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Editors’ Introduction

For over two decades, Proteus has allowed St. Stephen’s students to share poetry, prose,

visual art, and photography. The journal captures a rich spectrum of experience at the school,

bringing to light the vibrant emotions and diverse perspectives of its student body. For the first

time, the current 2015–2016 issue of Proteus will also feature art and writing from the middle

school. As seniors, it seems fitting that our final creative writing project at this school reflects a

journey that began with our sixth grade novels. In this 27th edition of Proteus, we are unashamed

to embrace that delicate voice within us, and we are striving to nurture its potential and

encourage its expressions.

It is through being seen, read, and interpreted that these pieces are made complete. We

hope Proteus serves as a reminder to live with vulnerability, to seek out inspiration and beauty in

the hidden places, and to celebrate the courageous, creative minds walking around us.

Caroline Aung and Hannah Heydinger

Senior Editors, 2016

1

Editors-in-Chief: Hannah Heydinger, Caroline Aung Assistant Editors: Mahria Baker, Coco Chu, Bijou Kanyambo, Reilly Wieland, Sofia Hsu, Cat Orman Faculty Advisor: Matthew Reilly Art Instructor: Beatrice Baldwin, Elizabeth Zepeda Photography Instructor: Christopher Caselli Front Cover: Julie Sang, Matter of Time (Pen, Color Pencil, and Newspaper) Graphic Design: Julie Sang Back Cover: Katie Leiferman, Los Tres Pescadores (Photograph)

Contributors (in order of appearance)

Julie Sang ‘17 Jordan Cobb ‘19

Caroline Aung ‘16 Sabrina Chaung ‘17

Maya Shamir ‘18 Jenny Wang ‘16

Sabrina Huang ‘17 James Ray ‘20

Maggie Lu ‘17 Zoe Ehrlich ‘22

Natalie Huang ‘17 Sophia Hawthorne ‘22

Kisara Moore ‘17 Anouk Martin-Gachot ‘21

Annabella Archacki ‘16 Vivian Fu ‘20

Amy Yoo ‘17 Michael Allen ‘22

Cat Orman ‘18 Natalie Kim ‘22

Jackson Young ‘19 Rachel Swartz ‘22

Katia Peppas ‘18 Ella Parker ‘22

Eloise Thompson ‘18 Lily Morse ‘22

Veer Chauhan ‘19 Charles (Hudson) Quinn ‘22

James Mohn ‘19 Nicolas Griscom ‘16

Brett Lin ‘19 Spencer Weiss ‘16

Robert Thompson ‘17 Ava Mouton-Johnston ‘18

Austin Raven ‘18 Sofia Hsu ‘18

Patrick Atherton ‘18 Reilly Wieland ‘17

Grayson Matula ‘18 Ellie Schlesinger ‘18

Mahria Baker ‘17 Jake Molina ‘16

Madison Barchas ‘17 Mae Mouritsen ‘17

Rachel Schlesinger ‘18 Julian Flores ‘16

Katie Leiferman ‘16 Xander Chen ‘16

Kyla Scott ‘16

2

The Way We Move Caroline Aung

Find me in the dark.

I have learned to befriend the shadows

and make them my own.

When the night pulls me apart,

pick up my bones

one by one

(Silence,

that full emptiness

inside of me).

Lace your fingers through mine

gently,

not as if you’re hanging on—I will crumble—

gently,

the way you’d hold

your grandmother's hand

(Loneliness

is a tender creature.

A bird trembling in a snowstorm).

We will sink below the waves,

deep and heavy.

Perhaps this is where we learn

about our birth

(Breathe,

it is only human.

We are nothing more than this

rising and falling).

3

Maya Shamir, Two-Faced (Oil Pastels and Pen 11x14)

4

Oh, Father Caroline Aung

So here we are:

the layers peel off to expose

the tender skin of a newborn child.

He,

who crawled amidst the stinging heat

of a thousand pressing eyes;

Who never cried at real things;

Who for so long

built up his body with his own restless hands—

a structure hollowed out by the river of his own desire,

so his bones groaned with the passing years—

Who crumbled beneath the weight

of his own trying and needing,

the feeding of his own creature hunger;

Who noticed the tiny, snowflake voice,

which made him collapse

at last.

He

is a lone tree standing in the middle of a field,

kneeling to touch the soil he birthed from,

Remembering again the flesh

that will never cease to be his own,

Remembering for the first time

that growing should never mean

forgetting what lies beneath

all of this.

5

Sabrina Huang, I See (Charcoal and Pencil on Paper 17x17)

6Maggie Lu, Melted in the Neon Lights (Oil on Canvas 11x14)

7

Flu Vaccines and Ripped Jeans Natalie Huang

When I was five, I crammed a crayon up my right nostril. I didn’t do it because I was crazy or because I wanted blue boogers. I did it because my brother told me to, and if he would have told me to stick a “Mango-Tango” crayon in the left side, I would have done that too.

When I was seven, the Ice Cream Man almost ran me over. The sun was beating down hard, making the pavement almost boil. The familiar tune of sugar on wheels lured me out of the safety of air conditioning and into the street. Before I knew it, I was being yanked back onto the sidewalk as the truck screeched to a halt. My brother yelled at me, and when I started to cry, he caved and bought me a scoop of vanilla with sprinkles. The ice cream dripped and filled the spaces between my fingers. He didn’t talk to me for days.

When I was nine, I had to get my flu vaccine. I cried and screamed and vowed that I would never let Dr. Smith stick anything in my arm. My brother held my hand and got his shot first. He promised me it didn’t feel like anything and that I was strong enough to sit still and let the doctor help me. I believed him, but it still hurt. I didn’t forgive him until I learned months later that his shot was actually water. He had been pricked and injected just so I would feel better.

When I was eleven, I got terribly sick and couldn’t leave my bed for a week. Without fail, my brother sat with me for three hours after school every single day for seven days. He’d read or tell me about his day, but I liked it best when he played music for me. I remember he pulled his sweater sleeve past his fingertips and gently cleaned between each string before resting the guitar above the rip in his jeans over his knee. I can’t remember the songs he played or what chords he taught me, but I remember the smile on his face as he strummed each string and drank in the vibration that filled the air around us. The music did something special. It crowded up inside him and pushed out all the secrets. He told me about his fears, his hopes, his wants.

When I was fifteen, my brother got his first fake ID from a man on Craigslist who only accepted cash payments made up of five dollar bills. It came four weeks late, and the age was wrong. My brother had just turned seventeen and looked closer to twenty-two, not forty-two. We rode in silence to the 7/11 on West Broadway and prayed to God for Creepy Carl, the only clerk who didn’t know basic arithmetic, to be working. Carl didn’t disappoint. We left with a case of beer and drove home, AC/DC pounding from the stereo. We were nervous and happy and scared, overwhelmed with life.

When I was seventeen, I said goodbye to my best friend. I held his hand for the last time and listened to his heart grow slower and slower with each beat. His eyelids were too heavy to keep apart, and when they finally touched, the universe erupted in a blast of purple and blue and green. In that moment, I knew there would be no more midnight drives through nameless towns on dimly lit two-way streets. No more blasting the Rolling Stones in the basement and screaming until we sounded as raspy as Mick Jagger. No more exchanging warm whispers while sneaking out through the second story window. He was gone, and he took everything and nothing at all.

All the things he left behind smell the same, but they don’t smell like him. My brother was not Downy detergent and Polo cologne. He was the waxy smell of overused indigo crayon, the sticky scent of sugar on hot July days, the whiff of metallic pennies as a needle pierced my skin, the aroma of sun-baked guitar strings, and sometimes even the smell of wheat wafting from empty cans of contraband.

8

Light Where You Don’t Expect It Annabella Archacki

Bursting behind eyelids,

Creeping over hills,

Sandwiched beneath the doorframe,

A flickering oval reflected onto the ceiling.

Consider other possibilities,

Welling up unsummoned,

For one jarring moment.

Then go to sleep,

Continue home,

Roll over,

Finish the prayer.

The sun will set when it’s supposed to.

The sun will rise when it’s supposed to.

9

Kisara Moore, Adult Swim (Photograph 11x12)

10Kisara Moore, Memories (Photograph 9x12)

11

Another for Crows Annabella Archacki

Softly, you turn to the darkening sky.

The train jerks on; crows restlessly fly

Somewhere we’ve already grown old together,

Dusky and unknown except to each other.

The ticket collector is three rows behind us.

I picture us hidden where she’ll never find us.

Wherever you are, however displaced,

Holds a liminal moment: the past is erased.

Ten thousand times I have fallen in love

With faces known only to crows up above,

Who caw resolutions as the train hurries northeast.

I have loved businessmen, schoolgirls, and priests.

But what’s one distant lifetime, one small affair?

You were the only one with powder pink hair,

And ten thousand hearts are too many to bear.

So now I say nothing

(Loving is rare).

Maybe this time, I’ll be the last one to leave.

Long after you’ve left me, I’ve nothing to grieve.

All through the night, the train will go on,

Not stopping nor slowing ‘til pink-powdered dawn.

12

Julie Sang, Bath with Reborn (Wood Base, Watercolor, and Acrylic)

13

Amy Yoo, Attention (Mixed Media)

14

Countdown Days Cat Orman

The end of the world began with a flash in the sky. Only a few people in Clearwater saw

it—the rest of us had our eyes on our TVs instead. I think the fact that it was Reverend

McMurphy and his backwoods, snake-worshipping followers to first preach the endtimes kept us

skeptical more than anything else. They'd spent 2012 shouting about the apocalypse. Why

believe them now? To watch the skies with worry was to align with the insane. It wasn't until

after the word "meteor" was first uttered, after humanity was given just four months to go the

way of the dinosaurs, that the populace let the news fully absorb.

I've passed my countdown days alone on my verandah, watching the godly people of

Clearwater process their fate. Janie, the only cousin I've kept in touch with of late, packed a bag,

ditched her parents’ house, and set off for the woods to cram as many adventures into her short

life as possible; that was

generally the policy of the

young. My aunt stayed up

all night putting up posters,

looking for her. Of course,

she'd told me where she was

going, and I could have told

Aunt Leah, but I didn't. A

person ought to have at least

four months without their

parents telling them what to

do. I am—was? Is it too

soon to exist in the past

tense? I was an exception. It

seemed to me most

appropriate to simply end, to

acknowledge my lack of

agency. But I'm just as futile

as any of them. Every word

I write here is a meaningless

attempt at posterity. Maybe

I'll finally get upset when I

realize humanity means me

too. Until then, I'll remain

safe on my verandah,

waiting for doomsday to

streak across the sky.

Jackson Young, Jellyfish (Pen)

Jackson Young, Jellyfish (Pen)

15

Katia Peppas, Inner Light (Fabric and Reed 60x36)

16

Eloise Thompson, Torn (Watercolor and Newspaper 8.5x10)

17

In the Midst 1

Veer Chauhan, James Mohn, and Brett Lin

Deep in the library 2

heart of Knowledge:

Word(s wan)der, 3

Nerds ponder,

Birds conquer. 4

Flying with power Knowledge flows endlessly now

Pursuing Honor. 5

See the distance traversed. Where does it end?

1. Analysis by Eugene R. Sachsman 2. Immediately, the reader is thrust into the recesses of a library. The indentation of “heart of Knowledge” places the word “heart” in line with “library,” emphasizing the fact that the library is the life source of knowledge. Perhaps the “heart of Knowledge” is an allusion to Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, bringing forth the theme of imperial madness and the quest for power. And yet, these lines are an obvious allusion to the lives of archivists, who reside “deep” within libraries and storerooms filled with books and artifacts, the vessels of “knowledge.” By juxtaposing images of quiet libraries and sober archivists with a mad quest for power in the harsh desert, this poem forces the reader to envision a quiet, peaceful haven “in the midst” of a country or land filled with chaos. 3. The conflicting images and lack of structure evoke a sense of chaos that leaves the reader as lost as the words that wander across the page. When “words wander” appears in the middle of the phrase, there is a new word: “swan.” As the words are joined to the action of wandering, the separation of the ‘s’ and the ‘wan’ creates a sense that the swan is moving and is figuratively scattered. The ‘s’ must join ‘wan’ to complete the ‘swan’, symbolizing that the swan must wander forward to complete its identity. The swan is quite young, for it has just emerged from the meeting of the “words” and “wander,” which alludes to the scattering of identity and meaning itself. 4. The placement of “swan” directly above the ponderings of the “nerds” suggests that the nerds will emerge as swans (or fully formed adults) due to their pond-erings. The scattering of the swan in the previous line suggests an ending, or death, of security, as the swan may burn like a phoenix before rising from the ashes to secure its identity. The line following “birds conquer” highlights the success that comes from words, thought, and knowledge. Ultimately, the bird “conquers” by solidifying its self-understanding. The word “conquer” is a wise choice because it references images of imperialism and cultural appropriation, but doesn’t specify what is conquered, thus leaving the reader confused and possibly in fear that the bird will take over his or her mind in the midst of speculation. 5. Out of the middle of this chaotic and freeform poem emerges a haiku, a highly refined literary form. The change in structure emphasizes how the characters seeking knowledge have emerged from chaos into structure and higher understanding, finally released from the state of confusion described in the previous lines. Their “flying” reminds the reader of the swan and phoenix imagery mentioned earlier. Now our fully-formed “nerds” fly with “power” and confidence. Their knowledge grows exponentially as they pursue the ultimate goal of honor, symbolized by the letter “H.”

18

6. The sense of desperation returns as the narrator begins to question the worth of the journey. He looks

back on the distance traveled and only sees more ahead. He therefore combines the literal (“further”) and

figurative (“farther”). 7. The desperation intensifies at this moment, as the narrator once again becomes lost and confused. The

homophony in the words “midst” and “mist” captures this narrator’s intense feeling and uncertainty. It is

as if the narrator is repeating the same word over and over, in hopes of communicating what cannot be

understood. The repetition of “trying” drags the poem onward, making the reader feel the length of this

struggle that the poetic narrator is “undertak[ing].” A cynical feeling dominates the end of this stanza

when the poet says he must undertake his task in order to beat the others (“overtake”). 8. The “mist clears and returns,” harassing the narrator and the reader alike.This return of the mist creates

hopelessness, as the poet realizes that endurance is the only option and the poem must “go on.” 9. These final lines masterfully manipulate the reader’s emotions, due to their uncertainty in grammar and

meaning. The reader might put down the poem with a feeling of disdain at the sudden ending, overlooking

the poet’s commentary on the futility of the struggle and the need for change. This disdain, however,

might also guide the reader to an appreciation of the poet’s attempt to express what he himself cannot

understand.

Faster, further;

Faster, farther. 6

Lost in the midst of mist, 7

Trying to see,

But struggling.

Undertake to overtake.

The mist clears and returns. 8

The struggle never ends,

The flight must go on.

This,

The plight of our kind,

Yet the height of climb. 9

19

Robert Thompson, The Mind in the Study (Pen and Pencil)

20Robert Thompson, Dan in his Study (Pencil)

21

Austin Raven, Where Two Lines Meet (Origami 15x22)

Patrick Atherton, Museo Soumaya, Mexico City (Photograph)

22

Grayson Matula, Honeycomb Girl (Pencil)

23

Fall Mahria Baker

Crunch of the leaves as she walks down the path,

She’s taking her steps carefully.

He looks at his phone

In another time and place.

He waits for the text she might send.

This is the moment of pain.

Her icy toes cause her twinges of pain,

Which worsen with every step on the path.

She’s avoiding the text she will send.

He thinks about her carefully,

and tries not to think of her in another place.

He wills himself not to look at his phone.

She will take out her phone,

which distracts her from pain.

She is in a different place.

He is on a different path

And walks away carefully,

Thinking of the text she might finally send.

She returns to reality but does not press send,

Seeing the future on the screen of her phone.

She wants to choose her words carefully,

So she does not cause him pain,

But he is far along on his new path.

He’s on his way to a new place.

It is a nice place

To think of the girl and the texts she might send.

“Aren’t we on the same path?”

The final decision is made on her phone:

She is the one to cause pain.

He balances on the railing carefully.

He stands up carefully

And falls into the water in the beautiful place.

He feels no pain.

“She had no idea what would happen when she hit send.”

“The only thing left on that railing was his phone.”

The river rushes along its path.

24

Madison Barchas, Maggie (Chine Collé Relief Print 18x24)

“Why didn’t she place her words more carefully?

What if there was no phone and no texts to send?

But we can’t control the path of modern life, and all of us gathered here today feel the pain.”

25

Madison Barchas, Kallisti (Mixed Media 17.5x11)

Grayson Matula, Felix at Rest (Pencil 11x8.5)

26

A Much Needed Road Trip Rachel Schlesinger

There are only three kinds of forever I believe in:

Death, outerspace, and

Texas highways.

Some are afraid of living too fast,

some nervous about the slowness of

joy and peace, but those long pieces of eternity

have no expiration, no limit.

“Press on, go forth,” they coax,

so faster you go,

air in your ears, stale AC and gasoline

tickling your nostrils, eyes just

barely glazed on a window

of small towns with the same street names,

green farmland, almost an ocean, and

the images of things you once thought

you could never forget.

Can’t worry about a destination or

a roadblock because these roads are made

of nothing and your life is made of roads

and your mind fills in the space between

Wheat fields.

27

Katie Leiferman, Ojos de Cristal (Photograph 11x12)

28

Subway Rachel Schlesinger

Two seats from the door,

a lawyer:

in shiny black heels that tap as she types,

with deliberate eyeliner like a sharp-sighted eagle,

holding a laptop on her skirt that whirs with intensity,

sits as she reminisces about the era before

her mama made her drop out of art school.

One seat to the left,

an artist:

with a feathery beard and hands never empty of paint,

keeping his hands in his bag, stroking brushes with dwindling affection,

with a bill in his pocket folded three times to block out the lines of zeros,

sits dreaming of smoothing out the worry lines on his wife’s face

and reopening the bank account that could’ve sent his boy to college.

Clutching a pole in the aisle’s center,

a new college grad:

with a used one-way ticket to New York in her back pocket,

holding a senseless subway map given to her by the museum’s front desk lady,

wearing a watch that reads three minutes past the time she scheduled her interview,

stands flighty and twitchy and already homesick for small town skies

and helplessly wonders what city people need to do to make friends.

Two seats to the right,

an ex-Taxi driver:

wearing the same socks from last week, stained with spray paint,

with empty cans in his bag that had left an orange hawk on his ex-boss’s fire escape,

harboring an unsent text, fingers hovering over (but never landing on) “send,”

sits with his eyes on his socks, remembering his daughter’s favorite color

and craving the day when his ex-wife would let them paint together again.

They’re in this car—

Sharing air,

Brushing kneecaps,

Making furtive glances,

And sitting in starving silence.

29

Patrick Atherton, Influential (Colored Pencil)

Maggie Lu, A Moment of Confusion (Colored Pencil 12x19)

30Jordan Cobb, Or Clothe his Neck with a Flowing Mane? (Digital Photograph 3x2)

Heartbreak Kyla Scott I’ve held your soul,

And not the glossy one,

Not the one that shines its perfect white teeth in the sun.

No,

I’ve held the darker one,

The one that shudders and cries in the abyss.

My soul reached out to yours, creating a rainbow,

Not of reds and greens and blues,

But of fire and onyx and deeper hues.

You hide your soul from mine in a shadow-filled cavity.

It oozes with jealousy and pain,

And bleeds contempt and scorn.

My soul reaches for yours;

I’ve held your soul, but now my hands are empty.

31Sabrina Chuang, Le Petit Prince (Sculpture)

32

We were created Kyla Scott

We are sculpted nebulas,

eyes of galaxies,

racing stars,

solar flares of giant suns.

We burst, leap, jump, sway, and twinkle in the late night sky;

We are icy giants, captured memories locked away and never forgotten;

We are light, streaming across the heavens;

We are the thoughts and plans of the stars.

They cry, “Breathe,”

and, in return for our life,

we sing.

In return for our curiosity,

we learn.

In return for our sense of wonder,

we live.

In return for curly-haired girls with stardust in their hair,

we laugh.

In return for our pure hearts,

we love.

We are the constellations.

33Jenny Wang, Give Love & Compassion, Gain Happiness (Acrylic on Canvas 11x14)

34

Jam

es R

ay, Sit

ting

in S

pace

(Dig

ital

Med

ia)

35

From Flying on Fire Zoe Ehrlich

Suddenly, I realized that I had absolutely no idea where Earth was. Fire was a smart

magical creature, but I couldn’t completely rely on him. Then, I remembered that I could listen

and hear Earth. I spread my ears, hoping to hear Earth’s call, but the helmet blocked all sounds.

“Fire, I’m going to have to take my helmet off,” I said. I was hoping that colors would

swirl around me again, and I would instantly know where Earth was. Nothing. I tugged on the

helmet, knowing I could survive for three minutes without it. I was terrified. All my life I’d been

wanting to travel to Earth, and here I was, desperately wanting to go home. But I couldn’t! How

foolish of me to think I could go home. I needed to get to Earth. I pulled my helmet off and

spread my ears. There were so many sounds, muffled by the sound of Fire’s quickly flapping

wings. “Fire, slow down!” I called out. As our speed decreased, the other sounds increased.

“Focus, focus, Surefly,” I thought to myself. And I heard it.

A warm voice, saying, “Come, come, I am here. Come to Mother Earth, dear. Come.”

I instantly thought of Mama, how much I loved and missed her—the warm scent of her

banana bread, the sweet Aorka flowers she always wore in her hair. Bluewing must have told her

everything by now. She must be just as terrified as I was. She would be arrested if I didn’t prove

that I could be an explorer too.

My lungs felt as if they were closing slowly together. The three minutes had gone by

quickly. “Fire, that way!” I said, pointing to the Northwest. I pulled my helmet back on, and air

filled my body once again. Fire was travelling at light speed again, in the direction of Earth.

“Fire, slow down. We want a soft landing.” We were getting close to Earth. I could see

its blue waters and sandy brown and green land. As I watched, I saw a rock fall through space

and burn in Earth’s atmosphere. “Fire,” I said, getting uneasy, “Fly to that green spot at light

speed.” We wouldn’t have made it through the atmosphere had I not seen the rock. As we sped to

earth, I yelled frantically, “ Stop !” We crashed through the trees and hovered barely five inches

over the ground.

Fire landed, and I slowly pulled off my helmet, making sure I could breathe. The air

smelled like flowers, and a star shone brightly overhead. But something was wrong. The air felt

sticky and gray, a pond nearby was littered with pieces of trash.

I heard Earth’s call again, much louder now: “You have made it, you are here. The

prophecy is fulfilled. A day with clean air, a day with garbage gone. It will come again, when a

distant call has come. Humans and wildlife, reunited as one. The day will come, the day will

come. You dear, are the call. You will end our wars, and restore peace. Humans and animals will

talk with one another once again. We shall thank you forever.”

I was shocked at first, and then I remembered a story that Papa had told me, many years

ago. He had read it from a beautiful book about a different world. It was called Mother’s Peace.

36

From Change Sophia Hawthorne

The world is not perfect,

but we can change it.

You can,

so can you,

and so can I.

We are the generation, I just know,

that will change the world

Change the war in Syria,

the bleaching of corals,

the limited supply of fresh water in impoverished places,

and the unfair education for girls around the world.

Just picking up a few pieces of trash and turning the lights off

will help stop the coral bleaching.

Just a simple act of kindness

could inspire someone else.

Imagine that one straw you didn’t use.

Did that make a difference?

Oh, yeah.

One less piece of plastic in our landfill.

Just remember, you can, we can all make a difference.

Anouk Martin-Gachot, Living Tree (Mixed Media on Paper)

37

Ell

ie S

chle

sin

ger

, Fr

iday

Nig

ht

(Ch

arc

oa

l)

38

From The Lights Michael Allen

I woke up and sprinted to Tristan’s tent. Still no Tristan.“Oh no,” I thought anxiously,

“where in the world is Tristan?” I packed up our camp and left the forest to look for him in our

old town. By 10:30 PM, I was just about to give up, when I saw them. The odd, glowing figure

of the Lights was shining on the sidewalk just on the other side of the street. I stood there, frozen,

unable to move, because they would see me right away if I did. While I stood there in silence, I

noticed something. The Lights were old corpse-ish ghosts of the greatest heros of Symblendia.

The one across from me was the first president of Symblendia, Marshall Naggs. There was also

his wife, Mariah Naggs, who became the first female president a couple terms after Marshall.

There was also a person I had never seen before. He had dark skin and a strange outfit that said

the words Brooklyn Dodgers. On the back, it said in prominent letters, ROBINSON. Marshall spoke to him in a raspy voice, “Hey, Jackie.” I had never heard of a person

named Jackie, much less a hero. I remember that my parents’ names were Jack and Marie, and

my siblings’ names were Billy and Joan. I remember that I could never look at myself in a

mirror. In fact, I never knew what a mirror was until I transferred to Genio. Before I transferred,

I ate almost the exact same type of food every day of my life, but now I can eat new types of

food, like hot dogs and soda! Before I left Genio, I would play little games like hide and seek

with my family. I also had a best friend named Janet Barner, and she and I would do everything

together. At least, everything that we could do together. We were never allowed to do things

outside of school, but we ended up sneaking out and doing something together. She was a rebel

too, just like Tristan and I.

Vivian Fu, Cityscape (Acrylic on Canvas Board)

39

From Missing Data Natalie Kim

The events that occurred next are far too fast and far too complicated to be put into words. It was a whirlwind of events, and I didn’t know my left from my right or up from down. The next thing I knew, I was trapped underneath my crumbled house, and I couldn’t reach any members of my family. I assured myself that the Serenity Patrol would be coming soon, and they would save me from the catastrophe, but inside I was just like an unstable jigsaw puzzle, ready to break.

There I was, waiting hopelessly under a collapsed house, and yearning for someone to help me. I heard the familiar clunk of Serenity Patrol boots against the ground, and Enid’s voice calling for me.

“Astrid?” I heard her shouting. I screamed, “Enid! I’m trapped under here, help me!” But it was no use. The worst part

was hearing the ghastly screams. Enid shrieked in horror, “Mom! Dad! No… no…” My mind was racing. What could she be talking about? Suddenly, an awful, terrifying,

and unbearable thought crossed my mind: my parents were dead. My mouth was gaping open, and I was just in complete, mortal shock. Anyone could

make a list of all of the feelings in the world, and I was feeling all of them. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Slumped against a pile of debris, I banged my head against the floor, over and over again. I squeezed my eyes shut, yet tears spilled out of them.

I paused for a moment. Enid was screaming something, but what was she saying? “If you’re still here Astrid, listen to me, please. Just remember these numbers,” I heard

her shout. “Seventeen, twenty—oh what’s the use, she’s probably gone too,” Enid sobbed. I heard the sound of Serenity Patrol boots growing louder and louder, and the wails of

the Harmony Health vehicles were ringing in my ears. I desperately yelled, “Enid, I’m not gone! I’m here, but I’m trapped! Say the numbers

again, please! Don’t leave!” Enid’s silence and sobs were my response as I heard her being dragged away by the

Serenity Patrol. All I wanted was to wake up from that awful nightmare, but to my dismay, it was real.

All I wanted was to believe that my parents didn’t end up with such a horrible fate, but I couldn’t.

40

From The Power

Rachel Swartz

Ikem was almost at the door to the main hallway. Suddenly, he stopped. He heard

something. It sounded like footsteps, coming closer and closer. He turned around and took out

his lightblade. The blue blade lit up the hallway. At the end of the hallway, a greenish glow

appeared. There was another person down there, wielding a lightblade. “I don’t want to hurt

you,” Ikem shouted down the hallway, “but I need to leave. I need to go back to Kothal.” The

person started to come closer. Rush could just barely make out the cream-colored robes of a

power wielder. A shaky voice replied, “I don’t want to hurt you, but you can’t leave. We need

you!” Rush recognized that voice. “Ikem,” he whispered. He must have heard Rush get out of

bed and open the door. “Don’t come any closer, Ikem,” he shouted to the boy, “and...where did

you get that lightblade?” “I...I took it from Diara. She was asleep, and…” He was disappointed at

Ikem. He was such an honest boy.

He would never have expected him to steal a lightblade. “I didn’t know who it was. I

heard the door open. I was worried someone was trying to attack the temple. Then I found you,

trying to leave. Please don’t go, Rush. We all need you. I need you. If you want to kill me, I

won’t stop you. Being dead will be better than living without you.” Rush saw Ikem retract his

lightblade. The boy threw it to the floor and started to walk towards him. Rush raised his

lightblade in protection, but knew that he couldn’t kill him. Not after what he had said.

Ikem was almost at Rush, now. Rush didn’t know what to do. Ikem extended his arms

and hugged Rush around the waist. Rush

didn’t know what to say. Somehow, this

little learner had prevented him from

doing something that might hurt their

bond, their friendship. Rush started to

cry. He fell to his knees. He had never

felt so moved. Ikem had touched his

heart. Even as Rush lay there, crying,

Ikem never released his grip. He hugged

Rush til the end, and always will. Even

when they’re old and gray. When they

have wives and children. When they

have become masters and are teaching

learners. They will always feel that hug,

that bond, that power. Because they are

brothers. They are brothers, and always

will be. Declan Maguire, Da’ Shoe (Digital Media)

41

( g g p)

From The Children of Shadow Ella Parker

I was stuck in school still, dragged down into the deeps of my mind. Weighted by the

information that only I knew, I was breaking piece by piece. One of the teachers always had an

eye on me, especially Her, so escape was just a disappearing dream. Every day my classmates

touched the border line of shadow and human. Every day some passed over. I soon noticed that

She wasn’t the only one doing this. All of the teachers were in on it. They all had abnormal

shadows. Bigger than they should have been.

Only I knew the truth.

How cruel the truth felt. Almost

like a lie. Different though. I knew that

every day one more child was pulled

into their grasp. Every day was like a

hole burning itself inside my chest.

Holes gaping in my chest, open to the

world of pain. I started to melt inside.

Ms. Perkins left me alone because my

pain was too much for her to bear. This

isolation was not good, because I

needed her to help me get through this.

I needed to put my pain into her spirit

form. I needed an outlet for my pain,

my hurt broken soul. I needed my best

friend to come back to me.

Every day I watched her in my

shadow form. I watched her as she felt

resentment against me for telling her

that crazy story. Then, piece by piece,

she forgot me, Mandy Lane, her best

friend. I watched as she became

“normal”—became popular as I once

was.

I saw Evena gliding towards the

room in shadow form, but she wasn’t

fighting it. She was embracing it. I

followed her as she followed the voice

that had brought her into her shadow

form. That is when I felt something

peculiar, strange, abnormal. I felt

drawn towards Evena, as if she were

my rightful master. I continued to

follow her. I was in a trance.

Katia Peppas, Rapunzel (Digital Media)

42

Xander Chen, “An Upside-Down World” from A World Without Physics (Digital Media)

From Barely Human Lily Morse “The University,” said Samantha, her voice horrified. What was The University?

“Lexi, the University is going to take you to headquarters for Testing. I’m so sorry. I

didn’t know the Scholars could do that to you. It’s never happened before, the time travel Clone

before you—”

“I’m sorry, what is a Clone? What is Testing? What is the University?” I said.

“Testing is when they ask you questions to see if you are human,” Samantha said.

I felt my face turning pale and could not believe that my whole world was falling apart. I

was more scared of the Testing than I had ever been in my life.

“And the University?” I said.

“The source of everything. The University is the owner of all. The University is the

Provider of Knowledge. The University controls everything.”

“And a Clone?”

“You, Alexa, are a Clone, but you are not made the way normal Clones are made. They

are created with no emotions, but I created you with emotions and, well it is very complicated.”

“Explain it to me.”

Samantha looked annoyed, “You are not human, no not, not human, but not normal. You

were created in a lab, other children were created—well, that’s a story for another day—but

Alexa—

43

“I am not a normal child? I’m

sorry, what do you mean? I am not

normal? I can never be normal

(wait no), not normal— human?

Because I was not made normally I

can’t be human? Is that what

you’re saying? You don’t think I

have real emotions because I was

not made properly? You call me

human, then you take it all back,

out from under my feet?” I started

to feel moisture from my eyes.

What was happening had never

happened before. Drops of salty

water rolled down my face. Where

was this water coming from? I

didn’t know. Samantha’s face was

coated in hard, fake sympathy. She

looked annoyed.

“Alexa, can we just skip all of the emotional drama?”

“I thought you liked it when I got emotion—”

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Samantha’s eyes lit up with fear. “The Scholars

are here,” she whispered. “Your name is now—

“Clone 03, please step outside,” a serious voice said.

“03 is in 1924 right now, Scholar,” Samantha said. “I’ll wake it up.”

“Samantha—” I started.

“Alexa you are Clone 03. Keep a look on your face like a doll. Pretend you have no

emotions—”

“Give it to us, Caretaker,” the serious voice said.

“Of course, Scholar,” Samantha said. “Here it is.” Samantha activated my time travel

bracelet and led me out. I walked putting equal weight on each foot. I blinked rarely, kept a

neutral look on my face, stepped into the car, and sat down. The scary Scholar buckled me in. I

saw some delicious food, but I did not take any. As a Clone, I did not eat.

I kept my mouth shut as the scary Scholar took me through large cities. I looked forward

and tried to ignore my curiosity. Finally we reached an extremely tall building, almost 20 miles

tall, but only one square mile wide with a sign that said UNIVERSITY HEADQUARTERS in

large letters. The scary Scholar took me to an elevator. We went to floor 77,777, the top floor. It

took us 7 seconds to get there. In that time, the scary Scholar told me about the Test.

“Pass the Test. I am Scholar 232495,” he said.

I was worried about both parts. I did not show it. I kept the neutral expression. We

entered a room with nothing in it except for a desk with a headset on it. Behind the desk there

was an even scarier man. I assumed he was a Scholar. Scholar 232495 left the room.

“Hello, Clone 03. I am the Headmaster. Put this Virtual Reality headset on your head.”

44

I put the headset on my head, my face emotionless. Pictures started happening all around

me. I saw an infant from Syria in a lifeboat, trying to make it to Greece. I saw a child slave in

Haiti. I saw dark-skinned people walking and being sprayed by fire hoses. These were horrific

images. I wanted with all my heart to scream and shout and cry in pain, but I did not. I tried with

all my might to keep an emotionless expression. Suddenly I saw video of a kitten jumping out of

a window. It was hilarious. I tried with all my might not to laugh. I saw a couple holding hands

before a sunset. I wanted to say awwwwwwww, but I tried not to. The videos and images

stopped. I waited for further instruction, but only saw black. Just black.

“Take off your headset, Clone 03.” Headmaster said.

I took off my headset. I hated it when he called me a Clone. I kept an emotionless

expression on my face.

“You scored badly. Why did you laugh when the cat jumped out of the window?”

Headmaster said.

“I don’t know,” I said, emotionless.

“Clone 03, are you sure you don’t know?”

“Yes.”

“Clone 03. Please be honest, you need to have some human decency.”

“Human decency?”

“Please don’t play games with me, Clone 03. I know you have emotions, and I do not

want that. You are a tool, a living tool, and if you have any human qualities, then you are a

broken tool, and do you know what I do with broken tools? I throw them away. But you are a

valuable tool, and it would be easier for me to fix you than to throw you away. You have gotten

all the way to humor, though, so that might be hard.”

I was surprised, I had learned humor a few months ago. If the Headmaster thought I was

only partially human, then he would not know that I have opinions. Maybe opinions would help

me somehow.

“How will you fix me?” I asked.

“I’ll show you.” said Headmaster.

Headmaster lead me into an entirely black room with splotches of red on the walls. The

room was filled with torture devices.

“This, Alexa, is how you will be fixed,” Headmaster said.

Oh my goodness. How does he know my name? “Who is this Alexa you speak of?” I

asked. “My name is Clone 03.”

“Let’s start with the iron maiden. Alexa, please, get inside the Iron Maiden. That device

is not going to make you get inside itself,” said Headmaster, holding a hot branding iron.

I go inside the machine. Headmaster closed the doors and left the room. I was all alone,

in the dark, inside this machine. I was being suffocated as if I was being buried alive. Sharp

metal spikes threatened to impale me from every direction. Every minute was a day. It’s okay,

people have endured more hardship than me. I thought about all of the more awful things people

had to endure. I thought back to generations of suffering: prisons, shootings, Crusades, the Black

Plague, and 50,000 people burned innocently as heretics and witches. History was a horrible

place to live, but there were also amazing moments in history.

History. History.

Everyone in the world lived in history. Everyone lives in history.

45

History was full of horrible moments, and shouldn’t we learn from history? I thought of all the wonderful moments in history, moments of innocence, moments of glory.

History. I kept thinking the word to calm me down. History. I was writing history right now. History. Every second of the day I was making history. History. Everyday every person in the world is making history. History. I would make history. Or would I? Should I run away from my problems and have a 99%

chance of never seeing the University again? Or should I fight the University and have a 99% chance of getting killed by the University? Live on my knees? Or die on my feet? The choice decided my entire future. But were those the only choices? I could travel to the future, start my own university, and live in my university for the rest of my life. But that was closer to living on my knees. Several sub-options, but two main choices.

First, I had to get out of this machine. I had to find the University’s weakness, what would bring the University down. I would be my own spy, but I needed to get out of this machine. Out. Of. Machine. Now. I concentrated on 2376, a year when the University was bound to fall. Help me Samantha. Help me. Help me.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, a horrible idea on my part. I breathed in rust and dirty air. I doubled over coughing and a spike ripped open my arm. I felt the blood pour. I vomited all over my white jumpsuit. I screamed. I stood up straight, and continued coughing and vomiting.

History. Everything will be alright. It will be alright. History. That’s it, just keep thinking. History. History.

46

From Omaha Charles (Hudson) Quinn

January 1969

Running. Gunshots. Fire. Alan falls to the ground, limp. I wake up suddenly, covered in

sweat. I breathe heavily but calm down quickly. After all, I had done this hundreds of times.

Hundreds of times, I had seen Alan die. I had seen Peter, Kyle, and countless others. But, I had

especially seen Alan. I had finally almost gotten closure for his death, but I still felt feelings for

him. I still missed his laugh, his smile. I had come to terms with who I was. I felt no shame for

who I was. I wish I had felt this way when he was still here. It’s funny. You only know what to

say to someone when they are gone. You look back over and over, thinking about what you

could have done. But after years of regret, you realize that there is nothing that you can do. You

can only cling to the distant memory of them. I layed back my head and thought about whom I

had lost, for the hundredth time. Alan. Peter. Kyle. Philip had been driven mad with grief, and

killed himself in hopes of being reunited with the brother he could never leave. I began listing

again. Father. Shaun, who had died while I was away. Suzie, who had been sexually assaulted

and murdered months after my return. Mother had died a few years ago from terminal cancer. All

gone. I slowly got up from the bed and reached down to pick up one of the discarded poems on

the floor. I read the first stanza then crumpled it into a ball. No use in even trying after all these

years of attempting to create a decent poem. I got dressed for work and closed my eyes. Red.

Everywhere there is red. In my dreams, while I am awake. Red and darkness. I make for the door

of my messy apartment, and walk through the streets. I cut through the crisp, cold air as the fog

rolls in, just as I had twenty-five years ago. But, this time, I had somewhere I needed to go. I find

myself going to the cemetery a lot. I strolled past the headstones and came to where I visited so

many times in the past few years. I kneeled down and inspected the grave of Alan Bow. I pulled

the flowers out of my coat pocket and placed them at the foot of the grave. As I began to rise, I

heard a familiar voice behind me.

“You holdin’ up okay?” I slowly turned and saw Joseph behind me.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m fine.” Joseph and I may have had our differences, but we became

close friends. We would discuss the horrors we saw, counseling each other away from insanity.

He was never anything special, like Alan. I never had any feeling for him, but he was a good

friend.

“Good.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Remember. Accept the past, but don’t let it

control you.” I smiled and he placed his flower at Alan’s grave.

“I’ll see you around, Joseph.”

“See you, Chuck.” He said and we turned and parted ways. I look down the streets and I

see children playing. I see people enjoying the company of other people.

There maybe red, but there are other colors, too.

There may be darkness in this world, but there is also light.

Whenever someone despairs, someone has hope.

If you make it through the night, you will see the sunrise.

47

Spencer Weiss, New Beginnings (Photograph)

Sunday Nicolas Griscom

Blankets over head

light peering through the window

church bells ring me out

48

Sunday Evening Musings Caroline Aung Speak. Speak new things into the dying air. The world has become still with the weight of its needing. Speak new things into the dying air. The rain falls to its own music— at once so familiar yet untouchable, just as the tides of me sitting here thinking endlessly endlessly. New. A baby’s face is pure and silver, and nothing is more new than a baby’s face. Please peel off the layers of the dirty and heavy years. I feel distant, and I long to be new like a baby’s face. Do you remember and how much.

49

Kisara Moore, Must I Put Away Childish Things? (Oil Painting 12x12)

50

She Carried the Sky Ava Mouton-Johnston

I deciphered these words from the messy handwriting scribbled on the first page of my hidden journal: “I took for granted how lucky I was to have Doris in my life. I miss her so much, and I would do anything to be able to spend more time with her. I should have woken up earlier and cherished every moment with her, I should have known that nothing lasts forever. Please God, help me think about her every day and keep her spirit alive through me.” I had been keeping a journal since the day she died, jotting down random thoughts here and there, unloading my deepest secrets onto its trusted pages, and writing memories and notes to Doris, hoping for some response from her.

Doris was a big, southern lady whose callused hands had stories to tell and whose wrinkles and sparkling eyes had wisdom to pass on. We looked completely opposite, but she became my grandmother through and through the moment she held me as a baby on the first day I was home from the hospital. I’ve been told that my parents tried everything they had read in the parenting book, but I still wouldn’t stop crying. The maternal instinct must have gone off inside of Doris because she swooped in and gently picked me up, swaying ever so slightly and holding me tight, letting me know that I was safe. I immediately stopped crying and everyone thought it was because Doris had so much practice with babies, but I think it was because from that moment forward, I knew I would never be alone. Doris was there to rock me to sleep every night on the faded blue chair, and she was there to tell me bedtime stories of two mice that lived under our staircase. She was there for me when I sang my first solo in the fourth grade play, and she was there when I cried myself to sleep after finding out my parents were getting divorced. She always had the right things to say and do to let me know that everything would be alright.

Doris came to our house every day at 4:00 a.m. when the Capital Metro handicapped bus would pull into our driveway and drop her off, and whenever I got scared and woke up in the middle of the night I would count down the hours until she got to my house. Doris would be there when I got home from school, and would stay until I fell asleep at night. From dawn to dusk, she was there for me. My parents used to tell me that she would carry in the morning sky with her when she came, and would invite the stars and moon out when she left, and I full-heartedly believed it. She was the strongest person I knew, and she never missed a day even if she was sick or tired. But one day, when I ran up the stairs in the morning, she wasn’t there. I was confused but just thought that maybe she couldn’t get a ride to our house.

Despite her absence in the morning, I left my house knowing that she would be there to greet me at the front door when I got home from school. But when I got back home she wasn’t there. Walking into my house, I could tell that something had changed. My parents lifted the heavy backpack off my shoulders, only in a few minutes to unload something even heavier that I would carry with me the rest of my life. Doris had a heart attack and was at the hospital spending what would be the last few days of her life. My parents drove me to where she was, and we wandered down the endless corridors of the ICU until we reached her room in the very back corner of the hallway. I had only known Doris as a strong, resilient woman who could fight through anything, so when I opened the door to find her attached to an oxygen mask, looking frail and unable to move, my world was changed. She wasn’t able to respond to us, so we just talked to her and stood by her side.

51

Thirty minutes later the nurse came in and told us that we had to get going. Right before

we left, I saw a small movement of her hand motioning me towards her. I bent down next to her

and with the last ounce of her strength she pulled the oxygen mask off very slightly and

whispered, “I love you.” I had a weird feeling when I left the hospital but didn’t know why.

Later that night Doris passed away. When my parents broke the news to me I didn’t know how to

react. I had never lost anyone and couldn’t imagine a world without her. I layed down on the

carpet floor of my bedroom as still as I could, not moving an inch, and wondered how someone

could go from being present one day to being gone forever the next. I softly spoke her name,

repeating it each time with more strength, attempting to bring her back. My pleading became

confusion and I began to get upset at God. How could He take away the most important person

in my life? As time passed, my perspective changed and I began to think about how lucky I was

to have her for ten years of my life. Instead of doubting God, I thanked Him for the blessing of

my guardian angel.

That happened exactly six years ago. I still try to think about Doris every day, and

sometimes, if I’m lucky, she will visit me in my dreams. I knew that I could think about her to

eternalize everything she was, and with time I realized that she was still there for me, just in

different ways. I could see her in my actions, in the love my parents gave me, and in the nature

that surrounded me. She was the subtle differences in the shades of pink during the sunset, she

was the profound radiance that emitted from stars during the night, and she was the sunlight that

pierced through clouds after a storm. She didn’t just carry the sky, she was the sky.

Sofia Hsu, King of the Ocean (Digital Photograph 3x2)

52

Other People’s Diaries Reilly Wieland Wake up happy but unsatisfied and think: “this is the closest I’ve ever come”—better yet, “the

furthest I’ve ever gone.” Write the sentence down: “how to tell her?” Delete and rewrite as: “a conversation with my own anxiety.” Delete it and rewrite: “is it my fault too?” God bless onomatopoeias, god bless the fact that they are easy, bless the fact that I cannot find words to say. The first time it happened I didn’t have words to say, either. God bless the sterility of nurses treating a qualitative issue, god bless stumbling explanations, god bless never being alone, god bless the creeping irony of your anxiety being there to keep you company, god bless the day your teacher talked about what it means to be “parasitic” in your lecture, god bless the period of indecision, god bless women being ladies in waiting and incapable of making a decision, god bless starving for hunger because it feels like it’s tangible, replace fear with hunger and thank god you can still feel your hands. God bless: “it’s easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends.” God bless nihilism and the feeling of feeling nothing at all, best described as waking up one morning and never feeling inherently different, but not being able to remember if the sun sets in the east and rises in the west or vice versa. “God bless the fire that burns fingerprints off.” Native Americans would use these kinds of open-ended prayers to explain to their children why bad things happen. God bless checking your own hands, god bless wondering if the fire stripped you of an identity.

Ellie Schlesinger, Balloon Guy (Mixed Media)

53

Maya Shamir, Sun Spots (Pen and Acrylic 9x11)

God bless straight edge girls who develop anxiety disorders in less mysterious circumstances,

god bless that I am one in three, god bless the fact that I am not statistically improbable, god

bless the fact that I am statistically hard to deal with, god bless that I am a good girl, god bless

that there is no way to “do everything right,”god bless the space under my bed I keep just in case

it happens again, god bless that if we closed our eyes and raised our hands to answer the question

“are you in fear,” nobody with a broken chromosome would stand, god bless your friend’s

mother saving the candle from a seventh birthday cake hoping she would make it to seventeen,

god bless the drawer she keeps it in, god bless half a bottle of pills you keep on your dresser as a

reminder that you could have died today, but didn’t. God bless those women who could have and

did not die, but are still trying because they have their heart so set on leaving.

54Maya Shamir, Patrick in Lines (Pen 8x11)

55

A Shattered Self Jake Molina

The dusk turned to night. Everything grew cold. Henry peered out the window, as fat

droplets raced down the pane. He scratched his chin stubble, observing the leak in the roof he

had always intended to fix. Each raindrop that hit the bucket on the floor sent a metallic thump

throughout the room. Henry laid in bed and closed his eyes, immersing his entire mind in the

darkness that engulfed the room. The clock began speaking. Tick-tock. Tick. Tock. It lured him

to relinquish control and allow inanimate objects to hypnotize him. As the bed sank beneath his

weight, the room expanded and stretched away in all directions. His eyes fluttered open, and the

ceiling seemed far away. He gasped desperately for air, clawing feebly for a way out of bed.

The bed consumed Henry, then snapped in two and released his body from its grip. He

fell into deep dark nothingness and felt the wind’s wispy kisses against his cheeks. There was no

end to the black void, the limitless abyss. He couldn’t even scream. Nothing existed in that

moment. Then, without warning, he stopped. He was unscathed. His toes felt the ground

materializing beneath him. He shivered in cold sweat, only a thin nightshirt covering his naked

body. A new sensation sent a chill throughout his body: fear. He blindly clenched the air, trying

to grip onto something, anything. Through the darkness, a shimmering light penetrated, revealing

a narrow pathway. He didn’t question the road. It was real and tangible, unlike the menacing

illusion of emptiness that surrounded him. He followed the pathway, and each step unveiled an

unexpected courage within Henry. He could do this; it was possible to return home. The road

grew wider, the light brighter.

When he felt as if he couldn’t take another step, he saw what seemed to be a green bench

in the distance. Henry approached it with caution. He slowly extended his hands and felt wooden

beams brush his fingertips. Finally, something he could touch. The ground shook, sending a

rumble that surprised Henry. A bus pulled up to the bench and hissed its doors open in welcome.

Jake Molina, Mysterium Tremendum (Colored Photograph 6x9)

56

Curious, he walked up and boarded the bus. Each passenger aboard turned their eyes in his

direction, yet their bodies remained forward, frozen. No one uttered a word. They looked like

arranged puppets, displayed against their will. Only one man moved freely: a homeless man. He

was small, wearing stained clothes and missing his two front teeth. The man whistled as he spoke

to the driver: “Sir, I don't have any money, but I must leave this place.”

“You think I care?” bellowed the driver.

Henry couldn't see the driver’s face, only meaty hands and the pungent smell of cigarettes

gave any indication as to who the driver was. Henry checked his nightshirt pocket. He pulled out

three dollars, enough for a ticket. The man saw the crisp bills in his hands, as Henry stated,

“Sir, I need to get home. My family—”

“It's you or him, can’t be both,” snorted the driver.

Henry looked at the driver's sweaty palms, then back to the homeless man. The man's

watery blue eyes stared into Henry’s soul.

“You’ll take us both,” demanded Henry.

The driver nodded.

The bus continued along the path until it reached a fork, and the driver’s repulsive hands

steered the wheel to the left.

“Wait, where are we going?”

The driver simply grunted. As the bus sped forward, Henry saw something through the

window. In the distance, Henry saw his little house. Through the window, a sleeping Henry lay

Jake Molina, Web of Lies (Colored Photograph 6x9)

57

the bed, his body tucked into a handmade quilt. Never before had he realized how peaceful and serene one looks while asleep. He realized that our dreams can seem the most real because reality becomes our own choice. “Turn the bus around. We need to go back.” The bus continued its course. Henry marched to the front seat, ready to rip the wheel from the meaty hands. “Stop the bus!” The bus screeched to a halt. Henry and the homeless man were ejected in front of the little house. The bus hummed away, down the path, into the distance, leaving them alone. In the blink of an eye, Henry’s little house transformed into a multiple-story building. It was a grey block, industrial and merciless. Its sharp contours glared back down at him. As Henry looked back down, he saw the man hobbling inside. “Thank you!” He flashed Henry a toothless grin. “Wait!” Henry needed to know what happened to the man. He pulled open the building’s heavy door. There was a single elevator, its surface presenting a refracted version of Henry. There was no button. The doors glided open, as if they knew he had arrived. The elevator closed behind him and ascended. No buttons, no lights, no sign of stopping. “I need to get off.” The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. Henry stumbled out of the elevator. There was nowhere to go but forward. A hallway. Only a flickering, dying fluorescent bulb dangling from the ceiling guided Henry. He squinted and saw a red door at the end of the hallway. There was no turning back now. Henry continued forward with sweaty palms and twisted the handle. The door slowly creaked open, and the homeless man stood before Henry. Yet, the watery blue eyes that once peered into his soul were replaced by a pair of green ones. They gazed back at him, curiously observing. The eyes were his. Henry looked at himself, dressed in the homeless man’s clothes. He lifted his hand, reached forward towards the apparition, and saw his reflection shatter. There was nothing to be afraid of. Henry opened his eyes. The rain continued to pound against the window. The clock ticked. The note his mother left on his bedside table was still there. “Please. I miss you.” Henry slowly lifted himself from the bed. He gently touched the handwritten note, felt his mother’s love exude from the paper. He motioned for the door and accidentally stepped on one of the various bottles that littered the ground. He picked it up and saw his reflection in the glass. He could choose his own reality. The surrounding oblivion did not have to consume him anymore. There was nothing left to fear.

Cat Orman, Leo (Pen 18x11)

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we talk about existentialism because we want to be scared

run in a rhythm on the treadmill so that our chests feel heavy and our hearts beat at an

uncomfortable pace

devour trans fats and high fructose corn syrup

smile and show our teeth, stained with coffee.

we touch our toes so that our calves scream in protest

burn our scalps in the blistering water of our showers

feel the throes of birth.

we glue our eyes to images of suffering animals

fight the urge to close our eyelids to stare at the blue lit screen in a state of inhuman judgement

we pull strips of hot wax from above our eyes and down our shins.

we cry and it makes our eyes vibrant and beautiful

we scream and shake the world with the sound waves that our own bodies are capable of

producing

we burn and we suffer and we feel the most potent of feelings.

racking our systems for a constant affirmation of the absence of death.

Hot Wax Mae Mouritsen

Jordan Cobb, Do You Make Him Leap Like a Locust? (Digital Photograph 3x2)

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Julian Flores, Peacock (Reductive Lino Print)

Alice Mae Mouritsen

A golden retriever’s tongue along your leg

as cold air stings your cheeks and lips

fallen leaves crunch, crackle

and your lips are spread and the corners of

your mouth reach so high—

and a man’s eyebrows line up straight:

tilt the barrel of his rifle so you can see right into its throat

that inevitability spirals in front of you

and your eyes close and your lips crack

your blood clots and your do lips crack.

Alice paints her nails gold and dances on tiled floors

one, two, three, one, two, three

scotch tape stuck in her light curls

and your lips spread and the corners of your mouth reach so high—

yet the other child pleas for your help

and you paint her face shades of indigo and blue

and illusions expire to guilt

eyes transparent and cheeks so hollow

eyes don’t shut but cheeks do hollow.

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My Idea of Art Xander Chen

Personally, I don’t value “reality” art as much as “creative” art. Reality art—pencil

drawing, painting, and all kinds of practical and technical drawing—is not applicable to my

interests and beliefs. I mean, if a camera can do just as well (or even a hundred times better,

depending on the value of the camera), then why should one so dive into perfection and

technique? I’m not saying that one can ignore the fundamental skills of drawing, but shouldn’t

we pursue art in a more unrealistic and profound way? Shouldn’t the artist be similar to the

scientist, always finding and exploring something new and grand? Something no one has ever

thought of? Isn’t that what makes Einstein so distinguished? His broad view and new ideas?

Xander Chen, My Fantasy Building (Digital Media)

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Xander Chen, “Alice in Concrete-Land” from A World Without Physics

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Infinity Natalie Huang

He carried himself like someone who knew where black holes go. His laces were always

tied, the top three buttons on his shirt always left undone, and the hairs that rested on the nape of

his neck always curled to the left. I had never found him particularly beautiful, but every minute

spent with him felt like eternity, and I was intoxicated by the idea of immortality.

Most days we balanced on the rails of railroad tracks side by side in silence until the

buzzing in our soles grew to vibrations in our kneecaps and the sound of screeching whistles

filled our ears. The noise seemed to grow louder each second and the overwhelming scent of

molten metal on worn down tracks steadily filled the air around the two of us. He would look at

me from the corner of his eyes, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. I would shut my eyes

and count to ten.

10. his callused palm in my sweaty one

9. the pulse of my heart behind my eyes, in my throat, on my fingertips

8. his nervous laughter and the rushing blood in my ears

7. the dots of perspiration above my eyebrows and top lip

6. our unraveled fingers

5. a breath.

4. are you ready?

3. a flash of light leaking through netted eyelashes

2. the earth quaking beneath our feet

1. the delicate string of shared feeling ripped and flung to either side as the great metal

beast tumbled through.

I can’t remember a time when I felt more alive than in those times spent fearful of death.

Each moment of uncertainty unfolded until there were only three things to be certain of: I was

still breathing, he was still breathing, and there was nothing more magnificent than that.

We’d crawl across the tracks and sit where millions of lives had passed through before.

I’d count the constellations on his cheeks and nose. He’d trace the purple galaxies on my knees

with all the delicacy in the world. In those moments, I could have sworn he was the most

beautiful thing I had ever seen.

He carried himself like someone who knew where the universe ends, and that made all

the difference.

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Xander Chen, “Continuously Growing ” from A World Without Physics

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Twilight Caroline Aung

The sky's the underside of the ocean’s belly,

and for the first time,

I let my breath fill the places

that once were empty

because I remember that I am alive.

You are alive,

as alive as that sky,

which never stops singing clouds

into the emptiness.

We

are not lovers.

Just the realization

that everything we toss into the sea

will flow back to us.

How pieces of broken, past selves

will grow mold and wrinkle at the edges,

but never lose their shape,

their familiar touch.

You

give that to me.

I to you.

Running sand between our fingers

as if time is something we can hold

and bind ourselves to.

We are the moment that remains

long after our bodies fade

into that monolithic silence.

So this is how I let you go:

the sky will always hold

our breath.