2023 Anthology and Catalogue: Select Works by YoungArts Honorable Mention and Merit Winners by YoungArts

Anthology + Catalogue

Select works by the 2023 YoungArts Honorable Mention and Merit award winners

YoungArts

Anthology + Catalogue

3 YoungArts

Select works by the 2023 Honorable Mention and Merit award winners in Design Arts, Photography, Visual Arts and Writing

2023 National YoungArts Week T-Shirt Designed by Kelley Lu (2021 Design Arts)

Acknowledgments

We are thrilled to welcome you to this Anthology + Catalogue, comprising works by the 2023 YoungArts Honorable Mention and Merit award winners in Design Arts, Photography, Visual Arts and Writing. An affirmation of the caliber of their expressions, these editions are often the first opportunity for young artists to see their work published and represent a bold step toward a professional future in the arts.

Our work is a continuous process that depends upon the knowledge and commitment of a vast network of guest artists, teachers and educators. We are grateful for the many partnerships and artists who have helped inspire this next generation of artists. We extend our gratitude to Anthology Editor, Jordan Levin.

This volume and YoungArts programming are made possible with the generous support of many.

Please visit youngarts.org/donor-recognition for a complete list of donors.

Above all, we extend our sincerest gratitude to the artists featured. We dedicate this publication to you, your families, teachers and mentors.

Table of Contents Select works by 2023 Honorable Mention and Merit award winners in Design Arts, Photography, Visual Arts and Writing Brianna Acevedo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Gryphon Alhonti . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Emily Allison . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Marie Anderson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .22 Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Ognyen Atanaskovich . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Aubrey Barb . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Marcos Barrera . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34 Clio Barrett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Colin Bloom . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36 Rho Bloom-Wang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Jake Bond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Skye Bowdon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Mar Bradley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49 Juna Brothers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52 Lauren Buck . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Marcus Bui . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .56 Clementina Cardana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Disha Catt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .58 Ramona Chae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 David Chen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Renee Chen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 Emelia Ciccolini . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 Nia Simone Clark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .82 Paula Contreras . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Aruna Das . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 Ayamila Daterra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Isabel Davison . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .88 Navin Desai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 Brandon Dowty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .95 Mackenzie Duan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 Kimberley Dunn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 Neva Ensminger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 Paul Fauller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 Camille Faustino . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104 Uma Freitag . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 Naomi Gage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106 Charlotte Gagliardi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 SydneyBlu Garcia-Yao . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 Nathaniel Garza . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 Chavely Gomez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115 Charles Green . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 Piper Greene. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 Brian Guan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 Charlotte Hagen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126 Christine Han . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130 Olive Harrington . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 Deirdre Hickey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132 Atticus Hill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 Dion Hines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136 Irene Ho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137 Claire Hong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138 Hannah Hong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 Joanne Hong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142 Jenny Hu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 Corine Huang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 Kaylie Hudson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152 Caitlyn Iaccino . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 Madhalasa Iyer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154 Arihant Jain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 Shnayjaah Jeanty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156 Fiona Jin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158 Annie Johnson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159 Myra Kamal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164 Andrew Kang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165 Ari Karlin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 Marissa Kelley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168 Alexis Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175 Erin Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176 Jin Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177 Darius King . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179 Isabelle Kong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184 Sherice Kong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185 Evelyn Joonhee Koo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187 Sophia Lam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 188 Carolyn Lau . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194 Olivia Le . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195 Addison Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196 Ariana Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197 Sophia Leng . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198 Marielle Lerner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199 Hahmini Lewis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200 Lauren Lin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201 Daniel Liu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 202 Sophia Liu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211 Eboni Louigarde . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212 Sofia Lucas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213 Thy Luong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218 Mohini Mahajan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219 Katerina Malabarba . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223 Emily Maremont . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 228 Lilly Marquardt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .247

About YoungArts

Ollie McCrary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 248 Sophia Medina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249 Lyat Melese . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254 Hayward Metcalf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256 Lilly Mitrani . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .257 Nicole Molina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 258 Karolina Montalvo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259 Carlota Montero . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261 MaCayla Moody . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262 Krish Mysoor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263 Claire Nam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 274 Zora Nooks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276 Alicia Nordmeyer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .277 Samaya Norman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 280 Ashley Olszewski . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281 Enrique Oropeza . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 282 Thomas Pace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283 Nikita Pai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284 Mulan Pan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285 Adhya Parna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 288 Christina Poulin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 290 Tara Prakash . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295 Michelle Qiao . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297 Avani Ranka . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 298 Soren Rasmussen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 299 Gabriela Rey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 304 Kaydance Rice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 310 Georgia Rigby . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311 Arysmel Rodriguez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 315 Maria Rosales . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 316 Zaida Ross . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 317 Isabella Rotker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 318 Camila Salinas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 326 Andawen Sauder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .327 Maria Fernanda Serra Almeida Leite . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331 Tatiana Solano . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332 Maggie Su. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .333 Dilara Sümbül . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 334 Lakshmi Sunder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 335 Lindsay Susten . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 337 Camryn Sydnor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341 Phoebe Trask . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 342 Navi Trotman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 344 Isabela Vallar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 345 Jacklyn Vandermel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 346 Amy Wang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 347 Ashley Wang. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 349 Cheungwan Wang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 352 Emma Wang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 353 Kylie Wang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 354 Sophie Wang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 358 Vivian Wang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 359 Wenqian Wang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 361 Elise Webb . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 362 Margaret Whitten . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 363 Patiance Wiley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 364 Chloe Wong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365 Peijin Wu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .376 Jacqueline Xiong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 377 Madison Xu. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 380 Grace Yan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 381 Daniel Yim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 392 Sheerea Yu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 393 Anya Zhang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 394 Natalie Zhang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 399 Sophia Zhang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 400

About YoungArts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 407 Notable Winners. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 408 Guest Artists . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 409 Special Thanks to Educators . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 413 YoungArts Supporters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 417

YoungArts Anthology + Catalogue

Select Works

by the 2023 Honorable Mention and Merit award winners in Design Arts, Photography, Visual Arts and Writing

Brianna Acevedo

and

film photography 2022

Photography Homeschool Miami, FL La Fe Black

white

Gryphon Alhonti

OUT OF SIGHT, OUT OF MIND

INT. GARAGE - MORNING

TITLE CARD: AUSTIN, TEXAS.

CIRCUIT OF THE AMERICAS. ROUND 20.

It’s the twentieth race of the Formula 1 2022 season and the second of the three United States Grands Prix. Ferrari is toe to toe with Mercedes for the constructor’s championship and Ferrari’s Farris Lawrence is six points behind Mercedes’ Eero Heikkinen, the reigning world champion and top contender for the driver’s championship. Elias Becker, Farris’ teammate, follows closely behind at third.

Farris is the first American to race in Formula 1 in quite some time. After suffering a bout of appendicitis, he was unable to race during the Miami Grand Prix, and so today’s race will be his first American race.

The pit crew is rushing around Ferrari’s sector of the pit lane more so than usual, a flurry of red and yellow buzzing about the garage door opening. In the middle of it, ANTONIO (50, Ferrari Team Principal & former Formula 1 driver) has a pair of headphones around his constantly craning neck.

NEIL

I’m sorry sir, but I don’t think we have it.

NEIL (23, Ferrari engineer) has his headphones on his head and a clipboard in his hand. He’s been given the largely avoided job of being Antonio’s punching bag for the day.

ANTONIO

What do you mean? Where the hell is that tire? (stressed, hand on his forehead)

It’s an 18-inch rubber disk. How the hell do we lose that?

NEIL (to himself)

I’d argue it’s a lot more than that...

At the center of the garage is a bright red Ferrari F1-75 with a white fin, yellow overhead camera—and three tires.

The tires each have a yellow stripe on them, signifying they are MEDIUM COMPOUND tires, save for the left rear, which is noticeably bare. The car is lifted on a jack, making the naked axle stick out like a sore thumb.

LUCIA (32, Ferrari Principal Strategy Engineer & general voice of reason) intervenes, sick of Antonio’s complaints and ready to do her job. This is a common occurrence, unfortunately.

LUCIA

He’s just going to have to start on the hards.

ANTONIO

He can’t start on the hards.

LUCIA

Why not?

ANTONIO

This is COTA and he’s starting P3— if we want even a fighting chance against Heikkinen, his tires have to warm up quickly to overtake and last long enough to create a gap. Not to mention that everyone else is starting on the mediums too—our entire strategy will crumble.

LUCIA

No, it won’t. Let’s say Farris does fall behind, okay? By lap 12, most teams will be making their first stop and everyone else will be on the hard compound anyway—yes, tire deg is high, and qualifying proved that quickly enough, but he’s an aggressive enough driver to make up positions once the tire playing field is leveled.

Play or Script Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts

Houston, TX

Not to overstep, but he started on mediums in Zandvoort while everyone else was on softs and we did just fine—even got a podium.

(to Neil)

ANTONIO

He started and finished P3 in Zandvoort. That’s fifteen points. I don’t want fifteen points.

Antonio doesn’t want to admit that Lucia might be right—and so he avoids addressing her point at all.

LUCIA

I’m sorry Antonio, but what exactly are you hoping for here?

ANTONIO

A win.

LUCIA

Oh my God. You’re kidding, right?

ANTONIO

No, Lucia. I’m not. It’s his home race. He’s starting in the second row. He should win.

LUCIA

Look around, Antonio—it’s the hards or no race. If he finishes P2 and gets the eighteen points, that’s only seven points less than P1. He’s still going to be the second-place contender for the championship either way. Do you really want to risk all of this for seven points?

Neil can’t help but step in.

NEIL

Also...there are three US Grands Prix this year...even if he doesn’t win this one, he’ll still have Vegas.

To say that Neil’s words went in one ear and out the other would imply they even reached Antonio at all.

ANTONIO

Lucia, look at me and tell me you want to be the team that cost your driver a home race because you lost a tire.

EXT. GRANDSTANDS - MORNING

Amid a crowd of people dressed in red and yellow, a single man stands out in an ordinary jean jacket and white t-shirt. He looks to be about fifty, hands in his pockets, looking around.

EXT. TRACK - CONTINUOUS

FARRIS LAWRENCE (24, American Ferrari driver) is kneeling on the ground with his flaming red suit unzipped and tied around his waist. There is a little boy in front of him wearing a red hat with a bold white ‘29’ on the bill—Farris leaves his autograph just below it.

FARRIS

Now don’t lose that, alright? If I play my cards right, you just might be able to sell it for a lot of money one day.

BOY

I’d never sell this. I started karting because of you!

FARRIS (laughing)

Really? Have you won any races yet?

BOY

No... but I will!

The boy’s father, just off to the side, laughs along with Farris. It’s a nice moment.

NEIL

Farris looks up and waves at the crowd. Some cheered, others didn’t notice—it’s still early. As he is surveying the crowd, the sore thumb in the jean jacket catches his eye, just close enough to recognize his face. It can’t be—but it is.

Farris’ entire demeanor changes. He lowers his hat and chin, turning back to face the boy and his father. He puts on a show smile.

FATHER

Thanks, man. I really appreciate this. He really does look up to you.

FARRIS

Yeah, no worries. Keep an eye on him, he’s got the energy.

FATHER (laughing)

I will. Good luck today—bring it home.

FARRIS

I’ll try my best.

Waving off, Farris walks off the track and starts making his way to the pit lane.

INT. GARAGE - MORNING

After a slow walk to and through the pit lane with several stops and conversations along the way, Farris enters the garage with a refillable water bottle in his hand and a lot on his mind.

Already preoccupied, the sight of the car’s current tire-less state doesn’t take any weight off.

FARRIS

What’s going on? Why does the car only have three tires on? It should be ready by now.

Lucia sighs, rubbing her forehead.

LUCIA

I’m sorry Farris, but it seems the left rear has gone missing, and we can’t find a replacement.

FARRIS

What?

ANTONIO

—But we will. You’re starting on the mediums, and we’ll do two stops, like we discussed. Mediums, then two stints on the hard compound.

FARRIS

(not quite yelling, but angry)

How the hell do you lose a tire...a whole tire?

Farris sighs loudly, then runs his hand through his hair, taking his cap off in the process.

FARRIS (CONT’D)

(looking off)

I can’t lose this race.

LUCIA

You won’t. The hards are ready to go. Once Antonio stops arguing and lets me do my job, we’ll get those on and have the car on the grid in no time.

FARRIS

(still not quite present— to himself)

I can’t finish lower than second, either. (turning towards the trio)

Where’s Elias?

ANTONIO

You’re going to win. Don’t worry about Elias, he’s starting on the mediums too.

Lucia is not happy.

FARRIS

No, I mean I need to talk to him.

NEIL (timid)

I think he’s up in his room getting ready...

FARRIS

Okay..

(takes a moment to think, not meeting anyone’s gaze) Okay.

He heads off deeper into the garage and up a pair of stairs in the back.

INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

At the end of the hallway, there are two doors beside each other. One has a large ‘FL29’ decal and the one to its right bears an ‘EB87’. Farris stands in front of the latter and knocks.

ELIAS (O.S.) (from inside the room)

Come in!

Farris opens the door and walks in—

INT. ELIAS’S ROOM - CONTINUOUS

The room is well-lit and on the smaller side. There are various pieces of art and letters scattered about the walls in a haphazard manner—they’re going to be packed up soon anyway.

ELIAS BECKER (24, German Ferrari driver) is sitting on a couch with his race suit tied around his waist, similar to Farris. He’s tying his shoes and his cap sits beside him. Farris shuts the door and leans against the doorframe.

ELIAS

Hey man. You ready?

Yeah... yeah.

FARRIS

Elias picks up on his reserved tone and pauses to take a look at Farris.

ELIAS

Doesn’t sound like it. What’s up?

FARRIS

Have you been down to the garage recently?

ELIAS (back to tying his shoes) No, why?

A beat.

FARRIS

Well, as of right now, my car is down there with three mediums on.

ELIAS (stops)

..Three? You’re kidding.

FARRIS

Nope. They lost the left rear, apparently.

ELIAS

How do you lose a tire? Aren’t they heavily monitored?

FARRIS

That’s what I said. Antonio says it’ll be fine and that we’re both starting on the mediums, but I’m not sure how likely that is. I’m not entirely sure what I’m gonna do.

ELIAS

Yeah, I’m with you. But don’t let that get in your head, alright? If anything, they’ll take the mediums off mine and put them on yours.

You’re starting ahead anyway.

Elias is used to this—for the majority of the season, Ferrari’s general strategy has been to utilize and maximize Farris’ aggressive driving style and Elias’ defensive skills. Farris carves the way for Elias to get behind him and Elias helps create a gap between them and whoever is behind. In essence: Farris gets them to the front, Elias makes sure they stay there.

Unfortunately, this strategy largely means that Farris ends up scoring more points than Elias and thus becomes the team’s priority. Being the second driver isn’t always fun—but sometimes that’s the price you pay to be on a top team, or at least that’s what Elias tells himself.

FARRIS

It’s not the tires.

Elias finishes tying his left shoe and leans back. Farris continues standing where he is, one foot up and leaning against the doorframe.

A beat.

My dad’s here.

What?

FARRIS (CONT’D)

ELIAS

FARRIS

Yeah, I know...I’m not entirely sure how to feel about it.

ELIAS

Where is he? Did you talk to him?

FARRIS

(shaking his head)

Nah, I just saw him in the grandstands. (beat)

If he wanted to talk to me, he could’ve asked any of the marshals or... anyone, really. I’d rather not go where I’m not wanted.

ELIAS

Well, if he’s here today, maybe he wants to change that. When was the last time you talked to him?

Farris takes a moment to think. He opts to ignore the question.

FARRIS

I have to win this race, Elias. Elias doesn’t miss the question dodging. He switches tones.

ELIAS

(trying to lighten the mood)

You will. I’ll make sure I’m the only car in your rearview mirrors, alright? That’s my job.

Farris isn’t swayed.

FARRIS

I don’t think he’s ever seen me race before.

ELIAS

...Really? Not even karting?

FARRIS

No, he always dropped me off and left. His first race can’t be the one I lose.

The room is quiet, and Farris’ words settle into the open space—a beat.

FARRIS (CONT’D)

Sometimes I hear radio replays and I catch myself off guard by how much I sound like him.

Having finished getting ready, Elias puts his cap on, stands up, and meets Farris’ gaze.

ELIAS

Don’t make this about him, Farris. If anything, it’s about what you’ve been able to accomplish despite him. (beat)

ELIAS (CONT’D)

You’ll win the race today—on mediums or hards—and you’ll do it not because he’s watching or because he’s worth impressing. You’ll do it because you’re the best damn driver on the grid. Farris smiles. This is why they make such a great team.

FARRIS

Thanks man, I needed that.

ELIAS

All I did was help clear up some of the fog. (clapping Farris’ shoulder)

Now go down there and tell Antonio to take his head out of the clouds and get that car into starting position.

FARRIS (chuckles)

I will.

INT. GARAGE - MORNING

Farris enters the garage with a mission. Operating under pressure is nothing new to him, and he’s handling it the best and only way he knows how— just get in the car and drive.

The car is still up in the air and Antonio, Lucia, and Neil are crowded around a wall of screens along with several other engineers and the pit crew. They’re whispering furiously— Farris comes up from behind and interrupts them.

FARRIS

Does Elias have a full medium set?

Lucia and Antonio look at each other.

LUCIA

Yes, his car is all set and ready to go.

FARRIS

Alright. Take these mediums off and put on the full set of hards.

ANTONIO

Son—

LUCIA (to crew) You heard him.

ANTONIO (to Lucia & crew)

Now just you wait! (to Farris)

There’s still time.

FARRIS

No, there isn’t. And you know it. That car needed to be on the grid ten minutes ago. Now get those tires on my car.

Antonio is hesitant but would rather not get in Farris’ head. He really needs him to win this race.

EXT. TRACK - AFTERNOON

Classic rock echoes over the speakers as the crowds chatter in the distance.

All twenty cars are present on the grid in starting positions with each driver waiting at the wheel. Each car’s tires are individually enveloped in a protective, heated blanket.

EXT. GRANDSTANDS - CONTINUOUS

The aforementioned sore thumb—Farris’ father—is still sitting awkwardly in the grandstands. He’s never been to or even watched a Grand Prix before and he’s not exactly sure how this all works. Looking around, he can’t help but notice all the people around him in red and yellow Ferrari shirts and caps, most of which are clad with ‘29’ or ‘87’.

A voice is echoing across the grandstands as all eyes shift to the drivers on the grid—DAVID JOHNSON (52, British sports commentator) is speaking to his co-commentator and analyst, BRUCE HERRINGTON (37, British) and announcing all of the starting positions.

DAVID (V.O.)

—and that leaves both Ferraris on the second row with Lawrence starting at third and Becker at fourth. Just ahead of them are Jefferson and Heikkinen—the two Mercedes’—at second and first, respectively.

Now correct me if I’m wrong, Bruce, but this is the first time since 2015 that the United States has had one of their own on the grid— Alexander Rossi, right?

EXT. TRACK/GRID - CONTINUOUS

Farris is sitting in his car with his visor up. The operator ZOOMS IN on him as Bruce and David discuss his predecessor. Farris is focused, his eyes narrow and set ahead.

A graphic span the top of the screen: FORMATION LAP. In a procession led by two silver Mercedes cars, the grid of cars slowly breaks into a roll through the track.

BRUCE (V.O.)

You are not mistaken! Rossi finished P12 out of twelve—there were eight retirements during that race! Another interesting thing to note is that while there are technically three home races for Lawrence this season, this is the closest to his actual home. The Ferrari driver was born and raised in Webster, Texas—just three hours away.

EXT. DIRT TRACK - FLASHBACK

A YOUNG MAN (early 20s, race car driver) is in a go-kart driving in a figure eight around a dirt track.

It’s Farris’ father—years before Farris was ever born. Although the majority of his face is obstructed by his helmet, there’s an unmistakable Lawrence glow in his eyes. The dirt sprays beneath his wheels as he snakes around each turn with grace and agility, and the sun beams down on him in a golden haze.

EXT. GRANDSTANDS - PRESENT

The crowd CHEERS at the mention of Farris, their homestate hero—the grandstands are PACKED. Hoards of people in red and yellow merchandise fill the gaps, with many raising flags and wearing cowboy hats.

DAVID (V.O.)

2015 was one for the books, I’m sure.

To your hometown point, I’ll admit the crowd did seem a little put off on Saturday when Lawrence qualified third, but I think it’s safe to say that the sullen feeling is long gone!

BRUCE (V.O.)

Yes! I’m not sure if the viewers at home can hear it, but there has been music playing throughout the stadium all morning.

EXT. GENERAL ADMISSION - CONTINUOUS

A lawn lined with foldable chairs and people in cowboy hats stands idly and excitedly chattering about, itching for the race to begin. The crowds cover every square inch.

BRUCE (V.O.) (CONT’D)

Springsteen, Journey, Guns ‘N Roses-all-American rock! Spirits are high in Austin, Texas as the crowd cheers on their red, white, and blue maverick: Farris Lawrence.

EXT. TRACK/GRID - CONTINUOUS

Farris’ blue helmet stands out among the abundance of red of the car. The forehead and crown of the helmet are adorned with the white outline of a longhorn’s horns design—an ode to the Texas state animal and his aforementioned nickname.

ANTONIO (V.O.)

(on team radio)

Alright Farris, I just spoke to Elias and he’s good to go. Ready to race?

FARRIS (V.O.)

(team radio)

As I’ll ever be.

Having made it back to the start/finish straight, each car takes its place on the staggard painted grid. The Circuit of the Americas is a counterclockwise track—left turns all around. Heikkinen’s P1 position leads with his teammate in P2 diagonally behind him. This means his spot on the grid is going to lead him to the outside of Turn 1, and thus allows for it to be easily overtaken.

One final car parks into position, and then a row of lights above the track turns on one by one, then all turn off at once—it has begun.

DAVID (V.O.)

In comes the last Williams in P20— and it’s lights out and away we go!

Each car reacts in time, all rushing and crowding to make up positions. Heikkinen, Jefferson, Farris, and Elias all get a good start with Jefferson covering Heikkinen on the inside of Turn 1 to prevent Farris from overtaking early on.

INT. F1-75 CAR - CONTINUOUS

Silence.

Farris’ eyes are steady and focused, unblinking through his visor. His steering wheel flashes with various colors and buttons, illuminating his face through his helmet. He’s trying to be gentle with his tires—he has to make them last as long as he can.

A sight in his rearview mirror—Elias. Making a decision, Farris allows Elias the chance to overtake him. He knows Elias will give the position back.

EXT. TRACK - CONTINUOUS

Return to sound.

DAVID (V.O.)

—It’s a ferocious start for Jefferson, having to defend against one angry Lawrence just into Turn 1. He clearly wants to overtake, but he knows he can’t run his tires this early on. Why is it that P1 directly leads into the outside of the turn and not the inside? That’s something I never understood about this track—

Interrupting him is the slight brushing of Jefferson’s rear right tire with Becker’s front left, causing both drivers to run off track. Jefferson continues to spin to the right, eventually crashing into the barriers. Elias spins twice but doesn’t crash—he’s still in this race.

BRUCE (V.O.)

OH! Not even into Turn 2 and it’s looking like we’re going to have a Safety Car! Jefferson and Becker collide, causing the Merc to DNF— but it seems Becker’s just fine!

Farris knows what to do. Speeding up just the slightest bit cements his spot in P2.

FARRIS (V.O.)

(radio)

Is Elias okay?

LUCIA (V.O.) (radio)

He’s alright—just some front wing damage.

TRANSITION TO END OF RACE — LAP 53/56.

Farris is currently leading the race at P1, but he’s been wheel to wheel with Heikkinen on several occasions: the Mercedes driver forcing him into cutting a corner, issues with the Drag Reduction System, and each of them receiving a five second time penalty—one for forcing another driver off the track and one for speeding in the pit lane, respectively. Farris is now on the hard compound tires that he’s been working with for roughly thirteen laps.

INT. F1-75 CAR - MID-RACE

Farris is sitting in his car, hands on the wheel, going roughly 200 kmh. He’s maneuvering through the turns quickly and masterfully, a flurry of red, black, yellow, and white.

FARRIS (V.O.) (radio)

How do the tires look?

LUCIA (V.O.) (radio)

They’re good. Three laps to go—keep pushing.

EXT. GRANDSTANDS - CONTINUOUS

Farris’s father stands, watching his son dominate the track like it’s the easiest thing in the world. The fatherson resemblance is uncanny.

EXT. DIRT TRACK - FLASHBACK

A sign at the entrance reveals the name of the track: the CAVERIN MOTOR SPEEDWAY. The sign is weathered and rusted, but the words are still legible.

The blue go-kart is still making its way through the figure eight with a dusty black ‘57’ painted on the side at the center of a white circle. The tires of the young man’s kart dig into the dirt, spraying it around and CUTTING TO—

EXT. COTA - PRESENT

Farris’ rear tires sparking after swinging out of Turn 17.

DAVID (V.O.)

Lawrence continues to lead the race away from Heikkinen, and let me tell you Bruce, that man is driving like his life depends on it.

BRUCE (V.O.)

Well David, in a way, it does. The championship gap between them is tight, and Lawrence needs every point he can get to win it. The same can be said for Heikkinen— these are two men who cannot help but want the same thing. It’s just a matter of who’s good enough to get it.

Tension builds underneath the sound of the crowds cheering. Then, a voice echoes above all the noise, drowning it all out.

NARRATOR (V.O.)

Icarus fell on the first morning of autumn.

EXT. CAVERIN MOTOR SPEEDWAY - FLASHBACK

Just out of the intersection of the figure eight, Farris’ father speeds through the turn. There’s no one else on the track but him—he’s just having some fun.

NARRATOR (V.O.)

Back then, the sun was a friend. Its beams caressed the orange leaves, the brown and rich earth like a fingertip to the chin.

Then, through the dust and the summer sun, the wheels beneath the kart LOCK UP. Farris’ father drags through the dirt, spinning in circles.

Tension continues to build, the violins melting into the sun of the crash.

EXT. COTA - PRESENT

Farris and Heikkinen are wheel to wheel, the flaring red Ferrari just inches ahead of the silver Mercedes. Everything seems to have slowed down.

NARRATOR (V.O.)

That morning, a new light emerged from beneath the November harvest— a sharp laser piercing through the air from inside the barn.

Out of Turn 19, Farris is forced to take the outside of the turn and Heikkinen takes the inside—he’s going to pass Farris once they make it past the apex of the turn. With just a lap to go, Farris cannot lose like this.

Shoving Heikkinen into the turn, Heikkinen FIGHTS BACK and stands his ground, forcing their tires to make contact.

Farris is airborne—his tires hit the edge of Heikkinen’s and rolled above them.

NARRATOR (V.O.)

In the quiet of the trees, the sound of the wind billowing ruffles across the hills, creeping out into the world—unnoticed and insignificant.

It’s not about the race anymore.

EXT. CAVERIN MOTOR SPEEDWAY - FLASHBACK

Farris’ father SPINS out of the end of the end of the track, a blur of golden dirt and sun—

EXT. COTA - PRESENT

Farris’ car FLIPS and begins to scrape across the track upside down, only to hit the edge of the track and take one final flip out right ahead of the grandstands.

EXT. CAVERIN MOTOR SPEEDWAY - FLASHBACK

His car is upside down.

CLOSE UP OF: Farris’ father’s eyes, glowing in fear and adrenaline.

CUT TO—

EXT. COTA - PRESENT

CLOSE UP OF: Farris’ closed eyes. It’s dark and his head is tucked firmly between his shoulders. The halo—a wishbone- shaped carbon fiber rod doming above the cockpit—saved his life.

NARRATOR (V.O.)

The very beams that once brushed his skin now sizzled his wings to a crisp, and Icarus was left a mess of wax and scabs harrowing through the sky.

EXT. CAVERIN MOTOR SPEEDWAY - FLASHBACK

Farris’ father’s eyes close.

NARRATOR (V.O.)

Over the hills and trees, a faint and far splash echoes across the landscape, unheard.

EXT. GRANDSTANDS - PRESENT

Farris’ car lays in the grass, upside down. It has crashed directly in front of the grandstands his father stands in.

CLOSE UP OF: his father’s face, pale and afraid.

CUT TO—

INT. F1-75 CAR - CONTINUOUS

Farris’ eyes open. He’s alive.

Emily Allison

when i was a crow -

i drink your blood like rum shots when you’re spilling out on the side of the road & we’re naked & you’re lost— you pushed back my skin & ate me from the bottom up the sky’s the limit but there’s fingerprints in my core, there’s bite marks up my thighs.

i hit you with my car because i’d rather you dead than without me. i’ll carve you like a pumpkin— let me get my outline / let me get my knife.

sinew tangling, looping between my teeth, your veins my floss. i sucked until my lips were tender with exhaustion, until every thick tendon was doused in red, had grazed the inside of my cheek, been explored with the bumps on my tongue.

Poetry The Fine Arts Center Greenville, SC

Marie Anderson

SCENE ONE INT. TEVIN’S PIZZA SHOP - LATE DAY

We are in MR. TEVIN’S pizza shop. It is a small shop with only a few tables to eat at. We see IMANI, 17, wiping down the tables in the front of the shop. We see SOULCHILD, 16, on his phone behind the counter. They are wearing all black clothes and white aprons. Soulchild’s boyfriend, JJ, 16, is walking up to the shop. Imani can see him through the front windows.

IMANI

(to Soulchild)

Your boyfriend’s here, Soulchild.

Soulchild looks up from his phone and smiles at his JJ as he walks through the door. Soulchild leans on the counter.

SOULCHILD (to JJ, soft)

JJ does the same.

Hey.

JJ (to Soulchild, soft)

Hi.

They kiss. Imani turns around and sees them.

IMANI

You guys are disgusting. My favorite part of summer is not having to see school couples making out everywhere, and now I can’t even have that.

JJ walks to Imani and bows.

Soulchild and JJ services, ruining single’s summers since 2020.

JJ comes up from his bow and smiles. Imani rolls her eyes.

SOULCHILD

Imani, we need to get you a boyfriend.

IMANI

Have you seen the guys around here? I’m good.

JJ and Soulchild look at each other.

What about you and Ryan? We’ve seen you guys— Imani cuts JJ off and scrunches up her face.

IMANI

We’re not talking about this.

He obviously likes you, and you like him so what’s the—

IMANI

I’m going to the kitchen.

Soulchild laughs.

Play or Script

4th OF JULY

The Appomattox Regional Governor’s School for the Arts And Technology Petersburg, VA

JJ waves at her as she turns away.

Happy 4th of July!

Imani stops, turns around slowly, and makes a confused face at Soulchild, and Soulchild nods his head in response. JJ notices and is confused.

JJ (CONT’D)

What? What is that?

SOULCHILD

She’s asking me if you’re seriously saying, “Happy 4th of July!”

IMANI

I’m not trying to be mean; I just didn’t take you as that kind of guy.

JJ crosses his arms.

What kind of guy am I, exactly? Because I thought I was the nice guy who was just wishing you a happy holiday.

Soulchild takes a deep breath, realizing JJ’s wording mistake. Imani points at JJ.

IMANI

That. That. You’re the type of guy that would see today as a holiday, and me and Soul aren’t.

JJ faces Soulchild; his arms are still crossed. His face has no expression, but Soulchild knows that isn’t good.

SOULCHILD

(trying to be nice)

It doesn’t really make any sense for Black people to celebrate the 4th of July...or to go around wishing people a happy one. Like what does that even mean when you’re Black?

I’m also American, and it’s just one day to get together with family. You guys wish people a Happy Thanksgiving, even though that has bad origins.

(to Soulchild)

You came to my house and were happy eating turkey and watching football.

IMANI

Okay, but that’s different.

How?

IMANI

Thanksgiving became about doing stuff with your family, but today is about freedom.

Today is about family, too. I was at his grandmother’s cookout today with our families, and it felt nice getting to be around everyone. (to Soulchild) But you wouldn’t know because you refused to go.

SOULCHILD

I’m working.

You took this shift to get out of going.

23 SOULCHILD

Bye.

IMANI

JJ, either way you put it, 4th of July isn’t a holiday for us. Sure, you can have your cookout, but don’t walk around saying “Happy 4th of July” like...like we weren’t enslaved when they made this holiday and like we still aren’t hurting.

I’m not hurting anyone, though.

IMANI

But people are still hurting. Police brutality, racial bias in the medical field, the pay gap. The list goes on.

But I didn’t do those things. I’m not a cop. I’m not a doctor or someone’s boss. Me saying, “Happy 4th of July” isn’t hurting them.

IMANI

Maybe it is. Maybe not knowing enough about it to care, a sort of blissful ignorance hurts them.

Blissful ignorance? Are you serious? Over four words? Now, I’m ignorant.

JJ looks to Soul. Soul is staring out the window and doesn’t say anything.

JJ (CONT’D) Soul?

SOULCHILD

JJ, you know how I feel about this.

Yeah, I do. I’ve heard you rant about it for hours, but you’ve never said anything like this before.

JJ waits for Soul’s response. Mr. Tevin walks to the front, wiping flour off his hands. Mr. Tevin is a short man in his 40s. He’s wearing all black and a white apron. He has a gold Africa necklace on.

MR. TEVIN

Imani, can you get started on the dishes?

Imani nods and heads to the back.

MR. TEVIN (CONT’D) (to JJ) JJ! How you been?

Mr. Tevin pats JJ on the back. JJ looks at Soulchild as he speaks.

Hey, Mr. Tevin. Happy 4th of July!

SOULCHILD (to JJ, annoyed) He doesn’t care about the 4th of July.

JJ (to Soulchild) I’m just being nice.

JJ looks at Mr. Tevin.

JJ (CONT’D) (to Mr. Tevin)

I can’t complain. I’ve been eating at his grandma’s cookout all day.

MR. TEVIN

Don’t tell me you didn’t save room for my pizza of the day.

Mr. Tevin proudly references the board with a pizza drawn on it.

MR. TEVIN (CONT’D) (New York accent)

The four chedda bout it pizza. (normal accent)

It has four types of cheddar on it.

I always got room for your pizza. I’ll take one pizza of the day and one Hawaiian.

Soulchild gets the slices. Mr. Tevin leans on the counter trying to look cool.

MR. TEVIN (rambly)

So, your aunt was at the cook–? Your aunt she’s—? How’s your aunt doing?

JJ and Soulchild look at each other. Soulchild holds back laughter.

She’s good.

MR. TEVIN

She hasn’t come through in a minute.

Yeah, she’s been really busy so…

MR. TEVIN

That’s wassup. That’s wassup. Well, tell her if she needa break for some...food to stop by.

Alright, Mr. Tevin.

Mr. Tevin walks out, and Soulchild busts out laughing.

SOULCHILD

You gon be calling him Uncle Tevin soon.

JJ mocks Soulchild’s laughing and stops abruptly.

You’re not funny.

JJ pays Soulchild for the pizza.

SOULCHILD

I’m a little funny. Just a little.

Can we go? It’s already past 7:30.

SOULCHILD

Hang on.

Soulchild goes to the back and comes back quickly.

SOULCHILD (CONT’D)

Let’s go.

SCENE TWO EXT. STREET - LATE DAY

JJ and Soulchild walk out of the shop and head down French Street. The street is lined with restaurants and different shops. They are walking on the sidewalk. JJ is holding slices of pizza. The sun is setting.

Is Musiq hanging out with us tonight?

SOULCHILD

Nah, he’s with some girl. Asia? I don’t know.

You’re not going to hang out with them?

SOULCHILD

Why would I?

To serenade her like y’all used to do in elementary school for all the girls Musiq liked.

SOULCHILD

So, you think you got jokes? I haven’t done that in years, JJ.

If I do remember correctly...the last time y’all, did it was four years ago when we were in seventh grade. For..um... what was her name? Tasha...something?

Soulchild sucks his teeth.

Whatever.

SOULCHILD

JJ stops walking and hands the pizza to Soulchild. JJ starts snapping, poorly dancing, and singing “Just Friends (Sunny)” by Musiq Soulchild.

JJ (singing dramatically)

I’m not trying to pressure you Just can’t stop thinkin’ bout you You ain’t even really gotta be my girlfriend.

Soulchild pushes JJ, making him stop dancing.

SOULCHILD (playful) Shut up, JJ.

JJ starts laughing.

I thought I sounded good. I got the steps going after a minute. You wouldn’t go out with me if I sang that to you?

Soulchild thinks for a minute, stroking his chin.

SOULCHILD

Mmmmmm..no.

No?

JJ leans slightly toward Soulchild.

No.

Soulchild leans slightly toward JJ.

Uh uh?

JJ leans slightly more toward Soulchild.

SOULCHILD

Soulchild leans slightly more toward JJ.

JJ (soft)

Consider it?

JJ leans even more toward Soulchild, their faces practically touching.

SOULCHILD (soft)

They kiss.

I might.

SOULCHILD (CONT’D)

I would, actually. If you never bring up me and Musiq “serenading” girls ever again.

They start walking again.

Ever? I don’t know if I could do that. I gotta remind you of your roots from time to time.

SOULCHILD

That is not my roots.

Soul, it’s how you got your name. Those are your roots.

SOULCHILD

I don’t know my roots? Says the guy who learned about Juneteenth from an ABC sitcom, but tells everyone he comes across (mocking)

Happy July 4th!

Blackish has been Emmy nominated for Outstanding Comedy many times, so I feel no shame watching the Johnson family.

SOULCHILD

But did they ever win?

JJ takes the pizza plate back and takes a bite out of one of the slices.

SCENE THREE

EXT. STREET - LATE DAY

Soulchild and JJ are still walking. The stores and restaurants are behind them. They’ve made it to their neighborhood now. Most houses are varying new two-story homes. It’s getting dark, and streetlights are on. Soulchild grabs a piece of pizza from JJ’s plate, takes a big bite, and sets it back on the plate.

That’s my pizza!

SOULCHILD (mouth full of pizza)

It’s good.

It’s mine. I’m hungry.

JJ takes a few long strides to cross the street. Soulchild follows after him, but a car cuts him off.

SOULCHILD

What happened to pedestrians first?

27 SOULCHILD Uh uh.

JJ (mocking jokingly)

What happened to not eating my pizza?

Soulchild rolls his eyes and looks upset. JJ takes notice.

JJ (CONT’D)

I was just kidding. I didn’t mean to–.

SOULCHILD

How was Grandma’s cookout?

JJ Soul, I’m–.

SOULCHILD (persistent)

How was it?

It was super boring without you there, but I had some hot dogs, so it was alright. Rickey said he was gonna go out and get some fireworks, so if we hurry back, we can probably still see them.

SOULCHILD

How many hot dogs did you eat? Twelve?

It wasn’t twelve. I had one.

SOULCHILD One?

Okay, two.

Two?

SOULCHILD

Fine, three. I had three.

Three?

SOULCHILD

I ate four hot dogs! Is that what you wanna hear? Who goes to a cookout and doesn’t eat?

SOULCHILD

If you already ate, then I should eat one of your slices.

Soulchild takes a slice of pizza. JJ continues to eat the other.

Your mom was having a good time bragging about you. (high pitched voice)

My son got a job over with Tevin, and he volunteers at the soup kitchen. Oh, he also gives swimming lessons at the pool…

SOULCHILD

What can I say? I am very impressive.

You are, but you could take one day off from work to celebrate with your amazing super cool super-hot boyfriend.

Soulchild stops because he notices his shoes have come untied. He bends down to tie them.

SOULCHILD

Like I’ve said before, celebrating a holiday for white people isn’t my thing.

Okay, whatever, but you could at least hurry up so we can watch the fireworks.

Soulchild begins to tie his shoes very slowly.

SOULCHILD

Mmhm.

JJ rolls his eyes. JJ folds up the plate and shoves it in his back pocket. Soulchild gets up.

It’s summer, Soul. We don’t have to work all of the time. I wanna have fun. I wanna hang out with you. Who cares if it’s July 4th or August 27th?

SOULCHILD

You never work, JJ.

I work. I worked at...

SOULCHILD

You’ve never had a job!

That’s not the point, Soul! There’s nothing wrong with having fun.

SOULCHILD

Whatever.

No. Not “whatever”. Why are you being like this today? You ditch hanging out with me to work all day. Then, I come to walk home with you, and you let Imani call me ignorant. I ask you for something so simple, watching fireworks with me, and you don’t want to.

SOULCHILD (harsh)

I don’t want to keep talking about this.

Why not?

SOULCHILD

Because I don’t want to, JJ. Okay? Leave it alone.

But why? Is it me? Did I do something? This can’t be over a stupid day.

SOULCHILD

You’re right. Today is stupid. This holiday is such a stupid thing, and you look stupid celebrating it.

So, you think I’m ignorant, too?

SOULCHILD

JJ, you’re not even listening to me.

Yes, I am. (mocking Soulchild)

4th of July is stupid. If you’re Black, you can’t celebrate! I’d rather work instead of just ignoring what day it is and spend time with JJ because he doesn’t know or care about anything.

SOULCHILD

I’m trying to have a real conversation with you.

So am I. I’m telling you; I don’t care about the 4th of July. Is it hypocritical? Yes. But is it also a day to get together and have fun? Yes! I don’t wanna argue with you anymore, Soul. It’s just one day.

SOULCHILD (soft)

It’s not. You’re not listening to me.

JJ (stern)

I wanna see the fireworks.

Soulchild sits on the curb of the sidewalk. JJ stands over Soulchild about to go off, but Soulchild speaks first.

SOULCHILD

You’re not listening to me, JJ. It’s more than family. It’s more than cookouts. It’s more than just a fun day. It’s more than stupid fireworks! Just listen to me!

Soulchild looks up at JJ. We can see and hear red and yellow fireworks going off in the distance. END.

Nigerian-American Dreams

inspired

by Tara Ballard “Animum Adverte”

1. The person, of Nigerian immigrant heritage, is entirely disposable.

1.1 The person, of Nigerian immigrant heritage, is raised to further and protect the system which subjugates them.

1.2 The person, of Nigerian immigrant heritage, is raised to hate themselves.

1.2.1 They are told there is no such thing as a they, only he or she.

1.2.1.1 They are told that, loving who they love, is a sin.

1.3 The person, of Nigerian immigrant heritage, is raised to believe the Catholic Church and all its teachings are undeniably true.

1.4 The person, of Nigerian immigrant heritage, is raised to be conservative.

2. The person goes to Catholic School.

2.1 The person learns that their name is funny to white people.

2.2 The person learns about God and believes in it.

2.2.1 Well not really, but they don’t know religion is a choice, yet.

2.3 The person is accused of something they didn’t do, and learns a lesson for life, they will never be believed over white people.

2.4 The person doesn’t get that they are too different, too dark, too much to deal with.

2.5 The person wears a dress to school for opposite day, and all their classmates ask if they’re gay, but the person doesn’t know what gay means.

2.5.1 They’re ignorant by design. Their parents have been keeping that kind of content away from them, fearing it’d make them gay.

3. The person has a crush on a boy anyway, and doesn’t tell their parents.

4. They grow up, get over their old crush, and start high school.

4.1 They’re introduced to so many new ideas all at once, terms like transgender, non-binary, pansexual, and bisexual, become a part of their vocabulary.

4.1.1 They find the language to express themselves.

5. As they continue growing, they start to realize they don’t believe in anything their parents taught them.

5.1 They question why their parents thought it was wrong to be gay.

5.2 They question what it means to live in a body, if their gender can really be decided by one piece of flesh.

5.3 They start going by new pronouns on the internet, testing out how they feel.

6. Soon, they’re sure they aren’t a boy, at least not entirely.

6.1 They don’t tell anyone out of fear.

6.1.1 They learn to live through the internet.

7. They graduate from high school, and come to realize, they will eventually have to tell their parents something, about their identity, about their life.

7.1 At a barber shop, a man assumes they like women, saying they need a fresh cut to attract girls.

7.1.1 It bothers them, but they know it’s easier to say nothing.

7.2 They’ve said nothing for most of their life anyways.

7.3 They said nothing when their mother asked who they were taking to prom.

7.4 They said nothing when their mother tried to get them to date some random Nigerian girl they’d never met, but was a friend of a friend’s daughter.

7.5 They said nothing, and now they say nothing.

8. Sometimes they have dreams where they have different parents.

8.1 Parents who would accept them no matter what.

8.1.1 In their dreams, they tell their parents about every boy they’ve loved.

8.2 In their dreams, all their parents have to say is we love you.

9. Their dreams don’t last long enough.

9.1 And none of their dreams are coming true.

10. I am a first generation American of Nigerian heritage.

10.1 My dreams of acceptance, of love, of freedom, none of them are coming true.

31 Anonymous Creative Nonfiction

Ognyen Atanaskovich

____________

Digital photography 2022

Photography Miami Arts Charter School Miami, FL

(Bombing)

Aubrey Barb

2022

Photography

Carroll High School Fort Wayne, IN Paper Thin Scanner

Marcos Barrera

Photography City High / Middle School Grand Rapids, MI Tino Black and white film photography 2022

Clio Barrett

PERSONAL STATEMENT

When the common application asks you to write an all encompassing essay, you begin to question how well writing knows you.

How well you know writing.

How do you condense yourself into a word count, stuff your lungs, fold your chest, both your feet into the openings within each letter, how do you convince the invisible looming force that is the college board, the faceless adjudicator that is the admissions officer, that your brain deserves to be placed in a glass jar suspended in all the juices of learning, preserved like marble statue on their banner?

How do you explain your intelligence should be hand fed dining hall buffets and the sugar cookies of liberal art English classes, professor’s attention like vintage wines, like a seed begging to be quenched by a tenured man’s lecture, an egg warmed under the feathered belly of chalkboards and dissertations, place my head on a podium in front of a mic, kiss my mind but not pet it like the nose of a lap dog or maybe lap dogs, my cerebrum could be your lap dog

it would run circles for a bone, I’d roll over and bury myself within my learning, let me pay for my learning, let me unlearn the mud and dirt of uneducation, bathe me in caffeine addiction, let me prove to you I deserve to be trained, to be taught, let me demonstrate interest, like demonstrated need. Oh to glue my nose to the stained glass windows of your library or the floor of your mediocre dorm rooms my dad would even pay you, I would break open my own mouth and take out a loan just to pay you, satiate the zeros, the commas, the decimal points, one for each freckle on my mothers right arm. If money isn’t enough I will give you my body, every torn cuticle and back tooth, every song that has been stuck in this head, every word I have ever thought about stuffing in my personal statement.

This is my personal statement.

What happens when I have no more to give? How do I prove myself then?

What happens to the children that were never given anything to give in the first place. Must we beg for our rebirth? What price must we produce to label ourselves scholars?

Must we auction off our organs?

What if I was never taught this teaching was an option? What if my mind was never preened to begin with, never shown it deserves a jar or the prospect of suspension within liquid, what if we were taught out of that, what if we were pushed to hold tight to our own heads, to feed ourselves and keep our own bodies, shed our fur and shake the hands of the men who should beg for our intellect

Let the bleached colleges that preach diversity ask the rainbow kids to bless their floors, to paint their ceilings

give us shovels to dig up all the jars, all the stolen wit, pick axes to reshape the marble, allow our parents to rein habit their own sweat instead of drowning in it, paying both for nests and incubations as they relinquish their own birds.

This is my personal statement.

Let it stay suspended within your college campus, let it decorate your banners, let it blow like fall wind against the doors of your fine institution, let it sooth you but let it chill you too.

Spoken Word Edward R Murrow High School Brooklyn, NY

Colin Bloom

Design Arts

East

Cardboard and tissue paper 2020

Fieldston School Bronx, NY

Harlem New York Public Library Proposal

Rho Bloom-Wang

Jiangsu, 1944

& when I open my eyes we are leaving. Fleeing east to greet the bleeding dusk, gone as its tendrils crawl forth. You are lucky & we move in blankets of bees how can one mass hold a million jolts? Two million breaths but not my mother’s & not the sister’s whose name I wear & still we ripple into the outskirts. Bodies— I guess that’s what we became when they forced pork down my mother’s closed throat. Your brothers & sisters weren’t lucky like you & we are leaving again, so I try to close my eyes but end up pressing the wind into lotus petals. I seal boxes of books that can never be read because you need to hurry & I wonder how that soldier aimed so slick his bullet danced through my uncle’s one cheek & clean out the other & somehow I know we are not going back. I untwist the waves from my hair. Miss the days I won’t remember. Wish my aunt would take me but no, no paper can buy back a revolution. This time when the harvest moon rises I know we really are leaving. I have a ticket past the shore as if the bodies aren’t dangling underside the train & off the rails & there now we are leaving fast skimming toward sea away from a sun so red I close my eyes.

Poetry Winchester Thurston School Pittsburgh, PA

Jake Bond

Untitled V Digital photography 2022

Photography Saint Mark’s School of Texas Dallas, TX

Skye Bowdon

EVERYTHING TO GIVE FLOWERS FOR HEAD CREDIT SEQUENCE

INT. MYSTERIOUS ROOM - NIGHT

An OFF PITCHED WHISTLE can be heard in a dark room. The only things illuminated are a pair of LEATHER GLOVED HANDS, electric hair clippers, and the DECAPITATED HEAD of a woman with LONG DARK HAIR and an expressionless face.

The gloved hands mold the woman’s face, opening her eyelids to reveal her DARK EYES, relaxing her cheeks, and dragging down the corners of her mouth.

The whistling stops. The hands turn on the hair clippers. The buzzing sound is deafening.

Long strands of hair fall to the ground. LAST CREDIT APPEARS THEN FADES.

INT. FLOWER SHOP - DAY

MELLI - aged eight - opens the purple store front door. Her hair sits at her waist, and her white skirt drags on the green floor.

Above her, a series of chimes go off as the door hits a string of bells and hanging plastic insects.

Melli rocks from her heels to her toes while the bugs swing back and forth.

Everything is too bright.

Further inside, shelves of disembodied brown and grey HUMAN HEADS line the walls.

The heads are hollowed out, bald, and filled with various VIBRANT flowers- red, yellow, green, purple, blue.

Labels below the heads detail the flower species they contain and a small card describing their meaning. The shop is long and expands far down one large aisle.

Light on her feet, Melli wanders around the shop humming a soft tune beneath her breath.

She is the only one there except for the SHOP OWNER who lurks behind the cash register watching her. He is a lengthy man with small features reminiscent of a millipede. He wears a long orange apron.

Melli’s hum meets an abrupt stop when out of the corner of her eye, she spots a WOMAN’S HEAD exploding with yellow flowers on the bottom shelf.

The woman’s face holds an aloof expression. Her BLUE eyes gaze up as if she is trying to see the flowers within her. Her cheeks are pinched in at the sides making her lips wrinkled and puckered yet slightly agape.

Staring at the head transfixed, Melli kneels to its level as if she is about to pray, but instead, she runs her fingers along the concaves of the face then down the bridge of the crooked long nose.

For a moment, the head’s eyes seem to roll back into its skull.

Melli traces circles around the eyes and one large circle around the lips. Then, she mirrors the same actions on her own face.

There is a SIGN beneath the head reading: CHRYSANTHEMUMS - For friendship and good wishes.

A smile, lemon-rind-bright, spreads across Melli’s face. She gives herself a satisfactory nod and picks a singular flower from the head.

BLACKOUT.

Play or Script New Mexico School for the Arts

Santa Fe, NM

The sun weathered muted yellow school bus drops off kids in a dirt patch right outside of a small neighborhood. Melli is already off the bus waiting. She holds something behind her back.

A scrawny LITTLE BOY hops down the steps and bolts past her.

MELLI

Hold on, wait for me!

The boy looks behind him and slows down, but he does not stop.

LITTLE BOY

Better catch up!

Melli starts sprinting with the chrysanthemum still in hand. A few petals fall on the dusty path leaving a bright trail behind her. She catches up to the boy, and they double over panting.

LITTLE BOY (CONT’D)

What’s with the flower?

Melli looks over at the boy who is now distracted by an ant carrying a dead moth over a rock. An ant hill waits on the other side of the rock, but the ant keeps having to stop because the moth is too heavy in its mouth.

When the ant begins to move again, the moth’s body is dragged against the rough stone making a microscopic scraping sound.

MELLI

(Hushed tone)

Um, it’s for you.

The boy makes eye contact with Melli.

Oh... cool.

LITTLE BOY

Melli hands the flower to the boy who tosses it back and forth in his sweaty hands.

MELLI

Do you like it?

LITTLE BOY

Did you pick it yourself?

MELLI

No, flowers like that don’t grow around here.

The boy holds the flower up to the cloud covered sky. His hands are small, sweaty, and stained with brown marker. Dirt hides beneath his bitten nails.

LITTLE BOY

It looks like the sun.

The flower droops slightly against its dreary background.

MELLI

Yeah, I guess it does.

They pass small old houses, old cars, and old creaking swing sets. The boy begins plucking slender petals off the flower. With each pluck, he dramatically tosses the petals to the ground.

LITTLE BOY

(Mockingly high pitched)

Love me, love me not, love me, love me not.

As the boy plucks the last few petals, Melli tries to catch them before they fall, but a sudden gust of dirt and wind blows them out of her hand. She turns away from the wind as the boy attempts to shield himself from it.

Melli’s long hair covers her face, and the two kids become drenched in dirt. Finally, the wind passes. Melli and the boy try unsuccessfully to dust the dirt off themselves.

40 EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD

DIRT PATH- DAY

The boy lifts his head to see his house across the street. A perfect full teeth smile gleams across his face.

The house is just as run down as the rest of them, chipping paint, a crooked roof, a fence with missing posts, and dead rosebushes that line the crumbling flagstone footpath.

Melli looks at the boy who has already begun to walk across the street.

MELLI

Where did the stem go?

The boy doesn’t turn around.

What?

LITTLE BOY

Melli pauses for a moment preparing herself to say something.

MELLI

Can I come over?

The boy unlatches the lock to his fence.

LITTLE BOY

I think your flower blew away.

Beside the rock, the poor ant is now curled up into a little black ball. Its mouth is gone.

The boy walks up the creaky wooden steps to his front door and waves goodbye to Melli. She droops like the chrysanthemum against the sky.

The boy steps inside his house with his back towards Melli, then abruptly shuts the door. She walks the rest of the way to her house alone.

INT. MOM’S HOUSE - DAY

When Melli walks through the door, her MOM is sitting down on a cracked brown leather couch with her feet propped up on the glass coffee table as she flips through channels on the television. Most of them are static. Melli crouches down by the welcome mat to untie her shoes.

MOM

How was school honey?

MELLI

One shoe is off.

It was fine.

MELLI’S MOM

Learn anything?

Both shoes are off. She places them beside the door.

MELLI

Yeah.

MOM

Well, that’s nice honey. I had a great day. Some lady won some money on that show. What’s it called again?

The T.V screen goes completely black, but a small message floats around the screen reading, NO SIGNAL.

MELLI

The Wheel of Fortune?

Melli’s mom flips over the remote, takes out the batteries, and clicks them back in. To her disappointment, there is still no signal.

What was that baby?

Nothing important.

INT. MELLI’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

MELLI

Everything in the room is dark except for the faint outline of Melli asleep on her back illuminated in a reddishorange glow coming from the blood red moon outside her window.

She sits up with her eyes slightly open. In slow small movements, she pushes away her covers and gets out of bed. For a moment, she fixes her hair and adjusts her pajamas as if she were looking into a mirror then cracks her neck in every direction.

Melli walks over to her closet and opens the door.

MELLI (Getting louder each time)

Mom... mom... mom

The slight purr of a heater and the sound of crickets can be heard. Silence.

MELLI (CONT’D)

(Yelling)

Mom!

Melli walks into her closet and shuts the door before pressing herself into the tight corner holding her knees to her chest for dear life.

She bangs her head against her knees.

The reddish-orange glow fades. Everything is dark.

INT. MOM’S BATHROOM - DAY

Melli’s mom stands by her vanity applying a BRIGHT RED LIPSTICK while staring at herself in the mirror.

A bright florescent light beams down on her making the highlights and shadows of her face extreme and artificial. After one coat of lipstick, she presses her chapped lips together, then puckers them to apply another layer. After four or so layers, the lipstick begins to clump becoming a red mess of lipstick, dried skin, and saliva.

Melli enters the bathroom and watches her mom watch herself in the mirror.

MOM

How did you sleep baby?

MELLI

Okay.

Melli’s mom smiles into the mirror, her teeth are caked with lipstick. She turns on her faucet, cups water in her hands, and brings it up to her lips.

She takes a mouth-full of water and swishes it around. When she spits it out, the water looks like blood.

MOM

Oh good, I had nightmares.

BLACKOUT.

INT. FLOWER SHOP - DAY

Melli - aged 45- Drags the balls of her feet on the green floor as she slugs around the shop. The hem of her long tunic style brown dress covers her heels.

Her gaze is down, but every so often, she glances behind her only to find the perky flowers staring back at her from all directions.

MOM

SHOP OWNER

Do you need any help?

(O.S)

Melli turns around and straightens out. The shop owner’s small, crooked smile makes her take a step back.

MELLI

I’m just looking around.

SHOP OWNER

No, you’re looking for something specific.

MELLI

I Well -

SHOP OWNER

You look like a little girl who used to come around here. Same face, but you’re a little thin.

MELLI

Well, this is my first time here. It just looked so... colorful.

SHOP OWNER

I’ll let you look around.

When the shop owner moves, Melli is immediately drawn towards the head behind him.

The head is plastered with dirt so thick, Melli can barely make out that it’s the head of a LITTLE BOY. His eyes are wide and joyful. He has a big yellow teeth smile.

The flowers that spill over the top look almost as if they are growing out of soil. The flowers themselves are little white caps; multiple hanging down each stem.

The SIGN beneath them reads:

LILLY OF THE VALLEY - Return to happiness.

Melli attempts to wipe the dirt off the boy’s face. She first tries with the sleeve of her shirt and then with her hands, but regardless of how much she wipes away, there are just more layers underneath. The boy’s smile seems to grow wider.

Melli collects the dirt that piled on the ground and presses it into her face. Then, she picks one stem of Lilly’s out of the head.

BLACKOUT.

INT. MOM’S KITCHEN - DAY

Holding her stem of valley lilies, Melli walks into her kitchen to see her mom repeatedly hitting her head against the wooden table covered in a GINGHAM TABLECLOTH.

Her mother’s clothes are mismatched, random, and wrinkled. Her shoulder length hair is soaked in grease.

Dirty napkins, rotting food, and ripped-open food wrappers litter every surface.

Melli gets a garbage bag from under the sink and begins to throw the trash away. Her movements are gentle and quiet. When she is done, she ties the trash bag shut and places it to the side.

She then wipes her hands on her dress and opens a wooden cabinet full of dusty glass plates. She takes one down and brushes it off with the sleeve of her shirt.

Over to the side of the counter, she opens a bread box. Out scurries a small cockroach from its tin cave. Melli takes out two slices of white bread and puts them on the plate.

Finally, she rinses off a butterknife in the sink and cuts two pads of butter from the dish on the counter. There is a faint scraping as she spreads the butter on the bread.

Plate in hand, she walks over the table and sits in the chair beside her mom. When her mom raises her head, Melli puts her hand on her forehead before she slams it back down on the table.

to the side

She hears

man’s voice

of her.

Melli’s mom lifts her head, looks at Melli, and attempts to form her lips into a slight smile. It doesn’t work. Melli pushes the plate of bread closer to her mother.

MELLI (CONT’D)

Please try to eat with me. Her mom stares at the plate without moving a muscle.

Melli takes a deep breath and picks up a piece of bread holding it to her mom’s lips. Her mother takes a bite. Melli then takes a bite of her own bread.

She continues to feed her mom then herself until both pieces of bread are gone.

Melli gets up from the table, fills a mason jar with water, puts the valley lilies in the makeshift vase, and places it on the table.

The cockroach has found a new place to rest in the shadow beneath the cabinet.

Her mother rests her head on the table taking long drawn-out breaths.

EXT. MOM’S DRIVEWAY - DAY

Melli’s WIFE waits in her tan car as Melli walks out of her mom’s house.

The dirt driveway is full of dead bushes and tumbleweeds. Goat-heads stick to the bottom of Melli’s black shoes.

She gets in the car.

INT. CAR - DAY

Melli’s wife turns down the radio. The music is now a constant low hum.

MELLI

It’s hot in here.

WIFE Is it?

MELLI (softly)

Yeah.

WIFE

I could turn on the air conditioner.

MELLI (Shaking voice)

It’s broken.

Melli rests her head in her hands.

WIFE (whispers)

I’m sorry.

MELLI For what.

WIFE

I know you’re not okay.

Melli turns red, begins to shake then breaks into sobs.

Her wife unclicks her seat belt and awkwardly leans across the center console to wrap her arms around Melli. Melli relaxes into her chest.

44 MELLI

Mom.

Melli and her wife sit together on a dingy wooden porch swing that creak while slightly rocking.

Melli’s wife traces circles into the back of Melli’s hand while she looks up at the sky.

Her bright blue eyes gleam against the brownish grey clouds. Melli watches the ground.

WIFE

You don’t have to feel bad.

Melli fixates on a praying mantis as it slowly roams around a bush.

WIFE (CONT’D)

Hello?

The praying mantis stands still.

Above it, a bee looks for something to pollinate.

With its claws waiting in the air, the mantis begins to delicately rock as the bee buzzes closer.

WIFE (CONT’D)

It’s okay you cried.

MELLI

Love, I don’t want to talk about it.

WIFE

So, are we just going to ignore it?

Melli squeezes her wife’s hand and tries on a fake smile.

MELLI

I’m not ignoring anything.

WIFE

Don’t lie to me. (beat)

Melli’s fake smile fades.

How is your mom?

WIFE (CONT’D)

Melli takes her hand away, stands up, and begins to walk away without even looking at her.

MELLI

I’m not lying.

In one swift motion, the praying mantis catches the bee. It brings the helpless creature to its mouth and slowly consumes it.

The wife drops her head.

BLACKOUT.

INT. FLOWER SHOP - DAY

Melli -aged 75- enters shop. Her face has sunken into itself, and the skin around her cheeks droop down like melted wax. The dark purple circles around her eyes make her look eternally tired.

With careful steps, she takes long breaths holding each one at the top until she becomes lightheaded and is forced to exhale.

The lights in the store are white and glaring. Melli repetitively closes and opens her eyes as if she is trying to squeeze a headache out of her head.

She stops walking as florescent colors flash around her like the edge of a slashing blade.

Something, or someone is whispering. The sound surrounds her, but the words are inaudible.

45 EXT. PORCH SWING - DAY

Melli frantically tries to look around, but the noise comes to a halt.

She begins to walk again, but there are footsteps trailing behind her. She turns around, sees the shop owner, and screams.

The shop owner stands still and smiles so wide, his mouth barely fits on his face.

SHOP OWNER

Are you okay ma’am?

Melli can hardly hear him over the sound of her own quick struggling breaths.

MELLI

I was just, uh, looking around.

SHOP OWNER

Sure, you are.

Melli looks past the shop owner’s shoulder.

MELLI

I’m looking for a funeral.

SHOP OWNER

Do you know what their favorite flower was?

Melli squints.

MELLI

Is this shop new? It seems... bright.

SHOP OWNER

Did they have a favorite color?

Melli concentrates on the head of an OLD WOMAN with a long-wrinkled face and red flowers.

MELLI

She could never pick one, but I think she liked red.

SHOP OWNER

Well, there is plenty of that here. I’ll just let you have a look.

Melli continues to stare at the head, but when she refocuses to respond to the shop owner, he is already across the shop dragging his feet as he walks.

She looks back to the head of flowers she was fixated on and walks closer.

The head’s mouth hangs open as water puddles on it’s grey tongue. The head’s teeth, lips, and entire bottom half of face are bright red.

The glowing red flowers inside have pitch black centers. The sign beneath it reads:

POPPIES: ETERNAL SLEEP

Melli reaches out to the head and drags her bitten nails across its red chin. The red gets beneath her nails. White streaks of skin are exposed where the red was scraped off.

She continues to scratch the face until all of the red is gone, but the skin beneath becomes irritated, and red all over again.

She then drags her nails across her own face in one long motion.

Her nails are too short to break skin, but eight bright red lines run down her face.

She picks one poppy out of the head. Then she picks another, and another, and another. All of the poppies begin to look like fire within her hands, and she treats them as such.

She drops the flowers, and all of the poppies fall to her feet but one.

The petals look like little dying flames on the ground. She begins to cry hysterically. BLACKOUT.

The church is long and dark. From the entrance, Melli and the casket she stands next to look small and insignificant at the front of the church.

Closer up, almost everything is black including Melli’s dress, the lighting, and the empty church pews. Inside the casket, Melli’s wife lays dead with her grey hands at her sides. A white sheet covers her body, and a black scarf obscures her face.

There is no priest.

Poppy in hand, Melli looks down at her wife. Or rather, the covered body where her wife should be.

BEGIN FLASHBACK:

INT. MORGUE- DAY

A STRANGER’S hand gently closes Melli’s wife’s eyes as she lays on a sterile white sheet atop a hard bed.

Melli’s deep breathing from the flower shop scene can be heard.

END FLASHBACK.

INT. CHURCH- DAY

Melli tucks the poppy beneath the corner of the black scarf covering her wife’s head.

MELLI (Crying) Where did you go? Where did you go? Where did you go?

Silence.

MELLI (CONT’D) (Getting quieter each time) I’m not okay, I’m not okay, I’m not-

Melli falls to her knees.

MELLI (CONT’D) (Whisper) Okay.

Silence.

The green poppy stem peaks out from under the scarf. Melli kneels at the side of the casket. The church is empty.

Inaudible whispering begins. Melli attempts to cover her ears, but the sound fills her mind as the whispering becomes increasingly louder.

Melli walks over to one of the church pews leaving the casket open.

She sits down, the whispering stops, and the church pew creaks. Melli looks over to the casket.

MELLI (CONT’D)

Do you know where you are?

MELLI (CONT’D)

Do you know what was whispering?

MELLI (CONT’D) Was it you?

INT. CHURCH - DAY

MELLI (CONT’D)

The same thing happened in a dream. Maybe-

MELLI (CONT’D) it wasn’t a dream.

MELLI (CONT’D)

I don’t know where I was.

MELLI (CONT’D)

I think I’m becoming paranoid.

MELLI (CONT’D) Love?

MELLI (CONT’D)

I don’t know where everyone is.

The whispering starts again. Melli hits her hands against her ears.

MELLI (CONT’D) (Yelling)

Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?

Melli attempts to drown out the whispering with a scream, but everything only gets louder.

EXT. PORCH SWING - DAY

Crows caw on a white tree as Melli sits alone. Her long-sleeved black shirt flows onto her long black skirt which hangs down the swing and puddles on the ground.

She cries but does not cover her face. Instead, she wraps her arms around herself and slowly rocks. Back and forth, back and forth.

The tears stream down her face and slowly drip down her neck.

Her breath trembles, and she occasionally chokes on the air. She sounds like another crow.

The crows fly onto a new tree. Their wings are loud against the wind; the sky is still grey.

Melli holds herself tighter and rubs her shoulders as if she were cold.

The crows settle in another tree, and finally, still holding herself, she calms her breath to a steady slow inhale and exhale.

Mar Bradley

riverbed rise

Tomás got her name from her grandmother’s dream. Or it was from the nice man who helped her father reach the hospital when her mother gave birth, or it was because of her aunt’s dear dead friend. Anytime she’d tried to ascertain where her name might’ve come from—from anyone in her family— a different answer seemed to arise. Most often, the agreed upon truth was that she had arrived in the world, and the name had bestowed itself upon her, without warning or cohesive explanation. It was an adopted name of a doubtful apostle and an ancient gospel writer, an old Catholic name, one derived from Spanish scripture translation: Tomás, a name that meant twin.

Where her extended family was full of cousins and multiple siblings, Tomás was born the first and only child to her mother and father. She was born quiet, her mother would tell her, born with open eyes and refusing to scream or cry.

“Your father’s mother,” her mother insisted wryly for years, on the topic of the same grandmother that had dreamt her name, “wanted to take you down to the Rio Grande for baptism, said the pushing waters would wake you right up to yell.”

Her father denied this, with something of a grin, as if it was a larger joke, set up long before Tomás was even named, and her grandmother staunchly refused to comment on the matter. Tomás, despite her birth, was not a quiet child, as all would attest; she shrieked and chattered and was obsessed for several years with a variety of old movie monologues, reciting lines when she saw fit. There was always something a little odd about her, cataloged in report card notes and the testaments of her parents, friends’ parents, the cashier at the local grocer. She was always a little off kilter, smiled a little crooked, always seemed a step out of tune with the world around her. And though she lost her fervor for speaking in her teens, the oddness never faded. A gleam, a worry—a twin, alone without any other.

I formation

Tomás spent most of her young years in the garden with her grandmother, particularly during the weekends and summers when her parents were working and she had little else to do. Sometimes her grandmother would demand they both rise before dawn so that they’d beat the sun to the garden. Whenever Tomás tried to complain about the hours, her grandmother would shush her, insisting it was necessary to avoid the weight of the hotter Julys. But Tomás always suspected it was also a forced sort of bonding, just the two of them outdoors to watch as the sky turned pink in silence. Her grandmother had helped with the work initially, but as soon as she had deemed Tomás fully capable, she began to direct Tomás from her seat on the porch, speaking to her loudly about very little and everything else.

Tomás knew that garden better than she knew anything else—knew the smell of the dirt and how it always wedged up beneath her fingernails, knew the family of frogs that lived in the half-upturned brick by the stairs. Knew where the sweet potatoes would inevitably reappear, splitting the earth in the yard’s eastern corner to disrupt whatever else had been planted that season. This garden was where she grew best, nestled between the summer rains and the crape myrtle her father refused to have trimmed, as he claimed it would never return if cut.

One late summer month when Tomás was twelve, her grandmother woke up past noon, and they did not go out into the garden until the sun was heavy in the sky, taking on an almost hazy orange. That day, her sweat stung hotly on the nape of her neck, and the residual taste of lime from her recent lunch sat heavy on the back of her tongue. Her grandmother didn’t speak much once they were out in the garden, just watched the sky. No

directions were shouted out, and she didn’t even yell when Tomás stopped working and came to sit by her. Her eyes were focused far off, studying something Tomás searched for but couldn’t find. Instead, Tomás watched as a ladybug began to travel up her grandmother’s hand, the slow red dot skittering higher and higher, her grandmother unmoving all the while.

“Tomás…”

“Hm?”

The sentence wasn’t continued. A few yards over, Tomás heard a door open, then slam shut, a holler about the heat just barely audible. Her parents were at work, and the house felt too quiet, even from out on the back porch. She pushed back in her chair, tipping it carefully until her head knocked against the siding with a dull thud, toes barely keeping contact with the ground.

“I didn’t want your name to be Tomás. I dreamed it—” a small, shuddery shrug “—maybe. But I didn’t want it to be your name, at least your first. I always thought you’d be named Messiah.”

“Messiah?” Tomás didn’t say it sounded ridiculous, though her grandmother must’ve known she thought so from her tone. Still, she didn’t raise her arm to slap Tomás’s head. There was not even a reprimanding look thrown her way. The ladybug continued its path upwards, undisturbed.

“Yes. It was your grandfather’s middle name, an important one. He always...”

Her grandmother trailed off. Tomás hadn’t ever known her grandfather. She tilted forward until her feet pressed flat against the deck, and the wood groaned at the change in weight. Tomás didn’t prompt her grandmother to remember, just surveyed the pot of angelonia near her feet, still in full bloom. Really, she should move it off the porch soon so it would get more direct sun.

“It would’ve been a good name for you. Would’ve fit,” her grandmother then added after a stretch of silence.

“Really?”

Tomás let her head fall to the side. The ladybug had reached her grandmother’s face, and it crossed slowly over her cheek into the curve of her eye socket, slowing down just at the corner of her lashes. Her grandmother nodded slightly, then sighed, closing her eyes; at the movement of her eyelid, the ladybug finally took flight, fluttering out from the porch and towards a high horizon. A harsh beam of sun interrupted Tomás’ tracking of it, and she shielded her eyes with irritation. From next door, the sound of a lawnmower roared to life, and Tomás grimaced. That was enough for her.

“Well, you’ll have to tell me some other time,” she said. Then she stood, patted her grandmother’s hand, and returned inside to the solemn quiet.

II forward motion

For the first two years of high school, Tomás walked home from the bus stop with the same kind-of-friend, who lived about half a mile east of her. They never walked together in the morning—Tomás guessed that he carpooled with his older brother, who attended the same school—but they always ended up together in the afternoons, sometimes making small talk, sometimes in amicable silence. He was shorter than her by maybe an inch or two, and they both tended to wear the same pair of shoes, black Converses beaten to hell and stained with mud. He’d sewn a small patch onto the heel of his left sneaker, a pale denim star probably cut from old jeans. His name was Mitch. That, in total, was about all Tomás knew about him, despite the months and months they had walked home together every school day afternoon, careless beneath the always boiling sun.

Short Story Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts Houston, TX

“Do you have plans for after senior year?”

Tomás tripped slightly over her feet. They were five minutes into their fifteen-minute walk, nearing the Shell gas station. She had been considering asking if he wanted to stop to pick up drinks; it was truly a hellish May day. Maybe a Gatorade, maybe an iced tea—sweet.

“Not really.” Maybe. Sort of. “Maybe go off to college. Maybe go to work, I’m not sure. It’d be nice to travel a bit, even just in state.” A moment. “Why?”

“Well, my brother’s leaving for college soon. Made me think about it. I just have short term plans.”

“What kind?”

They’d accidentally fallen into the same rhythm of step, right feet hitting the pavement, left ones moving forward in symphony.

“I want to go down farther south to near the border, work in a park or conservatory maybe. My brother and I used to go with our aunts down to Rio Gran’ on trips, camping or just day wandering. I always just liked the area.”

“Can’t wait to get out of Amarillo?”

“Shit, of course.”

They stopped at a corner, waiting for the light to change. A shiny sedan screeched by, making a hard turn to the right, and they both flinched back from the curb. The green Corolla turned half-way from the parking lot into the same lane and laid on the horn. Mitch pressed the crosswalk button, though they both knew it never worked.

“It’s funny, my grandmother always wanted to go down to the Rio Grande with me. Allegedly for a baptism to make me speak. I was a quiet baby.”

“Did she ever follow through with that threat?”

“Never had the right time. But maybe it’s a good idea.”

“A second baptism?”

She smiled a bit. The light turned, and Tomás set out first, Mitch matching her stride again without effort. They were now about two minutes from the gas station. Tomás didn’t think she’d have the courage to ask to go get drinks.

“No? I don’t know? I’m not all that sure. It just feels like the place to go, to honor her memory, figure something out.”

“It sounds like a good trip.” Thirty more feet. Around the next corner was the gas station. “Do you want to stop to get a snack at the Shell? My treat.” This was unfamiliar. She blinked at him. But not unwelcome.

“Sure. I just want an iced tea though, this heat is shit.”

“Sweet?”

“Yeah.”

They turned the corner, went in, and swiftly selected two sweet iced teas and a bag of Cheetos, bringing them to the register without discussion. Mitch paid with a twenty. His wallet seemed full. Cash and receipts. She wondered if he collected the receipts, eventually putting them in some sort of catalog or scrap book to mark the passage of time.

“And it’s also because my grandmother named me.” Mitch took his change, Tomás took the bag.

“I’ve wondered how you ended up Tomás.”

They left the store, and the corner where they usually split was in sight, marked by a bare signpost and wild sunflowers. Someone had stolen one of the street signs a little while back, and Tomás had taken the other not long after. It was stashed beneath her bed.

“It’s funny that way; I only found out in middle school that she didn’t want me to be named Tomás. She had a dream before I was born, and I was Tomás in it, but she didn’t want me named that!”

Mitch laughed at her played up outrage. Tomás kicked a stray pebble hard and watched it skitter into the grass.

“Well then what the hell did she want your name to be?” he asked.

“It was a little weird.”

They’d slowed down then, and Tomás didn’t really want to end the conversation.

Absently, she took her tea out of the bag and handed the rest to him, which he took with a funny expression.

“Well you can’t leave me hanging,” he said.

They stopped at the deserted signpost, marking the split from Melay to Jackson.

Dandelions had sprung up near the ever-present wild sunflowers, and Tomás had the incredible intense urge to pick one and disperse the seeds with a wish, then felt embarrassed for it.

“It was Messiah. We’re not even all that religious—it was something to do with a family name or another one of her dreams, I think. Strange, right?”

Mitch didn’t say anything. They stood together, just looking at the little patch of wilderness, until she felt his gaze shift to the side of her head. She didn’t meet his eyes, but she opened her mouth again. The air tasted heavy, ozone thick like an oncoming storm; it would rain soon. The sky would crack open to soak the sidewalk and make the children playing in the streets shriek. Make the plants hold up their bone-dry petals in prayer.

“Too strange?” Tomás asked.

“Nah.” A pause. “It’s just similar to earlier, with that weird connect. ‘Cause my name’s Mitch, you know? A ‘man in God’s orbit’? My mom always liked to remind me of that when I got rowdy about Sunday school, but I’d never put much stock in the whole meaning before now.”

She crouched and pulled up a dandelion, then stood to look at Mitch at last. There wasn’t anything really to say. Messiah and Mitch, Mitch and Messiah. A boy she’d never known. She caught her rising ‘before now?’ behind her teeth and swallowed it.

“Weird.” It was her judgment, and he shrugged, turning to continue down Jackson. “Goodbye Messiah,” he said, over his shoulder like an afterthought.

“Goodbye Mitch,” she replied.

Tomás walked home and slept the weekend away.

When she got off the bus the following Monday, Mitch didn’t come along to walk home; he wasn’t there at all, on the bus or at the stop. Two weeks later, when she built up the courage to ask his brother where he might’ve gone, he’d given her a grave look, eyes pink and exhausted.

“He went down to that damned river—” he told her, in the A-staircase by the library, where couples usually came to make out “—and took everything with him.”

III chrysalis

There was a conversation between Tomás and her father that occurred somewhere in between the morning and the night, on a day close to the end of her senior year. It happened in their kitchen, the back door open to let the slight breeze in. Through it could be seen the half-overgrown garden, gone wild since her grandmother’s death and Tomás’ teen years; it was spring at that point, and she could just smell the opening flowers. The applelike scent of the angelonia on the porch was distinct, seemingly an early bloomer this year. None of this was all that strange—her father had switched to working a later shift a while back, and they were both restless people where her mother slept soundly.

“Coffee?”

Her dad stood over the pot. Tomás was perched on a stool by the door, rocking slightly in an awkward fashion. She nodded. He had already begun the preparations for two people and poured the beans in, securing the top and checking the water before pressing start. A loud grinding echoed for a moment, then was silenced. Her father grimaced faintly and sighed, pulling out a chair to sit down.

“Always afraid I’ll wake your mom up with that one of these days, never want to find out how she’d kill me then.”

“We’ve got a good track record now. Hopefully that luck will go a little longer.”

“Oh, I hope so, I’ve only disrupted her sleep one time like this.” A moment. Tomás watched as the water began to boil through the machine’s clear plastic side. “Your mom and I were so hopeful that you might get her heavy-sleeper genes, but even

as a baby you didn’t sleep much. I’d take care of you when you cried at night, bring you onto the porch, to that rocking chair your grandfather made, and try to rock you to calmness.” He smiled fondly at the memory.

“Did you rock yourself to sleep too?”

“Of course. Your grandmother had moved in with us only a little before you were born, you know, because of your grandfather’s passing and to help with you. Too many times I’d wake up to her scolding me for sleeping out in the cold or rain with you in my arms. She was very particular about you as a baby.”

“She always wanted me close, that’s for sure.”

Her dad snorted in agreement, sinking down into his chair. Outside, an owl cried, and they both quieted for a minute, hoping to hear another call. There’d been screech owls in the area recently, according to the neighbors, but this was the first time Tomás had heard them so clearly.

“What did my grandmother dream about? That week before I was born?” she asked.

He didn’t answer for a moment. As it stretched, she thought he wouldn’t and was ready to change the topic to something lighter. Maybe the damnable heat again.

“She never told me.”

“Really?”

“No, she told your mother. It was a woman’s tale, that’s what she said to me, not something I was ever privy to. I know only what your mom has shared of it.”

“And what was that?”

Her father gnawed on his lip.

“That you would be named Tomás, and that you would be a lonely child until someone was found. It all sounded silly at the time. Then you were born silent but alive, and it felt like your grandmother was some kind of prophet.”

“Grandma… She once told me that she wanted me to be named Messiah. Why not that?” He sighed, rubbing at his face.

“Why ask this now, Tomás? Why now?”

The kitchen had become heady with the coffee smell, thick in a way that almost gave Tomás a headache. Jasmine blooming and brewing coffee and a faint whiff of lemon cleaner from wiping down the counters after dinner.

“I don’t know. I had a friend, I guess—no I was with my grandmother…” Tomás leaned back against the wall. Her father looked like his mother in this light, eerie and still. “I don’t know.”

The wind rustled in, and they held eye contact for a long moment.

“We wanted—we tried for another kid,” her father told her abruptly. “Your mother and I… We never told you, because it was a sore spot, but we wanted a second kid. Wanted for you to have a sibling because maybe, if you weren’t a twin, you could still be a companion. Not be so quiet and alone. But it never worked. We just… we just couldn’t make it happen.”

He looked away from her. Ashamed? Maybe, Tomás thought, this is where she cried in his arms, where she told him of Mitch and Messiah and the street sign under her bed. Of the angelonia and her last moments with her grandmother and her half-formed plans. Maybe that would comfort them both in some strange way. But she didn’t know where to start or end or what to say to either of her parents really, to assuage this new-old fear.

“I don’t know,” Tomás repeated, and she didn’t, really. “I want to run away. I want to find something. I want to sleep, Dad.” Quieter. Knowing he’ll know this, by blood, in the same way her grandmother had. “I want to sleep and I want to understand and I want to feel whole. I want to be whole so badly it aches.”

The coffee machine let out a beep to tell them it was ready. They said no more on the matter.

IV twin

An estrangement, that’s the word she decided on at some point, an estranged child. An estranged sibling, a never-known unknown. Tomás didn’t know why July 15th was the day she left, but it was. On that morning, she woke up and went out into the

garden before the sun broke over the horizon, and she sat on the porch’s top step until the sky was stained bright with light and color. Later on, her mother came out to check on her, and Tomás said goodbye to her with a tight hug, then went in to say goodbye to her father, who awoke to kiss her forehead gently. Then she packed a bag and left.

It took seven hours to drive from Amarillo to the border, and another hour of driving along the river to find a quiet place to stop. It was a beautiful summer day, sun golden above, and the riverbanks grew green and thick. She left her car on, and through the open door played a random radio station; a Spanish announcer picked up from some nearby station faded into an old salsa song she was vaguely familiar with. A steady breeze blew, tangling her hair, and Tomás stood on the banks of the Rio Grande and looked out to find something.

The river ran a dark blue-brown color, fast and muddy as it went by. The grass grew tall enough to brush her thighs, and it was littered with wildflowers, rich in bloom and smell. The wind kissed the nape of her neck. Normally, willows didn’t grow this far south, but on the bank stood the broken trunk of one, destroyed by what must have been a semi-recent storm. Across the river stood another willow, younger and just beginning to weep.

“A twin,” she said vaguely. Her ears rang and sang as she approached the stump. It might’ve made sense, might’ve matched or not; when she was younger, her whole family would do their best to spread wildflower seeds everywhere so that, no matter the over mowing of the neighborhood lawns, they’d always find beauty sprouting up from the streets. A twin, she thought the tree to be. An estranged twin, separated from the other by the force of the world.

The rough-soft bark scraped her palms. She lifted herself up and climbed into the hollow trunk, settling down at its base. Above, the sky seemed like a bright blue marble. Tomás. That was her name, and to be honest it was one she had always loved regardless of its implication. She liked the way it sounded coming out of other people’s mouths, she liked the lift of the ‘á’, liked the slight confusion it caused upon introduction. Tomás curled tight around herself, nestling further into the base of the tree.

Tomás: a twin, a prophecy, a promise, she guessed; something she was always meant to live up to or fulfill. One day, her roots will grow long and burrow across the river to meet her other, one day she will grow tall and strong and stand joined. Hand in hand: finally in a pair and understood.

“Yeah, kinda funny, ain’t it?” Her voice sounded rough and choked, as if she was on the verge of tears. Strained and thin in a way she’d heard in many others but never really from herself. A great wind passed, light with distant song, calling, quieting, speaking to her gently. And, eighteen long years after her silent birth, in the safety of her willow trunk home, Tomás burrowed her head in her hands and finally began to cry.

Cavewomen

Kate had given up. She had tried to avoid the emergency room, a place where everything was fundamentally disordered. But it was too late. Here she was, sweating in her dark bedroom, with such a heavy weight on her chest. She thought of stones blooming in her lungs, pebbles rattling in her breath, for which there was little room for anymore. She took the subway to the emergency room.

In the summers, the subway stations were humid and stuffy, but she still shivered as the trains rushed by, the hot air blowing in her face. The nonexistent ventilation did little to help her ailing lungs. One of these days she’d take a car again.

Every time she got on the subway, Kate would search the faces in it for some impalpable feature, something that could sew all of the holes in her pockets so she could keep whatever it is she’s lost. Subway people were a special kind of people. They looked so desolate: they all had lives above ground, places to go, but they were sitting here, rushing about underground tracks. Kate’s subway car was nearly empty in the wee hours of the morning, except for a middle-aged woman with thinning hair wearing a rumpled blouse and pantyhose that made her look older than she was. Her hair was teased up to appear more voluminous, and silver roots were just beginning to emerge from her dyed brown strands. The woman was texting on her cell phone in the inefficient way that old people texted, with one finger typing every letter. Who was she writing to at this hour? How did she become what she was then, sitting at the end of the subway car at three in the morning, writing a message? Kate discreetly watched the woman put her phone in her purse and lean back into her seat, looking through the window at the blur of the passing subway tunnels. She found herself wondering if the woman was having an affair, and then she got upset with herself that she couldn’t think of another reason the woman was in the subway at this hour. As she got up to leave, the woman looked at Kate briefly and her eyes flashed with something that looked like recognition, but it could have been a figment of her feverish daze.

The emergency department was swarming with desperate people. A man with his eyes closed held a bloodied towel to his palm. A baby screamed in his mother’s arms. The mother had stopped trying to console him fifteen minutes before. Kate managed to get a bed because she told the nurse that she had one-and-a-half lungs and she’d been hospitalized for pneumonia before.

The nurse told her she should have come in sooner. They put a tube under her nose and her chest felt less like a rusty car being crushed in a junkyard. They took an X-ray of her lungs and the doctor came in and showed her the scan. The insides had small, hazy white areas that looked like clouds or maybe stones like Kate had thought.

“You need surgery to drain the fluid in your lungs,” the doctor told her, gently. “Okay,” she whispered. What about the stones? Will they stay there?

“Do you have someone we can call?”

Kate was silent. The doctor was about to repeat the question when she said yes.

When Julia got the call, she was boiling water for pasta. She put the phone on speaker and salted the water. “Hello?”

“Hello, is this Julia Michaelson?”

“Yes.”

“This is Kelly Richards calling from New York Presbyterian. Kate Brooks listed you as her emergency contact.”

Julia didn’t say anything. She put the lid on the pot. “Hello?”

“Sorry, yes. Is she okay?” This was the third time she had gotten the call.

“She has pneumonia, and she’s currently in surgery. She wanted you to know.”

Julia shut her eyes and thought about the color green, which was positioned opposite red on the color wheel. Kate had green eyes.

“Okay. Okay. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll…be there.” She hung up the phone and thought about the first time she saw Kate in the hospital—everything about her was bruised or unconscious or ripped or gone.

Julia bit her lip and stopped herself. She focused on finding her keys to drive to the hospital to see her ex-girlfriend and not crash her car. Did she seriously not have someone else she could call by now? She almost forgot to turn off the stove before she left.

When the anesthesiologist held the mask over her face and told Kate to count back from ten, she thought about caves instead. They had put an IV in her arm that was dripping saline— salt water—directly into her bloodstream, like caves dripping mineral water to form stalactites over thousands of years. Cave systems could extend thousands of miles, Kate had learned that somewhere. Her lungs were merely caverns: empty spaces full of air. The air traveled differently in the caves, whistling and screaming. She wanted to visit the cave north of her apartment; she hadn’t gone since before the crash. She couldn’t now, because the anesthesia worked faster than she expected.

Julia watched Kate sleep for a long time. It had been two years since she had last seen her, and she looked remarkably older, like time was a tangible thing that tugged at the skin under her eyes. A highway of wires and tubes crisscrossed her body, an interstate guiding her away from wherever she was trying to go. Things were so different this third time. The crash and that awful first call where that man called it an accident (when it wasn’t, it was a crash) were four years gone. Their relationship was four years gone, and yet she was sitting here.

The chair by Kate’s bed could recline, so Julia laid as far back as she could. She could hear the bustle and breath of a working hospital, the living part. Hospitals were a little microcosm, a watery blister of living and dying. She much preferred them at night, when the fluorescent lights were dimmed and all the visitors had left. There wasn’t a monotonous beeping sound from the machines like in the movies; vital signs monitors had evolved to be silent unless someone was actively dying. If she wanted to, she could watch the monitor, the graphs showing little mountains and valleys of the blood pumping through Kate. Julia could feel all the little lines and numbers and signs, like they were tunneling through her skin, chanting another language but meaning the same thing: she was alive.

The first time Kate could remain conscious for more than a few seconds, she saw Julia sitting next to her bed. She shouldn’t have been so surprised, but she was. There was a nebulous sort of pain in her side, ostensibly from the chest tube the surgeon said she would put in. She heard the hiss of machines and oxygen flowing into her lungs through the plastic mask over her nose and mouth.

“How do you feel?” Julia asked. She had noticed Kate was awake.

“Kind of bad, but that’s to be expected.” Kate gave her a small smile.

“Do you want me to ask the nurse for more pain medication?”

Juna Brothers Short Story Davis Senior High School Davis, CA

“No, I’m okay,” Kate was so sure. She looked down to examine the fresh laceration on her side. It was weird to think about. Someone cut a hole in her side and stuck a tube in her lung. There was a little bag hanging to the side of the bed attached to the tube from her chest. It had a brown liquid in it. Gross. Kate looked away. She decided to view it as a purification—ridding the body and mind of disease and destruction. It was a release.

“Did you know Margaret Clitherow was pressed to death?” she asked. Jesus, she was awful at starting conversations.

“Who?”

“She was this Roman Catholic woman who gave priests a place to hide, which was illegal at the time. So they arrested her. And she wouldn’t plead guilty so the guards paid four beggars to strip her naked and put a handkerchief over her eyes and lay on this sharp rock and they put the door—the door from her house— over her and put all these rocks on it until the weight of it all broke her back and she died.”

Julia looked at her for a while. “No, I didn’t know that,” she said quietly. “That’s horrible.”

“And two centuries later the pope decided that she had gone to heaven. And they made her a saint and a martyr.” Kate was looking out the window at the other buildings. “And…and that’s all I could think about when I was pinned under the car after the crash. I was thinking I can’t be a martyr.”

“I thought you said you weren’t religious. That was just your parents.”

“You don’t have to be a martyr for your religious beliefs. It’s just that you’re killed because of some belief that you have. So I would have been a martyr because I was driving to your house and I thought it was okay that we were lesbians. And I don’t think God was punishing me, I think the universe was. Because I almost died.”

“Kate, it was a drunk driver. It wasn’t because you’re a lesbian.”

“No,” Kate was tired. “You don’t get it. Margaret was crushed under her door. I was almost crushed under my car. And she was hiding priests, like I was hiding you. Hiding priests isn’t objectively wrong, but she was objectively killed because of it. Like it’s not necessarily wrong to be a lesbian, but I almost died because of it. And I want to stay living.”

Julia’s mouth opened a little but she didn’t say anything. Kate looked down at her hands. “And when the paramedics came and used the jaws of life—that’s the tool they use to cut people out of cars—to get me out, I just—I knew I couldn’t be a lesbian anymore. Like it was a warning.”

“You can’t just stop being a lesbian. It’s not something you can control.”

“I can stop dating women. I can marry a man. I can have a baby.”

“But…you made them call me,” Julia said. Her vigilant chest seized up to stop her from crying. “And if the universe didn’t want you to see me again, it would have given you other people who you can call to be with you when you’re in the hospital.”

“I didn’t want you to come so we could get back together, I wanted you to come so I could tell you this, so you would know.”

“Then why did you ask for me the last time you got sick?”

“I was going to tell you, and then I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” she sighed at her hands. “Because I was tired.” Julia left the room. She was so sick of Kate.

Julia didn’t come back the next day, or the day after that when Kate was discharged from the hospital. Kate had thought she would have, but she supposed it was better for her if Julia left for good. When she was discharged from the hospital, she bought some white chrysanthemums and put them in a vase on her kitchen table. The flowers were supposed to symbolize truth, but they were used in funerals as a symbol of death in some countries. Kate knew this, and she knew Julia did as well, even if she wasn’t coming back. It was a strange feeling to reckon with. She thought it best to distance herself from her ex-girlfriend,

who only came when bad things happened (times when Kate was close to death). Maybe then she would be able to live.

Kate went to bed alone, like she always did. She thought about the last time her mother told her good night, how it must have happened, yet she can’t remember anything about that last night. One night her mother was there, and the next she was gone, along with the family car.

Kate’s father had been very upset after that. He had told her that Kate’s mother left them to go to New York City to live with her secret boyfriend. Kate didn’t care if that was true or not. She kept her mother’s coat in a box in her closet, along with a picture of her wearing the coat.

Sometimes she wondered what her mother would have thought of Julia if she had met her. Kate didn’t even know what she thought about Julia. She wished Julia hadn’t left her grasping blindly at the air behind her. She knew she should have explained the whole martyr thing better; Julia didn’t get it. She should have mentioned that the word “martyr” comes from a Greek word meaning “witness.” Maybe then Julia would have understood, then she would have stayed.

Before she slipped into the void of sleep, Kate decided to visit the cave the next day. She would pay a lot of money to take an Uber and she would survive the ride.

“So we’re going to the Pottersville Caves?” The Uber driver looked like he was hoping Kate would say no.

“Yeah, I know it’s really far,” Kate said. Her phone was telling her it would take nearly four hours if they left now.

“No, no, it’s okay. I was just confirming. I don’t want to take the wrong person two hundred miles north, you know?” The man chuckled.

Kate laughed awkwardly and sat in the back seat. The car smelled strongly of air freshener. She felt sick. The man, whose name on the Uber app was Darren, looked about five years older than she was, with a picture of a grinning little girl sitting on the dashboard. Darren started driving and tried to make conversation.

“So what are you going to do at the caves?” he asked.

“I just want to walk around—” Kate could feel her heart beating in her face. “I’m so sorry, I have a hard time in cars. Can we just not talk?” Kate knew this was rude, but she really just needed to make it through four hours in this car without passing out.

“Oh sure. Whatever you want. Do you want music?” Darren did not seem upset.

“No, thank you,” Kate told him. She could only trust a driver if there were zero distractions, including music and talking. They drove the whole four hours in silence, just the hum of the air and the car and the GPS lady. Kate looked directly ahead and had to periodically force her body to relax because someone had told her once that the more relaxed a person is during a crash, the more likely it is that they’ll survive. She tried to distract herself by watching the scenery through the window, which was admittedly gorgeous—lush trees and rocky hills—but she kept noticing how quickly the trees and hills passed by (which made her think about the speed of the car and the force of the impact) and then she would get worried again. Her body had yet to forget the panic of the crash, the crunching of the windows and the brief moment of weightlessness before everything fell. She wished Julia was there in the car with her, like she had been that first time she left the hospital, holding Kate so tightly and whispering soothing words into her hair. But no matter how much Kate wished Julia was there and that she hadn’t gotten so upset after they talked in the hospital, Julia was gone and Kate had started to doubt she would ever return. As such, Kate spent the majority of the drive with her eyes screwed shut and taking short, shallow breaths with her mouth to avoid the sickly scent of the air freshener. Darren probably thought she was either sleeping weirdly or just a weird woman, but she was doing what she had to do to make it out of that car with no new wounds.

“Ma’am?” Darren asked quietly. Kate opened her eyes. The car was parked.

“Yes, are we here?” Kate looked around. It certainly looked

that way. The parking lot was gravel and surrounded by so many trees. Darren nodded.

“Thank you so much,” Kate smiled out of relief. “I’m so sorry about how I get in cars. I just…have a really hard time with them.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve had much worse customers than you.”

Darren was so nice, Kate thought. She hoped that girl on his dashboard knew how nice Darren was. She smiled and thanked him again, then collected her backpack and left the car, finally breathing the fresh air through her nose. Darren drove off back to the city, the car kicking up a little dust as he left. Kate pulled out her phone and rated him five stars. Then she went to the visitor’s center and bought admission for herself for a solo tour of the caves, which required her to sign two liability waivers and certify that she knew proper caving techniques, and that she would return from the caves by 5 p.m., or rescue services would be called. She was given a helmet with a headlamp and neon orange bodysuit to wear over her hiking clothes, which would make her more visible in case she had to be rescued. The man giving her the equipment was very serious.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he told Kate. “If you can barely squeeze yourself in one way, you’re definitely not squeezing out the other way. Small people like you always think they can fit places they can’t.”

Kate nodded and put the equipment on and thanked the man. She followed a path through a labyrinth of green trees and humid air before arriving at the mouth of the cave, marked only by a weathered sign. It was quaint, if caves can be quaint, with mosses growing on it. She rubbed the rock at the entrance and closed her eyes. A long time ago, before the crash, before Julia, she had visited this cave. Kate did not like to dwell on things, but that’s what she spent most of her time doing anyway, as she entered this cave for the second time. It was much colder inside, probably because of the many feet of rock insulating it. Turning on her headlamp and venturing deeper, she walked on a slight downward slope. The walls turned a little this way and that, but there was no branching, no choices to make. Everything just beckoned her further. Kate did not worry about getting lost. She could see a shrinking dot of light behind her from the mouth of the cave. That would take her back. The walls sounded wet; there was water dripping somewhere. She walked until the tunnels started thinning out and her arms began to brush the rock at her sides.

She turned off her headlamp and sighed, listening to the deafening echo of her breath. The only light was that little star from the entrance, but even that could have been her imagination at this point. She laid on the cave floor, studded with all kinds of oddly-shaped stones jutting into her spine. The ground was damp and housed little puddles in its crevices. She wished Julia was there so she could talk to her, but the cave walls were so wet that maybe they could hold her words for a little while.

“When I was younger, I read this folktale about a king who had three daughters and they all had to tell him how much they loved him,” Kate’s voice was ricocheting off the walls. “The first two daughters tell him everything he wants to hear: that they love him more than their kingdom and all the jewels that exist. Stupid stuff. And then the third daughter says she loves him like salt. And the king has her taken to the forest and killed,” She stopped and swallowed. “And I realized that I love you like salt. Like salt-of-theearth, salt-in-the-wound, healing. Like healing. Like preservation.” She caught her breath and felt the air rushing around her in that little cave made of so many rocks. Above her, pebbles rumbled.

Lauren Buck

Photography Stivers School for the Arts Dayton, OH The Love We Give: 1 of 5 35mm film, silver gelatin print 2022

Marcus Bui

Photography Bard High School Early College New York, NY Quiet Arise Digital photography 2022

Clementina Cardana

Design Arts Design and Architecture Senior High School Miami, FL

Luce Cotton fabric, thread, hook and eyes, zipper, metal wire, and battery powered lights 2022

Disha Catt

CHRYSANTHEMUMS

RANI

(The stage is completely dark, except for a spotlight, where there is a yellow classroom chair. Upstage, a window is very dimly lit. Enter RANI, a 16-year-old Indian girl with no Indian accent, sitting in the chair.)

Everything always starts with a boy or a kiss. In all the stories, in all the movies, the girl has the most angelic kiss known to any human...and experiences the fateful, earth-shattering crash of the crush. Exiled to a fruitless garden, we are left, dry and naked, our thoughts melting off our flesh. Because of a love. A boy. A friend. This story, starts with both the boy and the earth-shattering crash of a kiss...

(The tables are pushed together. On top of the tables sits a 5th grade RANI and ULYANA. YOUNG ULYANA, is braiding the hair of YOUNG RANI, who has a faint Indian accent. YOUNG ULYANA is eating a chocolate bar. They start laughing about something.)

RANI

... and ends with a friendship forever changed.

YOUNG RANI

What was your mother doing?

YOUNG ULYANA

Well, she was in the bathroom and she pulled out these little cotton tubes meant to go up your...you know...

YOUNG RANI

I really don’t know.

YOUNG ULYANA

Yes, you do! I don’t want to say the word. It’s gross.

YOUNG RANI

Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about, so you’re just going to have to say it.

YOUNG ULYANA

The vagina.

What’s that?

It’s a hole up your butt!

It’s not.

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

From now on, we’re going to bleed for five days straight every single month!

YOUNG RANI

Are we going to die?

YOUNG ULYANA

My mom said we wouldn’t if we drank a lot of water and ate spinach.

YOUNG RANI

Ugh, I’d rather die.

Play or Script

Juanita High School Kirkland, WA

It’s perfect.

You’re...perfect.

(YOUNG ULYANA ties the end of the braid.)

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA (very self consciously)

YOUNG RANI (pointing at the chocolate on YOUNG ULYANA’s cheek)

You have something on your cheek.

RANI (at the young friends)

She did have something on her cheek. I knew because my eyes constantly tracked her face as if it were a sun.

(YOUNG RANI lifts her finger to rub at the chocolate smear on YOUNG ULYANA’s face. It is very innocent, but also shy. Afraid.)

RANI

Her skin soft. My touch aiml essly rubbed the remnants of chocolate from her skin--I could feel the lights shift.

(The lights shift slightly.)

RANI (towards the audience)

My friend was beautiful. She was loving. She cared for me, and I, I--I lo--I miss her.

(YOUNG ULYANA stares at YOUNG RANI.)

Is the fall going to shatter me?

No.

Sorry—

I’m in love with Colin Moskowitz.

What?

RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

YOUNG RANI (jerks her hand away)

YOUNG ULYANA (abruptly, turning away from YOUNG RANI)

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

Colin. In Ms. Gemma’s 5th grade class. I think I’m in love with him.

YOUNG RANI

How?

I have a crush on him.

YOUNG ULYANA (whispers in YOUNG RANI’s ear)

(YOUNG ULYANA EXITS. The lights on the tables dim. YOUNG RANI gets off the table and walks to the center of the stage.)

YOUNG RANI

Colin Moskowitz?

59 YOUNG ULYANA

Same.

RANI (back in light)

Ulyana Kalashnik was my best friend. She was my only friend.

(RANI walks upstage and the stage lights up.)

RANI

I present to you, esteemed audience, Ms. Walker’s 3rd Grade Lunch!

(A swarm of kids enter the stage, all with lunch pails in their hands. They unlock the tables and spread them out, eating food from their lunchboxes. YOUNG RANI sits alone at a far table. YOUNG ULYANA sits at a packed table close by, with no lunch. From her lunchbox, YOUNG RANI eats a roti with a spicy curry. GIRL #1, GIRL #2, and GIRL #3 walk past YOUNG RANI. RANI walks back to the yellow chair.)

GIRL #1

Oh my goodness, what is that smell?

Ugh, it smells like turd!

It’s that Mexican girl!

GIRL #2 (animatedly waving her hands)

GIRL #3 (turning to YOUNG RANI)

GIRL #1

I heard she doesn’t speak a word of English.

GIRL #3

Does she speak Spanish?

Fluent Spanish.

GIRL #2

(The girls leave. YOUNG ULYANA looks at YOUNG RANI and walks to her table.)

YOUNG ULYANA (sitting down opposite YOUNG RANI)

So. You speak fluent Spanish? That’s pretty cool.

YOUNG RANI (in a thick Indian accent)

I’m Indian.

Oh. So, do you speak fluent Indian?

No.

Oh.

YOUNG ULYANA

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

YOUNG RANI

You don’t need to sit here. I know my food smells.

YOUNG ULYANA

It smells good. Can I have a bite? My dad forgot to pack me lunch.

(YOUNG RANI rips a piece of the roti, dips it in the curry and hands it to YOUNG ULYANA.)

Delicious!

Do you not usually eat?

YOUNG ULYANA (eating the roti)

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

I do! I swear I do, it’s just that my dad is constantly working and my mom’s sick, so they forget sometimes.

YOUNG RANI

I can pack extra if you want.

I wouldn’t want to bother you.

You wouldn’t. My mom loves to cook.

She’s really good.

I’ll tell her that.

YOUNG ULYANA

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

So, what do you speak if you don’t speak Indian?

YOUNG RANI

I speak English.

You have an accent.

No, you have an accent.

Not where I’m from.

Where are you from?

YOUNG ULYANA

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

YOUNG RANI

Andhra Pradesh. And by the way? I speak Telugu.

(A spotlight glows on RANI. The kids unlock the tables and push them back together.

YOUNG RANI and YOUNG ALICE exit together.)

RANI

Life is a series of vignettes. Certain memories come to light, plastered to church paneled, stained glass, soldered together with metal intent. These sparse moments of blistered motivation push us into the spotlight, forcing us to move forward, never looking back to confront choices we never thought we’d make.

(The stage is bathed in warm tones: red, orange, yellow.)

RANI(CONT.)

But what happens if you step out of the light?

(RANI stands up from her chair (and the spotlight) and walks to the pushed together tables. YOUNG RANI enters from the opposite side of the stage. She has a black eye.)

YOUNG RANI

What just happened?

You tell me.

I didn’t do anything.

YOUNG RANI

RANI

Saying that means you totally did something.

YOUNG RANI

I didn’t, I swear I didn’t...he just...came at me.

RANI

Why?

YOUNG RANI

I don’t understand. I don’t understand anymore.

(RANI touches YOUNG RANI’s black eye. YOUNG RANI winces.)

RANI

It doesn’t look that bad. Trust me. It’ll fade away in a few weeks and you’ll barely remember what it looked like.

YOUNG RANI

What about us? Will we fade away?

RANI

Of course not. We’ll stick around for a bit longer than that.

YOUNG RANI

No. Once the bruise mends, will the wounds in my relationship with her heal?

RANI

In your not-so-distant future, you’ll feel the ghost of her hand as she holds another’s, but you’ll look down and find that you brushed up against some stranger’s dress. At first, you’ll pretend you don’t know what her skin feels like, or how her voice bellows when she cries, and then you won’t need to pretend because you really don’t know anymore. So no, your wounds won’t heal because that requires stitches, and when two hands won’t work together to thread a needle, you end up with shredded skin, broken hearts, and stray needles waiting to be stepped on.

YOUNG RANI

And loneliness.

That’s the best part isn’t it.

I wouldn’t know.

You’ll know. You will know.

RANI

YOUNG RANI

RANI

(YOUNG RANI leaves the stage. RANI stares after her. YOUNG ULYANA walks onstage with SANJANA. SANJANA is carrying a stool, while YOUNG ULYANA is carrying a plate with a sandwich. They set the stool on the side of the table, and YOUNG ULYANA sits on it, eating her sandwich.)

RANI

Do you know what makes loneliness fond for the heart?

YOUNG ULYANA

Memories?

Yes.

SANJANA

62 RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

Well, I do have some memories before my mom was sick. She would garden a lot; back then, our yard was filled with flowers. She studied horticulture in college.

SANJANA

That’s a big word.

YOUNG ULYANA

I know. My mom made me learn how to spell it as soon as I could. H-O-R-T-I-C-U-L-T-U-R-E. See? I spell it whenever I feel scared.

SANJANA

Good job! Have you ever thought of becoming a professional speller when you grow up?

YOUNG ULYANA

No way. I want to become a botanist, just like my mom would have before she...couldn’t. When I grow up, I’ll fill my house with her purple chrysanthemums, and I’ll make sure they never come close to dying.

(YOUNG RANI runs onto the stage. She does not have a black eye. She looks distraught.)

YOUNG RANI

Ma! Ma!

Yes, kanna

SANJANA

YOUNG RANI

Yanna’s dad is here. He says they need to leave.

YOUNG ULYANA

Why? I just got here.

I don’t know, but he doesn’t look good.

YOUNG RANI

SANJANA

Rani kanna, why don’t you pack up Ulyana’s backpack. (to YOUNG ULYANA) Let’s go talk to your Dad, okay?

(YOUNG ULYANA and SANJANA exit one way, while YOUNG RANI exits the other.)

RANI

When I went downstairs to give Ulyana her backpack, she was gone. Instead, I found Amma sitting by the door, her eyes closed.

(The lights become dark, and RANI crosses to the center of the stage. A spotlight shines on her.)

RANI(CONT.)

I saw her three weeks later, at the funeral. Colin Moskowitz was there. Me, Ulyana, and Colin Moskowitz, except, I wasn’t really there at all. When Ulyana cried, she took Colin’s hand; when she recited her eulogy, she reached for him. The body on the bier was not the ghost, I was. The casket contained stony death, its face resembling a mocking image of Ulyana’s slumbering mother. Ulyana buried her face in the crook of Colin’s neck. I felt useless.

(YOUNG RANI enters onstage with a backpack. She wears black, and holds a small bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums in one hand. YOUNG ULYANA walks in from the opposite side and notices YOUNG RANI.)

YOUNG RANI

Sorry I didn’t mean to intrude—

No, you didn’t.

YOUNG ULYANA

(Beat.)

YOUNG RANI

I have your backpack. From three weeks ago.

YOUNG ULYANA

You can have it.

It’s your stuff.

Well, I don’t want it. I want no part of it.

Ulyanna—

Don’t say you’re sorry. Please.

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

YOUNG RANI

I won’t. (Pause.)

YOUNG RANI

Tell me what I can do.

Bring back my mother.

I can’t.

Then bring back my father.

He’s sitting outside.

YOUNG ULYANA

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

No, he’s with my mom. They’re both drowning in dirt, but only my father’s gasping for air. He’s a ghost.

YOUNG RANI

I don’t understand.

Good.

I want to understand.

Understanding is a curse.

YOUNG ULYANA

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

(YOUNG RANI walks to YOUNG ULYANA and holds out the chrysanthemums.)

YOUNG RANI

Let me break it.

It’s unbreakable.

That’s stupid; this is stupid—

YOUNG ULYANA (ignores the flowers)

YOUNG RANI

YOUNG ULYANA

Are you calling my mom’s death stupid?

NO! Of course not, I’m saying that this distance is stupid--

(YOUNG ULYANA rushes to YOUNG RANI and kisses her, innocently, a mere peck. YOUNG RANI is dazed and confused, immediately breaking off the kiss. YOUNG COLIN, a 5th grade boy, enters the stage.)

YOUNG RANI(CONT.)

Yana-

Stop kissing her you Curry-muncher!

YOUNG COLIN

(YOUNG COLIN rushes to YOUNG RANI and punches her in the eye. YOUNG RANI yelps in pain, dropping the flowers and rushing offstage. YOUNG ULYANA walks to the dropped flowers and stares at them. YOUNG COLIN walks around her and puts his hand on her shoulder.)

YOUNG COLIN(CONT.)

Are you okay? Did that Curry hurt you?

(YOUNG ULYANNA ignores YOUNG COLIN, kneeling down to pick up the dropped chrysanthemums. Lights fade to black. They exit.)

RANI

You’re pulling too hard, Ma!

SANJANA

I wouldn’t have to be pulling this hard if you just brushed your hair!

RANI

I do! I’m not a slob!

(The lights switch on. Infront of the tables, RANI sits on a stool with SANJANA brushing her hair.)

SANJANA

Your hair would not have this many knots if you brushed it.

RANI

I brush my hair Amma!

SANJANA

It doesn’t look like it. I’ll get the noonae [oil].

RANI

NO, Ma please—

Quiet.

SANJANA

(SANJANA turns around to grab a bottle of coconut oil from the table. She squirts some in her palm, and starts massaging RANI’s head. RANI closes her eyes.)

Ma?

Yes kanna?

RANI

SANJANA

YOUNG RANI

Can I get on birth control?

Are you having sex?

No, Ma—

You’re not allowed to have sex.

RANI

(SANJANA stops massaging RANI’s scalp.)

SANJANA

RANI

SANJANA

(SANJANA starts massaging RANI’s scalp again.)

Until when?

Never.

Ma!

RANI

SANJANA

RANI

SANJANA

Then why do you want to get birth control? You’re 16! I didn’t even get my first period until I was 16!

RANI

I’ve done some research, and well, you know how irregular my period is, and I’ve heard—

SANJANA

--you’ve heard?

RANI

I’ve read that birth control helps to regulate menstrual cycles. Besides, all the girls at school are on it and they say it helps.

SANJANA

Does Yana say it helps?

(SANJANA starts braiding RANI’s hair.)

RANI

You know we stopped being friends after her mom’s funeral.

SANJANA

You’re both older now. Whatever it is that happened, you should make up.

RANI

It’s not happening Ma.

SANJANA

Make it happen. She desperately needed a friend back then, kanna. She needed you. She didn’t have many people to trust.

RANI

Well trust me, she has more than enough people now. She’s popular.

SANJANA

Popularity is irrelevant.

Popularity is intimidating.

RANI

SANJANA

It might be intimidating for her as well. Being surrounded by many people doesn’t necessarily mean you are safe or cared for or loved. God, I remember her face the day her mother died and her father picked her up. It was as if her face scrunched up into a tangle of thorns; she was pale all over. You stick by her Rani, even if things are not the same. Don’t think about it. Just go march up to her and talk to her.

Ma, we are talking about the possibility of birth control, not the absurd decision of confronting a friend after six years of estrangement and a field of social norms separating us.

SANJANA

Rani, we can talk to your doctor about the birth control. But kanna, people tend to push you away when truly, they need you the most. Being a friend, being a lover, means traversing that field of tumbleweeds and forgetme-nots that separate us from our person on the other side. Social norms be damned!

(SANJANA finishes tying RANI’s braid and EXITS the stage. An ensemble of highschoolers walk on and push the tables off-stage. A set of lockers appear upstage. RANI crosses downstage to the side, as ULYANA enters with COLIN next to the lockers. All the highschoolers stare at them while RANI looks everywhere except them. ULYANA and COLIN share a kiss and talk next to the lockers. ENTER OLDER GIRL #1, #2, and #3 downstage on the opposite side of RANI.)

OLDER GIRL #1

Oh my god. Are Colin Moskowitz and Ulyana Kalashnik kissing in front of the entire school?

OLDER GIRL #2

Ugh, it’s so gross. I don’t want any of that in front of my eyes.

OLDER GIRL #3

I heard that she and Colin had sex at Jaden’s party last night.

OLDER GIRL #2

She’s such a slut.

Yeah, but she’s pretty.

OLDER GIRL #1

OLDER GIRL #3

God, everyone hates her. Should we ask her to join our homecoming group?

OLDER GIRL #1

Um, yes.

Hey girl.

Hey, what’s up?

(The OLDER GIRLS walk up to ULYANA as COLIN exits. RANI watches nervously.)

OLDER GIRL #1

ULYANA

OLDER GIRL #3

Your hair is so pretty today! Did you do something to it?

ULYANA

Thank you but no, I didn’t—

Well, we wanted to ask you if…

OLDER GIRL #1

(Their conversation lulls out. RANI turns around and looks at them nervously.)

Fuck it.

RANI

(RANI walks to ULYANA and the OLDER GIRLS, stopping abruptly, but defiantly.)

RANI

RANI (CONT.)

Why did you stop talking to me in the 5th grade. (pause.)

RANI (CONT.)

You kissed me, your boyfriend punched me, and then you stopped talking to me. Why?

OTHER GIRL #3

This seems like a private conversation.

(The OTHER GIRLS exit the stage, whispering to each other.)

ULYANA

Rani—hi—I—I—we haven’t talked in a while.

RANI

Yeah. Why?

ULYANA

I, um. People change, I changed. It didn’t feel right to continue our friendship.

RANI

We were 11. You don’t change that much in a span of three weeks.

ULYANA

My mom died Rani. She died!

You kissed me.

RANI

ULYANA

And you made everything about you. I know you were mad when I brought Colin to the funeral. You had no right. You were radiating jealousy and judgement, and it was chaffing! There was no place for your selfinvolvement at my mom’s funeral, Rani.

RANI

Yes, I was jealous, and I’m sorry. But I loved you. I loved you more than I thought I could at that age, and you kissed me, crashing into my world. And then you ran away, and I was left all alone in a gaping crater the shape of your body, realizing I was bruised all over because you used me as a pillow to cushion your fall.

ULYANA

You’re being dramatic.

I lost a friend; I lost a love! I miss her.

RANI

(A bang erupts from off-stage. The mangled scream of a student can be heard. The lights shake on and off, bathing the stage in a dark red.)

ULYANA

What’s happening?

(OLDER GIRL #1 runs onstage, looks behind her, and gets shot in the heart, crumpling to the ground. Everything is rather silent except for her startled grunt.)

We need to hide.

Where?

RANI

ULYANA

(RANI looks around until she glances at ULYANA’s locker.)

The locker. Open your locker!

RANI

What are we going to do?

(ULYANA opens her locker and squeezes into the back. RANI tries to fit but she can’t.)

ULYANA

(RANI frantically tries to open the other lockers nearby.)

They aren’t opening.

RANI

ULYANA

(trying to get out of the locker)

There’s a bathroom down the hall we could hide in—

RANI

No, stay. I’m sure there’s another open locker.

ULYANA

You won’t make it, I’ll come with you—

I’ll make it. Don’t leave.

Promise?

Promise.

RANI

ULYANA

RANI

(The two girls look at each other, and all pretenses of estrangement are gone. They share a hug, and then the sound of a gunshot wrenches them apart. RANI silently closes the locker door and runs across the stage. The stage is silent, but ULYANA’s deep breathing can be heard. A shot can be heard. And then another.)

ULYANA

(ULYANA keeps spelling as more shots are heard. A boy runs onstage and crumples when a bullet hits him. The audience can still hear ULYANA’s spelling. Another girl runs onstage and gets shot. Three bodies are on the floor. Silence is heard for many seconds. Then, the lockers move off, and the stage transforms into a road. A traffic light is seen above, and traffic noises can be heard. A crowd of highschoolers wearing orange clothes and holding anti-gun violence signs, march down the road. A car is heard whooshing by and honking support. On one side of the stage is RANI. She wears white, not orange. On the other is ULYANA who holds COLIN’s hand.)

RANI (to the audience)

Tell me. How will the suffocating children escape their prisons of dirt?

ULYANA

They’ll claw their way out, alone and broke. Thoughts and prayers do nothing. It’s a joke.

COLIN

Thoughts and prayers are a way of showing support. It’s a nice gesture. (ULYANA wrenches her hand from his grasp.)

H-O-R-T-I-C-U-L-T-U-R-E-H-O-R-T-I-C-U-L-T-U-R-E-H-O-R-T-I-C…

ULYANA

Nice gestures don’t get you anywhere. What are their parents going to do now that their children have been snatched away? Are thoughts and prayers alleviating their pain? Showing support would mean changing gun legislation, increasing security at schools, creating accessibility to mental health facilities; reputable actions instead of mindless droning. It feels useless. I feel useless.

COLIN

We can’t do any of that. But my thoughts and prayer go out to their families—

ULYANA

Fuck that—just—fuck it!!

Calm down—

COLIN

ULYANA

Don’t tell me to calm down! People died, Colin! Friends died. They. Are. Dead. I can’t be calm right now.

(RANDOM STUDENT walks up to them. Her outfit is orange, festive, and trendy.)

RANDOM STUDENT

Do you guys want to pose for a picture? You guys are so cute together, and a photo would help us gain a lot of traction.

COLIN

Sure. (to ULYANA) Smile!

Are you fucking joking me?

No?

ULYANA

COLIN AND RANDOM STUDENT (confused)

ULYANA

We are at a march to honor those that died during the school shooting, and you want me to smile? Someone pried open our doors and killed our classmates. And now, you want me to smile

COLIN

It’s just a photo Ulyana. It’s not that deep—

ULYANA

But it is! While we were walking here, I saw a group of kids playing jenga on the sidewalk. Jenga! People are making Tik Toks, like, “oh look, I’m such an upstart citizen; I’m at a march and I’m having such a great time, didly, didly.” This march feels like an aesthetic. It feels like I’m a doll, propped for the perfect photo. God, I don’t know how to act anymore. Do we have a right to smile? Do we have a right to play games on the sidewalk like we’re children, like we don’t have a grotesque world splayed out in front of us? I don’t know what to wear anymore. I wake up in the morning and I want to throw on a dress and then I think, well, they won’t get to wear clothes anymore, or push snooze on their alarm clocks, or lick raw cake batter. So how can I not think, Colin, that it doesn’t get deeper than this? That our friends, kids, are buried deep within this earth, and that, hell, why am I not with them?

COLIN (Wrapping his arms around ULYANA)

We survived, Ulyana. It’s over, so we should be happy. Celebrate!

ULYANA (jumping away from COLIN)

Fuck you. This isn’t the end of some zombie apocalypse. This isn’t something to celebrate; surviving is no reason to celebrate. Hell, we shouldn’t need to have to celebrate staying alive. This never should have happened, and nothing short of time travel can change that.

COLIN (reaching for ULYANA)

Yana—

ULYANA

Just get away from me Colin. Get the hell away from me!

(ULYANA rushes into the center and looks to both sides of the crowd. No one is paying attention. She starts to sob and wipes at her eyes. The crowd starts to part, the students crowding onto the sidewalks, emphatically chanting ‘END GUN VIOLENCE.’ ULYANA is alone on the road. RANI is hidden in the crowd. The crowd is bathed in red and green lights from the stop sign.)

RANI

As tides of red and green light misted their bones, Moses parted the crowded sea into indifference and resolve. The bones of the students splintered from their calves, their flesh peeling from their eye sockets, melting into biers that, in some other reality, where they were the apple of the bullet’s eye, they would have filled.

(ULYANA turns to look at RANI. RANI’s eyes widen.)

ULYANA

Rani?

(RANI vanishes into the crowd, exiting the stage. ULYANA still peers into the crowd for her.)

ULYANA

Rani? Rani!

(ULYANA can’t spot RANI, so she exits to find you. The crowd exits on each side of the stage, and the traffic lights and road disappear. A single gravestone lies in the center of the stage. RANI kneels on her knees in front of it in prayer, closing her eyes. Enter ULYANA, in a graduation cap and gown. She holds a bouquet of yellow and purple chrysanthemums, and a tiffin box.)

ULYANA

Rani.

RANI (jumps up from the grave) Hi.

ULYANA

You’re here.

Where else would I be?

Anywhere but here.

RANI

ULYANA

RANI

You know me Ulyana. I keep things unexpected. You can never anticipate anything with me.

ULYANA (giggles)

Of course.

RANI

Remember the choir concert at the old folks’ home?

ULYANA

Of course, I remember the choir concert! You decided to de-pants yourself to distract the kids from noticing the grandpa going into cardiac arrest.

RANI

See? That’s just another example of me being quick on my feet. I’m just that sharp-witted.

You mean impulsive.

Never.

RANI

ULYANA

That day when you confronted me was impulsive. (pause.)

RANI

We never finished our conversation that day, did we?

ULYANA

No, we didn’t.

(pause.)

RANI

Congratulations on graduating. I see you’ve finally escaped the hellscape that is high school.

ULYANA

Thanks. Your mom made me a whole feast to celebrate. (holding up the tiffin box)

It’s filled with roti and aloo gobi.

Delicious.

RANI

(ULYANA smiles.)

RANI (CONT.)

Do you see her often?

ULYANA

Every Saturday since the shooting. I’ve never missed a day in the first year.

RANI

Thank you for keeping my Amma company. I’m so sorry for the burden.

ULYANA

It’s nothing really. I walk to your house at 10 in the morning sharp. It’s a ritual. The sun is already taunting me from the sky, and yet I always feel so pale and cold. Your mother welcomes me with a cup of hot chai and we sit on your bed. We sort through boxes of your clothing every day; we still haven’t got through half of it. Sanjana pulls out an old cardigan of yours and she cries, and I weep alongside her. Mostly, we just talk about you, about what colleges you would apply to, what new dishes Sanjana could have made for you, about the first party we could have gone to together. I mostly think about the wasted time; I want to kiss you one more time, no, I want to give you a real kiss, a kiss that tastes of dreams that could have changed the world, families that could have birthed dynasties, volcanos that constantly erupt with love. I want the simple things, like getting in trouble for texting in you in class, skipping school on a sunny day to get slushies at the gas station, having Indian food with your mother on a Sunday night. I want birthdays and Saturdays and picnic and long evenings where the stars will never leave, because the night is at our beck and call. And now everything is unfulfilled, and I stand at your grave. The breeze bites me, its welcoming hand carrying your familiar and yet so distant scent. And I hate that I see you everywhere and that I rehearse conversations with you. I hate that I fill in the blanks of our interrupted conversation, and I despise that it was you who confronted me about our estrangement. I love your courage and your impulsiveness, and I recall all your moments as if they were mine. I ran straight here after graduation. The whole ordeal felt hollow and meaningless. The principal called up my name, “Ulyana Kalashnik,” in this big imploding voice that felt like a bomb, and I trudged up those fucking steps. They keep four seats empty at every assembly. One for Simone Blacke. One for Kyle Gervais. One for Olivia Truly. And one for you. But I could see you sitting there, just as you are now, and for just a single second, I convinced myself it was real.

(ULYANA walks closer to RANI)

I won’t ever leave you.

Do you promise?

RANI

ULYANA

Do you mean it this time?

I do. I really do.

(ULYANA hands the bouquet of flowers to RANI. They stare at each other and share a hug. Their last hug. ULYANA exits, and RANI, with one more glance to the audience, exits the other way.)

73 RANI I do.

ULYANA

RANI

Ramona Chae

Visual Arts Skyline High School

Dreamland Ink on paper 2021

Salt Lake City, UT

David Chen

Self

Red. Self. Life. Family. Ritual. Memory. Tradition. Culture.

I begin life with my self in a restaurant. I’ve struggled for a long time on what to call it. I used to call it Chinese, but it’s not quite Chinese. It’s not like the 皮蛋瘦肉粥1 my father makes on Sunday mornings—our one day off from the restaurant. But it’s not quite American either, at least not enough for Kari with a K, a former cashier. She always ran next door to G. B. Schneider’s Local Bar and Grill for a half-pound hamburger and crinkle-cut fries after her shift, despite my mother always offering to cook her dinner. Recently, I’ve conceded to calling it Chinese Takeout. I decided it’s not worth stressing over. Chinese Takeout gets the point across, and people know what I’m talking about—General Tso’s chicken, cream cheese wontons, and the like.

I’ve filled almost every role in this restaurant—the son of 老板2 and 老板娘, 3 油锅, 4 打包,5 and as of getting my driver’s license about eight months ago, 外卖 6 The little boy who had to climb onto the counter in order to take customers’ orders and could barely string together a sentence of understandable English turned into a teenager who ran the 前台7 all by himself. The only role I haven’t filled yet is 厨师, 8 and that’s only because I’m afraid I’d burn the restaurant down if it got too busy. I have to admit, I’m pretty clumsy.

Despite my clumsiness, however, I’ve actually never had a serious injury. It was mainly just minor burns here and there from rogue drops of flying oil. I always had the liberty of going slow and being careful. I’ve always had time. My parents, on the other hand, are decorated with them.

Discolored patches of skin that didn’t quite heal right and current blisters covered in a thick coating of clear, Walgreens-brand burn ointment crawl up their forearms. Their hands are too often covered in scrapes and bruises, and calluses are an everpresent feature. The tempo of the restaurant doesn’t allow them to slow down. Orders after orders after orders ensure the four woks always twisted and flipped and turned, churning out garlic chicken and broccoli with beef at a consistent rate. The rest of the restaurant work—cleaning, washing, tallying sales at the end of the day, prepping the green peppers and yellow jumbo onions and all the other produce that came on Mondays and Thursdays in Sysco trucks as tall as the restaurant itself—occupies the rest of their time.

When I was little, about nine or ten, we used to play Jenga as a family on Saturday nights. I was quite good at it, if I do say so myself. Something about the blocks just made sense. On other nights, if my parents had more energy, we played Angry Birds in real life. We have a claw machine at the restaurant, and I staked a claim on all the plushies that customers forgot to take home. I had them all—Red, Chuck, and Bomb—and even a few pigs, but Chuck was always my favorite. We would take turns trying to knock the pigs off the pillows I had propped them up on with the birds. Younger me had a blast, but as I grew up, Jenga and Angry Birds soon disappeared. I busied myself with schoolwork so that I could be a good son to my parents, and my parents worked late every day so that they could be good parents to me. We moved to a bigger house, and in our efforts to be good enough for each other, we didn’t notice that the space between us grew bigger too.

To be honest, my parents and I don’t really do anything together anymore. They have their 12-hour workdays at the restaurant where, by the end, all sights, sounds, and smells become one blurry sensation; I have a never-ending list of college applications

and essays and readings to complete. When my mother calls every other day, we talk for five minutes before I say I have lots of work to do and she says that’s okay, I just wanted to hear your voice. We don’t have time. Not for each other, not for ourselves. We don’t have enough time. I wonder, when did this happen?

I’m scared. I’m scared that one day, I won’t have time to say 再见 9

My mother’s always been a strong woman. She’s loud, not afraid to get into conflicts, and always says what’s on her mind. Even so, she always lets my father make the big household decisions. We used to celebrate Chinese New Year at the restaurant with all the restaurant employees, closing an hour early to clean for the day just past and cook for the night to come. My sister and brother-in-law trudged through the snow to get to the back door, carrying goodies they’d brought with them from the Twin Cities in large cardboard boxes. I always looked forward to seeing them. We puzzled together Tables #9 and #10—the two closest to the kitchen—and brought out an array of stir-fried noodles and saucy rice cakes and steamed clam soup and all the other things my parents thought were too Chinese to put on the menu. The festivities began with a clink of their Heinekens, the restaurant’s ceiling light flickering and illuminating the red paper lanterns that hung between the ceiling boards. My father sipped his beer and smacked his lips, gutsy and boisterous, and leaned back. His arm settled neatly on the back of my mother’s chair. Next to him, my mother sewed ripped clothes and peeled shrimp for the table, knees tucked together and back straight. Her delicate fingers wove around the shells to separate them from the meat. Skin from soul. Spirit from body. The restaurant always got rowdy after that—clicking beer bottles, drunken conversations, wide-mouthed laughter. My mother never drank.

I never knew which parent I was like more. The restaurant cooks would always grab my arm, staining my shirt with even more grease, and comment about the muscle I was gaining. That I was getting taller. Bigger. Stronger, like my father. I didn’t know if that was what I wanted. But what about my mother? I wanted that too. I wanted to be both taller and shorter, bigger and smaller, stronger and weaker, masculine and feminine, father and mother.

Orange. Discovery. Exploration. Perfection.

I would say I knew pretty young, but I guess that wouldn’t be the full story. In kindergarten, before my parents sent me to China to live with my aunt and uncle for two years, there was my best friend, Bella. My mother thought she was gorgeous—pale smooth skin like porcelain, wavy blonde hair that shimmered in the sunlight at the kindergarten drop off. Do you like her? You should marry her, she joked. My father preached about grandchildren and passing on the surname and family line, about the perfect family with a loving wife, two kids, and a big house with a big backyard. The true American Dream. Even then, I felt something was wrong. What if I wanted to marry someone blond?

As an act of pre-teenage rebellion, I snuck my first phone into my bed past bedtime every single night and browsed the internet to my heart’s fullest desire. I sought comfort and connection in Minecraft Youtubers and DIY Challenge videos, attempting to fill the space between me and my parents. I felt part of something better— worlds where you could be anything you wanted. I was instantly hooked. Even so, I may have stumbled upon some things that weren’t quite appropriate for a ten-year-old. In my defense, I didn’t know what I was doing.

Creative Nonfiction Phillips Exeter Academy Exeter, NH

I tapped the screen to enter incognito mode for the first time. Frantic typing. The weighted blanket, draped over my entire body, was hot and heavy on every stretch of my skin. The dull streetlamps illuminated a small fraction of the outdoors—a dusting of snow against sky amid the blizzard. Minnesota winters were always cold, but at that moment, I wished I could leap out my window. I learned lots of words on those nights. Gay. Straight. Lesbian. Bisexual. Homosexual and homophobic. Of course, words on a webpage never relate to experiences and real life. The only gay person I knew in life was Matt, another former cashier at the restaurant, and all I knew was I didn’t want to be talked about like he was—in hushed voices, as if he was a “bad person.” What if “bad things” happened to “bad people” like Matt? What if “bad things” happened to “bad people” like me?

So even though I’m not religious, I prayed. Every single night, I hoped and prayed that I was straight. In school, I looked down whenever I talked to my male friends, refusing to look them in the eye. I feared that if I looked, I would be trapped. I faced the metal grids of the lockers and pretended to look in between the empty spaces. Then I saw him, and the façade I had built up all came crashing down. When I realized I couldn’t make myself straight, I cried. But I wasn’t one to give up. I tried to make myself bisexual. I thought about what my parents saw, what others saw. What made girls so attractive?

I just wanted to give my father grandkids. I just wanted to pass on the family line. I just wanted to make my father happy. But I knew I couldn’t. It was either family, or family, to love who I wanted, or to love my parents—I could pick one. I couldn’t decide. I knew I could never decide, so I reinforced the barrier between me and my parents. I prayed that when the time to make the decision came, it would hurt less if I didn’t care.

Yellow. Sun. Radiance. Joy. Music. Rhythm. Beauty. New ideas.

Two days after my middle school graduation, Eugene Lee Yang uploaded his coming out video, Eugene Lee Yang - I’m Gay. The beauty was in the joy, the pure radiance on his face. In each beat and pulse of the music. In the billowing of his floor-length sleeves, in the embroidery on silk. In the sweat and tears. I watched it through again, then again, then allowed myself to cry. The video became the soundtrack of that summer before freshman year, and even now, I watch it again every so often, allowing myself to feel the rhythm of the music just the way Eugene did.

The only summer reading I did for Exeter10 was that summer. I sat by the drink cooler at the restaurant and flipped through Richard Blanco’s The Prince of Los Cocuyos , accompanied by the soundtrack of Eugene’s video through my earbuds and dreading the ten summer math problems for that day I had yet to finish. The air conditioner whirled and blew cold, cold air, still needing to be repaired by my father the next day, and customers filing through the open door brought a wave of sweltering heat. In The Prince of Los Cocuyos , Blanco writes, “Do I dare disturb the universe? Dare to kiss him, feel his stubble against my palm, the fine hairs of his chest through my fingers?” Back then, Exeter meant endless possibilities, a utopia where every Exonian was brave and unabashedly them. To me, it symbolized a place where I could be, and would be, brave enough. Do I truly dare disturb the universe?

Green. Envy. Nature. Growth. History. Breath.

One week within my arrival on Exeter’s campus, I had to make a decision—be brave enough, or not. This would determine which me, which self, lived at Exter for the next four years. I wanted to be brave enough, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Maybe the big red block letters that Exeter was written in all over campus were a warning. I promised myself—give it a month. If you feel good after a month, be brave. Be brave enough.

Two weeks in, the school administration required all proctors on campus to lead an “identity exercise” in the dorm. The idea was simple, and well-intended—they taped notecards with identities like “race” or “socioeconomic class” onto the beige walls, and passed out a stack of post-its for us to respond with how we identified. Once everyone had written out their responses, we would split up into small groups to discuss. While waiting for the proctors to gather students around the dorm, Ewald, I scrolled through Instagram in one of the comfy cushioned armchairs in the common room. The big red block letters that spelled out Ewald screamed in warning. To the side, two proctors talked in quiet whispers.

“Should we even have this one?”

“I mean, I don’t know. I just- I just think it’s probably not for the best.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s just change it.”

As the residents of Ewald Hall congregated, one of the proctors stood up on the chair to introduce the exercise, then added, “We also had one about sexuality, but the moment someone writes ‘gay,’ we all know it’s going downhill, so we’re just going to change that to favorite musician. Ok?”

A laugh erupted in Ewald’s common room, followed by nods, and the already tight space, crammed with 36 boys, closed in even tighter. I strained to pull air through my nostrils and into my lungs, and felt the heaviness sink into my chest. Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I don’t want to talk about Taylor Swift. It just would have been nice if we talked about sexuality too. It would have been nice if Exeter was different from home, if Exeter didn’t speak of Matt like “bad people” just like they did back home, if Exeter wouldn’t speak of me just like they would back home. But alas, finding the safe, sacred temple that Exeter symbolized razed, I took from the wreckage and reinforced the self I decided on within the first week. In the end, I chose not to be brave enough. I envied that others chose to be brave enough, as if they were purposely parading around me the sole thing I did not dare to have. I just knew then I’d never be brave enough.

Blue.

Serenity. Peace. Acceptance. Being.

For the next two years, I stuck to my choice. I tried to hide, and I worried that I wasn’t hiding it well enough. I worried and stressed about every speculation about my sexuality, fearing my voice was too high, my facial features too soft, my body too curvy, my self too feminine. When I told someone for the first time, I couldn’t even say the words, and to be honest, I still find it hard. At the end of my sophomore year, I took the first step and told a senior a few weeks before graduation. I struggled with that decision for months, and the entire process was brutal, to say the least. To give some context, I told him via a TikTok song. Definitely not my proudest moment. I told myself: he was an Ewaldian, and he meant a lot to me. I trusted him. I wanted him to know. Right? I knew that wasn’t true. At least, it wasn’t the final reason that convinced me, the one I kept to only myself. He’ll be gone in a couple of weeks. No way he can mess up your life, even if he tries. Right?

With his acceptance and support, I felt braver. I felt brave enough to tell more people. To the people who knew, I talked about it more than I’ve ever talked about it. I felt a little bit freer, and I was a little bit more at peace with my self—the suppressed self that emerged. I began going through my days more as me. Still, there was now a separation of selves that was hard to manage—there was me, and there was me. I tried even harder to swallow my higher voice and constantly examined my every movement to make sure I could continue hiding around people who didn’t know. Even then, I was still confused. I wanted to be masculine too, at

least in a way that I could define for myself—partially because I didn’t want to fall into the stereotype, but largely because it’s true. In the fight to find one part of my self, I pushed away the other. I wanted to be masculine and feminine, mother and father.

Mostly, though, things were okay. I was okay. I will be okay. The wall was not gone, but the blood-red bricks started to crumble. Purple. Self. Spirit.

It hasn’t gotten easier. I’ve vowed no more incognito modes, but I also haven’t told anyone directly since last year. Do I have to? I stopped focusing on my actions and just was. Do people notice? I still glance in the mirror and deepen my voice. Where do I stand now—scared or brave enough, masculine or feminine, in or out, me or me? Dare I let it all go? Dare I just exist? Dare I be?

Will I have to say goodbye? To my parents, to my friends, to Exeter, to my self? Will I ever have to separate spirit from body? Do I have to make a choice? Should I hope and pray like I once did?

Family. Discovery. Radiance. Growth. Serenity. Spirit. Self.

For now, I’ll keep trying to sew together the gap my parents and I built, so that one day, I’ll be by their side to say 再见 For now, I’ll keep getting to know my self. For now, I’ll keep rewatching Eugene’s video and rereading The Prince of Los Cocuyos, and keep reminding myself to dare disturb the universe. For now, I can grow and change, we can grow and change, Exeter can grow and change. For now, I am okay.

translations and notes 1. century egg congee with pork 2. boss 3. literally, lady boss; a female boss or the boss’ wife 4. literally, fryer; fryer operator 5. literally, packing; food packer 6. literally, delivery; delivery driver 7. front desk 8. cook 9. goodbye 10. Exeter refers to Phillips Exeter Academy, the name of the boarding school I attend.

Renee Chen

The Mannequin Chapter One

I wasn’t there when they shot Luke.

I only learned about it later on, from one of the officers who had been there, at the park with him.

They told me that he hadn’t fought back. He had a Glock with him at the time, the pistol dangling by the side of his waist in his duty belt, but he didn’t fire it, didn’t even take it out. He just stood there, staring at the gunman and the little girl in a yellow dress beside him, when the gunman screamed and aimed at him.

They told me that the first thing he said when he woke up in the hospital, half conscious and still dozing on and off, was whether the girl was safe now.

That evening, he died in the hospital room.

When Luke and I were young, we used to ride our bikes down to a bookstore at the alley behind our school. It was a tiny shop, with walls painted in juniper green and a red-framed glass door, a farce of tackling colors and nonconformity.

In summer afternoons when we were out of school, we would sit cross-legged behind its only shelf of comic books, whispering among ourselves as we flipped through panels of flying superheroes and their combats with villains. It was a perfect spot that we had found a few Christmas breaks before, hidden behind the zigzags of Shakespeare and Dickens, where the eye could not possibly reach from the counter.

The July we turned nine years old, we got caught by one of the customers. He was holding Hugo’s The Man Who Laughs and studying the book we were reading for a moment when he spoke up. “Steve Rogers would be disappointed,” he told us, lightly. We looked up from the book at him.

The man must have been in his early twenties.

He was draped in an army jacket above his gray button down, his cheekbones knobby and jutting out in a way that made his skin look tight. He glanced over at the old bookstore owner who was dusting the glass door. Our eyes traced him as he walked over to pay for the novel. The storekeeper gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“Patrolling?” He asked.

“Nah, day off,” he said, smiling, his dimples and freckles blending into one.

The storekeeper let out a laugh. The officer gave him a salute, and walked out of the shop.

Behind the shelf of books, our refuge, Luke and I sat still on the floor, the comic book we were reading on the ground. It was open to a page with Captain America giving Hitler a cuff on the face. Above him was a text box that read JUSTICE.

Luke and I were born on the same date on a Wednesday in July. Upon birth, he was welcomed into a family in Tribeca, one of the most well-off neighborhoods in lower Manhattan, as an only child. My mother, on the other hand, gave birth to me when she already had five children, all of whom were placed in foster care upon the death of my father.

Most of my childhood was spent with Luke, whose father had kindly taken me in the winter I turned three years old. At our graduation ceremony at the police academy, a friend had come up to Luke and me and studied our respective faces. Luke’s hat was dotted with pieces of confetti, one resting still on his elvish ear. She stared at me for a moment.

“I’ve always wondered about this,” she finally told us, her hands held up as if in surrender. “Don’t take me rude, but I’m just wondering—are the two of you brothers?”

Luke and I exchanged a glance.

“I was adopted by his family,” I explained to her, Luke’s elbow on my shoulder. It was the first time I had told anyone the truth about my relationship with him, or rather, my nonrelationship with him.

“Oh,” she said, lips parted.

“But yes,” Luke told her, “Noah and I are brothers.”

As children, Luke and I would read J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan aloud, lying on our stomachs on his bed as we set up our own play based on the novel. All afternoon, he would be Captain Hook and I would be Peter Pan, the two of us chasing each other around our room with paper swords. When the book had turned ragged and we had, more or less, memorized all the pages in it, we drew our own maps of Neverland and hung them on the wall of our room.

“Never grow up,” he would say, holding his hand out as a fist. And I would fist bump him back, our hands midair as the sun set behind us, the lights of the city caught on the window. ***

For a long time, the only coins Luke and I recognized were dimes.

It was what we carried down each sidewalk and alley, a few dimes each in our denim pockets, the price of a subway token. With those coins, the entire city was within our grasp; Central Park, Bronx Zoo, Shea Stadium, and Kennedy Airport, all accessible to us.

In the summer, we spent afternoons at Rockaway Beach like dead skin. We carved microcosms out of castles and mazes out of sand, cut ourselves with empty beer cans and Coca Cola bottle caps. We taught each other how to swim, how to stay afloat when you splay your limbs out under overcast skies, squirt water at a target meters away, hold your breath for thirty seconds, forty, fifty, until the world fractured into infinitesimal dots and all you could hear was the heartbeat throbbing within your throat. Softly, like rain pattering down.

Chapter Two

My memories of my father are vague, fractured pieces that cannot be pieced together to form a more holistic image. The truth is, all I remember about him is that his voice was resonant, deep and vibratory, like slow guitar songs that have been forgotten by people too soon and left to fade on cassette tapes. My older brother Jack was the one who gave me most of my information about him, his stories a pool of biased realities and fabrications.

Jack was three years older than me, his hair long and mustardy and parted in the middle. He had angular, long limbs, but his face was one that could be found on a cereal box. Blue eyes; black, fragile eyelashes; bubblegum lips.

“You know, he could fold three paper planes in a minute,” Jack told me one night at the park in front of his house, him shirtless and me in a salmon-pink turtleneck. He was folding the cover of a Times magazine into a plane as I watched the paper slink up and down in his calloused palms. “He was all hairy too. His chest and everything,” he said. “Oh—and muscular.” I closed my eyes to picture my father’s visceral attractiveness and giant weight.

Novel

Taipei Fuhsing Private School Taipei City, Taiwan

***

“Here.” Jack handed me the paper plane. He was drunk and just a little stoned, like he was almost every day. I took the paper and slid it into my breast pocket. I enjoyed basking in his presence, listening to the deluge of his musings and masochistic jokes, even when he rolled joints against my face.

“So?” Jack asked, reaching for his sleeveless white shirt on the handrail behind us. “What do you think about the foster family?”

I watched him hop onto the vinyl belt swing in front of us, then swing himself back and forth, lightly, swaying a little from left to right. I sat down on the other swing and leaned back. “It’s nice, I guess,” I said. He rose, then slinked down again beside me.

“Hey, you know what mannequins are?”

“Mannequins?” I lifted myself up in the swing, lurching ahead.

“Yeah, the figurines—in ‘The After Hours?’ Twilight Zone ?”

“Oh,” I said. I remember watching the episode’s rerun with Jack, perching before the television on the kitchen counter at his house. On the show, mannequins take turns every month to live among the humans, but some of them would forget that they were mannequins, like the protagonist Marsha White. “What about it?”

“I was wondering what it would be like if it’s true,” Jack said. “I mean—if it is, I wouldn’t be able to tell, would I? Who’s human and who’s not around us.”

“You might be one yourself,” I huffed.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was thinking about that too.”

The air was silent for a moment, and darkness shrouded the two of us, chugging us down like cheap booze.

In 1963, Eddie Lee Mays became the last person subjected to capital punishment in New York. Mays had been electrocuted for first-degree murder, the broadcast said in the living room. Luke sat still by my side. I never told him that my father had died the same way Mays did.

At night, after Luke fell asleep, I would sneak out of our bedroom into the living room, and sit cross-legged on the rug to read the stack of newspapers on the dining table. It was a habit, an inclination I didn’t even know I had picked up, reading all the articles I could find on my father, attacks that called him sadistic. Perhaps I was only trying to find one reporter who didn’t attack him, a story in the papers that would recognize him as a father of five children, a man who could fold three paper planes in a single minute.

Yet, the more I read, the more I was assured of the fact that he was maleficent, like the comic characters whom Captain America would always defeat. He was one of the villains who were half the size of the superhero, frail and frightened of their shields and suits, the blows and cuffs they used to kill people, all in the name of justice. ***

In the sixth grade, I once found a photo of my father in the newspapers, him in a leopard-spotted jacket. He had dense eyebrows, black hair in curls down his head, part of it combed nicely to the right side of his oblong-shaped face. For nights, after I had cut it out and stored it between my pages of the Peter Pan novel, I would stare at his smile, try to fathom its rigidness.

But what really stuck with me was the birthmark on his brow, a port wine stain, like Gorbachev had, but much tinier, shaped like a splintered heart, the two halves a little away from each other. When I realized that my own birthmark, an ovate adjacent to my left eye, looked more or less like half a heart, I grew my bangs long.

Chapter Three

The year Luke and I turned eleven, we stopped playing Peter Pan.

A Black man had raped a woman at a bar in Manhattan, just a few streets from where we were living. The day after the man was imprisoned, junior high students at our school cornered

his son in the boy’s bathroom. The boy walked out with gory halos around his nose and eye. He was one of our classmates.

“Don’t you think it’s actually weird?” I told Luke one evening, lying on the floor by my bed with Barrie’s book on my chest.

“Yeah?” He asked, looking down from the swiveling chair.

“Wendy was twelve or thirteen,” I said. “And Peter Pan was asking her to be his mom.”

He laughed at that. He rose from the chair and sat down next to me, his arms folded. “And Captain Hook too,” I went on, my hands splayed out. “Why was he so obsessed with trying to murder Peter? He’s just a kid, and Hook’s an adult! And then there’re the mermaids. They sing songs to seduce passersby and then drown their victims. Why would anyone ever write that into a children’s book?”

Luke shrugged, and shot my arm with a rubber band. I threw the book at him. “Maybe Barrie was just trying to be realistic,” he said and turned towards the wall behind us, crayon drawings of flying whales, maps of Neverland showered in glints of violet and sapphire glitter.

“You know,” he said, standing up from the floor, “in the novel, there are no nights in Neverland. No stars, ever. Because it’s always daytime there.”

The two of us were silent for a moment. We looked out of the window in front of us. Flashing billboards lit up the skyscrapers that enveloped the city, their blinking neon lights shadowed by the darkness above. I sat still on the rug, listening to the screeching of car tires on the streets beneath me. ***

For my thirteenth birthday gift, Jack gave me a pack of MDMA. We were talking to each other in front of my house at the time, my hand clutching the door knob.

“Enjoy,” he had said, tucking his hand into the pocket of his jeans, taking out three more packs of the drug. “If you want more, just tell me.”

“What is this?” I asked him, sniffing the bag. I shook it next to my ear, and the things within collided crisply.

“Rip it open,” he told me, and crossed his arms.

I tore the white package open. Inside were tablets in different colors. “Medicine?” I asked him.

“Better,” he assured me, leaning close and whispering into my ear. “Ecstasy.”

“It’s—drugs?”

“That’s right,” he said, nodding. I frowned. “I don’t want drugs.”

“Oh,” he said, “don’t be afraid of it. It’s like candy. Only that the effects are stronger. You know, the happiness.”

“I don’t want drugs,” I told him again, handing the bag back to him. He scoffed.

“You know,” he said, looking up at the door behind me again, “this place has made you sissy.”

“Whatever you say, Jack,” I told him. “I’m not going to do it.” He snatched the bag back. “Are you Peter Pan?” He asked me. “What?” I was still sniffing my hands.

“I said, are you Peter Pan?” He told me, staring me in the eye. His overgrown hair was dotted with dandruff. “Because you never grow up!”

The first time Luke and I saw the Unisphere, the circle of water foundations from around the globe, we were at the World’s Fair in New York at the center of a dozen exhibits, Sinclair Oil’s Dinoland, the Hall of Science, and the Panorama of the city’s five boroughs. We had screamed our way down the Swiss sky ride, the two of us trying to throw each other’s shoes off the cable car. We’d raced to the New York State Pavilion and exhibits where models based on society’s visions for the future were showcased.

“If we have Picturephones in the future,” Luke declared, scowling at the loudhailer-shaped devices that had flashing screens showing people’s faces, “I’ll give you all my superballs.”

***

“If we have undersea resorts in the future, I’ll give you all of my comic books,” I swore.

“If we can build an international space station,” he said, “I’ll give you my entire Hot Wheels collection.”

At the Wonder World musical, we watched a man wearing a rocket outfit fly up into the air until he was many feet above the Unisphere. From below, he looked tiny, a dot against the sapphire sky. Unlike birds, he had no wings; instead two pipe-like propellers protruded from his suit.

“What do you think?” I asked Luke, the two of us gazing up at the sky.

“I don’t know,” he said, after a pause. “When they told me that a man was going to fly up into the air, I was thinking about Iron Man.”

I laughed. He didn’t.

“I thought it was going to be a superhero show,” he went on, “but it’s just a man who looks as scared and human as the rest of us on the ground.”

I looked up at the man in the jetpack again, and the two of us stayed silent for a long time.

When I told Jack that I was going to be a police officer after high school, he laughed aloud. It was Christmas Eve, and the two of us were sitting at a bar near midnight. The lights around us cast off iridescent hums and reminded me of a kaleidoscope. He gulped down the beer in front of him. I took another sip of my glass of water.

“Why though?” He asked me after the busboy had left. The wooden chandelier lights above us shook as the door of the restaurant opened and three teenagers hurried in. The snow outside was growing into a storm.

“I just thought that it would be nice,” I tried to explain, not having the words for it. “You know the feeling when you just know, so definitely and more than ever, that it’s the right thing and the thing you want to do? Just that it’s in your guts?”

He coughed. I didn’t know whether it was from the coldness of the air or just that he had choked while I was talking.

“It’s for justice,” I continued. “To defend it, and validate its existence.” My grip tightened around the cup in my hands, the coolness of the glass emanating onto my skin. “To tell the world that it’s not just some abstruse ideal lying between our minds and dreams. But something that doesn’t have to collide with reality. Something that can be true.”

When we left the bar, he closed the door behind us, and we stepped out into the snow, the weight of the white drapes dragging the sky down, like clothes on a clothesline.

I tucked my hands into the pockets of my overcoat, and he patted my shoulder. “There’s no justice, Noah,” he told me. The two of us stood still next to each other.

His face darkened under the shadow of the night. “And I doubt there’ll ever be.”

***

Emelia Ciccolini

Visual Arts

clear

2021

Interlochen Arts Academy Interlochen, MI Sisters Copper pipes welded together with found objects and sewn onto

plastic

Nia Simone Clark

Visual Arts George Washington Carver Center for Arts and Technology Baltimore,

Makeshift Coronation Compressed and vine charcoal 2021

Paula Contreras

Photography Alliance William & Carol Ouchi High School Los Angeles, CA Breakfast Digital photography 2022

Aruna Das

Visiting My Ghosts

“A defining moment that is neither beginning nor end, partition continues to influence how the peoples and states of postcolonial South Asia envisage their past, present, and future.”

a project that I had initially found idiotic and which had left me with no ideas. At my teacher’s recommendation, I considered what had resonated most with me about the epic: the importance of storytelling to the Ancient Greeks, and the Underworld scene, where Odysseus goes to meet his dead.

PROLOGUE

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times — it was August 15, 1947. An eight-year-old boy wandered away from the festivities to the window. Two cars were speeding down the same narrow Calcutta1 street in opposite directions. It was clear one of them would have to give way. The cars stopped. Car doors opened and slammed shut. The two men squared off. And then embraced. For today, South Asia, in bondage for two hundred years, was finally free and trivial things like road rage could be ignored.

But all was not well. For it was out of blood that the new republics of Pakistan and India had been formed, the subcontinent fractured in two based on religion. The callous sweep of the Radcliffe Line, drawn by a British civil servant who had never bothered to see the territory he was dividing, ensured that tomorrow, people would find their kitchens were in one country and their bedrooms in another.

The boy’s Muslim neighbors had left Calcutta for East Bengal a few months ago in anticipation of the Partition of India, and refugees, both Muslim and Hindu, had flooded in from East Bengal, the state that would now be known as East Pakistan. Hastily erected tents covered the major public squares and housed these new emigrants.

Firecrackers interrupted the boy’s musings. They were everywhere; they lit up the sky and demanded attention, ripping the sky apart like bullets. BANG. BANG. BANG.

Odysseus is privileged to meet his dead, to reunite with friends and family members who had died because of events relating to the Trojan War. But, even in the magical Greek world, death is final and robs you of things taken for granted during life. Heartbreakingly, Odysseus is unable to embrace Anticlea, his deceased mother. Despite this, Odysseus learns a lot from his ghosts; they pass on their stories to him. Anticlea teaches her son to consider the suffering of others. She expresses sympathy for her daughter-in-law, telling her son that Penelope’s life is “an endless hardship like your own” (11.209). Finally, she instructs him to inform Penelope, his wife, of all that he has learned. This moment emphasizes the power of the oral tradition: humans can learn from the experiences of those before them when the stories are kept alive.

I realized that the Trojan War was a cultural trauma for Homer’s Ancient Greeks and, through The Odyssey, we see how it touched the lives of everyone in the Mediterranean — even people, like Telemachus and Pisistratus, who were too young to remember the war itself. And Homer and the Greeks, recognizing that, made a concerted effort to face the war and to learn from it. So, suddenly, it was easy for me to figure out modernday parallels to The Odyssey because my family — really, everyone from the Indian subcontinent — has their own trauma: the 1947 Partition of India.

Colonial India won independence from the British in August 1947. At the same time, it was divided by religion into two separate countries: India (Hindu) and Pakistan (Muslim). The decision to form two nations instead of one is largely seen as the result of divisions amongst India’s elite. The Radcliffe Line, which served as the official boundary between the two countries, was drawn up by British lawyers who had no experience in the field and were given no time to conduct any surveys. The sloppy partition forced at least ten million to find new homes and the mass migrations led to violence which, in turn, led to the deaths of an estimated one million people. My ancestors were impacted in a variety of ways and degrees. Some of them were uprooted from their homes, others had to give up ancestral properties, and others, while not directly affected, had to live in the turbulent and often violent environment of India in 1947 and the following decades. The states of Bengal, where my family is all from, and Punjab were particularly hard hit as they were each split into two along Hindu and Muslim lines by Partition. Many were forced to migrate — my maternal grandparents met as a result of that migration.

Three times I rushed towards her, desperate to hold her, three times she fluttered through my fingers, sifting away like a shadow, dissolving like a dream, and each time the grief cut to the heart, sharper, yes, … My noble mother answered me at once:

“My son, … you must long for the daylight. Go, quickly." Remember all these things so one day you can tell them to your wife. (The Odyssey, 11.246-256) ***

Lying on my bed, I fiddled with my mom’s phone, running my finger along the cracks on her screen and the scotch tape she’d used to cover them up. My tenth-grade English teacher had instructed us to find modern-day parallels to The Odyssey,

But the sheer brutality of that event means that those who witnessed Partition often did not talk about it. And so those stories, from which we could learn so much, are lost.

All of my great-grandparents, who were adults when Partition happened, are now deceased — though I knew some of them, I was then too young to think of asking them about Partition. My grandparents were alive during Partition but they were children and remember only fragments. They were only told fragments. Still, they preserve the stories of their parents and their parent’s parents.

That’s why I was lying on my bed with my mother’s phone (my mother’s phone because she has a special plan that makes calling abroad affordable and my bed because my grandmother can make even short stories very long), about to call my dida, or my maternal grandmother. 2 I found myself uncharacteristically

Creative Nonfiction Hunter College High School New York, NY

***

— Ayesha Jalal, Mary Richardson Professor of History at Tufts University, and recipient of the 1998 MacArthur Foundation Fellowship

***

1. Calcutta, now Kolkata, is a city in West Bengal, India. 2. While all South Asians are affected to some degree by Partition, my maternal family was much more affected than my paternal family because they had to emigrate.

nervous. “Hello,” came her voice, tinny over the phone. For the first time ever I said, “Could you tell me about Partition?” There was a silence. Then she began to speak.

“Gangs of killers set whole villages aflame, hacking to death men and children and the aged while carrying off young women to be raped. Some British soldiers and journalists who had witnessed the Nazi death camps claimed partition’s brutalities were worse: pregnant women had their breasts cut off and babies hacked out of their bellies; infants were found literally roasted on spits.”

— Nisid Hajari, author of Midnight’s Furies: The Deadly Legacy of India’s Partition and winner of the 2016 Colby Award

A month before the surrender of Nazi Germany in WWII, Monika and Prabhat welcomed their first child into the world. Now that their daughter was born, they began making preparations to leave Calcutta, West Bengal. Prabhat, who worked as a statistician for the British Raj, had accepted a post in East Bengal.3 Monika gave up her job as a schoolteacher, but it was okay because she had always been a little scared of her students. They made the trip by rail, Monika, Prabhat, and their infant, a bundle of cloth and flailing arms.

Less than two years later, they made the same journey back. The British Raj was coming to an end. As a government servant, Prabhat, unlike many, had been offered a choice: he could choose to either work for the government of India or the government of Pakistan. Since he had chosen India, he had to leave the state of East Bengal, which would soon become East Pakistan, governed by the Pakistani government.4 Prabhat’s second youngest brother — there were eight siblings — was there to pick them up from Sealdah Station in Calcutta. Decades later, Monika would remember the emptiness of the station compared to the bustling platform other migrants would face just a few months later. She’d tell her daughter that friends spoke of crowds of refugees so thick that there was no space to place even a foot.

Prabhat’s brother took a piece of luggage in his hand and led Monika and Prabhat to the cab. Monika stilled. For the driver was very clearly Muslim. Prabhat started moving towards the car, oblivious of her fear.

During their time in East Bengal, Monika had often been left at home — alone except for her infant daughter — while her husband patrolled the streets of the town where they lived.5 Because he was a government official, Prabhat was offered a gun, which he refused. A strong believer in non-violence, he always wore homespun cotton instead of British factory produced cloth in support of Mahatma Gandhi’s boycott of British goods. At the same time, he worked for the British Raj and, as a government servant, he was expected to keep order. Reluctantly, he accepted a stick. He spoke very little of what he saw during his nightly patrols and even less of what he possibly did. Monika sat in the house and thought of her neighbors, her friends, who had hidden in their houses for weeks as violence between Hindus and Muslims flared.

She thought of those friends, of that violence now as she stared at the Muslim cab driver. And he stared back. Monika knew that she looked Hindu and that her husband looked Hindu and that her brother-in-law looked Hindu. She began fidgeting with the hem of her sari.

Her brother-in-law made a move, as if to say something, but the cab driver got in first. “Madam,” he said quietly, “I can see that you are afraid. I am Muslim. But I am also driving you to a Hindu neighborhood. Imagine how scared I am.”

Abashed and reminded of the other side’s humanity, Monika got into the cab. The ride was eventless and Monika told this story often to her children.

“Partition memory is particularly pliable. Within it, the act of

forgetting, either inevitably or purposefully, seems to play as much a part as remembering itself.”

Aanchal Malhotra, Remnants of a Separation: A History of the Partition through Material Memory

Dida, aged two, was too young to actually remember Partition; her accounts are pieced together from family stories. I have only heard one eyewitness account; an elderly friend of my dida’s — who later died of a broken heart — once told me that August 15th was a bittersweet night, filled with rejoicing, and fireworks, and an instance where two strangers overcame road rage together, and a deep deep sadness that their country was broken. That the British had won.

My maternal grandfather, the oldest of my grandparents, would have been five and should have remembered something. But I have never met him, and now he’s dead. Ma learned the stories from her paternal grandfather, a man of few words. After Partition, the family had elected to remain in East Pakistan — even though they were Hindu and it was overwhelmingly Muslim — because they had always lived there. The last major violence between Hindus and Muslims had occurred in 1946, before independence, so they thought things had settled down. Then, said Ma’s grandfather, “One day, I came home and saw that, in the middle of our town, all the Muslims were slaughtering the Hindus and all the Hindus were sitting there crying. So we left.” And that was all he would ever say about the matter.

So Ma’s grandfather, his brothers, his wife, his wife’s sisters, and his three children — my Ma’s father and aunts — either walked, sailed, or rode a train out of Barisal, East Pakistan. At some point and somehow, they reached Calcutta. They had no papers and they left their land and home. I think they brought some books and some money, though not enough. The move was never supposed to be permanent. Still, they never went back.

They were issued refugee passes at Sealdah Station. Maybe they lived in a refugee camp for a bit. Eventually, they got a house. Ma’s grandfather was a doctor. He built up a practice and pharmacy through five years of hard work. Both got burned to the ground. Ma says he never recovered.

When I was doing my project on The Odyssey, I did some research. In 1950, a series of riots had gripped East Pakistan. It was alleged that a Muslim woman had been raped in the Indian city of Calcutta. In response, Muslim mobs raped, pillaged, abducted, and killed Hindus. The Barisal district was one of the hardest hit. Hindu passengers trying to leave Barisal for Dhaka were slaughtered. Those who sheltered at police stations were torched or had their heads chopped off. 1950 was the year Ma’s paternal family left Pakistan. ***

“... a Bengali engineer educated in England [noted] the time [a 14-year old Muslim boy] took to die on his Rolex wristwatch, and [wondered] how tough the life of a Muslim bastard was.”

— Nirad C. Chaudhuri -CBE, late Indian author and scholar

Perhaps the most revealing story I heard about Partition was about my dida’s Muslim best friend — Nadira — and her family. Nadira’s mother and father had both gone to declare which state they would become a part of in 1946. There had been no need for discussion because the choice between India and Pakistan was obvious.

A couple of months later, Nadira’s father turned to his wife and said, “We should probably start packing.”

“Whatever for?” asked Nadira’s mother, astounded.

3. Using the classic tool of divide and conquer, the British had divided the region and people of Bengal into two states based on religion: East Bengal (Muslim) and West Bengal (Hindu).

4. In 1971, East Pakistan broke away from Pakistan and became Bangladesh.

5 The growing Indian nationalist movement had been accompanied by a swell in communal violence.

***

Carefully and speaking slowly, Nadira’s father replied, “Because we’re moving there.” As it turned out, Nadira’s mother had elected to be an Indian citizen, because India had always been their home. Nadira’s father had elected to be a Pakistani citizen because they were Muslim and it would be safer for them. It was too late to change the paperwork now.

Nadira’s father lived in East Pakistan for several years before he could get an Indian visa, if I remember correctly. They split up their children, some living with their mother, some living with their father. I believe the family cats remained in India. Getting an Indian visa was difficult because Pakistan and India hated each other. Even now, when applying for an Indian visa, you must indicate whether your parents or your grandparents are Pakistani. But eventually, the Rezwan family was reunited. It was a more or less happy ending. Which is nice.

perspectives. He also depicts his fictional self in a very intimate and uncensored way.

I wanted to see if I could rework my virtual museum exhibit into a series of loosely connected stories, told in a similar way. At the heart of O’Brien’s work is the question of how to get civilians to understand an incredibly traumatic event: his wartime experience. But, in his quest, O’Brien is also trying to understand his own experience as a soldier. This piece is both me, someone affected but not involved in Partition, trying to understand this incredibly traumatic experience, but also me hoping to do so in a format that is accessible to people who are not directly affected.

“The wounds will take decades to heal, centuries to overcome the trauma.”

Gulzar, Two

EPILOGUE

“You must never talk about Partition with a Pakistani individual if you want to remain their friend,” my mother told me when I was seven. “We have many friends from Pakistan, but throughout our friendship, we have very carefully never ever ever talked about It. Talking about It results in arguments.”

Actually, we never really talked about It in our own household. Partly because It was never really talked about in my parents’ households, or even their parents’ households. There is a lot of shame, and a lot of pain, that I only unearthed while researching that tenth-grade school project.

When my dida was going to graduate school, her father, Prabhat, took her aside: “You’re going to be in school with boys now. You might even fall in love.” Dida blushed. “That’s fine — you can have a boyfriend.6 Just make sure that he isn’t Muslim. Because I remember Partition, and no group was capable of inflicting as much violence and suffering as Muslims.”

Dida only ever told me this story once. She was deeply uncomfortable, certainly not defending her father, who she adored, but not directly criticizing him. I was both appalled and confused. My great-grandfather was incredibly liberal: he was okay with his daughter dating, he believed that women should have the same education and rights as men, he didn’t believe in corporal punishment, and he taught his children to never make assumptions about others. And yet he was Islamophobic. I also wonder at his selective vision. For every Hindu butchered by a Muslim, there was a Muslim butchered by a Hindu. But it’s an ugly truth in our family history.

For my Odyssey project in tenth grade, I created a virtual museum exhibit exploring what I knew about Partition. I had audio clips of family stories, maps, and quotes from noted historians in hopes that my audience, like the readers of The Odyssey, could learn from the stories of others. But I left out any mention of my great-grandfather’s Islamophobia.

Part of it was editing. I only used two audio clips: one about the Muslim cab driver, and the other about the exodus from Barisal. But that could have also been an excuse to self-censor.

I wanted to revisit my Odyssey project this year, especially after reading the Tim O'Brien Vietnam War novel The Things They Carried. In some ways, The Things They Carried also reminded me of The Odyssey: it makes use of epithets, like Ted Lavender who was scared; is non-linear; and starts in medias res. I loved the way that O’Brien played with perspective, style, and voice from chapter to chapter. Sometimes he added layers of nuance by repeating some of the same stories from different

In this piece, I wrote different parts from different perspectives to try and capture some of that complexity. Some stories are told from a third person perspective, others first. The pieces are intentionally fragmented, because that’s how the stories were passed down. Sometimes I add seemingly insignificant details to humanize these strangers. Because the stories I know would not give the whole story by any means, I have also interspersed quotes from experts on Partition. There is a need for honest stories about conflict, so we can learn about the need for empathy and understanding. People aren’t black or white, be they Trojan or Greek, Hindu or Muslim, American or Vietnamese.

***

6 This was highly progressive behavior at the time.

Ayamila Daterra

Photography Berkeley High School Berkeley, CA Charcoal Digital photography 2022

When The Sky Turned Blue

CHAPTER ONE

Moni

My name is Moni. In Sanskrit it means silent. And that is what I was.

I don’t know if my mother knew that when she named me. She walks through life with face and mind covered. On days when I caught her eye, it burned with such a mad intensity I feared for myself almost more than I did when my father came home. Almost.

When I was younger, I knew little girls with fraying clothes and tired eyes that would snake through the tangled masses of plastic and fabric that made up our walls. They would take my hand to pull me to a world where there was no hunger or work - it was all in our little minds, of course, but it was good; for a while. I knew a girl named Sonia, and together in our naiveté, we would spend all our stolen minutes together, pretending to be the ladies in the Bollywood movies we used to watch on the ratty couch in the guest room of a long-gone old man we worked for.

I lived in a slum in the city of Lucknow. I had a sister that I feared for and a grandmother and mother that I feared. On faraway days when my father would rage over the wrongness of his life through alcohol breath, I would run away and hide with Sonia. Sonia had just a bit more money than me, and in my mind, Sonia had the best life you could get as a girl in the slums. Her father was present, her mother was gentle, and no one paid mind to her.

At least that’s what I thought. Sonia may tell a different story. And there are parts of my story that will never be told. The secret, ugly bits, even uglier than the trash by the roads or the filth that spews from my grandmother’s mouth.

Anyhow. Sonia always smiled and laughed, and snuck me food when she noticed my stomach getting too swollen or my face getting sallow. I saw her as a person who carried a bit of the sun and the hidden blue sky in her heart. I carried only fear within me. Even though my body has grown unrecognizable since I last saw her, my voice is still quiet and my insides still churn with bitterness and shame.

It was cleaning day. Normally domestic work was done by girls younger than me, as the rest are married, but I was an exception. Lucknow is a big city, and I’ve heard that it is beautiful in some places (like Shri Dadich’s apartment or the grand temples that I am not allowed to visit) but that does not mean that girls are not getting married young. Or is it young? Yesterday, the girl next door got married and tears streamed down her blank face as they pulled her down the streets. She was younger than me. Eleven. I know that if I was to get married, I would not cry. Tears do not solve anything. Words do not solve anything. And I am silent anyhow.

I stepped out of my home. It was early morning, and the streets were packed with hundreds of people who bustled through the slums with sharp laughs and tired eyes. I imagined that if I could see the sun behind the perpetual clouds it would be rising, and I wondered if it would be beautiful. My nose wrinkled, involuntarily, at the decaying smell of rats and rot. I should be used to it by now, I thought. The little girls begging by the roads. Hunger and hands. I was not.

Stop hoping.

I knew where it came from, all this useless hope. Sonia. She would smile when it got bad. She would tell me chinta mat karo. It will get better. My mind was not foolish enough to believe her, but my heart did. And anyhow, it didn’t get better. Not for Sonia.

A boy ran by, chased by his friend, brushing my shoulder as he went.

“Didi.” Big sister. Little-girl-hands reached up and tapped my elbow. “Didi! We have to go.”

I smiled down at my sister. Her name is Laxmi, and she is as beautiful as the goddess she was named after, with long black hair and large eyes. Just as beautiful as Sonia, but without the light in her eyes.

I grabbed her hand, and together we walked through the streets. Black sludge fell on my feet from a rickety plasticcovered structure where an old woman sat on a chair, fabric thrown across her face. Her snores added to the ruckus of the sounds that made up the slum: yelling fathers, drunk laughter, hopeless merchants who cut fabric from your clothes and tried to resell it, constant chatter, all punctuated by the shrill delighted screams of children. A man leered from the open entrance to his home and I pulled my sister closer. We kept our heads down and walked swiftly, as usual.

Go go go, I told myself. We let go of each other’s hands to walk around a man who was sprawled out on the ground, dirtcaked in his hair. Is he sleeping or dead? I didn’t want to know. My sister stared at him with undisguised fascination. I pulled her along, making an impatient noise in the back of my throat. I don’t want to be late.

I don’t have an obsession with the world outside the slums as Sonia had. I’m never going to live there, so why would I hurt myself by thinking about it?

In order to leave the slums, we had to go through a tunnel, and that was my least favorite part of my walk to work. The tunnel smelled like feces. A scaly-tailed rat scuttered over Laxmi’s sandal, and Laxmi looked at her feet, flinching, while I stifled a giggle. The one thing that Sonia and Laxmi had in common was their vanity. I hurried her through the fetid tunnel and we emerged, blinking in the new bright white world. I felt like I could breathe again. It was an everyday relief to leave the slums and walk down the cracked streets of the old whitewashed city of Lucknow.

It was just a little quieter.

I was thirteen years old. (“Moni, the shame you bring upon me by being unmarriable. You are thirteen years old. I had a child by then!”)

I am old to not be married. I would be young to be married. But Sonia -

I was so tired. It was real morning time; now it wasn’t just the domestic workers waking up. The sun had risen, and I could hear merchants bartering and bicycle bells ringing. A cow stumbled by. She wore her greasy coat like a layer of tight-fitting skin. She is sacred, but to an outsider, it would look as if being sacred doesn’t mean a thing.

How I sometimes wished I was an outsider.

Then Laxmi tugged the fabric of my dress, right above my waist.

“Look. Ma,” she whispered. Her whispering would be annoying if I didn’t do it all the time.

“Ma?” I looked in the direction she nodded to. Why would she be out this early? Right now she would be making breakfast or stealing fabric and food from the markets But I knew this was her. The purple ghunghat she always wore was pulled over her face, blocking the world from even her eyes. I still wonder how she sees. Maybe she doesn’t.

Ma was hurrying along on the other side of the street with an air of guilty pride, joints sliding over each other unevenly, bones brittle and obvious. Strange. But unimportant compared to the fact that we were going to be late.

“We’re going to be late.” I started walking with renewed

88 Isabel

Novel Agoura High School

Davison

Agoura Hills, CA

vigor, pulling the silently protesting Laxmi behind me. I looked at a dusty window reflection of me and Laxmi as we hurried by hand and hand: one tall, bony, short-haired girl wearing a blue saree as a skirt and a little girl wearing faded pink with string braided into her hair. We both shared stick straight hair and thin, light lips. Laxmi’s wide eyes and wide bones helped mask the fact that she was starving. My bones did not.

From outside, Babi Didi’s house looked like any other on her street. White and airy and tall. She had two levels with separate bedrooms for each person and while her walls were cracked and crumbling in some places, they were real, not just made out of fabric and the occasional scrap of tin.

Shri Alik, Babi Didi’s husband, yelled politely at a person across the street who had turned his music up too loud.

We entered Babi Didi’s home through the back door. We didn’t even have a door. A harried woman opened the door for us and rushed us in, then ascended the peeling staircase with haste. This was where Laxmi and I parted ways - she went up to clean the bathrooms and kill the cockroaches, and I went to the kitchens to hunt for bugs between food and clean plates. I have been working for Babi Didi since I was seven years old. She has grown worse with age.

Inside there was yelling. I caught the word chinaal. Whore. Drawn out wails.

The kitchen was hot. The day was cloudy as usual, but the oven was open, and the kerosene smell burned my nose. What is worse? Feces or kerosene?

Mud was tracked into the kitchen, and the big footprints showed me that it was Shri Aalik. I grabbed a ratty towel from the shelf and turned the knob on the sink, sludgy and dark water coursing out. I took the bar of dwindling soap and let it run under the water and over the towel, then I got on my knees to clean the mud, staining my saree in the process. Dadi will be angry. My grandmother will find any excuse to be angry.

Upstairs the loud words continued. I wondered if my sister was okay. Laxmi is normally beloved by all adults. In my mind, that is notBreathe.

Laxmi is beloved by adults, but I wouldn’t put it past Babi Didi to break the trend.

Hours passed by. At least I thought. I knew hours from hearing them around after my grandmother had yelled (in a strange display of defiance to her beloved son) to my father that he had been out “for hours” but I was not quite sure what exactly they were. I didn’t understand Time either. The big circular thing called the clock was supposed to show the time, but the two sticks that went round and round confused me. Maybe one day somebody will teach me.

Gods, stop thinking like that!

I started looking for some cinnamon to try to get rid of the ants that trickle in from cracks in the walls and the small pantry. Babi Didi taught me about cinnamon. The ants liked to crawl all over me like I was just a kitchen fixture.

I picked up the broken glass from a beer bottle that was thrown on the ground, and a large piece got lodged in my palm. I pulled it out and winced as red, red blood gushed onto my skirt.

Dhatt terre. Dadi will be even angrier.

I didn’t know what to do with blood, so I pressed my palm against my muddy skirt and kept on going.

While I scrubbed the dishes from the morning’s meal, I noticed that my upper arms were studded with a couple of circular pink raised bumps. They itched. Ringworm. I looked around frantically for something to cover my arms with and then I took the muddy towels (the job ended up taking two) and twisted them around my arms, praying that Babi Didi wouldn’t come into the kitchen. The yells upstairs softened, and I could hear the sound of footsteps on the staircase.

Wow, perfect timing. A hint of fear crept down my neck. Above me, Babi Didi’s grating voice was shouting directions upstairs to Laxmi. The thumping on the stairs stopped and the heavy breathing that accompanies Babi Didi wherever she goes

entered my ears, faint. I cowered into the bucket of soapy water and chipped dishes. Please be going to the living room.

Babi Didi’s heavy face poked through the fabrics that separate the kitchen from the rest of the house. I shuddered. She frowned at me, causing her sagging skin to sag even more. Her eyes were loose and unfocused, and suddenly I realized that it wasn’t her voice that was screaming to the person above. I ducked my head down.

“Girl! What are you doing with those muddy towels on your arms?”

“I-I…” My throat closed up. Don’t make me say anything! Don’t you know I’m silent?

Looking down, I mumbled through my hair. “I was cold.” I had seen this happen before. Last time someone who worked here had ringworm on their arms, Babi Didi kicked them out of the house. I had always seen that worker as someone cool, collected, and compliant, but I heard she killed herself rather than to come back to her husband without money.

“That’s ridiculous. This room is as hot as narak .” She strode toward me and pulled the dirty towels off my arms, a look of disgust on her face. “The dirt is going to spread all the germs.” What does she mean, spread germs? What are germs? And how can you spread them?

“Sorry,” I whispered.

Babi Didi grunted. “Clean these up.” Then her eyes caught my arm. The pink bumps scratched bloody.

“What are these?” She demanded. “Ringworm?”

“No no no, Babi Didi. I-I fell...” I trailed off at the look on her face.

“You know no infected person is allowed in this house! I can’t afford the treatment for it, and if I catch it it’ll never go away!” Spittle fell from her mouth and landed in my hair. The heat of the kitchen seemed to intensify, and I could feel myself slipping away in horror. “Are you trying to ruin me? Get out! Now!”

I dropped the soap and brush I was using to scrub the dishes and ran. I slipped over soapy water that was splashed on the floor, narrowly avoiding falling by grabbing the edge of the countertop. Regaining my footing I dodged through the fabric that separates the kitchen from the rest of the house. I fumbled with the doorknob and opened the door that leads to the white outside. I tripped over the doorway and slammed onto the ground. I heard the bang of the door closing behind me. I lay there shaking, forcing tears to not fall from my eyes. What am I going to do now?

CHAPTER TWO

Kalima

The doctor was from out of town. Two towns over, in fact, bribed out of his house for money that could have sustained us for weeks.

I was sitting on my mattress, eyes hazy through the fever that had been going for days. My body was weak, but I’d like to say my spirit wasn’t. My father watched the doctor as he sat on the rug by the mattress. The doctor was sitting on one knee next to me. I watched his polished-with-his-sleeve-cuff stethoscope swing back and forth, eyes flicking, as he twisted uncomfortably at the news he was about to give. It had been a long time since something somewhat shiny was before me, and I wanted to touch it.

“Can I touch your stethoscope?”

He looked at me with surprise, surprised that I was talking to him, (a girl especially. Ha.) surprised that I am so lively and bright despite my sickness, surprised at my boldness.

“Of - of course.”

Stiff-armed I reached forward and took it off his neck. One side of it was warm and the other was cool. I pressed it against my forehead. I was almost surprised that steam didn’t hiss at its touch on my fevered self.

My father was still staring intensely at the doctor. “Well?” he asked.

The doctor slowly turned his head around. “I think your daughter has polio.”

Silence. Not a common thing in our household. I was always loud, either laughing or angry. Father was the same. Mother smiled occasionally from the big corner cushion. If I ever make enough money I will buy us all cushions. Soft ones, with velvet padding like Shrimati Parvati’s saree.

But right now it was silent. I don’t like the silence. I didn’t like the fear on my father’s face.

“Baba, what is polio?” This was a gentle question. Perhaps the only thing I have done gently. Because an exclamation will snap his head up, and he will give me his fear with just a glance

I cannot have fear.

I simply can’t.

The doctor saved my father from responding. “Polio is an infectious viral disease that affects the central nervous system and can cause temporary or permanent paralysis.” He sounded rehearsed. As if he had known that I would have it before he saw me. Silence again. My father turned his face to the floor, body limp.

“What is paralysis?” I asked. And what is infectious and what is viral and what is the central nervous system?

“The loss of ability to move and sometimes feel, normally in your limbs. It’s usually caused by disease but it also can be caused by injuries to your spine or -”

“No!” I stood up, feeling a wave of dizziness hit my head. I tried to ignore it as I looked at my body. The doctor stood up too. I flipped my hands over and flexed my fingers. What if I can never move them again? “No!”

The doctor looked at my father, probably expecting him to reprimand me for my outburst.

Father didn’t. I wished he would. His silence cut like a knife, gnawing its way into my heart.

“Are you saying I will never get to move again?” I practically screeched it. I knew, even in my cloudy mind, that my noise has crossed boundaries, boundaries that even father must uphold. The doctor’s anxious pity was now transforming into anger at my uncivilized attitude.

The doctor stepped back and continued loudly. “I would say your legs would be the ones affected.” He seemed to wish it was my mouth too.

But I lost him at legs. My breaths were coming in and out quick and shallow. I looked around our home. Will I ever get to walk through here again? The purple fabric that hangs from wood to make the walls, the tiny statue of Shiva (the nicest thing we owned), the food box, rotting in a corner, father on the floor, the unwelcome doctor, missing mother-

It is my eleventh birthday. The end of laughing peace. My mother bustles around me with a strange hopefulness in her eyes. Father smiles at her. He is quick to temper, quick to humor, gentle in his character. Outside the doorway, the world collapses in everyday chaos. Inside I get to take a pinch of jeera to sweeten her day.

I ran past the doctor, past my father, tripping over my own tiredness, the cramps, and stiffness. My mind was taking the reins of my body and running free with it, no matter how much my body protested.

I ran through the doorway and outside. The midday sun shone pathetically through the perpetual clouds. I felt like screaming. I screamed. I was barely conscious of myself.

I tried to cross the street but stepped back as a truck flew by, the dirt-filled wind twisting my limited amount of hair, leaving behind a trail of exhaust. The man driving yelled at me. I yelled back as everything started to blur.

People called from the streets. A peeling sign fell down from above a broken merchant’s door. I stumbled over cracks and strewn trash. A pain seized hold of my right leg, but I pushed the sensation down again. I didn’t know where I was going. I just wanted to go.

What am I going to do now? What will happen when I come home without a job? I looked up at the sky as if praying for the gods to give me assistance. What do the gods care about me, anyhow? If they cared then this suffering wouldn’t exist.

I cursed my thoughts.

Sonia would be mad. She always told me that gods do not exist in the physical world, but the spiritual one. She would tuck her hair behind her ears and lecture me that hating something is bad karma. Everything was karma to Sonia. Smiling was good karma. Crying was bad karma. “There’s no need to despair if you know that you have good karma. When you despair you insult the gods. Your divine destiny is planned out by the gods. The only thing that disrupts destiny is our own self.” In the back of my mind, I screamed: but what if my destiny is to end up like my mother?

I stood up and tried to brush the dirt off my skirt, but I didn’t try very hard. The dirt and blood clung stubbornly to the torn material. I then tried to wipe the tears off my face but I got blood stained across my cheekbones instead.

How bad can this day get?

A bright yellow flower floated serenely in the wind as if it came from a meadow in the heavens. How could the wind carry something like that? It bobbed toward me, and I reached out to grab it, but then it swerved suddenly and landed in the street. I heard the whirring of the engine of a truck, and a strange panic seized my heart. Without thinking I darted to the street, grabbing the flower before the truck could reach it. Just a leaf was left behind. I stepped back onto the lawn, and watched the truck roll over the remaining leaf, leaving it a steaming black.

I held the flower close to my heart, tucking the cool stem under my black top. It was beautiful. It had five wide silky petals, all bright yellow, but where the petals met it faded to a brilliant pink. Sonia would love this. So would grandmother. But for different reasons.

“Isn’t today just the best day?” Sonia’s eyes are light brown, so light that on the brightest days they seem moss green. Her eyes are almost always looking up, in that dreamy, unfocused way of hers. Until she gets angry.

I look at her. “No,” I say quietly. As usual.

“Well, I think it’s a great day.” I look down at Sonia’s hands. They are covered in flaming red welts.

“Okay,” I say softly.

We sit in silence, watching life in the slums go by. The only one we know. “What a strange world,” I say.

“You and your silly thoughts!” A hysterical laugh bubbles from Sonia’s mouth.

Then she grips my arm, the fingernails that weren’t broken digging into my skin.

“Don’t be a bitter girl.” Flame ricochets through Sonia’s light, light eyes. I jerk back, feeling my grandmother’s wrinkled hands instead of Sonia’s inflamed ones. “Enjoy this while it lasts.”

Stunned silence. It is almost as if gentle Sonia can’t believe that she had laid hands on me. She lets go of me to slowly get up and wipe off the dirt where her skirt had touched the ground. Silence settles over us. Then it’s interrupted by Sonia’s shaky sigh.

“Wanna play a game? Let’s think about all the good things.” Tiny little tears fill her nine-year-old eyes.

CHAPTER THREE

Kalima

“Kalima!” I heard my name being called into the hazy night. Night in the countryside is dark and smoky. Just like my mind. I barely knew where I was. I was curled in a ball in a patch of indented dirt, legs aching miserably. Stop being so pathetic, Kalima.

Moni

Thank the gods you told her that. Sometimes I worry that she thinks she can give up.`

I stood up with a great amount of difficulty, swaying on my feet, and pushed the two voices from my head. It has always been like that for me. Well, not always, but close to always. I guess I got lonely a lot when I was a child. All the girls were afraid of me, and the boys would tease me. They would say, “Kalima, just because you look like a boy doesn’t mean you can act like one!” I wouldn’t let them bring me down - I couldn’t. But I never really had a close friend. I suppose that’s why I’m so close with my father.

But in a way, I hate him. It’s hard to explain.

And I just don’t feel like it.

I heard father calling me again. I felt like crying. I never really cry. But I never normally get polio either. I supposed I should go home.

Sighing, I started over the mounds of trash that line our roads, wishing for a breeze to cool me down. I heard that in some places, the countryside is the beautiful part. Well, not here. I don’t have an issue with that. Beauty fades. But sometimes when I take on the role of an outsider just visiting, our village looks so horrible that it hurts my eyes. And my heart.

Okay Kalima, get a move on.

I trudged across the road, feeling my right leg starting to seize up, building on top of the pain it sent when I was running. I wondered, with a sudden attack of unfamiliar anxiety, if my legs are already beginning to paralyze.

When I near my mother, twisted silence burns into my ears. I can feel the silent accusations, the silent hatred that stabs cold ice into my heart. Father laughs at something that he sees on the cracked television that can only run two channels (the news and cricket). I tear my eyes away from my mother and look at it too. A man has just scored and is doing a celebratory dance that looks close to the sight of a beheaded chicken flopping about a room. I laugh. Father turns to smile at me.

“Have I taught you how to play cricket, alima?” I shake my head. “No.”

“Come on.” He stands up, and I beam with delight. “I don’t know if you know this, but I was quite good when I was younger. The old bones may still work.”

I laugh harder as I leave the house into the gasolinesmelling air of the green-lined countryside. I hear my mother exhale with frustration.

“I bet you my young bones will work better than yours! ”

By the time I got home I was absolutely burning up, and my father had found some naan. Something about the warmth of it made me think it was a gift from a pitying neighbor. He smiled at me. A smile had never been more fake.

“You made quite the fuss.”

I looked at him and felt an unwelcome sparkle beginning to develop in my eye. That’s exactly what he would say. He knew exactly how to blow over pain as if there was nothing there, all just a game. I should be mad at him for changing this tragedy to a thing to laugh at, but instead, I felt relieved.

“I did not,” I said indignantly. Playing along. Playing along as I collapsed onto my mattress, kicking my sheets off, my hair wet with sweat.

He laughed, looking away as he sat on the chair. He threw some bread at me. I could just see his profile in the waning light of the neighbor’s lantern that glowed from the cracks in the walls. He had a hooked nose and black hair that was pushed away from his center part. I grabbed the bread with some difficulty from its landing spot.

“Even a pig to a slaughter wouldn’t make that much noise.” He was still not looking straight at me.

I fidgeted with my skirt and hesitated, playing out the words I wanted to say on the tip of my tongue.

“Did you - did you call ma?” I looked at him, fixing my eyes intensely on his cheekbone, hoping to the gods that he would say yes, that it’s all good. But instead, he said,

“The store was closed.” That was a lie, of course. I nodded, squeezing my fingernails into my palms. “So you’ll tell her tomorrow?” He still looked away!

“No, I think I’ll just tell her when she gets home. In person, you know?” His speech was getting mangled, and my brain was clouding. My leg started hurting again. A wave of unwanted fear rolled through my stomach.

“Okay. Okay. But when is she coming home?”

He snapped his head up. “I don’t know! Shut up, child!”

The lantern light turned down from next door. I sat there in the darkness, breathing and staring into the silence. The ugly silence.

Moni

The sun was at its highest when my sister finally emerged from the house. Her little face was flushed and her arms had red welts. I recoiled from it but didn’t say anything. Instead, I took her hand.

“What happened?” Laxmi asked, her voice hoarse and barely distinguishable. But her voice is never distinguishable. I smiled at her. I was sick of smiling when everything was wrong, and I was starting to remind myself of Sonia. “She didn’t want me to work because of the ringworm on my arms.” That was probably one of the longest sentences I have said in a long time. Quiet as we walked home. I wondered if she was wondering why some red spots on my arms were a reason to throw me out if the new red welts on her arms weren’t. In the heat of the day, the sweat and unfallen tears and blood clung stubbornly to every bit of my revealed skin, and I realized that the flower I had tucked underneath my shirt was probably getting squished and sweaty. I pulled it out and straightened the crumpled petals. I tapped Laxmi’s shoulder. She looked up, and her eyes lit up at the sight of the flower.

I smiled, and this time it was for real. Laxmi plucked it from my hands and slid the stem into her braid, face shining. The funny part about Laxmi liking the flower so much was that she had a strange love of the morbid and macabre, but I suppose the miraculous beauty of the flower was undeniable.

When we arrived - leaving the city into my home, the loudness, the darkness - my mother was gone (of course) out searching for food or money or anything. Father was gone and I wondered where he was until I was shocked with the remembrance that I hadn’t seen him in two years.

Only grandmother was home, snoring in the corner, chin tucked so she didn’t hit the ceiling. The old woman’s scarred hands rested on her lap. I stared at her scars, the veins that popped through her sagging dry skin, the ill folded fabric that made up her clothes, her ratty hair, her chest that rose and fell with her sharp, biting breath. The horrible, dark part of me wished that her swift breaths would be cut short. The other part of me, the part made of Sonia and orange flowers, slipped tiny tears into my stomach.

I can feel her watching me like I am prey. I am speaking to Sonia, detailing ambitions and brightness. She can see something in me that she fears. Gentle fire. Not the forceful kind, but the type that simmers and sustains. The type that won’t fizzle out with the beliefs of childhood. The type that will grow into a forest fire, consuming everything she knows in the ashes of change.

“Moni,” she extends a crooked finger. “Come here.” Her nails are like knives. Her hands are like chakrams.

Grandmother snorted awake, and opened a bleary eye, focusing on the sight of me, standing, fingers clenched tight around one another. She scowled. “Moni, get me some food.” I shared an apologetic glance with Laxmi, sorry to leave her alone with grandmother.

As I left, I could hear the angry words flung at my sister for the welts on her arms. What did you do to get a beating?

Useless child, a disappointment to her elders! I felt relieved - with considerable guilt - that I was leaving my grandmother behind.

***

The first order of business was to actually find some food. Normally Babi Didi would give me a wooden bowl of steaming lentils to bring home. Every day I would bring the bowl back and forth, from her house to mine, and it was one of my greatest treasures and a source of pride. Then a couple of days ago Babi Didi said she didn’t have enough time or money to make me the lentils as payment anymore, so she took change from her husband’s pockets and gave that to me instead. I did not tell her that I didn’t understand money, nor that I believed that it was not enough to get food anyhow. I didn’t tell her that my mother and my grandmother didn’t understand money. I didn’t tell her about my father’s nonexistence.

For the last three days, I had barely eaten. Yesterday after getting out of work, I walked up to a man selling food on the streets and reached out my hands, head down, with the coins in them. He snatched them away and threw some bread crusts at me. I had felt a sort of relief in the back of my mind that I was just receiving bread crusts. I just didn’t feel like I was deserving of anything more. “Ow!”

I slammed into a girl I barely noticed, careening awkwardly away from her after the split-second sight of her face. She was wearing a clean pink dress with a white headscarf. In fact, she was so clean that the sight of her was completely dazzling, standing like a sparkling goddess against the dusk-tinted sky. The even more shocking part of her, though, was that she held a black cell phone in her hand. No girls had cell phones around here. Not in the slums. Not in my world. Only in Shri Aarzoo’s fabric shop. This girl, with her clean pink and white dress and her beautiful upturned face, seemed to be in the wrong place.

Navin Desai

When I Was First Told

One.

I was eight when I was first told that my culture looked like throw-up. It was the day after Holi, the Indian Festival of Colors, And I wore to school that day the same shirt I wore yesterday. It was stained with a blend of blue, green, red, purple, and all the colors of the rainbow Of guiltless joy that I felt surrounding me boundingly the day before yet

I step into the classroom.

A kid looks at my left shoulder

And I look with him.

“Is that throw up?!”

He says guttingly

As it bounces off of Every Single Wall

And into my body

It resounds as my heart

Pounds twice fold.

With every beat that gets faster, I feel a fist pounding into a country 8,000 miles behind my back, With every beat that gets faster, I feel my cultural embrace Jose grip like a tipping iceberg slowly drowning in the water that’s its home.

I tell him that it’s paint - it was just a mistake because Now saying it was powder from the Holi festival seemed equivalent to saying that it was the Throw-up he accused it of being.

Two.

I was eight when I was first told my lunch looked rotten. My Nani made me two pieces ofthepla: flour, spices, and mcthi leaves cooked to a crunch that, at the same time melts like soft felt so delicately in your mouth.

I always wanted tocat my thepla garam [“hot” in Gujurati], but for lunch, it would have to cool down under the chilling breeze of the outside world.

I open my lunchbox.

I unbuckle the clasps of my transparent container and sec a girl look down.

“Ew,”

She says echoingly.

“Do you actually eat that?”

Her words penetrate my nostrils before the aroma of thepla ever reaches my nose and I start laughing

Because I expect laughing because I guess my culture’s become a joke

But no-

Her face was painted with pure disgust

And now my food turns to a browning rust that never grew before. I can see it start decomposing, The brownish-green colors start transposing What was once a snack that reminded me of India into a snack that reminded me of India.

I tell her that I was forced to bring it to school. The lid of my container remained shut for the rest of lunch. I was glad to be suffocating the part of me that I never again wanted to keep.

Spoken Word Georgetown Day School Washington, DC

Three.

I was eight when I was first told to embrace who I was.

I informed my parents that I no longer wanted to wear my kurta for the Diwali assembly, That I no longer wanted Indian food for lunch, That I no longer wanted to embrace the culture of country whose air I never breathed In a country where all breath was the notes of the star spangled banner

And the sky was painted with white And blue And red

The colors my friends bled

That I thought I didn’t.

And I was right.

Now, I realize I didn’t only bleed blue and red, but I also bled The green of mangroves and the Orange of sweet mangoes and the Brown of cinnamon

And this seven-continent world I’m in Runs through my veins so there’s Nothing I should ever abstain

From showing it.

Brandon Dowty

Adriel’s Tomb 1

The azure-blue sky spanned the warm island. Puffy white clouds dotted the horizon, swimming lazily through the air. White-sand beaches roped around the edge of the vibrant green interior of the island, tall palms rising from the soft, fertile soil high into the air, casting cool, long shadows across the beach. Twice-raked fields sat at the edge of the inner forest, the chirps of small animals and insects fluttering from within, escaping the dense wall of greenery that separated the center of Eris Island from its flatter, clear edges. Not far from the fields, the dirt newly upturned, sat the single structure built upon the isle, sturdily set on foundations of stone, with a smoke-laden chimney extending up from its peak.

Paul looked up from his book, the bright midday sun warming his legs, and watched as along the horizon, through the faint shadows of other islands in the archipelago, a boat sped along, its sail unfurled, speeding ever closer to Eris. Paul looked to his hands, recently cleaned from the morning’s work in the fields, growing what he hoped would be the last crop for some time. He looked back to his book, a journal left in the house from when he inherited it and the ownership of the island from his parents. He pored over the cleanly-written script once more, his understanding lessening with each read. He sighed, closing the book. “I guess I’ll have to give up soon,” he said to himself. “There isn’t much left to go over, and…” he paused once more, looking out toward the horizon. “They’ve been gone so long. Maybe it’s time to move on.”

Paul placed the book gently on the table beside him, standing up from the old, rickety chair at the edge of the porch and stretching lazily. He slowly rolled his neck, squinting as the bright light of the far-off sun filled his vision for a moment, leaving bright-orange afterimages. The faded, sun-bleached cover of the book, entitled Basics on the Ruins of the Monolith, all but disappeared in the light shadow of the overhang. He stepped out into the long, hot grass beyond, kicking off his shoes and walking slowly to the edge of the beach, the grass and soil gradually turning to sand as Paul approached the cold, gently lapping waves of the ocean. The boat, its dark, wet wooden hull contrasting with the bright sky and deep blue water, came into full view, Paul stepping back as the wake behind it came closer, and the boy at its helm tugged at the rope connecting the mast to the deck of the boat. It turned, the deck becoming submerged in water for a moment, while the boy wrestled with the long, white rope. The boat finally leveled off, but too late, as it careened into the sandy banks of Eris, kicking up a plume of sand that extended nearly as high as the palms. Paul ran forward, the searing heat of the sand no bother to him, as the boy rose from the sand-coated boat, grinning. “How’s that for a landing!” he cried. “I almost didn’t make it that time!”

Paul sighed, pointing up at the boy, his sandy-colored hair and olive complexion speckled with droplets of salty ocean water and newly added grains of sand. His bright blue eyes shone in the sunlight, his arms muscular from years of fishing. “You really could have wrecked the boat, Adrian.” Paul called, climbing the side and plunging into the shoulder-deep water beyond. “And it’s not like we’d be able to wait until next down season for the trading ships to come by.”

Adrian laughed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I rode in on the wind, I guess I thought I would have had an easier time getting it to stop.”

Paul groaned as they pushed the small boat upwards, its sail half-covered in water, drooping from its initial proud position. “And we’ll have to wash the sail too.” Paul said.

“I’ll handle it.” Adrian offered. “My mess. My cleanup.” Paul nodded as they shoved the boat back onto land. “Grab the sides.” Adrian said.

“I know.” Paul responded, curling his fingers over the rim of their small boat. He pulled, the boat turning easily, with little resistance. It rested against on the sand, the sail aimed pointing upwards towards the bright, beating sun.

“I figure that’ll be dry by sundown.” Adrian said. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

Paul heeded his younger brother, returning to their house and grabbing the book from the table on the porch. He traveled up the stairs just left of the front door, entering his room on the left. Books lined each wall, some stacks just two high and others upwards of six. Each one was a work left behind by their parents, though not all were written by them. Some included accounts of the far eastern reaches of Aquarius, histories of early humanity, and, what Paul was most interested in, their parents’ accounts of the Monolith, a nearby ruin from an age long past. Maps of Aquarius spread across the walls of the room, directly across from Paul’s small, cloth-sheet-covered bed. A grouping of small islands denoted the Cradle, south of the kingdom of Caelum; east of that great central kingdom, the foggy peaks and unknown eastern edges of Aquarius were far less defined. He stepped over a stray quill, the ink dry on its tip, placing the faded book on a stack at the front of the three-book-long rows of piles. He picked another, far less faded, book to study next. I s’pose this is the last one for today.

He opened the book, one of the first research books his father had written, nearly twenty-five years ago. Smeared illustrations in ink spread across some pages, while dense cursive filled others. After months of studying the array of notes left behind, Paul was accustomed to the complex handwriting. He opened the cover, hearing the creak and crease of the old pages as he did so, and began to read.

A great terminal of rock and iron stands at the center… unintelligible script etched upon it… great metal blades, arranged in a circular pattern… stagnant waters… three faded symbols… could they be related? No way deeper in… relations to the Spire… Caelum counterparts have yet to enter…

Paul murmured the words to himself as he read, the light streaming in through the frosted windows dimming. He looked up from the journal, nearly finished reading through. He sighed. “Symbols, metal blades, and the Spire. None of it makes sense.”

There must be little more for me to find in this book. I should move on to the next. Maybe tomorrow.

He looked towards the many stacks of books once more. One remained neatly stacked, while the others were in disarray, unevenly stacked against one another.

Maybe not…

Paul shook his head, gently opening the door to his room, descending the stairs just beyond and exiting back onto the warmly sunlit porch. The boat lay beached at the far end of the shore, Adrian laying out a litany of small sea creatures along a wooden board. The sun drew closer to the horizon, though hues of orange and yellow had yet to overtake the azure of the afternoon. Three doorfish were splayed out across the board, their wet, sopping tendrils not yet dried from the sunlight. Their eyes looked upwards towards the sun, as if in fear of the surface world above, longing for the water they had once known. A single, much larger sparkshark, its electric tendencies mitigated by the release from water and skillful drying by Adrian, lay with a spear-wound through its abdomen. “Wow, Adrian. This is… quite the catch.” Paul murmured, approaching the sparkshark’s gray-and-green skin cautiously. “How far’d you go to find this stuff?”

Novel

Hardin Valley Academy Knoxville, TN

Adrian thought. “Close to thirteen miles west. ‘Course, that’s only if my judgment’s right.”

“Which it rarely is.” Paul said.

Adrian shrugged. “What can I say? The deeper waters to the south would offer a larger bounty, but I wouldn’t want to make you worry!”

He rounded the wooden board’s edge, his hand sliding against the sharp edges. Adrian elbowed Paul’s shoulder, and he stepped back, holding it. “Sorry.” Adrian muttered.

Adrian looked toward the catch. “Anyways. Look, these guys are going to be drying out here for a while. They won’t be ready for a meal any time today. And, you know, the winds do seem to be blowing the right way…”

Paul sighed. He knew where it would go. “So you want to go to Telin.”

Adrian smiled. “Exactly! And I’ll let you pick the restaurant.”

Paul considered it for a moment, the breeze blowing through the tall palms behind him and down through his deep black hair. “I don’t know, Adrian. There’s plenty of food here besides the new catch.”

Adrian knocked his palm against the wood, making an over-exaggerated expression towards the sky. “C’mon, man! What’ve I gotta do to convince you?”

“There is that nice place over on the boardwalk.” Paul mused. “But hey! Don’t get any ideas.”

“It’s less than thirty minutes with this wind-speed. The bountiers will be there, too, y’know. Could see some kind of new sea creature…” Adrian persuaded

“Is the boat safe to use?” Paul asked.

Adrian smiled, knowing he had cracked. “As safe as it’ll ever be.” Paul groaned. “Fine, we’ll go to Telin.”

Adrian laughed. “Yeah!”

Adrian held out his fist to Paul. He responded in kind, bumping Adrian’s fist with his own. “Give me ten minutes.” Paul said. “Then I’ll be ready.”

Eight minutes later Paul found himself on the beach once more, this time with thin sandals covering his feet, Adrian already atop the boat. He lay in wait, the rope to unfurl the sail in hand , gazing at their two-story home. “Let’s go already!” Adrian called, waving to Paul from the top of the substantial deck.

Paul waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’m getting there.”

He waded through the knee-deep water and climbed the three-step ladder on the boat’s side from onto the deck. Water dripped from his sandals onto the deck, and Adrian grinned, pulling the white rope down. The sail unfurled, its face, now dry, ready to catch the wind once more. Paul sat at the seat beside the helm as Adrian turned the sail toward the wind. Suddenly, the boat shoved off, the light breeze tugging them along into the ocean. Paul watched as Eris gradually shrank into a small dot on the horizon, and another group of islands on the Cradle’s archipelago came into view. The wind picked up, pulling them along faster and leaving a frothing wake in their midst. The smell of the salty sea air became prevalent as they sailed away from the tropical-floral smells of Eris. Adrian walked to the front of the boat and spread his arms against the wind. He sighed triumphantly. “Don’t you just love this?” Adrian asked.

Paul shrugged. “It’s alright, I s’pose.”

“Just alright?” Adrian scoffed. “This must be one of the best feelings known to man! The ocean winds, the slowly-cooling temperatures, the sounds of the water parting in our wake…”

“I get it.” Paul said. “I do like the breeze, at least. Just not… the bumps.”

“What are you talking about?” Adrian cried sarcastically. “There aren’t any bumps on this ride! It’s the smoothest boat out there. At least, that’s what the guy who sold it to me said.”

“Right.” Paul affirmed. “And just how many times, exactly, have you tipped the thing over trying to land?”

Adrian waved away the comment. “It’s a lack of experience, it has nothing to do with the boat.”

Paul chuckled. “Sure it does.”

“I mean, I respect what you’ve got going on with all of

those books, but… I could just never spend hours reading like you do. What is it about them that’s so interesting?” Adrian asked.

Paul thought. “I guess… it’s really one of the last ties we have to our parents, isn’t it?

"That and the island. With a lot of it, I feel that Father’s handwriting brings back the few memories I have of them. The things they did, accounts they’ve written… all of it feels like they’re still here, in a sense.”

Adrian stayed silent, watching the waves pass by as the boat hurtled through the open ocean towards the far-off islands. He watched the water ahead as it parted for the hull of the ship, the deep waters beneath them gradually shifting to a shallower elevation. Within ten minutes, they were surrounded by overhanging palms once more, the waters a vibrant green as the roots of nearby patches of watergrass floated by. Shadows moved underneath the boat as its speed slowed, the palms and land now surrounding them catching much of the wind. “Not too much further now.” Adrian said, one foot resting on the railing.

Paul watched carefully as the evening assault of bugs descended upon them. “I hope so.” Paul muttered.

As their boat wandered down the canal connecting the ocean and the inner island, Paul watched the shacks and retreats of inland fishermen, many of them hailing from Telin, pass by. The canal curved, Adrian using the rope to turn both the sail and the boat itself as the shoreline shifted north. The boat tilted, turning harshly at Adrian’s discretion, Paul gripping the wooden railing. “Keep it steady, would you?” Paul asked, his knuckles white.

Adrian struggled to pull the boat back. “I’ve got it under control, Brother. Nothing to worry about.”

As they sailed closer to the other side of the island, the inland route far shorter than sailing around the coast, docks and better kept houses began to appear. The dense forests beyond thinned, and the plains that separated the forests from Telin became visible. Soon after, so did the docks for common boats, a small port half a mile from the town itself where smaller ships could dock. Adrian, carefully this time, turned the boat into a free slot, jumping to the front of the boat and tying the rope to a small metal pole at the center of the dock’s rim. The boat knocked gently against the stone dock, and Paul carefully stepped onto the platform, delighted to once more be on solid ground. “See? That wasn’t so bad.” Adrian said.

Paul looked back to the calm waters, banking not far from the dock into a sandy beach. A dirt path led from the dock and over the verdant grassy hills beyond, leading to the coastal plains where Telin was built. Sand mixed with dirt into a speckled soil, grass poking through the mixture. Paul’s sandals crunched against the ground as he walked along, watching a trader, pulling along a lone cart, heading down another path towards Telin. “C’mon, Paul. It’s almost sundown.” Adrian said, jogging up the path, occasionally turning back occasionally turning around to check on his brother.

Paul sped up, catching up with Adrian at the peak of the hill. He leaned against the tall willow at the top, its branches dropping nearly to the ground. “Look at that! Just in time.” Adrian said, gesturing towards the ocean beyond. Many ships were sailing into port, many bearing the symbol of the bountier guild. “If we get there now, we can see them bringing in their bounties.”

Paul shrugged, but Adrian was already running down the hill, steadying himself with his arms as he ran towards Telin, gleaming in the distance.

No walls surrounded Telin, though a litany of smaller, segmented barriers protected certain sections of the town. No buildings rose above three stories; they all had a short, flat structure, built in accordance with the boardwalk, the rest of Telin adhering to its most famous aspect. Roads from three directions led into the town, connecting the few insignificant inner settlements of the island together. Adrian ran down the hill, Paul

following close behind. Paul’s sandals crunched softly against the speckled soil, Adrian waiting for him at the head of the path leading in from the port. “We should be able to see them coming in if we hurry.” Adrian said. “Let’s go!”

The sand-and-dirt mixture soon turned to softer soil, Paul’s sandals no longer crunching with each step. The bright, white stone buildings that defined Telin came closer as the dirt became a paved street, round stones filled with powdered, ground-down stone combining into a nearly smooth road. The calm of the coastal plains subsided into background chatter, Adrian straining to hear the conversations they passed as he pulled Paul towards the ocean-facing side of the town.

The great white sails of the bountier ships towered over Telin, reaching higher than any other structure. Paul and Adrian raced down the center of the street, weaving between carts and celebrons, Adrian nearly caught underfoot by one of the bluehorned stallions. “Ah! Sorry ‘bout that” he called to the carriagedriver who sat behind the tethered beasts. The driver grumbled, his rough beard and loose clothing flowing in the cool breeze.

Paul pulled him to the side, rushing away from the carriages that plodded through the streets. “Running in the middle of the street is getting us nowhere. Let’s just go through an alley.” Paul said.

Far less noise there, too.

Adrian shrugged. “Alright. I guess a detour wouldn’t take too long.”

“Not long enough to miss the bountiers.” Paul assured Adrian, beginning to cross the sidewalk, skirting other people near the brothers.

Adrian rushed past, leading once more, leaving Paul to keep up. He surveyed the alley ahead, focusing on the paths between buildings leading left, where the glow of the setting sun remained constant. Paul stepped around sacks of garbage, left to rot by those living within. “This was a terrible idea.” Paul muttered, plugging his nose.

“Yeah, this really is better than walking the streets.” Adrian teased. “Next, you’ll have us swim the canal instead of sail!”

Paul sighed. “Let’s just get back to the street.”

Adrian rounded a corner, the late-afternoon sunlight creating a warm, glowing cone in the alley. Paul shielded his eyes as he ran to keep up with Adrian, his feet sore against his sandals. Adrian waited at the corner, his arms crossed. “Try to keep up,” he said.

“You’re the one who wants to watch them.” Paul answered, gesturing towards the cleared street ahead.

“Heh, you’ve got that right.”

Adrian turned on his right heel, using the intricately engraved corner of the orange-sun-lit building as a handhold to begin running down the street once more. The docks were empty this time of day, save for the bountier ships docking from a long day’s work. Paul finally reached Adrian’s side, as his brother stopped at the center of the street, watching intently as the bountiers marched by.

The first to disembark from the massive, wooden vessels carried what looked to be a kraken, though Paul knew it was different. Throughout his study of their parents’ notes and records, he had encountered many sea creatures among the studies of the Cradle, specifically the small section of the archipelago which Telin and Eris shared. “Paul, look! I had no idea there was anything that big around here.” Adrian said, pointing excitedly toward the large catch.

“That looks like the… Forienic Gensiris. It was in one of the books I read. They must have gone far to find that one.” Paul explained.

“And look, here comes another.”

From a ship further down the docks, the second of three that had come to port, a woman disembarked, carrying an adult sparkshark in one arm, which Adrian realized was at least three times as big as the one he had caught earlier. In her other arm, a sack carrying an assortment of different aquatic life from around the area. Others joined the march down the coastal street towards the bountier complex in Telin, one of the largest buildings

in town. “And from there, they’ll be sold to the people in order to keep the economy running.” Adrian said.

“You think those are bounties, or guild-commissioned marks?” Paul asked, watching the tall, stocky bountiers walk towards their base.

Adrian thought. “Some of the bigger ones would have been requested by certain restaurants or butchers, but the smaller catches are probably guild-commissioned assignments to fill out the general needs of the people. If only you’d let me register, we’d be making some more money.”

“It’s far too dangerous out there. One day, you’ll take on something that you simply can’t handle, and then… I’ll lose you, too.” Paul looked behind Adrian as he heard a crash, a metal can clattering to the middle of the street. Two guards, wearing the bright-white uniforms of Telin’s independent guard-force, held a man by the wrists, leading him toward the ocean. He writhed and screamed as they forced him forward and onto the dock, where a small boat lay in wait. “I’ve got months left! Months!” he screamed, his eyes darting across the few that stood to watch. “Please, I’m not Afflicted yet! I’ll leave on my own, just don’t send me out! I’ll go anywhere, I swear! Gordion, Apex City, the Chaos Chain, for Void’s sake! Just don’t send me out!”

“It’s nothing personal.” one of the guards said in a low tone. “It’s for the safety of all. I am sure you can understand.”

“Please, don’t do this…” he murmured, turning his gaze to Adrian.

Adrian swallowed loudly, his face showing incredible discomfort. Paul looked at the stoney ground beneath their feet, ignoring the pleading man being dragged out to sea. As he was loaded onto the boat with nothing but a broken paddle, the front of his chest was revealed, where a large, red-tinted sigil was etched into his skin.

Paul turned slowly, unable to watch the proceedings, and began to walk down the seaside street. “Let’s get out of here.” he said.

Adrian followed, watching the gentle sea collide with the sturdy foundation of Telin’s outer streets. Paul studied his options, savoring the chance to pick the venue. Adrian looked up as they passed the bountier complex, his eyes transfixed on the tallest levels. “Up there’s the regional headmaster.” Adrian said, taking his mind off the thought of the pleading man. “You think I’ll get to meet him someday?”

Paul smiled. “I’m sure you will. Hmm…” he craned his neck, looking once more down the long strip of restaurants and bars. I’d rather have something without alcohol today…

“We’ll go to Mulgan’s.” Paul decided, leading the way down the street once more. The sun lowered further into the sea, the water glowing a brilliant shade of orange as the sky darkened to cooler colors.

The cleanly-painted yellow sign, each letter in the script perfectly calligraphed, was bolted above the doors to the restaurant. Paul swung open the door, pulling it back just before it hit the polished walls inside. He led Adrian to a table at the back, dimly lit by the remaining sunlight and an array of oil-lights stacked atop one another at the center of the restaurant. Paul basked in the interior warmth of the place, watching as a server approached from the kitchen, steam escaping through the door. “What will you have today, sirs?” he asked on reaching the brothers’ table.

Paul tapped his menu. “I’ll do the… doorfish piatéla.”

Adrian looked at the bare, white ceiling above them. “Um… what do you recommend?” he asked the waiter.

“The sparking pínakas is particularly exceptional this time of year.” the waiter answered. Adrian nodded. “Then I’ll go with that one.”

The waiter smiled. “Excellent choices. That will be twentyseven cobs.”

Paul fished through his pocket to find the sack that held their money. Counting out each coin deliberately, he handed the sum to the waiter a moment later. “Thank you,” he said, bowing as he turned and strode back toward the kitchen.

“There’s not that many choices.” Paul said. “You really

needed a recommendation?” Adrian shrugged. “I dunno. This just isn’t my type of venue, you know?”

“So what is your ideal restaurant?”

Adrian leaned back in the sturdy wooden chair. “Somewhere with some action. It’s always more interesting when there’s shady stuff going on.”

“Like the bar we went to last month. Where you got your hands on some hard whiskey and started a fight. You do know that stuff isn’t good for you, right?” Paul remembered. “I mean, with how many people were concerned that we were there in the first place…”

Adrian groaned. “You’re not still talking about that, are you? Look, now I know that maybe I’m not ready for the hard stuff. Dad wouldn’t let us have any, but I figured fifteen was old enough.”

“In any case,” Paul said. “You should be more careful around that stuff. It was pretty tough to carry you back to the boat that time.”

“That time?” Adrian asked. “Name one other time that I’ve done anything remotely that bad.”

Paul smiled. “Okay. What about the time you tried to sneak into the bountiers’ building and one of them smacked you in the head? Or the time you jumped over the butcher’s counter and fell on your head? Or the time you climbed up on top of our house and jumped off to prove that sand could break your fall?”

Adrian sighed. “Fine. I admit, I’ve had a few incidents.”

“More than a few.”

“More than a few.” Adrian agreed.

“And don’t forget nearly crashing the boat and losing an entire catch.” Paul said.

Adrian waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “Oh, they were all under the deck. They would’ve been salvageable even if I’d actually crashed it.”

“By the way, how are you feeling? You hit the water pretty hard, right?”

“My head hurts a bit, but other than that, I’m fine.” Adrian said, feeling the center of his forehead, obscured by long strands of hair. “Here especially.”

“You’re lucky more didn’t go wrong.” Paul said. “But you probably just hit your head on the boat, huh?”

Adrian nodded. “Yeah, probably.”

The two of them enjoyed their meal, afterwards walking along the edge of the town once more, looking into the now-dark sky above, gleaming stars sparkling across the heavens. The bountier ships idled in the harbor, the lights of the complex acting as a beacon as the rest of Telin became dark. The streets were empty, a cool wind blowing through the streets and alleys. Adrian stopped, sitting at the edge of the harbor, his legs dangling over the edge, reaching towards the calm ocean waters below. Paul followed suit, and they looked out over the bare sea, no islands in sight. “Have you ever thought about going to the mainland?”

Paul turned. “What?”

“Y’know, we go to Caelum and see what’s out there.” Adrian said. “See the wonders of the world.”

“Not really. Who would look after our house?”

Adrian laughed. “You have the chance to see the world and you’re concerned about our house? We have nothing of value. Not to anyone except us.”

“Well… I…” Paul sighed, gripping the edge of the street. “What if we… get the plague?”

Adrian frowned. “I hadn’t thought about that. Other than those guys the sentries put out to sea, I’ve never seen an Afflicted person before.”

“I’ve read about it. What it does to people. It’s been around for at least a couple of decades now, and there’s no sign of a cure. The pin-like pain is the first stage, then the mark, then… the slow and agonizing transformation.” Paul explained, his voice getting smaller as he did so. He paused, his body still as his eyes flitted from one point on the horizon to another. “Has… your head hurt before today?” he asked.

“Huh. Now that I think about it, it has been since

yesterday, not just after the boat.” Adrian murmured. “What about it? I think I just have a headache.”

“Pull up your hair.” Paul ordered, climbing back onto the street, Adrian following suit. “Why?” Adrian asked. “What’s wrong?”

Paul stepped forward, grabbing Adrian’s long hair and pulling it back, revealing a small, intricate mark upon his forehead, the skin between the darkened lines a pale mixture of black-blues and sickly grays. The mark crested at his hairline, coalescing into a point, before spiraling into multiple angular lines that formed rounded triangles.

Paul gasped, his eyes filled with recognition. “We have to get you home now.”

Paul spread a stack of diagrams across the floor, Adrian sitting at the center of the room. Candles illuminated the floor, the ceiling draped in deep shadow, faint starlight filtering through the window. “Now,” Paul began. “Our parents explored a ruin called the Monolith back in the day. I’ve pored over their notes and accounts quite a few times, but I’ve never found anything interesting in it. Albeit, I was looking for details about them…”

Adrian waited for Paul to begin again. “While I was studying the books, I came across three symbols. It seems that Father thought they had some connection to the ruins, but he dismissed them, as no other mention of them remained. Look at them.”

Paul displayed the symbols, one a shade of blue, shaped like an intricate finned animal, though with no features; an orange symbol with flamelike qualities , and a black symbol, inked as deep as possible, the intricate lines and crest at the peak bearing a prominence over the others. “Look. Look at the black one.” Paul said.

“Oh.”

It was identical to the mark on Adrian’s forehead.

“The marks, the symptoms… this is the plague, isn’t it?” Adrian asked.

Paul nodded. “I think so. But our parents found symbols in the Monolith. This one is exactly the same as yours.” He frantically tapped his finger against the weathered page.

“Okay… so…”

Paul sighed. “Don’t you get it? These are connected! The plague and the ruins! Those who came before!” he began to pace, uncaring stepping over the diagrams laid out across the room. “And… and you have it. The results are all over the place. It could end up being anything. Transformations, people no longer looking human, horrifying abilities, untold grotesque features! What do we do? What do we do? What do we do?!”

Adrian stood, grabbing both of Paul’s shoulders. “Paul, calm down. Think, did they say anything else about the ruins, this… Monolith?”

“Hold on, let me check.” Paul said, dropping to his knees and sifting through the stacks of books. “Details, structures, mechanical contraptions, scripts. Those are what I have. Wait a second, here’s one more. Aha! Regional features.”

Paul opened the book, a folded paper falling from its pages. He unfurled the page, displaying a map of the region known as the eastern Cradle in full color, the ocean a vibrant blue, verdant greens denoting the tropical islands, and a single gray block rising out of the jungle on a large island, labeled the Monolith with black text. “Look here.” Paul said, pointing to the Monolith. “Over here, this is the shape of the island Telin is on. Judging by its location, this one is most likely Eris. The beach has the same shape. Then here, two islands over, is the Monolith.”

Adrian nodded. “Okay… do you think it’ll help at all?”

“With your affliction? Ah… maybe. There could be other things there, but it could be extremely dangerous. I don’t think it would be a good idea to go.” Paul said.

“C’mon, Paul. I’ve got a crossbow. What could go wrong?”

Adrian asked. “Wouldn’t your spear be better?”

Adrian shook his head. “Nah. I’m only good with that in the water. On land, I’m about as good as you are at making friends.”

Paul frowned. “Sorry.” Adrian said. “Whatever.” Paul muttered. “We aren’t going.”

“Look, Paul. I don’t know what will happen to me in the future, what I could turn into.

What I do know is that the Monolith could hold some knowledge we don’t have.” Adrian pleaded. “Come on, let’s just go.”

“Do you really think they missed something? And you… you could get hurt. I won’t allow it.” Paul said.

Adrian sighed. “Please! If anything could give us a reason to believe there’s hope, it’s the Monolith.”

Hope…

Paul stepped back. “You know what? Fine. We’ll go, and we’ll find that there’s nothing there to look at, that our parents scoured every inch of that place, that there is absolutely nothing for us to find. They detailed all of it, but if… if it’ll make you happy, then we’ll go.”

Adrian nodded. “Tomorrow morning, then?” “Tomorrow morning.”

Mackenzie Duan

On the Glock 17, 9mm

On Sunday my father takes my brother to the shooting range. The bodies he ruptures are orange, unknown, thumbprint small. When they stutter, I imagine the bullets as comets fizzling out of an octave sky. Holes flexed around the shape of stillness, marked like tree rings. My father shows him a photo of the muzzle flash, says: this is the sun you grow into, as the rivers embrace oil spill, as the time capsules decay to dirt. Know there exists an orange sun for every son, that there are wildfires we only hear of. Break a fever and burst it orange, open. O, bullet. Teach us how to plant our hearts like flags on solid ground.

100

Poetry Dougherty Valley High School San Ramon, CA

Kimberley Dunn

forbidden fruit

so no, i could not hear her cries; her flowers scorched my willful eyes and flourish despite my mordant blinds; i prayed a million-thousand times, and still amidst the afterlife, my clipped hair burns like leaves of time. and yes, her roots grazed down my throat, and trickled through my stomach moat; my heart, a rune, she’d have wrote; of which her hatred she’d emote.

instead, i pruned her olive suit and rather planted forbidden fruit, of which but adulterates aspired to loot.

in fact, with her own folds of skin, i sewed myself a coat akin to shades of sweetest orange gin, and wrapped it ‘round my mortal sin, a heart that beat to my chagrin.

what, years of mourning, of which she’d spend wishing her arms would soon extend? no, a fortnight at most, then she’d transcend, and her death she would at last contend.

o’ wait, what comes, her fickle arm? alas, she has but cripple’s charm, and i, she could not think to harm; starved, but a harvested forbidden farm?

o’ gods, shrunken arms still filled of fruit, her ribs but starved since our dispute, sod eyes twinkling as though astute; for her state, my greed’s to impute.

please wake, for ‘tis but a succubus, o’ but my coat ignites her covetousness.

my friend, the fruit was but a jest; o ‘it is all I won’t ingest, for self-indulgence of which i detest.

yes, intestines, poison, brains of pigs, aged ears and tongues, for rotten figs, all of which I declare them mine; for you, my agony’s the glacé of wine.

sweet mercy, dear, before my corruption, your fruit was drear; alas, her intentions are crystal clear, red fruit, i swallowed, now revered.

but no, she could not hear my cries; for her arms, my mouth they’d pried, and forced down her fruit, of which I despised; i screamed a million-thousand times, and still amidst the afterlife, my aching heart commit the most heinous of crimes.

again, her roots grazed down my throat, and trickled through my stomach moat; my heart, a rune, she finally wrote; of which her love she could now emote.

101

Spoken Word Florida Virtual School Orlando, FL

Neva Ensminger

Stage 2, or Autonomy

Alternate Trait: Shame and Doubt

Basic Virtue: Will

Ages: 18 months - 3 years

Pivotal Event: First Steps

In the second stage of development, the child, now a toddler, begins to undergo rapid muscle maturation, allowing her to experiment with two new social modalities: to hold on, and to let go. The child who successfully completes the second stage learns what is appropriate information to retain, and when it is time to move on. It is within these two modalities that she will learn to exercise control over her own body, and to make decisions that she is proud of. In this stage, if the child fails to choose autonomy over shame and doubt, she risks establishing a pattern in which she is unable to care for herself independently, even as an adult.

Take two square pills for the brain. Do four puffs of the blue inhalers, three from the green. Inhale a steady stream of air, hold for ten seconds then breathe out. Chew an orange pill for the lungs and a red one for the blood. Remember what the blood did to the lungs and hope it’s not a nebulizer day. Remember what the blood did to the sinuses and do a spray of the white bottle in each nostril. Remember what the blood did to the ear before anyone noticed there was something wrong with the blood and put five drops in the left ear. Try to go about the day. Let the brain resist the square pills. Be tired but not tired enough. Lie down, turn off the lights, and forget. Forget the body depends on chemicals to take care of itself. Forget the body used to work better six years ago. Forget the body entirely. No. That won’t work. Get up. Get up and grab the two white pills on the desk. Swallow them and tell the body it’s time to be like other bodies. Tell the body it’s time to sleep. ***

My therapist tells me that I should feel excited about my impending adulthood, that in seven and a half weeks I’ll feel so much freer knowing I won’t have to deal with anymore of the bullshit I’ve had to put up with for the past seventeen years. “Won’t it feel good,” she asks me, “to know you can go anywhere you want to, see anyone you want to see?” Though she’s right that I’ll have more choices soon, they all scare me too much for anything to actually change. ***

For the record, I think that Erik Erikson got it wrong when he said autonomy and shame and doubt exist on opposite sides of a spectrum. I don’t think that a child who learns independence necessarily frees herself from a lifetime of uncertainty and powerlessness. She may gain the ability to make her own decisions, but it is not inherently tied to a sense of pride in being able to do so. Just because she learns that her choices are her own, doesn’t mean that she has grown out of wishing that they weren’t.

***

Stand in the urgent care line and feel the mucus run down the back of the throat. Let the lungs grow weak trying to cough it back up again. Smell the infection in the air and know that the body has failed to protect itself again. Know that the blood is doing its best but not enough. Know that the blood never wanted to hurt the body, this is just the way it is. Listen to some insensitive prick

say to his wife that the masks have made everyone’s immune systems shit and fight the urge to scream that some bodies never had an immune system in the first place. Feel the face grow red and hot to the touch. Feel the bacteria multiply in the lungs, or the sinuses, or maybe the ear, and wait. Wait for a nurse to come to take the body away. Wait for the doctor to come and give a long speech about drug resistance and for the antibiotics he’ll prescribe anyway to kick in and for the last little bit of the brain’s patience to be wasted on the drive home. Wait so long that the body grows tired of itself. Let it feel rotted and wasteful and broken. Know the body will never change and the best, only, option the brain has is to accept that.

***

Sometimes, I tell people I love but who don’t know my family that I was born my mother’s daughter but that when she was alone and scared for her future and my health, I became her friend, the one who her taught her what to let go of and who held onto the things she thought weren’t useful anymore. I say that I was my father’s daughter, and that when he needed someone to cook dinner and weed the garden, I was his stand-in partner, but that I grew up and he wasn’t there and now we are strangers. I tell them my sister will always be my sister, but that I am her mother now, just as unwilling to accept the social intrusiveness of maternity as the first, only I am more determined not to fail at it. I want them to see that I have harnessed the instability of my childhood into not only an eternal source of anxiety and strife, but also enough self-control to become whatever they need me to be, even if that means being nothing to them at all.

Still in my dreams, my body is failing. You’d think since they’re my dreams created by my overactive visual cortex, my brain would come up with something better than an endless number of nightmares where I go to a hospital and a doctor decides it’s in my best interest to spend forever hooked up to an IV in a room that always smells half like disinfectant spray and half like Swiss Miss tapioca pudding. But no, at night I’m just as in control of my body as in the day, which is to say, not at all. ***

The problem with Erikson, is that his theory rests on assumptions and generalizations of what goes on both in the minds of children and in their homes. In the ideal world he’s created for his theory, everybody is a healthy body and all homes allow for the freedom of experimentation. Children are not born with predispositions for neurochemical imbalances that affect their mental health, and possibly whether or not they can successfully complete a stage. All infants are blank slates, and their parents are always in an emotional, financial, physical position to prioritize their socialemotional wellness. This is not the world we live in, and yet it is the world that Erikson bases his theory of who we should be on.

102

Creative Nonfiction

Interlochen Arts Academy Interlochen, MI

***

Paul Fauller

103

Photography Burlington

Burlington,

Let Outside Color negative film 2022

High School

Camille Faustino

104

Visual Arts

Douglas Anderson School of the Arts Jacksonville, FL

2022

A Small Family Reunion Acrylic paint and folded paper

Uma Freitag

105

Visual Arts Design and Architecture Senior High School Miami, FL Skin and Light Fabric scraps, canvas, gouache, safety pins and leaves 2022

Had We But World Enough

Ruth hears them before she sees them, the skid of tire rubber on asphalt, a brake squeaking, the exuberant sound of a woman’s voice upraised against her progeny: put that down, if you even think about, don’t you dare… Ruth stands up - too quickly, her wristwatch tells her, beeping a subtle admonishment against the underside of her wrist. Too fast. She is often the target of these despondent notifications, sad blurps and dismayed bzzt s. She concentrates on slowing her breathing and crosses the room, pressing her face to the cool window glass.

She sees the finger-smudged outline of a woman in jean shorts, her arms raised so the muscles in her biceps stand out; she’s got a mire of black hair turned to frizz in the heat, her voice is indistinct but carrying. Ruth wets her mouth; she can hear the sound of her boys in the den, the discreet violence they are enacting onscreen. The woman in the shorts is laughing, opening the car door.

A boy with a massive head of curls sprints out of the car, followed quickly by a little girl in cornrows, and Ruth feels a murmur of anxiety, echoing and perhaps superseding the soft chiding beep of the wristwatch: too fast, she thinks, and then, a half-beat later: be careful.

The woman is named Sal Nikita, and her two children, Arthur and Magnolia, Maggie for short, are nine and seven, respectively. She has no husband; her brown hand is bare of any ring, the fingers slim and refined and uninterrupted. This is not what makes the neighborhood uneasy; Ruth herself is a single mother, and she raises her boys just fine.

No, what disturbs is something else, something insidious and impossible to ignore: Sal lets her kids out of the house to play. Arthur and Maggie, the undersides of their tiny feet slapping against the asphalt, their fro’d heads bobbing and disappearing as they run, the bright rectangles of their t-shirts flaring in the duskArthur and Maggie play outside.

Initially, the neighborhood elects to politely ignore this. “Probably they don’t have their setup yet,” Ruth’s friend, Claire, says wisely. She’s busy cleaving a watermelon into fourths on the cool marble countertop, and the sun spills from the slatted windows, striping her face with bars of yellow and shadow.

Claire sets down the cleaver and reaches up to shut the blinds before going on: “When I moved, it took a few days for the Playset to ship. And took me about twice that to figure out all the cables!” She laughs, cutting the watermelon; her laugh shakes her arm, and Ruth watches the blade sink down into the granita slush of the watermelon. Claire’s incautious fingers hold the watermelon in place, pale with limpid crimson nails. Ruth echoes Claire’s laugh, belatedly.

It does not take a few days for the Playset to ship; this is because the Playset was never shipped, which Ruth finds out later, much later. Instead, Arthur and Maggie effervesce in the smoky heat of the summertime. The neighborhood echoes with the sound of their ringing laughter, their torrid feet. Sometimes they are seen and sometimes they are not; sometimes no one knows where they are and they are tunneling through the sweltering boroughs of the neighborhood in mid-July, clambering under hedgerows and over garden sheds, splashing in unused pools and running headlong down the untrafficked cul-de-sacs.

They have skateboards, these two kids, and tricycles, and scooters; they whip down the sidewalks, bump-bump-bump over the cracks, la-di-da, not a care in the world for their motherwho stands in the doorway sometimes, watching them fondly, but is most often in the house working, not paying them any mind. They resurface for dinner and lunch, mosquito-stung and sunburnt, turning their crinkly faces up to hers for inspection.

The neighborhood watches in horror. Some threaten to petition to have her removed.

Ruth is not among them. She watches as Maggie and Arthur run pell-mell down a suburban jungle of their own devising, imagining gutters for the moats of castles, cramming silver watering cans over their curls for helmets, and feels not disgust but a mingled throb of pity and fascination. Mostly she thinks about Sal, her smiling face, her strong legs moving beneath the frayed jean shorts.

Before Sal, Ruth was the only single mother in the neighborhood. No one said anything to make her uncomfortable, no one even implied anything untoward, but she always felt conspicuous during parent fundraisers, when the couples grouped together and talked smilingly, in low voices, and Ruth stood alone, a pamphlet clutched tightly in her sweating hands.

Sometimes they reprimanded each other, chided each other in lowered voices, and Ruth would feel a hot spike of envy, how even their anger seemed to carry within it a pulsing thread of intimacy. But now, she thinks, it will be different, although what she wants that to mean, she doesn’t know.

The first district wide PFCF meeting of the new school year takes place on a Wednesday. Ruth takes the morning off work, files into the auditorium with the other parents, holding her purse. Peripherally, she sees a head of dark curls.

Ruth turns so quickly her head spins. She cannot help the sudden burst of perverse exhilaration, a repressed laugh in her chest, as if she is a child seeing something absurd. Santa Claus at Halloween. Sal at the PFCF meeting, standing not two steps away from her. Swiftly, Ruth taps her on the shoulder. When Sal turns, smiling, Ruth says: “Hello, I’m Ruth. I don’t know if you recognize me, I live a few houses down…”

“Small world,” Sal says, ironically. Ruth smiles, although she is in fact embarrassed, and says: “I was wondering if you wanted me to show you around town, introduce you to a few people, get a drink, maybe… We could meet up some time this week.”

“Mommy playdate?” Sal says, playfully. “Sure, why not?” She walks away, taking a seat in the front row.

Ruth’s wristwatch is telling her that her heart rate is too fast, maybe she should sit down now. There is an open seat in the third row. She sits.

The PFCF meeting opens like most PFCF meetings do. Doug, the president, an enormous bearish man with wiry red hair, clears his throat and brings up the slideshow. His husband looks on fondly from the second row. “Welcome, all. I am proud to bring into motion the 15th successive year for our organization, Parents For Child Fitness.”

The topics of conversation are habitual: expanding the Playset station for recess, fixing recess time, organizing subsidized sessions with CFCs for low-income families. Time moves slowly, ponderously, filled with Doug’s impassioned voice and not much else.

“Excuse me?” Sal’s voice rings out. Those in the know wince. Doug pauses and looks inquiringly.

“Yeah, thanks. I was wondering…” Sal clears her throat. She’s still smiling, but her eyes have an abrupt clarity to them; her voice, when it comes, is swift and incisive. “What are CFCs?”

Doug falters. The auditorium is silent. He rallies, and says: “Of course, I apologize for any misunderstandings. Now, you shouldn’t be embarrassed about asking questions… I’m sure many of you had the same question!” He adds, heartily, swiveling to face the audience. They stare back at him incredulously.

“I wasn’t embarrassed,” Sal says, calmly. Ruth’s wristwatch is thrumming against her wrist, frantic, telling her that

106

Novel

School

Naomi Gage

Santa Monica High

Santa Monica, CA

her heart is beating too fast again; she realizes that she is digging into one wrist with her thumbnail. She feels like she is watching something gory and gripping, like she knows what will happen: a lion tearing into a fragile white bird, a gazelle falling behind the herd. “I just wanted to know what a CFC is.”

Doug stumbles: “Uh - Child Fitness Coordinator.” He cracks a grin, and adds: “Best job there is, in my opinion. Couldn’t have raised my boys without them.”

“Okay,” Sal says, “Okay. There’s only one thing I don’t understand.”

“And that is?”

“Why can’t the kids play outside?” Sal asks, and spines stiffen in every row. Rapidly, Doug clicks a few slides ahead, and says: “Because….”

They all know the risks, of course. The government sends newsletters out like clockwork every month, subject-lined with hair-raising words like DANGER and ACUTE RISK and RECENT ALARMING TRENDS. The body of the email contains reasoning clearly highlighted in brusque font, graphs and data all showing the same curves and spikes, the cartography of a fear that they have come to known like the smell of their children’s sleeping skin. It’s not only the child-snatchers. Children have been known - as Figure 2.1 clearly illustrates - to faint at temperatures above 120 degrees Fahrenheit, the temperature of an average day on the block. If unattended to - and who has the time to follow their kids around outside? - this can lead to severe heat stroke. Before CFCs, thousands of children had to be hospitalized.

Doug flicks through the data quickly, mispronouncing the names of the medical research journals, and faces Sal triumphantly. There is a spontaneous burst of applause from the parents: he has done it, he has slain the beast of ignorance unhesitatingly, armed with his facts and figures, well done, really great.

Sal’s mouth is the color of an unwaxed plum normally; now her lips are white with force and tension. Ruth watches her, both afraid of and anticipating her response, which does not come; Sal sits quietly, her hands folded in her lap, and follows the rest of the slideshow with her eyes.

Afterwards, Ruth gets up from her seat with a feeling of relief. She thinks ahead, to getting in the car, driving to a house silent of the muted salvo of machine gun fire - the boys are at school, after all. Sinking into work, the reams of code she finds entrancingly penetrable.

There is a touch on her shoulder; Ruth turns. Sal is standing behind her. She is not smiling, she looks hard and daring, cutting through Ruth’s fluster like a ship through a crown of frothing spume. She says: “How about that drink now? My treat.”

Ruth cannot refuse, she was the one to initiate the prospect. So she nods, rather numbly. Sal is a fast walker; her legs take on the length of the auditorium in long strides, and Ruth hurries to keep up. They exit the auditorium, make for the parking lot. The heat is thick, physical, something to work against, and a haze of smoke turns the air the color of a glass ashtray. The buildings of the school are squat and unremarkable, the stucco grainy like cystic acne.

“Ugly, isn’t it,” Sal says, and her mouth is hard again, she is clicking her car keys.

Unbelievably, her car is parked next to Ruth’s, and Ruth wonders how she had not noticed it before: the dark red luster of the hood, the air freshener dangling from the mirror, all immediately recognizable. “Let’s get out of here. Meet you at mine?”

Sal peels out of the parking lot first, and Ruth follows. She feels small and forlorn, weaving through withdrawing tides of cars like a child following in her mother’s wake. Mommy playdate? Sure, why not? Ruth grips the steering wheel tighter, between two hands, and thinks that she will stay for fifteen minutes, they will have that drink, and then Ruth will leave.

Sal’s house is unexpected. Every surface is patterned or cozied; there are ghastly plaster lamps shaped like soda bottles or woman’s busts, turquoise calico curtains, fresh paint on the

walls in shades of honey melon, cantaloupe, mango. The effect is morbidly kitsch, like stepping into a 50’s dollhouse catalog, freakishly bright and somewhat off-putting. “You like?” Sal says, from the kitchen, her lithe hands salting the rim of a margarita glass. “The best part is - I didn’t do half of it. Previous owner left the décor - all I did was the paint, and that was nothing.” She nods at a charcuterie board, salami and hard cheeses and marcona almonds. “Help yourself.”

Sal’s dining room is sided by an enormous set of French doors, brocaded with gilt like something out of a castle. They open onto a lush yard, completely enclosed, mandevilla vines bristling over the slatted fence. Landmarks include a blue kiddie pool and a set of discarded hula hoops that lean with timorous hope against the garden hose. Ruth grips her margarita and nibbles on her cheese, which is shockingly good, all salt and cream, melting on the tongue.

The cheese gives her courage. She puts down her margarita and says: “Look, Sal - if you want your kids to play outside, and I’m not saying it’s a bad idea, why don’t you have them romp around in the backyard? You could keep your eye on them that way. Might ease minds.”

Sal laughs a muscled laugh and takes an almond between two fingers, rolling it back and forth. Ruth watches her, the almond held delicately between two thin fingers, the white teeth against the waxed plum of her mouth. “Kids get bored in small spaces,” Sal says. “They’d be scrambling for screens like the rest of their grade if I locked them in the yard.”

Ruth feels it like a physical wound, like the sudden snick of a blade unfolding. There is nothing more intensely personal than an attack, even oblique, even unintentional, on her boys, not even an insult against Ruth herself, because into her children she is supposed to put the best parts of herself, the most cherished, the most worth preserving.

Has she succeeded? Oh, she doesn’t know, she doesn’t have a damned clue, but she loves them, her immovable boys with their strawberry shampoo and their particular breakfasts, one will only have instant oatmeal, for the other it’s Pop-Tarts or bust, Pop-Tarts or he will delay all their mornings for an hour. They don’t smile at her much, her boys. Once, when her oldest won first place in a class competition: a shy grin as he told her the news. Another time, when the family dog Susie was found after a day of fruitless drone-search, their whoops and yells of exultation, throwing their hard bodies at her, clinging and clutching and caressing.

How could she not love them? They are all the more beloved for their caprices, the stubborn whims, their averted faces, because every smile she wins is victory at its sweetest, every submitted-to embrace is like touching the surface of the sun.

Why is she in this kitchen, with its honeydew walls and befrilled curtains, holding a sweating margarita that she does not even want to drink? Why is she talking to this woman, who does not even know Ruth, who doesn’t even know what a CFC is, for God’s sake?

“It’s perfectly normal for kids to play videogames,” Ruth says, her face feeling oddly tight, stretched out. “Half of the kids in Mike’s class log 14 hours daily…”

Sal’s face gives a physical twitch, contorting into an expression of involuntary disgust. “No thanks,” she says, still grimacing. “Not for my kids.”

“Everyone’s different,” Ruth says, smiling tightly. She finishes the margarita and puts it down. There is a moment of tension as both women stare at each other, Sal relaxed with her hands flat on the dining table, Ruth with her chin up, defensive. Then Ruth says: “I have to get back to work. This was so fun, let’s do it again sometime.”

“Yeah,” Sal says, letting her out. She leans on the doorframe, and her smile is crooked. “You bet.”

Her boys get home while she’s working, in the middle of navigating a particularly tricky bug in the code. She hears them

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thump their bags down and slump into the den, hears the nearinstant churr of the Playset firing up, the rapid gunfire on the screen. Ruth takes her hand off the mouse and massages her wrist. She stands up, pushes the chair in, and walks slowly to the den.

“Boys,” she says, and they don’t look at her. She doesn’t know if they can hear her; her youngest has headphones over his ears. Ruth feels a tension in her abdomen, her muscles clenching. She crosses the room and physically removes the headphones from his downy head- he looks up, crying out in startled outrage. “Boys.” She grips the headphones tighter. The Playsets are wireless now, there’s no cable to unplug. Ruth inhales, and says: “Have you done your homework yet?”

There’s a pause, and then hedged ye-es ’s. “No you haven’t,” Ruth says. “No playing until you finish your work, boys, come on. Get out of the den. Up, up.” She feels powerful, hustling her complaining boys out of the room with the couch and the screen, bidding them to make themselves of use. How easy is it, she wonders, how easy has it always been?

Later that night, her phone screen lights up with a call. It’s Jerry, the boys’ CFC. He’s a weedy man with a thin mustache like a bottlebrush, and she has only met him once in person. He was wearing a red shirt, and he had sweated through the armpits; his hair was frizzy and ridiculous. The image pops into her mind whenever she thinks of him.

She hits accept call, and pins the phone against her ear with one cocked shoulder. “Hey, Jerry. Is everything alright?”

“No, everything’s fine,” Jerry says, his voice reedy in her ears. “Just a small concern. The boys let me know that you had been restricting their Playset time. I wanted to check on that.”

“Oh, yes,” Ruth says. She is crouched over the robovacuum, which has been malfunctioning. She wedges her fingernail under the lid of the battery compartment, and lifts up. As she suspected, there is dust. “Yes. I wanted the boys to finish their homework before playing. And, I mean, do they really need to spend so long on the Playset?”

“Ruth,” Jerry says, and his tone is that of a man failing to be paternal. “You know the facts. Kids these days don’t get access to all the things we did. They can’t run outside or play in the streets. The two of us are speaking from a privileged perspective, because we were brought up back when there was real life to play in. These kids, the most important factor in forming social bonds is the time they spend on the Playset. They’re starting middle school next year, for crying out loud - right now, schoolwork isn’t the most important thing. Friendship is.”

“One of them is starting middle school,” Ruth corrects. “Mike is going into 9th grade next year.”

“That’s what I meant,” Jerry says, easily. “My point is: you want them to do their homework. Hey, I can understand that. Don’t we all? But don’t lose sight of what’s important to them.”

“Sure thing, Jerry,” Ruth says. She turns the robo-vaccum upside down with one hand and shakes it, trying to get rid of the dust. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Great, great…” He clicks off. Ruth clicks the battery back into place, fits the cap back on, and the vacuum churrs to life. She watches it vanish down the hall, seemingly animated by a purpose of its own.

The next morning, she is woken by a series of knocks that escalate into the sound of a hand slamming against wood, palm flat, full force. The sounds of a desperate woman, she thinks, and gets up laboriously, putting on her robe, her slippers. She unlocks the door and opens it.

“Ruth,” Sal says, breathless. Her face is horrible, somehow both drawn and loose, tense and slack, her eyes holding within their darkness the symptoms of absolute catastrophe. She is frantic. “Have you seen my kids?”

“I - your kids?” Ruth fumbles, as if she doesn’t know what Sal is asking, although of course she does. A quiet horror pervades her, along with a sticky, insidious sense of triumph, I told you so and look, wasn’t I right? She quenches it firmly. Arthur and Maggie, their faces screwed up against the sun, Maggie’s tutu,

Arthur’s blue crocs. “Sal, what-”

“They didn’t come back for dinner last night,” Sal says, and it comes out as one long moan of grief. “They didn’t come back and I fell asleep waiting for them and I woke up and they’re still not here, I don’t know where they are…”

“Oh, Sal.” Ruth says. She is filled with compassion, compassion and relief. Her boys are fine, sleeping. “I’m sure we’ll find them.”

The drones are sent out mid-afternoon. They spiral through the sky, a cohesive phalanx of flying bots, eagle-eyed, missing nothing. They will remain airborne for months, sweeping through the neighborhood and in ever widening circles around it. After four months, a funeral is held. Ruth takes off work again to attend.

Sal is not wearing jean shorts; she wears a black pantsuit, blazer jacket firmly buttoned even in the oppressive heat of the church. She stares straight ahead as the minister speaks, and afterwards she turns, slow and infinitely weary, to accept condolences. When Ruth goes up to her, she clutches at Ruth’s hand with the strength of a tiger and says, barely audible: “Drink after?”

“Tea,” Ruth says, firmly. “My place.” Sal has never been inside her house before. But firsts are diminished, she thinks, during a time like this. How can firsts matter when two children have experienced their lasts?

“Nice place,” Sal says, quietly, once she’s inside. Ruth brews a pot of geranium tea, takes a carton of heavy cream from the fridge, along with a squeeze bottle of honey. She pours both liberally in each cup and hands one to Sal.

“I can’t think,” Sal says, her voice hoarse, eyes falling shut. She’s clutching the mug with both hands, holding it like a life preserver. “I can’t think about anything without…”

“It sounds like you need something to take your mind off of it,” Ruth says, gently. “Wanna watch some TV?”

Sal’s eyes flick open. They are a dark brown with notes of red and gold, like rust. “Yeah, why not.”

They watch some TV. They watch ANTM for two hours straight, and then Project Runway, and then a teen drama when Sal says she’s tired of reality TV, wants to watch some fiction. “This is nice,” Sal says, as the girl realizes she’s been in love with her best friend all along, “kind of sedative.”

Ruth pats her knee. She is startled to realize in herself a previously unknown depth of sympathy. “Whenever you want,” She says, “We can do this again.”

It is a decision she comes to regret, not months later but five minutes afterwards, when both are staring at the screen again and she is stricken by the possibility of Sal coming over whenever, while Ruth is in the middle of work, when the boys are home. Still, she reasons, it’s unlikely that Sal will take her up on it. Sal starts to come over often, not exactly whenever she wants but regularly, routinely: on Wednesday afternoons and Sunday mornings. They watch cooking shows and baking shows and shows where the point of it all requires a five-minute explanation. They talk while watching. Sal likes to rant, her voice an indefinite susurrus under the sound of the TV; she talks about the government agenda, the antitrust laws that the Playset corporation violates. Disconnected opinions that never quite manage to voice what Ruth knows lies beneath the surface. Conspiracy theorizing replacing grief, making it manageable. Sal blames the government for the loss of her children. But she will not say it out loud.

Sometimes Ruth’s boys, drawn by the sound of alien female voices, hover around the edges, entranced by the bikini clad girls of Love Island. Sal always stares at them, unselfconsciously, unblinkingly, as though she is not aware she is doing it, until Ruth, unnerved, tells the boys to scram, go get some homework done.

Sal has been attending PFCF sessions regularly, even more so than Ruth, who has had to stop taking off work. No one wants to tell her to leave, and there is no rule, after all, that only parents of current, living students may attend - but still, it unsettles people. “It’s like there’s a ghost there,” Claire confides to Ruth one

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day, “Some sort of spook or something. She never talks, not like the first time. Just sits and stares.”

Doug, the PFCF president, calls Ruth in one day after the session’s over. He beckons her with his massive hand, large as a baseball mitt, and she walks over, hitching her purse onto her shoulder. “Hey, Doug. Great slides today.”

“Thanks, thanks…” Doug trails off and leans in closer. They’re standing by the podium. “I wanted to have a quick word with you, about that friend of yours.”

“Sal,” Ruth says.

“That’s the one,” Doug nods. “Look, the whole PFCF sympathizes with her situation.

"It’s horrible, we understand that. I mean, this is the kind of stuff we’re trying to protect our kids from. But she’s got to stop coming to meetings, it’s been disturbing some of our parents.”

Ruth shifts on her feet. He has a point, she sees that, but she cannot help feel that he is being unfair to Sal in some way. She feels the righteous pleasure of defending the meek, the knowledge that she is doing the right thing, and she lets it flood her voice as she says: “Sal’s not a parent now?”

Doug blanches, but he’s always been quick to recover; he straightens, pops his knuckles, and dons an uneasy smile. “Well, of course she is. No, there’s no denying that. But parents whose children have, er, passed out of our hands generally don’t come to PFCF meetings. And, look, we miss Arthur and Maggie, too - we’re right there along with Sal, believe me.”

“You want me to offer her your condolences?” Ruth asks, her voice deliberately confused. “I’m sorry, if you wanted Sal to know, couldn’t you tell her yourself?”

Doug coughs, but his voice, when it comes, is steady. He is the orator of their group, the one who can bounce back from verbal deckings, he falters but never quits without making his point clear. It’s why he was voted PFCF president; it’s why Ruth voted for him, at least.

“What happened to Arthur and Maggie was a tragedy,” Doug says, and the change is subtle but obvious. He is calm now, relaxed, his voice is penetrative and clear. He sounds sympathetic and firmly in control of the situation. “And the real tragedy of it all, of course, is that it was totally preventable. Now, I’m not blaming her, that is not what I’m doing. But you can’t deny that if she’d let her kids on the Playset like the rest of us, they never would have gotten lost in the first place.” He pauses. “Ignorance is a danger to us all, Ruth.”

Ignorance, Ruth thinks. Sal casual in her kitchen, contemplative, saying kids get bored in small spaces . How many young mothers, hearing those words spoken so confidently, might do the same? Open their doors, let their kids run the neighborhood ragged. How many tragedies propagated from the seed of one grief?

There is a certain pleasure to be had in losing, in ceding gracefully: well, I did what I could. Ruth says, firmly, like it was never in question: “I’ll talk to her.”

“Good,” Doug says, smiling. “Good.”

It’s a Wednesday, so Sal knocks at her door before long. Ruth lets her in, like always. She is uncertain how to approach the topic, which is so massive and unspoken that she cannot even look at it directly without cringing away. Sal’s in a sweatshirt, her eyes tired, the skin underneath each lashline bruised and papery. In the dim yellow light of Ruth’s house, she can barely make out the words on Sal’s sweatshirt: MOMS AGAINST DRUG SEARCH, and wonders at it distantly. Sal’s kids are - were - in elementary school, hardly the place for randomized drug searches.

“What’s on the menu?” Sal nods at her, drifting in. “America’s Got Talent?”`

“Try Iron Chef,” Ruth says, closing the door and locking it. The boys are curled up on the sofa like rodents, each wedged in his separate corner, eyes fixed on the screen. Sal pauses, her eyes resting on them. Ruth feels a sudden surge of impatience and satisfaction, as if she’s caught Sal doing something she’s long denied.

She says, quietly: “Some of the parents have been wondering why you still come to PFCF meetings.”

“Some of the parents,” Sal repeats, eyes still fixed on Ruth’s boys. She says, her tone unchanging: “What the fuck does that mean.”

“Would you stop staring at them,” Ruth snaps, and that’s not what she meant to say; she doesn’t know what she meant to say. “I’m sorry, we’re all sorry about what happened to yours. But if you wanted to keep them safe, you shouldn’t have-”

“I shouldn’t have what,” Sal says, tonelessly.

More gently, Ruth says: “You should have kept them inside. But, look, Sal, take all the time you need, that’s fine, we understand.” Somewhere along the way, she notices, she’s started to use ‘we’ instead of ‘I’. She crosses her arms tight across her middle. “Just stop staring at my kids.”

Sal finally turns, facing Ruth, and says, flatly: “I don’t want your children.” Her eyes convey no emotion whatsoever, and Ruth knows she is telling the truth, knows the hot painful current that runs beneath: I want my own. Briefly Ruth experiences powerful emotion, transfigured by the image of Maggie and Arthur sprinting down the street, the colored shirts receding into the middle distance, their thin childish legs moving in a rhythm that no one would bother to decipher until it is far, far too late. They are beautiful. They are gone.

Ruth says, involuntarily: “What’s wrong with them?”

Sal casts a glance to the couch. Ruth’s boys have not heard the conversation, they are too busy staring at the screen, light bathing their face in bluish radiance. Their faces do not move; the surfaces of their unblinking eyes shine with the reflected movement of the chef onscreen. It is a ridiculous question, and Sal does not bother to answer it; she swings around, her movements jerky. Ruth moves back; for a hazy instant she thinks Sal will strike her. But no, Sal is reaching for the door, twisting, frustrated when it will not turn.

Ruth says, numbly: “It’s locked.”

“Yeah,” Sal says, finding the lock, turning it, wrenching the door open. “I got that, thanks.” She’s gone before Ruth can reply, moving as fast as her long legs will take her to the house across the street.

That night Ruth can’t sleep. She lies awake in her bed, thinking about Maggie and Arthur, thinking about the boys asleep in bed right now, their eyelids moving quick and restless with the force of their dreaming. How she longs to know what they are thinking, now most of all, this night more than the others: their friends, their troubles, their secret delights, their anxieties which are more impenetrable to Ruth than lines of blinking code, if they think of her, if they love her. What a silly question, she thinks. She sits up in bed. Of course they love her.

They must.

What’s this Playset about, anyway, Ruth wonders. There were never Playsets when Ruth was growing up - predecessors, sure, clunky Nintendos and Wiis. But never anything to equal the unsurpassed sleekness of the Playset interface, the symbiotic responsiveness of its functions.

Ruth pushes the covers aside, searches for her slippers in the dark. She feels her way into the hall, making her way blindly towards the den.

Halfway there, she pauses. There is, slender but plain, a line of light underneath the den’s door. Not the yellow glow of a lamp, or the dim profusion of a flashlight. She recognizes the blue glow of the Playset, striking, distinctive, a color to trigger fixation. So they are not in bed, after all.

The knot of the bathrobe digs into her stomach when she moves. Not towards the den - she feels a deep exhaustion at the thought of breaking up their play, their guilty defiance, eyes twitching away from her to the screen. Towards the front door.

Somehow she is not surprised to see Sal, thin and lonely in a gray sweatshirt and leggings, at the end of the block. She

109

is staring at the cratered moon, which shines like an apple someone’s taken a bite out of. Her hair is loose and long and frizzy, wreathing her shoulders.

“Nice night,” Ruth says, too loud. She has been trying to understand whether she needs to apologize. Now all her justifications fall away in the cool light of the moon: yes, she should apologize. She crosses over to where Sal stands, looking up at the sky.

“I can’t stop looking for them,” Sal says in response, monotone, like this is something you can tell anyone casually. “Like I think I’ll find them… Somewhere. Someday. The next block. The next house over.”

They both look over to Ruth’s house. The windows are all black, admitting nothing, except for the blue light shining from the den. Tonight, her boys are painfully visible to anyone walking by. Her lumpish, pale, beloved children, each utterly absorbed in his private universe, headphones plugged in, silencing the gunfire from outside ears. Controllers in hands. Eyes fixed to screens. Suddenly, Ruth is overwhelmed by a massive grief, a sadness so huge there is no room for anything else, as if everything she loves best has been shaken loose, as though life has too many faces to remember, and all faces malevolent.

“They’re so… stolid,” Ruth whispers, unable to help herself. It hurts to say, she feels a wincing prick of pain. She is hurting herself. With terrible gentleness, Sal says: “What did you expect? You raised them.”

Ruth nods as if she has not heard her clearly and stares vaguely into the distance, where Sal had been looking earlier: at the moon, at the night beyond the moon, the sky bleached gray by city lights. Sal lights a cigarette. After a while, Ruth goes back inside.

110

Charlotte Gagliardi

111

Progressions Recycled and secondhand fabrics, thread 2022

Design Arts Natick High School Natick, MA

SydneyBlu Garcia-Yao

Words

July 18th, 2013, seven

It’s time for dinner, and my grandmother slips a slim 水饺1 skin from the plastic, the silky wheat powder like snow against her tanned palms. Her hands are the texture of leather and the hardiness of rugged rope. I pick at the bits of fallen flour until my grandmother says something in Hakkanese I can’t understand. I assume she wants me to get up and attend to my mother, tired from a long day at work. I’ve gotten better at predicting what she says without words.

I greet my mother, and she replies in English, as always. She slips her heels off with a sigh before showering, hot steam evaporating the traces of work from her. Back in the kitchen, I watch my grandmother’s deft hands scoop meat into a small skin, almost like ice cream in a cone.

I’m bored; the long days of summer simmer slowly. There was nothing to do while my grandmother diced the meat and mushrooms into mush, carefully plastic wrapped to protect from flies. I’m tired of reading books: my only solace of English in this house of unknown dialects. In my head, when my mother speaks Hakkanese with her parents, I imagine random characters as subtitles, like in foreign films. The sound moves like a chain of words and alien marks on paper.

My mother makes me learn Chinese, but I don’t want to. Every time I write characters in practice books, I just forget them. She complains that she buys expensive books and I don’t use them, but Chinese is useless in America anyway. It’s too hard to learn. My mother tried to teach me, too, slowly writing characters in chalk above pinyin2, but I didn’t get it. It’s too hard. She gave up, too. It’s just a waste of time. I miss being in school, where everyone spoke English, and the teachers thought I was really smart. Here, I can’t understand anything.

I lean my chin against the edge of the counter and watch my grandmother intently as she crimps the edges of the dumplings. She looks at me as if she had something to say, but then looks back to the half-formed dumplings. Once, I insisted that I, too, wanted to fold the edges. When my grandmother cooked them, the filling spilled out, and I ate plain dumpling skins. I contemplate asking my grandmother about her cooking, in hopes that after she leaves, my delicious food will remain. I don’t have the words to ask. I detach myself from the counter to look for my mother.

My mother always tells me a story before bed of her life in China when she used to live with her grandmother—my greatgrandmother. She recounts how she climbed her neighbor’s trees to pick fruits because, otherwise, the heavy fruits would sag the branches before falling to bruise the tender flesh. My grandmother is the protagonist of many of her stories, and I imagine the woman who prepared every meal for the past two months acting out my mother’s descriptions. I picture my grandmother laboring in the field and caring for her younger siblings, working a full-time job and still waking up at six to get groceries.

When I’m about to fall asleep my imagination wanders, and I paint her past as a hero’s story, a retelling of the tales passed down from my mother in English. Maybe her rough hands and tanned skin were from when she was a military commander, or maybe she was an archer on horseback. Maybe her calloused hands and stoic

demeanor were from her past life when she was a dragon, when she breathed fire and owned the world.

I want to ask my grandmother so many questions, but she returns to China in a few days. I say nothing, and anticipate the return of English in our house.

I look to find my mother still in the shower.

July 18th, 2019, thirteen

We’re in Japan, and my grandfather declares that five days without Chinese food is entirely too long. We all go to eat at what my grandfather declares a Japanese-style Chinese restaurant—my grandfather refuses to call it Chinese food.

I order noodle soup, and my grandmother clasps her hands in her lap, the blue light from the lake outside reflecting off her yellow skin like she’s the moon, dark freckles like craters. I try to capture the moment, amidst my little cousin badgering her mother—my aunt—and my grandfather’s throaty, smoke-filled cough of a laugh. My grandmother smiles at my camera snap and her mouth stretches to form words but pauses. She returns to staring.

I want to know what she’s thinking. I wonder if I just like asking questions but not answering them. But I don’t have the words to ask because my grandmother speaks Hakkanese, and I speak English, so neither of us can speak Mandarin. We’re like two orbiting bodies that will never touch. I learned about orbits in science class back in America. Orbits vary; every year we get three million miles closer to the sun. But in six months, we are three million miles farther again. As soon as I see her, I’m already gone. The airport is just as familiar as their apartment in Guangzhou.

My mother explains that my grandmother knows little Mandarin because she grew up in our family’s hometown, about five hours from the city. There, the cactus trees still grow like ivy around the front of the house, and my great-grandmother now spends her days watching reruns on TV.

My aunts are talking, but I often tune out of the conversation. It’s a lot of effort for me to follow, rearranging the words in my head, rewriting the words they speak into English. Everytime I speak in Chinese, everyone has the same look of confusion as they decode my words. Jokes aren’t funny twenty seconds after the fact. Sometimes, when my mother isn’t around to translate, their puzzled looks never leave.

When I don’t try to understand, the words sound like a melody. Out of all my family, I love my grandmother’s Hakkanese the most. She sounds like a warrior, thick accent like music while my Mandarin sounds like the screech of my first attempt at the viola. It sounds like paper cutting your ear over and over. Everytime I speak, I am a baby playing on their first drum set, a child singing loudly out of tune. My mother repeats my poor tones back to me, and my ears hurt more. She says her ears hurt, too.

The waiter brings us plates of different dishes, and my grandmother slides the bowl near me, before pretending she hasn’t done so. I catch her, and she smiles secretly. But I don’t know the word for thank you in Hakkanese.

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Creative Nonfiction Harriton High School Bryn Mawr, PA

1. Boiled Dumpling 2. Hanyu Pinyin is the standard romanization system for Mandarin, taught primarily to young children.

My mother cooks white-fleshed fish in the kitchen, the fan set high to dissipate the strong smell. I set the table against the aroma of the crackling fish skin and ginger. My grandmother used to cook fish often that summer, but as a child I hated the work of finding and then spitting out the bones. Sometimes my grandmother would hunt out the bones for me with chopsticks, despite her poor eyesight.

My mother spits out the thin bones with ease while I can’t locate the one in my mouth. “I miss 奶奶3. She made the best fish.” I laugh. “Remember when you had to go somewhere overnight, so you left me at home and 奶奶 stayed with me the whole night?” My mother nods her head yes. “Jeez, I was so mad and scared or something that I woke her up like ten times, just because I was upset.” I may have been in America, but it felt like I was drowning in China.

“She couldn’t understand you, so you don’t have to feel bad,” my mother replies. “She probably thought you were having a nightmare or something.” I burst into laughter like the pomelos my grandmother used to peel, juice spraying instantly. My mother does not laugh with me. The laughter drains away like water after you unplug the bathtub: slowly, and then all at once.

4,” she says.

“What?” I ask. She explains:

My grandmother is in the hospital recovering from surgery for her back.

She fell down trying to chase after my five-year-old cousin.

The surgery has already happened.

At least, this is what I am told. No one tells me what happens until it’s happened. Sometimes not even then. My mother recently revealed that my grandmother woke up at five in the morning to make me fresh dumplings for breakfast, but I thought they were from the freezer.

“We’re calling her tonight.”

It feels like just yesterday my grandmother and I went to the market to buy jujubes. I crunched the sweet juices—a small trail down my chin—while my grandmother interrogated the fishmonger.

When the clock aligns with Guangzhou—only at night or early morning with the thirteen hour offset—we call my grandmother on Weibo. I wait through the dial tone to hear my grandmother’s voice, to see if her strength has recovered with her back, to see if she’s still 奶奶5, the 奶奶 who is a warrior, the protagonist in my mother’s stories.

She sits outside on the beige balcony, in our 17th floor apartment in Guangzhou, underwear hung up to dry next to her. Her skin is still the vibrant color between lychee and longan. “满子7!” she calls me, in Hakkanese. “宝贝6!” in Mandarin. She laughs like she always does, the only sound with the same meaning in every language. My cheeks heighten and fill as I smile brightly back.

My grandmother insists on walking around the house, to demonstrate her recovery. Normally, by now, I would have left already, after my mother makes me 打招呼8 to show respect. I don’t see the point in staying on the call because eight years later, the only improvement in my Chinese is, now, not only can my mother tell how bad my Chinese is, but I can too.

But none of that matters anymore. “你吃饭了吗9?” I ask.

She bursts into a smile once she understands, eyes crinkling into crescent moons. Her wrinkles wrap around her words as she enthusiastically nods, her bob shaking everywhere like jujube tree leaves in wind.

“

吃了10 !” My grandmother replies in heavily-accented Mandarin. We talk in a language that belongs to neither of us, but we share the blood in our veins that belongs to both of us.

“

明年来美国吧? 我想念你11 ,” I say.

She just smiles, her yellowed teeth showing, her wrinkles stretching taut, her perfectly black hair shifting, as she agrees with all her warrior’s might, and a hand gives a thumbs-up.

“得人锡!” she says in Hakkanese. I don’t know what that means, but I fill in the words for her. I’m in America, but I smell my grandfather’s smoke wafting off his clothes while he inspects his blackened teeth with a toothpick. The ground shakes with my cousin’s excited jumps, and my aunt soothes my crying baby cousin with a popsicle. She takes the green melon ice into her chubby hands, her palms not half the length of the stick. Her cheeks pout like soft rice cakes and my aunt, always reserved, cannot help but smile. My other aunt is washing dishes in the kitchen with the clang of porcelain bowls, and I am there, with my grandmother, asking her about all the stories she never got the chance to tell me as a kid.

And she starts at the beginning.

113 July 18th, 2021, fifteen

“奶奶摔跤了

3. Grandma 4 Grandma fell 5.. Grandma 6. My beloved child! 7. Sweetheart! 8. Say hello 9. Have you eaten? (A common greeting in China) 10. I ate! 11. Next year, come visit us in America, please? I miss you.

Nathaniel Garza

114

Visual Arts

Uno! Prismacolor and charcoal on mixed media paper 2021

Alamo Heights High School San Antonio, TX

Chavely Gomez

Allapattah!

Upcycled denim from jeans, zippers, buttons

115

Design Arts Design and Architecture Senior High School Miami, FL

2021

Charles Green

Alliterative Allusion

Not gonna lie

Sometimes I'm lonely

By my lonesome, loathsome

Leery, lugubrious self

Lashing out at the lucidity

Of my luckless condition

Living as if life was a loan from God

And with every step my repentance, The interest

-ing way

The way we justify the things we do

The way we do them.

Back to God,

Though I appreciate the metaphor

Never really been about that life

About that death

About what's left

If the power ain't up in the sky, then where is it?

The power's in the people, The plants, the planters

This paradoxical powder keg known as life on earth

That's will, that's soul, that's power, this is the hour.

Our lives are what stand in the way, between eternal bliss and eternal damnation

Bringing hell on earth, bringing earth back to hell To hell with it

Truth is I wanna see a different a side of you

Never minding the fact that

I never minded when you would go ahead and speak that mind of yours

If you would

Would you be so kind as to fill me in as to just who you are

Teach me

How to make you smile

How to make you laugh

I wanna make that resting face of unamusement crack

Unamusement's not a word by the way

(I'm gettin' off track)

So let's get on track

Amtrak

How's that

Bet you thought this was about alliteration

Yeah, I did too

But now you're here to listen to the rambunctious ramblings of a rowdy teenager way in over his head

Speaking of my head it's spinning with ideas, By my lonesome, by myself

That's when I start to think

That the therapeutic oscillations in my noggin

Start knock knock knocking

When I start to realize

The stupidity you were talking I mean like what's your problem

Learn to read an article or two

To back up your prognosis

fo' you come to me

Want sumthin from me

Hogging me

Begging me

Holding me down, cause you're so scared

All of you so fearful

Too fearful

Afraid to live, Afraid to die

(Quote)

"Light is but a farewell gift from darkness to those on their way to die." -A video game

There is no life without pain

Without strife, without fear

Without death

Two sides, same coin, yin yang

Y'all tryna to take the pain out of living

I say bring it on Wassup danger

116

Spoken Word Nova High School Davie, FL

Piper Greene

My Father: A Playlist

“Foreplay/Longtime” - 7:48

A couple weeks ago, I rode in the car with my dad on the way home from a gathering with friends. “Foreplay/Longtime” by Boston played over the car speakers. It’s not uncommon for my father and me to keep silent for minutes on end, just listening to music. He drove while I looked out the window, listening to Tom Scholtz slam the keyboard, trying to picture his fingers frantically jumping from major to minor chords.

The distant whooshing of air outside the car nearly muted the soft cries coming from the driver’s seat; I looked over at my father and saw a tear roll down his cheek. It’s always unsettling to see a parent cry, to think they may be capable of weakness. I reached for his hand, mostly to have something to do. I looked out the window, my father crying as my town rolled by. The car was silent except for the music on the stereo, the air whipping past my window, and my father’s small sniffles. After a while, he sighed and wiped the tears from his face. A confused silence floated in the air before I asked him what made him emotional about the song. My father gave a deep sigh and a brief pause before explaining.

“I was around your age, probably, fifteen or sixteen, when my mother died,” he said. After his mother died, he told me, his father bought an RV and took my dad and his two brothers up to New Hampshire to see their grandparents. They only drove at night, and my dad and his brothers would take all the mattresses from the RV’s beds and put them on the floor, sleeping through the night. My dad had a Walkman that he took everywhere, and Boston had just come out with their first album. He listened to that album over and over again for two days straight, “Foreplay/Longtime” specifically.

My dad recalled lying on the mattresses in the back of the RV as they drove through New York City, the light from the buildings and street lights casting shadows on the ceiling of the car. “I remember listening to the album and wondering why my mother had to die.” The word die hung in the silence between us. I squeezed my dad’s hand.

I tried to imagine what it was like to lose a parent so young, what I would do if he were to leave my life. Tears began to form in my eyes as I thought about how his mother never got to see him graduate or get married. We both sat in the car crying as Sib Hashian pummeled the cymbals and Brad Delp began to wail:

It’s been such a long time

I think I should be goin’, yeah

It keeps on rollin’

“Three Hours to Paris” - 4:18

“Before your mother, Sheryl was the love of my life,” my father said as we listened to the album he had recorded after he finished at West Point Military Academy. After graduating, he was stationed in Dexheim, Germany and entered a new chapter of life, while abandoning an old one. As promising as his military career seemed, he left a lot back at West Point, including Sheryl. Sheryl was a few years younger than he was, and they met as cadets at West Point. They had dated on-and-off for a considerable time until my dad graduated. As he would later find out, she had been cheating on him with several different people while they were dating, giving him plenty of material to create a love-lorn rock album. The military wasn’t the most accommodating place for my dad’s pining for Sheryl, but music was. Music was a place where he didn’t have to be perfect or tough. Music was a way for him to say all the things he couldn’t tell anyone.

Raked Over the Flesh is dramatic and brooding in its lyrics, but fast and bright in its melodies. If there was ever an

equally dramatic and poetic narrative of a young man’s life, it would be the album he recorded in the spare bedroom of his apartment in Germany. Love songs, revenge anthems, breakup tunes: all recorded with a Rockman, a drum machine, a keyboard, a microphone, and an electric guitar. In today’s world of Voice Memos and GarageBand, the fact that he recorded it all on a cassette tape was cool and vintage to me. In the clear case where he stores the tape, there is a pink slip of paper with a doodle of Calvin and Hobbes on it, liner notes, and the lyrics to every song. The handwriting on the liner notes is the same slanting scrawl he used, years later, to write notes for my lunchbox. The same hands that played the guitar so many years ago were the same ones that held the steering wheel and drove me to school in the mornings. I listened to Raked Over the Flesh recently, and I get freaked out every time at this image: my father crouching over a mixer in the empty bedroom of his apartment in Germany, his brows furrowed in concentration, the same furrowed brows that taught me how to replace windshield wipers and help me with my math homework.

I have some favorites on the album, including a song called “Three Hours to Paris,” which he wrote about Sheryl. She and my dad had gotten in touch somehow and made plans to meet up in Paris. My dad booked a three hour train ride from Dexheim to the City of Light. “We spent the whole night in Paris,” he recalled sentimentally. “We ran around and saw the sights.”

Running around is indicative of a whole genre of activity, but I could tell by the way my dad talked about that time, he had high hopes for the meeting, that she might stop “running around” with other guys and get back with him. This didn’t happen, and “Three Hours to Paris” came into being.

“Three Hours to Paris” was one of the last songs added to the album and shortly after seeing Sheryl, he wrote the song and finished the album. He never saw Sheryl after that night in Paris. “I wrote this song as a final sentiment towards Sheryl,” he said. “I saw what a skank she was and realized that my hopes for that trip to Paris were ridiculous.”

Three hours to Paris

Hop, skip, jump

This tree of fester

Now a stump

“Welcome to New York” - 3:33

When I think of my dad as music, I think of Depeche Mode, Rush, Amy Mann, CAKE, the Presidents of the United States, and, oddly enough, Taylor Swift. It doesn’t have much to do with her actual music style. In fact, I think my father would rather get a root-canal than be subjected to one of her albums. But the memories I associate with her music have a lot to do with my dad.

When my sister and I were in elementary school, my dad drove us to school nearly every day. He put together a playlist on his little silver iPod of songs that we loved. We listened to it every morning. The playlist was a mix of joke songs (like “Hobo Baby,” “People Really Like Milk,” and “Everybody’s Got Their Underpants On.” To a seven year old, this is the peak of comedy) and some classic pop from the 2010s. He included the greats: Taylor Swift, Hannah Montana, Hillary Duff, Beyonce. He would much rather be listening to anything else, and he could have easily subjected us to some obscure indie rock, or even his own album. But he didn’t.

Instead, he compiled all of our favorite songs into a six hour and twenty-nine-minute playlist. What would normally be a quiet, short car ride turned into something my sister and I looked forward to. He would sing Taylor Swift’s “Fearless” with us, all three of us bopping around in our seats. The poor man knew all the words to “Shake It Off” and “You Belong With Me.” To this day, if I asked him, I’m sure he could recite the songs lyric for lyric. Looking

117

Creative Nonfiction South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities Greenville, SC

And time doesn’t wait for me

at it now, he probably danced and sang just to keep from losing his mind. Perhaps the acoustic guitar in her songs reminds me of my dad’s playing, or just the memories of driving to school listening to her music; whatever it is, I listen to these songs and think of my father.

Years later, when I turned thirteen, he helped me set up my first record player (by “helped me,” I mean I sat on my bed and watched him click and plug things into place.) He didn’t bat an eye when I said the first record I wanted to play was Taylor Swift. He showed me how to put the needle on the record without scratching it, and after a few moments of crackling, “Welcome to New York” began to play. I started jumping around and dancing. By the end of the tune my dad was singing and dancing around, too, smiling at how ecstatic I was. For someone with such a specific and old-school music taste to prance around the room with his daughter to Taylor Swift takes a level of composure and affection that most fathers may not have the patience for. He could have easily left me to dance alone, but instead decided to enjoy the moment with me.

He probably doesn’t remember that day, and even if he does, it’s no doubt a vague memory in the back of his mind. What he doesn’t know is that I will always remember us in my room, listening to “Welcome to New York,” both of us dancing. I have a tightly closed box of precious memories like this. Every time I hear a song from Boston’s first album or someone whips out a cassette tape or plays this Taylor Swift song, the lid of that box is lifted just a crack, these prized memories slipping out and playing in my mind before I tuck them gently back into their box. In the rare moments that the memory of him dancing with me to “Welcome to New York” makes its way out of the box, I laugh a little at the thought of him bouncing his bald head back and forth to the chorus: It’s a new soundtrack

118

I could dance to this beat The lights are so bright But they never blind me

Brian Guan

A door stands to the side of the stage; behind it, a disheveled studio apartment. Chinese adages of good fortitude line the walls; on a counter, a family portrait with a mother, a father, and a son. An African American woman, LAURA (mid-40s), stands before the door. Inhaling, she knocks.

No response. LAURA is visibly debating whether or not to knock again when FEI (early-50s) rushes to open the door. The two women stare at each other. LAURA lowers her hand awkwardly.

LAURA Hi.

FEI Who are you?

LAURA

I'm so sorry, I should have called earlier. Mrs. Ming, I'm-

FEI Oh. I know who you are. I see you on the TV.

LAURA Right.

FEI From the trial.

LAURA Right again. A beat. Neither woman knows what to say.

FEI Well, come on in. And take off your shoes. Please. LAURA does. Walking in, she looks around.

LAURA I like your apartment. Prime location. Your rent must be high.

FEI Not really. I'm, um, friends with landman. Keeps prices down.

LAURA You mean landlord?

FEI Hmm?

LAURA Sorry, I was just wondering if you meant-

FEI Right. Landlord. Sorry, my English is not great.

LAURA No, it's okay. I'm a real estate agent, so.

FEI Good money.

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Play or Script

Dublin High School Dublin, CA GOOD

LAURA Enough money.

She laughs awkwardly. No reciprocation. Both women are unsure of what to do next. In lieu of silence, LAURA walks over to the counter, picks up the photo.

LAURA Is this...

Him, implied, but she doesn't have the heart to finish her sentence.

FEI Yes.

LAURA Oh! And your husband. How sweet.

FEI Right.

LAURA Is he here now?

FEI Gone. Passed a few years back.

LAURA Oh. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed.

FEI Hmm?

LAURA And with- Oh God, I'm so sorry. That is... incredibly difficult.

FEI doesn't respond.

LAURA Ha. Look at me. Overstepping already. Let me start over.

FEI It's fine.

LAURA No, it's not, I'm-

FEI Fine.

FEI grabs a chair and sits down. LAURA follows suit.

LAURA I should have reached out earlier. I wanted to say that. It's just, with everyone going on, something felt off, and. Well. I'm sorry.

FEI You found where I live?

LAURA

(embarrassed)

Oh. Yeah. One of my friends is um, in the city government. That, and the publicity... It wasn't too hard, I guess.

FEI Hmm. And the public? What are they saying?

LAURA

Less, now that it's been a few weeks. That my son is responsible. That he's an addict. Have you been keeping up with the news?

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FEI No. Just the hearings. Everything else, I can't.

LAURA Me too. God, me too.

FEI You have a good lawyer.

LAURA Thanks. Beat.

FEI Verdict is soon.

LAURA It's definitely, uh. Yes

FEI Your son. How is he?

LAURA

As good as he can be. Which means bad, truthfully. I still don't think I can believe it, to be honest. Like, he had all these plans for the future, and now... well...

FEI

I know. Mine did, too.

LAURA Oh. Oh no, I didn't mean to imply

FEI No, you didn't.

LAURA Obviously, your situation is just. I mean, it's incomparable-

FEI That my son is dead? Yes, it is that. Incomparable. The two women stare at each other

LAURA

Listen, if you want to talk to my kid about anything. About that night, what happened. I'm positive he would be beyond happy to oblige you. I would... I would make sure of it.

FEI

LAURA

Thank you, but. Not necessary.

Are you sure? It wouldn't be any hassle, so-

FEI No. I couldn't. Not right now.

LAURA

Okay. Okay. I guess I just don't want you to think that your son, that Li... That Li was to blame, or that you could have stopped it, or that it was anyone's fault, because I know how-

FEI It was, though.

LAURA Sorry?

FEI

It was. His fault. He knew it was dangerous. He wasn't stupid. And he still did it.

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LAURA Yeah, but. Teenagers. Teenagers do idiotic things all the time-

FEI Li wasn't idiot.

LAURA (grasping at straws) No, I'm not saying that at all, it's just. I mean, we live in San Francisco. You can't blame him for not thinking in high school. Most people don't.

FEI Is that how you excuse your son?

Beat. LAURA registers this.

LAURA Excuse me?

FEI Nothing. Nothing. I'm sorry.

Uncomfortable silence.

FEI It's just. It's not how I raised him. Painkillers, for God's sake. Painkillers.

LAURA It's not that simple-

FEI

You know he got into Yale? A week before it happened. We went out to dinner, at the restaurant downtown where I used to work. Where he grew up. And I thought: this is what they were talking about. The American dream. We had made it.

She gulps.

Then. One week. I get call. Fentanyl overdose. He was with some kid, your son. And now he's gone.

LAURA God.

FEI I didn't even know they were friends. I went through his texts. Best friends. And he never told me.

LAURA I'm sorry.

FEI Did you know? That they knew each other?

LAURA Um, yeah. Yeah, Li came over sometimes.

FEI Hmm. It's funny. Like I didn't know him at all.

LAURA Don't say that.

FEI I just wish. That I could fix it. Or make someone fix it, I don't know.

She looks at Laura.

Hey. Does your son know who did it?

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LAURA What?

FEI

Does he know who sold it to them?

LAURA No.

She hesitates. Well, yes, actually, but he won't say. Says he doesn't want to hurt anyone else.

FEI He won't tell you.

LAURA No.

FEI (after a pause) Bullshit.

LAURA What?

FEI Bullshit. My child is dead and your son knows who did it, but he doesn't want to hurt anyone? Bullshit.

LAURA You're oversimplifying-

FEI No, I am not. It's the truth. Beat. FEI shakes her head. You wouldn't get it.

LAURA Really.

FEI It's different. Different cultures, you don't-

LAURA (picking up undertones) What's that supposed to mean?

FEI

I have no roots here. My husband and I, we came here alone. Li, he knew that. We pushed him so hard, and he struggled, I'm well aware, but. But I thought he understood. That it was so he could live better.

Maybe it's okay for you, that your son threw his life away, but Li. Li should have known better. Because of who he was. Now he is on TV because he died. Like I said, different.

LAURA You're wrong. I'm sorry, but you're wrong.

FEI Hard truths.

LAURA No. No.

LAURA (CONT.)

She breathes in, shuddering.

Do you know how hard I tried to get him to tell me? Who sold them the drugs? He says he doesn't want any more collateral damage, but. They were offering a plea deal. He could have taken it, but he won't say, so he's

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fully responsible. 18 years old. They're saying 5 years in prison, at least. For one instance of drug possession. It's unfathomable.

And what I know is that he won't make it through that system alive. My kid, black kids. He had a future. He had a future. I'm sorry for your loss, but your son was not better than mine. Don't you dare imply that.

Silence. The two women don't look at each other.

FEI (quietly)

I never said he was better.

LAURA I know.

FEI I never said...

LAURA

FEI

She doesn't finish her sentence. A beat, then LAURA coughs and stands up.

I should probably go. Our legal team, we're meeting early tomorrow. It was nice, um. Talking.

You too. Good luck with trial.

LAURA Thank you.

She starts to walk out. Before she gets to the door, FEI calls out quietly.

FEI Why did you come here, then?

LAURA pauses, then says, slowly:

LAURA

My son, um. That night I told him to sit down and I yelled, really dug into him for an hour, but he didn’t care. All he could talk about was your kid. How he didn’t know where he would be without him. How he had been the only one who’d listened.

And even with everything, I couldn’t stop thinking: if our places were different, I’d want to know that. That my son was a good person. A good friend.

She waits for a response: seemingly, nothing. She turns to go, then, suddenly-

FEI

He was good. A pause. LAURA looks at FEI.

He was good. Like you said. He was more than that, I think, he was-

He was smart. Not the smart that anyone can be. How I pretended to be, back home, when I was in school. And everyday I wish I had taken him there, back home, to China; I said I would but I never did. And he was funny, and he was kind, and he was so many other things but what I remember most is that he was good at singing.

Really good. When he was small I had him sing at work. I said it was for tips, but really I wanted to show him off. And I hate idea that everyone has gift, it’s so American, but I think singing… that was his. Paid for classes, too. But then he got older, and school got harder, and I stopped taking him. Told him it was waste of time because there is no money in singing. No future. I didn’t want him to hurt like I did. Like his father did.

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He was so…

She stops, unable to find any English words strong enough to convey her loss. In their place, she breaks down crying.

LAURA watches her for a second, then, momentarily hesitant, walks towards her and wraps her arms tightly around this other woman: the first time we see them touch.

FEI stiffens, then sinks into her, allowing herself to experience the grief she’s been holding back for the first time since losing her son. It’s jarring. It’s cathartic.

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But after that… after that I never heard him sing again. And it makes me so ashamed, because when you heard his voice, it was so…

Charlotte Hagen

Starforged

Nature never asked anything from anyone. No wonder Steren found it so easy to run into its embrace time and time again, the huge expanse of the forest eagerly waiting on his doorstep day after day. It never judged, it never questioned, and after enough years of speaking to people who did, the boy knew where he would rather be.

The sun-spotted trails formed by his own footsteps wound their way deep into the woods, far away from the sounds of any city, even farther than his own father ever managed to get. The leaves barely broke beneath his feet, his every movement deliberate as he crept among the trees. A bow hung at his side, expectant.

As soon as he learned to hunt, Steren had moved out of his house. Not in an official sense, but over time his wanderings led him to spend more nights in the forest than in his own home. His father didn’t seem to notice, age only bringing his business more renown. He could scarcely look up from his forge anymore, so the boy turned his attention to the woods.

Steren’s gaze landed on a dark animal shifting amongst the brambles. His eyes locked on, never leaving the creature as one arm seamlessly slipped into his quiver, nocked an arrow into his bow, and drew the string.

He supposed that he should have stayed around and been the kind of host all the soldiers and statesmen expected to find at the villa. He had tried for a while, but he had only so much patience for politics and policies completely foreign to him. These unexpected guests pestered him about his father’s work, about whether he knew trade secrets and was willing to give them away. They expected him to carry on his father’s work. It was usually after this seeming truth had been upended that they revealed how they really felt about him. To them he was untamed, uneducated, without allegiance to a particular city-state and only worth the time of day due to his father being the blacksmith he was.

The string was drawn taut, but Steren’s mind was only half focused on the task at hand. His eye was still on the creature, its dark fur highlighted by the strands of light peering through highreaching branches.

He didn’t appreciate the painstaking lengths his father went through to provide enough for the two of them. He knew this already. They were farther away from any kingdom’s land than they had any right to be, effectively placing them in a neutral zone. Word spread about Conleth, his father and the starmetal blacksmith himself, who would sell a sword to just about anyone regardless of political affiliation. Maybe it was a genius move. In Steren’s experience, it only drew sleazy, egotistical clients from across the land into their home.

“They all act that way regardless.” was the gruff reply his father had when Steren asked years ago, cementing itself into the boy’s perception of outsiders. The guests always spoke of level land bearing the weight of thousands of buildings, stacking on top of each other until they cut against the very sky. At one point it had dazzled Steren’s imagination, but where would he be now without the ground under his feet? In what world did men find something as natural as a blade of grass to be foreign, long paved over as if it were a blight on the land?

The forest was alive, and Steren could feel its heartbeat. He never understood why civilization, as it stood, chose to push back against nature at every turn. But it didn’t matter. His questions had only ever brought the suggestion that he attend school in one of these cities. These clients hoped to civilize him. They hoped to make his father choose sides.

No, Steren was now certainly losing focus. He shook his head, as if the racing thoughts would tumble out, and brought his bow back up. There were better times to worry about these things. He let the arrow fly.

It pierced the creature’s hide, and the loud wail of a bear broke through the trees. As she reared back, Steren soon realized she was much bigger than anything he could expect to kill. He half-expected her to flee, but instead the bear’s beady eyes turned in his direction as she stalked closer.

Steren was not one to be easily frightened, but his limbs ran cold and the bow hung useless at his side. He had chosen it as a kind of slight against his father, who had never infused bows with his starmetal. But the weapon wouldn’t do any good up close, and his makeshift knife was only ever used to carve into creatures after their fate had been sealed. The knife, too, was as plain as the stone it came from, nothing like his father’s work.

Steren had heard enough stories about starmetal to know its worth. Weapons forged by his father held a power no one could place, turning soldiers into heroes and elevating them from obscurity to legend. One could accomplish almost anything with a starmetal weapon, and despite the best efforts of every researcher in the city-states, no one was quite sure why. Not even Steren. That was between his father and the embers of his forge.

But starmetal had its own cost. As quickly as a man rose through the ranks, he would find himself falling from grace just as fast, as if the very material of the weapon had turned against him. Accusations often arose against Conleth, who defended the weapons’ inevitable fall as a natural cycle.

“Stars live by their fire. It is what fuels them. It’s what kills them.” The blacksmith had once said. “Why do you think I call it starmetal?” People never truly bought his words, but the fact that starmetal only had one practical use prevented them from complaining further.

Of all the times Steren had scoffed at that stupid name, of all the times he watched his father work without knowing anything about his process, it hadn’t occurred to him that he never wielded starmetal.

Now he could only wish he had something half as strong, falling back and clinging onto the nearest tree, the bear’s heaving breaths growing louder. She grew in size with each step, her raised dark fur painting her ever larger against the backdrop of the forest. Steren swallowed his own breath, the heat of hers rushing against his body. He was too close to run. Not naive enough to climb.

The bear appeared to trace his scent, moving closer and closer to where his feet stood. He had only a matter of seconds to act, which quickly wasted away before Steren had the chance to count them. The bear stood on her hind legs, a heavy paw scraping against Steren’s shoulder before it found its resting place above him. He couldn’t breathe. The tree groaned under the creature’s weight, even its sturdy base nearly too weak to support her.

The bear let out a heavy snort as she snuffed at the tree’s lower branches, and finally, miraculously, withdrew. Her long claws tore at Steren’s arm once more, and she padded away with only the slightest limp in her step. The wound didn’t sting until he took his first gasping breaths, parting with the tree and nearly collapsing to the ground with weak knees. He wasn’t the soldier his father was. Conleth had made sure of it.

The ambassadors, soldiers, and captains still lodged in the house barely acknowledged Steren’s return. He could nonetheless feel them staring at where the bear had slashed him, where his skin was stripped away as if it were bark on a tree. He dressed the wound dismissively, only occasionally catching someone’s eye. Sometimes it entertained him to know how uncomfortable they looked when he watched them back. Sometimes it frustrated him, fueling an ever-boiling anger that tugged at the back of his mind.

His father had been toiling away at the forge, shooing away onlookers and growing ever more paranoid of keeping his

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Short Story Mariemont High School

Cincinnati, OH

trade secrets. All the visitors wanted to get out of the forest, back to their lives and the city. All of them knew that if more than one man could make the starmetal weapons, they would be free that much faster. Before Steren began venturing into the woods, the visitors’ eyes usually turned to him to pick up his father’s trade. Now the men were taking it upon themselves to snoop and pry. Conleth pretended not to notice.

The blacksmith sent a footsoldier to retrieve his son, and watched the man scramble to try and absorb the details of his work before he too was whisked out of the area. Conleth then set a sword in his hand off to the side, dunking the sizzling steel in water.

“That’s not starmetal.” Steren noticed.

“I do the real work at night,” his father shrugged, rubbing a sore arm adorning a legion of battle scars. “Same as always. The guests have just grown more restless. Might as well make it seem like I’m being useful.”

At last he pulled the sword from the water, which Conleth turned over with an unimpressed eye.

“Don’t let the visitors get into your head.” He spoke.

Steren glanced away from the sword. “What do you mean?”

“I understand there are rumors going around.”

Steren took a deep breath, his hand reflexively running against the rough stone that made up the workshop’s walls. Its cool temperature contrasted with the blistering air rising into the sky.

“Not a single one holds any truth. I’m not sabotaging any armies, no one’s coming to invade our home, and you… you’re…” the blacksmith paused, “You aren’t anything like an ecstatic.”

Steren nodded, a strange sense of relief flooding through his system. He already knew this. He wasn’t sure why he needed to hear it.

There wasn’t a formal term for the ‘ecstatics’, at least none that he had grown up knowing. Their unnatural powers only served to harm anyone in their vicinity. A child could learn to bring up water from a well without a pail, and not too long later, wash away their entire village. A man could learn to drain the very energy of life from his presence and soon enough held entire swaths of land hostage to his poison. The colorful, cautionary tales captured Steren’s attention early in life and terrified him more with each passing day. These people had once numbered so many they could topple whole armies, wrench power from kings and generals, and fracture city-states beyond the point of no return.

Only one man and his curious discovery did much to fight back.

Steren didn’t ask much about the battles Conleth fought in, but he could see reflections of the past darkening his father’s eyes from time to time. The peculiar scars stretched across his body already told a half-finished story. One branched across his arm like a tree, on the other side the skin on his shoulder remained blotchy from bruising that hadn’t quite healed properly. The boy tried not to stare, tried not to ask, but the unanswered questions hung in the air, as active as ever.

He knew starmetal had saved the city-states. Rather than be heralded as a hero, his father retreated to the most remote place he could find. Steren could only guess why, hinted at in the wild gossip passed carelessly between guests. Conleth would have to give up the secret to his work. He would likely have to oversee the ‘new’ generation of ecstatics that city-states were so eager to train, as if they had not been on the brink of war just a decade or two ago. He would have to let Steren grow up in a world that couldn’t differentiate between friend and foe.

“You aren’t.” Conleth repeated firmly. “I would know.”

The stone underneath Steren’s hand nearly burned now with how cool it was, a chill traveling up his arm. He drew it back to his own body, rubbing the feeling back into his fingers.

An incident had occurred right before Steren’s last outing, when the most recent droves of visitors had just arrived. They spread themselves around the house as if they were entitled to the property. If Steren even dared to abandon his own room for long enough, it too would be taken over by these complete strangers. His frustrations with them boiled, the tug at the back of his mind turning into a violent pull towards hatred.

He had been arguing with one of the soldiers over something he couldn’t remember, certainly something petty. He didn’t back down, and he was thrown to the stone floor for it, threatened more seriously. But when the blows inevitably came, they stopped just as suddenly. Steren left the encounter with nothing but strange small cracks for scars, and the passing rumors that flew around his home just as fast as the visitors had settled in. At the very least they now gave him ample space every time he entered the room.

“Who wounded you?” His father asked, noticing the boy clutching at his freshly bandaged arm.

“What wounded me,” Steren corrected, stiffening his grip. “It was a bear. Blind, probably. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Take a better weapon with you the next time you go out.” Conleth suggested, returning to his busywork. “A simple knife won’t do you much good.”

Steren muttered a halfhearted agreement, recognizing the conversation was more or less over either way. He was grateful for its brevity, and grateful for the bandage covering its odd shape. As he left the forge and traveled back to the house, people didn’t stop him to ask what had been said, if his father was any closer to being finished, or if there was anything to expedite the process. He felt their eyes bore into his very soul, watching him as if he were the untamed creature they used to laugh at him for being.

Time stretched on agonizingly as Steren hid in his room. There was little to do but leaf through old tomes brought by past visitors to educate him, or trace the engravings of the forest and its animals carved into the walls. His house was a minefield of people who called him enemy, and the boy longed to leave the house again. But he neurotically checked his arm once the bleeding had stopped, tracing the strange shape with a growing paranoia.

The bear must have been blind, how else would she not see him? But didn’t his pulse pound through his chest? Was his breathing really that quiet? Steren could only let his mind wander as all else failed to entertain him. He thought of how many other times he had impossibly survived in the woods under the cover of leaves and roots and dirt. He was skilled, that was all there was to it. Nevermind his skin, stripped from his shoulder like bark, nevermind what the strangers said. His father was right. He had to be right. If he wasn’t, then where would that leave Steren when quiet finally fell upon the house once again?

No one wants to be an enemy in their own home. Steren had gotten used to playing the part every time his arrival was marked by wide eyes and whispers, but he couldn’t stand to think about what the blacksmith would say. If it was true, of course. The boy had to keep reminding himself of that. They were nothing but rumors. What finally pulled Steren away from his mind and back into the physical world was a loud clamor in the house’s main room. Most of the men had gone to bed by this point in the night, so he could only guess at what was happening. There wasn’t nearly enough alcohol to justify a party, and no one would dare risk playing field games while the nocturnal creatures of the woods howled and screeched.

One foot after the other, Steren crept down the stairwell, tracing figures moving in the dim light to the home’s cellar. Strange , he thought. He hadn’t been down there in months. The door lay ajar for the boy to invite himself in, warm light glowing at the bottom of the stone stairwell. He didn’t have to travel far before he could make out sound.

“Smuggled… didn’t even… finally…”

A few soldiers crowded around an open flour sack, its expected contents replaced with pieces of metal. Steren’s stomach dropped as he recognized the slight shimmer of starmetal inside.

“You couldn’t have grabbed a single weapon?” A different soldier asked, rather impatient.

“I assumed he took count. Better safe than sorry,” the first soldier replied, “Some of these are sharp enough to make do, in case anything happens. Researchers back in the city will have a better idea of what to do with them.”

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“We’re struggling enough against these mystic types rising out of the woodwork,” another chimed in, “Conleth has to understand that more than anyone.”

“But he won’t.” The first soldier weighed a broken blade in his hand. “He’s too blinded by his stupid son to see the danger right in front of him.”

“And his stupid son is clever enough to know when someone’s stepping out of line.” Steren finally raised his voice, crossing his arms at the base of the stairs. The soldiers, just four of them, stared at the boy with pale faces, their only exit obstructed.

Not a word was spoken, but Steren felt his ears roar with rushing blood. One of the soldiers stepped towards him, almost daring him to continue.

“My father is graciously letting all of you stay here while he finishes your weaponry,” he attempted. “If you want to keep things that way, I’d recommend you-”

His words were cut off as the soldier grabbed him and pushed him against the wall, knocking the breath out of his lungs. If she feared him, he couldn’t tell. Nothing but dull amusement flickered in her eyes.

“I don’t think we’ll have an issue,” she said cooly, “I doubt he’s as friendly to your type, however.”

“I’m not-” Steren’s protest, a pitiful gasp for air, was met with a swift kick. As he slid down the wall, his hand grasped ahold of it. For a moment he wished he hadn’t heard the sound, wished he had stayed upstairs, wished he could hide amidst the forest or his house’s walls where no one would judge and whisper and stare.

The soldier’s next blow felt significantly weaker. She yelped in pain, and when Steren dared to look back he was met with the terror-stricken faces of four warriors. The blow hadn’t been any weaker, he had just grown tougher. His hand slid up the wall with an unpleasant sound, stone meeting stone, and he faced the soldiers with an unimpressed look. Whatever terror he also felt was lost in the cool sensation of the rock that now covered his entire body.

“Try that again.” He said firmly, though his confidence was only surface-level. They backed away, and only then did he realize the limit of his strength. He couldn’t reach any of them without leaving the rock behind, dropping his second skin and leaving him vulnerable to people far more skilled in combat than he was.

“Fiend.” The first soldier pointed the starmetal blade’s jagged tip at Steren. “You should know what this does to creatures like you.” The blade quietly shimmered in his hand.

With barely a second thought Steren tore away from the wall, pushing the soldier closest to him in the process. Though the stone had melted away from his body, she took the blow as if he was as heavy as rock. As swiftly as he could, Steren grabbed and twisted the first soldier’s arm, sliding a foot under the man as he shifted in surprise. The jagged blade loosened in the soldier’s grasp, and the boy in his desperation grabbed for it. He didn’t care how sharp it was.

Something inside of Steren erupted upon contact with the blade. Blistering heat spread down his arms to his heart, his head buzzing as his surroundings became uncannily clear. The doubt and fear in his mind now crumbled in the face of this new power. Energy coursed through his very being. This was starmetal, this wonderful, terrible feeling that seemed to overpower Steren’s senses as it crept throughout his body. No wonder his father kept it secret for so long.

The soldiers shouted for help, and in an instant Steren found himself across the room. They attempted to pull out their weapons, which did nothing against the inflexible metal of the broken sword, and in turn Steren fought back without thought or mercy. He could hear the guests above being roused from their sleep, hear his father still slaving away at the forge, hear the crickets and wolves and owls of the forest chattering away.

His heart pounded as if threatening to break out of his ribs, the delicate dance of steel quickly taking a turn for the worse for the soldiers. He saw them attempt to grab for the blade he slashed at them with, as if they could wrench it from his hands

when he was this powerful. They had to have recognized it was a losing battle, but they refused to fall easily.

Steren soon rushed up the stairs, only to be met with their reinforcements, half-armed and half-awake. He tore through them just as easily, none of their blows landing where they needed to, while every blow of his hit the mark dead on. He weaved in and out of their ranks, bounding through the labyrinth of men that his house had become towards his own bedroom.

He slammed the door shut, locking it tight. He assumed they were at the door and about to tear it down at any moment, but he couldn’t quite be sure any of them would dare to follow. The blood coursing through his veins dulled any sound, and even with his heightened senses Steren found himself hearing both everything and nothing at all.

At last, reluctantly, he let go of the starmetal. He frantically bound it tightly in a piece of cloth, nearly shoving it into his travel bag before deciding to keep it in his grasp.

He slung the bag over his shoulder, opened the window, and clambered down to the ground. Fear gripped his mind, every breath uneven and shaky. He just needed to make it to the forest, away from everything, and then he could reassess the situation. Why he had this inexplicable power, what these men were trying to do to his father, where he would go next.

“Steren!” It all came to a screeching halt when the blacksmith called his name. “What are you doing out here?”

The boy didn’t reply. It was as if he forgot how to speak for a moment, the words failing to form in his mind, all the while gripping the cloaked blade as if it could slip away.

“There was a lot of yelling,” Conleth mentioned, “I was afraid they had taken their frustration out on you.”

“They stole your starmetal.”

“What?”

Steren found his voice, flat but angry. “They were going to bring it back to their cities. Study it. Even use it against you if you tried to fight back.”

It was the blacksmith’s turn to forget how to speak.

“So I fought back for you. I did what I had to,” a tremor shook his voice, “I’m not sure what happened in there, but I took the starmetal and I fought.”

“Because they attacked you?” Conleth asked.

“Only one of them,” Steren shook his head. “I don’t know what the rest would have done.”

Grave silence settled over the two. Conleth took note of the dark red streaks coating his son’s hair, clothes, everything , faintly illuminated by the moonlight. He could only wonder.

“They were right, you know,” Steren let out something between a sob and a laugh. “Guess my skin can turn into bark and stone now. Who knows what else.”

“Steren,” Conleth spoke, voice quiet as his eyes lingered on the bundle. “You should put that down.”

“What?” The boy tilted his head the slightest bit in disbelief.

“If that’s what I think it is,” he continued, “You should be careful. It corrupts you. You aren’t thinking right.”

“I’m thinking right for the first time in years.” Steren countered. “I’ve been around starmetal enough to know how to handle it.”

“Only I know how. Steren, you need to go back-”

“Back where? Where could I go?” He raised his voice. “You clearly aren’t taking this as seriously as I am!”

“I know exactly how serious this is.” The blacksmith’s voice was just as powerful, though it remained quiet. “But you cannot go around calling yourself an ecstatic just because some of our guests riled you up. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

Steren dared to unwrap the bundle, leaving the faintest glint of starmetal exposed to the air as he touched it. The power surged back through his body. He was in control of this weapon; he was sure of it. His father’s face blanched, watching Steren glimmer in the faint moonlight like the stars above.

“Steren,” he whispered.

Steren wrapped the cloth back around the starmetal. “See?”

128

“I don’t want to see you anywhere near the forge again.” Conleth looked distant. Though Steren expected it, the words didn’t sting any less.

“You must leave.”

“Then I will.” Steren said without much emotion. He felt Conleth’s eyes follow him until he was hidden deep within the forest’s embrace. Perhaps he expected his father to hesitate, for just a second. Steren vainly hoped he would call him back. But behind him lay a house thrown carelessly into complete disaster, with men from across the land wounded and dying at his hand. The starforge blacksmith had more important matters to attend to than the son who declared himself an enemy right before his eyes.

The forest was strangely quiet now. Steren hoped something, anything might distract him from the night’s events, but the slow realization burned itself into his mind: he had just become another tale for mothers to scare their children with, just by embracing this new aspect of himself he barely knew.

The starmetal blade almost seemed to hum with power now, beckoning Steren to take up arms once again. Look how much he could do with so little. What might he accomplish with training and time?

He wandered in a different direction than the one he usually took, farther away from the heart of the woods. At some point he knew he might run into a path, which might take him to a city. The boiling anger tugged at his mind. He wondered if the city’s citizens would be anything like the men who threatened and demeaned and harassed him.

The broken blade urged him onwards, to find fresh blood and conflict. He knew he could control it. He would just entertain it a little longer.

129

Christine

130

Han Design Arts Valley Christian High School San Jose, CA

2022

Choker! Sheep bone, fishing string, gold spray paint

Olive Harrington

131

Photography Lawrence

School Lawrence,

Osmosis Physical photo negative, tub of water, lightbox 2022

High

Deirdre Hickey

When Everything Was New

During the summer they opened all the windows and wind gushed through the apartment, oftentimes sending loose papers from the countertops onto the ground. Most apartments in the city were small, though theirs had a long hallway between the living room and the bedroom that made the whole setup appear much larger than it actually was. The couple, Nate and Dana, subleased the apartment from Dana’s work friend. At the beginning of the summer, they helped her carry her things to a small tractor trailer on the street below, trading their labor for the keys.

The first night they spent in the apartment, Dana and Nate blew up an air mattress and slept naked with all of the windows and balcony doors open. Dana woke up a few times during the night. She observed the way Nate’s body looked blue from the light outside, his skin bare and covered in faint goosebumps. She felt intrusive for looking at him like this, like she wasn’t supposed to be watching him, or even be in the apartment at all. There was little reason for her to feel like that. She had slept with him like this before, she had slept with others like this before.

His body was long and skinny, and his eyes twitched whenever a car on the street below honked its horn, or a skateboard flipped over the sidewalk. Dana thought these little moments were supposed to make life feel unreal and beautiful, the way a person felt at the start of things. But neither the newness of the apartment nor of the city charmed her. She felt like she had just closed a chapter of her life - young and making money wherever she could find it - and the next one was taking a long time to unravel. She waited for it emptily, hating the way that it felt to exist in between things. She thought that maybe Nate might help her in this regard, that he might pull her to the next chapter.

At the end of the summer, Nate turned twenty-five, and Dana had their friends over to drink. The night started off quiet, soft voices and laughter humming with a faint buzz. The sun went down and the streets got darker, the office building across the way lighting up with yellow boxes, one by one. The guests drank more, laughed loud with their stomachs, yelled their stories and fought fake fights. As fast as it began, it ended, and the guests left at mostly the same time. The countertop in their home was scattered with empty glasses and corks, dirty paper plates and a vegetable platter in which the carrots had begun to get a little bit white. Dana and Nate began to clean up the mess.

“Do you notice how everyone flirts with each other when they’re drunk?” Dana said.

“Isn’t that kind of the point of drinking?” Nate responded, half-smiling, like it was a punchline.

“I didn’t think it was,” she said.

“It’s inhibition,” he said. “What did you think a party was for?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Something else, or, not only that. It’s fun, it would be hard to be social for a long time without it.”

“Sure,” he said.

Dana suspected that in a few years she would have some sort of insight about this time in their lives, some understanding about why they had craved to be wanted by every person they knew. Dana noticed it in herself too, like there was a tiny voice inside her head that reminded her to smile and stare deeply at a man when he was talking to her, touching him faintly, in ways that Nate wouldn’t take offense to. Though sometimes she wished that he would take offense, even just slightly.

Nate looked back up and saw that Dana was still watching, and he turned off the sink and approached her as he dried off his hands on the thighs of his jeans. He began to kiss her slowly, his finger holding her chin up, falling into her because he was kind of

drunk. They were both kind of drunk, and the whole moment was sloppy and miscalculated. Dana thought about how this sort of thing was supposed to feel passionate or exciting, but most of the time, during sex, she wondered when it would be over. ***

When she was sixteen, Dana’s mother had died of ovarian cancer. Dana could never remember much from the months leading up to her death, except that her mother got sick and sicker, until the last day, when time suddenly warped itself into an entrapping sense of stillness, something impending and horrible tracing its nail along the fine plastic film of it all, waiting for the burst. Dana realized on that day that she had spent every moment leading up to this one refusing to acknowledge the inevitable.

The home that Dana grew up in was comfortable, dark wooden floors and deep red carpets running down the hallways and living room, the doors’ frames arched at the top. They had a large piano on one side of the living room, close to the window that looked out at the park. Dana’s mother played piano while Dana’s father cooked dinner, their home bright with concertos and onions. Dana liked to rest between them, sitting on the armchair equidistant from where they each stood. She listened to the oil and onions simmering in the pan and the deep crescendo of Albeniz, safe between them.

The night her mother passed, when she and her father returned from the hospital, they came home to a doorstep full of dinners. Dana heated up lasagna for her father, but he never came down from his bedroom, so she picked at the food with a fork until she felt like she could feel something in her stomach. Afterwards, she went to bed.

Two nights after the funeral, Dana returned to her boarding school. She walked through the campus to sign back in, and thought of the first time her mother and she had walked through the campus. Dana was twelve then, navigating an opportunity four years ahead of her, and she begged her mother to drive her to the open house. It was a three-hour ride. Along the way they stopped at gas stations and got peaches and strawberry Topo Chicos and taquitos. They ate with the top down, her mother’s long, box-bleached hair blowing in the wind like straw. Everything was new then. She could see the next phase of her life right in front of her, for the very first time. Dana felt alive in this, like the tall oaks that lined the road were created just for her to experience, that the sun and the wind and the warmth of it on her face were all for her. She felt full of everything, yet weightless and free, all at the same time.

Nate worked at a sports media company across the city, though he only went into the office twice a week. He sat on bouncy chairs and wore sweatpants, and most people in the office drank during the day, trying the different sponsored spiked seltzers as early as ten in the morning. Dana found this work setting to be almost unbelievable, despite the fact that this kind of office was not unusual. She herself had only had a full-time job for three years.

Dana also worked in social media, though she went in five days a week to the office in The Flatiron District. She did accounting for labels and podcasts for a large-scale music app. Most of the people in her office were older by a few years, and the people above her took trips with one another to Stockholm and Prague. The company had large conventions in Sweden. Her co-workers seemed extremely fun and lively, but she was never involved with

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Short

Story South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities Greenville, SC

***

them the way that she wished to be. She overheard them talking about hotels and jazz rooms and cocktail lounges along the basin.

Whenever she’d come home from work, she would take long showers with Nate and tell him about how much she thought she would love northern Europe, the quaint colors and thin canals that separated one neighborhood from the other. She wanted to go, sometime soon. Nate usually had very little to say about this, but she would speak for hours about the music and the food and her co-workers, all of which contributed to that warm fizz of envy and also excitement. That feeling would remain inside of her for a day, eventually flattening away into nothing and returning as envy when she scrolled through the photos and videos her co-workers had taken, or when a story of one of the trips got brought up in the office.

“What’s up with you and Europe?” Nate asked one day, lacing a pair of new sneakers. They were in the living room, sitting on the sofa, and the television was on. She said that her mother was a doctor in music when Dana was growing up, and spent years as an Orchestra Director for the Northern New York Symphony. When her mother was a teenager, she studied music at a university in Berlin, where she met Dana’s father. He was a year older than her mother and was studying abroad at another school in the city, and their brief year of romance survived multiple years overseas and when her mother graduated, she returned to the States to be with her father. Dana told Nate that she had heard countless stories about her parents’ trips around Europe, about the German woman who left food outside the open window that her father slept against when it was humid during the night. The German woman sat on her front step most mornings waiting for Dana’s father to go to class, and she’d ask him why he was with the woman with small breasts. Dana wanted that life too, she told Nate. Something like her parents had. She always thought she would find her way to that life, and feel the wholeness of being alive she only knew briefly from the first months at the boarding school.

As they sat, Dana watched Nate mess around with his earlobe, like her mother always did. She found great comfort in never expressing the ways in which the two of them overlapped, instead keeping them to herself and saying little prayers.

“Europe would be nice,” he said. “But we don’t have any savings.” He stood up then, and sat closer to Dana. Nate wrapped his arm around Dana’s shoulder, and she kind of liked how his armpit smelled bad. What Dana really liked about Nate, though, was how little he knew about her mother. He had no memories or experiences to look back on, nothing to cling onto to make any sort of impression of the woman. Around him, she had no room to think about all the memories that seemed to compose her life before her mother passed, the life that she felt was completely over.

Dana’s father came to visit the week leading up to Thanksgiving. He slept in the spare bedroom and walked around the city alone for long stretches while the couple went to work. He himself hadn’t returned to the city since their move upstate when Dana was fifteen, but he had a reliable memory of where things were, or at least used to be, and how to get to them.

On Thanksgiving Day, Dana and Nate woke up early to grab some things from the store, before chaos ensued and early closing hours left them bare. They got ready in silence, trading their shared toothbrush, each using one side of a q-tip. Dana wore one of Nate’s windbreakers, and he took photos of her in two knitted scarves and the large jacket and a pair of bright yarn gloves. He liked to take photos of her looking childish, without makeup and her hair tied into two buns on either side of the nape of her neck.

When they returned with brown parchment bags full of ingredients, Dana’s father still had not woken up. The house was exactly as they left it; the fake candle in the bathroom flickering and reflected in the mirror, the living room blinds drawn closed and the four panel room divider closed in front of the hallway to the bedrooms. They unpacked the groceries quietly and dropped

a turkey in a pot of lukewarm water in the sink, still unsure of how they planned on cooking it.

They spent the rest of the morning waiting for the guest bedroom to open, then shut, and for Dana’s father to find them in the living room. Once it hit noon, they began cooking, thinking that the noises might wake him up gently. Nate sliced chives, then his finger, then threw away the chives that had blushed pink from the little droplets of blood.

“We could sell some things for extra money for the trip,” Nate said. “What about your necklace?” Dana stopped cutting the celery and looked up at Nate.

“You want me to sell my necklace?” she asked. “It would be enough,” Nate said.

“That was a gift. You gifted that to me,” Dana said, angry and staring at him harshly.

Nate looked up at her and shrugged, confused about her apparent agitation.

“There are other ways,” he said. Dana thought of her hotel in Amsterdam with the silver tray of mini bottles on the nightstand, how she was always tempted to start her morning with a shot of cinnamon whiskey dripping down her throat, the warmth in her stomach that would follow. She got scared of her mind whenever she thought like that.

Once it hit three in the afternoon, Dana knocked on the door of the guest room and called for her Dad quietly. No response followed, and she stared at her hand folded at the knuckle resting on the doorframe. She knocked again and called his name once more. It was silent for a few moments, and then he told her he would be out in a moment. She walked back to the kitchen and glanced at Nate who had heard the entire interaction. The cutting and simmering continued.

“I don’t understand why we would have to sell something in order to go,” Dana said.

“A trip to Europe is expensive,” Nate responded.

“But we have paychecks. It’s not like we don’t have paychecks,” she said. “And rent,” Nate responded.

“We have money left over. Every month. Hundreds of dollars that we use for stupid shit,” she said. “The stupidest shit I’ve ever seen.” She set the table and disappeared into the bedroom for some time, coming back into the kitchen to drink a glass of water when everything was done cooking.

Dana’s father never left the room, which they had not noticed until everything was completely ready and placed on the small wooden table. Dana knocked again and heard nothing, so she asked if he was alright, to which he said he was fine. The two ate without her father and then cleaned up without him. They fell asleep on the couch to a movie playing on TBS, their stomachs heavy with starchy foods.

The next morning, Nate dropped off Dana’s father at the airport on Long Island. When he returned, he told Dana that they exchanged barely any words the entire time, except for polite goodbyes in the departure lane. She was worried about her father, but also embarrassed that Nate had seen the oddity of his behavior as well.

A week after his visit, Dana’s father sent her an email titled “Alex Departi predicted his own Destiny!”

My daughter,

I was watching the news this morning after I brought out the garbage. It is Tuesday, do not forget!! (Sometimes when we forgot at the apartment on the West Side your mother would carry it to work and throw it over a dumpster behind that strip of restaurants on 72nd. Not sure if that would fly now… my days in the city are far behind me). Remember that actor from SNL we loved, who was in that skit about the meatloaf we played over and over until your mother banned us from it. Apparently, yesterday morning, he was on set for this movie he is filming in Utah, and he accidentally shot his co-star in the chest. A real gun was mistaken for a prop gun. The craziest part was that three years earlier, he had tweeted about how horrible it would be to accidentally kill somebody.

133

***

He predicted this. I don’t know much about him, but they are investigating. Any-aways. My flight home was good. I ate a bag of peanuts, and then my mouth started itching, and I thought, man this would be a horrible place to find out I was allergic to peanuts. Thank you for having me for the week. I enjoyed walking around the park. It was nice to see grass one last time, there is already snow up to our calves up here.

Dana exited out of her email and typed the comedian’s name into her search bar. A dozen different articles came up, and she stared at the paparazzi photos taken of the actor on the side of the road when he was told that the woman he had shot did not make it. He wore a polo shirt and he grabbed his short gray hair with his hand, pulling at his scalp to remind himself that he was alive. Dana was a sucker for signs, and hunches. She felt as if all people knew what their life would look like in some form. Dana wondered if the actor felt relieved, seeing his biggest fear play out. She wondered if that made him feel small. She wondered what her mother would’ve thought of it all. She forwarded the article to Nate who responded quickly. “Idiot,” he said.

When Nate got home from work that night, he didn’t look Dana in the eyes. He walked in and kissed her forehead, then showered after grabbing clean clothing from their bedroom. When he came out, he had shaved his face and was wearing a pair of Dana’s jogging pants that were too large for her.

Dana wondered if he was drunk, or high, or anything worth hiding. She stared at him until he stared back, but it took a few moments for him to realize and turn himself towards her.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, her head now tilted to the right, indicating concern. “Yep,” Nate said cheerfully and quickly, kissing her forehead before looking back at the television. Dana was instantly aggravated, believing that he was hiding something, no matter what it pertained to.

“Do you have something you want to tell me?” she asked. Nate looked at her concerned and stared at her chin. This made her self-conscious.

“No?” he asked, almost questioning. She felt sticky with anger, like she had moved her entire life into his and now he was pushing her back out after she had given up everything.

“Whatever,” Dana said, immediately pulling herself up and heading towards the kitchen, elbowing him hard in the chest. “It’s clear something is up. I’m not fucking stupid.” She went to the kitchen and made dinner only for herself, then showered and closed and locked their bedroom door behind her as she went to sleep. When she woke up to get ready for work, she walked to the living room and saw Nate sleeping on the couch, his face squished against the armrest. He looked pale and sick. Dana got ready and left without saying goodbye.

Dana started her commute by taking a short subway ride to the bus stop. She got onto the bus and noticed it was mostly empty, besides a woman in the back row whose face she could barely see. It was a thirty-minute drive to her office, and she began to think about Nate as soon as she sat down. She hated being mad at him for reasons like this, because she could never tell anyone about it. She didn’t know if he was really hiding something, or if he was just acting weird. Though why would he be acting weird, she thought, if he wasn’t hiding anything. Dana had zero idea what he could’ve been hiding, but she came up with several scenarios in her head. And it made her feel so much better, to know that he was bad for infinite reasons, and she was so good that he felt the need to hide it from her.

And maybe this was the start of Nate leaving her, she thought, and she would move to Sweden or the Netherlands, and she’d immerse herself in the Köttbullar and jazz music and drums and all of the things that he had never even thought about, never thought that she really wanted.

He knew so little about the things she cared about, the things that she found beautiful.

She realized she was completely unsure of what Nate might love about her.

Dana looked around the bus, at the thin blue carpet below her feet that was brown in most places. It was an ugly day outside, the trash piled on the curbs like bodies, the sky a gray sheet that seemed to separate human beings from the sun and the stars and the rest of the sky. She thought of how her mother found beautiful things everywhere, she even dreamed of beautiful things for Dana. She pointed out the ivy climbing up the brick walls of the boarding school, serenaded the home with Liszt and Tchaikovsky. She braided Dana’s hair the way that French people did, painted her nails burgundy and black and stole matching lipsticks from the drugstore down the road.

Sitting on the bus, barely seeing the outside world, Dana thought of how her mother fell in love in other countries, kissed men who took her on moped rides and drives through the countryside.

The bus made a stop and several people boarded. Dana thought of how it might’ve disappointed her mother to see her life now, the lull of romance, her father sleeping through the holidays, the plain apartment with white furniture and linens and the dirty bus where she spent every morning. She would’ve appreciated the travel potential of Dana’s job, but would’ve been let down by the technicalities of it all.

“Apply for an international position!” she might’ve said. “Relocate to France, or Ireland.” Dana felt relieved she would never have to explain to her mother why that wasn’t possible, that there were thousands of invisible strings that anchored Dana down to the things she knew; Nate, money, this city, this feeling

The bus stopped and went, and Dana’s head bobbed back and forth on her neck. If her mother would’ve said these things to Dana in high school, during her first year at the boarding school, Dana would have dreamed along with her, taking her mother’s words as the wisest she would ever hear from another person. Her life was most magical then, Dana thought, when she wrote long fiction stories in the campus loggia and read novels by Irish authors. When she wasted away the hours daydreaming about living abroad, somewhere where the coast was rocky and lined in seafoam. When her friends used long words to describe relationships as they walked to the coffee shop where they spent most afternoons, when she was at the start of things.

134

Best, Dad

Atticus Hill

Bullets Bodies and Backpacks, A Recollection

Dedicated to Courtlin Arrington and other victims of the Huffman Highschool Shooting

One gunshot sends the field into confusion, another only turns it to frenzy.

Lift off the bleachers, pulled by an unconscious force, and realize how you bolt alongside everyone else. See the stampede of bodies running to an unknown destination, one foot in front of another, one pair of legs following some other with no hesitation. Feel pure instinct pump through your veins as you sprint towards uncertainty.

One gunshot tears through flesh, another only pours salt in the wound.

Become aware of how long you’ve been running, half an hour, fifteen seconds, however long it takes to bound over to some small building and funnel into the eggshell shelter. Spend some more time trying to process the chaos around you, hearing huddled masses slipping whispers of a shooter from their lips like oily secrets. Feel the word constrict your throat.

One gunshot brings an end to a young life, another only brings one a bleeding shame.

Sit crouched and clammy in the dark room, so many bodies holding their breath the air freezes. Let thoughts flash in frames, crooked visions of a hooded figure kicking down the door, your mother seeing your name on a television screen, your family dressed in all black. Let fear lick the walls of your head like flames while nearby, a soul loosens her grip on a thorny world.

135

Spoken Word Alabama School of Fine Arts Birmingham, AL

Dion Hines

136

Visual Arts Ida B. Wells Apac (Academic and Performing Arts Complex) Jackson, MS

You Rip What You Sew Linoleum Relief Prints sewn together using embroidery thread with pieces of finger weaved thread

2021

137

Irene Ho Visual Arts Taipei American School Taipei, Taiwan

Watercolor

colored pencil on colored poster 2021

History of Hands

and

Claire Hong

The Art of Boxes

The day my grandmother died, I packed two boxes: one for things I would never use again, and another for all the things I would need for the funeral. The former I filled with my grandmother’s gifts, the snow globes and souvenirs I stuffed into my suitcase every summer. In the latter I put my formal black dress, a couple changes of clothes and my computer. It was a heavy kind of packing. It was stomps and shoves, thuds and creaks. I packed the boxes until every crevice was jammed with items, full but in an organized fashion. I packed until I could block out my mother’s sobs and the cacophony of the neighborhood crows with ease. It wasn’t until sunlight began to sneak into the room that my arms hung limply at my sides and I lay on the floor between my boxes- between worlds- and closed my eyes.

I turned sixteen the summer I saw my first dead body. My mother and I acknowledged it quietly - there was a sense of wrongness in celebrating life when both of us could only think of death. On the plane, they gave me a cake swimming in melted wax, already beginning to leak onto the paper plate. I tried to smile, and tell the tight-lipped woman I appreciated the gesture; I don’t think she ever heard me. So I smiled down at my plate, watching the vibrant colors muddle to spawn black blobs of hardening wax. It was fitting, somehow. I blew out the burnt candles and wished for life to start over again - hers or mine, I didn’t care. My wish never came true, though I have a feeling my mother wished for the same thing.

And yet I wished anyway. I wished the moment I saw my grandmother’s casket, a large metal box with an open glass top adorned with flowers. I wished when the service began, with a white-robed priest droning about peace in heaven and empty reassurances that withered in my ear. I wished when it ended and long lines of strangers offered condolences that I didn’t hear. I wished until I forgot what I was wishing for and wished to remember as I stared at the empty space, wondering if dead people could suffocate in those boxes.

My mother always said that my grandmother was innately strong, that she was blessed with strength from the gods. It was true; my grandmother was born in the year of the tiger, a gift from the gods themselves, who chose a tiger to plant the seed that would blossom into the nation of Korea. I used to ask her to tell me stories of her childhood and her usually silent lips would begin to whisper fairytales woven with her own.

My grandmother told stories of her town in the north, the plums the schoolchildren would steal in the spring, the cold winters where even five layers of clothing wasn’t enough to keep the cold from icing weak bones. She would whisper about the war, about her mother who sold trash to earn small bits of food, her older sister who received five chestnuts every day as food to feed all of the younger ones, her sister who rationed out the chestnuts piece by piece and starved day by day. And when my grandmother was old enough, she studied hard to escape the poverty, the homelessness, and the desperation of life on the streets. When I was younger I used to think her strength was her perseverance, of pushing through these circumstances. But now I realize that her strength came from making the best out of her circumstances. She had luck to push her the rest of the way.

My grandmother never told me that she loved me - perhaps the words were too foreign on her tongue, like they were on mine. But I can still feel the echoes of her soft voice drumming against my skin, like a familiar melody. Her stories were her own way of passing herself down to me, scrap by scrap, until she was satisfied that I would remember - remember her, her stories, and myself.

But despite her stories, my grandmother still remains a stranger, a shadowy presence that is recognizable, but not corporeal enough to have much effect. I was “too American,” as my mother

would chastise when I couldn’t unravel my tongue far enough to call my mother “Eomma” and my grandmother “Halmoni”. And while I didn’t mind trading my heritage for what I considered home, this produced a disconnect between my grandmother and me. I wasn’t interested in learning about my heritage and she didn’t seem interested in learning about my life. So whenever I went to Korea for the summer, I would immerse myself in maintaining my American image, perhaps lowering my barricades every once in a while to hear one of her stories. And when it was early August, I would go home and forget about my grandmother and her stories until June, when the cycle repeated itself.

But sometimes, I would jot down her stories the best I could, without the inflections in her voice, or the whispered softness, or the frequent pauses between stories. It wasn’t until later that my mother discovered my writing. It was purely accidental - I had been excited over the prose piece I had written the night before and printed out a copy, only to leave it at home on top of the printer. Of course, my mother discovered it after I had left for school. She didn’t talk about it that day, but I found the piece of paper the next morning covered in droplets of water that smeared the words into black orbs.

My grandmother was an artist - a writer, to be exact. It was one of the reasons she was so good at storytelling. She had the talent, but couldn’t keep her head swarming with fantasies and pretty phrases in the factories. When she married my grandfather, he disapproved of her scribbled poetry and crossed-out prose. My mother used to say her childhood was spent hiding these notebooks full of my grandmother’s writing so my grandfather wouldn’t burn them. My grandmother was a writer - and that was partly why my mother only visited her once a year. My grandmother didn’t have the time to raise my mother - she was always too busy expanding the worlds that lived in her mind. When my mother found my writing, it was like her world broke apart a second time.

The year before my grandmother was stuffed into a glass cage, I followed her to the small attic space above the apartment. It was the first time I had been alone in the house with her, as my mother was always in the kitchen tidying the plates, or reading a book on the couch. But she had gone out to eat lunch with a friend, and I was left alone in the house with my grandmother. In her usual silent manner, my grandmother had beckoned me over into the attic after my mother had left. It was strange to see her willing to communicate so openly. But with my mother’s words about politeness and respect ringing in my ears, I gathered up my shoes from the shoe rack and followed her up the stairs.

I was greeted with the sight of boxes. Hundreds of them. Absorbing the tight space around me, I maneuvered my way into the corner, dusting off my arms and curling up with my knees to my chest. My grandmother hadn’t been clear on what she had invited me into the attic to do, but I decided that I was content watching the process. So I watched my grandmother sit cross-legged in the middle of the floor, counting the boxes and beginning to sort the stacks of books, old magazines and letters, CDs, and pictures into the boxes.

And yet my eyes traveled the room in sync with my grandmother’s motions as she approached a small brown box ripped at the folds. As she tipped the lid towards her, I glimpsed small pink pieces of paper adorned with ancient stickers threatening to fall off. I tore my eyes away, but not fast enough.

“Halmoni!” a little girl shouts. “I missed you!”

Still firmly in her ‘all-things-pink’ phase, the little girl twirled

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Short Story

Homeschool Los Altos, CA

***

in her pink dress, letting go of the handle of her suitcase as she ran to her grandmother.

“Aigoo, I missed you too,” the grandmother says.

“Look, Halmoni - I wrote you another letter,” the girl says, proudly holding an envelope decorated with stickers on every edge, bright pink like the paper of the message.

With a smile, the grandmother reaches to take the little girl’s hand as they walk hand in hand, while the mother trails behind lugging the suitcases.

Shaking my head, I opened my eyes to see my grandmother bent over another box, checking the contents and sorting through the unorganized objects. Brushing aside small particles of dust from every object, my grandmother held each close enough to breathe in the musky scent of faded newspapers and dog-eared books.

The boxes surrounded my grandmother now, till there wasn’t any space to take a step. Carefully I dragged a box towards me, tilting the flap open until I saw the dust-covered objects. I saw organized stacks of pictures - pictures of people. I saw myself permanently inked into each memory as the pictures silently mocked the person I had become.

Hastily closing the lid, I shoved the box away, scrambling to my feet as I stared at my grandmother. Unbothered, my grandmother continued to slowly sort through each box, dusting off the covers and creating neat stacks within each box.

With her back towards me, she explained, “Twice I lost my life. The first you already know well - your grandfather took my writing, handed me a pair of chopsticks to cook with instead. And because I loved your grandfather, I was a good housewife. The house was always clean and dinner was ready before he came home. But I wasn’t good enough. Sometimes I would daydream about life with words, where seeds would be planted, blossoming into ripe fruit. That was the worst part - having fruit I couldn’t harvest. Sometimes he would catch me at the window, dreaming about a life I couldn’t have. I was too numb to even feel guilty about it. Your grandfather was a good man, but he never truly understood me.” She paused, dragging another box closer as she methodically began to organize its contents.

“Then, your mother was born and I felt joy again. Oh - how wonderful it was to feel! Your mother grew fast and I finally had two loves, two worlds. Then, you see, your grandfather trusted me enough to give me pen and paperquite possibly for grocery lists. But I would write for hours until my heart didn’t feel so heavy. Your mother was already grown by the time I tore my eyes from my writing. I know she is still bitter because of it. But you must understand that I loved her with all my heart and still do, even though she may not believe it.

“But you - you were so similar to my own self that I was merely curious at first. I gave you pieces of myself through stories and you soaked everything up so eagerly that I couldn’t stop myself from letting down my guard to embrace you with open arms. The first time your mother discovered your writing, she called me in tears. She read your story to me on the phone and with delight, I heard my story cycled through your own mind and onto paper. That was when I began to worry.

“There was always a part of me that dreaded the day you would change. A day when you would let go of my hands and block my words from your ears just like your mother. And so in preparation, I filled the attic with boxes, things that could open your eyes to protect myself from being broken a third time.” ***

The last time I hunted for the attic was after the funeral, when my mother and I, still dressed in funeral black, slipped into my grandmother’s apartment. It was past midnight by then, and

our slow march through the rooms didn’t lift our spirits. But I had begged my mother to visit one last time.

As we unpacked our suitcases and boxes, I retrieved the first box I had packed, the one with my grandmother’s gifts. While the box was a pale brown, the contents were a vivid mix of colors and patterns, though the colors became duller with every new item added to the collection.

I waited until my mother fell asleep before grabbing the box and searching for the attic door. Walking up the stairs, I paused, placing the box next to my feet like a peace offering. And as my eyes trailed upwards, I stared at the place the attic had been, a part of the wall that was without blemish, like nothing had ever been there. Leaving the box where the attic had been, I walked slowly down the stairs, questioning whether all of this had been a dream.

Or perhaps the attic is gone because I didn’t need it to see.

139

***

Claire Hong

she dreams american

my tongue stumbles under the weight of foreign syllables so i swallow my mother

tongue whole, open my mouth to cut the soft flesh of my tongue like halmoni’s1 kimchi/ brushed evenly with glistening sugar and sprinkled with the history of king sejong and his language/ marinated with the sharpness of the tears that rolled off of halmoni’s face dripping into the han river until her war-torn nation overflows with milk and honey-

i bring my peace offering to locate consonants where the soil is blessed/ transform my tongue from the garlic-covered 'son'2 to hand/ wiping the salty seaweed soup off of 'hae'3 to get a blinking sun/ the anatomy of my mouth contorts to fit bites of ‘because’, ‘i’, ‘am’ american with soot hair and stained eyes singed with the alienness permeating off my shoulders/ american but not american enough-

i wonder if this is the american dream

one summer i travel to my mother country/ it is not home anymore/ my tongue does not welcome the melodic touches of familiarity/ refuses to bend to the consonants and extends foreign instead/ the taste of sesame oil does not pacify my unfaithful mouth/ signifies my american dialect that speaks opportunity/ speaks in tongues i no longer understand-

i wonder if dreaming was worth losing home

1 halmoni: Korean for grandmother

2 son: Korean for hand

3 hae: Korean for sun

140

Spoken Word Homeschool Los Altos, CA

Hannah Hong

141

Visual Arts Grafton High

Yorktown,

Estrangement Colored pencil

over watered down acrylic

on mixed media paper 2022

School

layered

paint

Joanne Hong

142

Visual Arts North Hollywood

North

Which is it? Printed photos, painter’s tape, scissors, pens, markers, acetate sheets, power mesh 2022

High School

Hollywood, CA

Jenny Hu

Rose Red Rose White

CHAPTER 1

Once I dreamt of men with skulls instead of faces, men who would swallow me alive. Wrenching my arms, tearing limbs out of sockets, scratching and biting, worst of all, they were silent as snow. Shoveled pieces of me into their bone-white mouths and I stood outside my body and watched. Tried to scream but my throat was full of chiffon, blood-red, spilling into the snow and pooling at my feet and never ending. They ate my hands and my feet, my chest and my legs, torso, head came last, two eyes blinking and full of tears and then I couldn’t see anymore.

In the morning I told my mother about the skull men—I was barely seven years old and she squeezed my ear hard enough for it to burst into flame, how could I say such inauspicious things. She called my grandmother in Fujian and wouldn’t hang up until she found an astrologer to read my birth chart. The woman started to speak but her voice turned candle-wax thick and full of ashes, we couldn’t hear her and she couldn’t hear us, we sat around the phone for two hours until the line died and still no answers. For weeks my mother burned incense to purge bad omens from the house. Thin trails of gray smoke, the echoes of ghosts.

Jason is the only one who likes to hear my nightmares. Collects bad dreams like candy and vintage coins. A boy made of metal and sunsets, the type of ambiguous blonde hair that can’t decide if it’s gold or bronze. More than once I’ve turned his eyes into charcoal and watercolor, his brows into brushstrokes, a face begging to grow immortal on paper.

Today he lies in the backseat of his Range Rover with his head in the crook of my arm, hovering in the threshold between consciousness and sleep, eyes shut soft like he trusts me. No bad omens. When I was eight or nine, my sister and I spent an entire week wandering through the corridors of the Louvre while my father did business in Paris—now I trail my thumb across Jason’s sloped jaw and imagine him set in marble, molded in stone like my own Galatea, idolized in a glass case and protected from the world. His lashes dance slowly, fluttering up and down and lowering again. As usual, sweet envy on my tongue tip, I’ve never been more jealous of his eyelashes than now. Lush, deep-dark despite his light coloring, just like my sister Cressy’s hair before she got sick.

Cressy, beautiful Cressy, who never liked Jason to begin with. Mocked me for bringing home a white boy, never mind how pleased my mother was. Cressy, who could end the whole world if she wanted to.

Suddenly. A fierce, stabbing pain in my spine. Piercing the cavern between my ribs, forcing the breath from my lungs.

Fingers clutching my throat, it’s been nearly a week since I’ve had a pain like this, the kind of hurt like squeezing a jagged diamond and watching blood run down my wrists from where it digs into my skin. The knife twists, twists, twists.

“Hey,” Jason murmurs. Through the red haze, two hands on my face. Warm and silk-smooth.

Two hands. Skin seeping into skin. Slow shadows shifting sideways.

A sharp gasp.

And then again, again, the knife melts away and all that remains is hollow. Carved clean from the inside out.

“God, Mara,” Jason says. Sitting up now, he peers at me through those perfect lashes. Voice smoky and washed gray. “I thought you were better now.”

I slump backward against the leather seat. Still shaking like a dead leaf in the autumn wind, unanchored. He watches me with eyes greener than usual.

Silence, stretching long and thin.

“Sorry.” I wrap a piece of hair around my finger. Tug once, twice. “That wasn’t—”

“You should see a doctor, you know.”

“Don’t know what my parents would do with another fucked-up daughter.”

Jason closes his eyes. Doesn’t speak and I know he knows better than anyone what it means to have consequences. All of a sudden the car is too small, too tight. I twist my legs beneath me like a pair of blades.

“How’s Cressida?” he asks at last. Swallows. Even Jason is afraid for her. Afraid of her.

I shrug. “I don’t know. She still has a week of inpatient left, but the doctors aren’t optimistic.” Or so they told my mother when she called the treatment facility last weekend, convinced that nothing could really be wrong with Cressy, that my sister’s accident was really just that: an accident.

The one time we visited, Cressy refused to see us. Offstage for once, stripped of glitter and flair and her usual bluster, small and shivering. Wrapped herself in layers of gauzy robes and stood behind the door until Mama had to leave for work. I stood and watched and she never turned around, the walls were pink and green and yellow and they tried to make it cheerful but dust and darkness lingered in all the corners. The picture-perfect home for a girl made of bones and sharp points.

In that moment I’d longed to paint her—the jut of her shoulders, the bat-wing indents of her collarbones. The way she carried herself, all loose limbs, falling hair, dull eyes. Like the little dolls she likes to tear apart and put back together again. But then Dr. Fleming said visiting hours were ending and Cressy didn’t want to speak with me anyway, she was still practicing how to forgive Mama and me, as if this would all be our fault once she came back to the real world.

“One more week,” Jason says. Rubs his thumb on my cheek and exhales, slow, deep. “She’ll be okay.”

How I hunger to believe him. How I hunger to ignore the blue-purple splashes beneath his eyes, how exhausted we both are. We shouldn’t have spent so long talking about me, not when I know he needs me too, I need him to need me. But the thought of my sister’s return is enough to squeeze my throat through a vise, wrong, wrong, wrong and I should be happy but I think I might choke. I see her dark eyes and they are laughing at me, glittering and full of secrets. Like she knows universes that I’ve never imagined. Not fair. Fair: as if that word still carries any weight. A tale made up for children and romantics.

And yet, still, as Jason drives home, veins drawing stark rivers in his hands on the steering wheel, my mouth is flooded sugar-sweet and I want to tell him all the things I wish I wouldn’t dream of: a house all our own, far, far, away, a big window that envelops the sea, mahogany shelves filled with his books, cakes in the oven and vanilla smudging the air, two cats and a horse too, blank canvases begging for paint, his hands drawing infinite circles around mine.

The car drags to a stop outside my house. Sky tinged with bruises, evening beginning to fester. I climb out and crush the grass beneath my sandals, leather backpack over my shoulder. The pristine lawn, my father’s greatest pride. Always showing photos of the house to our family when we’re in China, the pillars and arching doorways, as if insistent on showing how far he’s come from the village where he was born.

“Good night,” Jason says, rolling down his car window. “I’ll see you at 6 tomorrow?”

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Novel The Seven Hills School

Cincinnati, OH

***

“Night, Mara,” he says again, and for a beat I wonder if he’ll lean out the window and press his lips to mine the way he used to, he’d cup my cheek in his palm so softly it was like touching an animal. When we first started dating he wanted to touch me all the time, he always wanted to have his hands on me and I had to tell him when to stop.

But this time the tires screech and he is gone. Not even shadows left behind except for the sound of his voice. Mara. He once told me how much he likes my name, and I’ve never cared for it much but I love the way it sits on his tongue, butter and velvet.

Tomorrow—dinner with the Wolffs. Saturday night dinners, practically tradition, once every month ever since we started dating half a year ago. Sometimes we joke about his stepfather’s last name and Jason calls me Little Red Riding Hood.

He is happy now, or at least I think he is, happy in the way only eighteen-year-old boys know how to be, like he’s taught himself to forget the world whenever he’s tired of it. But he’s also sad in the way all beautiful people are, like he knows he’s running out of time. A battle he can never win and even the past is against him, we don’t kiss often anymore, and he hides it but I know he’s afraid of something. One time we fell asleep together in the library, curled up on a huge couch with ragged pillows and falling threads, and when I woke up he was gasping for breath like this time a knife was stuck in his chest.

One more week. The house is dark and silent except for a light in the kitchen, three cars in the garage. My father is still away, Shanghai or Dubai or maybe Manila this time. His absence is even more of a presence than he is. Suffocating silence and a house too big for two women.

The door creaks. My sandals clatter as I line them up beside my mother’s Gianvito Rossi pumps. An extra pair of kitten heels on the other side of hers. Black and satin and a ribbon for the straps. Shoes I haven’t seen in months. Small enough to fit only a ghost. My heart clamps down.

In the doorway, shadows leaping and vaulting, the sound of something faint and somber and stained in a minor key. The delicate arpeggios of our six-foot Steinway piano, a melody so familiar that a deep ache seeps into my stomach. Heavy and made of stone.

I remember the first time I heard that piece—“The White Peacock,” it’s called—and I realized Cressy could do whatever she wanted and no one could ever be angry anymore. My mother found the sheet music two years ago, hidden in the library of the conservatory where she teaches. Cressy unwound the harmonies on ivory keys and instantly everything slowed and turned to honey in her hands. And then she finished and we both clapped even though Mama wished she could’ve played it better, even though I hated how easy it all was for her, because no matter what, there has always been something radiant about my sister and when she plays it’s like watching a star fall.

There is no one else who plays “The White Peacock” like she does. No one else who can coax sweet strains from the keys like she can. No one else who touches the piano so gently, as if holding a dog or a baby or something to be worshiped.

Before I even step into the living room, where the grand Steinway commands every eye, I know it’s her.

The knife in my lungs grows sharp once more.

Loose limbs, doll face. Smile made of glass.

One more week. Another lie.

My mother sees me first. Gaze so bright, I think she will catch fire, woman made of red and coal and flame. The same eyes as Cressy, haunted and fierce and too lovely to be real. Could swallow me with a look. Make me disappear.

Mama stands beside the piano, one elbow propped on the lid, statuesque. Gestures for me to stay quiet as the music wraps and twists around us like incense. Soft bars climbing up the walls and crescendoing to the ceiling. Binding my feet in place, I can’t

move, liquid languor in my limbs, I could fall to the ground right now and let Cressy’s arpeggios collapse my legs, slice my throat.

Instead I stand, I watch, her hands crawl across the keys like spiders and she hasn’t forgotten a single note and it’s as if nothing ever went wrong. Still the brilliant young pianist with a world to conquer. A world made of honey.

Then my mother looks at me again and I wonder if she’s thinking about it too, the day in September when Cressy took her eyebrow tweezer and attacked her wrists like a wild animal backstage at Teatro Antonio Belloni. Thirty minutes before her turn to play “The White Peacock” on the stage pianists dream of, the same stage Mama conquered twenty years ago. Wilting on the floor of her dressing room like a white rose in a sea of crimson, the youngest-ever finalist of the Bocconi Competition, the doctor said another millimeter deeper and she would have died. Cressy laughed when she woke up. Like she’d meant to flirt with death. Like she’d won.

“What the hell are you doing?” I blurt. Not realizing I’ve spoken until the music abruptly stops. Two pairs of black eyes fixed on me.

Cressy stands. Dancer-smooth and dangerous, too, arms and legs the diameter of coins, layers of silk hanging off her, fabric scraps on a high fashion mannequin. A mannequin, that’s what she is, the figures made of wood and wire that I draw with charcoal pencils.

“Did you miss me?” Voice made of amber and syrup. Like the women in movies.

“You still have a week of treatment.”

My mother clenches a hand around my wrist. “There was nothing wrong with her to begin with and that idiot Dr. Fleming has finally realized it.”

“Mama, she’s—”

“I’m right here, you know.” Cressy loosens her hair from its knot and it slinks down over her collarbones, inky snakes tangled with stars. “You don’t need to worry anymore, Mara.”

The way she watches me. Brows arched and lips tilted and thorns in her eyes. I think of when I was five years old and she taught me to be afraid of mirrors, she said they’d eat my soul if I looked too hard, they’d make me fat and hideous and no one would want me anymore. The time after the skull men came at night, when she covered me with thirty pairs of scissors while I slept. To protect me, she said. Keep the monsters away.

“Welcome home,” I say. Sticky early-autumn heat pressing on my chest and no more sweetness, I taste something bitter and sharp. Blood on my tongue.

It’s me—I am bitter and sharp and my mouth is full of blood.

We eat at the table because Cressy’s doctor says inconsistency is bad for her, everything is bad for her, why didn’t we eat meals together and why didn’t Mama cook every day and why didn’t we sit at the big oak table. Our fault. My father’s most of all, is what the therapist said during our only family session. My mother and me at opposite ends of the long white couch, Cressy’s seat empty, Baba’s seat empty. Two out of four.

There is a meal plan on the counter but my mother took her own liberties, the slow cooker full of steaming chicken broth with chunks of tomato and mushroom, barely enough for two. She divides it into three glass bowls anyway, sets them down. Cressy folds into a seat and shows her teeth. A smile.

I pick up the laminated menu. Today is circled in black marker, Friday, October 8, measurements labeled beside each ingredient. 2 servings of potato. 1 serving of vegetables. 2 sandwiches with egg or ham. 2 scoops of ice cream. Or 290ml Ensure P.

My mother, smoothing down place settings and laying out spoons. Hasn’t yet shed her blazer from work, pressed and sharp and creased like origami paper, she acts like she’s tired of teaching but still treats it like a performance, pretty clothes and heels too high for lectures on music theory.

144

“I’ll be there.”

***

“This isn’t what she’s supposed to have,” I say. “It’s not enough.”

Mama doesn’t turn around. “I got the call to pick her up when I was on my way home from the university. If you wanted more, you should’ve come home and cooked.”

“That’s not—”

“Give your sister your portion if you’re so worried.”

If only Jason were here, if only he were here and he would hold my hands and my face and tell me lovely things, breathe, he would say, and I do, in and out and in again until I can’t feel my nails digging into my palms.

Cressy traces her lips with a nail, picking at a flake of dead skin. Peeling herself like an onion. “Can I have a gin and tonic?”

“Not on your meal plan either.” I drop the menu in her lap.

“Relax, Mara. God.” A pause. She grabs my sleeve, digs her nails into my skin through the knit fabric. “What the hell are you wearing? Is this mine?”

“No. I ordered it last winter.”

She shakes her head, brandishing her spoon at me with her other hand. “This is mine. When did you take it?”

“I didn’t.” Wrench my arm away from her, tufts of yarn tearing from the white cardigan and floating in the air. Suspended in space. “Don’t touch me.”

“Give it back,” Cressy snarls. “It’s not yours.”

“You’re lying.”

“Give it back or I’ll kill myself!”

“Girls! Enough.” My mother slams a hand on the table. Soup sloshing over the rim of each bowl. Spoons clattering. The huge diamond on her wedding ring flashing in the light, she only ever takes it off to play Mozart.

“Tell her to give my sweater back,” Cressy hisses.

I open my mouth and shut it again, fill it with dust and grievances and swallow it all back down. Breathe. Slip off both sleeves under my mother’s fierce, burning gaze and hand the cardigan to my sister. Mama isn’t looking at me anymore but Cressy is, eyes fixing on my shoulders and elbows and the sliver of skin between my shirt’s hem and the waistband of my jeans, she raises an eyebrow at me and doesn’t say a word. Then she turns into a mirror, cold and glassy and full of sorrow, and I see myself twisted and magnified and blown out of proportion and I want to shred that girl into pieces, I want to throw a stone through the surface and claw out my eyes so I never have to see her again.

“Watch out,” Cressy purrs at me. Hugs the cardigan close to her chest. “Stay away from my things.”

My mother twists her hair into a low knot and slides into her chair across from Cressy and me, both ends of the table are reserved for my father. Wraps both hands around her bowl. “Mara, leave your sister alone. She has competitions coming up.”

“Exactly.” Cressy stirs her soup, props her elbow on the table. Long sleeves hiding the scars that haunt her wrists. “Federov played like shit at the Bocconi finals. That man shouldn’t be allowed near Chopin.”

Ivan Ilyich Federov—ice blond, St. Petersburg Conservatory trained, nicknamed Little Tchaikovsky by the papers in Russia and New York alike. Rumors in the music world said Juilliard sent him enough letters last year to decimate a whole forest; if he’d accepted their offers, he would’ve been admitted to the same class as my sister. Instead he enrolled in the university where Tchaikovsky studied, and Cressy opted for a gap year, trading courses and lectures for extra hours of practice in preparation for the Bocconi. In the months leading up to the finals, she sewed dolls with blond hair and broad shoulders, stole tubes of my paints to make Ivan’s likenesses bleed. Cut off their fingers and displayed the stubs like trophies.

“Federov won,” my mother says. Obsidian creeping into her voice. “Not you.”

Cressy sneers. “Please, Mother. We both know I would’ve.”

“Watch yourself.” Mama arches a sleek brow. “I’ve won the Bocconi. You haven’t.”

As if either of us needed the reminder. As if the trophy by the piano isn’t reminder enough, casting gold glimmers through

the whole room, and sometimes I wonder how Cressy can stand to practice with it displayed right beside her, if it’s motivation or condescension or something else entirely. Mama and Cressy are a team, mother and daughter, Viviene and Cressida Song. Until something dark and cold wells up between them and then they turn to wolves, thrashing claws and flashing teeth.

My sister takes after my mother—the same spindlyproportioned hands, the same deftness with rhythm, the same violent dedication to music. The type of artist who’s willing to hurt and to bleed, who will cut corners off their souls to create something beautiful. But Mama faded, waned, a moon at sunrise. Cressy, the sun.

The screech of a chair leg on the wood-paneled floor. My sister’s soup still untouched on the table, chunks of tomato floating like war casualties.

As she stands, she tosses her napkin on the table and runs her hands through her hair, tresses turning liquid in her hands, light and shadow. Revels in her frailty as she turns her back to us.

“Zuo xia lai,” Mama says. Sit down.

“I’m going to practice.”

“Zuo xia lai!”

But Cressy walks away, placid, still as lake water, shoulder blades unsheathing from the straps of her thin slip. Soft steps. My mother’s face is made of stone, tight from anger and something the same color as envy.

The opening refrain of “The White Peacock,” trailing and spiraling into the room. Mama jabs her spoon at me.

“You’d better finish that,” she snaps.

By the time I do, she too is gone. ***

Night, rich and velvet, draped outside the window. Broken chords and careful cadences sing muted from downstairs. I bury my face in my quilt and listen, the melody of something falling apart.

The first time Jason came over, it was the music that he remarked upon, not the cream of my walls or the books on my shelf or even the baby photos in my white silk frames. Cressy’s music, waltzing up the staircase and sneaking through the door like an uninvited guest. This is what he noticed. Touched my face, my hair, I started unbuttoning my dress and he asked who was playing the piano, I said it was my sister and he sat back on his heels and listened. Hair turning gold in the dim light.

I used to fear he was going to fall in love with her because everyone always does. Boys, girls, men, women, they all look at Cressy like some rare art piece to bid on. Can’t help it. The reviews of her performances call her beautiful before they call her talented. Beautiful enough that the whole world wants a taste, the whole world wanted to own her until she cut herself open. Even Jason. Three hours after junior prom ended, we were standing in that hotel room, him in a tuxedo, me in my white silk dress like a wedding, and he was kissing me and pulling down my straps and pressing against me like he wanted to be inside of me at that very instant. Back then he still liked to put his hands and his lips on me, he’d parse my body and read me like a rare novel, and as we kissed I thought of the music—my sister’s eyes—her white dress—and I twisted away from him, I grabbed his wrists and asked if he wished I were Cressy too. Then his eyes filled with something clouded and gray, and we slept on opposite sides of the bed, still dressed. I never brought it up again.

Cressy stops playing downstairs, the music trailing off and tucking itself under the piano lid. Silence filling its space and pressing on my lungs, I grit my teeth and bite down. Stare at my blank canvases in the corner and watch them fill with dissonant colors. Like animated Impressionist works.

Those canvases. The future homes of my portfolio pieces—a lifetime of images compressed into twelve works, my ticket to a university a thousand miles away. Only three weeks left until the deadline and I’ve barely finished nine, charcoal studies and abstract paintings, maximalist. The star portion of the

145

portfolio still remains unfinished: three reimagined tarot cards with symbols from the Chinese mythology of my childhood, but every time I look at them I find something else missing. A crooked line, an empty space, most of all they are hungry for energy. The hardest correction to make.

My door creaks, swings open. Announcing the intruder. Cressy’s thin silhouette is drenched in shadow and I think of the story of the woman who climbed out from the depths of the sea. In the darkness, my sister’s eyes sink deep into the concavity of her face, cheeks disappearing, lips turning black. Only a skull remaining. She sits down on my bed and wraps my cardigan around her shoulders. Shivers like she’s cold. “I forgot how soft your sheets are.”

I watch her. The way she winces at each movement when she thinks I’m not looking. “Why are you home, Cressy.”

“Because I’m better.”

“No, you’re not. What did you do?”

A pause. The air tugging between us like taffy. Then Cressy laughs. A slow, bright, gritty sound. “I fucked him.”

“What?”

“He’s a bottom, you know. All men with mommy issues are.”

“Cressy—”

“Men are like animals. You should watch out with Jason.” She laughs again. Louder this time.

I stare at her. Breath coming faster and faster and faster and I’m going to run out.

“Oh, Mara.” She reaches out, presses her index finger to my lips. Traces my jaw with her thumb. Looks at me with those mirror eyes. “I know you didn’t miss me.”

I fucked him.

Him.

Who is he. Who is my sister.

CHAPTER 2

There is a pair of scissors on my pillow. When I wake they are waiting for me. Blades separated by a centimeter, a wide chasm between slits of metal, faint dawn lurking in the crevices. Close enough to puncture an eye and my first thought is the skull men before I remember Cressy.

Cressy, always one to run with scissors and play with knives, though eyebrow tweezers were a first for her. For years I was afraid of fire and she held matches with the flame twirling just above her fingertips. Drove through red lights and danced on bridges. I told myself there could be no more surprises and yet she still managed, the ushers were sobbing that day when they ran to find us, Mama was sobbing too and I was staring at Cressy’s body and I couldn’t even believe it was real. Face drowning in makeup until she looked like anything but herself. And her blood—lakes of it, oceans of it, seeping and staining and splattering her white dress with the color of dead roses.

In my hand the scissors sit, heavy and thin and cold like clutching an icicle, suddenly I want to hurl them far, far, across the room, through the window, shatter the glass, break in pieces. Slice the world into mirror shards.

Breathe. In, out, set down the scissors instead and twist my hair into a low knot, in, out, pad over to the bathroom, rest my hands on the counter. In, out. Stave off the riot in my stomach and the knife in my spine. Just one day and already I feel something beginning to snap, something tucked deep and damp and covered in teeth, wild, a woman like the ones Paula Rego painted. Faces contorted in the most hideous screams.

I don’t dare to look in the mirror today so I brush my teeth with my eyes closed and skip makeup besides creamy foundation, trade my white slip for a huge wool sweater. No chance of Cressy claiming this one—she’s always preferred cashmere over wool. I bury my hands in the sleeves until they disappear and make my way down the stairs, my sister’s door is closed but Mama is certainly awake, she’s like me, always rising while the stars are

still out to play. An old habit from when she used to compete, carving out extra hours of the day to practice when the rest of the world was still asleep.

From the kitchen there is the sound of something clattering, the dull clank of metal on metal. Dissonant. Not my mother. Acrid. The smell of burning. And faint humming, a familiar, aching tune, something by Lizst or Schumann or maybe Mendelssohn, I never managed to learn the difference between the Romantic composers no matter how many times Cressy performed their works. I pause in the arched doorway and watch as my sister dances around the marble-topped kitchen island in a long crocheted dress, mixing bowl in hand, hair twisted atop her head to reveal a pair of winged collarbones.

“Morning,” she sings. “Took you long enough.”

“Something’s burnt, Cressy.”

She gestures at a tray on the oak table, resting upon a stack of newspapers. “They were supposed to burn.”

I inch closer. One step and then another, something made of iron in my stomach. When I peer down at the table, the tray is covered with men. Broad shoulders and blond hair made of frosting. Every single one cracked from overcooking. The smell of matches. Jason.

No—not the eyes. Blue dots on the gingerbread but Jason’s eyes are green, green as forests and beer bottles from the brand Baba liked when I was young, green as sea glass and grass lawns. Can’t be him because he is mine, he needs me and he could never love my sister. Never. And tonight we’ll sit at the table, Jason and me and no Cressy in sight, we’ll hold hands and there will be nothing between us.

“Federov,” Cressy declares. Picks up a cookie and snaps its neck cleanly. Drops it back on the tray.

“Aren’t you going to eat that?”

She sneers at me and rolls up her knit sleeves. From beneath the knotted yarn, I see the jagged white lines carved into her pale flesh. “I’m not a cannibal.”

“It’s a cookie, Cressy.” The head she tore off is staring at me, searing my cheeks with its gaze.

“Fine. Help yourself, then.”

The head is watching me, still watching, all the others on the tray have turned their eyes to me and I blink once, twice, they don’t look away. Like they see right through my skin and into the tangle inside. Paring shadows into slivers. Cutting to the heart. They see my heart and I don’t want to know what it looks like.

“I’m not hungry.” I swallow the pins in my throat. They taste like scorched metal. “Where’s Mama?”

Silence. Cressy gives me a cat grin. Pointed teeth showing. Vampire girl. Drinking Ivan Ilyich Federov’s blood.

“Where’s Mama?” I ask again. Louder.

She runs a finger through the blond-colored frosting and wrinkles her nose at it. “God, Mara. Why should I know?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you put scissors in her room too.”

Finally Cressy lifts her head. Meets my eyes with those piercing brown orbs, vast and glittering and full of skies, and I turn away because it hurts to look at her. “Scissors?”

“Don’t pretend.”

“You’re imagining things,” she says. “I thought I’m supposed to be the crazy one.”

The open blades, the icicles in my hands. The way dawn danced on delicate lines, I know it. I remember it, I see it all, the red handles, or blue—no, silver—the blades—the metal—my nails dig into my palms, eyes squeezing shut and sparks whirling in the dark. Blue handles. Silver.

“Stop it,” I say.

“What scissors?”

What scissors. What blades. What handles. If I ran upstairs right now, would my pillow and dresser be empty, no scissors in sight. And suddenly I am terrified to know because would I doubt my eyes forever.

A pinch in my spine. Tears springing up. “Stop it,” I say again. Cressy in her beautiful crocheted dress, strands of yarn teasing her ankles. Ankles so small that I think I could snap them

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with a finger, the loveliest things are the ones that break fastest, I want to break her, I want to be breakable. Like her slashed wrists. Jason’s soccer injuries. Mama’s crumbling fingertips.

My sister leans back against the kitchen island and smiles. Slow and sweet. “You’re seeing things, Mara.”

Things. Things that aren’t real. Things made of smoke and dust and glimmers of light. Blinks of the eye.

“Why are you doing this.” On the table, the little Ivan Ilyich Federovs are still staring at me, tiny mouths turning to grins.

Cressy shrugs. Runs a finger up the ladder rungs of her ribs as if she’s counting them. I wonder if she is, I wonder if she knows what she’s saying, what she’s seeing. Then the way her lips twitch ever so slightly, I know she knows.

She knows.

Teeth digging into my cheek. Cannibal. Biting down until I taste iron and blood.

“Don’t you have to practice?” I say.

“Don’t you have a portfolio to finish?” A raise of an eyebrow. “When’s that due? Two weeks?”

“Three.”

Cressy sets down her mixing bowl and sighs. “You always were a slow worker.”

In, out. Breathe. I think of my paintings, propped on the wooden easels in the art room at school, red and blue and black and white.

Hours and hours and hours of mixing acrylics and sketching on canvas, only for a half-finished portfolio, an incomplete set of cards. Before the Bocconi, I’d paint in the backyard, shutting out the sound of “The White Peacock” and Mama shouting and Cressy playing the same notes again and again until her fingers cracked open. Still the minor harmonies infused themselves into each brushstroke. The one thing my sister and I share. After she went into treatment, the house hung suspended in quiet, like the sound had fled, like it had been drained from the air and everything that remained was empty and washed out. And how was I to paint in a home devoid of color.

“I should go,” I say. More roughly than I intend.

Cressy looks at me with languid eyes. Black as charcoal dust. Melting. Dripping. A tilt of her lips and the whole world begins to stagger.

God, I think I’m going blind. I hear Jason’s voice but then it’s gone again. In out in out feet fumbling up the stairs falling at the top. Crawl to my hands and there are my mother’s eyes, face twisted like when she sees the homeless men in the city, disgust, pity, revulsion, she’s always hated animals.

“Get up,” Mama says. Too loud.

Too loud. And where are the hands on my face, softness, sunshine, where. Where. Stumble into my room and heave for breath. Once twice again again in out. In out. Knees on the rug. Gleam of light in the periphery. Lift my head.

A pair of silver scissors, sitting neatly on the nightstand.

147

Jenny Hu

Twin Flames

Your mommy is a very bad woman, my father tells me when my mother and Cecile are washing the dishes. The sound of water rushing, dashing, slapping against bone china plates. The only good thing your mommy ever gave me is you.

He pats his knee for me to sit in his lap, and even though I’m too old and too tall and certainly too heavy for him, I do as he says, just so he might cast one of his elusive smiles at me.

I imagine my mother, a vast presence in the kitchen, passing Cecile my great grandmother’s porcelain with her round, tubby fingers. Thick fat folding over with wrinkles—the same hands she used to spank us with. In the sink, hot droplets crack the fine white bowls into fractured pieces. When I close my eyes, I see Cecile’s palms splitting open, the skin parting angry and red, like a pair of lips.

But, Daddy, I say, lifting my voice so the notes turn sweet and flowery and pretty as bluebird feathers. Daddy, what about Cecile?

The water in the kitchen is still falling fast, fast, fast. He squeezes my thigh, the palest part, soft and tender as a kiss. When I was small my father told me he was descended from kings, and for years I believed him because truly he looks the part: strong and shining and magnificent, sturdy arms from growing up in the fields outside the city, dark hair veering gray. In the mirror, it is undeniable that we share the same features—strong brow, sharp chin—and though they are more suited for a man than a girl, though the boys in Calculus mock me for them, I like how they mark me as his, how they make me feel so much closer to him.

Cecile, he says. Cecile is your mommy’s girl, and you’re mine.

My twin sister, after all, is the spitting image of the woman my mother used to be, all wide pale eyes and rosesmeared lips and legs stretching lofty, skyward. The ten minutes separating us could have been ten years; our classmates used to ask if we had two different fathers, and some days I look in the mirror and I believe it. Boys trail her home even on school nights, like insistent shadows. They grab the ends of her silken skirts and sniff her sweet perfume and hold her name between their teeth, chewing and gnawing on the melody of its syllables until their lips bleed. Most of all it’s her hair they love. Sometimes I watch through the curtain when they gather on the fringes of our lawn to stare at her, eyes turning hungry and wolfish as she runs a brush through her hair in front of her window, her tresses so thick and lush and light that they morph into molten gold. The kind out of fairy tales. Like Rumpelstiltskin’s treasure.

It is hard to picture it now, the fact that my mother, too, was beautiful once. Cecile’s golden hair, face smooth and clear and cheeks so bright they turned to pearls. And how she’d loved to dance, raising her arms in the air, twisting them like grape vines, wrapping my father in her snare. He keeps a photo from their honeymoon in his wallet—that is how much he still loves the woman she was. Even after her features began to melt and her skin began to sink, before two babies sucked her womb dry and her body became undeserving of him. Now, he pulls the picture out of the crumbling leather wallet and holds it out for me to touch. Look, he says, and then grows so pensive and silent that I take sweet pity on him and fill in all the words he keeps unsaid. Look how beautiful she was, and then look what she’s become, look how she’s turned unworthy of him, look.

You understand me, don’t you, Talia, he says, tilting my chin so I have to look at him.

I nod, and a smile spreads across that weary face of his, creased gently by time and dust but handsome nonetheless. Through the rattling skeleton of the house, I hear the water shut off. A vast, carnal sigh from my mother, her stomach certainly shuddering with her breath, and then the long, earnest croaks of the floorboards beneath my sister’s limber frame.

You, my father says to me, running his hand all the way down my back. You, you, you are my most favorite little girl in the world. Even without seeing her, I can hear Cecile, waifish and translucent in her satin robe, walking away from the cracked screen door in sharp, bitter steps. ***

At night, we lie in our tiny adjacent bedrooms, pressed snug in a corner of the creaking old house, the walls alive and whisper-thin, exchanging sounds between them like folk songs. Outside the window, the cicadas wail, swept up by summer air and drunk on moonlit rapture. My mother and father sit silent in their huge, hungry bed, silk sheets sleeping still in the space between them. And from Cecile’s room—radiant Cecile, who stole my mother’s youth and left none for me: rough, heavy panting, the undeniable rhythm of quickening breaths. Vast, hungry gasps for air. For life. For more.

When the heat and volume become unbearable, I lift my nightdress and pry myself open. Bare. Pale and untouched beneath the white glow of the round-faced moon. Cecile’s bed moans beneath her. I think of her, fist between her legs, head tossed back, eyes squeezed shut, hair fanned out, and I wonder how she knows so instinctively what to do, how to make herself cry out and lose her mind in a dream. If she learned it all on her own or if a boy showed her, placing his fingers on her soft skin and replacing them with his lips, lips she tries night after night to remember. Most of all I wonder if my father is doing the same: holding himself where my mother won’t, holding so tight, chasing his loneliness away. Loneliness, that pervasive, sick stench, clinging to our splintering ceilings and refusing to part.

I stretch inside of myself, as much as I can, faster and faster and faster to keep time with Cecile—chasing that secret ecstasy she is too selfish to share. If I try hard enough, I might find it first.

In the morning, Cecile sits on the kitchen counter, legs splayed apart, an orange propped between them. Perfect and pristine and fresh from our mother’s garden, still flush and slick with dew. Her hair spills, a cascade of sunlight, into her lap. When she sinks a curved pink nail into the skin of the fruit, sweet juice spurts out, spraying a sticky, wet sheen onto the granite and her pearly thighs.

You didn’t sleep much last night, she says when she sees me, and smirks.

Neither did you, I say. A hot, red stain spreading up my cheeks. When she stares at me I feel infinitely young, stupid, like a little girl instead of her twin sister. I think of when we were thirteen and I caught her behind the dumpster with a man in her mouth, eyes squeezed shut so she wouldn’t have to look at him, and I just stood there with my pink backpack straps digging into my shoulders, unable to turn away. When we turned seventeen last spring and she spurned our birthday dinner in favor of some college boy whose facial hair left burn marks on her cheeks. An empty seat left between my mother and me.

Now I sit down at the empty breakfast table, where crumbs have gathered and arranged themselves on the fogged glass, a circular stain where my father’s wineglass likes to sit. She shrugs. Swings all her hair over one shoulder. I wonder if our mother’s could ever have gleamed as brightly as hers does. It seems impossible. Improbable, unfathomable, that anyone could ever be lovelier than my sister.

148

Short Story The Seven Hills School Cincinnati, OH

***

I picture my father, majestic, sitting at his throne in our ancient house, passed down for generations—once a place to entertain godfathers and oil barons but now falling apart around the corners, cobwebs gathering in all the dark places. Then my mother, waltzing in with her bone china dishes and Cecile’s golden hair, flooding his world with light.

Tell Mom and Dad I won’t be home for dinner, Cecile says. She peers at me from between her pale, dense lashes, which are almost iridescent in the sun. A pair of flickering blue orbs hovering in the middle.

And even though I know she’s baiting me, even though she said it just so I would ask why, I can’t help myself. Where are you going to be, I say, throat thick with shame as the words escape.

She licks her index finger clean. Lips closing around it like a pair of accordion folds. Not that it’s any of your business, she says. Twists her finger between her teeth. And not that you would know what it’s like but I have a date tonight.

My legs freeze in the midst of their swinging. I think of the boys on our lawn, with their red shoes and white shirts and loose blue jeans. The way they laughed. The way they looked at her. Something hot and angry rushes through me, from my mouth all the way to the place where my thighs rub together.

I don’t care, I say, but my voice struggles to stay flat. You asked, she says. She stretches her legs out in front of us both, long and languid and luxurious. Citrus-scented smugness seeping from her skin.

Daddy doesn’t love you, you know, I tell her. Lifting my chin. Daddy doesn’t love bad girls.

I meet her gaze. The flesh of the orange turns pulpy in her grip. Her thin fingers and smooth, pointed nails. Even on the day she dies, I can’t imagine her having hands like our mother’s, heavy and pruned and fat.

Grow up, Cecile says. Too nonchalant. It sounds gross when you call him Daddy.

She places a half-crushed crescent between her lips and sucks until it’s dry. ***

Cecile is gone by six in the afternoon, whisking her way out the door in a fog of sweet perfume and sparkles in her hair, white dress trailing soft and cloudlike behind her. In her wake, our mother patters around the dining room with a pair of yellow oven mitts, apron tied loose around the layers of her waist.

Look, Dad’s favorite casserole for dinner, she tells me. Your sister usually helps me set the table, you know.

I watch her thick, meaty lips flap over her teeth, and I stay in my seat. On the table, the dish sweats; hot, salty steam filling the air with grease.

I think of the picture in my father’s wallet, the one I’ll never resemble no matter how hard I wish it. My mother, barely older than Cecile and me, dressed in a crepe-thin gown next to the ocean, water rippling and alight behind her, like a piece of sequined fabric, twisting and shining and gleaming. Her tiny dancer wrists, held forever suspended in the air.

Who do you love more, I say all of a sudden. Me or Cecile.

She pauses. Oven mitts still braced on her hands. What kind of question is that, she asks.

Everybody has a favorite, I say, leaning back against the wooden frame of my chair.

She is silent for too long. When she finally speaks again, her voice is tired. Not everybody, she says as she retreats to the kitchen, her apron strings dangling miserably at her sides. Not everybody.

metallic and awful between my teeth, hot blood flooding my mouth. I wonder if our mother knows. Better yet, our father, who will cast his dark eyes upon them and send him fleeing far, far, far away, away from our midnight sanctuary, our house always lovelier and safer at night, as if the darkness masks and warps and creates secret possibilities within its lush folds.

I can imagine them, panting and delirious and overjoyed, stumbling in a haze through the living room window because Cecile and I both know how the front door screams when it opens. Him, strong and vibrant, pushing his cowlick from his eyes, shoulders rope-taut with excitement and dread and longing. Longing dripping off her in shimmering pools. She looks at him, lips parted, smelling the desire in the liquid sheen on his face, and she grabs him, pulls him close, laughing, laughing…

No. Because abruptly the laughter is no more, replaced with the swinging of her bedroom door, the heavy footsteps of a man.

Those footsteps, I’d know anywhere. Suddenly I’m sitting up, shivering, a chill passing through my body as if a draft of wind. The quilt discarded around my ankles. Already abandoned. When I stand, I feel the wetness between my legs, sticky, growing cold in the night air.

The aching, groaning floorboards, sinking beneath my bare feet as I slip out of my room. Rubbing against my skin. I step soft, careful, so the house won’t alert them to my presence.

The door sits just barely open, swaying, a sliver of silver light oozing out from the crack between it and the wall. Moonglow leaking in a puddle on the hardwood.

Oh, Daddy, Cecile is whispering. That zesty, sweet voice of hers. Daddy, I’ve missed you.

Why did you wake me up, it’s the middle of the night, he says. Gruff. Almost hoarse. A note to his speech I’ve never heard before. I miss how you used to tell me bedtime stories, she says. She uncrosses her arms from her chest and lets her hair fall, smooth, around her shoulders. Her slender neck swept full of starlight.

He clears his throat. Sits on the corner of her bed, the mattress crying out beneath the new weight. Bending and arching beneath him.

Aren’t you a little old for bedtime stories. His voice is quiet. So tender my chest hurts.

She shakes her head. Gold flakes seem to tumble out with her every move, her hair snaring what remains of the light, framing her face in an angel’s glow. I’m still your little girl, she says. Places her hands on his shoulders, slides them down. I’m still your little girl, just like Talia.

A sound escapes him like a groan. A long, deep, wrenching sigh, his brows branded deep into his forehead.

My beautiful little girl, Cecile, he says, finally. Something low and electric and hungry pulsing in his words. My stomach thrumming, against my will, in response. He is mine, mine, mine, my father, and here she is, stealing him from me. How dare she call out to him. How dare she ask him for stories. For fairy tales, magic. Witch, that’s what she is. Stealing first our mother’s beauty and now our father’s secret smiles. It runs in her blood, her beautiful hair, and now she has done it, she has bewitched him just as our mother once did. My father, our father. Tearing his love right out of my hands and swallowing it straight to her heart.

Just as he speaks, Cecile twists her head. Turns almost all the way around until she’s facing that slit between the door and the wall, the slit behind which I hide. So slight and yet impenetrable, the window between my world and theirs. With my eyes pressed to the crack, I watch as he tangles his hands in her hair, over and over and over, glowing, and in the middle of all of it, she meets my gaze and smiles.

Just past midnight, I wake to Cecile’s voice, cloying and sugary, trailing through the walls. Laughter: glittering, silver. Weaving its way through the house like fairy dust.

It is the boy, I am certain of it. Sick, sick Cecile, bringing him into our home. Our hallway. I taste something bitter and

It is nearly morning by the time I return to Cecile’s room. Feet protected by slippers, metal in my hand. Her sheets are rumpled. She lies alone, wrapped in a thin layer of satin, sweat slick on her forehead, her cheeks, her upper lip. Without the

149

***

bravado of waking hours, she looks painfully young. Untouched. Like we could say we were twins and people would believe us. For a moment I pause, almost turn around. I could return. Lie back down. Laugh about it in the morning over orange juice and my mother’s stale toast. But I think of my father’s low voice, and finally I step forward and take my place beside her bed.

As Cecile sleeps, her hair splits silken and smooth between my fingers. Glowing faintly, like daybreak. Then falling in sheets against the cold metal of my silver scissors. Rumpelstiltskin’s gold, shining and breathless and insistent, reverting once more to straw.

150

Corine Huang

womanhood: enfleshment for laolao

girl with pickled skin / and rigid hair, fingernails washed off. the river / seasoned with fresh tungsten, fresh / beams of light. / do you remember the taste of water / as well as / you remember its scent? / can you describe it / to me? girl doesn’t budge / until she is called. girl turns over / teethed bodies and reflects. when i was still / young, i liked to form my palms / into the shapes of pebbles / and cover them with salt. i measure my strength / in the grains, seduce them / like a chiromancer. / my bones spangled / with splintered insects; my bones made / out of napalm; my bones / photographed, a dark mirror of honest / lullabies. / girl, is this what it means / to relinquish? in the first / stage, i became / the flowers, the cheeks, the texture / of a second language square across my / tongue, blooming / my lips full of silt, / striating the skin until it glowed. / in a second, i am / cut. / i don’t bother trying my mouth / when it’s ugly. sometimes / it resembles a mermaid’s tail / and i don’t have the heart to say / otherwise. / girl, have you ever been sick? / have you ever been poor? / is it ever so airless / that you need to wash yourself? / does it ever hurt / when you turn around? / not everything is something new. not everything / is something. / the problem is in beginning / the story with a girl / and ending with portraits. when you picture daughters, do you think / of something dead? / girl so in love / with her back that it paralyzes her. girl alone with the river, / leaking. / girl / is a collective, is gorgeous, is lost; is willing / to lose her tongue / in order to lose her body.

151

Poetry Stevenson School Pebble Beach, CA

152

for the

Kaylie Hudson Photography Stivers School

Arts Dayton, OH

2022

Deconstruction of Man Series 3 of 5

Silver gelatin print

Caitlyn Iaccino

Interview

After Franny Choi’s “Turing Test”

//how do you define yourself?

i am woman/derived from man/derived from scales and sweet juice/i emerged from cave bellies/gloriously sinful/gramma said/scarf down the pages/for your esophageal horror/in this utopia/we were made/to scold peaches/bleed on grass/with lady parts//

//what is your name?

two-faced slut/pancake/pain-in-the-ass/fatass/no ass/nerdy bitch/bound-to-be-raped/from a young age/i earned many names/on the street/at school/my pet names surfaced/i was collar-bound/with kicks aimed at my no-no square/& apologies wheezed/through front-tooth gaps/but if you want/you can call me woman//

//what was your life like growing up?

i grew up/a spaghetti noodle/bending to will/to words spoken/to words unspoken/twirling them around butter knives/poking at kale/smiling with crooked teeth/saying sorry about my messy bangs/they’ll grow out in a year or so/i think you like that/you have to like that/my life craves purpose//

//but, you have choices, right?

choice is a funny word/it rolls off the tongue like cinnamon/it chokes me sometimes/government-controlled/i can only reproduce/by 5 & 10 & 13/i was adult/hunching under spitballs/stomped on by dress shoes/i am baby-maker/by choice of man/tell me how you tell/little cousin cindy/she has to bear a son//

//what are you going to do about that? in mama’s words/no gas station past 7 P.M./only dad can go/the devil only appears/when rules are violated/so i’ll become a daisy/on the living room counter/perched with rosy cheeks/for your viewing pleasure/i’m sure someone/will throw me out/but for now/i am woman/there is nothing i can change//

153

Poetry Louisville High School Woodland Hills, CA

Madhalasa Iyer

Mozhi

“Language” in Tamil

America sings that this land is your land and this land is my land, But no, we say, this land is not your land. This land is only my land.

because land is a verb that means to have, because land is not a noun that can be shared, because land is not an adjective that means unity. land is a possession, a word, that has no other meaning other than the one given by the person who holds it.

In Tamil, we say language is Mozhi

We bite into the zh, like we bite into the piece of an apple, And we chew our language up, The skin of the words getting stuck between our teeth, The muffled pronunciations and broken words, Until we swallow each syllable, piece by piece Letter by letter.

All I wanted was America.

But I was told that for America to want me, I couldn’t speak the way I did. I scrambled to change myself

I shunned away from the dosas my grandma used to make, her skin turning browner at every flip, like the excessive burn on the sides of sweet potatoes.

My mother held her tongue,

But my mother’s tongue and my mother tongue Both twisted itself out of the cage Until I embraced my identity.

When we say the pledge, I place my hand on my heart And hear my heart thumping and imagine the beautiful undulations Of the red, white, and blue as it rises over adversity. The country stands for all the right things, Yet our actions slash the flag and dim its once Red, white, and blue colors, and sniff away the flame that burns In Liberty’s torch.

If we feel caged in this land and cowardly in our homes, Then America is not the land of the free or the home of the brave.

154

Spoken Word Plano Senior High School Plano, TX

Arihant Jain

155

Visual Arts Mountain View High School Mountain View, CA Competent Apple Procreate and Apple pencil 2022

Shnayjaah Jeanty

The Lakehouse

Florida has a rotting wound for a mouth, and Julys like this were exactly what it had for lunch. A serving of crushed mosquitoes with a side of redneck insanity is best served in humid, pre-tropical storm weather. Sara’s sweat slicked into adhesive as her t-shirt clung to her shoulder blades. Aunt Mae slanted herself against the doorframe of her lakehouse, her wrinkles forming a harsh arch over her eyebrows.

“Get back inside and finish cleaning the rest of the rooms. You know, idle hands are the devil’s tools,” she chided, the cross on her chain glinting in the sunlight. She rose from her position against the doorframe, gesturing for her niece to come back inside the house. Sara swallowed her spit down her reddened, swollen throat and made her way through the door.

Embellished with pastel fairy stickers and stained stuffed animals, Sara’s designated room in Aunt Mae’s house was merely a mausoleum of her childhood. She outlined the scratches on the corner of her dresser, recalling all the wood-induced scars on her face from bashing her head into it as a kid. The last time she slept in this room was 7 years ago, as a fourth-grader begrudgingly spending Thanksgiving break at her aunt’s.

The doll at the foot of Sara’s bed caught her attention first. Out of every word to hover in the Florida heat, perfection was the only word that attempted to describe the doll’s beauty. Its milk-washed skin was unscathed, save for a constellation of freckles splattered across its cheeks that made Sara want to scrape her own mellow-brown skin off for a lighter shade. Its curls appeared to be composed of tiny slivers of the sun, glistening in tight ringlets around its flushed cheeks.

Without knocking, Aunt Mae swung the bedroom door open, equipped with a pill bottle and a mug of orange juice.

“I forgot to give you your medication.” Aunt Mae’s voice trailed off as she set the items down on the dresser and ambled over to Sara’s bed.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Sara knew better than to stray from the prescribed script of complete obedience under her aunt’s roof. Pleased with Sara’s curt response, Aunt Mae placed two powderblue pills on the flat of her niece’s palm, urging her to take them in her presence. Sara rubbed at her runny nose before emptying the contents of her hand into her mouth. Once she was satisfied with Sara’s pill-taking, Aunt Mae hurried out of the room, being sure to lock the door behind her.

The click of the lock granted Sara the freedom to spit her pills into a napkin and set it next to the doll, wiping the bitter taste off her tongue with the front of her blouse. Hoping to wash away the remnants of the medication, she took a long swig of her orange juice, swiping the tangy liquid from the corners of her lips.

The sky-tinted flecks in the doll’s eyes pooled with lacquer and ulterior motives, making Sara wonder how something so lifeless could harbor such palpable malice. Its cherry-toned smile curled a degree too high, and the thin, tan brows etched above its vacant eyes tilted just enough to create the impression that it was the reason Sara’s mother died at the tender age of 30. It was perched on the bridge that Sara’s mother fell from, drinking in the stench of fear like a tall glass of cool water.

It was also a witness to her sister Gwen’s death, sapping the color from her sibling’s glowy bronze skin and adding it to its own. At least that’s what Sara believed— the doll seemed to grow increasingly beautiful with each death of her loved ones. Their cold blood deepened the red of its lips, their once vivacious spirits brightened its “warm” eyes, and each limp coil of hair only made its fuller and more vibrant.

Moonlight and the beginnings of a storm began to creep into Sara’s bedroom window, thunder booming against the soles of her feet. She shuddered, stumbling back and bumping into the foot of her bed. Sara could hear her aunt clicking her tongue at her, at the fact that she had been burdened with her sister’s highstrung child, but rationality couldn’t prevent the terror that set into her bones as she locked eyes with the doll for a second time.

Sara inhaled the muggy air deep into her lungs, exhaling and dismissing her intrusive thoughts before softly treading across the noisy floorboards of her bedroom and through her window, eager to let the water at the dock wash her problems away.

The water glittered and blushed under the moon’s admiring gaze, shuddering in rapid-growing halos around Sara’s ankles as she relaxed under its caress. A steady shower of rain splashed onto her skin and she struggled to prevent a smile from swallowing her face. Her fingertips explored the ridges along the dock, tracing the lazy circles as the melodies of the hurricane season harmonized beautifully.

A gust of wind skated past the curvature of her ear and she swiveled her neck to meet an electric-blue glower that could only belong to that wretched doll. Its feet barely grazed the wood as its eyes swirled with all the souls it had absorbed. The words she spoke were unintelligible compared to the thunder of Sara’s heart and the incessant rain of her tears, an indestructible storm unapologetic for the chaos in the confines of her mind. To Sara’s dismay, the doll began to move, animated and swift against the harsh winds and rain. The weight of a generational curse churned in her stomach as the doll shoved her into the lake, falling with her as Sara struggled to inhale.

The skies cracked and oozed ultraviolet electricity, screaming into the night as rain fed the raging ocean. Storm-stained tides ravaged her body, obeying the moon’s every command. Sara thrashed against the water’s possessive hold and desperate waves crashed into her skin relentlessly, a silent plea for her to breathe. Her lungs’ greed for oxygen won the war against her brain and she gasped for air, water attacking her insides with the vengeance of all seven seas. Her prayers for mercy fled her lips in bubbles and burst before they touched the surface. Soon, death tinted waves reached into her lungs and ransacked her body for any sign of life to find none.

Once the sun painted the floorboards a warm yellow, Mae turned the key to Sara’s bedroom door, pushing it open. Sara had a significantly altered reality of how her mother died that day, and Mae had decided that was a far better alternative to knowing the truth. Mae rattled the orange prescription bottle in her hands, prepared to continue her daily routine of handing her niece her anti-psychosis medication. Following her sister’s murder, Mae heard crazed muttering about a doll for months before she decided to get Sara professional help. On her bed lay a rumpled tissue. Sara’s aunt rushed over to the foot of the bed, gasping as Sara’s softened prescription meds rolled out of the napkin.

156

Short Story Charles W. Flanagan High School Pembroke Pines, FL

Shnayjaah Jeanty

in which charles darwin actually heals the black community adaptation

noun.

in evolutionary theory, adaptation is the biological mechanism by which organisms adjust to new environments or to changes in their current environment.

according to this theory, the black boy’s heart won’t be a guinea pig tested by a screaming pistol his ribcage will fuse into a bulletproof vest if UV rays cannot desecrate his skin cells, neither will lead his life won’t end as quickly as his news coverage police brutality will not be a natural cause of death his windpipe will not be a step stool for the white cop america will not build an example out of his corpse

according to this theory, the black boy will have no range of motion in his neck his body will not allow him to do anything but hold his head high the diameter of his mouth will widen to cradle both blackness and pride his eardrums will beat deafening percussion in response to “ghetto” and “thug” his only racial representation will not be “beyond scared straight” or “60 days in” he will not think that silver shackles are the brightest his future will ever be

according to this theory, the black boy's salivary glands will secrete caffeine his teeth will clatter into alarm clock for the crowds who are “tired” of his social justice poetry for those who say that Black Lives Matter is “exhausting” for the “woke” allies who swear a black instagram post cancels out 400 years of darkness the black boy and his species will know too much revolution to "rest" in peace

according to this theory, the black boy will reproduce asexually his mother will not mistake her womb for a casket red and blue lights will not blind his father into deadbeat he will not measure his daddy’s absence in grams and dimebags the law will not make a slave out of him this black boy, like bacteria will multiply and multiply and multiply his people will never be divided again

according to this theory, the black boy will be genetically predisposed to alzheimer’s the blackest thing about history is that it is forgotten and maybe the black boy deserves to forget too

according to this theory, the black boy will be white there is no evolution in an environment where your skin is treated like a predator but shot like prey his mistakes won’t receive a life sentence he will not be the product of “wrong race, wrong time” the sidewalk will not be his deathbed

according to this theory, the black boy lives and it is only a theory

157

Spoken Word Charles W. Flanagan High School Pembroke Pines, FL

Fiona Jin

Fiona Jin would quit crocheting on the first day

whereas jinfuyuan would knit a full patchwork sweater, maybe gift it to her pessimistic counterpart over poem-writing in porchlight. jinfuyuan flies American. Fiona Jin is on her mother’s United Airlines Platinum status and sports uncomfortable J. Crew blazers in the lounge. jinfuyuan tried so hard to wrap it well and sorry for the Christmas bells, my family isn’t American (Christian). Fiona Jin silently slits the package open with her pinky finger and says here is a papercut. Here is my violence

jinfuyuan has plump lips, always speaking, and cannot knit. Fiona Jin has plump lips, always bleeding, and likes sweaters. They also have a secret triplet, 金芙源1, who rarely drags herself out of her room these days, who has dark eye bags like danger until she is lured out by the candied haw every Chinese New Year. Her closed-mouthed laughs so crystalline she might crumple inwards and break. The other two are in awe. On the floor: the battered wrapping paper, the sweater baggy with holes, the tarnished silver needles. Fiona Jin publishes poems. The other two fight her to write them.

158

Poetry Adlai E. Stevenson High School Lincolnshire, IL 1. 金芙源: a Mandarin name, the romanized version of which is jinfuyuan.

Annie Johnson

Her Body as Exotic Fruit

I am fourteen years old and feel like I’ve just been punched in the stomach by a stranger. I feel every inch of force in her metaphorical knuckles, every twitch in the sinew and bone as it collides with my body, even though, in real life, her knuckles have not come within a mile of my stomach because she goes to a different school and I have never met her and she does not know my name.

My mother likes to compliment my competitive spirit but it’s all fun and games until your body decides to stop breathing. It’s the letter that does it to me. Of course, I had heard things before, through rumor and word of mouth and archived College Confidential message boards.

But when I see the letter, slightly blurred by the flattened pixels, adorned with hand-drawn hearts and emojis, suddenly her victory becomes real. This is really how it looks. This is really how it feels.

It’s a letter of acceptance to one of the most prestigious summer writing programs in the country; the Super Bowl of nerdy teen girls who spend their free time writing collections of poems about all of their hungers and yearnings. A letter that I spent hours waiting on. A letter I never received.

She got in. I didn’t.

I replay the Instagram story. I replay it twice. I take a screenshot and scour every word. I imagine this is how Victorian wives must have felt, reading love letters from their husbands who would never return from the war.

If I was beaten by some kid from a private arts school or a strange, exotic place like California, I wouldn’t really mind that much. At least they have an excuse: money. But this kid is different. Her name is Jenny Xia and she goes to public school, the same district as me and everything. She only lives ten minutes away. She has no tutors, no connections, and no advantages. Effectively, we are the same, save for one distinguishing factor: raw talent. I feel like I’m going to puke.

Eventually, I work up enough courage to reach out to her. I hide my jealousy thinly, behind a veil of caps-locked messages and heart emojis.

‘CONGRATULATIONS GIRLY!!!! so so proud.’

She replies almost immediately: ‘THANK YOU AHHHH! ur too nice lmao’.

I see an opportunity here and, like some kind of predator with springlocked hindquarters, I pounce on it.

‘so like, what’s ur process??? for applying to these places?’ After a pause, I add ‘totally ok if u don’t want to answer lol’, just to ensure all of my bases are covered.

‘omg … well the writing samples are like really important’.

I can’t see her, but I imagine her body draped over a sofa somewhere, one of those fancy ones, with tassels. She has a pipe balanced precariously over her fingers, and she takes long, slow drags to fill the spaces between replies.

“they like strong opening sentences, like hooks, y’know. and strong closing sentences too.” Her voice is smooth and polished. She wiggles the pipe on her knuckles as she speaks. “and they like artistic structures + vivid scenes. and they like it when you jump around in time. and they like it when u mention fruit for some reason. and birds.”

I double tap on all of her messages, adorning each one with a little heart. She types something, stops, then starts again.

‘ur asian, right?’

‘half. on my mom’s side. we’re rlly whitewashed tho,’ I reply.

‘omg u have to write about that. they love it.’

‘about being asian?’

‘ya’ ‘wdym?’

‘like … idk lmao. like, write about your immigrant pain. about your grandma or how u were bullied in elementary school for eating rice or something like that. make sure to use ethnic names, too!!! and include some foreign words in there. they eat that shit right up.’

I pause; blink twice. ‘is that what u did?’

‘well i submitted a lot of samples. but they only rlly liked the one about being asian. lol.’

I am ten and my mother is in her bedroom, talking to my Halmoni on the phone. A poet would have something to say about this, three generations of women all speaking and listening and communing in the sacred exchanging of words, but I am not a poet yet so I don’t say anything. The lights are off behind the door. I linger outside, trying to catch fragments of their voices, drifting through the frame like smoke. Hearing my mom speak Korean is a special occasion; a rare, once-in-a-year event, kind of like Christmas. The words sound strange in her mouth, in her voice. There’s an aspect of it that’s unreal. But at the same time it’s oddly comforting, a reassuring reminder that my mom is, in fact, Korean, and is not just a white woman with dark hair and slanted eyes. As such, I am reminded that I, too, come from Koreans, which is easy to forget sometimes.

I don’t understand a word of what they’re saying, but I pretend that I do. I trace careless fingers over the imagined thread of their conversation. Now they’re talking about the weather. Now they’re talking about money. Now they’re talking about me. After a few minutes of this, she finally says something I can understand: “Bye, Mom.” There’s a silence, a rustling of fabric, some footsteps. When my mother opens the door, she jumps.

“What are you doing?”

“I just wanted to listen to you guys.”

“Why?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I ask “How’s Halmoni?”

“She’s fine. Same as ever.”

She walks to the kitchen and selects a box of pasta from the pantry. I sit at the table and shred a napkin into small strips, thin and delicate, like ghosts or petals. “Why didn’t you ever teach me Korean?”

“I don’t see why it matters.” She slides pasta into a pot and fills it with water. “Who would you even speak Korean to?”

“You.”

“We can speak English. We don’t need to speak two languages.”

“Halmoni.”

“You never see her.” When the pot is brimming with water, she puts it on the stove and sparks it to life. Pale blue flames lick the underside of the metal. “It’s useless.”

“Why don’t you ever cook Korean food?”

“You refuse to eat it. Remember that stew I made, on the new year?”

“That was too spicy.”

“All Korean food is spicy. Why are you asking so many questions? Don’t you have some homework to do, or something?” Thin wisps of steam float off the top of the pot and disappear into the air, formless, quieter than a breath.

“I don’t know. I just want to feel more Korean, I guess.” My mother stirs the pot three times. A water droplet flies off the top and lands on her thumb, but she doesn’t flinch. She just flicks it off, stony-faced. “I don’t see why.”

159

Creative Nonfiction Dublin Coffman High School Dublin, OH

***

After a few days, Jenny texts me an addendum: ‘u should write something historical!! or about ur family. they’ll loooove that.’

I am twelve and a writer, though I don’t like to see it that way. The word ‘writer’ is just so derivative – I am a creator of worlds, a master of craft, a goddess, an artist, a visionary. My magnum opus is a 250 page warrior cats fanfiction entitled “The Quest of Shadows: Dark Horizons - Book One in the Midnight Sun Saga.” It occupies around 80% of the space in my brain at all times.

My Language Arts teacher is displeased with this. She wants to open up my mind. “You should try some other types of writing,” she says. “Poetry. Short fiction. Play writing.”

I spend the next few days reluctantly crafting a story about a magical girl escaping from an abandoned laboratory and toppling the government. It is thirty-seven pages long, single spaced, font size 10. My teacher reads it with her lips pressed together.

“It’s good,” she says, with her voice all slanted so I know she’s lying. “But it just feels a little … big.”

“Big?”

I still don’t fully understand, but I am young and dumb and eager to please, so I try again. I write a story about my sister, how she used to chase me barefoot through the backyard, fistfuls of hollowed-out cicada husks half-crushed between her fingers, and I screamed and screamed, terrified of things that couldn’t hurt me, things left behind. This time, when I offer it to my teacher, she smiles.

“Oh, this is good,” she says. “This is really something.”

I like the feeling I get when she says that, like I sliced a chunk out of myself and that chunk has something literary about it, something of value. So I don’t stop. I cut myself up until I can no longer tell which meat came from my body and which meat came from my mind.

A few months later, I start submitting to journals, and compile a diverse menagerie of rejection letters from various sources. Some of them come with feedback attached. One very special day, an editor of a local magazine takes the time out of her day to write me an email.

“You write that your sister’s name is Nari,” she says. “Is that a middle eastern name?”

“No. It’s Korean. Nari as in ‘Genari’, as in forsythia, in English.”

“That is so beautiful and exotic! I didn’t know you were Korean.” Then, she adds “You should submit something that better reflects your authentic experiences.”

I change the piece, so that, instead of teasing me for being nerdy and obsessed with horses, the school bullies tease me for being Asian. And, instead of making up in the end and gaining a new understanding of each other, I endure my suffering in silence because I know that, in the history of my family, nothing has ever changed and nothing ever will. Because I am Asian, I am doomed to be a victim of racism forever, and this burden is so great that there is no hope that I can ever find happiness, but also, as an Asian woman, I cannot properly express my rage due to societal pressures, so I am doomed to silently weep my crystal butterfly tears into my small, bird-like finger bones. I also replace the word ‘Mom’ with ‘Eomma’. The piece is accepted into the magazine.

never been to Korea, and I probably never will, since if we go, we’ll have to buy presents for all the aunts and uncles and one hundred cousins nobody’s ever heard of, and take that agonizing 17-hour flight, and the whole thing would just get really expensive so we might as well just stay home and watch some TV.

She tells me that, when people ask me where I’m from, I should say “Dublin, Ohio.” We practice it together, nice and slow, working all of the syllables across our mouths. “Dub-lin Oh-hi-o.”

The next day at school I tell Meredith that I’m not from Korea, actually, and I show off the words I worked so hard to perfect. She gapes at me, blank-faced, then returns to the arduous task of coloring inside the lines of a picture of a horse.

When the weather turns cold, we take our first spelling test. I miss three words: ‘restaurant’, ‘beautiful’, and ‘believe’. Meredith misses zero words. She tells me this, very proudly.

“I scored higher than you!” she says, and laughs. “I thought Chinese people were supposed to be smart.”

In the far and distant future, at interviews and panels and marches for equality, I will recite this moment as the worst thing that has ever happened to me. I might even embellish a little, say that she called me a chink and a dog eater and squinted her eyes at me and told me to go back to my own country. I will say this is a testament to the failure of the education system in our school district. I will say all this with a sort of justified fervor, a heroism, as if I am speaking out against injustice against Asians everywhere, as if my voice could ever carry that far. And the people listening will smile and nod and say ‘What a brave girl’, and they will want to put me in their newsletters and pose me in their pictures and post me on their FaceBooks because I am just so young and tragic and vaguely ethnic-looking but not too much so, and in listening to me, they understand my struggle and uplift my voice and acknowledge my pain and make amends for the long and turbulent history of Asian oppression that haunts this country. All this because they are smiling and nodding so, so politely. In the present, though, I am eight, and I do not know any of this. I laugh with her. ***

I am sixteen and remember the advice I have been given, re Jenny Xia, re writing, re writing about being Asian. I write a story about my Eomeoni and the suffering she endured to come to America and make a life here, about her secret yearning to return to her people with their exotic paper lanterns and their Chuseok rituals and their beautiful, foreign culture. For several sentences, I liken her body to a piece of exotic fruit. Her hanbok like the silky wings of the wise cranes that streak across the watercolor skies, and also our ancestor’s spirits. Her eyes, all brown and misty like the fog over the Korean mountains. Not any mountains in particular – just Korean ones.

After getting my acceptance letter in the mail, I text Jenny Xia again. It’s been a year, but still, she tries to act excited.

‘omg congrats it was soooo fun ur going to LOVE it!!!’

‘ahaha i hope so. thanks for the tips btw. i did what u said.’

‘omg glad i could help!’

‘yeah lmao. the funny thing is tho, idk if my writing genuinely got better or if it’s just what i chose to write about lol.’

‘wdym?’

‘like idk. i just keep thinking, if i wrote about anything else, would i have still gotten in?’

‘ohhh lol yeah probably not’

‘why?’

‘wdym?’

I am eight and an object of great confusion for my thirdgrade class, who is just starting to learn about a world outside of Ohio, ex. California, ex. Mexico. My classmate, Meredith, asks me if I came from Mexico, and I say no, I came from Korea. She asks what that is, and I’m not sure how to answer her, so I say nothing. She asks me if I’ve ever been there, and I can’t really remember if I have or not, so I say ‘Yes’.

Later, I go home, and my mother tells me that I lied. I have

‘why do you think that is? why do they want you to write about being asian?’

‘oh idk lol they probably just want to know about like your identity and stuff’

‘there’s other parts of my identity tho’

‘well i mean yea. but they like it when you write about other things too!! like about being gay or about being a woman. stuff like that.’

160 ***

***

‘yeah but like ,,, isn’t there more to me than that? why does my voice only matter when it’s about all the ways that i’m oppressed?’

There’s a pause. When I see that Jenny isn’t typing, I add ‘lol’.

The list of kids accepted into the program is announced officially on FaceBook in an artistically-formatted PDF, with links to writers’ selected works. I suck on the inside of my cheek and sift through them.

Kelly Choi writes about the racism and oppression she endured during the global pandemic.

Ryan Thomspon writes about his first kiss.

Jungja Lee writes about Japan’s rape and occupation of Korea.

Mackenzie Smith writes about her relationship with her younger brother.

Kevin Zhang writes about how his grandfather’s leg was impaled by a piece of shrapnel during the Vietnam War and yet the folks back home still called him a gook and a rice eater.

Kayley Roe writes about the best summer of her life.

At the first meeting, we position our chairs in a closed circle and the adjudication panel emerges from the woodwork to tell us how incredibly proud they are. They cannot believe what stellar, stellar young people we are, and are amazed by how much we’ve accomplished in such a short amount of time, and they hope we will continue expressing our true, genuine selves through art, forever and ever until the end of time.

All of us clap, and a white girl emphatically sobs how lucky we are to be a part of a program that cares so much about uplifting our voices.

161

Annie Johnson

A Backwards Crawl in Arkansas

Somehow I was certain that nineteen would be the year to end me. My greatest fear came to life. I landed Professor Julep as my advisor. Three months later, I dropped out of college. This was back when Sandusky’s was still open, back when my days began at 5:30 AM and with a slow stumble to my car, a temporary blindness until my low beams divided the dark into thin slivers. Irene and I always got there early to mix Flavor of the Day. She waited for me outside the door with her foot propped up, swinging the keys on her fingers. I think she wanted me to keep that image of her, as if to say, Yeah, you can’t get in without me, what are you gonna do about it?

Irene wasn’t the real boss, of course, that title went to Trevor, a wiry thirty-something who spent most of his time talking about the girls he’d take in the back of his truck. I wasn’t the kind of girl who’d ever be caught dead in the back of his truck, and I think he always hated me for it. I saw Irene back there a couple times, and he always liked her better. Irene brought in the tips.

We kept our heads down in chilled silence through fistfuls of sugar / chocolate chips / caramel pretzels. On a good day I’d stay until two, maybe three at the latest. On a bad day, like the fourth of July or when a Little League game was happening, I’d be scooping Birthday Cake Surprise into cones until the tendons holding my knuckles together gave out. There was no central air so the back of my shirt would end up a mosaic of sweat and sugar. It wasn’t so bad, though. Sometimes, when I worked the counter, peoples’ wrists brushed me when taking their napkins. Sometimes friends from high school texted me. They mostly sent messages like “Why’d you do it?” or “This isn’t you.” One time I got recognized.

It was an older man, and he squinted at me and said, “Aren’t you that girl who writes poetry for the paper?” And I said yes, but that I hadn’t in some time now. And he nodded and said, “Busy with school, huh? I remember those days.” And I didn’t correct him because I didn’t want to.

After he left I retreated to the freezer and tried to write my first poem in three months.

The cold was pressurized there, it was renewing. Every breath came slippery and easy. In twenty minutes I settled on a title: “Already A Stranger To Myself.” Before I could get any further, Trevor discovered me and gave me a very serious lecture on the importance of good customer service.

On the drive home I usually stopped by Professor Julep’s house and imagined throwing a brick through his window. Instead I parked under a streetlight and waited for his window to go dark, then waited a little longer. I never quite figured out what he was doing in there but I always imagined him sitting at his kitchen table grading papers. He’d make sweeping strokes across his students’ poems, poems with titles like “Murder Zone, Oklahoma” or “The Butterfly’s Glass Sobs” or “ARISTOTLE DAUGHTERHOOD”. Then he’d crawl into his bed and listen to his bones crack and pop against each other for a while.

This was living from January until August. I grew intimately familiar with resentment as well as ice cream, the taste of it. I probably snuck around six pints of ChocoMoose from the freezer and only sold a total of four. I’m telling you, I wasn’t like Irene. I didn’t make tips.

Irene was one of those girls who pulled little strands loose when she tied her hair back, to frame her face. She did it even back in high school, even though it was totally impractical for doing double back handsprings or whatever else cheerleaders do. I think it was to compensate for the fact that, if one were to view a population density map of her name, there would be several large clusters around the nursing homes in the area. People always forgot that, though, when she got in the backs of their trucks.

Then they didn’t care if she was Irene, or Jenny, or goddamn Queen Elizabeth the third.

She was the type of person I pictured when I imagined a college dropout. At fifteen if you had told me we’d end up working in the same place I’d have laughed. Do you think Robert Frost or Sylvia Plath ever worked thirty hours a week at a regional ice cream shop? But as long as I didn’t think about it too hard, Irene and I got along just fine. We liked to play this game where we guessed what customers would order before they got to the counter. Little kids gravitated towards Cotton Candy whereas older gentlemen preferred Butter Pecan. Something about the taste just brought them back, I guess, to those Butter Pecan days when college cost a dime and all girls needed were wide hips. Those were the people I expected to recognize me, but none of them ever did.

In Sandusky, everyone’s face is the same. That half-dazed, permanently sunburnt look reminiscent of a blind infant the moment before its first breath. After getting into college, I swore to god I’d never return. My parents taught me to swim by throwing me into the deep end of the pool. My whole life, I swam. I thought I was good at it. By nineteen, I couldn’t keep up.

There was this one really shitty night. The air was warm and gummy outside Professor Julep’s house and I found myself with locked fingers, unable to put the key in the ignition. My brain was thinking sleep and bed and 5:30 AM next morning but my fingers were thinking about Professor Julep’s pen slashing across someone’s paper, slicing strips, opening wounds. I memorized his handwriting after reading and re-reading his comments on my poetry. The deep ‘U’ in Uninspired, the sweeping ‘l’ in Cliche, the double ‘f’s in See Me Office Hours 4PM. Some more words crawled from his lips while I sat in front of him, words like The spark is something you have to be born with and I think you should reconsider your position in this program and Spell CAT, C-A-T. And sure, he never said ‘drop out of college’, but I was a writer. Words are just puzzles. I knew how to read between the lines. Eventually my fingers woke up and I got the hell out of there, but I slept too long the next day in consequence. I pulled into the parking lot muttering curses; of course Irene was already there when I arrived, talking to Trevor. Their heads snapped towards me when I walked in and for a second they just looked at me the same way a wild animal might observe a zebra it’s about to devour.

I waited to be yelled at or fired or something, but instead, Trevor waved me in. He arranged me and Irene in a line, shoulders brushing. And he broke the news: the place was shutting down. Some kind of health code violation. The Food Safety Inspector reported twelve more rat hairs and eight more cricket legs in the ice cream machine than regulation. God bless Sandusky and God bless America.

After our shift Irene and I sat down in the freezer with two pints of ChocoMoose, because what the hell did it even matter anymore? As we shoved sweetened fingers into our mouths we felt the low rumble-hum of the compressor fan shudder through our bodies.

“You know, it could be worse, really,” Irene said, because she was always saying cliche things like that. “I’ll find a job someplace else. My brother works in the auto shop and they need a new desk girl.”

“Sounds exciting,” I said.

“How about you? Where do you think you’re going after this?”

I am dying after this, I thought, but instead I said nothing.

“Back to school, do you think?”

“No,” I said. “I dropped out.”

“Really? You? That’s a shame. I always thought the stuff

162

Short Story Dublin Coffman High School Dublin, OH

you wrote was really cool. I mean, it was weird, but it was, like, artistic, y’know?” A short pause. “Do you think you’ll ever re-enroll?”

“It’d just be the same thing.”

When she finished her pint, she left the freezer. I waited for her to come back. By the time I took the hint, her car was already gone.

On my last day at Sandusky’s, I finally got recognized again. He knew me from Julep’s workshop class. He was one of the older kids, with an apartment and a fiancée and everything all figured out. I didn’t remember his name but he wrote a lot about homesickness and trees. He lived in Marion. He was visiting his cousin, he said, and wanted to stop by since they always used to come to Sandusky’s when they were little. When I told him we were closing up for good, I thought he might start crying. Instead, he offered to buy me a drink.

He waited outside puffing vapor while I begged Irene to let me take my break early. He asked if I had a fake I.D., I said no. So we sat on one of the benches outside and watched the sky darken and turn over. The final hours of Sandusky’s Family Ice Cream were quiet. Stars unsheathed overhead. Crows cawed. It would be autumn soon.

“Old Julep,” the boy said. It was too late to ask his name. “God, what a guy. He didn’t try to scare you off in office hours, did he?”

“Not until my third poem.”

“Jesus. What’d he say to you?”

I shifted in my seat. “That I was no good. That I didn’t belong there. That I was wasting his time, and my own. He said that I’d be better off somewhere else. In business, maybe, or accounting.”

The boy laughed. “What did you call your first poem again?”

“A Backwards Crawl In Arkansas.”

“Yep. That’ll do it. He always hated stuff with state names.” He leaned back on the bench and crossed his arms like the whole world existed to satisfy him. “I don’t know how he seriously expects people to listen to him. Like, ‘Oh, let me just give up on my dreams because you told me to.’ But he came around by the end of the semester, didn’t he? I didn’t see you in class the last couple months, where were you?”

“I, uh, couldn’t make it out. Pneumonia.” I coughed loudly.

“Mm. Sucks. At least this year’s a fresh start, though. Have you started scheduling yet?”

“No … not yet. But I’ve been thinking about it, though. You?”

“I’m going to grad school.” He crossed his legs. “Julep’s my advisor.”

We talked for a few more minutes. Before he left, he gave me his business card and said to keep in touch. It was a good business card, all clean and professional.

Connor Trosky: PhD Student, Artist, Visionary. Trosky346@ gmail.com. https://www.troskywrites.com

I crumpled it into a small ball, savoring the crush of the cardstock between my fingers, the tightness in my hand. There was something so dramatic about the whole thing, yet also something strangely pathetic. I wanted to rip it up into a million pieces and throw it in the garbage, but the business-card-ball was the perfect size for my pocket. Like fate meant for me to keep it. And how can I argue with fate?

Irene found me crying in the freezer that night. I couldn’t help it. There was just something so necessary about how the moisture froze over my eyelashes, about how my screams turned to mist and evaporated in front of me before they were done leaving my mouth. That was how Irene found me. Mid-scream. As soon as she opened the door I fell silent.

She looked at me for a moment, eyes sweeping over every plane in my face. I wondered if anyone had ever looked at me for so long before. I wondered what she saw. Then, wordlessly, she left the freezer. I was worried I’d scared her away again, until she returned swinging her car keys around her fingers.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go for a drive.”

The floor of her car was littered with umbrellas and plastic bottles that floated every time she hit a speed bump. She sped

through every yellow light. The windows were down and the sound of the radio was sucked outside but I could still feel the bass thrumming in my feet. I clung to the safety handle like it would do a goddamn thing. The AC was toothless and warm. I blurred my eyes to give the streetlights a dizzy sort of look.

We passed Professor Julep’s house and for a moment I let the pain eat me alive. Forsythia bushes sprouted on the side of the highway. Most of the branches were brown and wilted, but a few anxious yellow clusters spidered off the top in long shoots. They broke my heart. They continued to live.

Irene laughed and cranked up the radio. I imagined myself buying a house somewhere sunny. She made three left turns. We reached the city limits.

163

Myra Kamal

Gravity

“There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground; there are a thousand ways to go home again.”

some days are heavier than others, the skins you leave behind impressions of a past you sculptures of flesh and light like signatures you misplaced in mother tongue the word is heavy when you cannot pronounce it. The Urdu alphabet like trees in a forest I’ve been trying to climb. Back home Nani waves eggshells around our heads like fractured moons in orbit. A ritual of entering the atmosphere, suspension in space, the oxygen you take with you. I’m still pulled towards the soil even if I float farther away.

Our people have often put fabric to the ground to eat on a dustarkhan our bread tangled with daffodils, our hunger tangled with wild grass.

to pray on a janamaz our heads so close to the ground that we can feel the entire weight of heaven on our backs.

My sister and I pray together, face the Ka’bah and all else in between: billions of people, our garden trees with the cups of hummingbird nests, golden fruits ripe with worship.

It’s heavy, this halving of a fruit, a sun bruised apricot falls to earth

Translations

*dustarkhan- communal tablecloth making up a traditional space where food is eaten

*janamaz- prayer mat

164

Poetry Rancho Solano Preparatory School Scottsdale, AZ Rumi

Andrew Kang

Hoarding

We took what we could get. Filled the garage with old chairs, musty shirts, canned fish, five pressure cookers. When neighbors moved away, they’d leave their belongings behind, sometimes in cardboard boxes on the street, sometimes lingering near the neighborhood dump. Then we’d swoop in. This was superior to thrifting, since it was absolutely free and you could find more than just vintage clothes: a nice lavender shampoo, a pair of teal couches with the extendable footrests, and vitamins (we were puzzled—who just throws away vitamins?), and, since in our neighborhood it seemed that some family was moving out every two months, our garage was stacked.

It began before we lived here, before our apartment days, before St. Louis, before Harlem, before Quincy, where my parents had stayed in the 5th-floor attic of an old professor’s house, essentially freeloading. Before Beijing, before even the streets of Baotou, where nobody had anything to throw away. During the Cultural Revolution, Grandma had been kicked out of her family home, and at eight, fled, itemless, to the mud slap of countryside. She lived by scavenging. When she arrived in the U.S. to help raise me, she was astounded by how wasteful Americans could be—how in China, nobody could afford such excess, could throw so much away. In Mandarin, we called hoarding 捡东西, which translates to “picking stuff up.”

We picked stuff up.

But we weren’t that poor anymore—my parents had degrees, could afford clothes and food. Grandma kept hoarding. Unable to read English, she brought back expired yogurts and Cheez-Its in her haul, which we ate anyways. She’d take the stroller (this, of course, she also had picked up) and saunter out in the middle of the day to come back with it full—I imagined passersby watching her, their eyes as they’d focus in on the stroller, then what was inside: not a baby, but a stack of clothes or worn shoes or most humiliatingly, bright containers of condiments—a squirt bottle of honey mustard, which she thought might save a grocery run.

This was her resourcefulness, our resourcefulness, and I hated it—did we really need all this stuff? Every time Grandma came home with another load, we switched out the old with the new, or rather the old with the old—we lived so exhaustingly, I thought to myself, so hungry for things, like we had no pride.

As her heart condition worsened, she heaved as she walked—and kept walking, as though it was survival. When she’d grown weaker, she’d take me to the different dumps, and I would roll her stroller and slow my pace. I was angry, resentful she had turned me into this—thank god it’s dark out so people can’t see us, we’re beggars—until the stench of the garbage was unbearable—I couldn’t hold it in.

“Why do you have to be like this?”

Grandma’s gaze fell into the distance, countries away. “Child, I’m not going to be here for much longer,” she said. I remembered how her visa had expired years ago. “I’m doing it all for you.”

All of it, I thought, a waste.

But when we got home, we poured everything onto a table and rummaged through our findings. Grandma took out a necklace from the pile, put it around her neck, and rushed into the bathroom. I couldn’t help but stare at her image in the reflection, her fingers caressing each marvelous fake pink pearl, as she turned to me—don’t I look pretty? And undeniably, she was.

165

Creative Nonfiction Gilman School Baltimore, MD

Andrew Kang

I Will Waste My Life after

James Wright

Up ahead, there’s a carillon chiming past the streets and straight into the sea. I climb my way to the bell tower and stare at the Corinthian columns. The lettering on the stone, plaques ivy has overgrown, all those famous, ghastly faces, and I, alone: afraid to recognize myself among them. In the summer, my family and I go up to the Vineyards, rent bikes, pack cantaloupe only to slurp piss clams, good tourists that we are. I pedal fast, wheels cricketing on gravel, so my parents won’t catch up, weighed down by the melons. I see everything ahead, the huckleberry garden, the gold-kissed bell-flowers lining the driveways of this white-ivied town— every window creaking with light, overflowing, colonial. Sea spray clings to my sweat, waves crashing— write that down, write that down. Carillon chiming past and for a moment, the water stills, judging how I skip over every reflection I see, my face growing vines, how I hate the sound of my voice, how it skipped over my parents, pulsing forward in the air, how it tapped the surface of water before sinking. I skip only to wade back through the ripples—to pry them open for flesh. How I dip my tongue in and lick. Then skip home. I sink into a hammock. It curdles around me; a wave. The piss clam: salt, cream, rip, tang, flash, face, tongue. My mouth, stinging.

166

Poetry Gilman School Baltimore, MD

Ari Karlin

167

Hommerdings Digital photography 2022

Photography School for Advanced Studies Homestead Campus Homestead, FL

Marissa Kelley

Traitor

Setting: Present-day / Places specified throughout

Characters

MAKENNA: Age 14, in a relationship with Jayden. She is witty, sweet, and somewhat quiet.

JAYDEN: Age 15, in a relationship with Makenna. Deeply insecure and egotistical. Loves his mother.

JAYDEN’S MOM: Age 40, Jayden’s mother. Believes her son can do no wrong. Very religious.

MAKENNA’S MOM: Makenna’s mother. Has a strong relationship with her daughter but has never had to tackle a situation like this before.

COUNSELOR 1:Basic counselor.

COUNSELOR 2: Basic counselor.

STUDENT 1: Makenna’s closest but skeptical friend. Probably just there for the tea.

STUDENT 2: Makenna’s friend.

STUDENT 3: Student.

STUDENT 4: Student.

JAYDEN’S AUNT: The “cool” auntie.

TEACHER 2: Classic writing teacher.

VOICE: “Voice” refers to office staff on an intercom.

MS BOLTON: A supportive, almost parental figure to Makenna. Spanish teacher.

ENSEMBLE STUDENTS: Middle school students doing middle school things like gossiping.

Scene Breakdown

Scene 1: Jayden, Makenna, Makenna’s Mom

Scene 2: Students, Makenna, Jayden, Ms. Bolton

Scene 3: Makenna, Jayden

Scene 4: Ms. Bolton, Voice, Makenna, Jayden, Counselors, Makenna’s Mom, Jayden’s Mom

Scene 5: Jayden’s Mom, Makenna’s mom, Makenna

Scene 6: Jayden’s Aunt, Jayden

Scene 7: Jayden

Scene 8: Makenna, Jayden, Students

Scene 9: Jayden, Makenna, Makenna’s Mom, Counselors, Ms. Bolton, Jayden’s Mom

Scene 10: Teacher 2, Makenna, Students

Scene 11: Makenna, Students, Teacher 2

Note

- The flier in scene 11 would ideally read something like: “WALKOUT 6/3/22! OUR SCHOOLS MUST CHANGE. WEAR RED ON 6/3 TO SUPPORT OUR CAUSE.”. Also, Makenna would wear whatever color mentioned on the flier to symbolize her support for the walkout.

- Any character can double as a student except for JAYDEN and MAKENNA

Playwright’s Note

The set of Traitor should be highly minimal to highlight Makenna’s story. You can allow the characters’ words, stage directions, costumes, and minimal props to speak for themselves. Each scene is meant to be a “flash”, highlight, or picture of Makenna and Jayden’s experiences. Each character in this play is a human in real life. Each of them has an endless story for the actor to delve into. Each word, mention, and direction is intentional and is meant to be analyzed as the play comes together. Thank you so much, reader, for taking your time to understand my story and for handling it with care.

Scene 1

MAKENNA: It was a Monday when it happened. June third, Two-thousand nineteen. I was 14, then. We were 14. It was the second-to-last week of school, the air was warm, final exams were wrapping up, and the excitement about summer was growing, just like the pit in my stomach when I was on the way home from school that day. Mom, I have to tell you something, but you can’t tell anybody.

MAKENNA’S MOM: Yes honey?

(Notification ding)

JAYDEN: Hey Kenna, sorry if I made you a little uncomfortable today. I didn’t mean to, but why were you acting so weird?

MAKENNA: So weird?

168

or Script

Play

Thomas Dale High School Chester, VA

MAKENNA: That night and the next morning, everything was fine, mostly. The idea of telling somebody at school and getting Jayden in trouble made my stomach turn the same way it had in the car earlier that day. Maybe I’ll talk to him about it one day soon, but for now, it just doesn’t matter.

(MAKENNA and MAKENNA’S MOM exit)

JAYDEN: I was probably around 14 then. Nothing could have prepared me for the last month of my 8th-grade year. I thought I was a good kid. I made straight A’s, I played sports. Hell, I even thought I’d found a solid group of friends. Who knew I’d get suspended for the rest of the school year. I feel guilty. I really do. For myself. I feel guilty for letting myself trust Makenna. Guilty for letting her stab me in the back like she did. I feel the most guilty that my family ever had to get involved. I’m sorry that my mom couldn’t save me the way she wanted to. A little piece of me wishes I’d told somebody the truth about what happened. That could’ve made things easier.

Scene 2

(A classroom)

MS BOLTON: Repeat after me, clase. “Lunes, Monday”

STUDENT 1: Lunes, Monday

MS BOLTON: Good. “Martes, Tuesday”

STUDENT 2: “Martes, Tuesday”

JAYDEN: (Nudges MAKENNA’s shoulder) Hey, you’re Makenna, right?

MAKENNA: Yeah!

JAYDEN: Right. My name is Jayden. I just wanted to let you know that you’re really pretty. Here, (He slides her a piece of paper) this is my snap.

(Lights fade to blackout. A school bell rings. Lights fade up, MAKENNA & JAYDEN enter.)

MAKENNA: I’m just saying, you could’ve been a gentleman and let me win last night!

JAYDEN: Ay, what can I say? I’ve been playing that game since I was a kid!

(They sit.)

STUDENT 1: Ugh, you guys are too cute.

MS BOLTON: Hola clase, we will begin in just a few minutes.

(JAYDEN “practices” putting his arm around Makenna. As soon as he prepares to do it “for real”, she turns to-)

MAKENNA: Jayden, I really really like you.

Scene 3

JAYDEN: Hey, you’re okay, right?

MAKENNA: Yes, I’m fine.

JAYDEN: You don’t seem fine.

MAKENNA: Yesterday, you-

(In school. While walking, JAYDEN reaches for MAKENNA’S hand, which she swats away.)

JAYDEN: You know yesterday was just an accident.

MAKENNA: Sure.

169

(MAKENNA sighs. MAKENNA’S MOM freezes. JAYDEN paces back and forth.)

JAYDEN: Makenna-

MAKENNA: Jayden. You know I’m not a touchy person.

JAYDEN: Oh come on. You know it’s not gonna happen again. I didn’t even mean it like that. I’m not some weirdo.

MAKENNA: But if I asked you to stop, you should’ve stopped.

JAYDEN: Okay chill. You’re making it sound like I raped you or something. I knew you were nervous about the test; I was just tryna comfort you.

MAKENNA: Jayden-

JAYDEN: Just promise me you won’t tell a ton of people and make this a huge thing.

MAKENNA: Whatever Jayden.

Scene 4

(A classroom)

MAKENNA: Ms. Bolton, I just don’t even know how to feel right now. I love him, I thought. I don’t want him to get in trouble. You know what, I might not even tell anyone else, but thank you for listening.

MS BOLTON: Oh, hun, you are a strong, independent girl. You know what’s right and what’s not. I’ll stand with you every step of the way no matter what you decide.

VOICE (offstage): Ms Bolton, can I get Makenna Preyer to the main office, please?

MS BOLTON: Do you know what that’s about?

MAKENNA: No.

(MAKENNA moves to an “office.” JAYDEN, COUNSELORS 1 & 2 Enter. MAKENNA and JAYDEN are in separate rooms; a split stage.)

COUNSELOR 1: Makenna, I received an email from your mother. She told me what happened between you and Jayden Simmons.

COUNSELOR 2: I need you to tell me everything that happened after 4th period yesterday.

COUNSELOR 1: Everything.

MAKENNA: Well,

JAYDEN: Things were fine yesterday morning Until she started acting weird. I was just walking with her.

MAKENNA: Until I told him I wanted to walk alone.

JAYDEN: I was just trying to make her feel better.

MAKENNA: I asked him to get his arm off of me.

JAYDEN: I mean, I don’t even really remember after that. I guess she looked upset.

MAKENNA: I was crying.

JAYDEN: Man, I left her alone after that.

(MAKENNA’S MOM and JAYDEN’S MOM enter.)

MAKENNA: Be followed me to my locker. I told him to stop touching me. He wouldn’t let go of me.

JAYDEN: I barely even touched her. She’s my girlfriend! How could I touch my own girlfriend wrong?

COUNSELOR 1: He said he barely touched you.

170

MAKENNA: There were people around. You can ask anybody.

COUNSELOR 2: Jayden, I need you to tell me the truth.

JAYDEN: I didn’t do crap. Whatever she said, she's lying.

MAKENNA: I’m telling the truth. Mom, you know what happened. Tell them what happened.

JAYDEN: Mom? I can explain.

Scene 5

(MAKENNA’S MOM consoles MAKENNA)

JAYDEN’S MOM: Jayden Lee Simmons. Are you stupid? Are you seriously stupid, Jay? Is this what I’ve made of you?. Getting yourself in trouble over that girl!? What is your sister going to think when she finds out her little brother is letting females ruin his life? Ruin your life. This really has. Have you ever thought about your future, Jayden? Think about your career. What are your teachers going to say? What about your friends, our family? What would God say if he saw you right now, Jay? You’d better fix this. And you- (to MAKENNA) stay away from my son. (MAKENNA breaks into tears)

Scene 6

JAYDEN’S AUNT: Hey nephewwww.

JAYDEN: Hey.

(In a car)

JAYDEN’S AUNT: Hold up. What’s wrong with you?

JAYDEN: Nothing. Just shit going on at school.

JAYDEN’S AUNT: Someone’s messing with you? You know I’ll beat someone’s ass, right? I don’t care if it’s some little boy, a girl, a teacher! You know I don’t care.

JAYDEN: No. Nobody’s messing with me. It’s my girl.

JAYDEN’S AUNT: The one you told me about? From Spanish class? Uh, what’s her name.. Madison?

JAYDEN: Makenna.

JAYDEN’S AUNT: Right. What’s going on?

JAYDEN: She’s tryna say I touched her wrong. I didn’t think she’d tell anyone but here she goes. They got the principal on it and everything. Called my mom up to the school, too.

JAYDEN’S AUNT: I don’t understand Jay. You’d never do something like that.

JAYDEN: Yeah. I guess I’m just nervous. What if they suspend me? What if this shit goes on my record.

JAYDEN’S AUNT: Huh? Why’re you nervous? Did you do what they’re saying you did?

JAYDEN: No. I didn’t.

JAYDEN’S AUNT: Well okay then. You have nothing to be nervous about.

Scene 7

(JAYDEN is playing a video game, speaking to a friend through his headset.)

JAYDEN: Yeah, I don’t know man. Girls, right? You heard what? Oh, man, I never even did anything, for real. You should’ve seen what she was wearing. Tell me she didn’t want it. It's not like Ima get in trouble or anything. What’s that quote? “Fool me one time, shame on you,” right. Yeah, bro, she’s done. She’s messed up, for real. And now she’s acting weird. She won’t talk to me like I’m the one who did something wrong. I mean, when it comes down to it, who are they gonna believe? I know my boys got my back.

171

MAKENNA: Hey, I wanted to-

(MAKENNA enters with STUDENT 1)

JAYDEN: Liar. (He puts his earbuds in and shakes his head. exits.)

MAKENNA: How could he act like this is my fault? I feel terrible. W- why are people looking at me like that?

STUDENT 1: Honestly, Makenna, I think we’re all a little confused about what happened.

MAKENNA: Confused?

(As MAKENNA exits, a crowd of STUDENTS forms around her asking questions.)

STUDENT 3: That’s Makenna, right? Aye Makenna, what’d Jay do?

STUDENT 4: Yeah, tell us what happened!

MAKENNA: Just stop it! I mean, my own friends are telling me things like-

STUDENT 1: Well, Kenna, I don’t wanna take sides, ya know we don’t know what really happened.

MAKENNA: All I can think of is stories I’ve heard like-

STUDENT 2: I spoke up! I wish I never did.

MAKENNA: And things on the news like-

STUDENT 3: Public presses for even more jail time for man convicted for sexual assault.

MAKENNA: My walks through the hallways consist of-

STUDENT 4: Oh hell no, you’re the girl that got Jay in trouble.

STUDENT 1: Is she gonna get her own boyfriend suspended?

MAKENNA: I look in the mirror and all I can think is-

STUDENT 2: How could you do this to me?

STUDENT 3: Why would you do this to me?

STUDENT 1: Can you even hear me?

STUDENT 4: Can anybody hear me?

MAKENNA: Everybody says-

STUDENTS 1: Believe victims!

STUDENT 2: You can speak up!

STUDENT 4: Sexual assault is real, even in relationships.

STUDENT 3: We will support you!

MAKENNA: But nobody talks about how terrible it feels to hurt someone you love.

Scene 9

(JAYDEN and MAKENNA are in their rooms, texting)

JAYDEN: Why? That’s all I wanna know. Why did you have to start such a shit-show? I didn't DO anything to you. And even if you think I did, you did not have to tell anyone. We could’ve talked about it but no, instead you want to act like a…. psychopath. (“sent message” sound effect then, a “received message” sound effect)

172 Scene 8

MAKENNA: I’m sick of it.

JAYDEN: I really am sick of it.

MAKENNA: I’m so tired of crying,

JAYDEN: I could scream.

MAKENNA: I wish I could just scream. But I can’t scream. Everybody expects me to be okay. But I notice all the dirty looks I get in the hallway. I know the awkward conversation I’ve had with all my teachers to let them know why I’ve been spending every school day in the principal’s office this week. My own mother doesn’t even feel comfortable hugging me anymore. Like I’m a shaken-up soda can ready to burst at any moment. Do you really think I wanted this?

MAKENNA: Why don’t you ever think?

JAYDEN: This is all your fault.

(JAYDEN EXITS. Then, a knock on the door.)

MAKENNA’S MOM: Honey? (hugs MAKENNA.) Oh, honey.

(COUNSELOR 1&2, MS BOLTON, AND JAYDEN’S MOM enter.)

COUNSELORS, JAYDEN’S MOM, MS BOLTON: To the parents of Makenna Preyer

COUNSELOR 1: On June 3, it was reported that your daughter, Makenna Preyer, may have been involved in an incident where she was the victim of inappropriate sexual conduct by a male student, (JAYDEN enters, confused)

ALL 4: Student A.

COUNSELOR 2: Camera footage reveals-

ALL 4: Student A

COUNSELOR 2: Touching Makenna while walking up the stairs.

MS BOLTON: Camera footage reveals Makenna pushing-

ALL 4: Student A

MS BOLTON: Away from her.

ALL 4: In Student A’s written statement, he denies touching Makenna in an inappropriate way.

JAYDEN’S MOM: Student A has been issued an out-of-school suspension.

JAYDEN: An out of school sus-?

COUNSELORS: Makenna and-

ALL 4 PLUS JAYDEN: Student A

COUNSELORS: will not be in any classes together for the remainder of the 2018-2019 school year.

Scene 10

(In a classroom. MAKENNA holds a flier.)

TEACHER 2: Make this assignment what you want it to be. You can make it about something meaningful to you, or about something fantastical and funny. There is no right or wrong answer.

(MAKENNA takes one more stare at the flier. She takes a breath, then begins writing.)

173

TEACHER 2: Okay juniors, who would like to read next?

(MAKENNA raises her hand)

TEACHER 2: Makenna, awesome. Go ahead and begin your introduction.

MAKENNA: (Reading off a sheet of paper) Hi. My name is Makenna Preyer, and this is my play Traitor about sexual assault. This happened to me in 8th grade, 3 years ago. A lot of things have changed since then. We drive cars, work jobs, have new friends, and separate lives now, but what happened to me in 8th grade will stay with me no matter how much my life has changed. If you asked him, Jayden would probably give you a vague description of some trouble he got into in middle school. However, I am plagued with the parasite that is June third, two-thousand and nineteen, and the moment I lost autonomy over my own body. Although I can never forget, I can forgive myself and heal. I’ve written this play to prove to myself, and all the boys and girls who have struggled with sexual assault, that you can find peace.

(ENSEMBLE snaps/claps softly)

TEACHER 2: Thank you. Scene 1, please.

MAKENNA: Ahem. It was a Monday when it happened. (blackout) June third, Two-thousand nineteen. Fin

174 Scene 11

Alexis Kim

175

New

Digital

2022

Photography Avenues New York

York, NY Quiet Corner

photography

Erin Kim

halmoni (grandma)

i. nail-clipping

crescent moons fall from my silver clipper with faint clicks, building a pyre on warm ondol floorboards. across the room grandma catches the small sound from a waterfall of english listening exercises buzzing from her radio. your nail so thin. why don’t you eat your vitamin?

as she rises from the unfinished red sweater she’s knitting for me, i catch the flap of her wrinkled skirt, the ghost of mothballs and garden dirt. when she returns with a glass of milk and five vitamins nestled on a plastic preschool plate, i refuse. it’s fine.

ii. five

on may 10 at five a.m., when white flower petals descend and grandma awakens, it’s our birthday. grandma endures oil splashes while frying seafood pancakes, frothing a tomato yakult smoothie. she embarks on the fifty-five minute bus ride to my seoul apartment.

before gangnam-gu, dogokdong, grandma makes her way through the crowd of seoulites. the tornado of youngsters surrounds her when she falls from the bus steps to the street. honking horns & ambulance sirens & the shouting bus driver & red unspooling on the ground.

iii. red

winter returns & it’s time to clip my fingernails again. i sit on the same ondol floor where the milky-colored nails trickle like tears. i wish i hadn’t wanted good food for my birthday. i wish i had taken the vitamins & corrected her english when she asked me for help.

it’s the day of grandma’s surgery & i clip my nails too far down. blood brings good luck, she said. i hold grandma’s needle and stitch the sweater into a blanket for her legs, her oil-stained skirt.

176

Poetry Phillips Academy Andover, MA

Jin Kim

Smile Together, Be With You Never

He was always smiling.

I never understood how he managed to do it.

It was impressive, considering the number of meds he was taking. Anxiety, depression, and insomnia. That combination would not have been good for anyone.

Yet, there he was. Always smiling.

Mark used to say it was because he wasn’t right in the head. But that couldn’t have been true. If he wasn’t right in the head, Mark would have never been best friends with him.

But even if he was smiling, he was constantly hurting. He loved the sea only for its storms, and greenery only when it was scattered among ruins. “It’s like me,” he would whisper to me in the dead of the night.

I didn’t understand the hurt. I had just started at the same school, excited to live without my parents. I was learning through what I saw but never understanding why. I thought he was happy - happy with high school, happy with his family, happy with me and Mark.

I didn’t see how he thought his future was a dark corridor, and at the far end the door was bolted. I didn’t see how that would come to be true.

Now, as I’m writing this, I realize how obvious it was. His behavior that I never understood back then is making sense as I type this.

I remember the times he would lock himself in his room and not come out. When those days came, I would call Mark back home.

“He’s not coming out,” I would tell him, sniffling while holding back tears.

Mark would come running back from wherever he was. He would shake his head and knock on the door, signaling his arrival.

“Hey,” he would say.

Then he would open the door, revealing a room with the curtains closed, lights off, and a single lump on the bed. I realized then he would have liked not to be alive, or to be always asleep. I wasn’t allowed in, nor were our parents. Only Mark was allowed. Half an hour later, he came out with Mark following behind, both smiling as if I wouldn’t notice something was not right.

“He’s okay,” Mark told me.

From the bottom of my heart, however, I was waiting for him to say he was okay. Not Mark. Not our parents. Him.

However, he would always only smile and I was always left to wonder what happened in that room.

The two of them were constantly together, joined together at the hip, as people would say. They understood each other without talking, something I envied. However, nobody was surprised. They were childhood friends.

It was interesting watching their friendship. He was more quiet, introverted. Only some people knew what his voice sounded like. But Mark was the life-of-the-party. He was spontaneous, rash. He was like a hurricane of the skies, which falls upon life, revolutionizes it, roots up the will like a leaf, and sweeps the whole heart into the abyss. They weren’t meant to cross paths but fate put the two of them together, wanting to give more excitement to one and order to the other.

Sitting on the chair that was bought just for me so I could stay at their apartment, I saw how much the two of them meant to each other, watching the fond glances being thrown when they believed others weren’t looking.

An infinity of their passion could be contained in one minute, like a crowd in a small space.

Years later, I realize now there was more than friendship in their relationship. They were skirting that line but never crossed it. I realize now how much he wanted to die, but also wanted to live. He was like a sailor in distress, he kept casting desperate glances over the solitary water of his life, seeking some white sail in the distant mists of the horizon. Mark was the white sail to him. He was only truly happy when he was with Mark. He never stated it but everyone, including our parents, knew. When with Mark, his face was brighter, he laughed more, and his smile. His smile wasn’t fake.

He radiated happiness.

I wonder if his fate would have been different if they had crossed that line.

It was his graduation party.

I remember standing on the background porch of his home, standing with my mom, and looking up to the blue, blue sky. Not a speck of white to be seen. I remember the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers, with congratulations being shouted into the air. Everyone was happy.

Then, I see Mark. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up and he was laughing with one of his friends. I yell his name and he looks at me, waving. A chord struck in my heart.

Something is not right.

I ran up to him, holding my arms out for a congratulatory hug. Mark obliges and I examine his face while he continues to talk. Nothing is wrong.

I pull back and see annoyance flash across his face. I look at his face closely, trying to figure out what is wrong. Then I see it. “Where is he?” I ask. Mark doesn’t answer, only shrugging. Something is strange. Mark always knows where he is, no matter what.

I remember beginning to look for him because then I realized, I hadn’t seen him at the party yet.

I weave through the people, entering the back door of the house while calling for him. I search everywhere that I could, yet, I still don’t see him.

I still don’t know what exactly happened in the next few minutes. All I remember is checking the bathroom and seeing red everywhere. I remember the smell of the blood and I remember screaming. I remember people rushing to where I was. Then, my eyes are being covered and I’m being carried away by my dad. To where? I don’t know.

The last thing I remember seeing is Mark sinking to his knees while cradling him, blood soaking up that white shirt.

Poor child. She must have been shocked.

It wouldn’t have been good for her to see so much blood at a young age.

Don’t worry about the child. She’ll forget it as she grows older. Instead, what do you think is going to happen to Mark?

I hope she doesn’t end up like her brother.

I feel so sorry for their parents. They were so happy and proud of him.

Who would have thought he would slit his own wrists at his graduation party? I always knew there was something wrong with him.

177

Creative Nonfiction Stuyvesant High School

New York, NY

***

It’s quiet.

I’m on my bed.

Blankets are covering me and I’m holding my favorite stuffed animal in my arms. Rain is falling outside. I hear my parents discussing something in soft English, believing I’m asleep. Their words are slowly drifting away, replaced by the sounds of the soft pitter-patter on the window.

I hold up my stuffed animal and look at it.

It’s a bear that he won at the fair for me when we were both younger, living at home. I sit up, throwing it across the room. It doesn’t go far, dropping to a thud near my bed. Something’s crawling up my chest. I want to get rid of it. It feels uncomfortable.

I burrow down into my covers. Something wet is dripping down my cheeks. I touch them, and I realize that they are my tears.

The tears start to fall down my face even faster. And I cry.

I dressed in the only black dress I own. It’s sparkly and lacy, something I usually love to wear. But not today. Today isn’t that day.

Nobody is talking in the car. I scratch my leg, the lace making me itch. I look out the window, wishing that, taking wing like a bird, I could fly somewhere, far away to regions of purity, and there grow young again.

I keep scratching my leg, not realizing until my mom tells me to stop.

“Stop scratching,” she says softly from the front of the car. I stop and there are red marks on my leg. Red.

I hate that color.

The sky is blue again.

He loved the color blue. It was the color of the sky, the ocean. Everything that meant freedom to him.

“They’re free,” he would tell me, looking out the window of his room. I look around.

Everyone is crying.

Mark is nowhere to be found.

I look for him. I can’t lose Mark like I lost him. I’m panicking now. Tears fill up my eyes, and then I stop.

I see him.

I have never seen a person cry the way Mark was, sitting in front of his grave. He was sobbing with his full heart, tears streaming down his face. His face was one of true heartbreak, breaking my heart along with it. In his hands was a piece of paper. Ah. The letter.

I was not allowed to read his letter. I was only told the one line he wrote for me.

“Tell her to be happy. No matter how sad, no matter how angry, just tell her to be happy.” Seeing Mark crying, I understood, for the first time, what true sorrow was.

I stood there, wanting to comfort him, yet something was holding me back.

I turned around, running back to my parents, leaving Mark alone at the grave.

And, once again, the pain of this disappointment my heart once more stood empty, and the succession of identical days began again.

I think I understand now. There are some souls that are constantly tormented. He was that soul.

He wanted to be free, free from the expectations of the world, free from his depression and disappointment. He wanted us to be free from him, believing he was a burden to our lives. He wished for freedom so much that he didn’t realize how much the rest of us would be affected by his goodbye.

By the time he passed away, he already weaved his web in the darkness in every corner of our hearts.

Mark moved away as soon as the funeral was over. He left in the middle of the night, slipping away in the darkness to who knows where. He couldn’t stay in the place where he grew up with him. It was too many painful memories - what they were and what they could have been.

Nobody knew where he went, even his parents. We could only hope that he was safe in the world out there.

One event sometimes had infinite ramifications and could change the whole setting of a person’s life. His death was that for both of us.

Now, I just try to be happy. No matter how sad, no matter how angry, I try to be happy. It’s all I can do for him.

I never understood what he meant back then. What did he mean by freedom? Why did he want to be free? All these questions would swirl around my head.

178 I guess the meds didn’t help in the end. ***

***

The Smoker’s Ghost

I am attending my own funeral. That isn’t a metaphor or a rhetorical device of some kind; in fact, it is more literal than anything I’ve ever said.

I stand in all white beside my widowed wife, who in contrast, is dressed in all black.

Never a fan of dresses or skirts, she wears what I might wear to a memorial service: a black dress shirt tucked into matching pants, a white tie laced under a folded black collar, all of it covered with a long black coat that hangs just below her knees, swinging awfully close to the black wedges that she had been waiting to wear for weeks. I imagine that she never thought this is where she would break them in: a grassy cemetery, surrounded by familiar faces, all dressed in the same gloomy color scheme.

All in black, except for me. Myself and my body, that is, because he too, in his casket, is adorned in a different theme. He is dressed fashionably in my favorite velvet suit. His hair is set in dried curls, hardened from being soaked in gel to look right for his grand event. His hands are cupped in front of him and placed gently over his waist and his large feet stick straight up in their bright red loafers. Unlike my wife’s shoes, these shoes have long since been broken in. They’d attended many a party and numerous other events. They’d been through proms and graduations and two book signings. And now, on their last journey, they would venture underground where they would remain forever.

His face—my body’s—is all too familiar, but all too foreign at once. His nose is still long and pointed, curved upward slightly, susceptible to the occasional “boop!” and the tap of his lover’s fingers. His lashes are long and thick and no doubt admired and sometimes envied by women. But that is where the familiarity dies, because the rest of his appearance is unnaturally pallid. Where his cheeks should be pink and rosy there is nothing but pale skin, and where his lips should be significantly plump are thin outlines.

His ears had always been unnervingly small, but now they seemed smaller, as did his hands, which looked strangely like gloves, and his eyes, which seemed to sink down into his skull. Once a strong man, he now lay there skinny and frail, smaller than life in all aspects. Where my mind seemed to factor in the normal constant motion of a live human—the lifting of the shoulders, the twitching of an eye, the flaring of a nose—was nothing but stillness. His face was locked in a haggard expression with his mouth parted slightly. No subtle rising of the chest, no movement under his eyelids. I was truly and completely dead.

If I had a consciousness to lose I’d probably have passed out looking down at my dead body. Analyzing every corner of my face that was wrong and observing every similarity that would soon decay. It was enough to drive a man mad, but you must realize that I am no longer a man, and instead a mere reflection of light. An energy bound by the laws of the afterlife that no religion could possibly predict. Reincarnation, heaven and hell, complete and utter nothingness… they were all wrong. Or perhaps they were all right? Here I was, a spirit reborn in my body, seemingly present, but nothingness to everyone around me.

“Francis Prince Waters was born October 31, 1980, to Mark and Lu Mary Waters,” my brother reads from the service program. I look over to Lana who does not have the program opened to the obituary page. Instead, it sits wrinkled in her squeezed fist, the blown-up picture of my smiling face bending and contorting under the pressure of her grip. In Loving Memory of Francis Prince Waters is printed on the cover in large fancy text.

Lana stares blankly ahead, her eyes unwaveringly focused on my brother’s lips as he continues to read. As far as I know, she hasn’t cried. She’s wiped her nose, fanned her eyes, and spoken to people in trembling murmurs, but I haven’t seen her shed a tear yet.

My wife has never been one for emotions. It was something I had to learn to adapt to early in our relationship; having to read her body language and using my intuition to properly dissect how she was feeling. Me being such an open and communicative person, it had been our biggest relationship problem. She felt that I asked too much of her. I felt she never let me in and made me feel like an inadequate partner. It was a slow process, but eventually she learned to trust me with her emotions and allow me to see her in a vulnerable state. Later in our marriage, she told me that was when she knew I was the one: when she realized that she felt completely safe with me. When she realized she didn’t always have to watch her back because she knew I was watching it for her.

I wish she knew that I was still here, watching her back. I wish she could feel the comfort of my presence and that I could offer her my visible and tangible shoulder for her to let out all the tears I knew she was holding in. I wish I could wrap my arms around her and whisper soft comfort into her ears while she pressed her face into my chest.

But nonetheless, I am not a comfort. I am not a burden, but I am not a comfort, and that knowledge sits heavier than my motionless heart.

“...received his Bachelor’s of Arts in Studio Arts at the University of Southern California.

After completing his studies, Francis became a member of the Temple Crest Art Company to begin his career in the fine arts.” I did not like the TCAC. I joined fresh out of college, determined to jump right into a career to kickstart to what I wanted to be: an independent, full time artist. The TCAC had practically begged me to join them in my junior year of college, and after reviewing their works and seeing possible opportunities and experiences I could acquire, I told them that I would contact them in my senior year to apply. In the beginning it all felt like a dream. I was working with a company that assisted in public, social, and personal art. Crafting sculptures in parks, designing homes, commissioning pieces for new families and selling to museums and showcases. The money was consistent and quite satisfactory. I worked with them for four years before I began to realize there was a problem. When I first joined, I acknowledged that I was still learning. I knew that a lot of these people had years of artistic knowledge and life experiences that I didn’t have, and so I watched them carefully over the years. I watched them practicing their crafts, specifically the ones I had in common, such as painting, charcoal, and tempera, and I mastered them. Around my third year working for the TCAC, I asked for a promotion. I was denied.

In my fourth year, I realized that they were keeping me down. They were limiting my artistic abilities to keep a leash on me—they knew I was one of their best artists, and they wanted to utilize my abilities and benefit from them without giving me the recognition that I deserved. It was smart but it was evil, and the second I recognized what they were doing, I packed up my studio and walked out with my middle fingers blazing behind me.

In the beginning, working independently didn’t match my expectations. The change from consistent pay to barely scraping by was drastic and it threw me off. Eventually, art became a hobby rather than a career. I started dating—late, I know, but I dated a lot to make up for the time I’d lost. I think I was using relationships to temporarily fill the hole in my heart that had been hollowed out by the disappointment of my failure in art.

Then I started smoking. It was innocent at first—as innocent as smoking can get, I mean. Eventually, it progressed into a coping mechanism. Four cigarettes a day. Seven. Fifteen.

179

Novel San Diego School of Creative and Performing Arts

Darius King

San Diego, CA

Soon, I was inhaling three packs of Marlboro Reds a week. I felt like my grandmother. I remember the distinct smell of nicotine on her clothes when she embraced me in her thick grandmotherly hugs as a kid. I remember the thin layer of smoke that lingered everywhere in her house. I remember the walk up the hill to the liquor store when she sent me to buy her more packs of Camels.

Eventually, I decided to go back to school and focus on the mystical art of teaching. I thought, “If I can’t be successful, maybe I can be the propelling force in someone else’s life.” When I graduated, I became an assistant art teacher at a local high school. That was when I met the love of my life, Lana Adam.

“Francis met Lana Adam in 2009, and eventually, bound by their shared love for the arts and irresistible bond, they married in 2011,” my brother continues to read.

Lana furrows her brow and flips through the program, searching for the obituary page.

We got married December 12th, 2012. I cringe at the mistake. How could someone mess that up? We got married 12/12/12. Everyone knew that.

It was Lana’s idea to get married December 12th. She insisted there was something special about that date, considering it would be the last 12/12/12 of our lifetime. She swore there was some external power that would bless us on our wedding day. I must say, the only power I felt that night was my love for her. I knew that this woman was the woman of my dreams and I had known that since the moment she stepped into my class asking for spare notebooks.

Oh, God, no, she wasn’t a student. I’m afraid I must clarify that, knowing the world we—I—lived in. She was a teacher. An assistant teacher, like me, for the Creative Writing class. She’d been wearing an all brown, beige, and black business casual outfit while I was sitting atop a student’s table wearing jeans covered in a variety of acrylic paints and an even more artistically colorful shirt.

I swear she giggled when she saw me. She says she didn’t. She did.

“Francis followed a life of creativity, love, and kindness. In a survey, all his friends and family agreed that he was one of the most reliable and generous people in their lives.”

I shifted my stance. Compliments had always been hard for me, which was unfortunate, considering my career. Being an artist had definitely pulled me out of that insecurity, and once I married Lana, she forced me to accept hearing good things about myself. For one of my birthdays, she filled a glass jar with folded post-it notes, each with a handwritten personal message for me to open any day I needed it.

“In his late twenties, Francis picked up smoking…” Here it comes. “...a habit that would ultimately lead to his death on November 2nd, 2021 at the fresh age of 41.”

“Francis died of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, commonly known as COPD, a disease that attacks the lungs and eventually leads to respiratory failure. To cherish his memory, he leaves his loving wife Lana Waters, his daughter Margaret JackreyWaters, his brothers Thomas and Jack Waters, and a great deal of friends and family.”

Slow applause emerges from the crowd of people as they sit back in their chairs. I join Lana by sitting in what I presume is a ghost chair. I watch a box of tissues travel down the rows of seats. I see my mother in the front take a handful. My younger brother, Jack, the one who didn’t just read my obituary, has his head in his hands and is leaning forward in his chair. My daughter Margaret sits with him, her face pressed into his shoulder. There are too many faces. Too many people.

And suddenly I feel guilty. I feel guilty for dying. I feel guilty for dying. Look what it’s done. The hurt and grief and heartache painted on all the faces around. People I love. People I care about. The pain that they’re feeling is all for me… because of me. Is this wrong to feel? Is it so unreasonable to feel bad for dying because of how it’s affecting my loved ones? Is there a term for this or a handbook or an explanation?

Once the clapping and most of the nose blowing and tears ceased, my brother Thomas spoke again in a rushed, cracking

voice. He too is on the verge of tears and no doubt he was ready to remove himself from the spotlight. I know Thomas has anxiety and terrible stage fright and I know how much it must take him to stand up in front of all these people and read clearly.

“And now, delivering Francis’ eulogy, we have his wife, Lana.” No. I can’t do it. I won’t do it. I jump to my feet as she stands slowly from her chair and pulls a folded paper from the inside pocket of her coat.

My voice comes out as if I haven’t spoken in a thousand years—dry and coarse. Too quiet to be heard even if I was alive. I clear my throat and try again.

“Love, please. You don’t have to read that,” I plead, but I know she can’t hear me. She makes her way down the grassy aisle to the front of the crowd, taking Thomas’ spot behind the podium and adjusting the mic.

When her first words come out shaking, I know what will happen.

“Hello, everyone,” her voice quivers. “I’m sure you know me. I mean, I’d hope you know me, at this point.”

A weak laugh echoes through the audience. A small smile forms on my face. “Um.” She looks up and fans her eyes. “Oh, God, I really didn’t want to cry.”

I feel the tears filling my own eyes watching her up there. Did the Christians have it right too? Was this my Hell? Forced to watch my loved ones suffer and grieve because of my death? What did I do in life to deserve this? I feel I lived a fairly honest and good one. I’ve always been good to everyone. I’ve expected nothing in return from anyone. I entered every situation with the best of intentions. If this was Hell, then I did not deserve this. She unfolds her paper with shaking fingers. “Francis…” The tears stream down her face, tinted black from her mascara.

“Good God, can we close the damn casket?” Lana shouts suddenly. “I seriously just… I can’t sit here and read about him when I know his body is just…” She turns to him. My body. “... lying here. I mean…” She continues to shout, but her words are reduced to sputters and chokes and cries. Margaret’s boyfriend Von and my brother Thomas hurry over to the casket and lower the lid. Thomas avoids looking into my face. Von is heavily focused on not dropping the lid.

Lana’s twin brother Lloyd joins her at the podium, wrapping his arm around her and whispering in her ear.

“No! I’m fine… I’m going to read the damn eulogy. Go back… and sit down,” Lana demands. Lloyd lingers for a moment, then hurries back to his seat.

“Um, sorry,” Lana apologizes, struggling to keep the paper steady in her fingertips. “I just… I’m still having trouble… I swear I had something written…”

She inhales deeply and lets out a large exhalation, but the calming exercise we’d done together so many times through the years doesn’t seem to do her much good in this moment.

She stands there for a significant amount of time, staring down at the paper in front of her. Two minutes. Three minutes. Five. No one moves. No one says anything. It’s too painful to watch. I want to scream. I want to throw a chair down the aisle and pull my body from the casket and force my spirit back inside. I want to hug my wife and show her that none of this is necessary because I’m right here.

“I love you, Francis,” she says finally, looking up at everyone. “I’m sorry everyone, that’s all I can say… right now.” She covers her face and hurries down the aisle, back to her chair. At first I think she’s sitting back down, but instead, she’s gathering her things. She tucks the service program in her purse, picks up her bottle of water, and hurries off and away through the grass.

This is what my death has done. I’ve broken down my emotionally guarded wife to her most vulnerable state. I’ve stripped her of her safety and security and left her bare in the coldness of widowhood. I’ve left her, Lana Waters, the most talented writer, poet, and journalist I’ve ever met in my life, speechless.

180

I blink and find myself in a stranger’s car. I’m seated in the back with Lana, who’s huddled against the window, her breath pale against the cool glass and her coat wrapped firmly around her. I scoot closer to her, hoping to offer her some kind of comfort or warmth, but instead she shivers and inhales sharply.

“Can you turn the AC off?” she asks the driver. He glances back with a confused expression.

“It’s not on, ma’am.”

Lana, a natural born skeptic, places her hand against the vents.

“Can you turn the heater on, then?”

The driver exhales slightly with annoyance, but twists the heater dial to the medium temperature. Lana raises her hand over the vents as if she were warming her palms at a campfire.

She’d ridden with my brother Thomas to the funeral, since he was one of the few people she trusted with her safety in a car. Lana suffered from a severe case of amaxophobia, a fear that started after she was in the car crash that killed her grandparents when she was seven. Since then, she struggled with riding in cars and buses and planes, and had never driven a vehicle in her life. I’d always been a safe driver, being someone who suffered from general anxiety, but I was extra careful when driving with Lana. I made sure to drop my speed significantly and be lighter on the brakes and always keep my hands on the steering wheel for her comfort.

I couldn’t imagine what was going through her head. I hadn’t experienced much loss in my life, but Lana definitely had. First it was her parents: drug addicts who used to leave home for weeks at a time, leaving Lana, her brother Lloyd, and their older sister Luci to fend for themselves. After being taken from her parents by social services at the age of five, Lana and Lloyd were placed with their grandparents. Luci was eighteen at that point, so she’d pretty much started a life on her own. Eventually, she decided that her past was too much to carry around with her, and she went missing, leaving nothing but a letter for her little siblings. After her sister disappeared, it was Lana’s grandparents, then her best friend faced cancer, survived, but was never the same.

Now it was me. Her loving partner of twelve years, husband for almost nine.

“Wait!” Lana exclaims suddenly. The driver braked abruptly, alarmed from her shout, sending Lana lurching forward, her face planting into the back of the passenger seat. “Shoot. Can you turn right at this corner? Sorry.” she asks.

“That’s alright, ma’am,” the driver says in a way that suggests it was definitely not alright. He glides into the right lane and makes the sharp turn onto a new road: Art Street. I look over to Lana, whose eyes are locked on the shops and apartments passing by. I have no doubt the same things are running through our heads.

“Patrick’s,” we mutter at the same time, but our words never come together in the once familiar synchronicity.

“House of Green, the Palace, the Barr,” Lana continues. I identify each passing building as she lists them: the old auto repair shop with the peeling white painted walls and cracked glass doors; the newly opened plant and aroma store where Lana and I had planned to adopt a succulent; the pawn shop with a review of 2.4 stars (and rightfully so—I once tried to pawn a watch and the guy ripped me off by at least seventy-five bucks); the old tattoo shop hidden between the Palace building and another building I found all too familiar.

“Q’s Smoke and Liquor,” Lana says for me.

The sight of the small, recently painted store pulls me from my spiraling whirlpool of memories. I peel my eyes from the store and look over to Lana, whose eyes are still locked on the building.

“Q’s Smoke and Liquor,” she says again much louder. “Right here. Right here, stop!”

The Uber driver brakes a few feet from Q’s with a sickening squeal from his worn out tires on the wet road.

“Thank you,” Lana says, bowing her head and unbuckling her seatbelt. “Thank you so much, and here…” She dunks her hand into her purse and pulls out an awfully thick stack of ones. The smug and annoyed expression disappeared from the driver’s face faster than I could form the thought of what a massive tip that was.

“Thank you, ma’am,” the driver says hastily, taking the money from her fingers and bringing his palms together in prayer hands. “Stay safe and stay dry!”

There is nothing Lana should need from here.

She stands in the middle of the empty street, wrapped in her coat, staring at the liquor store in front of her as if it was a lover she hadn’t seen in decades. The sky is a bright canvas, shaded the color of a 3H pencil. Swirls of silver and ripples of ashcolored clouds cap the earth in a pale dome. There’s tranquility in the grays of monochrome. It’s the type of calm you feel looking through a window from the comfort of your fireplace-warmed living room with a light novel and a glass of wine. The type of calm that a dog or a child would take pleasure in disturbing with screams of pleasure and mess making. It wasn’t the vibrance of a sunny park landscape or the flawlessness of the sunset behind the glimmering ocean that captivated my artist’s eye, it was scenes like this. The smells of trees and petrichor and the road, dark with heavy rainfall, streams of water rushing along the curbs, picking up fallen autumn leaves and empty chip bags and ice cream sandwich wrappers.

I stand at Lana’s side, the rain falling around me (or perhaps right through me--either way, I can’t feel it and my white clothes remain dry.) She stands in the road for too long before finally taking that first step towards the sidewalk. Her hair is plastered to her face in a mess of auburn curls. Small trails of water roll off her shoes. Her purse is tucked in the safety of her coat. I walk alongside her as she takes that raised step onto the sidewalk, but my pace falters as she continues straight instead of turning. My skin goes icy--colder than my dead body and colder than I would be if I could feel the crisp wind and frigid rainfall.

I watch in horror as Lana pulls open the glass doors of Q’s Smoke and Liquor and enters, pulling her wallet from her coat pocket.

The light sound of the entrance bell jingling against the glass door frame rattles in my head like a wardrum, each slam of the clapper on the brass interior another slam against the drumheads vibrating in my skull. If there was a word for a less severe version of PTSD, I’d use it to describe the feelings the sound of that bell invokes inside me. All the trips I made to this very corner store—my wallet in one hand and a lighter in the other—come flooding back as washed-out memories. I hadn’t been inside of Q’s since the day Lana and I took our oath—the oath that served as one of the pillars on which the foundation of our marriage sat.

“No more smoking,” we swore, and so we never smoked again. That was about seven years ago, and Lana and I became each other’s sponsors, of sorts. We never smoked another cigarette again.

It was difficult at first, as expected. The first feeling of “emptiness” was the time in our days that had once been occupied by smoking a cigarette outside, now completely vacant. The space was painfully obvious, and it took a while for our bodies to lose the ache that told our brains to pop open a pack of cigs and plop one between our lips. For a while I found myself imitating the motion of my thumb clicking a lighter to my anxious energy. Lana started writing more, most of the work depressive and empty. I know, the addiction was bad, but honestly, what can you expect? I had been smoking for eight years at that point, Lana even longer, and making this change to better our lives was feeling more like an inconvenience than a health improvement.

181 ***

***

A few weeks in, after watching the movie Holes where a character named Mr. Sir ate from a sack of sunflower seeds to suppress his desire to smoke, I decided I’d give the method a try. Apparently, constantly giving my mouth something to do helped fight tobacco cravings, and it didn’t take long for me to realize that it was actually working. Sunflower seeds became a regular addition to the grocery list (along with getting yelled at about the shells littered around the house). Lana looked to the more spiritual sides of things. She signed up for nicotine therapy, went to meditation classes, and tried hypnosis. All of that never necessarily sparked my interest (nor fit my belief system), but I respected her for finding a way to cope with the absence of something that had been a part of our day to day lives.

The emptiness of my stomach became suddenly obvious as betrayal crept through the cracks of my non-existent nervous system, seeping into my bloodstream and sending pulsing chills throughout my body.

I watch Lana pass every aisle I wish she’d go into: chips, candy--shit, even beer. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to leap forward and grab her ankles and pull her to the floor, but I knew that it would do nothing: I was nothing.

I knew the words before she opened her mouth. “Four packs of Camel Lights, please.”

Four.

The man behind the counter jerks his head up, the recognition setting into his mind. His signature toothy grin forms along his face when he sees Lana’s face. The moment is bittersweet, in a way. I hadn’t seen Quin in years . This was his store, the only place we ever saw him, and once Lana and I quit smoking, that connection burned away.

I love Quin, but God do I wish I wasn’t looking at him right now.

“Well I’ll be damned,” the man said in his heavy Texan accent. His round head was still completely gray and that left eye was still crooked. Those teeth were still stained yellow, and I was standing too far to smell it, but I knew that his breath smelled of nothing more than mint and tobacco. I saw the slight look of revulsion in Lana’s expression, and at that point I knew that what I had worried about the most hadn’t happened: she hadn’t been relapsing. Only someone who had never met Quin or hadn’t been near him in a long time would stand that close to him.

Lana adapted with a half step backwards, muscle memory kicking in: Two tiles from the counter.

“Lana Waters,” Quin said in disbelief. “Where ya been?” “Wish I could say around,” Lana replied. “I’d be lying.”

“Yuh, autumn tends to do that to ya. Where’s that handsome husband of yours?”

The silence was deafening. It held more meaning than anything Lana could say would. The all-black outfit, the missing me, the trembling hands--I watch the dots connect on Quin’s face and my heart twists in my gut as he opens his mouth.

“Oh. Oh my… I’m so sorry Lana, sweetheart,” Quin says, choking on his words. He covers his gaping mouth with the palm of his hand and takes a deep breath. “He was such a lively fellow it’s… it’s hard to believe that he’s-”

“Motionless,” Lana finishes, though I suspect that wasn’t exactly the word Quin was going to use.

I’m here. I want to say. I want to scream it a thousand times. I want to run through the aisles and knock down all the racks and throw all the soda cans on the floor.

I want to drag Lana out the store by her arm and into the pouring rain.

Quin cleared his throat and reached behind the counter. “Four packs of Camel Lights, that was?” Lana takes a shaky breath and opens her wallet.

“That’s right.”

“It’s on me,” Quin says, dropping the boxes into those small black bags that used to fill up the cabinet under the kitchen sink. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

No. Let her pay for it. Let her lose something to get these.

“No, Quin, please. Let me-”

“Take that umbrella by the door too. Someone left it here a week ago and never came back to get it. I know you don’t like to drive.” Quin gestures to a large black and white spotted umbrella leaning against the frame of the glass doors. It was the type of umbrella you’d buy for 17.99 at Target. No one who stood under that was getting wet.

“Are you sure?” Lana asks.

“Yes. Please be safe, Lana Waters,” Quin says. Lana swallows and pulls a single dollar from her wallet. She drops it on the glass counter and plucks a white lighter from a container labeled: LIGHTERS, $1.

Each crackling spark is like an atomic bomb. It’s a warzone for a battle that no one is winning--the wind snuffing out the small plumes of flame Lana manages to produce, Lana’s thumb retaliating with another pull of the spark wheel. Another orange flicker; sparks dancing off the metal surface like bullet shells from an assault rifle. A burst of flame. A gust of wind. Stillness, and then the determination of a relapsed smoker.

There’s nothing I can do. She has the box, she has the lighter, she has the time. She has a reason.

There’s nothing I can do but watch.

“Dammit,” she curses at the wind, shaking her doubtless cramping hand and loosening her fingers. Maybe she’ll take it as a sign to stop. Maybe she’ll look to the spiritual side of things again and find a way to connect me to the wind and the wind to the message that is “Don’t do it.”

Lana always said I was too optimistic.

I watch as muscle memory slowly kicks in, her practiced hands finding the spaces in the lighter where they had once found comfort. One click, spark. Two clicks, spark . Three clicks, fire

Lana huddles the flame dangerously close to her coat to shield it from the persistent wind.

With her free hand, she pops open one of the packs of Camels and pulls a single 4 inch stick from the five by four array. The cigarette dangles between her middle and pointer fingers with practiced ease, secure in her grip. She drops the box from her remaining three fingers and into her oversized coat pocket, turning her attention back to her dancing fire.

She lifts her hands up together, placing the orange butt of the filter on her lips and bringing the flame to the opposite end. It doesn’t take long for it to light.

Two seconds later, a plume of thick white smoke bursts from the end of the cigarette, the bright orange embers already burning away at the rolling paper.

Lana’s hands are trembling. Is it from sadness? Fear? Guilt? Whatever it is, I hope it only gets more intense, because it seemed to be the only thing keeping her from taking that first inhale.

Even the rain seems to be holding its breath, watching her as closely as I am.

She squeezes her eyes shut, the ember on the end burning in and out with the periodical gusts of cold wind.

The embers brighten and a knife goes through my chest.

Lana’s chest expands gradually, her inhalation slow and controlled. Her closed eyes slacken a bit and her muscles untense. She pulls the cig from her mouth and exhales a thin stream of white smoke with her exhale. The smell is transient, the wind blowing the scent into my face and then far away. That smell— the smell of late nights and early mornings. The smell of being a starving artist. The smell of black and white before the world switched to color. The smell of death: my death.

After a few years of our smoking abstinence, I came to the conclusion that the smell of cigarette smoke was putrid. I felt like a kid again in my grandmother’s house, wondering how she could inhale something that smelled so bad. It left me wondering if I was missing out. “Maybe it’s like broccoli’, I remember thinking. Broccoli tasted good, but God did it smell like shit.

Lana opens her eyes slowly and they appear brighter than they had been only a few moments ago. For a second, her breath

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***

is shaky and she only stares at the cigarette in her fingertips as if it were a knife that she had just killed someone with.

“I’m so sorry Francis,” she says. Optimism takes over again: maybe she’ll throw it on the ground and crush it to smithereens. Maybe she’ll toss it into the fast-moving stream of water along the curbside. Maybe she’ll throw it in the air and leave it to the wind to deal with. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats, and she brings the cigarette to her lips again.

I never understood or experienced the phenomenon of unconsciously reacting to something that someone else was doing. I remember seeing my mother clench her teeth when she watched her dentistry videos. I remember my brothers suddenly gasping for air after watching Jaws when we were younger.

I finally understand as I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It’s as though I’m trying not to inhale in hopes that Lana will stop too, but the smoke continues. The plumes escape through her parted lips. They burst from her nose like a bull. They slip from the end of her cigarette. The embers burn away at the rolling paper and the gray ash trail gets larger with every inhalation. I can tell she doesn’t feel bad anymore. It’s calming her. “It centers me,” she once said, quickly followed with “but not for long.”

She wasn’t thinking about that second part right now.

Tears well up in my eyes as the orange ember gets closer and closer to the tip of the cigarette butt. The wind clears away the evidence of her betrayal as quickly as it comes, and I wish it could blow my spirit away just as fast.

“Lana,” I call to her, too quiet for her to hear even if I wasn’t inconceivable. I wanted so desperately for it to be like the movies, for her to freeze in her tracks and second guess whether she’d heard my voice. I wanted to be able to say her name again so she would know that she wasn’t crazy. I wanted her to know that I was there and I just wanted her to stop.

I just wanted her to stop.

Has the thought that this was how I died not come up in her head? Does she not realize that what she was doing right now was what made her lose me?

It feels like eons have passed when the cigarette butt drops from her fingers and falls into a puddle of rainwater below. Its mangled orange body drifts across the puddle like a lifeless body.

Lana clears her throat and sniffles, one last plume of smoke escaping her lips before she reaches into her coat pocket for number two.

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Isabelle Kong

the syntax of heartbreak

In February, there are only honey mangoes & novelty. My lips sink from the line of sea to stone. The boy, downy in a shirt I helped pick; I, sugar-spun, sing full after unwrapping his name’s syllables (2). I like how the bones of his jaw move. Rippling, reflecting noctilucent clouds. He spits out words slick with pear. It brings me back to Sunday dim sum — chicken feet sleeping in bamboo beds. I used to peel the reddened flesh away to reveal slender bone & talons. It was a sordid affair for my tongue, which sagged in reluctance. Star anise the boy understands because we share the language of assimilation: damp vowels & consonant clusters.

Today we swell quiet in the twilight of his Camry— the birthmarks on his wrist form a colon & I wish for our sea-salted fingers to be clauses. Breathe his cotton sweat. If “I’m here” is an oath, his lips burst. I turn chiropteran & feed on his blood. Talons, flesh.

A cavity replaces my organs: wet, sucking. Wanting. Our ribs grow long-bodied, bare of marrow, Kleenex crumpled beneath my bed. From what used to be a lung grows thick spores until the tide acquaints our bodies to a singular corpse. Everything is skin.

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Poetry Eleanor Roosevelt High School Eastvale, CA

Sherice Kong

Anatomy/Autopsy of a Prom Dress

Prom dresses should be criminalized, their chiffon bodies chandeliered, christened, chain-smoked in a cell. Listen, our gravesite has room for only eight, so seat yourself elsewhere. I see a golden namecard declaring your death.

My neckline is for a sweetheart, the boy that my mother still thinks I am dating, the one whose friends nominated me for Cheater Court. Too often now, I say

I am literate in love. I decode the sweat that cursives the canvas of the back of his neck: No baby, sorry baby, it wasn’t me baby, I love you baby. Baby I don’t know how much longer I’ll stay in this town. An aphorism of suburbia: your crimes silence themselves as long as you stay. At this point, I am hollowlight blackmailed from the bodies I used to inhabit. Unclaimed by the sharp pop of a Boylan’s bottle cap, every bubble a lonely beacon. Each sleeve a single, withered tulip. A microscope’s heat turns the petal to dust. We listen to Lana Del Rey and watch Clueless and wonder if we’ll ever be part of that imprecise Americana. I’m

sorry I lie the way I love, better in the dark and better with strangers. Three threadbare love songs later, we are still buried at this awful table with grief as our centerpiece.

The culprit is still on the loose. The victim has left too many clues behind, a mystery sheared on the dance floor. Shrimp cocktail at sixteen makes us feel all grown-up but it’s only the name. My stomach bulges out from underneath the drop-waist bodice.

I slip out to the bathroom for a while. The bluish light blossoms like a bruise across the tight, tattooed skin of the stall. It guards me, my body. My skirt scrapes the floor, its silhouette no wider than my hands this much apart to symbolize how much I loved you. It notches my legs, numbers my days, narrates my quintessential high school experience. Cut like a bias, I am an animal wounded.

Here are the ways I’ve hurt all the men in my life. Except I am not the same girl I was last winter, and I do not owe them entitlement. I can’t tell if I am the source of love or just a mirror. I am the incident ray

and his reflection is rough and ragged. Never mind `those boys. I am in love with [ ] who smells like TV static and the stale air con and those saintly singing

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Poetry Ridge High School Basking Ridge, NJ

police sirens. There is a vague suggestion of a stain on the waistline of my prom dress. It hangs between my mother’s old leather jacket and my cadaveric crimes. Shroud for the superficial. After graduation, I bring my hand up against its lethal shine, a beckoning blade that solders my skin shut. I cannot afford the luxury of a cover-up. I cannot afford the pleasure of a confession. I am the calculating courier of all my future crimes. I categorize all my crimes like a receipt–knowing that there is no return policy.

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Evelyn Joonhee Koo

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Design Arts

HAYT Acrylic book 2022

Yongsan International School of Seoul Yongsan Ku, South Korea

Sophia Lam

The Black Throne

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Novel Longmeadow High School Longmeadow, MA

Kira

Town of Tangro

“No! Leave him be!”

The woman’s shrill cry pierced the dead silence of the narrow alley. A lone vulture circled the leaden sky above. For a moment, there was silence, save for the wind-driven rustle of fallen leaves scraping across the ground.

Then, crack! A muted wail.

Kira knew she should run, but she couldn’t resist the urge to look. Fifty yards away, she saw a disheveled woman with matted hair and a wild look in her eyes. A muddy, squared-off shift loosely covered her skeletal body. Like Kira, she was Corian.

The soldiers hadn’t spotted Kira. There were three of them, hovering over the woman with batons raised and ready to strike. Each wore the black and gold livery of the King’s Guard, with the addition of thick black scarves that covered their mouths and noses so that only their eyes peered out, like the mummified embodiment of the plague itself.

The woman lay prostrate beneath them on the ground, spreading her arms wide in a curious way. She covered something. Kira couldn’t make it out. She peered closer.

“Shove off, hag, or you’ll get it too!” shouted one trooper, raising his baton a little higher.

The terrified woman shrunk back slightly, and now Kira could see she was protecting an unconscious body lying supine in the dirt. It was emaciated. A Corian man with a ghost-white face.

Dead?

No, she could see an unsteady rise and fall of his chest. Suddenly a flash of yellow—the gold cuff of a trooper’s uniform as his arm swung down hard. The baton struck the woman in the back with a sickening thud. She toppled with a moan. Another soldier kicked her, then used the sole of his boot to shove her body out of the way.

Kira balled her hands into fists. Since the plague, most Elysians no longer bothered to hide their contempt of Corians, the race of immigrants who had, for two generations, come to Elysia from across the sea in search of work. Now, pervasive fear of the sickness made even the most kind-hearted Elysians think twice about consorting with Corians. Kira and her kind were now treated like dogs. Worse than dogs. At least dogs were fed and allowed to roam free.

Momentarily taking her eyes off the soldiers, Kira bent down to pick up a jagged rock the size of a jackfruit.

“Go on, haul it off,” ordered one of the men who wore the epaulets of a lieutenant.

The two other soldiers stared at the body. One of them, a thickset man with blonde hair, nervously adjusted the scarf covering half his face. He glanced quickly up and down the street, forcing Kira to shrink into the shadow of the nearest doorway.

“Do we have to? This one might really be infected. We could leave him here and no one’s the wiser.”

“You’ll do what you’re told, Trooper.”

The soldier looked at the third man, who merely shrugged. Together, the two of them bent down as the lieutenant looked on; one grabbed the victim’s legs and the other the arms. They wore thick leather gauntlets and tried to hold their breath as they carried the body ten paces and swung it into the back of a wagon like a piece of lumber.

Kira burned with rage. Not because the poor man didn’t have the plague—he might—but because she knew he could be helped. She instinctively clutched the satchel that hung at her side closer to her body. Even she, a mere apothecary’s apprentice, could revive the man or ease his symptoms with the herbs and roots she carried. It was just as likely that the man was suffering from starvation or dehydration, she thought. Perhaps his was one of the homes already ransacked by Elysian patrols in their search for sick Corians whom the king had ordered quarantined.

With the unconscious man loaded in the wagon the three soldiers next turned to the woman, who knelt on the ground, sobbing. For a long moment, no one said anything. Then the woman looked up, dried her eyes, and scowled at the king’s men. The two soldiers looked to the lieutenant, who nodded. At this, the woman leapt to her feet and began to run in Kira’s direction. She was barefoot and slipped in the mud, falling to one knee, but she got up and kept coming.

The blonde-haired soldier was on her in an instant. Kira pressed herself hard against the building in front of her. She looked over her shoulder to see what was coming next.

The soldier shoved the woman hard and she fell, face forward, into the mud. He circled her, laughing.

“Corie scum,” he shouted, spitting on her.

The woman lifted a hand in the air, pleading, “Please, sir. I do not have the sickness. I am healthy.”

“You? Healthy?” the soldier laughed. “Of course you are. All the better. I don’t want to catch no stinkin’ Corie disease and bring it home to my missus.”

Tears rolled down the woman’s cheeks. She looked up at the lieutenant.

“Please sir. Don’t take me to one of those camps. I heard what they’re like. Full of the sick and dying. And overcrowded. Please, let me go.” She looked forlornly at the man lying in the wagon for a long moment, then set her jaw and met the lieutenant’s cold stare. “I’ll run off and be no trouble to anyone,” she said.

The lieutenant crossed his arms. “You’ll come with us willingly or we’ll knock you out just like your friend over there.”

“But I’m not sick!” she said, rising to her feet.

“Wrap this around your face!” the lieutenant ordered, tossing a dirty rag at the woman. “I don’t care if you’re sick. We’ve got quotas of Cories to round up, sick or not, no one cares.

Aren’t you glad? You’re gonna get a free ticket home.”

“I was born here! I’ve never even been to Coria.”

The lieutenant shook his head slowly and spoke as if addressing a child. “You think living here means you belong? We never should have let you vermin into Elysia. Fluorentium or no.” Then his expression hardened and his eyes narrowed as he spat out the words, “You killed my daughter.”

At this Kira emitted a tiny gasp. She froze and prayed the soldiers had not heard her.

To her relief, the lieutenant was still talking. “She must have gotten it from the Corie girl who cleans the house. I never liked her. Too dumb to know anything.”

“I’m sorry she died, sir, but I had nothing to do with that,” the woman pleaded.

“We’ve been good to you Cories. Let you live here. Gave you good jobs and fair wages.

Now you’ve thanked us with this pestilence! We won’t be safe until you’re all gone…” He fingered the handle of the baton hanging from his belt. “Or dead,” he added.

The Corian woman hung her head, defeated.

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Chapter 1

“Go on,” the blonde soldier ordered, pushing her back with the tip of his baton in the direction of the wagon. “Now you get to be with your friend,” he said with a chuckle. “You can take care of him.”

“He’s my husband,” the woman muttered as she shuffled forward.

Kira drew a deep breath. The soldiers were all facing the other direction when she turned and slid down the alley, disappearing out of sight. Then she set off at a run, anxious to put distance between herself and the king’s men.

There wasn’t much time. Elysian patrols in Tangro had doubled in the past week, and she’d just seen firsthand that now no Corian was safe from capture, sick or not. The king’s decree one month before had proclaimed that only sick Corians would be sent to “quarantine camps” where they would supposedly receive healthcare; but it was a poorly kept secret that the camps had become heavily overcrowded and that, instead of caring for Corians, they were simply holding them until the King had summoned enough ships to deport the Corians back across the Antibur Sea to Coria.

Now tragedy had become the norm across the land. Elysians were contracting the mysterious disease at a higher rate than Corians, and dying in droves. The illness might begin as a mild headache or upset stomach. Within a day the victim might begin to feel weak and fatigued, or start to have diarrhea with a mild fever. This stage could continue for days or weeks. Those that failed to recover displayed end-stage signs like delirium and seizures. The sickness appeared to damage the lungs, causing breathlessness and a racking cough that had popularized the notion that it was contagious. It wasn’t hard for terrified Elysians to blame Corians for the plague. It was, after all, the Corians who inhabited the most overcrowded and dilapidated slums on the outskirts of Elysian cities and towns.

With thousands now sick or dying, Elysians with means were fleeing the capital city of Valhurst in droves, seeking refuge in northern towns like Ridvel and Batel where cases were fewer. The king’s decree to quarantine Corians was his answer to the crisis. But rather than arresting only the sick, the king’s men made a practice of taking healthy Corians as well—which served to both limit their exposure to the disease and allow them to fill their quotas more quickly.

Now practically all Corians were hiding. Those who had not fled were shuttered, frightened, inside their homes, venturing out only for true necessities. It was every man for himself. To help another, even a friend, was to risk catching the eye of a soldier and being carted away.

Kira slowed to a trot, unable to maintain an all-out sprint. She would have given anything to hurl a rock at the lieutenant, and then bash the soldiers’ heads in, one at a time. But she had wisely restrained herself. Too many people were counting on her. And more than anything, she owed it to her younger brother Liam to stay alive. After their parents’ deaths, all they had was each other.

She weaved through a maze of unnamed alleyways. The sun was hidden behind dark, low clouds and a heaviness in the air portended more rain. It was almost midday; she had been up since well before dawn to retrieve deliveries from Zahra, a wise apothecary who acted as Kira’s mentor. Kira now headed for her sixth and final delivery. Zahra’s instructions led her to a small hut that looked much like her own. Its walls were wattle and daub. A thatch roof seemed to weigh down upon the walls like a sodden blanket. She looked for, and spotted, the strip of red cloth tied to a hinge at a corner of the doorframe. Quickly, she went to the door and knocked.

Inside, a muffled voice, and a cough. Then, silence. Kira knocked again, more insistently.

“Hello? Samuel?” she whispered, “My name is Kira. I have what you asked for. Zahra sent me.”

She heard murmurs, then more shuffling inside. The latch lifted, and the door opened a few inches.

A bedraggled Corian man with dark, bronze skin and a jetblack beard gazed at Kira through sunken eyes.

“You are the healer?” he asked.

Kira shook her head. “Only one who delivers what can heal.”

The middle-aged man pursed his lips. “The healer,” he stated, definitively.

Kira began to suspect the man was not mentally fit, but there was no time to waste. She opened her satchel and pulled out a jar containing a viscous yellow syrup that she and Zahra had made from the harroneous herb. Zahra called it “harrow tonic.”

“Your wife has a cough, right? And a fever? Give her a spoonful of this three times a day. It will help.” She handed over the jar. “Try to keep quiet. There are Elysians about.” She turned to go, not waiting for a reply. If the man could afford to pay, he would have sent deniras to Zahra already; but, knowing Zahra’s generosity, Kira doubted most of her deliveries went to paying customers.

“Thank you, Healer. You’ve saved us…” The man’s voice faded as Kira walked quickly away, further down the deserted street. Helping the sick made her feel useful. She and Zahra formed an effective team. Since Zahra’s stores of herbs and roots had long been used up, and trade had all but ceased, she relied on Kira’s resourcefulness to find and gather ingredients needed to make her poultices, pastes, syrups and stews—everything that had proven effective in relieving patients’ symptoms. It amazed Kira to see how much she had learned in just four short months apprenticing with Zahra. The fact that Kira’s mother, who had been Zahra’s friend and assistant, had taught Kira something about herbs and mixtures growing up, helped. But truth be told, Kira hadn’t known the first thing about what roots to mix with what solutions and in what proportions. At the same time, she took pride in her skill as a scavenger. She excelled at finding what was needed and, just as important, had become adept at hiding from soldiers and covertly delivering medicines to patients in hiding.

What Kira hadn’t told Zahra was that she’d recently been forced to venture beyond the lands around Tangro to seek out what Zahra requested. Kira had even gone into the Forest of Erygos, which was off-limits to all commoners and Corians, to look for glarba root. To be caught in the forest would result in a flogging at best, imprisonment at worst. Breaking the law didn’t come easily to her. In fact, she’d initially decided not to and planned to explain to Zahra that the safe areas had all been picked dry.

But then, Liam fell sick.

At first, she wasn’t sure her eight-year-old brother had caught the plague. His symptoms were mild: a headache, and a feeling of malaise. She had made him rest at home, and when his symptoms lessened after several days, she almost stopped worrying. But then he began to feel dizzy, with stomach pains. Sometimes he acted like he didn’t know where he was, or became listless. All of this terrified Kira. Zahra’s harrow tonic helped to calm Liam and seemed to ease his headaches. It helped him sleep through the night. But to get the herb, Kira had to go into the forbidden Forest of Erygos. And so she did.

Marcus had been a godsend. One of Kira’s oldest friends, Marcus was a skinny, witty boy with a job as a night watchman at a stable. He had offered to watch over Liam during the day while Kira worked with Zahra. Kira and Marcus had gone to school together until age twelve, when Corian schooling stopped and most boys went to work in the mines or as laborers, while girls learned to become maids, tailors, or cooks. Unlike most Corians, Marcus hadn’t yet lost his job, but he told Kira it was only a matter of time.

Kira was almost home. Marcus would be helping to prepare a lunch for Liam. After a quick stop at home, she would wait till dusk to head into the forest and scavenge for plants on Zahra’s list. She was always less likely to encounter an Elysian patrol at the end of the day. She clutched her satchel closer to her body as she ran, to avoid jostling its precious contents. The dusty brown scarf wound tightly around her mouth and nose did little to block the putrid smells of uncollected trash and sewage pooled in the streets. Tangro was a like a ghost town—every door and window locked shut, every curtain drawn as if to make each

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abode as uninviting and unsuspicious as possible. Here and there Kira passed a broken-down door, exposing ransacked interior rooms. These were homes already visited by aggressive patrols that had left no one behind to clean up, close up, or mourn. So far, the patrols had not approached Kira’s neighborhood, but she knew she should soon think of a backup plan—a place where she and Liam could go and be safe.

Kira darted across an empty square containing one of the town’s public wells. Six months ago, the square would have been bustling with curious customers and vendors shouting out their prices. The aroma of the marketplace was always a mix of ripe fruit, exotic spices, and the perfume of cut flowers. But all that was gone now. Silence hung heavily in the air, and it seemed as if everything, and everyone, had disappeared. Past the square was a muddy patch of land crowded with uneven, crooked wood boards sticking out of the ground. It was a graveyard–– rapidly established for the first of the plague victims.

Rather than take the main street up to her hut, she took a back alley that wound past the patch of fenced-in dirt that was her garden behind the hut. It was always wiser to stay off the main road whenever possible. Her stomach rumbled; she craved the chance to sit down and eat some porridge with sprinkled bits of salt pork shavings.

Her neighbors were doing an excellent job keeping their kids and dogs quiet today. Now, at midday, Kira expected to hear muffled signs of life, a clanging pot or a mother’s scolding, and to see ribbons of cookfire smoke trailing up into the sky. Strangely, tonight the air was clear.

There was no smoke.

She arrived at home, rushed through the back fence gate, and opened the back door to the hut, eager to see Liam.

She froze, stunned.

The room she walked into had been ravaged. For a moment, she thought she might be in the wrong hut, but then she recognized a chair that had been battered and split in two—and chips of broken pottery that had been bowls, plates, and mugs. Everything inside had been upturned or shattered, shredded or torn. The front door was broken off its hinges. It was as if someone had picked up their one-room hut and shaken it viciously.

“Liam?” she cried. “Marcus?”

The room was small, only ten paces on a side. She rushed to look under the upturned bed and straw mattress. No one there. She checked inside a tall cabinet, and underneath a pile of clothing. Nothing.

Panicking, she ran to the front door and looked out. Immediately, she saw the damage. Every hut, ransacked. Doors broken in. Clothing and furniture tossed into the street.

They came , she realized. A patrol.

She went back inside. The room spun and she dropped to the ground. Her breath came in short, quick gasps. For a few seconds, all she could hear was the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears.

Liam was gone.

What could she do now?

There were voices. Distant. Coming from outside.

Kira crouched next to the doorway and quickly poked her head out just enough to let one eye peer down the street. There were two small figures walking in the middle of the road. They were children.

She ran out onto the street in their direction.

“Stop! Who are you?” she hissed.

The figures froze. Then they darted into a hut.

Kira followed them inside. They were two boys, huddled in a corner behind a table. Kira recognized them.

“Jeriah! Robastro! What happened here?” They were twin brothers who had lived their whole lives on Kira’s street. The dark-haired boys looked hungry and terrified. “Where are your parents?”

Jeriah was crying, but Robastro spoke up.

“The soldiers came,” he said. “Mother and Father are gone.”

“When?”

“This morning. We heard them coming and everyone ran.” “Towards the woods?”

Robastro nodded.

“Did your mom and dad get away?”

Jeriah’s sobbing intensified. Robastro’s upper lip quivered as his eyes began to well up. “I don’t know.”

Kira slid closer to the boys and gently touched Robastro’s shoulder. “Did you see if they got Liam? Did you see Marcus?”

Robastro shook his head.

Kira sunk back, defeated. She could easily imagine the scene—the soldiers inspecting the first hut, making a ruckus that prompted many of the other residents to drop everything and flee. Some would have stayed, hoping to protect their homes, planning to reason with the king’s men and show that they weren’t sick. Some soldiers might leave Corians unmolested. Others might loot them instead, taking hidden coins or jewelry for themselves. By the look of her street, it seemed the Elysians had shown little restraint.

There was no way Liam would have been able to run. And she doubted Marcus was strong enough to carry him far.

Liam was gone. She would never see him again.

The thought made her suddenly burst into tears. The stress and exhaustion of working nonstop, of constant evasion and hiding, and caring for Liam, suddenly overwhelmed her. The walls seemed to be closing in. It felt hard to breathe. She’d lost the only thing that mattered in the entire world.

“The wagons went that way,” Jeriah said quietly. Kira looked up.

“What did you say?”

Jeriah’s face was streaked with tears. He sniffled. But his left hand pointed firmly out the door, to the northeast.

There was only one road in that direction: Norrath Road. The well-worn artery that connected Tangro to the city of Denebola.

If the Corians were being carted to a quarantine center, it was likely to be located near the coast, especially if the king truly planned to deport them by ship back to Coria. Denebola, the closest deep water port, was along the Norrath Road, a full day’s journey from Tangro on foot.

That’s where Liam had been taken, along with the others who had been rounded up. That’s where she needed to go.

Chapter 2 Rowan Capital city of Valhurst

“Your Majesty, if you please, I advise you not to—”

“Silence!” King Edgar’s voice reverberated across the vast stone hall. He sat atop a wide dais in a gleaming black throne made of pure fluorentium.

Brilliant and lustrous, mined in the Okmore mountains, fluorentium was valued for its incredible strength, capacity to be forged into precise shapes, and rarity.

Beside Edgar was a slightly smaller, empty throne. High above, large black banners hung from the ceiling depicting the kingdom’s emblem––the head of a majestic golden stag under a black crown and sword.

“I have no time for another of your useless propositions, Sinnett!” Flecks of spittle flew from the king’s mouth as he chastised his royal advisor, a wizened old man with long, flowing white hair. “The hour is late. Our people are dying like flies. We must focus on removing the source of the infection.”

“The Corians, Sire?” Sinnett questioned, keeping his expression neutral.

“Yes of course, the Corians!”

The dozen gathered diplomats, nobility, and advisors fell silent at the king’s outburst. Edgar slumped wearily in his throne. His face was rugged, with creases that seemed to deepen whenever his mood turned foul. Over the last fortnight it seemed

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he had aged a year, and a decade since the pandemic had begun in the spring. The king sighed.

“Sinnett, your proposal to put resources into finding a cure are well intentioned. But we all know that would take months, if not years. Too late to help those infected now, some of whom will live, some of whom will die. If the Corians are gone, then the plague will die out.”

“Sire, you are referring to all Corians? Not just those who are sick?” The king furrowed his brow. “How can you know which ones are sick?” The royal advisors looked at one another, unsure of how to respond.

Sinnett spoke, “By their symptoms, Sire.”

“But do we really know if those who look healthy aren’t harboring the sickness too? Which they could spread to others?”

“Well, there is no exact proof—”

“And would it not be safest to just rid ourselves of them?”

“But such a vast undertaking, Sire, would—”

“Enough. The time for restraint has passed. As king I am sworn to protect Elysia. This is the only way.”

King Edgar’s son Rowan pressed his back hard against the side of a large marble pillar halfway down the length of the grand hall. If his father caught him eavesdropping there would be hell to pay. But he had remained glued to his hiding spot for half an hour, listening to the meeting. Rowan was worried. His father’s behavior had changed dramatically in recent weeks.

He was irritable. Impatient. Since Queen Cecilia’s death from the plague two months prior, there were times when the king seemed almost unhinged. He had never been a contemplative or introspective man, but he had always been affable and carefree. In fact, up till now, most of his critics complained he took too little interest in affairs of the kingdom. He’d never quite shed his reputation for being a pleasure seeker in his youth—and especially a sportsman who was more interested in hunting than matters of state.

But the empty throne beside him was an ever-present reminder of Elysia’s grim new realities and the plague’s personal cost. The king’s grief consumed him. Rowan knew he drowned his pain with wine and spirits, practically the only beverages he drank and a luxury only the nobility could afford now that all imports to Elysia had ceased. Rowan himself had been disconsolate for weeks after his mother’s death, uninterested in eating or the usual amusements of a prince. He was hardly able to sleep, and at the same time barely able to get out of bed.

During the five long weeks the queen lay in her sickbed, King Edgar had spent nearly every waking hour by her side, holding her hand, exhorting the healers to save her. Meanwhile, matters of ruling the kingdom had gone neglected just as the pandemic had begun to erupt, and since then, thousands had died and continued to die.

“We will move forward with our plans for expanding the quarantine centers,” King Edgar proclaimed, breaking an awkward silence.

Sinnett frowned but tried hard to keep his voice level. “Sire, our patrols have doubled, and they are working hard to fulfill your demand. But…” the old man hesitated, deciding to try one more appeal, “But my king, I fear that your attention has been focused too long on this…” Sinnett searched for the right words, “…and it may not solve all the problems we hope it will. Besides the issue of the Corians, there is talk of unrest, even rebellion…”

The king looked up.

Sinnett continued, “Yes, Sire, there are rumors of rebels. Our people are starving. Others are simply leaving the kingdom––specifically those in the nobility––and trade negotiations with Ancebus have not progressed. Their ships remain afraid to enter our ports.”

Diplomats and advisors surrounding Sinnett nodded in agreement.

“Don’t you think I know this?” Edgar cried. “It’s the same reason we cannot find enough ships to deport the Corians. I can only do so much in a day, and with this disease ravaging my kingdom––minor trade negotiations and puny rebels hardly rise

to the top of the list!” He breathed heavily, as if exhausted from having to explain such simple truths.

Sinnett had never known the king to be persuaded through force of argument. It was best when the ruler reached the right conclusions on his own. Sinnett’s job was to make sure that happened…eventually.

“We all understand the stress and burdens you carry, Sire. Elysia is truly blessed to have such an enlightened ruler.”

The king seemed to calm himself. An attendant brought him a chalice of wine, which he drained in one long gulp, wiping his lips with the sleeve of his thick blue robe, which he wore over a khaki tunic and comfortable trousers. Then he sank lower until he was almost recumbent, tracing a finger through his throne’s ornate carvings.

“Very well, let’s hear about this little rebellion. I trust that it will be easy to stamp out, yes?”

“So far, there have been a few reports of rebel attacks on small wagon trains carrying weapons, food, and other supplies for our troops. Witnesses have reported that some of the rebels are armed but have not killed any of our men––it seems they only want to take supplies.

Unfortunately, we cannot provide any more information yet. We are working on getting intelligence on the location of their base, their numbers, who they are––”

“Well, it’s obvious isn’t it? It’s those horrid Corians! First, they bring a plague into my kingdom, and now they’re sabotaging my troops!”

“I apologize, Sire, but there is no evidence that the rebels are Corian,” Sinnett offered.

“Well then, who is it? It can’t be Elysians. Times are hard but my people know I am doing everything I can to help. Did I not open the royal grain stores to provide enough bread for them?”

“In the Citadel and Old City, yes, but this grain hasn’t reached the outlying towns and villages.”

“Are you suggesting my own people are raising arms against me?” Edgar’s voice was fearsomely low, almost a growl.

“It’s hard to know for sure, Sire. It could also be simple vagabonds and thieves. Endalinian pirates or perhaps ruffians from Ancebus.”

Edgar’s eyebrows lifted and he waved a dismissive hand as he said, “Of course, I’m sure that’s all it is.” The king abruptly sat up. “I order you to find the rebels, whoever they are, and then we will dispatch a regiment to deal with them.”

Sinnett pursed his lips, contemplating the king’s command, but rather than speak more on the matter, he chose to remain silent.

“Now, tell me what we are doing to rid our land of Corians.” Edgar spat out the last word as if he had eaten something rotten.

“Our men are continuing to sequester the sick. They are even going door to door. Though we have assured the Corians that they will be cared for in the quarantine centers, it appears rumors have spread that they will not, and that they are really deportation camps.”

The king chortled under his breath. “So they aren’t as stupid as they look,” he muttered.

“The truth, Sire, is that although we initially intended for the quarantine centers to not only isolate, but care for the sick, there are now far too many Corians and the centers are overwhelmed.”

“Which proves they brought the sickness!”

“Perhaps, but I have had reports that our men are indiscriminately rounding up Corians and not always distinguishing between the sick and the well. Which contributes to the overcrowding.”

The king shook his head. “Did I not already say that any Corian is suspect? Anyone could be carrying the disease, whether they have symptoms or not.”

“You did, Sire. It is true that anyone may catch the disease. But in fact, more Elysians than Corians have died. It may be inaccurate to believe that separating Corians from our people will stem the spread.”

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“But they must be the source!” There was a wild look in the king’s eyes. He searched his advisors for reassurance and got it from several of them who nodded. “We cannot second-guess our brave soldiers in the field who are putting their lives at risk as they search house by house, coming in close contact with the pestilence. There are so many Corians. They all look alike. It must be hard to tell them apart and who has the sickness. If it were up to me, I’m sure I would err on the side of caution. Sinnett, your job is to expand the camps, collect the Corians, and find enough ships to take them away. We have enough fluorentium to pay for this twice over, do we not?”

Sinnett bowed. “Yes, Sire. We will continue to heed your wishes.”

“Good. This meeting is over. You are dismissed.”

As the advisors turned to leave, Rowan slipped through a side door and outside into a humid courtyard. He was late for his tutoring lesson with Professor Callan, and hurriedly made his way across the Citadel, a complex of massive stone buildings set atop a hill overlooking the walled Old City. Located here were the royal palace and cathedral, as well as the royal administrative offices and library.

It bothered Rowan that his father never discussed matters of the kingdom with him. At eighteen, and the heir to the throne, Rowan hungered to learn more about important matters. As a newly commissioned lieutenant in the King’s Guard, he was theoretically available for deployment on any number of assignments—convoy protection, reconnaissance and fighting rebels.

193

Finding Our Way Through Wonderland

You opened your book to page ten, that’s where we met. I’m not sure what happened on pages one through nine… was there a prologue? A table of contents that laid out our story yet missing everything that made it ours? My mind was still drifting from New York to Vermont and all I remember tumbling through the pages is that you were the first girl I saw and had brown hair whose curls held laughter that couldn’t all be contained in a bun with a pink scrunchie.

With the yawning sun and the endless fields of green, upon green, upon wafts of floral scents and ladybugs perched on leaves, it’s no wonder we became tweedle dee and tweedle dum rolling down the hill during long days and hiding in our bunks during long nights. We would both crawl out of our beds way past the morning sunrise bell and laugh at each other in the bathroom mirrors, our hair tangled and our eyes half-closed. There was no time to say hello or goodbye, we were always late, late, late!

We wove together pink threads with streaks of blue and white, only a few shades different from all the girls around us. When the nightly dances came, we would search each other’s closets for dresses we didn’t like but traded them just so we could belong to something that wasn’t our own. Arm in arm, ignorant happy little music followed our footsteps as we serenaded ourselves onto the floor. I didn’t know much about you other than the fact that you liked pretzels and hated cheese, but even that little bit was more familiar than everything else around me. Here, I was sleeping with my face towards the open and shifting sky, when I was used to the firm and cool sensation of the ground back at home. I was a night owl falling off its perch from the bong of the early morning bell. I was a matter-of-fact brain confused by the cloudlike cotton candy of stargazers.

I knew I had the queen in my hand of cards, but I didn’t know what the people surrounding me at the table had. So I played it safe, only sharing my twos and threes. I stared at the faces around me—the squint of their eyes or the perfection of their smile— trying to figure out who else was bluffing.

I disappeared for a few weeks when my heart wandered farther north to meet a star that was only seen in the sky once in a blue blue moon. His smile took the form of the Cheshire Cat’s and made me forget all the noisy voices around me, sometimes I even forgot you. Dancing may have seemed like a silly thing for fairytales, but we managed a whirling frenzy of locked sweaty hands and stumbling bare feet.

I was afraid to let go first.

I saw his smile everywhere—at the dining tables with a plate turned over for me, at the pitch-black outdoor basketball court staring at the shooting stars, at the place underneath the trees that stole my breath away the second he touched me. But his smile didn't last. I started to see it less and less until it faded into the trees who now left me wanting my air back. After his smile left, it was just our eyes some days, just our lips another night, just the faint outline of his shadow while I stood on the other side of the hill waiting for him. Waiting for something I didn’t even know was entirely real. When I was with him, I questioned whether or not I was real.

The whole time I was looking for his smile, I forgot the one person who was always there for me. You danced with the ghost of my past that night still dressed in your clothes of white fabric, and

I danced with the shell of my present dressed in a tight rope of black—both of us wishing we had someone to lean on. My bare feet on the floor, I felt a cold, hard, and slippery sensation I’d never noticed before. That’s when I saw it lying in the corner, a book that lay closed with our bracelets wrapped around it. I remembered leaving mine there, but when you left yours was a mystery of foggy time. I flipped through all the blank, blank pages I was supposed to fill where, instead, I had dropped the pen and spilled the ink. I saw my reflection in the puddle of ink and thought we were all mad here.

When the star exploded, not into a supernova but a bunch of dust in the mere sky, you were standing right there. I ran back to you, ran back into your arms that were waiting for me. I didn’t know which road I wanted to take before; I thought it didn't matter. Yet now I’ve seen the garden of lies disguised as cakes and sweet illusions, and white roses that are painted red. The truth of the matter is, I still like looking at all the red roses in the world, even if their paint would slowly drip off and melt away after time. I pinch myself, tumbling back into the real world.

The smoke from the caterpillar cleared, and now I know the connection we have is truly real amidst the crazy twisting and turning, growing and shrinking adventures of this world. In a land filled with so many curious new faces, I didn’t know which one to become. I was wrong about us, we are not tweedle dee and tweedle dum. We don't need to go by characters in a book. We are just us, two fifteen-year-old girls who understand each other, not for the facades and tricks, but for the character that is unearthed beneath.

We watched our little flames go down the stream of water. Your whole boat burst into flames and we laughed hysterically at the ball of fire coming down the pond amidst the other seemingly calm and tranquil little lights. This described you perfectly. A fire that didn’t burn enough to be dangerous or sting, but just enough to give you life. A fire that provided light for the cavemen many years ago, a fire that keeps us warm in the winter, a fire that shapes a lump of glass into a crystal swan.

Those friendship bracelets were never meant to last an eternity of wear. Instead, our story lies in the memories ingrained in our bodies forever. I can still hear our voices blending together as we sang around the bell on the last night of the summer when we were more than friends, of the summer when we were sisters. I clasped your hand not because I was scared of letting go, but because I wanted to hold onto the stillness of time. Too soon, the union of our harmonies slowly faded into the silence of dawn as the sun forced a sleepy yawn awake.

Even so, we will never lose the wonders of wonderland. For those wonders and those trials are what transformed us and led us on the path back to each other. People and creatures may disappear throughout the trees and the hills, but I know you will always be an anchor I can count on.

I took a peek at your hand of cards once. We were both truly queens.

194

Carolyn Lau Creative Nonfiction Herricks High School New Hyde Park, NY

Olivia Le

Ocean Origami

I origami my body when I don’t know what to do with it. I spread myself flat and fold and while I was folding someone told my grandmother to “get over” her accent like she had a break up with her culture. Cut ties and stop crying! didn’t someone tell her that young love was never a promise?

That’s when I realized that the nước chấm that I dip my body in (like baptism like communion) is salted with tears from an ocean that has been stealing me since my mom was seven. I want to spit the holy sauce at the concrete for the neighbor to slip on but it’s fish breath lingers in my mouth like a permanent stain, like blood.

When I realize that my sister’s favorite bún bò huế soup is spiced with the fire of abandoned homes, I force myself to swallow the screams so my throat knows what it's like to be burned beyond speech; to glance behind and silently beg that the bullets won't add burden to my back too.

When I realize that with immigrant comes dismemberment comes the mar of a diaspora’s dialogue comes deceit drowning us in a sailor drunk with ocean I want to break up with my culture too!

I want to tell this America how much I hate the way she looks at us…

But instead I origami, and I fold my grandmother with me. I fold to the wrinkles in her forehead that she deepened when her bare feet made birthmarks in the river bed. I fold to the creases of her palms as they craft this cartography of our ancestry. I fold to the red seams of her áo dài,

each stitch that she embroidered: is an emblem to her family. I fold to the square sheets of dough, cook dumplings and wontons. Try to pinch the ends without the entrails emerging. I fold on the borders between home and hope, territories that have tried to make ties.

I am folding origami from the shedded skin of my family from the layers of my culture from something flat to something whole. And I mostly fold cranes that can’t fly but still float. And We are still told to “get over” ourselves because people don’t bridge rivers here in America, they fill them with a hell lot of ocean. And yet I place my paper crane onto its surface, only praying that it has learned to swim like my grandma did, like my mother did. But I close my eyes so that I can’t see the waves swallow it all: my skin my borders my words smeared and stolen by the ocean like it was never even there.

195

Spoken Word Orange County School of the Arts Santa Ana, CA

Addison Lee

196

Design Arts Maranatha Christian Schools San Diego, CA

2022

Repaired Life (detail) Wool, felt, yarn, laces, branches

Ariana Lee

Through the Eye

I was twelve years old. My friend joked: I can’t ever see rain the same again. Only the storm, the roofs of submerged houses like lily pads, the news going 24/7. Born in the year of Katrina, graduating high school through a pandemic, my generation will get diplomas in disaster, degrees in damage. What kind of city are we inheriting? Each once-in-a-lifetime flood is a watershed moment, but we’ve had so many they’ve watered down this community. Five years later, are we still Houston Strong? Do we still have that outpouring of love to fight the downpour? We’re swamped with work to fix this swamp, where flood mitigation benefits the people who need it the least, who would prefer high ground over taking the high road. We don’t see rain the same. Some see a deluge—others see delusion. Leveling and raising homes won’t raise up our communities of color if we don’t get a say in how we rebuild. To get to where Houston can be headed, we need roofs over everybody’s heads. This is a city of innovators. The iconic graffiti in Downtown comes to mind: Be Someone. This is a city full of Someone’s, it must be something in the water, but we don’t see the same. Let’s try looking through the eye of a hurricane. So many volunteers show up, some have to be turned away. Strangers muck out each other’s houses. Neighbors rescue neighbors in their kayaks, boats, and canoes. A different flood and different Noah’s Ark, while Arkema explodes and families evacuate and floodways fill. Our dams couldn’t hold Harvey, but we have so much capacity in this city to say in all our languages: 我爱你. Te amo. I love you. I was twelve years old. I’d never seen love of that magnitude. Yes, deeper injustices surfaced from the floodwaters. Its murk made inequity clear. But when we see rain, we remember what kind of city we’re inheriting. A city that floods. A city that loves. A city that survives.

197

Spoken Word St. John’s School Houston, TX

Sophia Leng

198

Photography Hunter College High School New York, NY Untitled Digital photography 2021

Marielle Lerner

199

Visual Arts Windward School

2021

Los Angeles, CA Bakery Clay, chalk pastels (food); Cardboard, paper, match boxes, bottle caps, tinfoil and glue

Hahmini Lewis

200

Visual Arts George Washington Carver Center for Arts and Technology Baltimore, MD New Era Oil paint on canvas 2022

Lauren Lin

To Willow Tree

I see you there, Willow Tree

Rowing wind with arms for oars

They all told me

The breeze carried your branches

Swept your leaves through its ﬁngers

And let them ﬂy

They all told me

You bowed to its breath

Your arms knelt

Returning emeralds to earth

And stretched your leaves, your precious stones

To soil

In reverence

They all told me

Your boughs soar on the wings of wind

When they lift your leaves

They let you taste sky

But yesterday, Willow Tree

I thought I saw

Through the window pane

You, not wind

Your gnarled arms reach and row

Through the whistling breeze

Like you were parting the sea

And the red had seeped through your crevices

For a lick of freedom

I wondered then if you drew the exhale from the wind’s mouth

As you fought to move

Rooted beside earthworms

Your bark met mine

We shared a stare

For a single moment

Maybe because you longed to walk

Maybe you envied my legs

Maybe I envied your trunk–its stability

Maybe chance tossed the wind to me, forcing your gaze with it

But as I held you in mine,

You rowed the wind

As if it were the river to your oar

Rowing upstream and rooted

In place.

Why do you allow me to see this of you, Willow Tree?

To know of your imprisonment?

If not stationary in soil

Then stationery in a store

Why did you show me

That it was you, not wind, that wrenched your branches through the air

That your leaves clawed

Like ﬁns raking through waves

And now I wonder

How you can be so serene

Locked in ground by your own roots

And reaching for anything beyond them

And now I wonder

How I can envy your roots

That anchor you like bars

Your invisible cage.

I don’t know how

But I know you shaded my eyes

And stilled my heart

Wrapped me in cloaks of peace

Unless…

That was why you showed me

The way you reach

Because I would understand

For you knew I knew

That unseen bars are hardest to parse

They all told us

The joy we ignite And smiles we lift They surmise the serenity Is shared

The masquerade fades with you And perhaps we both worry That inside there’s a hollowness No count of rings could complete

But they see the lushness of our leaves

The richness of our bark

The smile

As we ﬂail in cages unseen And row.

201

Spoken Word Castilleja School Palo Alto, CA

Daniel Liu

Dog Years

Tell me this, why is the past tense always longer?

—Ocean Vuong

Ama lived in the village. Once, a bony dog had threatened to take her out of it, clenching her white hair between its teeth and dragging her across the dirt path through the marketplace, before my Ba found a ginkgo branch large enough to swat the mangy animal away. Look, it’s gone now. It’s gone, he assured her. But she did not look, and instead, curled up on the dusty ground between the fishmongers tossing grouper heads into a repurposed soy sauce bucket and the open river valley sky, closing her eyelids and caressing the new bald patch on her head. Ba told me to never remind her of this story and never ask her to see her scars, but I did because her stories always ended with someone crying or dying. She detailed them like capitals on the map of her body: a cut on her upper lip from a dispute over rice rations, an almost circular moon on her stomach from a wayward brick while bringing home white turnips, a blemish on her knuckles from knocking out her husband—the tales changed each time she told them, like the light-catching stream winding in wild turns. Honor your past, she lectured. It’s all you have. Still, she avoided the dog’s story on her forehead. Still, she dyed her hair auburn twice a year, snipping her hair evenly and precisely to hide the mark.

Ama was at the salon when we returned to her mudbrick house in the summer. Every decade, the whole family came back. This time, lanternflies had already engulfed the trunks of the charcoal trees, and cicadas accompanied our every hulking breath as Ba and I heaved suitcases up the hard steps. As we ascended toward his childhood house, where Ba had caught rough-skinned toads in his hands and gifted them to his sister in a jar, sending her screaming out the gates we now saw at the top of the hill, an older man with foggy eyes stopped us. He had a frog-like face, bumpy and wrinkled, but he spoke fiercely with a bitter bite. He spat out something accusatory. Ba responded with a soft plealike question, and the man continued raging in the local dialect, a violent chew that required his forehead to scrunch up as much as his tongue. I did not know the language well enough to understand him and I was afraid we had done something wrong: even though Ba grew up in the cradle of the village, he was a rule breaker— when he was young, he carved his name in the century-old wooden frames of doors, stole cigarettes from the deaf herbalist, smoked behind the Buddhist temple, and borrowed money from the local gangs to spend on drunken nights with his bright grin flashing between swigs of colorless liquor. It wouldn’t have surprised me if we had accidentally dishonored a family name wandering through alleys of carved stone paths. But as the man kept spewing endlessly to Ba, the hot air sticking to the backs of our shirts in pools of sweat and humidity, Ama finally came home: freshly curled coppery hair rolling down her shoulders, yellow teeth in a flaunted ferocity that stretched from cheek to cheek. Ama came up to the man and conversed until a moment of revelation crawled across his face. Ba and I sat defeated on our luggage. When he left, Ama motioned for us to get up from the curb, and enter the large doors into the ancestral house : he was just protecting our home. He didn’t even recognize you, my son. Ba let loose a toothy grin. I’ve gotten older, much much older, stretching his back and staring at the suitcases.

When we went inside, the age of the place revealed itself: countless political posters from the cultural revolution and a golden embossed calendar hung on the wall, while discolored plastic and wooden chairs, weakened with years of use, sat at the dining table, which itself was marred by stains and white spots. A dark mint-green fridge sat rusted in the corner, beside a red banner with black calligraphy, decades old.

Ama ran her hands across the propane stove and gave us a bowl of loquats, bright orange fruits with sweet juice. I stiffly took a seat on the hard mahogany couch, the same couch Ba, as a child, had chipped his front tooth on, leaving white dust scattered on the dark red surface while sprinting away from Ama’s straw broom and fury. Ba was never a good kid, Ama had told me before in our video calls. But she loved him nevertheless, even when he had unlocked a singing bird’s cage at the market to the vendor’s anger, letting it flutter above the village people’s curved backs, into the white slice of heaven Ama called her home sky. Even when his schoolteacher had whacked his hands with a bamboo stick a dozen times for trying to take another boy’s pencil when he had forgotten to bring his own that day. Each time Ama turned red as a beet, then sweet, paying for lost birds, rubbing his knuckles repeating don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

Nothing made her as sweet as Ba’s tears hanging on his face. Though she forgave him, she never forgot—every story they told me through the years taught me about the life they lived in this village, everything unearthed, revealed, caught in the heat of the sun. As I chewed through the pile of loquats, leaving yellow skins uneaten, I counted the hurts and contours on each groove of the couch, memories etched into the curves. A dead potted money tree sank into the corner. A column of dust collected on the cabinet.

People began to arrive steadily. Aunts and uncles and cousins and friends, ones that bought new apartments in the harbor city or took on debt to buy a new leather purse, ones that spent the last years of their forties butchering pig heads or selling lamb kebabs in night market stalls, came to the residence, each with travel bags stuffed with coats, dresses, and portable chargers, all wandering around the alleys until they made their way into inspecting painted plates from their own years in Ama’s arms or reminiscing about the yard of endless weeds where they chased each other when they still had heads of full black hair. They piled into the small kitchen with Ba, Ama, and I, dancing strange steps, burning the garlic, uncorking the Foochow red wine onto fatty pork belly strips, and washing the rice the neighbor and his son had brought over. While each focused on a task, they remembered their own history with the house, with the food, with the village, with loud bouts of laughs and yells. Somehow, the past fought its way into every conversation, stained every palm as they sliced through freshly plucked chickens.

Somehow, there was nothing to do here except what Ama had been doing these last decades: remembering, remembering every speck of silt on the steps, remembering every drop of rain that slid down the clay roof tiles to land on her richly recolored hair, remembering all the people that had been pulled out of her womb, learned to stumble by the straw flowers, and ended up running away from this house where she spent her years alone, brewing tea, sweeping, sleeping, stuck in the empty shell of a personal history she had cradled. The past trembled in every tick of her hands, her knees, her spine, her mind.

That night, over a buffet of lychee pork and steamed flounder topped with scallions, fried rice cakes and mussel soup, two dozen people gathered around an extended table brought in by some cousins. The clang of green bottles searched for a sound among the constant chattering. Ama swam in blissful smells and the incessant conversations between her children. I sat at the end of the table, the sweat rolling off my head with the body heat of a whole bloodline in an un-airconditioned house. Everything was too warm and too still, motion writhing in the humidity. Soon it became unbearable. As I got up to use the sink, I noticed Ba took another shot of the shaojiu with an uncle, both flushed with crimson crawling across their faces.

202

Creative Nonfiction Lake Highland Preparatory School Orlando, FL

When I found the restroom, which clearly had been attached to the house recently with its clean plumbing and stainless mirror, I splashed water on my face. I stole a moment of silence. I knew there was something special about coming home, but having never seen this place, let alone growing up here, the sense of fondness the rest of my family had for it amazed me. I still pondered. If they had fantasized about netting carps in the mud-brown ponds or betting on card games with their cousins, why had they left this circle of the past? Why had they left Ama alone and wistful in an empty nest of chipped sofas and severed shelves when they knew her husband was shattered furniture, ash in an urn? I let the water cool my face one more time, and dried my hands.

As I returned, Ama was up in her chair and had a finger pointed toward Ba. You ruin it. You always have to ruin it, she hissed. An uncle with a scraggly gray beard held her shoulder, urging her to take a seat, while an aunt begged Ba to do the same. Just leave, he barked, his drunk face revealing a soft edge to his eyes. You cannot live alone here, you know that. I’ll take you to America. America, Ma. Ama screamed, her heart boiling to the top of her head and thrown carelessly between the served fish eyes, her glare burnt up with the mess of sound coming from her well-worn throat. Once every decade we are together, and you ruin it. You ruin everything every time. Every time. The younger aunt who was with Ba shook her head, and followed Ama into her bedroom. A shadow hovered over us, the dampness of the subtropical climate catching up with the tension, thick with fear. No one prodded at the food, instead turning their heads toward their plates in shame. Ba took my hand, and we left the house by the steps at the gate.

I did not know how to feel. I only caught a glimpse, but the hurt had been looming since Ba had been stopped by the frog-faced man, since Ba left home three decades ago. The brief moment felt just like the eruption, the ash pummeling the landscape below. There was no compass inside me, directing me toward the right shame or anger that had enveloped the others, and my face made it obvious: there was nothing I could do, or knew that would give me the correct emotion. Ama didn’t want to leave, and Ba couldn’t force him too. But Ba was right too. Ama swaddled herself in the blanket of her best years here, clinging to a long-lost ghost of a place that would never return, taking solace in what was already gone. It made sense for her to leave: she was getting older and it was difficult to take care of her when she was so far from any family members. How deadly it was for her to let go. How uninhabitable the future was.

He clasped a cigarette that he dug from a pocket in his jeans between his lips. He lit it and I perched next to him on the curb, taking short breaths in the cool summer night. The moon was full now, catching what little light it could and showering us in a light glow, illuminating Ba’s own craters, old wounds, on his nose and cheek and neck and jaw, staying too long in the furrows of his brows before leaping and spilling all over the front of the house. I thought of Ama’s scars. To have drowned yourself in the radiance of an old sun, to have hoped that somehow, someway, the act of remembering would dig up a grave to reveal a living man. To live in the past until there was no living left to do. Inside, they calmed Ama down and gossiped about Ba. Down the stone alley, a stray dog sang its song. Grasshoppers hummed. Then, Ba turned to me and began to tell a story about a bony animal and a past that hunted and dragged Ama down. I imagined myself as the animal, then as Ama, then finally the river valley sky tracing every jagged tooth of memory.

Ama: Grandmother.

Ba: Father.

Shaojiu: A strong clear liquor.

203

Daniel Liu

Butcher

YAN, 67, white-haired and uneasy, paces at the back of a slaughterhouse. To her left, her son, LIN, 41, defeated by decades of manual labor, is taking off his guts-stained apron. By his side is a white bucket. Late summer heat pummels each of them, leaving a bitter, warm tension in the air.

YAN

We need the money, Lin.

A beat. Lin ignores her, and removes his apron completely.

YAN (CONT’D)

You can’t lose this job, not this one. Landlord already wants us out, remember? Kept coming by yelling about broken pipes. They think we’re bad luck, Lin. Bad luck.

Another beat. Yan’s pacing speeds up and speaks faster.

YAN (CONT’D)

What if the boss’s kid finds us here? You know he drinks here after you close. How would you explain why we’re here this late in the night? We need the money, Lin, what if--

LIN (Annoyed)

I heard you the first time, ma.

YAN

Yan stands still.

Then what are we still doing here?

LIN

Said it yourself, we don’t have the money.

YAN

Is that what you’ll tell them? That we’re broke so you stole frozen pig parts from them?

Yan motions to the bucket, filled with saranwrapped loins and ribs.

LIN

Look. Are you here to help or not?

YAN

I raised you better than this.

LIN

Lin turns to face Yan.

So are you helping, or just standing there?

YAN

I’m telling you Lin, this is a bad idea.

LIN

Ma, I promise you, we’ll be fine.

YAN

All my years, leaving the village, moving here with your cousin,

204

Play or Script

Lake Highland Preparatory School Orlando, FL

all I gave up just to have you steal? We don’t steal, Lin. We’re good people.

LIN

Good people here don’t feed their families. Good people here lose their apartments. I got your daughter-in-law and two boys to feed, and the boss isn’t gunning to give me a raise, so I’m trying to make sure my kids don’t go hungry, ma. I’m trying to make sure we don’t end up on the streets, and if that means I have to do some things to make that happen, I’ll do those things.

A beat. They stare at each other, waiting for one of them to make a move.

YAN

Your dad wouldn’t have done this. He was a good person.

LIN

My dad left us, ma.

YAN

Your dad didn’t have to steal. He didn’t have to do all this.

LIN

No, no. My dad left you alone with a kid in a rural fishing village and took all your money.

YAN

He was a good man.

LIN (Angrily)

He robbed you, ma. He stole from you. He left you to take care of me with no job, no family, the only reason we had a house in the winter was because the neighbors found you crying on their steps. I don’t call that a good person.

YAN

You didn’t know him.

I was two, ma. Two.

He loved you.

LIN

YAN

LIN

If he loved me, he wouldn’t have left you to beg in the marketplace.

YAN

If he could see us now, in America, he’d be ashamed. Stealing when you have a job, stealing--

LIN

There’s nothing wrong with stealing from them.

YAN

Yes! There is! I didn’t have anything and I never stole, never.

Lin collects himself, and turns toward the bucket, straight-faced.

LIN

Go home if you’re not going to help.

Lin goes to haul the bucket. It is clearly heavy as he pulls it.

205

YAN

Never did I steal. Not once. Not even when you were sick and I didn’t have enough for the herbalist.

Lin drags it along.

YAN (CONT’D)

Not even when I hadn’t eaten for three days, and the village official said they ran out of rations. It was the revolution, Lin. Everyone was hungry. Everyone. And they didn’t steal. We were good people.

Lin continues, determined to drag the bucket home.

YAN (CONT’D)

The apartment is a twenty-minute walk, you can’t do it. Just leave it and no one will know we were here. Listen to me, Lin, for once in your life.

Lin stops and turns his head around.

LIN (Snapping)

Because I’m the screwup, right, ma?

YAN

What? Don’t say that.

LIN

Because I’m the screwup chopping pig legs day-in-and-day-out just to live on the outskirts of town with my wife diluting the baby milk with water. Because I’m the screwup who has to ask his sixty-seven-year-old mother to help him steal next week’s dinners, I’m the screwup who got to America and was supposed to be rich, who got to America and was supposed to buy you a house, who got to America--

YAN

Lin--

LIN and lost job after job after job and. And.

Lin squats on the floor and covers his face with his hands.

YAN

You’re my son. You’re my only son. Your dad knew you would be a great man, and you are, Lin.

LIN

Bullshit.

What?

YAN

LIN

You don’t care. Neither did dad.

YAN

You didn’t know your dad Lin. He loved you.

LIN

Stop saying that, you know he didn’t. He got you pregnant and left, he didn’t want to deal with me. He knew.

YAN

206

I--

That’s the truth, isn’t it? That he couldn’t handle it? Every time we fight ma, you always go back to him. I remember when we left the village, you had to visit the schoolyard where you two met. I was fifteen, already gutting fish and laying bricks, and you prayed there, like he was some god. Like he wasn’t the coward that left us.

YAN

That’s not why I went to the schoolyard.

LIN

Then what was it, ma? What was it?

Silence envelopes both Yan and Lin. Something like a rusted cog clicks in Yan. The past has caught up. A long pause.

YAN

She was beautiful, Lin.

A beat. Confusion comes over Lin.

YAN (CONT’D)

She was beautiful and she was all mine. All mine. Her pretty black eyes were big and she slept so softly, even the grasshoppers stopped to hear her little breaths.

LIN

Ma...

YAN

Her name was Hua. She was named after the flowers. I shouldn’t have named her, because I knew she would be gone the second she left me. Your father loved her, Lin, he held her, crying and screaming, to his chest, cooing at her. I named her right then and there, but I kept that to myself. I knew it would break his heart if I told him she had a name.

LIN

No, no, you didn’t...

YAN

We needed a son, Lin. A daughter was no good. We only had one chance. The village officials would have burnt our house to the ground if they found out we had a second child during that time, and we didn’t have you yet. We could have one child, and it couldn’t have been her. It had to be you.

A moment of realization, shock flowers on Lin’s face.

YAN (CONT’D)

I loved her, Lin. It was summer, and I left her on the schoolyard, and your father didn’t find out until it was too late. When he came back, it had been days, and maggots were already on her soft peach skin. Hundreds of them, on my poor baby. My poor baby. She was mine, all mine but she was gone by then. The heat curdled her body. Your father wouldn’t look at me for months. But I knew he loved me, that he knew why I did it. We had you the next winter. You were all mine too, all mine.

LIN

You’re sick.

YAN

I never stole anything in my life, but if I had the chance, I would have stolen just a few more minutes with her. Just a few more.

LIN

You’re sick. You’re sick, you’re sick--

207 LIN

YAN

That’s why your father left us. He loved you too, Lin. He just couldn’t stand to live with me. But I knew he loved me. He loved me. You don’t understand Lin, I needed to do it. It was a different time.

LIN

No, no you didn’t. She’s dead. She was your daughter and now she’s dead because you wanted a son?

YAN

It was a different time--

LIN

Why did you tell me this?

YAN

Because I thought you’d understand. Because you deserved to know, and I don’t know why I hid it from you for so long. I love you, Lin. More than you could ever know.

A pause. Lin becomes visibly enraged.

LIN

I used to think that it was me who fucked up. I used to think that there was nothing I could do that was right, that somehow, somewhere something made me bad inside, like I was already rotting. And I kept trying. Because of you. Because I thought if I could make you proud, if I could save my mother whose husband had left her, who had a bad back, who begged on the streets, who smuggled us to America, who was my mother, I would somehow make myself proud. But now I see that it was you inside me this whole time. A bad person can’t make a good person. No, no. Not you. I blame you.

YAN

I am still your mother.

LIN

You were never my mother.

YAN

It was a different time, Lin. You think that because you never left your child in a schoolyard, you are better than me. You think that somehow you are excused from this too, that what I had to go through, famine and revolution and all the ugly, ugly years, that you don’t inherit them. That the man you never called your father is to blame for all your losses, that me, the person that raised you, is your worst enemy, well suppose you’re right Lin. You’re right, and I should’ve kept Hua, my Hua, and you would have never been born. Where would we be? No son to carry on the bloodline, no son to take up your father’s fishing boat? We would’ve starved, Lin.

LIN

That’s bullshit. All of that is bullshit.

YAN

I didn’t have a choice.

LIN

You had a choice, and you chose wrong.

YAN

You have sons, Lin, you understand.

Lin looks in disgust.

LIN

You’re not even sorry.

208

YAN

Why would I be? I have you, and you’re mine. All mine.

The whir and lights of a grey sedan pass through the stage. Lin and Yan both look up.

YAN (CONT’D)

Now put the bucket back, and we can walk home together.

LIN

No, no.

Lin, listen to me.

YAN

LIN

I’m done listening to you. I can’t even look at you.

Yan looks down in silence. The past remains as full of hurt as the present, as the future too.

Lin...

YAN

LIN

Don’t come to the apartment. I don’t want to see you.

Lin kicks the bucket, leaving raw pork to spoil on the floor. Yan sulks in shame. Lin begins to walk home, until Yan is left alone on stage.

YAN

Hua, my Hua. All mine. All mine.

END OF PLAY

209

Daniel Liu

It was the summer that dead things came back to life. When his mother’s bridal gown surrendered to the smoke in Jing’s backyard, he wound up the film camera beneath his thumb and shot me in front of the fire. White lace folded in the heat. Midnight grasshoppers sang in the undergrowth. He took another picture, this time of just the scalloped sweetheart neckline crumpling into the breeze. Jing promised me that what he was doing wasn’t wrong, that what remained of his mother’s charmeuse satin in the thick air was about creation, not vengeance, that if he could make new art from this burning garment then it was worth it, and I believed him because he had a toothy grin that unwrapped itself over neat rows of lawn, because I was a boy with too few friends, because I was seventeen.

When his mother was seventeen, she had bought the dress in a thrift store in Sunset Park. She told me this once over a pitcher of sweet tea with ginger, that it had been a soft ochre before it was dry-cleaned and renewed and worn on her wedding day. Her voice was shrill and unbearable, the kind that wilted peonies and scared away dogs, unlike her son’s, which was careful and earthly.

Jing smiled brightly at the pyre. The reason he set fire to her wedding dress was not that he hated his mother but instead, he told me, because he was determined to make art. On the stark white walls of his bedroom upstairs, there were dozens of sets of photographs, each with an image entrapping an object and another image with its smoldering remains.

Sometimes they were his own, a childhood train, a novel he had never read. Three of the sets were objects of mine, a deflated soccer ball, a pair of white socks, a copy of a magazine. Since I always ended up witnessing the fiery ritual anyway and didn’t have much besides the object itself to lose, I thought it might as well have been something of mine that he burned, something that I had a memory of. But memory didn’t work in this way. Memory created its own hurts and contours, its own body. I imagined Jing’s mother knew this, always threatening to break his 35mm SLR camera. I imagined she was afraid of what it could capture: her fingers around a green bottle, the purple marks I had seen on Jing.

On the trimmed grass, he stretched his long arms and turned his head toward me. His dimples were on full display, despite how the only light remaining came from inside the house, now that the gasoline-stained liturgy had gone out. His hands fell to his sides. The heavy heads of the flowers in his mother’s garden beds arched back into the soil they stemmed from. Everything was heavier when it was alive.

I followed him as he took a seat on the patio floor right next to the garden table and chair. From his pocket, he pulled out the lighter he had used on the wedding dress, and also a pack of Marlboros that we had stolen from the gas station by a Buddhist temple his mother frequented. I didn’t smoke, only he did, but I took one anyway, because I was seventeen, and lit the white tip. He looked at me disparagingly. Sorry, I said. That I grabbed one. That I can’t do more to help you.

He didn’t move. Instead, he pointed out gently that I had lit the wrong end. I gave the lighter back to him and tossed the failed attempt to the ground and crushed it under my shoe. The shadows we made looked bruised, hazy by the bamboo shades that separated what was outside and the warm house, too amorphous to be ours.

He closed his fist around the pocket lighter, strangled the plastic. He brought his knees up to his chin. There was a mole there, and I had joked before that his mole was like a navigational star, and that if he followed it, maybe it would take him to his real mother. He had kept a stone face then and I didn’t really understand the gravity of what I had said, only speaking what had crossed my mind. I had never seen him cry, but I imagined on that night that he did, even going as far as to think about his mother crying too on the other side of his always-locked bedroom door, two wails an inch apart and still full of distance. The day after, when he picked me up in his gray sedan, I told him the part where I felt guilty and where I was sorry, and he smiled it off and gripped the steering wheel tighter, the faux leather already coming off.

Now on the cold stone floor, where he sat in front of me, he took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it loosely, and I placed my hand on his torso where there was a tattoo of an animal, or an idea, or a man. He didn’t care for permanent things, he had told me this before. He expected things to fall apart. But there, on the flagstone paving, he admitted to this one attempt at perseverance, something he made that no one could ever take away from him, something that would always stay and could not stop loving him, could not throw plates at him, could not die in an accident, could not become a cut-out space on a family portrait, could not change, could not break, could not leave him, even if this permanent thing was on his own skin.

He climbed over me and kissed my forehead. It was the end of June, and I didn’t know a name for myself then, only a brief mindless word the world had associated with me, but now, with him renaming me, releasing me, I could answer him calling out to me. He stepped back and let his hand hover over the shutter release of his camera. This time, as he shot me, there was no fire involved, only a bright flash. ***

That spring, I didn’t cry and spent the morning talking to his mother. I let her yell at me and scream and kneel and weep and do all the things you do when there’s nobody to blame for all the stifling smoke burying your desires in a sweetened mess of ash. When he was cremated, his mother gave me his photos. How the soft reds blended into the landscape, the grainy details making up the figures of all the things we owned, or thought we owned, or had cared for. How all his pictures ended in a soft pile of embers.

And maybe he was right. That making something needed the past to burn up and fade into nothing and he understood this in his art, that all memory was just the aftermath, the great quivering silhouette of a wave crashing into the shore, the briefest division of time that we could have spent on this earth.

But the fire remembered too, didn’t it? Tracing all the things it destroyed, or created. My lips in the picture hung like a body, spelled out empty, or vessel, or all the things I couldn’t keep dead.

火: Fire

210

Short Story

火

Lake Highland Preparatory School Orlando, FL

Sophia Liu

Twin Studies

Acadia National Park | Maine | June 2021

You keep a distance of a small child away from me at all times. For the first time, I cry to Baba about you. These months I wore my body like an ill-fitting coat, took each day like a shot of Chinese medicine. You stood in the corridor, my ghost-brother, my vicarious boyhood. Before last March, we visited the first home we remember. The trailer classroom, geoded garage windows, feral dog. You were six when you kissed a girl under that dream-red slide and told me you’d run away together. I said I didn’t care, then bit off all my fingernails. I blinked and here summer is and here you are: newborns spitting on my sweater. Maine is honeycomb-lush, sister-like-forgiving. In our motel room, I have two dreams: one where I am dying and the other where everything is a bloodless red but I know you are next to me. I think of how I would want you to apologize. I pretend that my spine is a learning curve, that time is a disguise for forgiveness. I hate how a nine-month-old baby was conditioned to fear rats for the sake of behavioral psychology, or how Genie’s twelve-year-long abuse led to a breakthrough in language development. I wish I could disinherit this grief, or at least bequeath you with enough to feel it. But what is the point of apology when a critical period passes, when the newborn is not yours to bring home. Outside, a white family grills a midnight dinner and you smell their smoke while sleeping. You storm out, shut all the windows, and swim back into bed. I lay on my side, watchful, dreamless. An experiment. Null.

211

Poetry William A. Shine—Great Neck South High School Great Neck, NY

Eboni Louigarde

212

Visual Arts

We are Woven in Blood Embroidery floss, digital printer, family photos, frames, acrylic paint 2022

University of North Carolina School of the Arts Winston Salem, NC

Sofia Lucas

Vuonna ’89

When Joonas came to visit in the summer of ’eighty-nine—the summer of the World Wide Web and twenty-four satellites, the summer when “Minä Olen Muistanut ” by Kim Lönnholm was number one for twelve weeks straight and seemed to be playing on every other radio station, in the good company of Madonna and Bat & Ryyd—he had no idea his world was about to change.

He came in mid-June, when the days stretched so tall that they almost pushed out the nights altogether. That’s how it was with summer in Helsinki—as if the universe thought a few short weeks of endless sunlight could make up for the bottomless darkness of the winters.

My dad told me he came on a truck. That sounded normal enough to me, but then he talked about how Joonas’s mother (my dad’s sister) had paid the truck driver to smuggle him in the back with the barrels of petroleum oil.

Which explained why when he came in, he smelled like he’d been locked in an auto-repair shop all night. And why one of the first things he said was that his nose was stinging.

Though I didn’t know he said this, of course, until my dad translated afterwards. Joonas said it first in Estonian, then realized I couldn’t understand and repeated it in Russian, but even with my few years of the language at school I couldn’t recognize the word “stinging.” Now it’s one I never forget.

“Tere , Antti,” was the next thing he said. “Er, privet Hei,” he said, finally coming to the Finnish word in the end. Somehow, I was surprised that he knew my name.

Our language situation was quite odd. Though my father knew both languages from his parents, Joonas knew no Finnish, and I no Estonian. It was more than weird—though our languages looked and sounded so familiar, like the meaning of what Joonas said brushed against my fingertips but was just beyond grasping, we had to use a third, completely different, language. Joonas spoke Russian as fluently as Estonian (that was how it was in the USSR, the slow Russification of all aspects of life, starting with language), but my Russian was nowhere near as good as my Swedish or English. I tried my best to speak the language anyway.

I’d never met Joonas before (ordinary Soviet citizens had almost no hope of getting the required government approval to travel out of the country, and though my dad sometimes made trips my mom was nervous and wouldn’t let him take me), and at first I spent a lot of time just watching him. He had blond curly hair, almost golden, so much so that for a brief moment I thought to myself that Kultalukot—“Goldilocks”—would be the perfect nickname for him. I used to have hair that color, but by the time I was fifteen—the age I was when Joonas first came—it had darkened slightly, leaving it the color of wet sand with occasional bright streaks in the summer that wouldn’t last long. Joonas had brown eyes; mine were blue. Sometimes I stared in the mirror and tried to see if we looked alike. I didn’t see many similarities, but what I did notice was that he looked a lot like my dad when he was a kid. So we really are related, I thought.

When he came, I was in the middle of playing a game I liked to call Pretending to Be an Only Child, which I played when my mother whisked my sister away to other parts of the country—or even other countries altogether—for various appointments and therapies in the hopes that one day she’d be able to walk stably enough to be able to live on her own. My dad always tried to disguise it as something fun, and so did my mom (“You’ll get to have a boys’ week, just the two of you!”), and once I learned to stop missing them it actually was

Usually these trips would only last a week or two at most and only happened once or twice a year, but this time they’d be gone for months—for the surgery, I was told, the one that might

mean an end to the trips once and for all. This time, it was all the way in America.

Because of this, Dad gave Joonas Aliisa’s room. To him, it was perfect logic; Aliisa was gone and Joonas was here—swap one twelve-year-old for the other. There were a couple reasons I didn’t like this: One, Aliisa’s room was a girl ’s room. The walls were painted pink and she had pillows in the shape of flowers, and I wasn’t sure Joonas would be comfortable in there. Two, it was Liis’s room. Hers. Not his. Liis never gave her permission—she’d never even met Joonas, so who knew if she’d even be comfortable with it. What if his petrol stench stuck to her blankets? I thought it made a lot more sense for him to sleep in the living room, or even in my room. Just not in hers.

Also because of this, our upstairs neighbor came to cook for us almost every night. When I was really little, my grandma used to come down from the north and play Mom till the real thing came back. When she died, Katja took over.

Kateryna Kovalenko had come to Helsinki from SSR Ukraine before I was born, her escape story something she never liked to recount. That was okay, though—she had countless other interesting things to talk about. In Ukraine she’d lived in a rural village, which she often explained was where the true Ukrainian spirit thrived while all the big cities were Russified. She had a passion for folklore that bordered on religious, and sometimes I wasn’t sure whether she was privately a pagan or just genuinely deeply respected the traditions of the way back.

She was excited to meet Joonas, and when she brought dinner that first night she immediately started talking to him in Russian, her eyes lighting up as she finally spoke in her own language family to someone who was on the same fluency level as she was, instead of reluctant Russian students who’d only taken it a few years. She looked at him with something like deep empathy in her eyes, which I didn’t think was needed since he smiled all the time.

That was another thing I noticed about Joonas. He smiled a lot—like it was his default—and his eyes were wide with wonder at almost everything he experienced: sleek freeways, different types of cheese to choose from at the store, the giant lumps of food Kateryna piled onto his plate every night, always something different. Free markets were supposed to be something demonic (or so his country had always told him), but now he was discovering that all they did was lead to a life of choice. At times I wondered what it was like to have your whole worldview flipped on its head, to find out that your own country had been lying to you your whole life. But Joonas never talked about the food lines and supply shortages as anything more than minor inconveniences, and so at other times I thought that maybe I was being a little too dramatic, that perhaps we were lied to just as much about where Joonas had come from as he had been about where he found himself now.

Joonas didn’t bring much with him (and most of what he did bring was more of sentimental value than any actual use), so the day after he arrived—after my dad realized most of my clothes were too big—my dad took us to a second-hand clothes store to look around, one with only vague organization and sky-high piles of clothes that felt like you could get lost in. My dad went off one way with Joonas and I hung around the t-shirt section, as I usually did, browsing. Suddenly, I gasped.

“What?” I spun around, and to my surprise, Joonas was behind me, eyes wide as usual.

I picked up the t-shirt I’d found and held it out for him to see.

“Eppu Normaali,” he read, “Baarikärpänen. What’s that mean?” He pronounced the names perfectly, but switched back to

213

Short Story Woodside Priory School Portola Valley, CA

Russian immediately afterwards, not yet confident enough to give a stab at the question in Finnish.

“It doesn’t mean anything. Eppu Normaali is the name of a band, and Baarikärpänen is their song.”

“Oh.” He studied the image printed onto the black fabric: a bee with a long, tubular mouth, drinking out of a foaming mug of beer that spilled over the edges. “Are they your favorite band?”

I opened my mouth to say no, they weren’t, but still one of the most popular in Finland, but my dad’s voice cut between us.

“Antti! We’re here for Joonas, not you,” he said.

“Well.” I glanced at Joonas sideways. “I think Joonas should get this shirt.” I held it up to him. “Looks about your size.”

“Antti…” my dad said in a gentle, but stern, voice.

“What do you think, Joonas?” This time I turned to him completely, trying to block out the look I knew my dad was giving me.

He took the t-shirt from me and spun it around. “It’s pretty cool, Uncle Osku,” he said.

My dad scratched his head, and I knew he was trying to figure out if Joonas had even heard of the band before. “Okay…” he ceded. “Get whatever you want, Joonas.”

When they rang up the rest of the clothes Joonas had collected, I realized the Eppu Normaali shirt was not his style at all. He’d picked out a lot of tracksuits—mostly Adidas, with a few brandless ones chucked in there as well. Some were just the plain stripes, while others had jagged blocks of color that cut through the air straight to your eyes. He’d be hard to lose in that, I thought, even in the winter’s blinding white. The t-shirts he got were just as stark, and whereas in most cases they would’ve been the ones to stand out, amongst them the Eppu Normaali shirt stuck out like a black coffee stain on a bright, multi-colored quilt.

When we left the store, Joonas made a show of slipping the Eppu Normaali shirt over the blue- and green-striped one he was already wearing. All the same, he whispered to me on the way back to the car, “You know, Antti, I think we’re the same size.”

At home, he followed me to my room and asked me to tell him more about the band on his shirt. At that point I hadn’t really talked to him much; he’d been mostly talking to my dad in Estonian, sometimes right in front of me, even though they knew I wouldn’t understand. It wasn’t as if they had something to hide—from the few familiar words I picked out, I knew it was just catching up, about school and his mom and how things were in Tartu—so I couldn’t think of one good reason they couldn’t talk about it in Russian. Maybe that was why I was annoyed at Joonas when I first turned around and saw him in the doorway, and narrowed my eyes at him instinctively. But then he pointed to his shirt and asked his question and I decided that maybe he was alright after all.

He asked about their name again, and this time instead of brushing it off I explained that it was a play on words, from “epänormaali,” Finnish for “abnormal.” I told him about the members, and their packed concerts, and how their songs were in Finnish, and played him the song “ Vuonna ’85 ,” which prompted Joonas to ask what happened vuonna ’85 , in the year ’85.

I shrugged. “Nothing. They wrote the song, I guess.”

“Oh.” He furrowed his brow, as if disappointed that nothing monumental happened in the year that inspired the song. So he could understand, I taught him some of the lyrics, about going up, up, up on the Ferris wheel and opening your eyes at the top. His eyes widened at the words, as if he was trying to open them even though they hadn’t been closed to begin with.

He asked again if they were my favorite band. I said no, and he asked who was my favorite band?

I knew the answer, but for some reason pretended to spend time thinking about it, maybe just so I could say more. “Well, Metallica and AC/DC both hit number one here, and I’ve been following them for a while… And the British rock scene is really great too, with Iron Maiden and The Smiths and The KLF…” I trailed off, not sure whether or not the Iron Curtain was thick enough to keep out what I considered the best music of our time, but Joonas just nodded along so I kept going. “I think my

favorite is Stone, though. They’re from Kerava, and pretty new, but I think they have a bright future ahead of them. And they sing in English,” I made sure to point out. English was cool—well, as long as it came from the mouths of our favorite rockers and not our dreadful language teachers, that is. Really, we learned more singing along than we did hunched over our textbooks.

When I was done talking, Joonas asked me to play some of their songs, and I did, starting with “Back to the Stone Age.”

He was a good listener, I found out, and since that was so rare I almost forgot to be a good listener back. I asked about Estonian music, and he named a few artists and bands as well as what he called “protest songs.” Whenever we went to record shops later that summer, we could never find any of them, so Joonas bought albums by artists I liked instead, which by then he had grown to love as well.

A couple days later I found the shirt in my closet, and I picked it up. Some of the oily, earthy scent had stuck to the black fabric, and when I put it on I could smell it. It needed a wash, that was for sure. That was when I decided that Joonas was more than alright.

I brought it back to his makeshift room, and when he insisted I keep it, I insisted back.

“I already have a bunch like this,” I told him. “I want you to have it,” I said, and meant it, even though the bee on the beer was sick and I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to find one like it.

But I already had a collection of band shirts from all my years as a metallipää —a metalhead—and Joonas was just starting from scratch. He was new to Finland, new to the country’s passion for electric guitars and bassists and screaming and long hair.

He was starting from scratch, but I would help him. That summer, my dad gave me one task: babysit Joonas. Well, actually, those weren’t his exact words. He said something like, “Antti, be sure to bring your cousin along when you go out and meet friends, okay? Remember, he’s here all by himself and doesn’t know anyone except us. Plus he’s homesick, and missing his mom. We can’t even imagine what he’s going through. So be nice and make him feel welcome and do lots of fun things with him to distract him, alright?”

Okay, so maybe “entertain Joonas” would be more accurate. Either way, it wasn’t that hard.

My best friend Joel was gone for the summer, off playing bass at pubs and other small gigs around the country with what he called “an up-and-coming thrash metal band.” Joel was a year older than me, but we’d been friends for years, and since we were never in the same classes summer was our time. Every year we’d plan out an itinerary of things we had to do before school started up again, weeks before it even got out. Swimming, concerts and music festivals, road trips with his older brother Olli—we’d do it all. But this time around, the whole “when you go out and meet friends” thing didn’t really apply, since my friendship situation was best described with the singular.

Add that to the fact that my mom and Liisa were gone, and my dad was teaching summer classes to help pay for their long stay. No family trip to Sweden or up north to Grandma’s cabin, either, or even family dinners at McDonalds on Fridays; no having Dad to myself all day.

I had been preparing for a summer with an empty flat, with plans to keep turning up my CD player till my ears hurt so the sound would fill the blank space, the singers’ voices taking the place of my parents’ and sister’s and Joel’s. Maybe I would find some concerts to go to, though the thought of turning up to one by myself was intimidating, even though I’d gone with Joel many times before. I could still swim—you didn’t need a second person for that. And I had my weekly job babysitting Aleksi, the downstairs neighbors’ kid. Maybe I’d appreciate him more, maybe this would be the summer Aleksi and I finally clicked and he’d stop chasing me with markers and terrorizing me with Play Doh and glue—

Then there was Joonas.

We went swimming, and to the music store, and downtown to get ice cream or just people-watch. Sometimes

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Joonas would make up stories about people as they walked past, sometimes tragedies, sometimes comedies. For some reason I ended up laughing at both.

I brought him with me to watch Aleksi and then split the money with him afterwards—he was always better behaved when Joonas was there, maybe because Joonas didn’t tell him what to do and just played with him instead, a fellow kid instead of an authority figure. It wasn’t like Joonas could tell him what to do anyway—instead, he communicated with car noises and gestures and suggestions of what to do by fetching toys and holding them out. With his share of the money he bought black licorice and t-shirts of bands he’d made his own.

It wasn’t hard to learn to love Joonas.

I showed him how to use the sauna, and laughed at him when he jumped at the sudden puff of steam that erupted like a volcano from the rocks as he splashed water on them. We’d spend entire days wandering around in Ikea, sitting in every piece of furniture that caught our eye and pretending the rooms were our own and we lived there together after university before walking through the warehouse empty-handed and buying Swedish meatballs on the way out. Sometimes I’d read aloud from the Swedish books on display in the various shelves and bookcases; sometimes I really translated them, and sometimes I made up chapters of my own. Joonas could never tell the difference.

Some days we showed up at Kateryna’s flat unannounced and she’d always take us in, feeding us with crispy reindeer meat and Ukrainian folklore in exchange for some words in Russian with Joonas. The suspicious look in his eyes as he picked apart his poronkaristys for the first time was priceless, but he got his revenge when I gagged upon seeing Kateryna boiling the pig legs needed to make the meat jelly they both seemed to be so familiar with— holodets for her, sült for him.

Once Joel’s brother Olli saw us coming out of the grocery store and recognized me, beckoning for us to join him in the crowded car with his friends even though we were marginally younger. Me and Joonas squeezed into one seat, the grocery bag stuffed uncomfortably between my legs. All the windows were down to let out the smoke from the cigarettes a few of the guys were smoking. When we sped, the wind would whip the long hair of the guy squeezed next to us into our mouths. I let my arm hang out of the car since there was no room for it inside.

Olli was in a band too (though it was a different subgenre than his brother’s), and I couldn’t tell if these were his bandmates or just other metallipäätä . The rock connection was clear, though—the black metal screaming from the radio and the shoulder-length hair on some of the guys were dead giveaways.

“Introduce the kid, Antti,” Olli ordered me from the wheel, after explaining me to his mates as “Joel’s little friend, a decent guy with good taste.” He didn’t turn back, but I saw his eyes glance up at the rearview mirror.

“This is my cousin, Joonas,” I said, not sure which of the five guys to address. I didn’t know if that was sufficient, or if I was supposed to add that he was from Estonia and had come on a petroleum truck and was filling the space of everyone who’d left me that summer.

The guy in the passenger seat turned all the way around. His dark hair wasn’t quite touching his shoulders yet. “What kinda music you listen to, Joonas?” he asked. He was wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt with the sleeves cut out. I whispered the Russian translation in Joonas’s ear.

Joonas listed the bands I’d taught him, but it wasn’t like he was copying me—he said the ones he genuinely liked, the ones I’d walked in on him listening to on his own. Guns N’ Roses, Nirvana, Stone, Eppu Normaali… Actually, Eppu Normaali was his favorite, but I think it was more because of how ingrained they were in our first few days than the music itself.

He got nods of approval from the guys, and for some reason I was proud of him; he was one of them, now. He seemed to feel this, too—his chin tilted up slightly and his shoulders relaxed.

This drive didn’t seem to have an aim, going one way only to turn around a few streets over and come back in the same direction. Occasionally Olli would slow down to shout and wave at people he knew—usually girls—and once there was a passenger exchange, where one guy got out only for a different one to get in a couple blocks down.

The guy with the long hair next to us reached over into our bag and pulled out our salty licorice, tearing open the bag without asking and passing it around the car. I heard the pop of a can of beer, and someone passed that around too. When it reached my hands I took a small sip and tried to swallow without tasting it, but it didn’t work and my throat burned. I began passing it to Joonas when it dawned on me that he was only twelve years old— it was an easy thing to forget when for weeks we’d run around Helsinki as two sides of the same coin. It didn’t seem that big of a deal when it was just the two of us, but here we were in a car full of smoking, drinking rockers in their early twenties, and suddenly the difference was stark.

I didn’t know what I was doing there; I didn’t know what Joonas was doing there.

I told Olli to drop us off here, even though it was further from our building than where we’d started. He sloppily pulled over and I jumped out, grabbing the rest of the groceries but leaving the licorice. Olli shouted out the window that we were invited to be their test audience for the new songs they were working on, and I said we’d be there, because he was my best friend’s brother and I’d known him for years and liked him. I could decide later if I would bring Joonas.

As I held open the door for Joonas, fingers around the handle, I noticed my reflection, distorted in the car’s reddish shine. For the first time, I could see some similarities between my face and Joonas’s.

I had to remind myself that we weren’t just close friends, but something tighter. We were related, even if we hadn’t known each other for long. He had my blood and I had his, and we looked like each other in the rippling reflection of a red car with all the windows down.

It didn’t take long for the three of us to feel like an odd kind of family. On weekends my dad would take us to the movies or for ice cream, just like he usually did with me and Aliisa when she was here. We’d laugh and forget the people we were missing because there were also people we’d gained

I wondered if this was what having a brother felt like. Before Joonas came, I’d thought of Joel as something like a brother, but now I wasn’t so sure. Joel had his own brother, after all, and was way different around him than he was with me. Joonas felt different from Joel too, like he was stuck to me and nothing I ever did or said would unstick him. It was the same feeling I got with Liisa that allowed me to tease her without guilt.

We used every drop of sunlight we got, and our days were always full and long—we milked that summer of every possibility it held. When we’d come home in the evening we’d have dinner with my dad and sometimes Kateryna, then we’d go to my room and I’d teach him the lyrics of all the songs we’d heard on the radio that day. He was a horrible singer but sang anyway, and that was something I liked about him. Because he sang anyway, he could put together full sentences in Finnish from fragments of lyrics, the way I did with English. Sometimes instead of going back to his room he’d camp out on my floor with a blanket and pillow, not wanting to break the feeling of the day with a “goodnight,” instead refusing to say adieu for the time being and talking till one of us stopped responding.

We talked about everything and nothing. Our grandma had been Estonian and our grandpa from here; I was a quarter eesti and he a quarter suomalainen. We were each a quarter of each other’s worlds, worlds we knew nothing about till we opened them up to each other. He whispered to me rumors that the Soviets were losing power (hushed, as if they could hear him all the way from Helsinki), and I told him about the United States and about Finland’s first ever school shooting that January and about

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how beautiful the night was in winter when you looked at it from inside a warm room.

Once, on a particularly hot night, he crept into my room at a little past one with his blanket and pillow and set himself up on the floor. I wasn’t asleep either, my legs twisted up in my blanket and my shirt sticky with sweat, and at first I didn’t say anything, but when the moon shifted it lit up his mouth and I could see that it was trembling.

“You okay?” I asked.

He was silent for a moment. Then: “Do you ever miss your mom?” The question was sudden and caught me off-guard, and I didn’t understand its aim. I tried to answer it all the same.

“Yeah, sometimes. At first. And when I’m upset about something. But other than that, I get used to it.”

“Do you really get used to it?” He propped himself up on his elbows to look at me, and the moon moved on him to turn his hair white.

By then I knew who he was really talking about. “Yeah. I mean… Kind of. It depends. It’s different every time she goes away, for me.” I wanted to reassure him, but I also didn’t want to give him false hope that it would get better—I got to call my mom every once in a while, even if the expensive international rates meant it was only for a few minutes, those minutes usually spent on updates about Aliisa (in my most recent call, she had told us that Liis’s post-surgery rehab program was going better than expected, that by the time they got back she would certainly be up and walking again). And I had a definitive date when she was coming back.

Then he asked me what my mom was like, and then my sister, which was his way of hinting that he wanted to talk about his own mother. So I asked him about her, question after question even though I was too tired to process his answers, until he grew quiet and rolled over to face away from me. Only then could I finally go to sleep.

At the end of August, something happened. Well, two things, actually.

First, my dad pulled me outside in the middle of the night and whispered the words, “I haven’t been able to get in contact with Joonas’s mom for a long time.”

“What?” I breathed. I tried to tell myself that this was natural enough, that sometimes letters get lost in the mail and telephone lines go down and you go for a few weeks without hearing from someone. It’s completely normal.

But then he said, “Yesterday I found out from a friend of hers that she’s been arrested.”

“Why?” That was the only thing I could think of: why, why, why, why. Why does a normal person get arrested? Why do the police get to take an ordinary mother away from her child?

He didn’t know why for sure, but told me that somebody had probably found out about Joonas. Where Joonas was from, leaving was a crime, he said, as if I didn’t already know from the way he’d arrived. You could be whisked away for anything over there, it seemed like.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know. It would be impossible to find her—I’m not even going to try, it’d just stir up more trouble. And that’s the last thing Joonas needs.”

Then, he started crying. His sister had disappeared, and now the boy in his care was without a mother. He didn’t know what to do, and that scared me. My dad was always supposed to have all the answers, always supposed to be the one person I could count on.

I almost hated him for telling me this and then making me swear not to tell Joonas. “What good would it do? He’d have to keep staying with us anyway. Nothing would change if he knew,” he said.

What good would it do? Maybe none, but also maybe we had the moral duty to tell him. The whole summer, Joonas had been telling me everything , even about his growing crush on Ilta, the girl who lived in a building on our block who we’d sometimes

see when going for drives with Olli. I didn’t want to hide anything from him. I wanted to give back what he’d given me.

I thought of his mom—my aunt—and everything I had learned about her these past few months, more than I had learned about her in my fifteen years combined before that summer. That her second-biggest regret was moving to SSR Estonia for a man whose job as a diplomat meant he was always away anyway, her first being having a child there. And because she loved that child more than herself, she risked everything to get him out. And paid for it with her own freedom.

My aunt knew—before any of us—that their world was about to change and it was better that Joonas watch from the outside.

The second thing was that suddenly, our TV screens filled with images of Baltic citizens and their human chain spanning three republics. The Baltic Way, it was called. After decades of silence, the people of the Baltics stood up quietly again, their bodies making all the noise they needed to.

The entire day (and every day that followed till the news stations stopped talking about it) Joonas sat on the rug in front of the TV—not the sofa, because he wanted to be close enough so that the screen was all he saw, so that he could feel like he was in it—his arms hugging his knees to his chest as he watched with wide eyes. He saw people in Tallinn hoisting a white-, black-, and blue-striped flag, different from the one with the hammer and sickle the Soviets used. He saw people in Latvia and Lithuania waving their flags. He saw mile after mile of people holding hands, never more than a few at a time, but he put the fragments of what was on the news together till it formed the entire fourhundred-mile chain. Sometimes he squinted at the faces, and I thought he might be looking for his mother. It was a silly thought, I told myself—he couldn’t possibly expect to find her amidst the thousands of people they showed.

Then he muttered, as if thinking aloud, “Eight million people in the Baltics, two million in the chain, they say. That’s a twenty-five percent chance she’ll be there.” I knew who he was talking about, and because of it, couldn’t look him in the eye.

I sat next to him on the carpet and mimicked his position. After a while I got uncomfortable, and let my legs sprawl out in front of me.

“Hey, that looks like my friend Jüri,” he said, pointing to a face that quickly disappeared.

When he went to the bathroom, he asked me to “keep an eye out for my mom.” I said I would, even though I’d only ever seen her high school photos and didn’t really know what she looked like. When he came back my “No,” I hadn’t seen her, was definitive despite that fact. He sat back next to me, but I couldn’t look him in the eye, even through the reflection in the TV screen when it went dark.

“I wish I was there,” I heard him whisper once.

Something about this protest made Joonas really believe that the end was near. Almost every day he started saying, “I’ll really miss you when I go back, Antti, but with the borders open I’ll be able to visit you whenever I want. And your mom won’t have to be afraid about you coming to visit me!” Even when everyone around us seemed to forget the Baltic Way in favor of everything that was starting to happen in Poland and Czechoslovakia and Hungary, the excitement never wore off for Joonas.

It was when he talked wistfully about seeing his mom again that I always felt sick to my stomach. A couple times I came close to telling him, saying, “Joonas, your mom…” before trailing off and finishing with, “will be so excited to see you,” followed by a forced, watery smile. We still knew nothing. When he smiled back, it made me want to scream it at him.

But it was two years before the Red Army finally left Estonia, and in those two years a lot would happen: that first, magical summer would end; Liisa and my mom would come home, nudging me and Joonas apart because now my family was full and his still fractured; Joel would also come back, but now that he’d been around the country and met people who were

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both older and more exciting than me, he’d decide he was bored with me, pushing me towards Joonas again; Eppu Normaali would break up; Joonas would celebrate his thirteenth birthday with us in September, then his fourteenth and fifteenth; Joonas would discover twenty-four hour darkness for the first time that winter when we went up north, and also skiing and with it the feeling of being attacked by wind; after a year and a half, Joonas would feel comfortable enough with Finnish to ask Ilta out, once, twice, three times; he would break his leg falling out of a tree the second August; and then finally after the two years, Estonia would win their independence, which meant that it was time to tell Joonas the truth; he would look at me and my dad with so much hatred that I knew everything we’d built in those three years since ’89 was gone; he would stop talking to us, and eventually just pack up and leave without telling us, taking with him every trace he was ever here, even the Eppu Normaali shirt.

As I was sitting there trying not to meet his eyes through the TV screen, I couldn’t know any of that. All I could think was that everything was wrong and too many people were not in the places they needed to be. I wanted my aunt to be released and go back to her home. I wanted The Estonian Diplomat to stop traveling all the time and talk to Joonas as much as my own dad did. I wanted Joel to come back and join us and Olli in the car that was also a mirror. I wanted my mom to come back to Finland and I wanted Liis to take her room back.

And more than anything, I wanted Joonas to be able to go home. Even if he stayed longer because he wanted to, I wanted going home to be an option for him, not something that was so unbearable he inhaled petrol for six hours to escape it. I wanted him to have parents to go back to, and I wanted him to go to them, even if it meant leaving me.

I whispered the word “pian,” soon, under my breath, and wondered what its ratio was. How many times was it used truthfully, compared to the times used to create false hope?

“We’ll be back sooner than you know.” “We’ll hang out soon, don’t sweat it, dude.” “You’ll get to go home soon, don’t worry.”

“Hm?” Joonas kept his eyes glued to the screen, but tilted his chin slightly towards me.

“Pian. It means ‘soon.’ That’s your Finnish word-of-the-day.”

Joonas tested the word on his tongue. “That’ll be an easy one to remember. In Estonian it’s ‘pea.’”

There it was again—our twin languages bridging the sea between our estranged lands, my world staying predictable while his was changing, changing, changing.

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Thy Luong

Letter Offering to the Supremacist

If you are the white knight, let me be the chink in your armor. Let me creep through your eggshell, our yolks indistinguishable. No more secrets. I know you hunt me because when you gut my parchment stomach and spicy beef noodle soup flows from my corpse, you can convince yourself your insides smell like lilies and laundry detergent. I know you wrap yourself in the calcium membrane of hate and creamy Machiavellianism because you are afraid of escaping from your cross: although maybe the deity in your head likes to live in peeling plaster church walls or the war-rimmed eyes of your father, residue from when he fished for men who tasted like freedom. My grandfather also fished for freedom— when men become fish, you do not forget the feel of their scales (still-twitching) beneath your fingers. You crave to slice my spine into doubled vertebrae: Do you see how you wound me when you hit me, stab me, rob me? When you admire my milky thighs, the whiteness to your taste? When you filet my throat with familiar fishbone knives? Chink, you spit-spat, Asian cockwhore. I see-saw you, in Charlottesville, in a spa in Atlanta, in elected office. My classroom, my neighborhood, the football game last Friday. I want you to know: I am the slanty-eyed bitch who will crack you open until your juices spill out before my eyes like a masterpiece. I will delve into you so deeply that you forget to watch where you end and I begin, because when I was in fifth grade, a white boy in my class cut his finger and his blood was the same color as mine, slick like sun rays. Later, we kissed in a Panda Express and he tasted like orange chicken and blue gatorade and split yolk-bright under laughter. Later, we stripped our souls bare and saw we were miracles of water and will. Is it so radical that you want to be loved? Is it so radical that I want to love you?

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Poetry Notre Dame High School San Jose, CA

Mohini Mahajan

Film Noir

A Vogue model inspired Marlene Sharma’s shaggy, platinum hair. She bleached it weekly with an alloy of factory paint thinners, corroding her fingernails and the house’s copper sink. The disguise held up well, but due to laziness or rather a recent loneliness, she allowed her black roots to grow back. The choppy piano-key edges hang limp, creating ghosts in her peripheral vision. In the last five months of suburbia quiet, with no human vessels, the ghosts were merely figments of a deep-set paranoia. But now, the squelching rhythm of flesh and heartbeats makes her nervous.

Marlene hears the refined bustling through the wall. Not shuffles and grunts but clicks and lilts. The sliver of light in the doorway flickers from passing figures, and her breath steadies. He trapped her here—a last resort.

She’s lodged between a billiards table and the top half of a loveseat. Even in the vague darkness, it’s strange to be here after all that’s happened. She has the carnal instinct to claw her way out. Instead, her watery eyes stare at the 50’s floral print surrounding the chamber, blurring in and out of focus. The distorting pattern seems to extend with an unusual depth. Yet as Marlene trails her fingers against the grooves, she only feels a shallow double-pronged vampire bite. She tries to imagine the katana that once hung here or the former antique room that enveloped the space. Has that ever truly existed?

The print fades.

“One of those Hayashi twins walked in the other day and begged me to sell it. I didn’t think you would mind since, well…..”

Wick’s sentences were always bereft of a punchline, waiting for a more anxious mind to fill it in. Or, in Marlene’s case, more irritated.

The backlight from the hallway creates a hazy, almost divine glow around him. His lanky figure warps and billows under a velvet coat, triple-cuffed at a raw, freshly tattooed wrist.

Marlene supposes, in this grand interruption, he needs something. His slender hands buckle under two familiar packages.

Wick closes the door, and the commotion muffles.

“You look young, y’know, with the—” He gestures to her hair.

Marlene winces. In the rough manner she was taken, she didn’t get to change her disguise. With her Class of 1985 t-shirt , she distorts into the American girl who arrived three years prior. Back when she tried to fulfill simple corporate dreams in solitary obsessive work. A naïve effort that snowballed into an explosive partnership with Wick. A more adult innocence has overtaken her recently, a cloudy withdrawal.

“And you look tortured,” she whispers. Standing only inches away, her brain time lapses his former youthful, rather plain face into a scruffy, shadowy vignette. He always displayed the starving artist label proudly. But, after Marlene left, it seemed he leaned into the charade. Stickand-poke tattoos season his pale skin, and when his thin lips curl up to smirk, the skin distends.

“In fact, you look like a drug addict who eats all of his vegetables. The audience has become either stupid or complacent if they fall for this stuff.” Marlene chuckles. “Why am I here if you have this brilliant solo act?”

Wick shoves the packages onto the pool table, causing a snowplow of dust to flurry. With the aggressive motion, she flinches.

“Marls-” He steps towards her, his cloak inviting her into a sultry, devilish embrace. “-I don’t want to fight. That whole business with Lorenzo didn’t mean you had to run away. ”

“Why am I here then? For Business? Lorenzo’s dead.”

Wick didn’t understand that all these months alone, she

had been concocting paint thinners and exhaling fumes. Avoiding the reality, her reality. That there was nothing left to do.

The door wrenches open, scattering the hallway glow. In one slipping moment, Marlene discerns a faded scar on his temple. A woman stumbles in. The ends of her short hair splay against some kind of anti-Christian choker. The socialite fidgets with the clasps of her wool cardigan and shrugs it onto the loveseat. Widened eyes discover Wick’s little tea party.

“Leave us.” He shoots her a stern look.

The rumors will run wild tonight. Marlene hasn’t been around in a while, and fanatics have a chronic fear of missing out. He continues, intaking shorter breaths, “It doesn’t matter, Marlene. Come back or don’t.

The reality is I have a job that needs to get done.”

Marlene sighs. “I’ve retired. Shop’s closed. I’m done working with or for you. I don’t need the money.” She doesn’t. Of course, he flashes the gun. A thin barrel pointed at their past.

They met in ’89 after she was hired by his hot-shot father, Alden Wallace. New in town, Marlene opened a conservation studio where she would restore paintings, no questions asked. One of Wallace’s workers would pick up, transport, and organize the sales. Fresh out of college with no prospects, Wick’s Dad shoved him toward the job. It was only a month or two when she was first invited back to the apartment. There was no room for expansion, leading to a simple exchange between Marlene and Wick. During long days of paperwork and technicalities, they developed a relationship. Wick told her about his rudimentary art dreams, and Marlene talked of a new life. With her experience and his connections, their art ring transformed into a bustling enterprise. And everything ran smoothly.

Until it didn’t.

Wick extracts a box knife from his pocket and slices through the smaller package. A flesh of canvas seeps through the slits. She looks up to the ceiling to prevent the splitting headache. “There’s no nostalgia; I’m serious. I refuse to help, not after killing a man.”

Wick pauses. “Don’t tell me you’ve adopted a moral compass from all that exposure to neighbor-hospitality. We’ve done much worse. Certainly not enough to disappear for five months.” He tears the butcher paper off. “Only twenty kilometers away. Either you’re hiding something or you wanted me to find you.”

Marlene scrounges for anything to make him stop. Her thin defense falters.

“This infatuation with your father is why I ran. It’s impossible to work for him and party with you.”

“Marlene. I don’t need you anymore at the parties. I’m paying you to get a job done.

"Consider your relationship with me over.”

Wick removes a long roll of canvas from the shredded package. Thin bits of pigment stain through the fabric in oil splotches. He takes the worn edges and flattens them onto the billiards table. The reverberation of flakes of paint cracking releases hundred-year-old particles into the room. He slides it towards Marlene.

“We know you’re living with Laurie Daniels, one of those paralegals.” He has a smug look on his face. “You can run away from this, but she’s kinda stuck. Isn’t she?”

Laurie always asked about Marlene’s life before she moved in. Wondered where she got the chemical burns or the authentic Botero sculpture. She couldn’t comprehend that it wasn’t a gift; it was leverage. Now somehow, she’s become a bargaining chip too.

Marlene hovers above the painting. Only lying bare could she see the extent of the damage. Deep vertical cracks interrupt

219

Novel Clayton High School Clayton, MO

the once carefully sculpted paint strokes. The manual texture matches shallow lacerations ribboning through the center in a geometric manner. A raised pattern alternates between dots and lines of elevation. Her forearm skips over the sharp edges of the canvas, which feather and splay out unevenly as if sawed off with a knife. Every move and shift to inspect the top causes more pigment to flicker. Her fingers are coated in ashes, presumably cigarette smoke.

Marlene senses Wick’s stare. Tired and exposed, she hopes he can’t see through her mask. It’s taken time to adjust. Her superficial examination will only identify structural damages. Nothing essential.

“Isn’t it beautiful? I’ve never seen a Whistler this close before.” Wick smiles. He grasps her shoulder. But she cringes, unfamiliar with touch.

A Whistler? He did the boats, right? Or maybe it was the pastorals? She couldn’t remember which, and here’s Wick reminding her of the old days when they used to obsess over every painting that came their way.

“Based on the state of the artwork, I would recommend a high-risk procedure. I estimate it’ll take three months to be ready for sale.” Enough time to cover her tracks and leave.

Wick cocks his head towards both packages. “They’ve already been sold. It took three months just to excavate you from that cave you ‘fell’ into.’”

He pets the revolver. “I would say a month is more appropriate.”

Marlene stares past his expectant look and back at the trippy wallpaper. She wonders if she were to walk at a perfect angle through the curled petals, would the blossoms create a labyrinthian entrance? Or must she settle to exit through the glowing gates?

Wick grabs her arm. “What about the other one?” He points to the unopened package.

Marlene stands.“This courtesy call is over. I’ll magic these two paintings in thirty days if you promise that this is it. Deal?” She notices his hand clasped into hers and wrenches her arm away.

“Say it.”

“Deal, Marls. Deal.” “Okay.”

Wick leaves the room like the unsubtle oaf he is, smacking a duffle bag against the wall.

It’s the New York myth that the violent abstract is the unconscious yearning fueled by drugs. In these parts, the expressionism is all done stone-cold sober, everyone with experience either recovering or dead. To non-believers, the whole avant-garde mass hallucination is awkward to watch. To Marlene, it’s an invitation into a private skinning of an artist’s attempt at public tragedy. Quite scandalous, really. And at the center of this madness is a tiny flat in South London, above the House of India. A humid crowd has scurried in through the cracks in the floorboards.

In the before, she had hosted many events with Wick; however, Marlene can’t remember if tonight she will see the pretentious colleagues or sly investors. Either way, she’s surrounded. In the safety of the hallway, she smooths out her jeans first, then her hair. There will inevitably be a bit of mingling. And it takes a little practice to get back into that, Marlene. She peeks into the living room, or rather an arena, with a boxing ring intensity. Canvases splay on the floor and walls, dripping Wick’s new work. He must’ve named it ‘Roadkill’ because it seems to still be alive, the globs of oil convulsing. Young people failing to charm the modern masters amble around, victims to the blinding scale. And the persecuted artist, in the midst, is orbited by teenage girls. A demo crackles through the speakers. Sinuous voices thinly wavering just above wisps of over-dyed hair.

Marlene strategically loops her path, avoiding the appetizers, drugs, and all members of the Wallace family. But she only gets past two trays of shrimp when a man with shoulder-

length hair bumps into her. He catches her arm before she can stumble.

“Sorry.” She offers a grateful smile and lurches away, but he doesn’t let go. “Marlene.” He smiles, displacing a goatee. The notso-stranger pulls her into a hug, stifled by his shiny bare chest, the main event of his designer outfit. “It’s been a long time.”

Winter of ‘93, Marlene and Wick took a weekend trip up to Essex. This was long before the duo moved in together and even longer before they went for a proper dinner. They discussed the expedition in passing between working and wandering for weeks, both sharing an appreciation for Constable’s pastorals. The town, Dedham Vale, became this mythic fantasy as the two scrounged with wild hypotheses. Wick argued that the herds of cows were probably of the same generation. Marlene thought that was silly. At the time, the city was undergoing an expensive housing development, so they checked into an overgrown inn on the outskirts of town. Wick brought large tree-toned canvases, and they walked miles through the wilderness in dress shirts and boots. As nightfall covered the area, Wick painted within the brush and leaves under the lamplight while Marlene whispered sonnets to drive away the chill. Maybe she should’ve found a way to stay in that moment forever. But in a single stroke, the sun rose, and shadows crept their way into Marlene’s life once again. Early the following day, they were in the lobby, struggling to fit the canvas through the door, when Ray Martinez approached them. He wore a similar fit to now, something off the Milan runway.

Nevertheless, he bought their act, even down to Wick’s stained corduroy jacket. Citing something along the lines of ‘I knew you before you were famous.’ A month later, when their apartment became the scene for nightlife, he brought a grounding critics eye. He looks at her now with one.

“What’s happened?” Ray gestures at two plastic folding chairs. “Wick doesn’t answer our questions anymore. Says you’re doing things here and there, but,” he drops his voice. “I think you’ve always tried to be a rebel. Can’t get too radical with an entourage.”

Marlene sits across from him but slanted, getting a slight view of Wick painting past Ray’s golden earrings. It looks as if Wick is etching Ray’s expression. She laughs.

“Sorry.” Marlene takes a breath. “I’ve just been working a lot in the studio, I swear. You must have heard about that ancient storage locker found in Saint-Tropez.”

She picks at a one-pound note in her pocket. It’s separated into three pieces, so she feels the edges and serial numbers in a plaid configuration.

“Have you been hanging out with a new crowd?” He points to her hair and casual dress. Unlike the eternity-tight tattooed rings, a loose one rolls up and down his finger. “You look like you’ve had a purifying experience. Like you’re feeding off of fresh energy….”

“...Seeing through a new lens,” he lingers on the last syllable. Watching it sink in through the flashes in her blank eyes.

“Are you accusing me of-”

The party tunes out. People begin to notice and turn their heads toward Marlene. Her bare eyes pain at the light.

Isla and Freddie Lehmann approach them like a pair of platform shoes. They’re certainly higher than everyone else, and one often has to crane their head to understand the casual nonsense they provide. Marlene recalls their disjointed vernacular, how they finish each other’s sentences in tricky places.

They’re asking about her. More about where she’s been. Who she’s been with. They critique Wick and his recent artistic confessions. He’s not as luminary without you, they say. Someone jokes that he’s not as dangerous. Marlene says he’s never been more. And they skitter around, and around the psychedelia they’ve been searching for. Most of all, they want to know where she got the next metaphorical fix. Real pills don’t have this visual, dialectical aftertaste, they say. It’s a compliment that they mistake the dead surrender in her eyes as a primitive ascendancy.

Wick’s party tunes back in.

220

***

She would’ve never let someone play this god-awful demo.

It is a forty-minute walk from Wick’s place to the office. She sees printed flowers in gaping shop windows and concrete pavements. Unsurprisingly, the fall chill is not deterred by her skimpy t-shirt. Her fingers are numb as she fumbles with the key. The open linoleum door does not release heat, just stale air.

The electricity was cut off two months prior; at least, that’s what the utility guy told her. Marlene wasn’t a reliable source; she had been gone even longer. The packages thud on the floor, crushing into themselves. She feels around for the emergency flashlight.

Trapped under the shapeless beam are naked paintings stripped out of their conservative frames. They are carcasses on the tile. Dirty grout growing mold on their lifeless bodies, chewing through the eyes of biblical figures. It all feels like an accusation, sacrilegious even. The shelves and stools glittered with dust.

Each step towards a plastic working table is in rhythm with a metronomic dripping. She tries to get off-beat, but there’s a twinkle at the end of every footfall. Swiveling her head, she sees a large reservoir in the center of the room collecting water from a hole in the ceiling. It’s clouded with expensive debris.

Marlene runs over and plunges her hands into the freezing water. She fishes for the canvas that bobbed back into the waves. It keeps slipping from her grasp like her fickle sanity. And she can’t remember why she left it there. Her palm connects with the soggy wood paneling. A grandfather clock half-dissected sits on her main working table. Marlene pushes it onto the floor in a crunch, letting the gears and screws fall to the ground. The shimmering sound breaking the whistle of the wind blowing through.

She slams the painting down. Rummaging through the drawers, she finds a cloth rag and begins to save it, if she could even call it that. The water from the copper sink comes out in a toxic trickle. It has probably been swimming for weeks. The canvas piles in a scratchy manner, and Marlene can’t even imagine what the composition looks like.

The world saturated in a black-and-white filter made conservation impossible. In the past couple of months, Marlene has grasped driving, cooking, and distinguishing most shapes and edges. But every time she looks at a painting, only nocturnal chaos clouds her vision—the image hidden by an impenetrable varnish that is Marlene’s mind.

The world is like a film noir, the paintings, her femme fatale. The pursuit that led to her ruin is the only thing she desires. To learn to live without all the impulses that color provides has strangled her appetite for the unknown. Instead, she’s conceded her fantasies for the gripping obsession of solving her complete color blindness.

She takes the damaged painting onto the pavement to dry—an expensive welcome mat.

Strange Gatherings

Marlene stalks through the galleries with the familiarity one has when coerced to inspect the haunting echoes ricocheting from a basement at midnight. Her eyes comb through the darkness recognizing sharp-toothed demons and scaly monsters as rotten desks and lumpy couches, but the fear hastens her steps. Similarly, she detects the on-display relics comfortably in her line of sight. But now she protects herself from the arresting quality of the paintings.

The British Museum is more famous for its stolen artifacts, so Marlene can sink deeper and deeper, a mere spectator of pleading Elgin Marbles and Benin Bronzes. A sympathetic feeling does not course through her. Her former work directly correlated to the further misplacement of artwork that deserved to be displayed like these. Maybe not as chained up and homeless. But with family and friends. Her clients provided plenty of illegally held artwork.

Hundreds of paintings she didn’t care to ask questions about left to the sea of time. To her, beautiful things, no matter how ingrained into history, are not owed to the public. And it is a fantasy to pretend that the long galleries don’t emulate a plastic, sticky, sweaty sort of energy. Not the refined aura of a Veronese over a sparkling dining table.

She stands in front of the gift shop dedicated to “Unlocking Egypt’. She pulls out a piece of paper from her pocket. A few days ago, Harry Norman- a fellow conservator, sent her a note. British Museum-11:30, Tuesday; RM. 306. And in last night’s frenzy, she overslept. She has been following all sorts of leads in the previous couple of months to have something to do. But now, with Wick looming over her, she knows she can’t miss this.

A guard approaches her. The uniform is too long on him, and his pant legs blend into the flooring.

“You need assistance, Ma’m?” his voice cracks. The man clears his throat and begins to repeat himself.

Marlene cuts him off, “–306?” She points to the room numbers.

He ushers her through a hallway and into a side staircase to the third floor. The exhibit is new, so fresh; a woman fidgets with a red banner onto the entrance. It reads ‘The Sublime: JMW Turner’s Reality’.

She turns to the guard, “Are you sure this is it?”

A pitchy wail shatters the silence. Marlene crumples the letter she holds and instinctively leans towards the sound. The guard flinches and grabs her wrist. She shakes him off and slips into the gallery.

The temperature drops as if she had stepped into a meat locker. Not only does the air feel contaminated with health violations, but the dim light further suppresses her depth perception. The first room is easy enough to ignore, with small, distracting watercolors.

Marlene can’t see Turner’s warm or cool or sunset impressions on the cold press paper.

Her younger brother back in America used to love to play with their mother’s expensive watercolor set. He painted pages with blobs of ink bleeding into each other like blood stains. That’s the only way Marlene can describe what she’s seeing. It’s lifeless without the color.

Her thoughts are interrupted by another shriek. She breaks into a sprint, running through the different exhibits. Turner’s life flashes before her eyes in a 20’s film reel. Seascapes, Landscapes, Britain, Italy all of his phases passing by her in moments. She hears a muffled voice—a chapped tune sending shivers down her spine.

The screams cease in the encapsulating presence of the art. The paintings are colossal, covering the cubical room walls in its entirety. It’s obscene how the wild frenzy of brushstrokes clutters her eyesight shamelessly. Marlene’s eyes lock onto the canvas. The immense size alludes to the color field paintings. She saw his stuff at the Met a couple of years prior before she left for London. It wasn’t uncommon for one to cry in front of a Rothko. She didn’t at the time, but now her eyes brim with tears.

A thing is shivering in the center of the room. Harry looks toward her, his red-rimmed eyes tearing into her soul. She hushes him with her words, focusing on him and not the paintings, “What is your need?” She says.

“This curse is a weed,” he chokes. “A lustrous solvent disintegrates. Of which an artist’s hell imitates.”

Harry’s limbs wave in ritualistic circles at their surroundings. She grasps his boney forearm and tugs him towards the doorway, leading him away from the madness. Clasping her palm over his watery eyes, Marlene drags him to the previous room with only sketches on the wall.

“Harry. Focus.” She grabs the side of his head. His eyes roll around like a pair of dice. He wears a suit with a tie tight enough to cut off his circulation.

“Okay, so you’re also colorblind. Is that it?” Harry nods, finally looking at her “When did this happen?”

“Last week” His voice is scratchy. “On the 28th. I woke up, and it was all black and gray.

221

***

I went to the local guy, Dr. Thomas, and he gave a stupid diagnosis, stress or something, recommended some fancy brain doctor in Chelsea. Said it was funny; a woman had similar symptoms a couple of months ago. Pointed me towards you.”

He coughs. Tears streaming down his stubble.

“I paid 2 thousand dollars for the checkup only to hear the problem is psychological, not physical. And that I’m crazy. They prescribed me bipolar drugs.”

“Did you encounter someone, get something in your eye? Can you think of anything that might have triggered it?” she says.

“You don’t understand. God has punished us. We have sinned, and now we will pay the price. Can you imagine a bigger consequence for two art conservators than their ability to see?”

“Then why did you send me this message?”

“I thought you could help. But Marlene, you look crazier and more treacherous than I remember.” She scoffs. One guy tells her she’s pure, and the next counts her sins.

Marlene tries to reason, speaking softer. “This has been a direct attack on both of us. So please try to tell me what you did to trigger this so-called curse.”

“I killed someone.”

“Are you sure that is what caused it?”

“Yes, a day later.”

“Well, who’d you kill?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where, How?”

He completely shifts once again.

“Why do you care? It won’t bring anything back. It won’t fix my failing business or your….”

The guard appears with a confused look on his face.

“Is everything all right here?” He asks, glancing between Harry’s disheveled look and her hands by his neck.

Harry pats the guard on the back and leaves.

Eric, the right-side neighbor, unlocks his door as Marlene approaches the old townhouse she calls home. The street is a long urban thing miles into the country. The hedges plastered to the door temporarily disguise his advancing figure. His tall fathertolled stance slouches as a large briefcase weighs him down.

“Hey, you!”

Marlene glances up from the sidewalk.

“My children live here. All your bustling late at night has been tolerated. But you brought the Wallaces here, and that will not be forgotten! I’ll call the cops next time!” With that, he slams the door.

Before her vision impairment, Marlene moved out of Wick’s apartment. Their relationship only functioned when she called the shots. And when Wick tried to take control, everything crashed. His decisions led them deep into Ackroyd business, a.k.a Wallace’s historic rivals. The stealing and kidnapping hit too close to home, so she temporarily decided to ditch the parties and focus on conservation. It wasn’t exactly temporary, though.

Marlene huddles in front of the door, but a new safety lock bars her from entering. She rings the bell- thirty times.

“Laurie? Are you there? Laurie!” The night sped up her exasperation

Marlene shoves her fingers into the crack of the door. Like a demon at the gates of hell.

Inside she sees a picture of Laurie and her parents sitting lop-sided on the wall.

A thumping of feet descends the stairs. “Marlene? Of course, it’s you. Close the door.”

The door shuts, and soon enough, the safety lock is removed, and Marlene’s terrified roommate ushers her in.

“What happened?” Marlene lets out a tired chuckle as she sees the state of the house.

The long corduroy couch that balanced the room is not only torn up but tips to the back and onto what looks like their smashed dining table. There are holes in the kitchen wall near the cabinets, and all of the Herbert family knick-knacks are in pieces on the ground.

Laurie shuts the blinds and fastens a couple more locks on the door. She wears a hunting hat that covers her ears.

“After that Wallace kid grabbed you, the cops came thirty minutes later. They had a search warrant and ransacked the place, looking for some illegal holdings. They thought this place was one of their secret warehouses. See, the Wallaces apparently are holding drugs, guns, or something of the sort to sell overseas, and they’re trying to get them.”

Laurie’s father owns the place and thus left Marlene out of any official documents of residence.

“The police must have thought they had struck gold linking a convict and the glorified gang,” Laurie says.

Marlene chuckles, “They even managed to ruin their decades-long relationship with the police. I saw Wick today, and he’s become so weak. The next generation of Wallaces won’t survive this new millennium.”

“Maybe they were being fragile with you.”

“They don’t know what’s happened. You’re the only one I trust. It’s too risky to be labeled as unstable.” She places her coat on the wall. “And you didn’t see how we left things before I came here months ago. Total wreckage.”

“What do they want?” Laurie inquires.

“I’ve had some unfinished business for a while, and I believe if I do this, they’ll leave me alone. Did they find anything?”

“Saw the tray of pills in the kitchen and thought it was a great reason to keep looking.

Dug up all your paintings and grimaced at Dad’s knife collection. Thankfully they didn’t find the biscuits in the pantry.”

On Monday, Marlene and Laurie went to the local jail to visit Mr. Herbert, her roommate’s father. On the way back, she had seen a car trailing them. That must’ve been how Wick had found her.

“How’s his case going?” Marlene picks up a couple of loose objects on the floor. “I called him the lawyer after all of this. They said it might affect his appeal.” Marlene gasps. “What? How? It has nothing to do with him.”

They sit against the wall. Leaning into the floral print.

“It’s his house. They found some dead cats in the backyard. The prosecutors are adding it to the evidence file.” Laurie rubs her eyes.

“What am I going to do? We’re running out of time?”

“Don’t worry,” Marlene says. “I’ll fix it.”

222

***

Katerina Malabarba

The Ex-Villains Redemption Project

It was a crisp, criminally bright summer day, and the second-greatest evil in the kingdom of Velrona was viciously plotting vengeance on a spider.

That’s me, by the way—the second-greatest evil in Velrona. Pleasure to meet you. If only I could say the same of the spider in question, which had decided to spin a sizable web in the corner of the ceiling. The web blocked a few of the notches in the stone, which I had taken to counting every morning out of sheer desperate boredom, and woe be to the man (or spider) who interrupts a creature of habit. Time cools anger, but mine had been simmering away for three years: a sour taste beneath the dryness of my tongue. In the absence of its rightful target, I supposed it had turned toward the nearest mild inconvenience.

“Don’t look so smug,” I told the spider. “You’re as trapped in here as I am, now. Would you mind moving a bit? I’m on notch number eighteen, and I can’t tell if you’re covering nineteen and twenty, or just nineteen.”

It regarded me coolly, with its horrid, glassy little eyes.

“Yes,” I confirmed, to nobody in particular, “I am talking to a spider.”

Dear gods. All that time around Lovelace was rubbing off on me; next I’d be cackling madly, savoring the manic echo of the sound against stone. (All right, so I had done that before, way back in the days of seizing every opportunity to unnerve the poor guards posted outside. By now, the novelty had largely worn off, as had my energy.)

As though in response to my words—a trembling in the cold floor. Through the stone of the wall came the gleam of magic: runes shimmered into existence, sparks jumped through the air, and the stones began to shift aside, receding into the two adjacent walls. A visitor. I frowned and flicked a lock of hair, hanging lazily over my eyes, over my shoulder. Then I flicked it back.

Should I go for disheveled and sympathetic? Threatening and poised? Spitting mad? I settled on leaning back against the wall, legs crossed and stretched out in front of me, hands laced in my lap as comfortably as the metal cuffs on my wrists would allow.

“Well, well, well —oh.” I felt my scowl deepen. “It’s you.”

Arms crossed, glowering at me through the shield of magical energy that had sprung up in place of the wall, stood the bane of my existence: Nanya the Cursebreaker himself.

“You brought friends,” I noted. Fanned out behind him, a handful of familiar faces stood beside the normal blankfaced guards, hands gripped loosely to weapons and eyes fixed suspiciously on lowly little me. Perhaps I should have felt flattered that he found me threatening enough to need backup, even cuffed out of my magic and locked behind a magical shield. All I could muster at the moment, however, was wry resignation. For Calastrius’s sake. What did they expect me to do— lunge out at the visitor with my bare fists?

(As though I’d try the same thing twice.)

Nanya cleared his throat. “Malyon,” he said gruffly.

“Please.” I smiled faintly. “Malyon-in-a-disgusted-tone-ofvoice was my father. Call me Sylv.”

No response. I’d forgotten how tepidly he and his little crew responded to banter (with one notable exception—Jericho— whose gaze I rapidly found and held for a moment, just for kicks). How long had it been since we’d spoken in person? The three years spent rotting in this cell had hardly done wonders for my complexion, from what I could see of it, and my loose sheet of hair hung past my waist in pale, bedraggled waves, grayed by lack of sun. He, on the other hand, had gained some muscle, and unless my eyes deceived me, a scattering of facial hair as well. The last time we saw each other might very well have been our final battle.

I braced myself, grimacing, against the tidal wave of memory that brought—the rain-slicked flicker of a thin blade, spindly black battlements, the ground hazing in and out of view through the trembling water far below. His face out of the darkness, battered and bloodied.

“What brings you to my humble residence?” I asked, shaking off my thoughts. “I’d offer tea, but we seem to be . . . out.”

“We’re here to escort you.”

I paused, then arched my eyebrows, unwilling to convey the extent of my surprise. “Escort me where, exactly? Don’t tell me I’ve gotten off on good behavior.”

One of the sidekicks snorted. “You wish,” they muttered darkly.

“Oh, no, quite the opposite.” I made a show of kicking up my feet onto the bench that ran around the back edge of my cell, sprawling over its full length as luxuriously as the cold stone afforded. “I’m very comfortable here. Can’t you tell?”

“We’re bringing you to your next meeting with Herah,” said Nanya, ignoring me completely. “That’s all you need to know.”

My mouth quirked up of its own accord. He sounded sharp, but still not entirely sure of himself, like a knight swinging a sword with a blindfold on—still growing into the whole war hero with a newfound position of authority thing, I supposed. And apparently my small indication of amusement sparked sudden suspicion, because a few of his companions bristled; his knuckles stiffened white over the hilt of his sword.

“Relax,” I told him. “I’m hardly going to bite. Has it been a month already, then?”

He glared daggers at me. This time, Jericho stepped in to answer, and my eyes snapped to their face at the sound: “Just about three weeks, but let’s just say there’s a little surprise in store—“

“Jericho.”

“What?” They rolled their eyes, hip cocked, at stark contrast to the rest of the tense-backed party. “It’s not like they’re going to hatch some kinda sinister plan just because they know the date.”

“If it eases your worry, I don’t actually know the date,” I called.

“See?” Jericho flourished a hand theatrically in my direction. “The kingdom is saved!”

I caught their eye and smirked. Oh, the luxury of banter. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d spoken to someone other than my guards. At this point I’d let go of the notion that fear was what held their tongues; perhaps all guards assigned to me underwent a training course to be as stony-faced and incorrigible as possible, as some form of psychological torture for me.

When I rose, painstakingly, to my feet, Nanya actually unsheathed his sword. Seriously. I was still behind the barrier. “What?” I challenged. “Are you escorting me or not?”

He hesitated, but nodded to one of the guards, who began the familiar process of letting me out. Glistening chains dropped from the stone ceiling, and I stepped forward to loop my wrists through them. A shimmer of magic melded them to the metal of my cuffs; the chains slithered down like snakes through the air, until my wrists were bound firmly together.

“Remember,” Nanya warned, as the barrier winked from existence, “don’t try anything.” I huffed, more to blow a stray piece of hair from my eyes than out of exasperation. (Apparently hair ties were too dangerous a weapon to allow.) “I’m not an idiot, Cursebreaker.” A mild flinch at the title. Filing away that juicy bit of knowledge, I stepped from the cell, and felt more than heard the collective intake of breath as the worn leather of my boot hit the other side of the threshold. When I moved no farther, Nanya exhaled, and the tension dispersed.

223

Novel

Orange County School of the Arts Santa Ana, CA

“Follow me,” he ordered.

Echoes of our footsteps whispered, like unrestful ghosts, down the twisted dark hallways which wound down and through the murky earth to my prison. Occasionally the guard directly behind me saw fit to prod me with his spear, as though he took my ambling pace as a mortal offense to his authority. I longed to gather crackling red lightning to my fingertips, to summon shadow into dark steel and bind his wrists as they had bound mine, to shatter my chains with a whispered word and whip them across a shocked Nanya’s throat . . . but those days had long since passed. Any magic I called would fizzle out, useless, into the enchanted cuffs at my wrists.

I inhaled the scent of must and cold iron and breathed: in, out. Lungs, limbs, blood. Empty.

At my side, Jericho whistled as they walked—sauntered, more than anything. I kept my head up and strode as evenly as I could manage, even when the old pain flared up in my right leg and begged me to stumble. I’d rather walk by Jericho than any other of those fools, but pride held my tongue behind my teeth. Instead, I pondered over what little they’d let slip: a surprise.

What surprises could Herah and her meetings possibly have to offer? We were patterns, those of us who gathered in her candle-lit room: patterns and arcs, woven into stories of the past. Nothing we had to say shocked one another. We knew each other intimately as childhood playmates, because we were, on some level, the same.

Up, up, up we walked, in spirals of soot and ghostly torches kept aflame by whatever poor mage’s apprentice was made to practice their conjurations in the Tower Gray. My cell lay buried deep beneath, at the base of the tower’s stone. Herah had us gather at the very top. Why was I kept so close by, while the others teleported in from all across the Six Kingdoms? I suppose they couldn’t resist the irony of it all, or else worried I’d manage to tamper with the teleportation circle. (As though the cuffs didn’t keep me from that sort of thing.)

We halted, after so many stairs Jericho had to clasp my arm to keep me from collapsing; as it was, my leg screamed demandingly for comfort, as though I had any to give. Silver-clad guards saluted Nanya at the ornate door. He nodded solemnly at them; I scowled.

“In a mood today, honey?” Jericho murmured to me, dark eyes twinkling.

I snatched my arm back, in a swing of chains. “We don’t all live to smile, circus freak.”

Their jovial manner faded back slightly. It was a low blow, especially after their show of inexplicable chivalry. I didn’t care. Villains didn’t owe heroes politeness , even roguish sidekicks who would have made far more interesting nemeses than the one I’d received.

And maybe I was in a mood.

The door creaked open, and my escort remained silent and still. I supposed they wouldn’t be following me in. With a nod to Nanya, and a flick of my hair as a sweeping acknowledgement to the rest, I swept as regally as possible into the room—which couldn’t have been all that regal, considering the plain rags and visible limp.

The door swung shut behind me. Wreathed in flickering candlelight, dappled with sun rays through the stained-glass windows that shimmered with protective runes, the circle of people who greeted me provided no clue to the surprise Jericho mentioned. So I swung into my usual seat in the corner, next to Arianwen, and flung up my feet onto Niro’s abandoned chair.

“Sylv,” Herah greeted me, from where she sat, crosslegged, in the middle of the circle.

I nodded coolly. “Hey.”

Niro looked up at me from the floor, that wickedly barbed tail of his curled around his knees. “You’re late,” he said, in his deep, gravelly voice. As if it was my fault.

“Terribly sorry,” I purred (we were always purring sinisterly, and I was determined to sound the most natural at it). “I was caught up in an intimate moment with one of my guards. Actually,

she looked quite a bit like you. By any chance is your mother a guard at—”

“ Sylvestine,” Herah interjected chidingly.

“Ooooooh,” cackled Lovelace, splayed out backwards in their chair, one sleeve tied up over where their missing arm would be. “Full names!”

“Hi, Sylv,” Donovan said softly, waving to me as much as his heavy manacles would allow. Unlike mine, they were simple metal—either because no one could quite figure out how to suppress his particular form of magical threat, or because he tried so very hard to do so himself. It looked like a good day for him: barely a smattering of extra brown hair rippling over his skin, and no wings, no claws, no hint of jet-black in his eyes. If not for the flash of fang when he grinned, childlike, at me, he might have passed for human.

I disguised the urge to grimace at him with a smile. “Hello, Donovan. Devoured any hapless civilians lately?”

“No.” The man actually looked proud. “Sacrificed any virgins lately?”

“Alas, no, they’re more difficult to find than you would think.”

“Are you joking?” chirped Lovelace, then turned to Herah, head tipped like a curious bird. “I can never tell when they’re joking—are they joking?”

“I don’t know, Lovelace.” Herah smiled, tight-lipped. For someone put in charge of us in order to corral our emotions, she lacked considerable talent in masking hers. “Let’s refrain from morbid jokes for the moment, gang, all right? We want to keep up a positive environment today.”

“What’s so special about today ?” Niro grumbled, voicing my next question.

“Well, we’re going to be on our best behavior today,” Herah trilled (Niro, Arianwen, and I exchanged a three-way glance of conspiratorial exasperation), “because we’re welcoming a new member to the gang!”

That was what Herah called us: the gang. Niro, on the other hand, called us a lost cause. Donovan called us the support group. Me? I liked to think of us as the Ex-Villains Redemption Project. (Ironically. Of course.) Because that was what we were. We were villains whose stories had ended, whose heroes had moved along. Monsters who’d been dragged out of the closet, kicking and screaming, and pushed unceremoniously out into the daylight. We’d all had our arcs, our doomed journeys, spit out and dissected by Herah so many times we could practically recite each other’s word for word: tragic backstory, inciting incident, rise to power, fatal flaw, moment of near-triumph, and moment of defeat.

The last one defined us. Ex-villains. No point in fighting to win—we’d already lost.

A new villain—that meant a new conflict, a new story, a new addition to the ranks of the vanquished and the vengeful. One that I, cloistered away in my prison of spiderwebs and stone, had entirely missed. Suddenly the additional escort made sense: they weren’t really here for me

“Who?” asked Arianwen.

Right on cue, the door opened again.

Surrounded by bristling spear-tips, a handcuffed woman clad in green stepped over the threshold, with Nanya at her left and an unfamiliar man at her right. From Arianwen’s sharp inhale, that was her heroic nemesis, the famed Jamie Rye.

“Herah,” said the man, nodding. He didn’t so much as glance at us. “Apologies for the delay. There was a slight . . . holdup.”

Under her breath, the woman snorted. Half-dried sweat gleamed at her forehead, and a fresh cut dripped scarlet over the deep black skin of her bared arm. Holdup , I assumed, was code for her making a break for it, and I gave her a sharp jut of the chin— not precisely a welcome, but as close as we could get.

“Welcome,” said Herah warmly, perfectly at odds with the half-dozen armed soldiers pointing spears at the newcomer’s face. “Thank you, Jamie, Nanya, for teleporting her over.”

The woman moved swiftly to the only unoccupied seat— Niro’s—and stared at me when I didn’t move my feet from it. The

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old court-born desire to sway all potential allies to my side warred briefly with my sense of pride; I settled for holding her unflinching dark gaze, flecked with emerald, before slowly and deliberately ceding the chair to her. She sat, knees apart, cuffed hands between her legs—daring us to say something. I decided I quite liked her, for now.

“Everyone, this is Finley,” Herah announced, as the door swung shut behind the menagerie. “Say hello to Finley.”

“Hello to Finley,” Lovelace and I instantly droned in unison. Niro jerked his head in acknowledgement; Donovan waved. In my peripheral vision, I noted Arianwen’s stiff back, and my mind leaped to an immediate conclusion—was this—? No— surely not...

“Right,” said Herah, “let’s go around and introduce ourselves with a little icebreaker. Donovan, we’ll start with you— introduce yourself to Finley, and tell us: what’s one good thing you have to share with us this month?”

Donovan perked up. Naturally she’d begin with him; he’d always been the best of us, which made us all uniquely and almost unanimously inclined to hate his guts. When I referred to “us,” I excluded Donovan by definition: he wasn’t a villain. He was barely even a monster, and even then only in the most literal sense. I’d never even seen him monologue, for gods’ sake. If he had to be some kind of villain, he was the Beast—growling, mindless, gormless, and at the moment merely the latter.

“I’m Donovan, call me Don, and—well—as you can all already see, heh—I’ve been keepin’ a pretty tight leash on the beast for a couple days,” he announced. The yellowed fangs, which protruded over his lips and affected his voice with a slight lisp, rather intruded upon his claim, but Herah merely beamed back at him.

“That’s wonderful, Donovan!” she said. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Let’s go clockwise around the room.”

“I’m Lovelace! Call me Lovelace! Dr. Lovelace if you respect me, but nobody does.”

Lovelace, our resident lunatic, with their stringy ginger hair and eyebrows locked comically in a position of eternal shock. Years of careless experimentation left their sickly-pale face scattered with burn scars, which stretched grotesquely when they talked. The Mad Scientist, to the core. Finley wiggled her cuffed hand in a wave, looking mildly amused.

“Anything good to share?” Herah prompted.

“I ate a rat!”

We all stared at them.

“What was that?” Herah ventured, slowly.

“I ate a rat,” said Lovelace, even more slowly, as if talking to an idiotic toddler. “Well—I didn’t eat it, but I took a bite out of it, because it skittered right by and I was so bored , and you’d think they’d be happy that I’m helping out with pest control —scaring away the vermin! Except no, everyone was mad —so I threw it back up and then they got madder.”

I stifled a chuckle. Oh, Lovelace ; they had about as many screws loose as a village razed to the ground, but I took a twisted sort of amusement in guessing what they’d do or say next, and inevitably guessing wrong. All of us had some level of endearment for them, like a troupe of elder siblings forever prepared to ruffle their hair. (Though I doubt I could bring myself to actually do so: the grease on that unruly mop shone brighter than polished steel.)

Donovan blinked owlishly. “That doesn’t . . . sound like a good thing.”

“Good is relative,” said Herah. “As are all things. Vaster?”

My gaze flickered to Vaster, who coiled like a snake in the opposite corner, strategically perched so the light touched half his face and the darkness obscured the other. Shadow misted his eyes from view, but the uncanny sensation that they bored directly into mine, and simultaneously into all of ours without the need to move, persisted nonetheless. I shivered.

“I rested.” Vaster’s voice, raspy from disuse and yet possessed of a strangely musical resonance, seemed to murmur from behind one’s very ear. It was one voice, and a thousand voices all at once. “I reflected. I dreamt.”

“Dreamt?”

He inclined his dark-curled head.

Out of all of us, Vaster remained the most difficult to categorize. Poised, but unsmiling; dangerous, but polite. He was a returning villain, closer to beating the game than any of us, defeated once by a magical technicality and once by the spell that bound his ancient spirit to the mortal form he now, like a puppet, wore. Alavasterius, the shadow which had once loomed over the Six Kingdoms for decades—Alavasterius, the Lord of Nightmares. (We weren’t allowed to call him Lord of Nightmares aloud— Herah’s real-names-only rule—but no other title truly fit.)

“Well.” Herah cleared her throat delicately. “Thank you, Vaster. Emerine, you’re next.”

The girl started. She had spent the conversation staring fixedly at the floor, and flinched bodily when Vaster spoke. Now, she lifted her gold curls—faded, like all of us, from her captivity, but still more shining than the rest of the room.

“My name is Emerine Kasl,” she said, clear as a ringing bell, “and I encourage you to ignore these—these villains . As for good tidings—another session so soon is my good news. The Lady Mother has heard my prayers, and She has willed it that I might draw your souls to light.”

No one spoke, but the reverberation of eight mental sighs practically shook the floor.

Poor, sweet Emerine, until just now our newest recruit. There’s nothing worse than a self-righteous hero with the blessing of the gods . . . except for a self-righteous villain who believes they have the same. Regarding us down her freckled nose, Emerine clutched at the sign of the Lady Mother, goddess of creation, at her throat as tightly as she clutched to her ideals. When they locked her up, they let her keep her pendant, her incense, and her priestly garb, worn down by now to a fraying, faded blue. Like Herah, she wanted to save us. Unlike Herah, she thought she didn’t need saving herself. The Fanatic, through and through.

“Why do you think it is that it’s your mission, specifically, to help these people?” Herah asked, not for the first time.

“Why else would I be here?” Emerine replied—though what she meant, and what I heard, was I don’t belong here.

“Dear Calastrius ,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. Emerine visibly flinched at the name, her glare intensifying; Herah coughed.

“Sylv, remember how we’re trying to move away from invoking that name? It contributes to an uncomfortable atmosphere.”

“Of course. Apologies—old habits.” Vitriol likely seeped into my voice, but the beatific smile I flashed seemed to appease her. I redirected the urge to sneer into a twitch of my fingers.

“Niro?” Herah prompted.

The demon scowled. “No.”

She pushed her gold-rimmed glasses up her nose. “Can you clarify that for me?”

“No.”

“Nothing good has happened to you since our last meeting?”

Niro spat and scraped at one of his needle-like fangs, his silver eyes blazing and narrowed. “No,” he growled.

Ah, Niro. Never had the bowels of hell spat out such a demon as he. Looked the part, too—skin the color of a freshly blooming bruise, wicked black horns, wings shot through with batlike veins. Sharp teeth, sharp tongue, a bark equal to his bite. He liked me because I was angry; I liked him because he was blunt. He worshiped the ground Vaster walked on: the loyal, vicious Demon Knight.

But outside of the battlefield, stripped of his iconic sinister armor, he twisted himself into a knot of limbs on the floor and glared balefully. “Nothing happens,” he snarled. “I pace around all day in a damp, moldy dungeon, sleep in a pile of damp, moldy bricks, and wait around for a damp, moldy helping of slop every morning. What do you think happened? A battle-axe materialized in my cell and I chopped down the bars and then chopped off Izabel’s head?”

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By the end, his voice rose to a shout; rows of extra silver eyes warped open with a squelching pop across his forehead. Breathing hard, he clenched his clawed hands into fists.

I’d never met Izabel—the heroine who dueled Niro oneon-one and emerged victorious, who’d banished Vaster’s physical form in his first defeat and bound him to a new one in his second. But by now, we’d heard quite a bit about her, mostly regarding the acts of violence Niro dreamed night and day of inflicting upon her. I almost felt sorry for the girl.

“Niro,” Herah murmured. “Deep breaths.”

“Shit out a horse and die,” he spat.

“Remember, positive environment—”

Niro growled, deep and guttural enough that I scooted my chair a few inches toward Arianwen. He launched himself forward—and screeched in howling fury as the safety runes snapped into effect, and lit up in a web of lightning from the floor and the chains that bound his limbs and wings. Flesh sizzled; he panted, like a wolf, and convulsed on the floor.

Involuntarily, I winced. Finley, when I glanced at her, looked wary.

A flustered Herah straightened her glasses and folded her hands. “Please,” she said, quietly, “try to hold your temper, Niro.”

“I’ll kill —”

“Niro.”

At the ring of Vaster’s voice, passionless and low, Niro snapped to attention. His chest heaved with the tremendous effort of his breaths, but he lowered his gaze and spoke no more.

Expressively, Herah closed her eyes. “Sylv,” she said slowly, pleasantly. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”

I didn’t. I rose from my seat and offered a stilted half-bow regardless. “Sylv Malyon, at your service, and before Herah asks— the only good occurrence of the month has been the pleasure of making your acquaintance.” I winked, and Niro snorted loudly at me.

Finley’s mouth quirked. “Charmed,” she said dryly, in an upper-class Iseldiran accent that mirrored Arianwen’s.

I sat down—perhaps too quickly, if the throb of extra pain in my leg said anything—but brushed it off in favor of the satisfaction of getting her to speak first. (Not everything in the world of evil is a competition, but the charming of potential allies certainly qualifies.)

“Arianwen?” Herah began, turning, but Finley cut her off, her voice stiff: “We’ve met.”

Beside me, Arianwen’s jaw tensed, infinitesimal enough that I doubted anyone besides myself caught the motion. We were two of a kind, Arianwen and me. The Advisor. Trusted, preening advisors, hiding the stains of dark magic beneath the thin veneer of a pretty face (if I do say so myself, which I do; vanity ranks as my second-favorite vice). The only difference was that I never stopped playing the game. She’d given up her spot when she lost her magic, unless all that desperate dignity was as much a facade as my calculated strategy of kissing ass. (Not literally; that’s unhygienic. Villains such as Arianwen and myself are always pristine, with the occasional exception of a tasteful spatter of blood.)

Still, the past marked us both. Me, ever since my hair went white-blond from dark magic, a fate Arianwen only partially escaped: a pale streak went down the left side of her hair, twisting like lightning down the long black braid. And her eyes, since her glamor dropped and revealed the irises stained red as freshly spilled blood.

“I am Arianwen,” she said, as though Finley had not spoken. “And I’m inclined to agree with Niro. Nothing good ever happens to us.”

Finley’s half-smile had faded. Still not entirely willing to believe my earlier theory had been proven, I waited for her or Herah to fill the silence; predictably, Herah did so first.

“All right, Finley, you’re up.”

I crossed one leg over the other, as much for theatrical effect as to ease the pain, and watched her. She leaned back, careless, bound arms still slumped between her legs.

“I’m Finley.” Her voice was hard and cool. “Just Finley now. But you might’ve known me as the princess of Iseldir.”

You could have heard a pin drop—artless Donovan actually gasped. Out of instinct, my gaze flitted across the room, over everyone’s faces. Besides Arianwen, only Vaster appeared unsurprised, either from some eldritch omniscience or his extremely convincing poker face. (I’d once been known as the Deceiver, but several very embarrassing group game nights had proven he far outclassed my ability to bluff with a straight face.)

“You’re Princess Finley?” Niro laughed cruelly. “What’d you do to end up here ?”

I decided to play my cards, banking on the right hand. “She tried to kill the king.”

Arianwen narrowed her eyes at me. I narrowed my eyes right back.

“I did kill the king,” said Finley harshly. “But I’m here for trying to kill the new queen.”

“Poison?” I said delicately.

“Poison for my father.” She lifted her chin and regarded me. “For my sister, a blade.”

“King Ciaran is dead?” said Donovan blankly.

“Who?” (Oh, Lovelace.) “You killed King Ciaran?”

She stared Donovan down, like a fox eyeing a farm dog. “I did it for the good of the kingdom.”

I held my tongue, but— gods . I despised this part of imprisonment most of all—losing all connection to the outside world. Ciaran’s death, the new queen, Finley’s trial—we missed all of it. When Arianwen first joined us, tousle-haired and trembling with leftover rage, we learned of her failed coup on the king of Iseldir, but she refused to name whom, if anyone, she’d allied with. Admittedly, the second daughter of King Ciaran was not on my list of suspects.

(...Damn. If Finley had conspired with Arianwen, then I owed Niro ten gold.)

If Ciaran had perished at the hands of his younger daughter, and the elder daughter—Fiona, if I remembered my Iseldiran politics correctly—now sat on the throne, why in Calastrius’s name had she left Finley alive? A lingering sense of sisterly honor—or perhaps the rumors surrounding both princesses’ involvement in the coup had some truth? After all, her father’s death had given her the crown. I glanced at Arianwen, but her face contained no hint as to which sister, if either, had schemed with her two years ago.

(If it was Fiona, I owed Emerine ten gold . . . I hoped it was Finley.)

Herah cleared her throat again. “We’ll dig into all that later,” she said. “It’ll be like an initiation!” (Read: interrogation. I remembered my own initiation . . . not so fondly.) “For now, we’re looking at some positives. Finley, what’s something good that happened this month?”

Finley shrugged. “I didn’t get executed. That’s a plus.”

“Precisely what I tell myself every night,” I chimed in. Even that sliver of a positive interaction buzzed Herah to bits. She bubbled at us like a proud parent; I held back the urge to do something ridiculous, like stick out my tongue. “And last but not least”—she paused to giggle at herself—“I’m Herah, although you might recognize me under a different name. I’m—well, I’m something like a therapist. I guide our discussions as we journey toward a better path—a better future. Everyone together: what’s our motto?”

“Malice, mayhem, and malevolence,” we immediately chorused—except for Emerine, who sniffed, and Donovan, who said, “Reformation, rehabilitation, and redemption.”

Finley chuckled. Irritation briefly crossed Herah’s face, but she shook it off with a saccharine smile. “That’s right, Don reformation, rehabilitation, and redemption,” she said pointedly. “Isn’t that right?”

None of us answered.

It mattered not how we bickered and bantered: on this, all of us who had accepted who we were, what we’d become in our varying quests, stood in solidarity. Niro came up with the response to Herah’s ridiculous motto before I’d even joined our group’s ranks, and it bothered her to no end. Oh, how we loved and

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despaired, envied and despised, teased and taunted our Herah. You could tell from a look at her that she had reformed: newly short hair, a tattoo over the scar at her throat; clothing in either spring-pale or summer-bright hues. Traitor, all our poisonous gazes whispered, even as we said nothing. (Except for Donovan, who gave her a schoolboy’s sheepish smile.) Those first few meetings, I’d waited for a darkly triumphant smile to creep over her face, for her to gloat how she’d fooled them all, how we could make our grand escape and betray each other (as villainous custom dictated) at least one time each before we parted ways.

But no. If this was a con, it was a long one. A long, convincing one. Herah—once Sarlukia, the infamous Sorceress of Black Peak—had turned the most annoying new leaf in the history of new leaves. Herah. The traitor—the Redeemed.

The Beast. The Mad Scientist. The Lord of Nightmares. The Fanatic. The Demon Knight. The Advisors. The Redeemed. And now . . . Finley. Finley, Finley, Finley. How might a disgraced, treacherous royal fit into our humble group? She spoke wryly, which I liked, and defensively, which I didn’t. For the good of the kingdom, indeed. Well, we’d all had that phase. She’d grow out of it quickly enough, with enough prodding from Herah and the rest of us. (Emerine hadn’t, but I endeavored not to use Emerine as a basis of comparison for anything.)

Selfishly (selfishness is my third-favorite vice), I hoped we would get along.

“Okay!” Herah clapped her hands, startling us from the tense silence. “Now that we all know each other, let’s try out a short bonding activity! Look around at each other. What can you identify about each other that makes it difficult to benefit from what we’re trying to do?”

“Niro has anger issues,” I said immediately. He threw me a sour look; I shrugged.

Niro: “Emerine’s delusional.”

Emerine: “Lovelace is delusional!”

Lovelace: “Yeah I am!”

Emerine: “You’re all terrible people.”

Me: “Ah ah ah, darling— we’re all terrible people. Oh, and Emerine is in denial.”

Arianwen: “Niro’s disagreeable.”

Niro: “I disagree with that!”

Lovelace: “Ooh! Ooh! Niro has the hots for Vaster!”

Niro: “How dare you, you impetuous wench —”

Vaster: “Niro. Peace.”

The rare sound of Vaster’s voice hushed us a little, though no discernible expression gazed back at us from his haunt in the shadows. Herah bit her lip, but remained silent.

“Um,” said Donovan nervously. “I don’t know if this is a healthy bonding activity.”

“Donovan’s too soft,” Niro hissed, still glaring at a snickering Lovelace. Just to see how Donovan would react, I laughed; sure enough, he bristled, the muscles beneath his skin warped and bulged into unnatural shapes.

“Sylv provokes us for fun,” said Arianwen.

“Arianwen’s paranoid,” I countered.

“I see what you’re doing here,” said Finley, addressing Herah, and we fell silent again. “You want us to admit we need to be fixed.”

“Not...exactly.” Herah sighed. “I want you to admit the crux of the issue here. Do you think this is working for anyone here?”

“No,” said Niro immediately.

“Nope!” said Lovelace.

“I feel like an even worse person than before we started,” I lied, for comedic effect.

“Why is that?”

“You’re trying to redeem us,” I said. “And we can’t be redeemed.”

Donovan, his whole body heaving from the effort of suppressing his beastly form, looked up. “No,” he panted out. “You just don’t want to be redeemed.”

Herah snapped her fingers at him. “Exactly, Donovan. And that’s... understandable. Especially when you’re locked away, kept

from the parts of the world that would motivate you to care about making up for what you’ve done.”

“It’s fairly difficult to make up for what we’ve done when we’re in prison,” I pointed out.

“You’re right, Sylv.” She looked pleased; suspicion flared in my gut. What was she up to? “You’re absolutely right. And that’s why we’re going to modify our approach a little bit.”

“Modify our approach?” I echoed.

“That’s right,” Herah announced. “We’re going to try some community outreach!”

Promptly, Lovelace fell out of their chair.

227

Emily Maremont

We Rule Ourselves

Oleksa warmed his fingers as he strummed on his kobza.1 His music, mixed with the rattling of the train on all sides of him, reverberated across the frozen forest steppes. Beside him, his povodyr2 gnawed at a hardened loaf of crushed acorns and river water baked by Oleksa’s wife.

“Tell me, Stepan,” said Oleksa, “Are we passing any villages?” The boy gulped. “Some.”

“Are there people?”

“Yes. They are fat. Maybe they have food to share. Are we going to visit them?”

“If they are well-fed, they are from other places in the USSR. They have come to our lands to replace us as we die. They will not so much as open their doors for me.”

Before that year, Oleksa would travel with his guide from village to village. In each one, he would wander the streets singing the zhebranka3 until he was invited into a home, where he would perform for his hosts. After collecting a few kopeks ,4 he would sing his farewell song and move on to the next family.

Sometimes he traveled to festivals, where he would hear kobzari5 and lirnyky6 from other villages. No two villages had music that was exactly the same. There were variations in the lyrics, and the instruments that accompanied them. Over the years, he had begun to recognize the sounds of different villages. He feared he would never hear many of them again. Even some of the most respected kobzari in Ukraine were left to forage in barren fields for something to fill their stomachs, if they hadn’t already been disappeared.

Without a doubt, the Soviets had figured out that there was no better way to snuff out the spirit of Ukrainians than to empty their reservoirs of wisdom and tradition.

The conductor announced they had arrived in Kharkiv. Snow had fallen heavily the night before. As Stepan guided Oleksa into the station, the ground crunched beneath the soles of their boots. Most of the voices Oleksa heard were speaking Ukrainian, although some spoke Russian. Stepan asked a Ukrainian for directions to the opera house, and they were on their way. Soon, the hum of kobzas, banduras,7 and the chatter of young guides reached their ears. They entered a space where every sound vibrated through the marble floor and velvet seats.

“How many of us are there?” Oleksa asked Stepan.

“Oh, a few hundred,” Stepan replied. “More if you count their guides. There are soldiers, too.”

“Soldiers, you say?” Oleksa rubbed the smooth wood of his kobza to ease himself. He had many instruments that hung along the clay walls of his hut when he was not using them. This one enchanted his fingers, allowing him to play in the sharpest cold. He’d crafted it from a single maple tree his two sons felled years ago. He had not heard their voices since spring, when they were caught stealing grain from the local storehouse. Oleksa was performing in another village at the time, and his wife refused to speak about the incident. She would talk about nothing but their daughter’s wedding to a well-off merchant in three weeks’ time.

It was because of his wife’s desperation to keep this good fortune and to see her sons again that she urged Oleksa to attend the Congress of the Folk Singers of Soviet Ukraine in Kharkiv. Don’t get us into more trouble. Just do what the Soviets want you to do.

Oleksa was wary of the invitation, which stated that the goal of the congress was to include them in the development of socialism in Ukraine. There were rumors in other villages about orders by the Soviet government for kobzari to perform statesponsored dumy. 8 Oleksa was willing to die rather than betray his people. Still, looking over his wife’s bony frame, he decided to heed her words.

Over the course of the six-day train ride, he’d come to the conclusion that perhaps this congress was just for show. At the end of it, he would return home and continue filling his people with dumy about Cossack warriors and revolts in centuries past. And perhaps he would take his povodyr for his son. The boy had lost his parents during the famine of the past year. Oleksa had an affection for the boy, who sometimes sang when he thought his master was sleeping. If Stepan were blind, Oleksa would have taken him on as his apprentice.

For the entire day, attendees shared songs they had written about the good deeds of Stalin and his government. The chair of the congress announced the resolutions they would vote on regarding the adoption of a new repertoire of songs that sounded to Oleksa like nothing more than Soviet propaganda.

Beneath the gazes of the soldiers, the congress voted unanimously for the new repertoire. They agreed that all training in schools and conservatories would also adopt this repertoire, so it would live on with the next generation.

In early evening, the congress finally adjourned. An announcement was made that they would be taken to Moscow for the Congress of Folk Singers of the USSR. There was a great ruckus as povodyrs scrambled to guide their kobzari and lirnyky outside, where train cars were stationed.

Squeezed into a corner at the back of a train car, Oleksa and Stepan ate the last scraps of the loaf in their knapsack. They were promised a warm meal once they arrived in Moscow.

Oleksa doubted it. No one would think of feeding hundreds of singing beggars and their poor or orphaned guides.

They rode all evening. Blood pooled in Oleksa’s legs from the constant sitting. He was used to wandering, not staying in the same place and being told where to go. He rested his head on the body of his kobza.

Oleksa was jolted awake by the snapping of a string. He felt the strings of his instrument, counting one, two, three, four, five, six…he did it again. They were all there. It was someone else’s that had broken.

Heavy boots marched up and down the train car. Men yelled, “Leave! Now!” “Soldiers,” said Stepan.

“Has the train arrived in Moscow?” Oleksa asked. “No,” said Stepan. “We’re surrounded by forest.”

They smelled smoke. People around Oleksa mumbled. Has the train gotten stuck? Is there food outside? Is there a fire in one of the train cars? Is anyone hurt? Is the fire about to reach us?

They scrambled off the train, leaving all their worldly possessions behind except for their instruments, for those were extensions of their bodies. Wind dense with smoke slapped the weary travelers. Oleksa coughed, his throat raw and tight.

“Stand in single file,” a soldier commanded.

After some shuffling, for the guides had to coordinate with each other, they were all standing in a line. A kobzar, ignorant of the tension in the air, began to sing and play a duma about a Cossack leaving his family to fight in a war. The kobzar fell silent as several guides cried out. Oleksa heard the sound of strings snapping—only constant, ear shattering, followed by more screaming of people young and old. Screaming that, translated in every language, means the same thing.

“Stepan? Stepan!” Oleksa called. He tripped over something and dropped to the ground.

It was too soft to be earth. The body of a young boy, not yet hardened by working out in the fields. Next, Oleksa groped for his kobza, but it had been knocked out of his reach. Stones pelted

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Novel San Francisco University High School San

Francisco, CA

1. Ukrainian folk music instrument belonging to the lute family. 2. “Guide” in Ukrainian. 3. Begging song. 4. Monetary unit in Russia and other countries in the former Soviet Union. 5. Itinerant Ukrainian folk bards. Singular: kobzar. 6. Similar to kobzari, lirnyky were itinerant folk bards who accompanied themselves on a hurdygurdy. 7. Ukrainian musical instrument belonging to the lute family with a larger body and more strings than the kobza. 8 Ukrainian historical epic poems.

down on him. Once more he reached for the instrument he had carved from the tree felled by his dear sons, on which he had played the epic songs of his ancestors. But at that moment Oleksa’s kobza was being tossed into the flames of a bonfire by Soviet police.

There was a sharp pain between his ribs. He was sinking into the earth.

A firebird landed at the peak of Lysa Hora,9 carrying on its back a girl whose family had not touched Ukrainian soil for well over a century. Eva buried her head in the hot, bright orange feathers of the bird’s neck as artillery collided with the ancient city of Kyiv, to the west of the mountain. When it was over, Eva unfolded herself and slid to the ground.

Surrounding her was a forest of thin trees, wrinkled leaves scattered at her feet. At the entrance to a tunnel stood a trio of wooden statues of pagan gods with swords carved into on their bellies. They were positioned back-to-back and facing outwards, mouths agape, as though they had been surrounded.

Students emerged from the tunnel and filtered past her, dark bags under their eyes, suitcases in tow. As more crashes were heard from Kyiv, they quickened their steps, leaving shallow imprints in the snow. Some of them tossed confused glances at Eva and the firebird moving in the opposite direction. They spoke a language Eva did not understand.

Inside the tunnel, she followed her feathered guide along a river of ashes. The tunnel sloped downward, although there were no stairs. More students pushed past her as they fled. The wheel of a suitcase rolled over her foot.

A jolt of pain. She stumbled, falling into the river. Water filled her ears, nostrils, coat, jeans. The river reached the place where her tail was removed on the day of her birth, a surgery the doctor told her parents would normalize her. To make her fit their so-called scientific definitions of male or female. Only she would be the one to regret what they did to her.

Something reached underneath her and rolled her onto the bank of the river like a mound of dough. The weight and heat of the firebird’s wing around her shoulders helped her regain her balance. When the wing receded, she was dry.

Now the students had stopped to make sure she was alright. They asked questions. She smiled and shrugged until they moved on. I’m fine, she resisted saying in English, lest they figured out that she was an American from a family that Assimilated.

After a sharp turn, the tunnel opened onto to a ravine with a high domed ceiling made of gold. It seemed to be some sort of meeting place. People sat on stone ledges overlooking the water. They wore red and white embroidery from head to toe, ornate with floral designs and geometric patterns. One person stood to address the gathering, and was immediately interrupted by another. The air smelled of honey, fish, and smoke.

Eva felt a beak pecking her on the shoulder. She took one last look at the dome and followed the firebird down another tunnel. Left alone in her new dorm room, Eva screamed silently into her hands. She was in a war zone, or very close to one, in a country that might not exist tomorrow. Or so they were saying on the news as she’d left home. All those students were fleeing, perhaps to join their families or stay with relatives outside of the country. And yet here she was, moving in. Tomorrow she would begin her training, something she had looked forward to as one does for planets to align.

There were four beds in opposite corners, covered by wool blankets. In the back, an oven was stuffed with coal. Plaques with faded inscriptions hung on the walls, along with kerosene lamps providing warm light. Eva chose the north corner, closest to the door. Beneath the bed, she found a chest of embroidered shirts. She recalled the name of these: vyshyvanka. Black threads for the fertile soil. Red threads for the blood sacrificed by those fighting for the freedom of the land.

Eva shrugged off her backpack and took out her Ukrainian language grammar. She was distracted from studying by the

sound of doors slamming in the distance.

Coals rolled out of the oven as a creature emerged from it. The creature, about the size of a five-year-old child, had glowing eyes and a human body covered in yellowish-gray hair.

“You are the new vedma,”10 he said gruffly, with choppy English.

“Yes. I’m Eva.”

“I am your domovyk .11 It is my duty to protect you as long as you respect me. You will not see me very often, so we will not be friends.” He retreated back into the oven, sealing the oven tight with a metal lid.

“Are we safe from the war?” asked Eva.

The lid opened a crack. “No one is safe from the war.”

In the domovyk’s voice, Eva could hear echoes of her mother from that morning. You will not be safe. You should not have applied. Eva had assured her that the school was perhaps the most protected place in the world. Why did they not protect our family? Her mother had pointed to a photograph on the wall of the kitchen, where her great-grandparents were smiling in front of their old apartment in Chicago. Her great-grandfather’s face was soft, cheeks rosy. Relatives liked to tease him for having feminine features.

At the same time, they told stories about him in the same voice they used when chanting Torah. Born to farmers in a shtetl12 in western Ukraine, then part of the Russian Empire, he spent years almost starving until he immigrated to Canada. After working as a merchant for a few years, he married a Jewish woman who had grown up in the same region as he did.

Hearing about the economic boom in the United States, he bought a one-way train ticket to Chicago, where he and his wife opened a bakery. Their son, Eva’s maternal grandfather, was the first U.S. citizen in the family.

Eva’s father was an ethnic Ukrainian whose family had immigrated to New York after World War II. Eva had not yet called her father about where she was going. If he wasn’t busy with his new wife, she suspected he would be against it as much as her mother was.

Still, since the day that woman in the produce section of her neighborhood Eastern European grocery store had urged her to apply, there was nothing that could dissuade Eva from going to Lysa Hora. As a vedma, you will learn to wield ancient magic that will connect you to everyone and everything in your motherland. To accentuate that point, the beets on the shelf behind Eva clambered on top of each other in the shape of a peak.

The application was an essay about the source of her magical abilities. “I don’t have any,” she’d admitted to the woman, who’d laughed. Not yet. You only have a source, a well cut off from the river.

More like a leaky faucet, Eva had thought.

The woman promised she would return on the first day of the new year. Over the winter holidays, Eva scribbled down five pages about yellowed immigration papers and American hamburger buns made out of Ukrainian wheat. A few weeks after she handed it to the woman at the grocery store, she got the call that she was admitted. Her transport would arrive the next day. Three teenagers with suitcases stumbled into the dorm room, taking Eva out of her memory. She pretended to be studying how to conjugate Ukrainian verbs in the present tense as they chose their beds. One of her new roommates wore street clothes with an egg dangling over her chest from a string. She emptied her suitcase of package after package of candles, arranging and rearranging them next to her bed.

Another wore tall mountain boots and a thick rain jacket suitable for hiking through dense vegetation. He flinched at every noise–the creaking of a bedframe under a mattress, the shifting of coals inside the oven, the collision of candles falling to the ground.

The third wore too much black eyeliner–the result of putting it on hurriedly, or relying on a mirror filled with shadows. They looked at their roommates with unsuppressed curiosity. Finally they asked a question in Ukrainian. The two others nodded. Eva bit the inside of her lip. It was now or never.

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***

9. “Bald Mountain” in Ukrainian. 10. Witch in Eastern Slavic folklore. 11. Guardian spirit. 12. Town” in Yiddish.

“Sorry, I’m still learning Ukrainian,” she said. “I’m…American.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” said the roommate with too much eyeliner in English. “I was saying that I wonder what those words on the plaques mean, don’t you?”

“They look ancient,” Eva agreed. “Where are you all from?”

The English speaker translated for the others, and reported back. “Nika is from Kherson,” they said, gesturing to the roommate with the egg necklace.

Kherson. Eva hadn’t even known the city existed until yesterday, when the news on television reported it was the first major city captured by the Russians.

“Dmytro is from Kyiv,” they continued, indicating the boy with mountain boots. “And I’m Artem, from Odesa.”

Nika took out her cell phone and tapped it furiously with her finger. She said something that included “mother” and “war”.

“I don’t think we have cell service down here,” said Artem. “Which is stupid, given that people are fleeing the country. No wonder so many students are leaving.” Her gaze fell on the siddur13 Eva had put on her bedside table. “Are you Jewish?”

“Yeah.”

“I am too. For some reason I thought no one here would be Jewish.”

Eva laughed. “Me too.” During those many hours spent trying to come up with a cohesive essay to explain the source of her powers she wasn’t sure existed, she’d wrestled with the fact that she wasn’t just Ukrainian-American. There was that other component, the part of her history confined to small villages where Jews had been forced to live. Vedmas, she’d thought despairingly, grew out of Ukrainian traditions. The Jews in her family were somewhat removed from the land and culture, even more so after they immigrated to America.

The strumming of strings echoed. Dmytro flinched. The music vibrated across every surface, merging the hundreds of subterranean tunnels into one instrument. It seemed impossible that less than a mile away, Ukrainians in Kyiv were burrowing under their homes in basements and cellars to take refuge from Russian shelling.

Eva and her roommates poked their heads out of the dorm. Students wearing embroidered shirts were already making their way through t