Millburn High School Literary Magazine Explores Human Condition

WORD
Millburn High School Literary Magazine, Volume Eight, 2011
WORDM H S L i t e r a r y M a g a z i n e
Vo l u m e 1 0 , 2 0 1 3
M H S L i t e r a r y M a g a z i n e
Vo l u m e 1 0 , 2 0 1 3

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Word
Millburn High School
462 Millburn Avenue
Millburn, NJ 07041
Volume 10, June 2013
Principal Dr. William Miron
Vice Principals Dr. Michele Pitts, Dr. Robert Keenan
When we look at an infant, what do we see? Two big eyes,
two tiny feet, one ski-slope nose that we swear is passed directly
from the mother. Or perhaps what we see is the potential for the
range of human experience—joy, triumph, heartbreak, loss.
The pieces in this volume of Word attempt to consider that
infant’s path. They explore the human condition, which, if it can-
not be defined, can be evoked in literature and art. These some-
times somber, sometimes funny (but always thought-provoking)
contributions delve into universal truths about human nature.
Many pieces refer to the end of life’s journey. Are the students at
Millburn High School morbid creatures with dark hearts? We’d
like to think not. We believe instead that students write maturely
on this subject because each reflection yields a different under-
standing of the complex nature of life; we therefore write about
what we wish to conceive more fully.
Many people have helped us to bring this volume to frui-
tion. We would like to thank the administration and our teachers
for their unwavering support, Mrs. Harte for helping us find art
that is intellectually and visually stimulating, and Dr. Jooma for
sharing with us her humor and her expertise in publishing.
Marlee, Hannah, & Michelle
Editors-in-Chief
We dedicate this volume of Word
to our Vice Principal, Dr. Michele Pitts.
Dr. Pitts retires this year after 19 years at
Millburn High School.
We thank her for supporting our endeavors,
enabling our accomplishments and
validating our successes.

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Table of Contents
The Gift of Language, Molly Blevins...............................................5
An Admirable Hue of Gray, Sara Nuta............................................6
Untitled, Amanda Prager.................................................................7
Illustration, Viraj Khetani....................................................7
Arfie, Josh Kimelman......................................................................8
Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried...........................................9
Stage Fright, Aparna Raghu............................................................10
Loss of Imagination, Chloe Chan...................................................11
Looking Out, Owen Schumacher....................................................12
The Sangre de Cristos Mountains, Lara Moehlman.......................13
Montage, Zoey Peterson.................................................................14
Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried..............................14, 16, 17
Proliferation, Samuel Liu...............................................................18
Illustration, Alexandra Bass...............................................18
Free At Last, Ishan Pandey............................................................19
Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried.........................................21
The Perfect Gift, Noah Orent........................................................22
Art-chitecture, Alexandra Bass.....................................................25
Staircase of the Mind, Eugene Zeng.............................................26
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The Basement, Lara Moehlman..................................................27
Coming Home, Katie Dolan........................................................28
Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried.......................................30
The Dieter: a Personal Experience,
Michelle Lou and Aparna Raghu......................32
Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried.......................................33
The Dancers, Lauren Gomez......................................................34
Illustration, Jonathan Duan............................................35
In Limbo, Angela Lin................................................................37
Inevitability, Viraj Khetani........................................................38
Through My Eyes, Jake Oleson.................................................41
Mother’s Scent, Simran Malhotra.............................................42
In the Afternoon, Chaerin Ahn...................................................43
Bats in the Belfry, Alexa Paley.................................................44
Love, Josh Kimelman................................................................45
Hate, Josh Kao...........................................................................45
A Day in the Life of Dog, Angela Jin.......................................46
Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried......................................48
Dead Hearts, Amanda Prager...................................................49
Words, Chaerin Ahn.................................................................50
Solitude, Owen Schumacher....................................................53

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Spaces, Mackenzie De Lisa..........................................................54
Run, Before Dreams Get You, Chaerin Ahn................................57
One of Those Days, McKenzie Sutton.........................................58
Ninety Parakeets, Michelle Waters..............................................59
A Colorful Couple, Ravi Patel.....................................................60
Thinking Inside the Box, Aparna Raghu.....................................61
Lost, Jake Oleson.........................................................................63
The Ripper, Josh Kao..................................................................64
Memories, Chloe Chan................................................................65
The Farmhouse, Michelle Waters................................................66
Illustration, Shiv Malhotra................................................67
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The Gift of Language
Molly Blevins
They say that multi-lingual kids,
Have bigger brains and winning bids,
Because when they were very young,
The lullabies that they were sung,
Did stretch their minds, and help them think,
And learn new sounds without a blink.
So I am glad that Mum and Dad,
Gave me much more than what they had,
They gave me English, yes they did,
But also German, as a kid,
A gift that stretched around the world,
And left my language-love unfurled.
With Deutsch and English, off I went,
And French and Spanish, heaven sent,
And now at high school, lucky me,
To get Chinese in one-two-three,
And have the skills that let me speak,
To millions more, both strong and meek.
But with these words, what will I say?
What grammar will I use today?
What is the message of the year,
The words I want the world to hear?
Each language lets you think new ways,
and make new friends, and seize the days.

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An Admirable Hue of Gray
Sara Nuta
When I woke up, I knew the sky was gray just by the soft
light filtering through the thin blinds that made everything feel
drowsy. It wasn’t that harsh, abrasive gray, the kind that omi-
nously looms before a storm. But it wasn’t a bright, attention-
seeking gray you find on a crisp December day, either. It was a
neutral gray. It cast its glow over the town and made everything
look soft. No one takes the time to appreciate this gray for its
beauty. They think of gray as the promoter of frowns and can-
celler of beach days.
This gray was a remarkably bashful color. It didn’t have
the audacious vibrancy of cerulean skies, the alluring mystique
of navy blue nights, or the charming daintiness of powder blue
mornings. It was simply there. This gray was a modest color. It
did not wish to call too much attention to itself. And so, on that
March day, I decided to stroll through the park to pay homage to
the underappreciated color in all its reticent glory.
This gray was an adaptable color. It clashed against the
bright spring colors, yet it was still somehow compatible with
the surrounding environment. It didn’t quite fit in, but it knew
how to blend in just enough so you wouldn’t think much of it.
The pearly silver sky demurely hung over me. It starkly con-
trasted with the newly sprouted grass, yet seamlessly blended
with the concrete sidewalks and buildings. I walked and I
smelled and I watched and I listened. The vast sky, the slightly
metallic scent of rain, and the light whooshing of the precipita-
tion made me feel insignificant. It was all very harmonious—
soothing even. I was simply just there and the gray had kept me
company, asking nothing in return. I reciprocated the gesture by
merely admiring the sky, and I realized that that was enough.
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Untitled
Amanda Prager
Don’t ask me for my Adderall,
Because pills don’t fill in answers for you
And it’s not some magical
Thrill
That gives out A’s on tests.
No
My diagnosis I am not;
Gaze through the window and dream I can
with amphetamines
Speeding through my brain
I am not the culmination
Of my flaws
Squint and
Anyone can be a disorder
If you look hard enough

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Arfie
Josh Kimelman
The sun is outside playing and the boys too, I am a boy too
but I don’t play with the other boys today I will play with them
they are outside with a ball laughing and running I will play with
them. Quick, I run out. There is grass outside but I run on hot
pavement. I get out my guitar, I want to have a concert; the boys
will clap the boys will like me. In my palm my guitar feels like it
does when I pee and I play but some boys come up to me interrupt
my concert. They are laughing. I am too, but then one of them hits
me, hits me again I do not understand. I run, run on hot pavement
toward grass, toward the house, and I see mother, wet eyes.
Everywhere I go I look back and there she is, mother. She
follows me like a shadow. I look back and she looks away I smile
at her. Sometimes I look back and there she is a little smile on her
lips like something is funny. I laugh. She tries hard to smile but it
is hard for her. Her sad eyes make it hard for her to smile.
We are inside. I am eating lunch, licking the plate clean.
Mother is cleaning the dishes, but not with her tongue. I put down
my plate and I sigh. Squeeze my hands together. That feels good.
My arm hurts where the boys hit me I touch it with my
hand and I yelp. Mother looks over at me. I squeeze my hands
together again. My hand goes up to my arm and I yelp again and
mother looks at me opens her mouth slightly. I want a cola.
Who made you? she asks me. I look at her. I want a cola,
I say. She puts the plate she is cleaning down. Walks over to the
table, puts down the brown bottle opens it takes my plate. Who
made you?
God, I say. My arm hurts.
Germans, she says. I hold the cola bottle up to my mouth
with both hands.
It’s because of Germans, she says, that you are the way
you are.
We had to wait too long.
I drink my cola, big gulps. I love you, Arfie, she says, and
kisses me on the cheek. I look at her and I drink my cola with
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both hands.
Mother is at the shuk. One time I went with mother to
the shuk it smelled tasty but I got scared, mother doesn’t take me
to the shuk anymore. Aba is at his desk working cracking sun-
flower seeds with his tongue. I caught a bug in my cola bottle but
bugs don’t do anything they just sit behind glass. Smile at the
bug, I hope it likes me why don’t the boys like me I don’t know.
Squeeze my hands together. I press my face out the window the
boys are out there playing but I can’t go out, why can’t I go out.
Tomorrow I will play with the boys now I will go to the
pictures on the table, the pictures where Aba is smiling and me
and mother.
There is a square around her face. She is smiling. Smooth
skin bright shiny eyes. Only there is a square around her face. Her
body isn’t there. The square around her face is pretty wood.
She is shiny. She is at the shuk, not there. She is smiling,
her eyes too but I know she is not happy. Nothing trapped is ever
happy.

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Stage Fright
Aparna Raghu
Half swagger, half stumble up
Full of resolutions that you cannot convince your body
Are for the better.
You’ve practiced, pained, perfected
But your limbs are still skeptical
And you battle them until you are on stage.
And you start to agree with them
As your feet are nailed into the ground.
And your knees start to tremble like hummingbird wings
Without the relief of being able to take flight and escape.
Your terror is obvious in your barely-seeing eyes
As you distract yourself by counting dust particles
Illuminated by too-white lights, rushing at you
Ready to claw your frozen face.
All while the accompaniment impatiently lilts in the background
Dragging your tumbling thoughts back to center state.
Your throat opens and you caw, somewhat melodiously
Sighing after the screeching high notes have passed
Breathing as if you are bearing Atlas’s burden
As if you are being crushed while trying to gulp down oxygen
Before your will breaks.
Finally, half sprinting, half attempting to look sane
As you double over into an awkward bow
And stumble off stage, tripping over your own relief.
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Loss of Imagination
Chloe Chan

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Looking Out
Owen Schumacher
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The Sangre de Cristos Mountains
Lara Moehlman
The southern Colorado sun peeked out from behind the
tall pines. I could hear my heavy boots trample the tiny twigs as
the bird calls steadily softened. A gentle breeze tickled my burned
face. Soon, we would be above the tree line. Soon, we would turn
our backs on the exhausting humidity of the pine forest and behold
the open Sangre de Cristos Mountains. The sun would go down
with its painful heat.
I was only a naïve Northeastern suburbanite who fantasized
about the Colorado wilderness. In my dreams I conquered the
Rocky Mountains, scaling 14,000-foot cliffs with speed and endur-
ance. My hair trailed down my back, shimmering under the soft
sparkling sun. My boots were perfectly new; my backpack perfect-
ly placed. But as dark clouds swallowed the sun’s yellow streaks, I
awoke abruptly from my slumber.
It began to rain. At first, scattered drops playfully bounced
off my bare arms to my dirty knees; water therapeutically pounded
my sore shoulders and slid down my aching back. But soon pierc-
ing pellets crashed upon my head, striking my cheeks like icicles.
The sun had completely disappeared.
I tried to open my backpack, but my hands were numb. I
could barely request help through my furiously chattering teeth.
Eventually I tore open my pack and spread my rain jacket over my
body. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to picture the flawless
explorer of my dreams. Instead, white lightning flashed across my
inner-eyelids; loud thunder vibrated through my chest. Disappoint-
ed, I opened my eyes. It never rained in my dreams.
At night, the rain stopped, leaving behind a stark black pal-
ette, a few lonely stars. My sore legs tingled in my warm sleeping
bag.
In the morning, the sun’s rays seeped through the tent.
My frizzy hair smelled of mud and rain, plastered to the sides of
my face. My hiking boots were still soaked and caked with dirt.
Stretching my sore arms up to face the brilliant radiating sun, I
smiled.

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Montage
Zoey Peterson
I. The Imagination
When someone has a lot of this, they’re generally scolded
as a child. “Get your head out of the clouds!” is a popular phrase,
since they spend a large part of their time daydreaming. Staring out
the window, or at the ceiling, or even at someone’s face, thinking
about what makes them smile, what makes them frown. They see
phantoms in the dark and fairies in the day. They run through life,
pretending to be kings and queens, talking to squirrels and casting
spells, making potions and flying through blue skies.
In adolescence, they’re just as vital, just as vibrant. They’re
the ones who still believe in unicorns and still check under their
beds at night. They talk with their hands; they’re swept away by
romance; they read and they write. Their heads are full of stories.
Sometimes paranoia plagues them so badly they scream at a simple
touch; other times they’re so guileless, they skip down city streets
at midnight. Their lives are a phantasmagoric whirl of fear and
excitement and passion and delight.
They grow up and they wonder at societal standards. They
have children and teach them to dream. Every day, they get in-
spired. They have daily midlife crises. They live in the future, and
love it. These are the people who change the world.
Sometimes it feels like a burden. This never-ending tur-
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moil, like a kaleidoscope flashing before your eyes, beautiful and
disturbing and glorious all at once. They feel like gods and pau-
pers, the whole time wondering if there’s a pause button on life, so
they can be sure they never press it. They think about the moment
it’ll all end. They think about the moment it all began. They think,
and they wonder, and they dream, and they feel, and they see.
For people with this, every day is an adventure.
II. The Dance
As a dancer without training, I know what it means to
move. A trained dancer is taught motion, or how to move her body,
and how to keep the beat. But an untrained dancer carries the beat
within her, and learns to move through stillness. She must learn to
hear the music in silence.
There has been nary a moment in my life when I am with-
out music. In times of stress, I hum in the way of my grandmother,
slow, invented tunes reminiscent of hymns. I wear headphones
during any necessary mundane task. On summer days, I take walks
for hours at a time, with no destination, with no belongings except
my old yellow walkman. Frustration instantly melts into serenity
when I play the right song, and my body moves; my mind moves
my body; my heart moves my mind.
But before a dancer can move, she must be immobile. She
must understand the necessity of moving herself, of falling and
tripping. She must learn to move herself first by being moved. As
the informal dance teacher of many friends, I have much experi-
ence with teaching others to move, teaching young bodies already
stiff from stagnancy to find rhythm. It is something that, once
found, is never lost.
As a child, like most, I was immobile. I knew my world,
and only that. But as I grew older, others moved me: a girl from
China who would become my best friend, my great-aunts in Trini-
dad who would expose me to a lifestyle both foreign and familiar,
my mother who would show me the benefits of hard work and the
hardships suffered by those disadvantaged. When I began to move,

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I discovered my strengths and weaknesses; I began to understand
the connection between all mankind despite his many different
backgrounds and upbringings. I wanted to help others understand
this, the universal beauty and ugliness of all people, and how to
reconcile this within ourselves and one another.
But how, when I could barely do this myself? I looked at
myself in the small mirror in my room, and wobbled on uncertain
legs. Where even to start? Where to go? Life wasn’t a summer
walk, I needed a destination.
Move.
I looked to what I loved. I ignored those who said a love for
all mankind would do nothing for me in the future. I ignored those
who told me my hippie mentality would take me nowhere. I broke
through the expectations, and heard the music of life with more
clarity than ever before. I turned and walked away from the paths
decided by others for me. And in that long walk, with my ears
filled with the melody of time, my destination made itself clear. I
opened my eyes to the future, one full of difficulties and stumbles,
of awkward movement and learning experiences, and its music
resounded in my ears.
And I danced.
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III. The Forever Flawless
Every time my sister walks in the door, she’s a more fa-
miliar stranger. She has a personality like a kaleidoscope—ever
changing, ever evolving, but always beautiful. An animated aristo-
crat with phantasmagoric moods. There is no one in the world that
can match her urbane charm, her wit, her madness. Yet my mother
approaches her with a furious face—You’re overdrawn! Why don’t
you ever call? Don’t tell me you lost your phone again! Oh, dear,
here it is, more evidence of my sister’s occasional flightiness. Yet
always I am peacemaker to their conflicts, ready to defend my
slightly irresponsible sister until the ire fades from my mother’s
eyes. Because no one can see like I can (or perhaps no one is blind
like I am?) Her flaws are a part of her, and therefore they too are
perfect.

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Proliferation
Samuel Liu
Many a poet the world contains,
Struggling to write original orations.
But one voice is lost among thousands
And one man’s conception becomes a hundred’s.
For how easy becoming a poet is,
A pen and shredded wood pulp,
are all that is needed to become a legend.
So simple the ambition
so high the goal
yet the competition
is the essence of creation
but the price of this incentive
of ultimate Darwinian motivation
is the industrialization of expression.
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Free At Last
Ishan Pandey
I took a few quick, shallow breaths and readied myself.
My eyes, a dark shade of burnt sienna, began to mist over and my
heart rate slowed. I felt my father’s rough hands push me with a
startling jolt and in a flash of panic, I closed my eyes. I felt as if
there was a miniscule drummer stuck deep inside my chest, beat-
ing to an off-tune rhythm. I did exactly as my father had taught
me to do, bringing one foot down, and then the other, mindlessly
repeating the same pattern over and over. Much to my surprise,
it seemed to be working. I felt the wind whistling in my ears and
the crunch of the rubber wheels against the sun-burnt cement. I
opened my eyes to see a green blur racing along beside me and
the serene landscape laid out perfectly before me. It was beauti-
ful and perfect. And then everything went horribly wrong. The
steering began wobbling out of my control. The wheels began to
screech in exertion, cutting across the cement. Fear spread across
my body like wildfire and my breathing quickened. I let go of the
sleek, metal bar and closed my eyes. It was gone in an instant:
my moment of freedom was over and the moment that I feared
was upon me. The drummer had escaped into my throat, and I
could no longer feel my heart beat. It was all out of my control
now. Metal grinded against the blood-stained road as my tender
skin was shredded by the coarse cement. My father rushed to my
side, but it was too late. The bike skidded slowly to a stop.
My eyelids felt unnaturally heavy. I opened a small crack
between them and sunlight came flooding in. I grunted and raised
my arm to try and shield myself from the glaring sun. I could
hear my father tying to talk to me, trying to make sure I was al-
right. I untangled my feet from the bike and staggered to my feet.
My mouth felt dry. I felt my father’s giant hands in mine, trying
to comfort me.
“I’m fine, Diddy,” I managed to croak out. I had lied to
him. I wasn’t fine and never would be. Not until I had finished
what I had started. I had to do this. I had to prove to myself that I
could do this.

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“Are you sure? Are you sure you’re not badly hurt? Come
on, let’s go home.”
“No. I want to try again,” I replied, a fire burning in my
eyes.
“Don’t worry, Ishan. We’ll try again tomorrow. Let’s just
go home and get some rest.”
“Please Diddy, I want to get it right.”
Diddy opened his mouth as if he was going to disagree,
but he stopped.
“Okay. One more time.”
I do not know why he agreed. Maybe he saw that fire burning in
my eyes and the passion in my heart. Maybe he saw how much I
really wanted this. Or maybe he just wanted to give me one more
chance.
Diddy had been guiding me all day, trying to help me get
rid of the dreaded training wheels. Diddy was a very stubborn
man: when he decided to do something, he put all of his mind
and heart into doing it, and wouldn’t rest until it was completed.
That’s why, whenever I talked to him, he seemed to be pay-
ing only half attention to me, with the other half fixed on some
problem from work that he could not figure out. My mother used
to tell me that I inherited that trait from Diddy, except that it was
ten times as strong in me.
At the time, I was an out-going, four-year old boy. I was
decent at any sport I had played, but I really excelled at soccer.
There was only one athletic activity that I knew of that had truly
stumped me: biking. And that also happened to be my father’s fa-
vorite activity. My father used to bike four miles every day when
he was a kid to get to school. He had really grown attached to the
sport and still preferred biking over taking a car or walking. It
really frustrated him that I was so clumsy that I kept on crashing
into things and getting hurt even with my training wheels on. He
felt like I was missing something that had been a vital part of his
childhood.
One day Diddy had asked me what was stopping me, why
I couldn’t do something he thought was so simple.
“How can you excel at such a complicated sport as soccer, and
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yet be so stumped by something as simple as riding a bike?”
I had to think about the question for a few seconds, but in
my heart already knew the answer.
“I’m scared of falling. I’m scared of crashing into some-
thing and never getting back up. Like that guy did in the movie
we saw last year. Because I know that would make Mummy very
sad.”
Diddy just stood there, staring at me in shock. I guess that
was a strange thing for a four-year old kid to say. The next day,
Diddy woke me up early and brought me here, to the park. He
wanted to teach me to overcome my fears.
“If you live your life in fear, you will never get a chance
to live. Remember that, Ishan,” Diddy had told me one morning.
Now, I would stop at nothing to surpass the seemingly insur-
mountable mountain of fear that stood before me. I wanted to
make my father proud. I picked up my bike, took a deep breath,
and took my place on its seat.
‘There’s nothing to fear,’ I reminded myself. I felt my fa-
ther’s rough hands push me off again, but this time I didn’t close
my eyes.
‘Free at last…’

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The Perfect Gift
Noah Orent
Now you’ve heard of the Grinch and of Who-ville;
I’m sure we all know that by heart.
But have you heard that story about—
Now, what was it?
Remind me. How does it start?
I’ll tell you what happened; I know this tale well—
And it is a good one, you’ll see.
It’s a tale of three kids seeking presents—
And a special one—now, shall we?
Once, on a Christmas Eve not too long ago,
There was a place that I used to know.
A place where all the people liked Christmas a lot.
Except for a certain three who did not.
These three hated Christmas—hated it, all right!
But it wasn’t ’cause Santa Claus came by night.
No, the obvious, utmost reason of all
Was because they never found a good gift at the mall.
The aforementioned gift wasn’t meant for them.
No, it was for their parents.
And each year was mayhem!
Staring down from Rockefeller Center with afrown
At the brightly-lit windows that made up their town,
The siblings knew every person down below
Was hanging up stockings and mistletoe.
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“They’re done with their shopping!” said one with a sneer.
“And tomorrow is Christmas! It’s practically here!”
Then his eldest child growled as each finger was crossed,
“We must find a present for them at all costs!”
For tomorrow, their peers—the girls and the boys—
Would wake bright and early and unwrap their toys.
As the children yearly boasted of the gifts they bought
For their parents, the Unhappy Trio found themselves caught.
They never found the perfect gift for their parents, you see
And every year the other children would laugh at the Three.
That’s one thing they hated! The taunting and teasing!
’Twas something the siblings couldn’t stand (next to sneezing).
The more they all thought, the more people started to sing
’Til the two eldest thought, “We must end this teasing!
We must find a gift and we must find it now!
The only question left is ‘Exactly how?!’”
In his anger, the brother started to scream and shove
When he heard a sound like the coo of a dove.
The three turned around and they looked quick
And saw a man who looked just like... Saint Nick?
The man smiled and said, “Excuse me, but why?
Why are you so upset, my boy? Why?”
And the youngest sister, no more than four,
Had no intention of hearing complaints anymore.
“Well, you see Sir...” the little girl said with a smile,
“My siblings and I have lived here for a while.
Each year we go look for a present to give
To our parents, but the right one isn’t there, Heaven forgive.”

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The man looked at the child. He patted her head
And he got them hot chocolate and cinnamon bread.
And when the three siblings found a place to sit,
He sat down and spoke, voice filled with Christmas spirit.
“I admire your cause,” said the man with a smile.
It’s the finest dedication I’ve seen in awhile.
But Christmas, you see, doesn’t come from a store.
No, my dears, Christmas is something much more...
“Christmas isn’t about ribbons or tags
Nor packages, presents, boxes or bags.
It’s about being with the ones you love
And that’s what the Christmas season’s made of.”
Then they talked and talked for an hour or two
Until it was time for the children to leave for the zoo.
And what happened, then?
Well, so they say—the three children
Told their parents the story that day.
And as the true meaning of Christmas came through,
The children felt happy—and their parents did too.
And the three heard a voice as they drove out of sight
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”
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Art-chitecture
Alexandra Bass

26
Staircase of the Mind
Eugene Zeng
27
The Basement
Lara Moehlman
It was a dangerous dimension of dragons
and crocodiles and clowns.
They hid under the couch,
lurked behind the television,
and disappeared in the darkness.
It was a daunting test of
bravery, strength, and speed.
It was the basement.
The old creaky staircase moaned as I descended,
the laundry basket shaking in my small hands.
The door shut behind me.
The staircase became a slippery cliff,
the laundry basket a heavy boulder,
crushing my weak arms,
plunging me into the darkness.
I ran.
Dashing through the darkness,
I furiously swatted at thick black smoke
that would surely choke me if I didn’t hold my breath.
Walls melted into blackness:
I was no longer trapped inside a dark dungeon—
I was lost inside an endless labyrinth.
As the years passed, the lengthy labyrinth unraveled
and my covert missions withered into well-worn chores.
Dangerous dragons disintegrated and sharp cliffs caved.
But every now and again,
I like to hold my breath,
shut the door,
and run.

28
Coming Home
Katie Dolan
I cannot recall a time when I did not live in Richton, Mis-
sissippi. My father used to tell me stories about where we lived
before, Meridian. I had only been two years old when we left so
that he could find work after his employer died. I was too small
to remember the tiny blue house with white shutters that we had
inhabited. One of my favorite tales was about his sister, who he
had described as the most intelligent person he had ever met. She
learned to read from the Bible and to write properly before she was
even fifteen years old. Most black folks were never able to learn.
Her name was Charlotte and she had been hired as a cook by a man
named William Holbrook. My father loved to brag about his baby
sister and told me stories of their life in Meridian every evening
before we said our prayers. Until last night.
It had all started two days ago, on June 28, 1933, as I
walked home from town, carrying my family’s groceries. I was
about a block away from Linden Street, the place where my fa-
ther’s route usually crossed mine on his way home from work. I
had noticed the group of boys following me a few blocks back, but
decided that if I ignored them they might leave me alone. How-
ever, this hope was in vain. They began to quicken their pace and
descended on me like vultures. As soon as I saw the expressions
on their faces, I knew they were bored and looking for a fight. The
largest one, who had to be at least four years older than me, was
the first to strike. His fist connected with my stomach and all of
the air whooshed out of my lungs. I gasped. Fell to the ground.
Did not struggle. I knew better than to fight. This lack of reaction
completely enraged them. Whereas before they had simply been
looking for something to do, now they were livid. The second
boy’s foot connected with my face and I felt something crack.
Blood gushed from my nose, nearly choking me, but still I did not
fight back. Fighting would be worse. If I fought, they would win. I
scrunched my eyes shut, waiting for the next blow. It never came.
29
As I looked up I saw my father towering over the white
boys. He looked down at my bloody face, and I was frightened by
the look in his eyes. I could tell what he was about to do. I begged
God to give him the strength to restrain himself. To give him the
foresight to see that retaliating would only hurt us in the end.
Desperately, I tried to get up, to stop him, but I was too dizzy and it
was too late. His fist collided with the first boy’s face and he let out
an ear-piercing scream. I finally forced myself up and threw myself
in front of my father, begging him to stop. The boys took advan-
tage of his momentary distraction and ran.
They came for my father late last night, the men. There
were probably fifteen of them and they all had the same look on
their faces. They wanted revenge. No black man could lay a hand
on a white person and get away with it. My father knew this as
well as anyone, but he had lost control and now he would pay. The
men came into our house and dragged my father out with them.
Then they came back for me. We were pushed out into the yard
where one man was tying a noose around the branch of our oak
tree. Two of the men held me, while the others began to beat my
father. It was too much. I wanted to run. Wanted to scream. Could
not make a sound. Then I understood why they had taken me out-
side too. It was not enough for them to kill my father. They wanted
more. I tried to pull away from the men, but they were too strong.
And so I was forced to watch the lynching of my father.
That is how I ended up on a train to Meridian, praying that
Aunt Charlotte was still there. She was the only family I had left.
My father was gone. No. Not gone. With God. Watching over me.
With my mother and sister. They had gone to God two years ago.
After the accident. Father had not been the same after that. It re-
minded him of his mother. She and Aunt Charlotte had been in an
accident too, when Aunt Charlotte was three. His mother had died
right away and Aunt Charlotte had been badly hurt. She had stayed
in bed for weeks, barely alive. But one day she woke up and felt
just fine. Father said it was a miracle. As I got off the train, I began
to panic. How was I going to find an aunt I had not seen since I
was two years old in a town I had no memory of? It was much
larger than Richton and despite how hard I tried to remember,

30
I could not recognize any of the buildings I walked by. I became
more and more nervous with each minute that passed. I thought
about giving up, about going back to Richton. Suddenly, the
realization that this was impossible came crashing down on me. I
could never go back. There was nothing left for me there. Without
my father, I would starve. After all, nobody in their right mind
would hire a scrawny eight-year-old boy to work in their fields.
The sound of screeching crows drew my attention across the street
and hope flickered within me as my eyes came to rest on a short
wrought iron fence surrounding a small graveyard. I was almost
positive that I recognized the swirls and spikes of the fence from
my father’s stories. As I drew closer, I became certain. This was
where my father’s mother was buried. I hurried inside the fence
and set about finding her grave. Maybe she would be able to send
me a sign to help me find Aunt Charlotte. I walked through the
rows, and I recognized my last name on a little tombstone and bent
down to take a closer look. After reading the name on the stone, I
recoiled. Charlotte Howard. The aunt I had traveled all this way to
find, my last living relative, was dead. I felt a numbness spreading
throughout my body. This could not be right. There was clearly
some mistake.
I stepped forward slowly to read the rest of the inscription.
It informed me that Charlotte Howard, beloved daughter, had died
31
on August 15, 1903. August 15, 1903. The date sounded strangely
familiar. I remembered my father’s story about the accident in
which his mother had been killed. It had taken place on that day.
My knees gave out from under me and I fell to the ground. It could
not be true. Father had told me that a miracle had saved his little
sister’s life. But there had been no miracle. No God to help the
innocent toddler survive. The tales he told every night had all been
lies. We had never lived with her in a tiny blue house, never eaten
ice cream with her on the Fourth of July after saving up money for
weeks, she had never sung me to sleep with an old African lullaby.
Had my father, the man I looked up to more than anyone else in the
world, been insane? Deluded himself into thinking his baby sister
had survived? Or had he simply found pleasure in making a fool
of me by making me believe his lies? Either way, one thing was
very clear. I was completely alone in this world. There was no God
watching over me. God would not have left me with no family.
He would not have let my father deceive me. He would not have
tricked me into spending the last of my money to find a long dead
aunt.
I wanted to be mad, for having been stupid enough to
believe in God in the first place. For having been stupid enough to
have spent every penny I owned to find a person I had only heard
of in bedtime stories. But I was too weak. I had not slept or eaten
in the three days since my father’s murder. I had spent the first day
in a state of shock and the next two worrying about how I would
get to Aunt Charlotte, and whether she would even want me after
I arrived. But that did not matter now. Nothing did. Leaning back
against the tombstone, I fell asleep and dreamed of a tiny blue
house with white shutters.

32
The Dieter: a Personal Experience
Michelle Lou and Aparna Raghu
There was a corpulent woman, so prone
to overindulging in ice cream cones.
She proclaimed, “Enough! Time to lose some heft.”
But in frying bacon, she was ever so deft.
Trying to slim down, she bought salad greens
And doused them with ranch, an amount so obscene
That Paula Deen would have blushed with shame
Despite her lust for butter that brought her fame.
Her favorite dessert was rich cheesecake
drizzled with butterscotch after being baked.
Or jumbo candy bars, battered and fried.
All of these recipes she searched and tried.
Hiding evidence of her gluttony
By hoarding all these treats from company.
Dejected, the woman went to the gym
Pursuing another way to get slim.
She registered for P-90 extreme,
but went instead to burn fat in the steam
of the sauna. Worse, she binged in sorrow.
Eating and promising that tomorrow
She would become like the picture she stuck
on her fridge. Kate Upton who left her dumbstruck,
and mocked her tubbiness from the fridge door.
“Oh,” she sighed, “my luck is ever so poor”
As she reveled in her guilt, she munched on
A whole box of chocolates, twenty bon bons
Determined to follow her weight loss plan
She threw out a freshly-baked brownie pan.
She cleared out her cabinets, full of junk
Swore off all indulgences, like a monk.
33
Eating rabbit food for two days, feeling thin
She went to her bathroom scale to weigh in.
And gasped, she was now only three-eighty-two!
She’d lost one pound by swearing off fondue
She could now fit into jeans, size eighteen!
She celebrated this in Burger King.
Moments later, she was surrounded by
Wrappers of six burgers. Well, a good try.
Burying her head in her arms in pain
She sighed: “it’s time to diet again.”

34
The Dancers
Lauren Gomez
Under the light of the sun,
Embraced by the clouds and the light,
They danced.
They danced until their limbs were weary,
Their heads dizzy from spinning and twirling,
Until the sun finally set and they said goodbye.
But the goodbye was to last,
There was a divide,
A river splitting the two,
Nor would the sun again shine.
So the dancers stood before the moon,
Under the stars’ light,
Cloaked in moon’s dust,
Embraced by the night sky,
And they danced.
They danced,
Though separated,
With eyes shut,
Dancing not with themselves,
But with the air.
And they waited,
For the sun to rise,
The divide to disappear,
And each other’s warm embrace.
But they didn’t come.
No sun rose,
No moon set,
35

36
No river vanished.
Only they changed,
Only they grew old and weary,
So they danced,
They danced for life,
For love,
For suffering,
For second chances,
But most of all,
They danced for the end they now saw coming.
They danced for death,
Though once far away,
It grew nearer every day.
It was gentle.
It had known them all their lives,
Taught them the steps,
Stuck by their side.
Death was there,
They just hadn’t seen him.
They’d been too caught up in the dance.
Under the moon,
And the sun,
By the river,
By the stars,
All together again.
All were dancing,
All were dancers,
All seeing the end,
And dancing all the same.
37
In Limbo
Angela Jin
I am wandering. I don’t know how long I’ve been wander-
ing, nor do I have a particular destination in mind—I just know
that my legs are moving, the walls are endless, and that there are
no colors here. It’s almost comforting, the lack of color. Color is
too bright, too painful. I wander for an indefinite amount of time,
and nothing disturbs me except for an echo that sounds eerily like a
cry for help. I pay it no heed, the blackness in my heart still black,
and continue wandering.
Suddenly, instead of more walls, I come across two iden-
tical doors. They are remarkably unremarkable and I stare for a
while, trying to feel something but fail; blackness persists. My
younger sister appears by my side. I don’t look at her, because she
is color and I am black.
“There are two doors,” she says in that ‘oh-you’re-so-
dumb’ way of hers, and a shadow of a memory tugs at the fringes
of my mind. “I hope you choose the right one or else everyone will
be really sad. Me and Mommy and Daddy are really hoping you’ll
choose the right one.”
I finally gain enough courage to look at her, and her colors
are thankfully subdued, almost disturbingly so. Her expression is
grave, and the color of tears dominates. It is color, nevertheless,
and I can almost remember what color feels like.
Time passes. My father appears next to my sister. His col-
ors are gray, gray, gray. He was never one for color, but at least he
was never swallowed by darkness.
They are wearing matching solemn expressions, but my
father’s expression is framed by thick reading glasses and thin
lines around his mouth, small crevices that hold their own secrets. I
briefly wonder if my sister has begun to develop secrets of her own
as well; the muted colors could explain that. Secrets destroy, after
all. After a moment he speaks.
“I remember… there was this day when all four of us went
to the zoo. It was before your depression and all the… you know. It
was the saddest day, all cloudy and no animals out and no one even

38
Inevitability
Viraj Khetani
39
around in November. Too wintry, everyone said, but we still went,
and God, it was cold. “There was this peacock. It was wandering
around with its tail down, and just, out of the blue, whips its tail up
and has gorgeous feathers, and you—you just looked so happy for
that one moment, like Christmas came early. It was all colorful and
vibrant and a bunch of big words that I’m sure you know. And after
it brought its feathers up it just paraded around the zoo and no one
was there. It was so beautiful, but no one saw it being beautiful,
just us. But… it was enough.”
The gray that surrounds him has phantom splashes of
peacock green. He stares at me, eyes unreadable but I know he is
trying to say something but I’m not sure what. Finally my mother
appears, looking the slightest bit lost and terrified, the only emo-
tion I’ve seen all this time of wandering. Her motley of colors are
dissonant, nothing clear. “Where is this?” she asks after a drawn
out moment.
“Limbo.” I don’t know how or why I know this.
“I don’t like it.” No response.
I stare at the two doors for some more time, letting time
bend and fold into something that can’t be measured. The three
stand rooted to their spots, colors intermingling and connected. I
am separated, but I remember what it was like to be connected, to
have warm colors wash over me in nostalgia and kindness. “They
told me…that you know which door to go down. One is the one
you want to go down. One is the one you should go down. I just
hope that you’ll choose the right one.” A single tear appears, and
she smiles self-deprecatingly, shaking her head. “We should have
noticed. Said something, anything. Anything to make you stay with
us. I love you. We love you.” Another tear.
“God, we love you so much, choose the right door, stay
with us, don’t go, please.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and
that is all it takes for a little bit of the stony blackness to crack.
Color peaks through, leaks in, and I can hear sobbing and laughter,
screaming and whispering, and silence that sings. There are memo-
ries that are fighting to the surface, images that break free beneath
my vision.

40
Feeling leaks through. The guilt is crushing and crush-
ing and a little relieving, the immense feeling of guiltregretshame
almost alleviating. Overwhelmed I cannot think nor speak, just let
my body feel what has been suppressed for so long. Black fights
back, my brain telling me to fight back; this is a trap, and cop-
ing mechanisms are trying to whir into place. But how can I deny
something if the memory is right there, shiny and too too bright? I
am a warzone of mind, matter, and heart, of things long forgotten
and of things that need to be forgotten.
Through this chaos, I have a single clear thought: freedom.
It is with this thought that inspiration strikes, and I know exactly
what to do. As I step closer to the correct door, the warzone inten-
sifies, a cacophony of sounds images feelings too much too much
and there are voices, hushed, at the back of my head, but then
there is the vision, where He is, yet there they are, solemn-faced; it
becomes too much as I reach for the doorknob, twisting it open—
where am I—there is blood, red dripping bloody everywhere—
help me, somebody—comforting blackness, still heart—“don’t go,
please please—”
White light.
41
Through My Eyes
Jake Oleson

42
Mother’s Scent
Simran Malhotra
I hugged her tight–
In the crisp, cool autumn air,
our laughter rang loud.
Engulfed in her coat,
she would never ever know of
her sweet flowery smell.
Fourteen years ago, just
when I was forty days old,
my mom had cancer.
She lost her long hair,
and her sense of smell was gone too.
Chemotherapy blues.
Now I am her nose,
to smell spring blossoms, ginko-stinko,
Make her feel whole again.
43
In the Afternoon
Chaerin Ahn

44
Bats in the Belfry
Alexa Paley
45
Love
Josh Kimelman
For you I would pick flowers
Though that would bring about their untimely death
For you I would buy a box of chocolates
Though a starving child in Ethiopia takes her final breath
With you I would take a walk in the park
Just to see your hair sway in the breeze
And isn’t it quite fitting
How poems like this kill trees.
Hate
Josh Kao
Every day is a dreary day
That wears a crown as pale as clay
I find solace in guns, blood and war
Where reality is nevermore.
Missiles and ICBMs are what I desire
Flurries of napalm that bring villages to fire
This is where I’d like to be.
Outside of reality.

46
A Day in the Life of Dog
Angela Jin
Dog likes waking up Master. Master, Master, up up up up
let’s play ball! Master does not like waking up. He keeps telling
Dog to leave but Dog does not want to leave, Dog wants to play
ball. He does not know why Master does not want to play ball
either. Ball is fun. Fun fun fun. Dog wags his tail but Master does
not get up until he starts barking.
Yay! Master is up! Dog is going to be good and bring Mas-
ter his chew toy and let Master chew it. He tries to put it in Mas-
ter’s Important Yellow Meal Thing but Master bats him away. Dog
is not happy. Dog tries again but Master yells at him and if Master
yells at him then no treats. Dog does not like having no treats. He
waits.
Bird! Bird looks at him. Dog does not like birds because
Dog wishes he could fly but he tried and Master yelled at him.
There were no treats that day. So Dog shows his teeth and barks
and is very happy when bird goes away. Dog has won his first
battle today.
Master is finally done with his Important Yellow Meal
Thing and decides to take Dog on a walk. Walk! Dog likes walks!
He can win many battles on walks, especially against stupid squir-
rels. Sometimes bigger dogs win but most of the time they are
friendly.
Dog trots along, Master tugging him away from all the
bushes. Dog obeys because he knows bushes are not his. They are
Master’s only like Master’s desk (Master was very unhappy when
Dog first scratched the desk. He did not get treats for three days).
He sees his first squirrel and wins easily. Squirrels are so stupid.
DOG! Dog sees another one and yells HELLO DOG. Other dog
responds.
Hi!
Hi!
We are dogs!
I like being dogs!
Me too!
47
They play and it is fun and even Master is having fun talk-
ing to the other dog’s master who is a girl. Both of their cheeks
are red and their eyes are happy. Dog thinks that human mating is
weird. Dog likes his play pal better.
The humans stop mating and Dog has to say bye, which
makes him sad. Master says that they can visit them sometime,
which makes him happy again because Dog likes to play with that
dog.
Master takes them home and goes to wash himself. Dog
does not understand why Master has to wash himself if Master
only has fur at the top of his head. When Master comes out he is
dressed differently and Dog knows that this means Master has to
go away for the rest of the day until he comes home for dinner.
Dog does not like this. Sometimes Master stays at home for two
days but then he goes back again. Dog wishes Master was home
every day.
One time Dog tried to show Master his love by giving him
his toys. He put all his toys on Master’s sleep space but Master did
not like it. Maybe that is why Master does not stay home every
day.
Dog has an itch. Itch itch itch. Itch does not go away. Dog
scratches itch. Itch still does not go away so he decides to take a
nap.
After the nap Dog is hungry but it is still bright outside so
Master is not home. He chews on his toys and runs around and
scares away more birds but Dog is bored. Dog wishes Master
would come home.
Wait. MASTER! Master has come home when the sun is
still out! Dog is oh so very happy right now! Master Master Mas-
ter! Dog barks at Master and Master smiles at Dog. Yay! Now they
can play fetch and ball and maybe take another walk! Dog is very
very excited.
Master tells him something about “it being Friday” and
Dog does not understand anything Master says but Dog is happy
because now they get Play Time. Master refills his bowl of food
and Dog eats it and drinks water and is it Play Time yet? Dog
whines and wags his tail and Master gets The Ball.

48
The Ball is bright red and it squeaks and it is Dog’s abso-
lute favorite. Dog could not ask for a better master. Ooh! The Ball
is over there. Go go go! Dog runs to the ball and brings it back to
Master. They play with The Ball for more time until it is dark and
Master is tired. Master gets tired easily. Dog goes inside and Mas-
ter is angry about “shedding fur” but Dog does not know what that
means either so he goes to bed. Tomorrow Dog will wake Master
up and next time he will win a battle against another dog.
49
Dead Hearts
Amanda Prager
Dear You,
I heard you jumped. I heard you had the choice between
burning and jumping and you chose the latter. I wish I had so
simple a choice. Potential energy is mass times accelerational
gravitation times height. In a moment of insecurity, I asked you
your weight and you answered: “118 pounds.”
Even then, you were stronger than me, willing to say your
weight out loud and leave it hanging there, without a side note of,
“Well that’s what I think at least,” or “that’s what the doctor said.”
That means you weigh 53.52389966 kilograms, and the fireman
told me that you were on the 91st floor. Your tower was 417 meters
and 110 stories tall, so that means each story comes out to roughly
4 meters. 345 meters down. We had so much potential. We were
a story that ended on page 7, there was so much that remained
unwritten.
180960 Joules.
And kinetic energy. How do I know how fast you had
fallen? Well, I know after-the-fact, from the pages and pages of di-
ary entries your mother found about me, and the watch I gave you
that you told me you’d thrown out but still wore on your wrist the
day you died.
Well, at least I know the time.
Do you wonder why I ignored you? Despite what you may
think, it had nothing to do with social class, or status, because
you’re not less than me, you’re better. I ignored you because I was
afraid. I ignored you because we have remarkable similarities,
more so than you know, and I was afraid because you knew too
much, you knew too much about me, and trust is a five-letter word

50
Words
Chaerin Ahn
51
and I have trouble with five-letter words. I thought you would say
something. I thought you knew. I felt like I was going to die, every
secret I told you helped form the knife you would throw into my
back. But I left before you could do that.
Is it wrong to have wished that I had been given the choice
too? To wish that you and I could dive together, hand and hand,
both of us reaching terminal velocity, perpendicular to the pave-
ment.
People tell me to “let go.” People tell me to “slow down,
it’s over.” The irony in these two phrases gives me a slow burn;
you never had a choice whether or not to let go, and my inertia
won’t let me. I cannot resist the state of motion I am already in; I
am an unstoppable force, barreling forward forever.
1. An object at rest stays at rest and an object in motion stays
in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless
acted upon by an unbalanced force.
These airplanes were the unbalanced force. They came
down, hitting you, hitting me, driving our two parallel-line lives
apart, never to intersect again.
To burn or to jump? That is the question. I understand why
you chose to jump because you have been burning your whole life,
burning the candle at both ends with your new job and burning
calories on a treadmill. Brimming with passion. A human charred
and branded by the embers of life. But it was me who burned the
bridges.
2. Acceleration is produced when a force acts on a mass. The
greater the mass, the greater the amount of force needed.
Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for making you think you had a
chance and then taking it away. I made you think I was the same as
every other bigot who took one look and then dismissed what was

52
seen. I’m sorry for keeping my rejection burning, fueling the fires
with the waves of my hand and the catcalls from others. You called
me obnoxious and I laughed, I laughed because I didn’t know how
to respond, and that probably made you think I was farther gone
than ever.
3. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
I wish you were here so I could tell you that. I’m sorry.
You’re a wonderful person and I’m a dipshit, a dipshit for having
the chance to have a relationship with such a caring person and let-
ting it crash and burn. And this is why I refuse to let you crash and
burn, because, even if you’re there now, I still can remember, as
tribute to what could have been. I can’t forget. I can’t. No urge to
stop writing present and start writing past tense. Or future.
Sincerely,
Me.
53
Solitude
Owen Schumacher

54
Spaces
Mackenzie De Lisa
The smoke and smog fill the spaces where clean, crisp air once
presided. I lie on the carpeting of my office floor and watch as my
chest cavity expands, fills with the smoke, and proceeds to crash
down hastily. This sight is a painful reminder that with each breath
the remaining pockets of fresh air are replaced more and more
quickly with the fatal fumes. I’m talking about the pockets in my
lungs. The same lungs that were once filled with the cool, vanilla
aroma of scented candles that illuminated the table where my wife
and I shared our first date. The same lungs that almost collapsed
inside me at age thirty the first time I changed my child’s dirty dia-
per. The same lungs that I swore would never be contaminated by
the smoke of a cigarette, now filled with the most foul stench they
had ever taken in.
Why was it that in those last few moments I couldn’t move a single
muscle? I was no longer distracted by the possibility of escap-
ing the wrath of these seemingly endless flames in the burning
building. Now, my mission was to make certain I remembered
every sweet memory before I died and they were taken away from
me forever. I was in shock. My mind abducted me and took me
through the memories of my past, depriving me of any ability to
act productively in the present. The painful truth was that the earth
was still spinning upon its axis, the sun was still highlighting the
early September morning, and people were continuing their day,
oblivious of this single event that threatened to reshape their entire
future.
The instant I felt my top eyelashes grace the bottom ones, I was
confident that all the clean spaces now ceased to exist and my time
on Earth was complete. I opened my eyes just minutes later to the
same clouded, murky room I had shut them to. It was disheartening
and made the situation seem irrevocable. I grasped the locket that
55
I wore upon my neck. I thought of my wife, who was the owner of
the identical other half. I wanted to cry, but I wouldn’t. I wanted to
jump to escape the heinous smell, but I couldn’t. I wanted to call
my wife and tell her to move on and find love again without me,
but I didn’t. My dreams, my intentions, and my memories would
die with me because they were all my own, and all anyone else
would have of me would be their own recollections of the man I
was. For when everyone has said what they wanted to say, and evil
has succeeded in committing its crimes, all we have to remember
of the people we love are our memories.
With the last tear that trickled down my cheek, the most inconceiv-
able thing happened. A figure in a black and yellow suit emerged,
sporting a helmet and an oxygen tank. He picked me up and slung
me over his right shoulder. The faces of my family flashed through
my mind and the feeling of relief intensified with every step that
brought us closer to the bottom and closer to the fresh air.
***
Molly bellowed, Austin cried, and I prayed for an angel — one an-
gel to appear and rescue us from this horrifying reality. But I knew
that nobody was coming. The screaming had ceased and only the
continuous crackling of sparks remained. The building was sec-
onds from collapsing, but I forced my children to continue reciting
their prayers. I told them to save their breath and speak in hushed
tones, that screaming would be of no use now, and that we’re in
God’s hands together.
I leaned against the jammed elevator door and slowly slid my body
downward until it met with the floor. I begged my children to rest
their heads atop my legs, and close their eyes to try to go to sleep.
They came over and piled on top of me, their combined weights al-
most crushing me alive, and I loved it. I loved knowing I could still

56
feel them. I loved knowing they were still there. I looked down at
my chest and saw the locket necklace whose emblem I shared with
my husband. It was an accessory I never failed to wear and I knew
he would be wearing his, too. The kids and I had come to see him
at work that day, thinking we would surprise him. Then with such
a fury, the wires began to shake us, and I drew my fingers to their
faces to shield their eyes from what would happen next.
We were going to fall.
I love you.
We were falling.
I love you.
We fell…
57
Run, Before Dreams Get You
Chaerin Ahn

58
One of Those Days
McKenzie Sutton
59
Ninety Parakeets
Michelle Waters
My uncle’s tenant was a hoarder. When she lost her govern-
ment aid and could no longer afford to pay her rent, he had to
evict her and when he came to the apartment for the first time in
months to tell her so he discovered that she was keeping ninety
parakeets within.
Ninety parakeets, and I wonder how she went about acquiring
them. Did she buy them all? If so, did she buy them all from
the same store? Or did some of the original parakeets procreate,
begetting more and more parakeets until there were ninety? Re-
gardless of how she went about acquiring them, there they were:
ninety parakeets. It was a two-bedroom apartment, so I really
have no idea where she kept them.
Of course, being a hoarder, she had also filled her apartment
with stacks of newspapers, garbage bags full of long-drained
batteries. So much junk my aunt and uncle could barely wind
their way through the stacks to get to the tenant, who wouldn’t
budge or throw anything out. We’ve all seen the reality show.
You know what I’m talking about.
I am writing this poem to tell you about the dream I had.
I dreamt I was walking sightless around the hoarder’s apart-
ment, and I had to rely on my other senses to make sense of it.
The metallic taste of the used batteries filled my mouth and all
I could hear were the parakeets’ squawks and the soft flutters
of the parakeets’ wings and all I could feel were the disintegrat-
ing newspapers. The stacks guided me to my destination but the
problem, see, is that I didn’t know what my destination was.

60
A Colorful Couple
Ravi Patel
61
Thinking Inside the Box
Aparna Raghu
It really stinks to be Hope.
Death, Despair, Illness, Crime—they fly around, flapping their
great, leathery wings, looming over the innocent, shrieking madly,
leaving that nails-on-a-chalkboard cackle reverberating in night-
mares.
They are children. Angry, vile toddlers, who fly around, throwing
tantrums at whim. Egocentric too. Do they even notice the paper-
winged feature suffocating in this dusty box?
I am stuck here.
They fly free, uninhibited, spreading insanity and fodder of fear.
I remain here.
Hope is always here when you need her.
More like always left behind.
Their job is easy. Destroy the human race. Make the people suffer.
(Job description courtesy of one very angry king of gods.)
I have to be there for everyone. The eternal shoulder-to-cry-on.
They all start by simply calling upon me. When those pests, those
eternal brats continue to plague the innocents, the innocents start
to beg. To plead. To make rash promises, many of which include
giving up unhealthy foods. Why would I care if someone swore off
ice cream? (I mean, we all know that would never happen anyway.
Junk food heals the pain.)
I really do try. But one boxed-in girl against all the uninhibited
evils. They work in packs. Famine tags along with Drought. Ill-
ness attacks the children, with their numerable ribs and scooped-
out cheeks, and they all watch as the parents beg me to save their
doomed babies. Death joins and the accusations pour in.

62
I try. I try and try and fail. Do they think I gloat as they succumb to
insanity, wailing and convulsing? Trembling as they lay their little
ones into the Earth?
I am not the sadistic one.
But I am always defeated by them. Hope always loses. Hope is
always lost.
I am still here, inside this box, this archaic, musty, eerie box. But
I am lost to you. I hear all the pleas, but they are outside, in the
impenetrable world. I can’t help from in here. I am and always
have been an idea. Just an idea to hold onto when Despair visits. I
cannot do much. I cannot heal you or help you, but I can hear you.
Don’t count on Hope. Don’t depend on Hope. And please, don’t
blame Hope.
Blame the Evils. The Fates. Pandora.
She started it.
63
Lost
Jake Oleson

64
The Ripper
Josh Kao
At dusk when the lights begin to dim on Dorset Street
Then echoes the faint pattering of the ripper’s feet.
The crash of his quick blade is heard upon flesh and meat
As he treads noiselessly away from his kill.
At night when stores are closed and doors are shut tight
The ripper appears hungry and stalks the first in sight.
He plunges his knife into her back and without fight
She lies motionless, resting absolutely still.
Nextmorning,aneighborcomesuponthecarcassbesidethedoor
And moans dreadfully at the sight of the dead, mutilated whore.
Most of her viscera removed, both her stomach and heart tore
Each organ extracted with exactness and skill.
All means of seizing the culprit came to no avail.
All of the authorities’ efforts had happened to fail.
There was never a moral close to this classic tale.
Jack lived until he expired by his own will.
65
Memories
Chloe Chan

66
The Farmhouse
Michelle Waters
It’s a fitting way for someone named Bridget to die: jump-
ing off a bridge. Today I walked down to the Golden Gate because
I couldn’t think of a reason not to anymore.
I’ve seen thirty-two years of soggy, foggy San Francisco
mornings, and this was another. I stood on the bridge and looked
not out, as I usually did, but down—down at the water that would
be my means of escape. I’m sure it’s not this way for everyone,
but it’s like my half-memory of being rushed to the hospital with
appendicitis when I was seven years old: lying in the back of the
ambulance, I feverishly chanted, “No pain, no pain. No more.”
And so I killed myself.
Not long after, I took the leap that ended my life, I became
aware of myself again. But something was different about that self.
It was as if someone had taken my soul and cleaved away the pain.
I hadn’t felt this light since college. I wiggled my toes.
Before me stood a shaggy creature chewing grass in a slow,
sardonic way that made me feel judged. “Where are we?”
“Peru,” said the creature, its mouth full. I hate it when
people talk with food in their mouths.
“Peru?”
“Yes,” it said.
I looked around. We appeared to be on a hill at the foot of a
larger hill or maybe a small mountain. The shaggy thing—a llama
I thought—was standing on the other side of a fence in a pasture
filled with sparse brown grass. “I’m an alpaca,” the alpaca added.
“In case you were wondering.”
“What is this place?” I asked. The alpaca ignored me. He
walked over to another patch of grass and began to eat it.
I felt, suddenly, a strange, sick sensation in my stomach. “I
want to go home,” I said without meaning it, but then I started to. I
missed the warm feeling of conversing with friends who seemed to
fit me like puzzle pieces. Painful as my life was, it had had its mo-
ments of joy, its moments of plain comfort in the presence of the
people I loved. It had always upset me when people
67
were angry with those who killed themselves. Who were they
to say that the suicidal were selfish? But now I understood: they
would never see me again. And I would never see them.
“This is your home now, Bridget,” said the alpaca. “Peru is
your heaven.”
“But why Peru?” I said. I had never been to Peru, nor
harbored any wish to go there. I have no Peruvian loved ones, no
primeval connection to the place.
“You may never have been to Peru, but it has always been
inside you,” the alpaca said. “In my experience, once you’ve
thought about it a little more, you’ll figure it out. Peru could’ve
been in your eye, or in your arm. I really don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Your death has always been with you,” said the alpaca.
“You humans don’t see the big picture. You think that death is
something external, that someday it is just going to happen. But
you’re all wrong: it’s internal, a part of you that will surface when
your time comes. Of course, in your case, dying when you did was
your choice. That’s a little different from most.”

68
I sat down on the ground, still feeling weightless, and
thought for a while about what he had said. I tried to locate my
death. Had it been in my arm the first time I threw a softball? And
the time I sat on my glasses—had it been in my cornea then? I
began mulling over my most important childhood memories. “You
should also consider the least important ones,” the alpaca called
from across the pasture.
I thought back to the day my appendix was removed in the
middle of the night. It had started out as a perfectly ordinary school
day: I recalled waking up, getting dressed, going to school. And
then I had it: Peru had been in the sole of my foot. I had been step-
ping on my death every day without knowing it, and each step had
brought me closer to the day I was to die. And I alone had chosen
it. As the alpaca had said, dying had been my choice. That’s the
thing about suicide: you die. “That’s interesting. The sole of your
foot,” that alpaca said, “I’ve never heard that one before.”
“You know, that’s getting annoying.”
“What, me reading your mind? Sorry. Can’t help it. It’s in
an alpaca’s nature.”
“Whatever,” I sighed. I’d never spoken to an alpaca before,
so I took him at his word.
The alpaca took another lap around the pasture. I noticed
that he had a bell tied around his neck with a red ribbon. It tinkled
softly with each step and movement. “But why Peru?” I said.
“You’ve always known that it existed,” the alpaca said,
“but you never understood it. Just like your death.”
I got up and surveyed the area. On the other side of the
pasture was the small, densely wooded mountain. Turning, I saw
a dilapidated farmhouse at the bottom of the hill. More of a shack
than a house, it appeared seconds away from collapse. Beyond that
was a dirt road. “That’s the farmer’s house,” said the alpaca.
“The farmer?”
“Otherwise known as God.” So I began to walk toward the
farmhouse and the road and God, full of wonder. I am opening the
door.
Midnight Strawberry Shortcake
Chaerin Ahn

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF
Marlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle Waters
LAYOUT & DESIGN EDITOR
Meg Reddy
ART EDITOR
Alexa Paley
COVER ART
“Displacement” by Chloe Chan
SECRETARY
Amanda Rothenberg
SENIOR EDITORS
Julia Fine, Caleigh Fogel, Angela Jin, Amanda Kam, Susan
Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou,
Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park,
Aparna Raghu, Meg Reddy, Amanda Rothenberg
STAFF EDITORS
Alyssa Ahn, Antanina Belzer, Molly Blevins, Katie Bowman,
Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi,
Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco,
Claire Denson, Lauren Gomez, Satyen Gupta, Natalia Havryliuk,
Claire Hu, Grace Jing, Josh Kao, Sara Klausner, Caroline Levine,
Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara
Nuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell,
Lisa Woolfson, Charles Zhang
ILLUSTRATORS
Alexandra Bass, Chloe Chan, Jonathan Duan, Charlie
Ehrenfried, Viraj Khetani, Shiv Malhotra
ART & TECHNICAL DIRECTION
Mrs. Kathleen Harte Gilsenan & Dr. Roger Keller
FACULTY SUPERVISOR
Dr. Minaz Jooma
ILLUSTRATORS
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF
ILLUSTRATORSILLUSTRATORS
ART EDITOR
Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, SaraSylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara
STAFF EDITORS
Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco,Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco,
STAFF EDITORSSTAFF EDITORS
Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park,Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park,
Claire Denson, Lauren Gomez, Satyen Gupta, Natalia Havryliuk,Claire Denson, Lauren Gomez, Satyen Gupta, Natalia Havryliuk,
Nuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell,Nuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell,
manda Rothenberg
SENIOR EDITORSSENIOR EDITORS
SENIOR EDITORS
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF
Marlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle WatersMarlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle Waters
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF
Meg Reddy
Marlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle WatersMarlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle WatersMarlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle Waters
Meg Reddy
ART EDITOR
Alexa Paley
ART EDITOR
Meg Reddy
Alexa Paley
COVER ART
COVER ART
COVER ART
Alexa Paley
SECRETARY
Amanda Rothenberg
SECRETARY
manda Rothenberg
SECRETARY
“Displacement” by Chloe Chan“Displacement” by Chloe Chan
SENIOR EDITORS
SENIOR EDITORSSENIOR EDITORS
SENIOR EDITORS
STAFF EDITORS
STAFF EDITORS
STAFF EDITORSSTAFF EDITORS
Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco,Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco,
Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi,Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi,
Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, SaraSylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, SaraSylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara
ILLUSTRATORS
ILLUSTRATORS
ILLUSTRATORSILLUSTRATORS
Ehrenfried, Viraj Khetani, Shiv MalhotraEhrenfried, Viraj Khetani, Shiv Malhotra
FACULTY SUPERVISOR
ART & TECHNICAL DIRECTIONART & TECHNICAL DIRECTION
Dr. Minaz Jooma
FACULTY SUPERVISOR
Dr. Minaz Jooma
Mrs. Kathleen Harte Gilsenan & Dr. Roger KellerMrs. Kathleen Harte Gilsenan & Dr. Roger Keller
FACULTY SUPERVISOR
Dr. Minaz JoomaDr. Minaz JoomaDr. Minaz Jooma
Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou,Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou,Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou,
Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi,Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi,
Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, SaraSylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara
Nuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell,Nuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell,
Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, SaraSylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, SaraSylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, SaraSylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara
STAFF

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