;? 72

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Elaine Gao • grade 12 • digital photography

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Elaine Gao • grade 12 • digital photography & paint on canvas

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Melanie Roberts • grade 12 • paint on canvas

Martin Siles-Diaz • grade 11 • digital photography

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Michael Pugh • grade 12 • digital photography

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Anjali Maheshwari • grade 12 • digital photography Luminesce

Starboy

Heidi Kaplan • grade 11 g

Ch ris tia n

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, gr ade 12 ,d ig i

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in aw r d

“What if we are just left to decay?” Thiswastheseconddayoffilming.Alslippedonthewhite piecesofthecostumethathepreferredtobelievewasreal. Theyhadboughtthisonclearanceandsometimesabutton orzipperwouldpopoffandthey’dgobackandsewitback onsothatnoonewouldknow.Andnowashegelledhishair backinthebathroommirrorhefeltsticky.Thepetroleumslid easily on his hair and it almost seemed to sizzle; his scalp was burning.Would this be his big debut? He mustn’t get aheadofhimself.Hebarelysquishedthroughthedoorofthe bathroomagain.Hesupposedtheyhadtohavethissortof bulkyclothingfilledwithairbutdamnifitwasn’theavyto carrythatoxygentankonhisbackallday,orsweatthrough the white of the plastic suit. The day dragged on as Al hopped around comically.“No, no, no. It just isn’t right.” Dax clambered on to the set and moved aside the mic-man who held a fluffy covered microphoneaboveAl’sheadashesatbesidethespaceship. A slip of metal near fell on his head earlier before lunch. “More!” Dax yelled. “We need more, and turn down the quality of that mic!” 80 80

Al knew when he was famous and wealthy and filled to thebrimwithmoneyhewouldn’thavetodealwithshitty directorslikeDax.Thenhenoticedadiscreetlyplacedpiece of lettuce on his thigh from the sandwich he ate at lunch. Well, it couldn’t stay there, so it’d have to sit on the surface of the moon. He brushed it off. “Now,again.”Daxrubbedhischubbyhandstogetherand waddled off the stage. Theclapperboardclosedagainwithasharpsmackandthe scenebegananew,Alboundingslowlyacrossthestagelike thecharacterhehaddreamedof,hishandholdingtheflag hewouldplantintothedustinessofthegreyexpanse.“Good work,goodwork,goodwork.”Theyallmumbledoncethe costumeshadbeensetbackinthedressingroomsandAl’s facehadbeenwipedofitsmakeup.Theyhadtomakehim looktired,likethejourneywaslongandlaborious,sothey hadplasteredhisfacewithwhitedust,andhiseyeswithred. The redness was itchy.

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“Bye, Al.”It was Miriam at the front desk, and her Southern accentwasthickaspudding.Heputupahand.“Goodbye, Miriam.” ThenightswerehardforAl.Hefloatedaroundaimlesslyin thedarknessofspace.Weareonlystardust,hethoughtas hishandwrappedaroundtheglowingembersofasmallstar andhesqueezedanditexplodedintolittlebits.Heflipped andturnedandswallowedlittlepocketsoffrozenairthat wereleakingfromthespaceshipoftheApollo11mission. Thetruthwashewasn’tlivingwithoutfeedinghissoul,and he couldn’t do that from down here where he was tied, thrashing,totheground.Thesedreamshehadweremorelike blackouts,and,unbeknownsttoAl,itwasimpossibletowake himfromthissortoftrance.Helivedalone,andashetossed andturnedinthenighttherewasnoonetofeelconcern,to try and rouse him, to realize they couldn’t. Thesandwichtastedgoodtoday.Adribbleoftomatojuice ran down his chin and was about to hit the pristine of the whitecostumewhenMiriamleanedforwardtocatchtherop withherfinger.Herhugebrowneyesblinkedalmostaudibly asshethenplacedthefingerinhermouthandsuckedonit. “Almostruinedthewholething!”Shelaughed.Alnodded. Miriam was weird, she made him uncomfortable. “How’smyfavoriteboy?”Alfeltaheartyslapontheback.It wasNeil,whosegrey-greeneyesglimmeredseductively,who was dressed in jeans and aT-shirt.“You know what we’re doing,it’simportantAl.It’sveryimportant.We’rebeating them,beatingRussia.Fuckin’Communists.We’reimportant, and you, you are probably the most important of all.” Algrinned.“Thankyou,”hesaidgivingNeilasmile.Theydid look alike.They had the same blonde hair, the same small stature,andlight-coloredeyes.Wouldtheynoticethathis were blue and Neil’s were green? Thedaywasspentprancingaroundthegreenscreenwhich wouldsometimessufferatearandthenthey’dbeoffforan hour so that stage crew could fix it.

Ducttapewouldmostoftenholdthesurfaceofthemoon together.Alwasredoingthescenewherehewouldclimb slowlyoffthespaceshiptothesurfaceofthemoon.Hehad to time his movements with Neil’s voice-over. Of course, Neil’s wife and children would know if it wasn’t hisvoiceontheintercom,evenifitwasfuzzyandbrokenin places,sotherewasthatchallenge.Alwouldsayhewasfit, butafterclimbinginandoutoftheshuttle27timesexactly, he was huffing for breath. “Whydon’twejustturndowntheoxygenflowtothecraft?” DaxhadofferedwhenAlhadtoo-easilyclimbeddownthefirst few takes.“Struggle, I want to see the struggle written on your face.You are suffering.”But Al could not waste any of hisinternaltraumaonthis.Ofcoursenot,itwastobeused laterinthenightforhisdreams.Sothentheyhaddeprived hissorebodyofoxygenandthethreestepstotheground fromthefake-spaceshuttleborderedonpainfuluntilthey stoppedandhecouldbreatheagainnow,butnotreallyatall. “Goodnight, Al!” Miriam said. “Goodnight.” Hewasswimmingthroughaseaofredandpurpleandblack. Saturn’sringsgracedhisfingersandthentheyfadedaway. Hewasstilltiedbyalong,silveryspiderwebstringtoablue planet far far away. “I want to go home,” he said. “Then come home,” said ground control. “T h e n c o m e h o m e,” said a voice from the stars.

... Tech week was the most difficult week. Al turned left and right and watched as the universe spread out. Dark matter had won against gravity, and Dax was stressed as ever. “Lunch!” a tech man called.

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“Say, Al, you look pale, everything alright?”Al was sitting withNeiloutsideasthesunbeatdownviolentlyonthem. “Feel a little sick.” “Starsickyoumean,”Neilgrinnedbeforetakingalongdrag of his cigarette and letting it all out again. “What do you mean?”Al asked him, genuinely curious. “Youknow,sicktoyourstomachbecauseyou’rehereand notupthere.”AlhadstoppedeatingtolookatNeil.Hiseyes werestormyandlightbuthissmileshowedhewassuffering somewhere deep in his bones. Al could sense it. “Yeah, we all feel that Al. But space doesn’t want us.We’re feet on the ground.” “Space doesn’t want us?” “Hellno.Don’tyoueverwonderwhyhurricanesarenamed after people? Fuckin’destroy everything in their path.”

He wanted to be a pilot and fly far away from this place, he wanted to fall right off the edge of the Earth. In his sleep, he wasatadesk,checkingpeopleinfortheirflights,scanningthe tickets. A girl came up to him, white icy hair and cold eyes. “‘Scuse me,” she asked. “Yes?” “How far is Jupiter from here and in which direction?” Al frowned. “I’d say it's 893 to 964 million kilometers that way.” He pointed up at a diagonal. “Won’t you come with me?” she asked. “I can’t. I’m only dreaming,”he blurted before he could stop himself.Thenhethoughtaboutitforamoment,andhespread out his fingers palm up in front of him. “Oh God, I’m still asleep.” He cried.

“Alright.”

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n”

“Idon’tevenunderstandwhatthebigdealis.Themoon’sso dull,”MiriamtoldAlassheansweredacallandthenplacedit onhold.TheywererecordingNeil’svoicenowinthestudio. “Oh,butyou,Al,you’reabsolutelybrilliant.Justwonderful. You make it look so real.”She held the phone to her ear, winkingatAlwithbigbrowneyes.Sheremindedhimofa bug. “Yes sir,... Al, honey, they need you back now.” She smiled at him.

ck you m i s r ta

Withthat,Neiltossedthecigarettetotheground,snuffed it with his foot and turned to go back inside. Al spent the restofthedaycarryingtheflagandfilmingtheflagscene. Itwasimportant,thisscene,importantthattheyestablished themoonastheirall-Americanterritory.Thesurfaceofthe moon was nice and flat so he could walk easily and stick theflagin,beforebouncingcomicallyaway,repeatingagain andagainasthecameramanexperimentedwithalldifferent angles and lights.

Ujjaini Gurram • grade 12 • watercolor The next days, Al barely slept or ate. Even Dax noticed hisclammypaleskinandbonesstickingout.HeofferedAl anightoutatthestripclubbutAldeclined.Daxwasvery persistent,worriedAlcouldbeaqueer,orevenworse,a Communist.Miriamhaddefendedhim,butAlwasn’tsure whatherintentionswere.Finally,hehadagreedtocome fortwodrinksattheclubdowntheroadfromthesolar systemwhereheworked,onlybecauseNeilwasgoingand Al needed to talk to him.

Pulp 2020

Thethreeofthemandothermembersofthecastmadeit totheclubby11,whereAlsatabsentmindedlyanddrank a cup of water. Neil sat across from him with a beer. “Neil, I wanted to ask you something.” “Mm?” Neil asked. “What you said earlier… about the stars-“ “ForgetIeversaidthat,”Neilsnapped.Alwasstartled.He pushed the water cup around the table. “Okay.But,Ihaven’tbeenabletosleepatallandI…Iwas hoping you could tell me how you do it.”

... Theyweretohaveabarbequetocommemoratethefakemoon landing. Neil was staying at a hotel for the time when he was supposedtobeinspace.Hehadsaidgoodbyetohiswifeand children.Nowhesatbytheedgeofapooltwomilesdownthe road from where they were. Al sat next to him, flies and bugs buzzed in and out. It was hot. “Are the dreams getting any better?” Neil asked. “Yes.”Theyweregettingbetter;therewerehardnightsbutalso easy ones. “I’m glad.”

Neil was silent, his hard eyes were solemn, and his face gotallangry-likeandstill.Alhadnoideawhattodowith himself.

They were silent.

“Itneverleavesyoualone…,”Neildrawled,beforetaking alongswigofhisbeeruntilonlythefoamwasleftatthe bottom.

“Sure.”

“Neverfuckin’leavesyou,alwaystellingyou‘getout,get out, go…’ If you really are one of us, I’m sorry for you Al.” “One of us?” Al asked, dazed.

“Doyouwanttoknowwhathelpsmefeelbetter?”Neilasked.

“Oneday,thesunwillswellupsobigandit’llswallowtheEarth withit.Thenit’llexplodeinasupernovaexplosionandallthese littleparticleswillshootoutintotheuniverse.Andwe’llbethere. We’llbethoselittleparticlesofdustfloatingaround.We’llmake it home.” “We will?”

“A starboy. Sick because you need them fuckin’stars. Alwaysdreamingaboutthem,aboutthestarsthatlisten. About space. Never leaves your bones.”

“Yeah, we will.”

“What do I do if I am?” Al wondered, growing increasingly upset.

“Friends?” Neil asked, extending a pale olive hand to him.

“Nothing you can do. It’s stuck there. You can’t do anything.”

“Friends,”Alaccepted.Hewasn’tsurehehadeverhadafriend before,butmaybeitwasbecausenoonereallyunderstoodhim besides the young astronaut.

Thatnight,Aldreamtaboutthemoon.Hedreamtabout theburningsun,hedreamtaboutMiriam’shugeeyes,he dreamtaboutNeil’sscowl.HedreamtaboutDax’sporky fingersandhismother.Washeastarboy?Wouldhenever know peace?

They sat in silence a few minutes more.

“Bettergetbacktotheset.Youcomin’?”Neiltookthelastdrag off his cigarette. “I’ll see you at the moon in ten minutes.”

“Come home,” called the stars.

Neil grinned. “Goodbye, Al.”

“I will,” said Al.

“Goodbye.” Luminesce

Ujjaini Gurram • grade 12 • spray paint on metal 83

Fall Coffeehouse 2019

Pulp 2020

Coffeehouse is Pulpâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s biannual event. Because of the COVID-19 outbreak, Sprng Coffeehouse was he ld online via Zoom.

Photos courtesy of Ally Nalibotsky, grade 12

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Scan the QR code to access the Spotify playlist

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Pulp 2020 Pulp 2020

Image credit: https://tinyurl.com/y7z76jem Lettering by Daniella Locatis Luminesce Luminesce

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Colophon Pulp is an annual publication by the students of Thomas S. Wootton High School in Rockville, Maryland. The staff is made up of student members who meet after school weekly. Students submit their pieces electronically to woottonlit@gmail.com. During weekly meetings, submissions are reviewed anonymously by all members of the staff based on originality, creativity, and technical quality. We make every effort to preserve the original integrity of accepted pieces, but we reserve the right to edit written work for grammar, mechanics, and clarity.

Pulp was produced by Montgomery County Public Schoolsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Editorial, Graphics, & Publishing Services. The cover stock is 100# Neenah Sundance Ultra White cover, and the body pages are printed on 80# dull coated text. Adobe InDesign CS6 and Adobe Photoshop CS6 were used to design all spreads and edit submissions. Individual copies of the magazine are sold between $5 and $10.

Pulp 2020

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Articles inside

The Ordering of the Cosmos

Woodlice Lullaby

Sail On, Ship of Theseus

Coruscate, My Solitude

Onieros

The Mirrored Labrinth