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STANFORD SENIOR ANTHOLOGY 2025

EDITED BY THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH AND THE CREATIVE WRITING PROGRAM

TABLE OF CONTENTS Gavin Jones

Opening Remarks

Alex Woloch

Introductory Note

Ellen Aasted

“Stranger,”

Maria Albuquerque

“Holy and Profane”

Susan Benites

“My Mother’s Eyes”

Matias Benitez

“Summer Break”

“Obsession is not desire: My Husband

Cate Burtner

progresses beyond tropes of mental illness” Luke Clifton

“The Computation and Data Science Complex (CoDa)”

“Sunset Hollow”

Julia Gershon

“In the Beginning”

Olivia Jessner

“‘Very Fanciful and Troublesome’:

Marguerite DeMarco

Anna

齊安 Kiesewetter

Mr. Woodhouse’s Anti-Social Social Life” Excerpt “Grandma, A-Ma”

Benita Kemigisa Kisembo

“always”

Chase Klavon

“Equinox”

Marcus Lintott

“Of Monsters and Humans”

Ula Lucas

“Ekphrasism”

Divya Mehrish

“Blood Music”

Kristofer Roland Nino

“Hound & Crow”

Natalie Rodriguez

“Down the Road”

Diya Sabharwal

Thief, Chapter 1

Sophia Sanders

“From an Old House in California”

“Southside” (2024. Writ. & Dir. by Andrew Song)

“Dialectical Growth, or What It’s Called When a Tree

Andrew Song Anastasia Sotiropoulos

Grows in an Odd Direction Because of an Obstruction” Katherine Wong

“Puzzle Hunt” Excerpt

“Stoner and the Forgotten Point of Higher Education”

“Pilot”

Alfred Yu

“My heart”

101

Anna Zheng

“Floodbaby”

103

Ellen Yang Richard Guangwei Yin

OPENING

REMARKS

GAVIN JONES Dear Graduating Seniors— “I greet you at the beginning of a great career!” This line in a letter from the American philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson to the young poet Walt Whitman has an interesting history for you to keep in mind as you—or at least most of you—begin your careers beyond Stanford today. The ambitious Whitman had sent Emerson a copy of the first edition of his poetry collection, Leaves of Grass (1855), and Emerson wrote an enthusiastic response (even though scholars have speculated, based on the slightly off-base content of the letter, that Emerson may not have looked too closely inside the covers of Whitman’s book). Emerson’s philosophy was one of optimistic uplift and self-reliance; it held faith in the innate human power for good, and posited that if we trust our instincts and follow the rightness of our whims then we will be swept along a series of successes in the path of our own great careers. The idea of being greeted at the beginning of a great career by America’s greatest philosopher naturally appealed to Whitman. It appealed to him so much that he took Emerson’s line, without permission, and embossed it in gold letters on the spine of the cover of the second edition of Leaves of Grass in 1856. It became a blurb, and Emerson was not amused. Keep alive those high Emersonian ideals of moral character and development as you begin your own great careers. But also, like Whitman in his repurposing of Emerson’s quotation, don’t hesitate to hustle a bit when you need to. With warm wishes for the road ahead.

Gavin Jones Chair of English Department Frederick P. Rehmus Family Professor of Humanities Professor of English

INTRODUCTORY

NOTE

ALEX WOLOCH In recent years, the Department has published an anthology of work by graduating seniors. This consists of your own selections, culled from all the work (the thinking, reading and writing) you have done in and around the English major. Typically, the anthology is a weave of creative writing and literary criticism, of scholarship, memoir, poetry, fiction, essays and sometimes other forms as well. It is multi-generic and heteroglossic. Read as a whole, it offers a map of what the English major is, at Stanford, in 2025. We could think of this anthology as a product – a gallery of objects that stands in as final statements, or even “the best that has been thought and said” in your undergraduate work. This would be somewhat misleading – the selections are more idiosyncratic than that, serving also as reflections, deflections, parables, experiments, and farewells. Instead of looking at this anthology as a product, we could also look at it as a practice – that practice of writing which rests at the center of your study. To major in English means, among other things, to continually engage this discrete practice – a curiously intimate one and, at the same time, a curiously external one. Majoring in English could even be understood as the attempt (never finished) to come to terms with writing – a process that is both serious and humorous, that takes us into the world (its histories, its entangled and conflicting languages) and forces us back upon ourselves. You are both the creators and the navigators of this anthology, the individual writers – now, once again, readers – who will bear witness, once again, to this collective work. Enjoy! Alex Woloch Director of Undergraduate Studies Richard W. Lyman Professor of the Humanities Professor, by courtesy, of Comparative Literature

STRANGER, ELLEN AASTED

Veronica Gomez Ibarra | Unsplash

Creating Writing Minor

Ellen Aasted

Poetry subplan

Stranger, You’ll recall—I cried in your bed the night we met then slipped away when your back turned to make me a cup of tea Stranger, in a past life I was warmer I would lie on the ground and laugh at the sun—how it gleamed through the branches of the barren tree I would talk to people and flowers the same way— picking words of theirs to sing as I walked I would pray just in case God was real—I figured she might be— All that belief I had to spare I’m sorry you didn’t meet me then

HOLY AND PROFANE MARIA ALBUQUERQUE

Maria Albuquerque

Creative Writing Minor Prose subplan

Holy and Profane Rivers run down your veins Roots and stones hold you up straight The sun shines to give you the will To breathe in the cold air, another day Even when you are so distant From the mangroves and the bay of all saints You are stronger than you think By the hands of the earth That raised you from birth You stand tall with the mountains you climb When the wind blows, trying to bend you Along with the branches of the sea almond tree Your spirit is salted by the ocean That carried you home The earthy spices from your grandma’s dishes And the sound of drums Setting free your moving hips As the earth trembles under your bare feet The shivering sound of a summer storm thunder Lives in your chest To crash and burn through your tongue Mellow songs from colorful birds Echo from your laugh when you speak Words as sweet as your homeland’s fruits Don’t apologize anymore for the force of oceans The enchanting mess of many rhythms The soft breeze of post-rain winds That you carry to their doorstep When they invite in All of what is holy and profane within you

MY MOTHER’S EYES SUSAN BENITES

İsa A. Özalp | Unsplash

Susan Benites

English Minor

My Mother’s Eyes You are peeling avocados, smiling at me. I am looking at the clock, waiting for the long hand to travel to the 12 and the short hand to the 6. Worrying you might have seen me, that it might hurt your feelings. You hold an avocado in your hand—it’s slimy, yucky, green. Her eyes are green, yours are more blue. Hers dull by the end of the day, and yours worn with wisdom. You hand me a slice, and I frown. Es bueno para ti. It’s good for you. I shake my head. Si no, no me quieres. If not, you don’t love me. I shove the slice in my mouth, worrying that it might hurt your feelings.

SUMMER BREAK MATIAS BENITEZ

Redd Francisco | Unsplash

Matias Benitez

Creative Writing Minor Prose subplan

Summer Break I’m at my friend Jessica’s watching something while listening to her story. This starts during her eye strain breaks, as she likes to call them: 20 minutes, 20 feet, 20 seconds—she repeats as a mantra. I feel like it’s been longer. I gauge time by episodes of Survivor, The Bachelor or whatever else is on my laptop. She gauges time by how many days it’s been for her little Sims—the little electronic people that she commandeers through their suburban utopia. Every second, a minute passes for the two roommates in their starter home. Clogged toilets, cheap spring beds, an easel for painting. Jessica has a break because her Sim is asleep. “It’s 3:39 AM,” she says. She likes to go on about how this little Sim woman is climbing the political ladder, and that each rung requires a good mood and the right amount of charisma. She must play her video games to replenish her fun meter every night. She must eat well enough to not have a starving moodlet at work the next day. I think this Sim is just a stand in for Jessica: she has the same nose and mouth. Her personality traits include couch potato, eco-friendly, and great kisser. Jessica tries to get me interested in these little people. She cares because she’s their god with her index finger on the trackpad. “It’s like Descartes,” I say. She asks me which Youtuber I learned this from, but when I say that it’s from a book I read, she laughs. It’s the same laugh that she had when I told her that I failed my driver’s test last month. She can’t believe that I can have a thought deeper than when she pointed at my crotch when we were watching Game of Thrones a few weeks ago. She laughed, and all I could do was scrunch my hoodie over my lap. But, that’s neither here nor there. More important is the feeling of her arm when she brings the laptop over to my corner of the room, and when I pause my episode, she simply plops the screen over whatever I’m doing. She points at the woman getting out of bed, and she clicks for her to make her bed, shower, and then go to work. I rub my upper arm along her corduroy jacket. I pretend the ridges and lines are as comforting and soft as the skin underneath. If only her entire being wasn’t focused on these pixels. “If you’re god, who am I?” I ask. “You’re like a rival god that has been long forgotten.” I laugh. Jessica starts, “This morning, I saw a dead rat on the street. It was so flat. You know the Looney Tunes Coyote—like when he fell under the steam roller. But, there was this whole dried-blood effect going on. It crystallized into a racing stripe on this panini-pressed rat. They never show real blood like that on Cartoon Network.” 10

Matias Benitez

She plays with her shoelace and takes a breath. “And, I just thought of my brother.” You have to be there to see her grim countenance as she tags at the carpet. “Wait a sec, she’s getting stressed at work.” She stares at the glowing blue light that bounces off her skin in her bedroom. The shutters are down, but the outline gives away that it’s still not yet dark. Slips of light fall along the bedroom floor. One warms my foot. Jessica will want to move once the sun hits her face and interrupts the game. I’ve been in this room so many times that I know where the sun will get low and disappear. I know when the humming of the air-conditioner will change into rattling, and how much she has to clean her room before her mom yells. My mom will pick me up after work. She decides to actually lay it out, “After my brother died, I never thought about him. My mom sometimes talks about seeing Paul in her dreams, and I have to figure out who she’s talking about. I mean, I never really met him. Like, who remembers anything that young? But I had a memory about him for the first time. It was in our old house. It was always really bright there. You could see the dust dance when you blew on the little specks. This was back when we lived in New Mexico, so like, there was so much light.” Her Sim has gotten off work and sits at home. I want Jessica to finish this story, but she seems like she needs to work through more of it—like she still doesn’t know what to say. She clicks on her trackpad and asks me, “How should I kill her?” “I thought this Sim is your legacy?” “I saved the game already.” She pulls up her phone to find a method like she’s looking for a recipe. Jessica pulls out her ingredients—she builds a little room for her Sim to prepare waffles that she won’t take out of the oven. I watch the red of the fire char the skin of the Sim, who runs back and forth waiting for salvation. Jessica laughs and creates a pool right next to the room for the Sim to see out the floor-to-ceiling windows. A little notification pops up—Jessica gets out the charger for her laptop. The grim reaper snatches the dead body. Jessica restarts the game. While it loads, she says, “For some reason, I remember him sitting at a dinner table, watching whatever was on TV, and I was wearing a sweater so it must have been spring or fall, so he should have been at school. My mom was making like a grilled cheese, and it’s the The View or Jeopardy or something. “I don’t know, but it’s too clear in my mind that it had to be real.” She pouts at the computer screen—her reloaded Sim prepares dinner unaware that she had died. Jessica tugs at the ring on her middle finger. It’s emblazoned with an astrological sign. I know it’s hers, but I always forget when her birthday is. “He 11

Matias Benitez

was just sitting there, and when my mom put down the sandwich for him to eat, but all he did was watch TV, and I felt anxious for some reason. “It was like he was waiting for me to take the sandwich off his plate. I was right next to him. Like, playing Legos.” Her Sim’s roommate returns from his job as a “criminal.” The politician and criminal roommates kiss when Jessica is bored. Jessica clicks on the shower and selects “WooHoo.” The shower turns steamy and love hearts explode out the top like TNT. There’s a little toggle that used to say good friends, which has now turned to romantic interest. I wonder what could get me to that point with Jessica. I feel myself getting hard. After a while, the two go to their separate rooms. It’s late. “And then,” I say, “Your brother?” Jessica looks surprised that I was listening to her. “I don’t remember anything else.” “Do you think these little Sims would ever rebel against you if they were sentient?” I ask. “I want to rebel against myself all the time,” she replies. “I feel like I know that being in this room instead of being outside is probably not great. I should be caring about everything out there, and the news and whatever.” “I don’t get it,” I say. “You want to go downstairs?” “I’m not hungry.” She crosses her arms. She takes the computer off her lap and cradles her legs in a fetal position. It’s like she is trying to capture the heat emanating out of her laptop. Her shirt rides up a little, showing a bit of her waist. Her skin folds at her belly button thanks to her slouched torso. I try to give her a comforting smile. Her lip quivers for a second. She says, “Like, for some reason, I have a feeling my brother knew that he was going to die from a car crash a month or so later, and maybe, the god playing with us knew that he wouldn’t need that sandwich.” “I think you’re thinking too much,” I say. When she doesn’t respond, I try to smile and say, “Just relax, it doesn’t mean anything.” She gets up and leaves the room. I hear the toilet flush across the hall. When she gets back, she takes her laptop and shifts away from me. Her Sim wakes up for another day of work—Jessica cycles through the different things her Sim wants. She wants to learn how to play guitar, but Jessica makes her practice her charisma skill for her career. I think to press play on the TV show or check my phone, but I look at Jessica, and she doesn’t even notice me. She raises her thumb to her teeth to bite. I’ve never seen her do this before. We are both slumped over in this corner of the room but are absorbed in our own entertainment. I have a feeling that I should do something, but 12

Matias Benitez

Jessica is too busy looking at her future. The one where she becomes a politician and fixes everything wrong in the world. When she dies, a statue will be built in the town park, and Jessica’s descendants will carry on her legacy until the computer corrupts the game file. “Dinnertime,” her mom shouts from down the hall. Jessica saves her game, and we watch the wheel spin and spin for what feels like an eternity. I wish I could lean over and kiss her, or at least give her a hug. But I feel I’m one of these Sims that Jessica controls, waiting for her to tell me what to do. She doesn’t care what happens to me. Her mom calls us one more time, and we realize that the game has already quit. I tell myself when my mom drives me home that I don’t know what the point of that story was. But, when we dipped our grilled cheese sandwiches into bowls of tomato bisque, I had a feeling that something was different about Jessica—that I shouldn’t go over to her house again tomorrow.

OBSESSION IS NOT DESIRE CATE BURTNER

Da-Hee Kim

Cate Burtner

English Major Literature emphasis

Obsession is not desire: My Husband progresses beyond tropes of mental illness In her column “Brutal Monsters,” Cate Burtner ’25 offers commentary on the literature of mental illness. “She fangirls about her husband for 300 pages.” – The person who recommended this book to me. “My Husband” by Maud Ventura follows an unnamed 40-year-old mother of two, and — more importantly — wife to a mediocre financier, whom she is devoutly obsessed with and refers to unsettlingly and repetitively as “my husband.” “My Husband” is a funny book, but the narrator’s fawning descriptions of her husband and ridiculous flights of fancy are tinged with depressive undertones. There are certainly some good lines to laugh at, but you will feel a little guilty about it. The novel overall is a collection of the narrator’s twisted thoughts and mental gymnastics. “I knew I was cheating on my partner for the right reasons (having a lover makes me even more inaccessible and mysterious).” She convinces herself that this mystery will strengthen her husband’s attraction to her, and therefore, their relationship. The lines played for laughs are secondary to the psychological terror that the narrator experiences intensely, records meticulously and shoves in the reader’s face all day and night. She narrates at length about how much she loves her husband and how phenomenal he is. After an ounce of self-reflection, statements like, “I have never felt so alone as I have since I decided to marry him,” begin to pile upwards. The narrative ignores their two children almost as much as the protagonist does. She calls them, “the kids I never wanted.” They don’t get names, personalities or speaking roles. The young boy and girl are an afterthought because they are secondary to the object of the narrator’s obsession: her husband. The archetypes of miserable parent, cheating spouse and unstable obsessor are subverted by “My Husband” — in this book, it is not the guy’s fault. This is not a reluctant father with a mistress and mental health issues, this is a mother with all of these things. In “My Husband,” Ventura innovates. But she does so with an important asterisk. 15

Cate Burtner New, up-and-coming writers today are obsessed with obsession. It is all anyone seems to be writing about. But this is not what Ventura is going for. “My Husband” is not another trendy obsession novel in the vein of “Big Swiss” or “Yellowface.” It is a novel about how the narrator thinks, what makes her cry and what drives her to continue waking up in the morning. It paints the bleak portrait of a woman, unfulfilled, as opposed to the cinema of an obsessive wild goose chase. Often, obsession plots feel like a cop-out. While obsession may be a regular part of writers’ lives, I really don’t think it’s as prevalent in most daily routines or larger motivations as contemporary fiction makes it seem. In all these books, characters uproot their lives impulsively when they find another person they are “obsessed with.” This lies on the false presupposition that “obsession” is a fool-proof excuse for a person to act illogically, immorally and against their own interests. As if an obsession with something is the only thing that could drive a person (or a plot) toward any sort of action. There is something deeper in “My Husband.” The narrator is not just obsessed, she is plagued with mental illness and is drowning in the misery of her own precarious situation. At one point, she says that “65 percent” of her daily thoughts center around her husband. She is a cautionary tale, and can be seen descending into darkness day after day. She cries often, has very little enthusiasm for life outside of her marriage and has deep-rooted misogynistic strongholds that infect every corner of her life as a woman. I have come across reviews of the book tagging it as “thriller” or “horror.” Sure, it is a scary book — but it is not scary because the narrator is dangerous. She’s not, really. The book is scary because the narrator is miserable (and, as it becomes increasingly clear, suffering from mental illness). Having a character with intrusive thoughts or obsessive tendencies does not necessarily make a book a thriller or a horror story. We need to see an unrealistic and entertaining plot for that to be true. And I think there probably are real women who think like this narrator; also, this book doesn’t really have a plot (which is not a bad thing). Some reviews reference a “genre switch” toward the end, when the story seems to take a darker turn. But the novel is increasingly disturbing throughout, there is no shift — only a progression. “My Husband” resists trends and tropes. It is non flashy. There is some action, but at its core, it is about the progression of unhealthy thought from a dissatisfied woman. The narrator is not fangirl, she’s not a horror movie madman, she is just not okay. 16

THE COMPUTATION AND DATA SCIENCE COMPLEX (CODA) LUKE CLIFTON

Johannes Plenio | Unsplash 17

Luke Clifton

English Major Creative Writing emphasis

The Computation and Data Science Complex (CoDa) I woke up this morning, brushed my teeth, and hurried downstairs. When I opened up the fridge and looked inside, I found myself in a bit of a grumble. Empty, again. Frustrated, I went out to the dining room, where I saw Jon Levin and the entire Stanford Board of Trustees sitting and gnawing on tuition dollars next to an empty bowl of direct deposits. “Can you please pick up a building at the store. We haven’t had a new one in like two weeks,” I asked. They said that they’d think about it. I was frustrated. One might even go as far to say grumpy. So I sent in my mobile order to Philz. Fourteen minutes later I picked up my mobile order at Philz from a barista named Archangel. I thanked Archangel. Just after thanking Archangel, I questioned if I was ascending inside of the Forest Ave Philz. After a few hours of what may or may not have been ascension inside of the Forest Ave Philz, I drove to the Oval. I parked in a tow-away zone and walked to class. While I was walking to class, I spotted something out of the corner of my eye. Finally. The new building I’d been waiting my whole morning for. It’s called the Computation and Data Science Complex and this morning I decided to scrap class and only go to the Computation and Data Science Complex. As I got closer, I started to get the impression that I was being eaten alive by a massive entity of galvanized steel, glass panes, and faceless people coding on their 16inch MacBook Pros wearing athleisure only. I started to get a little anxious so I resorted to step 5 of my morning routine: selfsoothing. I repeated, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just the Computation and 18

Luke Clifton

Data Science Complex.” I don’t want to give away too many more details about my experience at the Computation and Data Science Complex. Your experience at the Computation and Data Science Complex is a special one and unique to you. Unfortunately for all of us, I can’t help myself. 1. If you find yourself with pink eye, a cold sore, or are just having a bad hair day, the Computation and Data Science Complex is the place for you. At the Computation and Data Science Complex, nobody will look you in the eye, let alone at your face. Take it from me: last time I was there, I thanked someone for holding the door for me. She looked back at me like I killed her entire family. Even if you do happen to have any basic human interaction at the Computation and Data Science Complex, stay calm and just remind yourself that “This, too, shall pass.” 2. It’s unclear which family donated the Computation and Data Science Complex. They didn’t bother attaching their last name. But based on the finishes of the Computation and Data Science Complex, the donor’s descendants will have no issue getting to join us here on The Farm. So if you see any TAP orders addressed to “Anonymous Donor”, make sure to thank them. 3. If you study humanities and worry that your major is becoming obsolete, next time you enter Margaret Jacks Hall, ask yourself: “Does Margaret Jacks Hall have three kitchens, a rooftop terrace, and an infinite glitch of portraitaddled study rooms?” Pro Tip: If you answered “no,” you might want to add “Getting replaced by AGI” to your list of 2025 ins. I’ll make sure to follow my review of the Computation and Data Science Complex with my review of Getting Replaced by AGI in 2025.

SUNSET HOLLOW MARGUERITE DEMARCO

Matej Pribanic | Unsplash

Marguerite DeMarco

English Major Literature emphasis

Sunset Hollow In Sunset Hollow’s verdant glade the tribe of Danu dwelt – Built a Fae Haven in a mortal Hill. A river danced through clover fields, Ambling through the wetlands that connect two worlds. A willow hung o’er the brook, to let through dappled light – A comfrey patch and foxglove field, Adorned the river either side. A single bridge dared yoke the banks, Two planks of weathered oak Not lightly crossed; for once in the beyond Of Tír na nÓg, there is no return. For centuries did Fair Folk cross and tend to mortal lands With love and generosity man failed to comprehend. But oh! That Haven fell; a savage race Of man did forced retreat. Heralded by banshee’s frightened cry Across the glade did sweep The Gaels rolled in like thunder clouds Brandished their flame and steel, Forced the tribe of Danu ’cross the clover field Away from sunny shores, over the dark stream. From the banks with curative comfrey, Where they dwelt for centuries To fatal foxglove’s side The Fae were forced to flee. The willow now is weeping; the oak bridge Never mighty, though weathered many storms Was broken irrevocably by mankind’s steely arm. Now only for a single night, just one eve ev’ry year On Samhain canst they return to see their land so dear No longer Tuatha dé Danann, no longer of this world. Gone the power over light and nature once they held, Though gained eternal life from foxglove’s undead shores. Oh! Mourn the Sunset Hollow where once you frolicked free; For ev’n without eternal youth was there eternal glee. 21

Marguerite DeMarco

Daoine Sidhe they now are called, Dwelling in invisible world. The one day that they come home To their lovely Sunset Hollow No fondness remains from the days of old. The Fair Folk lost all love for us, They’re hearts have gone cold.

IN THE BEGINNING JULIA GERSHON

Márcia Simões | Unsplash

Julia Gershon

Creative Writing Minor Prose subplan

In the Beginning I caught a woman smoking weed in a gas station bathroom last night, her sculpted face washed out by the fluorescents. No shame disrupted her holy catatonia when I found her. Instead she, ethereal amongst clouds of smoke, blinked and shifted over, leaving a spot for me next to her, against the piss-sticky wall. She offered me a hit, joint outstretched in the stale air, but thinking of hanging apples, I refused, settling for taking in her exhalations, wondering if she sent galaxies spiraling into the air each time her diaphragm contracted. Her breaths’ cadence was too much, so I focused on her hands: slender fingers, and a glowing sun tattoo at the base of her thumb. She was captivated by the moths swarming the buzzing lights. They’ve been here for ages she whispered, eyes wide. You know that? I hadn’t, before, but when her words met the air, I nodded, and as her gravity drew me in I found myself thinking about snakes and lambs, pretty girls and prettier angels. I stopped thinking

Julia Gershon

when she put her head on my shoulder, so easy and so heavy, and I wanted to cry, fix her, repent, maybe just burn forever. She spoke quietly, gospel for the damned: it’s all gone to shit. You know that?

“VERY FANCIFUL AND TROUBLESOME” OLIVIA JESSNER

Jacqueline Flock | Unsplash

Olivia Jessner

English Major Literature emphasis

“Very Fanciful and Troublesome”: Mr. Woodhouse’s Anti-Social Social Life An Excerpt

In Emma by Jane Austen, Emma’s father, referred to in the novel as Mr. Woodhouse, is a consistent yet confounding character. He and Emma live alone together for the entirety of the novel, and she feels a great sense of duty to him. As a character, Mr. Woodhouse offers complexity in the sense that he embodies elements of both the social and the anti-social. Within his bubble, which is encased by strict boundaries, Mr. Woodhouse is quite traditionally sociable, yet outside his bubble, he is reclusive, requiring a quiet life. With this paradox in mind, this paper interrogates whether he can be considered a social character and ultimately argues that he is an overarchingly anti-social character. Mr. Woodhouse exhibits this anti-sociability in his multifaceted aversion to the prominent visitation and ball scene in his community and in his linguistic unwillingness to engage in cooperative sociable interaction, a concept established by sociologist Georg Simmel. Despite Mr. Woodhouse’s anti-sociability, however, he is highly salient and beloved in his community, the members of which express concern for his well being and gamely plan their socialization around his aversions and reclusion. In giving Mr. Woodhouse such status, Austen argues that traditional sociability is not a requirement for high social status so long as a person has sufficient “friendliness of [their] heart” (Austen 65) and enough social privilege to secure their place in a community. In order to argue that Mr. Woodhouse is overarchingly anti-social, it is first necessary to evaluate the extent to which he is social, which is strictly within his established social bubble. One of the first things the narrator says about Mr. Woodhouse is that he “was fond of society in his own way” (79), introducing the readers to the idea that Mr. Woodhouse’s sociability is conditional: it exists insofar as it is on his own terms. Within this same paragraph, the narrator defines these terms: “He liked very much to have his friends come and see him . . . he could command his own little circle . . . he had not much intercourse with any families beyond that circle” (79). In other words, Mr. Woodhouse is happy to be social, so long as he is not forced to travel beyond his estate and so long as those he is socializing with belong to his circle. His sociability is exhibited in the fact that he can “command his own little circle,” indexing a general social participation and allure. To locate an example of Mr. Woodhouse’s sociability, we need merely to look at his reflections to Emma after a social event: “‘I hope every body had a pleasant evening,’ said Mr. Woodhouse in his quiet way. ‘I had . . . Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends’” (238). In this passage, Mr. Woodhouse reflects fondly on an evening of pure socialization, concluding that he 27

Olivia Jessner

had a “pleasant evening” himself. He even reflects on the conversational abilities of his friends, thinking fondly of conversing with them and concluding with the thought that he “like[s] old friends,” in other words, people with whom he is already very comfortable. These reflections are social ideas that reveal a love of sociable evenings spent agreeably chatting—provided the chatter occurs amongst “old friends,” of course. Understanding that Mr. Woodhouse exhibits conditional social tendencies, within his fixed boundaries, platforms my argument that he is, ultimately, an antisocial character. The first aspect of Mr. Woodhouse’s anti-sociability that this paper will investigate is his reclusion, which socially manifests in unwillingness to depart from his home to call on others, a common practice in the novel. In the society that Austen depicts in her novels, Britain in the early 19th century, “a great deal of social interaction amongst the wealthier classes . . . depended on visits” (Austen Society). Much of the novel itself revolves around Emma going to visit others in Highbury, or others coming to visit her. While we have learned that Mr. Woodhouse accepts and enjoys visitations to his estate, he does not reciprocally engage in visitation culture and strictly eats meals at his home, Hartfield. These proclivities are evidenced in the novel when Harriet comes to Hartfield for dinner; the narrator, in a parenthetical aside, remarks that Harriet came to Hartfield because “it was a very great event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out” (173). This interjection from the narrator not only establishes that Mr. Woodhouse prefers meals at home, but informs us of the great extent to which this idea is true. If Mr. Woodhouse were to go to another’s estate for a meal, it would be a “very great event;” in other words, it would be either extremely notable or due to extenuating circumstances. Through this narrative interjection, we understand that Mr. Woodhouse’s reclusion is both extensive and well-known to his community, such that the narrator can make a remark such as the one excerpted above and such that those who desire a meal with him must come to Hartfield. Further, on the rare occasion that Mr. Woodhouse engages in sociability away from Hartfield, these activities are plagued by a yearning for his home (191). Mr. Woodhouse’s attachment to his home manifests as anti-sociability because of the salience of visitation in his community’s social life; his strict homebodied tendencies prevent him from fully engaging with this social life and at times even prevent others from this engagement as well, inhibiting general socialization in Highbury. Another core aspect of Mr. Woodhouse’s personality that manifests as antisociability is his aversion to large gatherings. Several times throughout Emma, in a social event or the planning of one, Mr. Woodhouse’s distaste for events featuring more than a certain number of people is mentioned as an obstacle for a social gathering like a dinner party or a ball. These events are a cornerstone of socialization in the novel. The characters—other than Mr. Woodhouse—who plan them are always 28

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filled with excitement at the prospect, and they provide a convivial opportunity for the whole of Highbury. These gatherings also further the plot in several instances; for example, it is Mr. Knightley dancing with Harriet at a ball when no one else deigns to that prompts her to fall for him (491), and when the Eltons get married, Emma invites them over for a dinner party that results in her first meeting of Mrs. Elton (365). Planning this very dinner party, Emma runs into an obstacle: two extra people want to come to her dinner party. In reaction to this change of plans, the narrator recounts that “both father and daughter were disturbed by it happening so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could bear —and here would be a ninth . . . [Emma] comforted her father . . . by representing . . . that the increase of noise would be very immaterial.” (366). From this excerpt, we learn that Mr. Woodhouse has a clear boundary as far as how many interlocutors he can tolerate at a dinner party: eight. The flouting of this boundary results in a panic, as “his nerves could bear” only eight. Mr. Woodhouse’s limit is not based in reason or the status quo. Nine guests is no outlandish amount for a dinner party; parties at the time were “generally kept to under 12” (Wootton). His extreme panic at the idea of more hangs Emma’s whole social event in the balance, as it is to be hosted at Hartfield, and the owner of said property now opposes the event. If Emma were ultimately unable to mollify her father, the event would either have to be canceled, a person removed from the guest list, or occur with one of the hosts acutely upset. None of these three outcomes are pro-social. Generally, Mr. Woodhouse’s stalwart distaste for and inability to handle reasonably sizable social gatherings is unequivocally anti-social, another symptom of his overwhelming anti-sociability. Additionally, Mr. Woodhouse’s social interaction itself is frequently contrary to the spirit of sociable interaction, a concept established by sociologist Georg Simmel in “The Sociology of Sociability.” In this paper, he chiefly argues that “there is in all [human associations] a residue of pure sociability or association for its own sake” (Simmel 254) and that “while sociable interaction centers upon persons, it can occur only if the more serious purposes of the individual are kept out, so that it is an interaction not of complete but of symbolic and equal personalities” (254). In other words, interaction is only sociable insofar as both interlocutors leave out certain realities of life and of their personalities, the “more serious” realities. As sociolinguist Deborah Schiffren describes sociability, in periphrasis of Simmel, “sociability demands the temporary suspension of intrusions from the outside world of reality and from individual actors’ own worlds and realities” (Schiffrin 315). Simmel’s sociable interaction exists in a world of its own, where talk is for talk’s sake: “In sociability talking is an end in itself; in purely sociable conversation the content is merely the indispensable carrier of the stimulation, which the lively exchange of talk as such unfolds . . . thus sociability offers, as was said, perhaps the only case in which 29

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talk is a legitimate end in itself” (Simmel 259). In sociable interaction, there are no goals, ulterior motives, or agendas outside of talk. Further, Simmel posits that “the impulse to sociability distills, as it were, out of the realities of social life the pure essence of association, of the associative process as a value and a satisfaction” (255). So, again, reality is not a concern of sociable interaction; in this framework, the only reality that exists is the “essence of association,” the cooperative conversation between the social actors, as they exist in an “ideal sociological world” (257). Simmel’s “Sociology of Sociability” provides a helpful framework through which to evaluate Mr. Woodhouse’s sociability in interaction because so much of the interaction in Emma occurs under purely sociable conditions: at parties, at dinners, and in passing.

GRANDMA, A-MA ANNA 齊安 KIESEWETTER

Camille | Unsplash

Anna

齊安 Kiesewetter

Creative Writing Minor Prose Subplan

Grandma, A-Ma Grandma and A-ma sleep on opposite sides of the world in empty beds. Children long moved out. Husbands resting easy in the earth. Grandma’s home I picture easily: familiar walls, forgotten mail spread across the couch, overturned dog bowls and house plants sprawling from the porch to the edge of the wood. A-ma’s comes to me in memory, seven years and several versions of me prior: cold tile in humid air, painted scrolls upon rickety stairs, scattered toesteps of a tiny lizard crawling up the slanted wall. Grandma tells me she’s learning Mandarin in an online course. ‘A-ma.’ Is that me? I shake my head. You’re Grandma. A-ma is A-ma. I think of A-ma in her Japanese childhood, learning a new tongue. Taiwanese stripped from her throat. She didn’t make it past high school. Grandma went to Princeton. Not that it was easy, working long days in the shop, nights in Brooklyn College, writing applications in the minutes between till she made it where none of her family had before. Grandma never got her degree. Went on antidepressants in the year her mother died by suicide and my father was born. I wonder if there are words for such a thing in A-ma’s language. I wonder if I’ll ever know, every word spoken between us ushered through my mother, her daughter, as translator, mouthpiece and abbreviator. I know A-ma in tender white fish pulled from the bones, in bowls of glossy pork fat and chunks of bamboo. I know her in the stubbornness she passed down to her daughter. Grandma I get to know in more than the TV dinners in her refrigerator. I see Grandma when I blow out my birthday candles, handing me flowers at my recitals, every day in the hospital when Opa’s kidneys give out. My family is absent in every photo of A-ma my aunts post on Facebook, four of five children gathered at restaurants, weddings, funerals. Sometimes I wonder if A-ma will be there at my wedding. If she’ll ever know who I love. When I told Grandma I’m dating a woman she told me, Oh! I’d wondered if you leaned that way. I wonder if there are words for such a thing in A-ma’s language. I wonder what I am to her, more than her daughter’s white daughter. When I climb those rickety stairs once more, however many years it will be, I long to close the space across continents, across grandmother tongues. To know A-ma like I know Grandma, in her words. What does she see when she falls asleep? Is she, too, haunted by the image of her daughter crossing an ocean without looking back? 32

Anna

齊安 Kiesewetter

Here we are, these women and me, tethered between two shores.

ALWAYS BENITA KEMIGISA KISEMBO

Selin Keskin | Unsplash

Benita Kemigisa Kisembo

Creative Writing Minor Prose subplan

always

I. The Invitation The Invitation arrived four days before the wedding. The morning it came, Rowan did not leave her bed. Instead, she traced the letters of their names on the ivory card and memorized the curve of their smiles. At night, she dreamt of the abyss she has teetered in and out of for most of her life. This time, it was their hands still intertwined that pulled her under. Jonah insisted on not inviting Rowan to the wedding because it would be cruel, then four days ago, drove to the post office and mailed the invitation anyway. Jonah tells himself he did it because Rowan deserves the chance to say goodbye. But really, he hopes she can do what he cannot, stop the wedding and save him from himself. Jonah tells his fiancee, Monet, that the post office made a mistake. She sips her morning coffee, marvels at what a terrible liar he is, and smirks, “I saved her a seat at table 13.” Rowan decides on the third morning, a frozen spoon resting underneath her swollen eye and the invitation still sitting on the dresser. She books a red-eye flight, throws half her closet into a suitcase, and buys the black dress from Lilah’s that screams I dare you to look away. She is sure, no absolutely certain she has made the right decision, until she is staring at the empty middle seat beside her, remembering Jonah at her side the last time she left D.C. Rowan had thought they were heading back to Elmstead, Massachusetts, for her mother's birthday, but he was planning to propose underneath their old sycamore. Jonah’s hands were intertwined with hers, she was on the precipice of sleep, and he was reading The Murder of Roger Ackroyd not for the first or last time, and they had beamed at each other as if to say, I cannot believe you are mine. And now tears are streaming down her face, moths are fleeting around her gut, and not even her slow breaths in and out or the methodical biting of her nails can quell the racing of her heart. The flight attendants check on Rowan five times during the 1h 30 minute flight, they’ve asked if she needs a barf bag, or ginger ale or just to stretch her legs. She does not know how to tell them that it’s not the altitude making her sick. That the boy she has loved since she was fourteen, who 689 days ago was knelt before her, asking to spend the rest of his life with her will be married come tomorrow. So she offers them a strained smile and replies, “I’m fine, thank you” every time. After they land, Rowan runs into the nearest bathroom, and throws up her dinner. She stares at her reflection in the mirror, the redness of her eyes, the thick bags underneath them and the sheer misery radiating off her. When she was first 35

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diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder at eighteen, she named the place it dragged her to, the abyss. She knows she is sinking into it now, hears the quiet whisper saying she’s unlovable, feels the familiar pull that all through college dragged her into stranger’s beds, had her dropping to her knees in club bathrooms convinced that if she swallowed it would drive the emptiness away. But louder than the whisper is the memory of the fluorescent lights of the clinic, her mother, Maya’s, hand in hers, the cramping, the blood that did not stop for weeks and weeks, the way her body seemed to scream “What have you done to me?” So instead of reaching for a body, she brushes her teeth and tries to name what she is feeling with one word like her psychiatrist, Jodie encourages. She turns off the water, wipes her face, swallows the lump in her throat and decides her word is tired. She is so so tired. Rowan walks out of the airport then sits on the rusting bench underneath the Arrivals sign, picking the skin around her nails taking slow, deep breaths. The beatup Honda she learned to drive in pulls up, her father, Lionel, is grayer than she remembers, but his eyes are still the same mud brown, his voice the same low timber. Lionel beams, “Welcome Home Row,” and pulls her into an embrace that feels like snow days and ice cream summers. He asks about work, and her new charles spaniel named Rex, then glances at her and says, “Row, she’s really glad you’re home.” They both know he is lying. Maya would drag her off Rhode Island if she could. Rowan can picture her sitting in that tattered fuschia armchair, wringing her hands, fighting the urge to pick up the phone and ask how the flight was, if security was a hassle, and to tell her daughter for the hundredth time in twelve years, Let him go. But what Maya is thinking of as she sits on the fuschia armchair is Jonah’s mother, Davina, who has been by her side since that elementary school classroom in ‘80, and how neither of them could have imagined Jonah marrying anyone but Rowan. Lionel stops at the gas station three miles from their destination. Rowan spends an hour in the bathroom and returns a vision fitted in black. He says, “You look beautiful.” She gives him a half-smile that he knows means she does not feel it. They drive in silence. He is thinking about how she broke her arm on the swing set when she was ten, and Jonah cried like he could feel it. She is thinking of that Saturday two weeks ago when Jonah washed up on her doorstep, fell into her bed, whispered apologies she has heard since they were fourteen underneath their sycamore tree, but how by Monday he was engaged again. They arrive at Belcourt Castle in Newport, Lionel parks the car and tells her he loves her, and she replies, “I love you. Go home.” Rowan watches his car pull away and digs her nails into her palms to remind herself she is on solid ground. She walks towards the arched wood entrance, glances at the portrait of Jonah and Monet on the lace-covered easel, and opens the doors. 36

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II. The Ceremony The Ceremony will begin in ten minutes, according to the wedding program in Rowan’s hands. She sits in the leftmost back pew of the makeshift chapel and feels the guests eyes on her like lasers etching into her skin, there is Jonah’s younger brother Benji, who pushed her off the monkey bars when she was seven, chuckling in the front. And Jonah’s father, David, who will leave early, and is still, even after three divorces, glued to his cell phone. Rowan looks at the delicate ivory arch by the altar, the vines of peonies and roses, the severe looking priest in the center and wants to throw herself at the altar and weep and weep and weep. Jonah is facing the wooden hickory doors, his tux is sweat-soaked, his arms are linked with his mother, Davina’s, and the glass of Hennessy he had in the dressing room is working its way back up. His future without Rowan wraps its arms around his throat like a noose. Gone are the four years in their two bedroom apartment in The Lexington at Market Square, gone are reality tv marathons with her feet in his lap, gone is the sound she makes when he is in between her legs, gone is the laughter in her eyes that proves he is as funny as he claims. Jonah faces Davina and hoarsely whispers, “I’m going to be sick.” She ushers him to the bench by the doors and says, “You don’t have to do this.” He does not know how to tell her he must. How to say “Mom, I’m afraid I have too much of you and dad in me, that if I stay long enough I will turn love into something wicked.” So instead he abruptly stands and says, “I’m fine, wedding jitters they’ve passed.” And though Davina’s heart snaps in two, she does not push back, instead she takes a breath and waits for the doors to open. The wedding planner lifts her arms to cue the guests to rise. The pianist plays a C-major, and the first chords of Can’t Help Falling In Love ring through the room. The doors open. Davina, who Rowan has known as Auntie D since she could talk, is on Jonah’s arm, draped in a hand stitched sky-blue gown. They glide to the altar, then hug before Davina sits. Rowan stares at Jonah’s tailored charcoal suit, the pastel blue pocket square in his right pocket, and the always tattoo in her handwriting peeking through his sleeve. Their eyes meet. Jonah marvels at the dark umber of her eyes, the fullness of her lips, the curve of her hips and breathes easily for the first time since he left her bed two weeks ago. Rowan sinks into his deep mahogany eyes, she has seen the look on his face a million and one times, the first time when they were fourteen under the sycamore their mothers named Sid. Jonah feels the tears in Rowan’s eyes like a punch to his gut. He has left her six times in their twelve years and each time it nearly kills him. The suit collar tightens its grip on his neck, his heartbeat thunders in his ears and the floor below him is 37

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quicksand. He is certain if he stays on this altar it will crush her, crush them both. But he is also certain if he grabs her hand and flees Rhode Island, he will only be delaying the inevitable. One day they would sit across from each other at a dining table feeling nothing but hatred because little by little love can morph into something bitter and ugly until it is too far gone, he’d learned that young. Jonah cannot choose, his eyes bore into Rowans and he wills her to choose for him. Rowan sees the resignation in his eyes and swallows a biting laugh because Jonah thinks himself so noble, he is breaking her heart for her own good. The guests eyes are fleeting from her to him and back, each gaze a new nick on her flesh. She feels the heat wash over her face. Rowan has done this six times in their twelve years, willed him back to her, carried the weight of them until he returned, fought off the pitying stares and her mothers pleas and now he is asking her to choose for him. She is reminded of being eighteen the one summer she left him, and conjures the rage she has not felt since. It is that rage that she hurls towards him, eyes blazing and screaming, “No you choose.”

EQUINOX CHASE KLAVON

Julian Hochgesang | Unsplash

Chase Klavon

English Major Creative Writing emphasis

Equinox Morning rises alongside us, wanting to be desired, so we sit barefoot in the grass, let the wetness be. Fingers dig into soil. Nails blackening, water lapping, the dawn. I am afraid of losing whichever moment this is. We do not speak. Silence fills the gaps between my teeth until the splash of a catfish cuts the air cold. Suddenly, we are fat with thought. Mosquitos feed from my swollen ankles and I let them. It is August when she tells me that she is afraid to die. Night arrives too soon, wanting too to be desired, so we fold our bodies into an envelope addressed to God. I carve Hail Marys into her skin until it hardens. Time continues without asking. In another world we sit again in wet grass, anywhere but here. It is September when I watch my mother cry for the first time. We stall out in the parking lot of a convenience store, let the radio drone on. Neither of us listen. We don’t know who we are. Still, the light from a street lamp above shines just for us.

OF MONSTERS AND HUMANS MARCUS LINTOTT

Lee Jeffs | Unsplash

Marcus Lintott

Creative Writing Minor Prose subplan

Of Monsters and Humans Wei spoke: “I think we found our problem!” The creature’s head stood unnaturally shot up, suddenly two green eyes glowed, the creature let out a terrifying screech. Rem sighed: “A leshen.” Ana quickly dropped, sheathed her steel daggers and pulled out her silver ones, preparing for the leshen to lunge out at them. Wei furled his brow: “One leshen? That’s not terrible news for us!! Shouldn’t be a problem for groups of hunters though?” Suddenly more shrieks could be heard, the birds flew away in panic as the trees swayed. Suddenly two more leshens appeared, one with a green faded cloak and one with a black cloak. “Okay, that makes more sense.” said Wei. The brown cloaked leshen jumped at them, only to be blocked by Rem’s sword, its claws pushing against the blade in agony. The green one lunged down towards Ana. She froze, but suddenly a bronze spear flew in front of her stabbing it squarely in the body, pinning it to a nearby tree. Ana looked to see Wei’s bracelet shining as a new spear appeared in his hand. Wei shouted: “Ana!! Defend the wolf! We’ll take care of the leshens.” Wei charged the leshen he pinned to the tree, preparing to swing sideways to behead it, only for the green cloaked leshen to pull out the spear and pull itself into the forest. Wei chased after it into the forest. The black cloaked leshen lunged down towards the wolf, only for Ana to throw her dagger at it, squarely hitting it in the neck. It shrieked in pain, shooting out so many tendrils in multiple different directions, destroying anything it touched. Ana threw her dagger at the wolf, teleporting to the wolf and spinning the blade to cut through the leshen’s tendrils. The other blade still in its throat, Ana teleported to it, avoiding the tendrils and spun the blade, slicing fully through the leshen and severing its head from its body. Ana panted as she caught her breath. 42

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She looked up to see Rem and the brown cloaked leshen fighting. The leshen continuously lunged and shot tendrils at him, but Rem was spinning his blade so fast that it sliced up each tendril as he ran closer to it. As he got closer, slashing apart any tendrils, Rem pulled out a thin vile with orange liquid. He chugged it, and then rushed the leshen. The leshen panicked and shot out as many tendrils as it could, only to see it did nothing. Rem sliced through each one, and once he was a foot away from the leshen’s face, he stuck out his hand and shouted: “Igni!” and a blast of fire shot from his hand. The leshen caught fire, screeching in pain as it tumbled to the ground, clawing and dragging itself in any direction it could trying to escape the flames. Finally, it stopped and burned away. Ana stood there as she watched Rem pick himself up. “That was a pretty cruel way to kill it.” Rem looked at Ana: “Leshens have only one purpose: to kill anyone in its territory. These creatures feel no remorse, they are monsters. And there’s only two ways to kill a leshen: behead it or burn it. I chose the easier path.” Rem wiped off the black blood on his silver sword and sheathed it. Ana then asked Rem a question: “If that was a leshen, how come there was more than one? I thought they were territorial creatures?” Rem grunted: “That’s been concerning me too.” Suddenly a boom happened, a flash of light, and then Aoi walked back into the clearing with Wei. In Aoi’s mouth was the green leshen’s head, slowly being burnt to a crisp. Wei had his spear over his shoulder and with Kellik on the end of his spear. “Well, glad that’s over with.” He turned to Ana: “Where’s Carma?”

Marcus Lintott

Suddenly they heard trees falling behind them and heard a loud: “HEADS UP!!!!” They turned, readying their weapons, the sound of trees falling, and then a large dark mass flying at them. This giant cloaked creature, a giant leshen fell from the sky, crashing before them. Its cloak more tattered, its body the size of a dragon. Its hood more jagged as if its face had been smashed in multiple times. Its screeches too loud, causing all of them to cover their ears. “Rem, how do we beat that big of a leshen?” Rem smiled: “There’s only two ways to kill a leshen…” Unsheathing his silver sword and quickly drinking a vile. Wei sighed: “I was afraid you would say that.” He spun his spear, as Kellik disappeared, becoming a golden crackling tattoo trailing down his left arm. Wei’s left hand crackling with electricity. Aoi growling as she grew, her tails flaming. Ana spun her daggers: “Is this what you guys face all the time?” Wei and Rem shouted: “Yep.” as the leshen raced at them. Wei stuck out his hand and shot lightning at the leshen, only for it to tank the hit. Rem charged it, swinging his sword carefully, the leshen spun around Rem, dodging every strike. Shooting larger thorned tendrils, it wrapped around Rem. Rem struggled as the thorns pierced his armor, but was cut free as Ana threw her daggers and teleported to him, spinning herself fast enough for the daggers to slash apart the tendrils. They fell crashing as Wei and Aoi attacked. Wei throwing electrified spears at it and Aoi breathing fire, lighting the leshen’s tendrils on fire. No matter what they did, this leshen wasn’t showing any pain. Wei shouted: “Anyone got a plan? We can’t seem to hurt this thing!” Ana shouted back: “We need to attack it together; too many attacks will limit its movement. Then maybe we can land a blow on its head.” They all nodded, Wei and Aoi started coordinating their long-range attacks keeping the leshen in between them. Ana threw her daggers, aiming to keep the leshen’s attention focused on her. Rem popped another potion as he ran to cut the leshen off from the woods. He stuck his hand up and shouted: “AARD!” Suddenly a forceful telekinetic wave shot towards 44

Marcus Lintott

the leshen, knocking it away from the woods and towards Ana and Wei. The leshen screamed, shooting out even more tendrils, capturing them all. It pulled Ana close to its face and shrieked in her face. Ana closed her eyes, realizing this might be her last day out in the field. Suddenly she heard shouting: “LEAVE MY TEAM ALONE!” The hunters turned to see Carma rushing at the leshen. Her arms covered in black and red stains, she jumped up, and with a full force baseball swing smashed her mace straight into the body of the leshen, its body splintered like broken wood. The leshen flew, crashing into the rocks around the cave. It dropped the hunters due to the powerful, stunning blow. It laid still then suddenly was back up, charging the hunters. Carma shouted: “Don’t let up!!” charging at the leshen again. Everyone nodded and kept on rushing it. Ana turned her attention to her captain, she saw the exhaustion and pain in Carma’s movements. Ana stuck out her arms, her hand glowing. “Gnilaeh thgil enihs thgirb, evas meht dna ecnahne meht.” Suddenly all their bodies started glowing a bright yellow. Ana jumped a smidge, her healing spells had never been this powerful. All of Fox Squad smiled: “We chose the right healer.” The leshen screamed. Ana turned towards the leshen: “And we aren’t losing now!!” The leshen was trapped, its back against the literal wall of stone. It shrieked one last time, only to see its life flash before its eyes. Carma jumped high into the air, spinning it in her hands. She shouted as she brought down the mace full force into the leshen’s head, splattering its head and body into mush. Rem quickly shouted “Igni!” and lit the remaining parts of the body on fire. Aoi breathed more fire on it to ensure not a single bit of the leshen survived. And with a final shriek, it collapsed.

EKPHRASISM ULA LUCAS

Paul Chinn | San Francisco Chronicle

Ula Lucas

Creating Writing Minor Prose subplan

Ekphrasism Recently, I went to a rodeo; it was brutal, but I heard a lot of things I had never heard before. Now, everything boils down to BTR (before the rodeo) or ATR. I never intended to be one of those people who is very sentimental To: From: Subject: Regretful Absence from Tonight's Dinner The traditional events of rodeo are: tie-down roping, team roping, steer wrestling, steer roping, saddle bronc riding, bareback bronc riding, bull riding and barrel racing Yesterday, at the museum, I showed a group of fourth graders a painting called “Half a Dam.” The subject of my tour is irony and abstraction. Pictured is a half a dam (if such a thing can be called such a thing) with “HALF A DAM” carved into its surface. There is also a fish literally out of water, but appearing to viewers unnerved, as if cut directly from the river and glued to the air. Once, a conservationist told me that she could spend a whole week on the subject of mannequins. I’ve told you this already, but I didn’t like how much my friends enjoyed the rodeo. On April 11th, 2017, Teju Cole’s photography column included the phrase “oblique responses.” He was describing the work of Shimpei Takeda and Tomoki Imai, who made photographs in the aftermath of Japan’s 3/11 disaster. In the case of disaster or otherwise, I think poetry is often an “oblique response.” I am feeling highly described today. pentimento I asked the fourth graders about where they saw humor in the piece. And the boy with glasses raised his hand and said, “I think this painting is about agony.” concept: a man (or woman) travels by train across a black and white universe where 47

Ula Lucas

banal revolution. And then he goes to see a jellyfish.

Some people have a way of hoarding all the funny in the room for themselves. Right now, my friend (21) is seeing a man (40) he met at a gay club on Christopher Street. The man calls him son, which my friend does not like, and asks him to describe what he’s wearing for the day, which he does. We did look good in our cowboy hats though. Next week, I am meeting with the director of frames and gilded surfaces. There will be a beautiful elephant in the room.

BLOOD MUSIC DIVYA MEHRISH

Lorenzo Ranuzzi | Unsplash

Divya Mehrish

Creative Writing Minor Prose subplan

Blood Music You are born into a name your mother still cannot pronounce, two syllables reeking of your father, a discordant echo of swollen magnolia skies. You want to be Indian but are never taught how. Instead, you are taught to slurp sunsets with rolled Rs, Italian the color of the voice that tastes like your origin story. The architecture of your name embodies a contradiction: Divya Serena: divinity usurped by serenity, a selfbetraying texture. I am talking about crushed bouquets of vowels, perpendicular interrogation, the surrender of silence. I am talking about bruised persimmons, their bitter tenderness, memories that forget where they have been touched. I am talking about the aching in your body, the loneliness, the muscularity of hope. You may not always believe in God, but you have permission to worship the catharsis of your parents’ gift to you — the harmonly of a shared prayer. If you ferment the syllables in saliva and swallow as though not inflamed by the blood music molassing in your throat, you might hear a throbbing that refuses logic, that can swaddle you and carry you home.

HOUND & CROW KRISTOFER ROLAND NINO

Brice Cooper | Unsplash

Kristofer Roland Nino

English Major Creative Writing emphasis

Hound & Crow An Excerpt

Hound & Crow nestled their bodies under the hungry hole in the roof, where only vestiges of a skylight clung, teeth surrounding a black maw of stars above. This was compromise—she wanted the winds and the night, while he grumbled about the elements. They had kicked away shattered glass, laid their sleeping mats beside the dried husk of a fountain—no water, no lucky coins left. But with their mats on top an overgrown carpet of honeysuckle and ivy and grassy tiles? Close enough to be homey. In this place, Crow stared at those marble pillars standing with nothing left to hold, and she imagined them to be trees. Hound laid with his back to the fountain, guarding it like it was a dying bonfire. Sometimes, when they were lying prone like this, when chance rays of the moon’s half-light painted their skin a subtle silver, she’d find her hands grabbing at his, bringing his fingers up to to her mouth. She’d curl all of his fingers but leave one or two pointing and trace them up and down her face. Not the soft part of his finger, no, but his nail and the nasty weathered calluses where skin cracked, and she’d run that dead skin all over. She’d feel a squawking kinda laugh ease out of her when they skated her smile lines, scraped her wrinkles, her eyelids, the corners of her mouth, and the ridges of her teeth. Too sharp to be a tickle, but something. Crow liked something. The shadows cast by moonlight made the two of them almost unfamiliar to each other, the simple grooves of their skin becoming something new. Then those beaded bracelets on her arms would rattle. Loudass, she’d grip too hard and lug him by the arms and sling them over herself—hefty, dragging things that could slug a man out cold. She’d joke that Hound was a man held together by nothing but scar tissue, meat, and sheer spite. “Quit it,” he’d say. Never too loud, but deep, the kinda rolling deep that hit you in your feet and traveled up your spine before you even realized. To anybody else, Hound made sure that utterance was the end. But Crow knew Hound’s tells. And Hound didn’t mind the game. He’d let her tug and prod. Puppeteer his cold hands with her touch. And he’d rumble and groan. He’d never admit it, but that was the game, wasn’t it? Calluses, carapace, and leather—that hard shit always just covered up the soft stuff. Because if eyes could twinkle, Crow knew his were made out of snow. Corny as fuck, sure, but the powdery kind that reflected a light that could blind, and that smallest bit of shine betrayed his sternness. He didn’t pull away from her unless it was one of those nights… Like tonight. “God, you’re such an old man about things,” she said as he simply turned away from her, his face close enough to kiss the base of the fountain instead. Things, things, things. The echo in the atrium rang her voice out like there were dozens of her. He 52

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grunted a wordless response that did not echo. Be still. A noise too solemn even the world did not dare repeat it. Hound didn’t mind the idea of being snow, or stone, or a mass of old bones. Old dog. Sounds peaceful. He could sleep easy that way. “C’mon, don’t be like that, babyyy. Is this about the destination? I’ll be goooood,” Crow preened. Batted lashes, puckered, and gyrated her hip with a hoarse crackle. “If you don’t wanna go to Paradise just tell me already. If it’s too far or too deadly or too stupid, tell me and we’ll dial back—c’mon say something. That’s it?” That was, in fact, it. Hound savored the silence. Sugar on his tongue. Crow snatched a pebble and hurled it at his head. It missed. With that, she turned to lay facing the other direction. Loudly. With her whole body and all that came with it. Metal hooks and soda tabs and bottle caps and the rows and rows of beaded bracelets choking her veiny arms and tangling her graying hair, all that clanging harmony that reminds her ears that they could still be startled. Crow was not a hoarder, nuh-uh, don’t listen to the constant crinkling as she tried to sleep with her cargo jacket. Cargo pants. Cargo boots. Bulging pockets suffocating with stained Hello Kitty stationary and those stupid plastic pizza toppers and pieces of dolls’ limbs and maybe somewhere a polaroid of the two of them. Just one. Hound, on the other hand, was almost bare. His bulky frame and backpack were already enough, he had enough friction with the calluses and a bad knee. Gimme less. Coat. Steel toes. Pants. Belt. Clothing had to be slick when he was built with such bulk. Carried enough shit inside. This place’s interior was fancy and ruined enough that they’d made an afternoon out of it. Here, they’d found briefcases packed with weathered pamphlets, dead rats, broken windows, y’know… the works. Couldn’t spot no food and no weapons—but Crow didn’t care. Crow had some fun sitting in the big chair at the front of one of the rooms. She slammed her fists on the desk. “I’m the big boss now, better pay up pretty boy!” Hound had stared up at her, mouth almost twisting into something resembling a grin. “You mean the judge.” “I know, I know, whatever, I’m as old as you.” Her hands grappled for a gavel, found nothing, and bawled themselves up to slam the desk again. “This place is a bust. But it’s halfway to Paradise, huh? I’ll be damn impressed if it turns out it’s still stocked up. You just know I’ll be twirling my hair and skipping around like a stupid little girl, don’t you?” At that, Hound had left his bench without a word. Crow had frowned. What’s his problem? Now the day’s haul laid inside her jackets, backpacks, and in piles around her, little molehills of scrap and shit. But they were her molehills. Her eyes narrowed at each of them and when she was satisfied with their shapes, saw them as toothy city 53

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skylines rising from the ground, she laughed and made noisy passes at sleep. Hound opted for dead silence instead. Crow tossed back and forth on top of trinkets, on top of a mat, on top of plants, on top of a cold hard deadass floor, contorting her limbs to find the perfect spot to pass out, but her hair got stuck in her mouth and her leg was still so itchy so she clawed it over and over, scritch scritch, with her nails with those little black crescents and— “Shhhhhhhhhh,” he said. Crow shushed. She drifted into sleep that was far too quiet. … When she awakened, old bones creaking, shoulder almost bruised, she found a snout in her peripheral, nose deep in her backpack. The breath was hot. It smelled of mangy gore. Stale saliva. Crow screeched and that animal darted back into the shadows, and she was on her feet, and there were eyes. Too many eyes. On the second level up above, and behind the railings, and out behind garbage cans. Coyotes? Strays? She heard them growling, circling, true animals. Hound was only waking, only trying to get up on his feet. And he already knew there was foolishness in his body, Hound pawing for a switchblade, itching for new scars, always scars. But he was heavy, slick with the weight of nightmares, oh, they both knew it. Even big hands tremble. And the big fall harder. Don’t fall, Hound. Don’t. But when did his body ever listen to his prayers? Crow let out a whimper as she saw him wobble, struggle to stand on that bastard knee—popping, burning, backstabbing knee. Old dog. The eyes of the many got excited, willing to get friendlier. So she gazed out around the atrium for something else. She eyed the piles she’d made, scattered across the floor by nosy beasts, nothing but puddles of shadow. A pistol, no bullets. Useless shit, so useless. She sweated and she shivered as her eyes blossomed with an unexpected wetness. No, no, no, Hound goddamnit. Goddamn me. Crow stilled herself, Crow listened. She heard the whistle of wind and the approaching steps all around her, chills striking her joints. She heard the blood in her ears and the croak struggling to crawl out her throat. And then she began to howl. Barking, gargling, sputtering, she inflamed her body, tried her hardest to be something bigger, nastier—that’s what they did with wolves, right? Show them you were savage, too. More like a monkey than any canine, she raised her arms and flapped her heavy jacket fabric, pebbles and keys splaying out, clattering and careening on the floor, loud like firecrackers blasting some dumb kid’s hand off. She hopped, rolled, thrusted—anything short of flight—and the moonlight bathed her body, and long shadows danced along the grassy floors. A frantic rhythm contorted her face into a rictus masque, but even in this, she was vast and feathered and 54

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almost-free, cackling out an ugly melody that went on past what her old lungs were capable of. The eyes of the many left them, as quiet as they came. But Hound’s half-awake eyes didn’t leave her. Take her in. His eyes swallowed Crow up inside themselves, pooled her moonlight into their crevices, into their faults. Hound staggered. In a misstep, he buckled and bashed his bad knee right onto the floor. Pray for strength. Gritting teeth, his wide hands grabbed and found purchase on the edge of the stone fountain, gripping onto the curling shapes. With leverage, he heaved himself up onto the fountain. Sing forever. From that place half-propped by ivy-choked stone, and he never looked away from the body rolling in moonlight, and his mouth trembled but soon eased open, and he began to cry or scream, and Hound & Crow sang the song only the two of them knew the words to.

DOWN THE ROAD NATALIE RODRIGUEZ

Natalie Rodriguez

English Major Creative Writing emphasis

Down the Road 7:13 PM • Baton Rouge, LA Glass shards glisten in the dying sunlight—ruby, citrine, quartz—a rock collector’s dream strewn across three lanes of frozen traffic. At the edge of the wreck, miraculously upright, sits a single shoe. Earlier that Day • 8:04 AM • Gainesville, FL A 2001 Jeep Cherokee lumbers along with the morning traffic, stuffed to the brim with boxes, three suitcases, and a barely-functioning Vizio TV that may or may not turn on when plugged in. The Jeep’s driver, Theodore Jones, or Theo, as he prefers to be called, has the AC on full blast and Led Zeppelin’s “Going to California” playing at a reasonable volume. A Dunkin iced coffee sits to his right, lukewarm despite the frigid temperature of the vehicle, only three sips remaining. In the passenger seat across the center console, Emilia Garcia sits with her feet tucked beneath her and a red Buccaneers blanket pulled up to her chin to conserve as much heat as possible. She looks out the lightly fogged window through the eye of a smiley face she drew two minutes ago. It sits next to the smiley face from five minutes ago which is slowly transitioning back to opaque. Outside, the swamp blurs past, each frame identical to the last. It’s freezing. Emilia is not brave enough to ask Theo to turn down the AC. It’s not that she doesn’t like Theo or that she is afraid of him, necessarily. She did, after all, willingly agree to go on the road trip, though at the moment, she cannot recall exactly why. It took nearly eight months and a circle of mutual friends for her to take him seriously. Theo is sweet and gentle, quiet but friendly. A careful friend. Emilia is quiet, too, but not very friendly. Not as careful. She worries that by asking him to please allow her toes a few minutes to defrost, she may make him annoyed and that by making him annoyed, he may no longer want to be her friend, and that would make the rest of the road trip, which they are only two hours into, very awkward. So, Emilia does not say anything. Instead, she draws another smiley face. 9:12 AM • New Orleans, LA Amanda Thurston is late for work. Not late enough to jeopardize her position, 57

Natalie Rodriguez but late enough that an image of her bitchy boss’s disapproval is burned into the backs of her eyelids. In her head, Amanda formulates a response. It must be something good. Car battery died? Overused. Overslept? Unacceptable. Couldn’t find her keys? Amanda lays her head on the steering wheel. The truth is, she got into a screaming match with her five-year-old over the importance of wearing two socks to school. “But I only want to wear one!” Reese had shouted, throwing her second sock across the living room where the family dog promptly retrieved it and retreated down the hallway. Amanda put a hand on her forehead. She was starting to develop a terrible headache. “Reese, my darling, this is not a choice. You have to wear two socks. Everyone does.” “But why?” “Because that’s the way things are!” Her voice had risen more than she intended, and Reese began to wail loudly enough to shake the family portrait hanging on the wall. It was an impressive feat for someone so small. “Can you please be quiet?” Amanda yelled. “Mommy’s head hurts.” This did not help. Eventually, she gave up and shut herself in the master bedroom where the dog was busy shredding the sock in a corner. Amanda waited for the screaming to stop. When it finally did, both mother and daughter got into the Honda Pilot and made their way to school, only three socks between the two of them. Traffic inches off the freeway and into the city. Amanda taps the horn a few times as if that will urge the cars in front of her to disappear. Someone reaches an arm out their window and flips a bird back at her. Perfect. She honks again. The problem with the truth about Amanda’s morning is that her boss, Gloria, will find it to be an unworthy excuse as well. Gloria, despite being a woman with a career of over twenty years, seems to believe that women belong at home. She does not tolerate any mention of Reese or the challenges of motherhood. Any time Amanda complains, Gloria holds up a hand and tells her that she doesn’t have time, that perhaps Amanda is taking on too much with this job. It does not matter that Amanda and Reese are adjusting to the challenges of kindergarten. Gloria will not hear it. As Amanda pulls into the parking lot of the sad beige building where she works as a secretary, she decides to go with the battery story. It will have to do. 10:18 AM • Tallahassee, FL Theo is hopelessly in love with Emilia. He has been in love with her since June when they said goodbye at the airport after their first year of college, and she agreed 58

Natalie Rodriguez to be his pen pal over the summer. He hadn’t expected her to say yes. Letter-writing wasn’t exactly the preferred method of long-distance communication for most of their generation. Still, an eternal optimist, Theo handed Emilia a letter just as they were about to part ways at security. He tapped the front and looked at her intently. “My address. Write to me if you can, if you want to.” Emilia scowled at the letter for a moment. She had a tendency to scowl at everything, even when she was in a good mood. Theo wasn’t sure what mood she was in as she took the paper. Then she looked up at him and grinned. Emilia rarely smiled with teeth, and Theo felt a blush crest the back of his neck. He reached up to rub it away. “Pen pals? You must really like me, Theodore Jones.” The blush continued to spread and he hoped she hadn’t noticed. “Hey, I’m just being practical. You can’t burn all your bridges at the end of the school year. I think we both need at least one friend going into the summer.” It was true. Both Theo and Emilia had ruined just about every relationship they’d developed over the past nine months. “Fair enough.” Emilia raised onto her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around Theo’s neck. “I’ll see you around, Theo.” He momentarily debated the pros and cons of kissing her and ultimately decided against it. “I’ll see you around, Emilia.” She did write. The first letter arrived in the mail a week later, addressed to Theo in large, looping script. He wrote back immediately. Then, in his second letter, he asked if she wanted to do a road trip with him at the end of the summer to bring his car out to school. Once again, he didn’t expect her to say yes. Once again, she surprised him. Theo picked Emilia up at the Tampa airport three days ago. Instead of emerging from the air train with the other passengers from her flight, she opted to sneak around and surprise Theo with a whispered “boo!” He laughed, startled, and offered her a side hug which seemed like the most appropriate greeting. They settled quickly into an itching silence, and Theo struggled to squash the awkwardness. He’d spent the entire summer talking to her over text, FaceTime, and through their letters, yet he found himself unsure of what to say. He maneuvered Emilia’s suitcase between clusters of travelers, navigating the airport with a deftness that only a local would have, not realizing that her shorter legs and lack of familiarity made it difficult for her to keep up. Then they stepped out of the airport, and Emilia visibly sagged beneath the weight of a Florida summer sun. “Jesus Christ,” she gasped. “You really weren’t exaggerating when you said it was hot.” “I told you your Seattle summers can’t compare.” 59

Natalie Rodriguez Emilia shook her head, fanning herself uselessly. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt air this thick. It’s hotter than— Texas!” Without warning, she punched his arm, effectively dissipating the awkwardness. “Ow,” Theo grunted, rubbing the spot. “What was that for?” “Texas,” Emilia repeated, gesturing to the license plate mounted on the front of a Bronco parked a few spaces from Theo’s Jeep. “What does Texas have to do with you punching me?” “The license plate game,” she said as if that cleared things up. “The what?” “You don’t know what the license plate game is?” Theo stared at the Texas plate, hoping that it might reveal the secret. The bracket said UT Arlington Mom but provided no further clues. “Every time you see an out-of-state plate, you can punch me. Every plate only gets one hit. If you punch me for a plate I already got you for, I get to punch you back. Georgia.” She punched him again. “Hey, no fair, I’m still learning!” He held his hands out defensively. “Fine, fine. Truce until we get to your house. Then it’s on.” She’s punched him thirty-six times since then. But so far, that has been the only physical touch between them. Theo had hoped there would be more, that there was some deeper meaning to the road trip, that Emilia would show some sign of sharing the same feelings he has for her. He is willing to be patient. They have nothing but time. Every few minutes, Theo glances over at Emilia. She sings along to ABBA’s “Money, Money, Money,” her hands swinging wildly as she flings imaginary dollar bills, the Buccaneers blanket that he wisely threw in the Jeep at the last minute wrapped around her waist. Theo turned down the AC a while ago when he noticed her shivering, and like a snail after being poked, she slowly emerged from her shell. Theo tells himself that this is a good sign. He smiles to himself. 11:34 AM • Baton Rouge, LA Bud Lavigne checks his phone for the third time in five minutes. Thirty-three outgoing calls. Zero missed. When Sasha told him to “Get the fuck out of my house, and don’t come back!” this morning, she sounded pretty serious. Still, Bud is not the type to give up so easily. He loves her and she loves him (even if she claims the opposite). They’re high school sweethearts, and he is going to propose to her any day now (or so he has been telling himself for the last three years). Just as soon as he can afford a ring. Besides, this is not the first time Sasha has kicked him out. It happens 60

Natalie Rodriguez every few months when she gets annoyed at him for being “a lazy ass who sits around all day doing nothing” (her words, not his) while she works all day, every day as a nurse at St. Elizabeth to pay the bills. Sasha’s annoyance usually peaks when she returns home and Bud “can’t even be bothered to heat up leftovers for dinner which even an eight-year-old can do” (again, her words). He doesn’t bother to explain that he has also been busy working (scrolling through job listings on Indeed which is essentially the same thing) or that she is just as capable of heating up the leftovers since, as she said herself, “it only takes two goddamn minutes.” This time is different, though. Her declaration was seemingly unprompted. When Bud woke up, Sasha was lying on her side with her head propped in her hand, looking down at him with a blank expression. “I’m done with this,” she said, voice perfectly calm. “I want you out by nine.” Bud blinked at her, his mind still stuck somewhere between what she just said and the dream he was having about driving along the bayou in a 1967 Camaro, his tires floating a few inches off the ground. “I’m sorry, what was that?” “We’re done. Pack your things.” With that, Sasha got out of bed and crossed their studio to the free-standing stove, where she started making breakfast. Pancakes for one. She couldn’t even be bothered to share. He spent the next two hours trying to convince Sasha to change her mind. The conversation went something like this: What did I do? It’s not what you did, it’s what you don’t do. What don’t I do? Anything. Not this again. Get out. When Bud refused to pack his things, Sasha began throwing them out onto the lawn, something Bud thought was awfully cliche. He scampered through the wet grass after his discarded clothes and bottle cap collection, sweating his ass off even though the sun was barely up. “You have to give me one example. You can’t just go saying things without proof!” “Proof? You want proof, why don’t you sit down and take a nice long think? Maybe then, you’ll find some proof.” Sasha’s voice rose sharply, startling some chickadees that were roosting in the magnolias. A neighbor sipping coffee on her porch made eye contact with Bud and he waved sheepishly, acutely aware of the fact that he was still wearing only his boxers. “Sasha, can you please stop yelling? You’re causing a scene.” “I’m causing a scene?” With that, she threw his truck key, turned on her heel, and stormed back into the apartment, locking the door behind her. It’s been three hours, and Sasha has not answered a single call. Bud wonders if she’s sleeping with someone else. This, he conceives, is the only plausible explanation. Deciding that he has come to the truth, Bud manages to wait an extra seven minutes before calling Sasha again.

THIEF CHAPTER 1 DIYA SABHARWAL

János Venczák | Unsplash

Diya Sabharwal

English Minor

Thief, Chapter 1 Sara Naidu had her life all planned out at 16: she was going to find fulfillment through a career she loved, and then eventually find money through marriage. She called it “subversive feminist.” She was going to follow her dreams, be a badass career woman, and then find economic success through marriage – but only because capitalist structures precluded economic success through novel-writing, which was going to be her career of choice. She saw marriage, accordingly, as a way to subvert such capitalistic conventions. So she spent her senior year of high school at work – dreaming, putting her ideas into her pretty notebooks, and fantasizing about her future as an artist in San Francisco. She, like all female writers before her, read Slouching Towards Bethlehem once and knew immediately that Joan Didion’s is the life she would spend a lifetime emulating. Her mother, Mrs. Naidu, was in on her scheme of marrying rich and always encouraged her to dress pretty and sit with her legs crossed, insinuating that that would help them achieve their goal. Mrs. Naidu was unmarried (despite her deceptive choice of name prefix, adopted just because she thought it made her name sound more mature). She had faced a lot of struggles in her life as a spinster, and she wanted a different kind of life for her daughter. They were never well off, but Mrs. Naidu took care of Sara in every possible way. Every time she went into the Karol Bagh market she would always look for new dresses for her daughter before she even thought about new dresses for herself. In looking for a husband, of course, Mrs. Naidu would pick the best of them for her daughter, too. But Sara’s shopping-of-choice was far more off-kilter than the dollsy dresses her mother gifted her. Some of her favorite Sunday afternoons were spent in the Chor Bazaar in the oldest part of Delhi – literally, “Thief’s Market.” The Chor Bazaar was named that way because, legend had it, the street hawkers at that bazaar sold stolen goods – and that’s why it was dirt cheap. Sara would buy her favorite books in bulk from there – especially because, in addition to being cheap, that part of Delhi also had access to the most blasphemous pieces of writing, because unlike the bougier parts, it had no moralistic scruples. So once in a while, Sara would camouflage her female gender and tiny, 5 foot 4 size under her baggiest clothes and venture into the filthy, crowded, and deeply unsafe terrains of the Chor Bazaar to find some spicy Manto or Marx to indulge in. She did well in school, considering her femininity and her very middle-class upbringing, and general uninterest in pursuing a “real career,” as noted by her mother. But because she was a fast reader, she was able to get through most of her 63

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textbooks fairly quickly and found that a bit of effort could get her a good amount of external validation, which she loved and eventually grew to crave. She never looked at any boys in high school, either, which saved her much time to spend on intellectual pursuits instead. Falling in love was never part of the life she’d planned out for herself. Finding a partner to share her life with, on the other hand, was paramount on her and her mother’s list of life goals. Accordingly, after her 19th birthday, Mrs. Naidu picked out a suitable boy for Sara to meet. Her criteria were simple: The husband must be a wealthy engineer or doctor, so that Sara can live comfortably. If he were to be an American citizen or H1-B visa holder, that was even better – Sara had wanted to live in San Francisco her whole life, and marriage was the most surefire way to immigrate there. The guy should be a bit older, too – in his late twenties or thirties, perhaps. Having an older husband, Mrs. Naidu reasoned, will help Sara get settled in life much faster. So she put in ads in the matrimonial pages and on matchmaking apps and services, and the options trickled in. Sara had been working hard on appearing beautiful and marriageable for the past 3 years, and it showed. Indian men were seduced by her lithe coffee-brown legs and her athletic shape, and the way the ad’s accompanying pictures depicted her as sitting, laughing, on top of a kitchen counter wearing an oversized t-shirt – a manufactured image of the Indian “Cool Girl” of the century. In reality, the photoshoot was so staged and “intentionally unintentional” that the kitchen counter she was sitting on wasn’t even part of her own house. Her mother insisted they go for a photoshoot to their wealthier cousins’ house, because “wealthy men want to marry girls from similar backgrounds.” Mrs. Naidu wanted a good marriage for her daughter and was willing to go to any and all lengths to get her there. Thus, those pictures were staged, taken, and then uploaded – and then Sara’s charm worked its magic from there. The matches, accordingly, trickled in. The first match turned out to be, when invited over, secretly Pakistani and Mrs. Naidu wasn’t having that, given the ongoing India-Pakistan conflicts. If you marry him, where will we have the wedding? Was the biggest concern she raised. I’m sure as hell not gonna go to Pakistan, she said, and I doubt those monsters will have the gall to come to India after the nasty things they’ve done! So Match #1, decent otherwise, was sent away and the search for a suitable husband continued. The second match was even worse – he was a hippie with a greasy man-bun who said he was a Morgan Stanley banker but appeared too unkempt to the Naidu women to be perceived as even vaguely employed. When he referred to Mrs. Naidu by her first name, instead of 64

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being a respectful Indian boy and calling her “Aunty,” that was their last straw. Match #2 may have been both rich and American, but he was just too alienated from traditional Indian culture to be considered marriageable. Mrs. Naidu had all but been swept up in a wave of despair at the apparent lack of normal, sweet Indian NRI boys on the marriage market for her dear beti* Sara. When a third match was found, therefore, Mrs Naidu took great care to invite him over on the most auspicious day according to the Vedic calendar – April 22. She was determined not to mess this one up, so she took matters to the local Hindu priest, who suggested that date to her because it was known in religious circles to be “Akshaya Tritiya”, or “the day of lasting achievement”. If you want this bond to last, the priest said, introduce them to each other on that very day. So on April 22, 2009, Sara Naidu met the man who was to eventually become her husband. Match #3’s name was Karan Vasudev, and he had a perfectly normal haircut, as well as a well-paying job in Cupertino, houses in Sunnyvale as well as South Delhi, and the perfect age to marry – 28. Over lunch, Sara and Karan found they agreed on most practical matters and decided to get married soon. Sara was excited to move to the South Bay with her new love. At night, she would write stories about California and all of them would feature Karan as her love interest. Karan, on his part, pampered his love with flowers, chocolates, and eventually, the biggest diamond ring she had ever seen in all her years perusing the jewelry section of the Chor Bazaar.

____________________ * daughter 65

FROM AN OLD HOUSE IN CALIFORNIA SOPHIA SANDERS

Rolf Schulten

Sophia Sanders

Creative Writing Minor Poetry subplan

From an Old House in California 1. Deliberately, long ago the road carved itself into the rock of California and dug north West waves lined west mountains, the West coast crawled up from San Diego I follow its patchwork of wetlands and beaches the blue compresses into a thin horizon 2. Pelagic fish push closer to purse-seines miles of long line hooks twist into turtle shells shrimpers trawl the seagrass and reef People sleep through mornings west of the 5 on crumbling cliffs their shadows plunging into that hidden sea 67

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3. Churning the currents finless sharks, empty bottles diffuse plastic and steep the ocean– but this view– small birds in flight eye fish smaller birds run from incoming tides a few good waves and surfers to catch them they sit on boards in morning sun Respite in melancholy light before the world begins again 4. Nothing begins, there is only change Again, the sun mounts the hills, the road winds down into the valley no turns from now till dusk I read the sun-bleached signs of fruit fields, count the rows of orchards miles of ordered irrigation San Joaquin grownlabels sent across the country over crates of labels, rough dirt rubs 68

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into creased hands 5. I say I’ll stop and buy the red cherries on the side of the road I dream what I do not know of times when food was grown for people, no strangers to its origins now hundreds of miles of petrol smogs the view truck after truck burning a carbon trail straight into the coast’s back 6. Food deserts expensive real estate the difference of a truckload of vegetables the unforgiving stench of dairy farms the final moments of a half-stunned cow I do not yet know what the carcass becomes meat, the veins final exhale 69

Sophia Sanders

7. I am from you California: I sit on your throne like a child digging in the sand I think I know better I feel the sun I imagine my skin is ocean, the road a winding slumber woke in this straight two-lane passage through saplings, rusted dirt fences and property lines I dig holes deeper for shade or water I own what I can touch I am not even a dent in eroded soil 8. Today is another day without rain The cracks in the road are ground into dust They rise over towns to the east joined by aerosol droplets asthma rates Hawks circle overhead in pesticide clouds 70

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I drive through the heat and breathe the AC 9. Gilroy garlic seeps into the windows cows graze in yellow-green fields the two lane road merges into one stop signs change, any crawl brings back child eyes the wide slats of a fence before an open field a breeze of wildflowers at the base of the wood 10. A dog barks from inside the slanted roof of a russet barn sheep roam the gate lambs never further than a few feet from their mothers they learn quickly which fences shock and when the dog comes

Sophia Sanders

11. I read the lessons in overflowed trash bins out on the curb the smell of heavy traffic Billboards fast food chains healthcare premiums drought warnings Someone rakes yellow-orange leaves off their green lawn My gas light turns red 12. Petroleum-lined pantry shelves holes in stomach linings subsidized cholesterol clotting in the heart cancer in fertilizers food waste in landfills methane in a warming atmosphere The business of food grows more red billionaires get their fill of green All consumption eats at me 72

SOUTHSIDE ANDREW SONG

Alex Preavett

Andrew Song

English Major Literature emphasis

Southside (2024. Writ. & Dir. by Andrew Song) “INT. RINGGOLD HIGH SCHOOL HALLWAY 2 - NIGHT Marcus walks along the hallway. He stops at one locker. He tries a combination to no avail. Then, he just leans against the locker and sighs. He hears footsteps approaching him. It’s Hazel. Marcus is shocked as he quickly stands up. MARCUS He...Hey! HAZEL Hey! What are you doing here? MARCUS Just wanted to revisit the school. What are you doing here? HAZEL My cousin called and asked me to pick him up. Apparently, cops showed up and busted the whole place. Marcus can’t believe his luck. He struggles with what to say. Then, Marcus takes out her CAMERA and hands it to her. MARCUS By...by the way. You left this at Jeff’s place. HAZEL Oh my gosh, I didn’t realize that I left it there. Thank you so much! She hugs him. Afterwards, Marcus looks around as he takes in the surrounding area. Hazel’s phone buzzes. HAZEL So, how does it feel to be back? MARCUS I mean, I didn’t think Jeff was gonna get married already. Thought I would at least know my way around the town. At least the school still looks the same.

Andrew Song

HAZEL It’s only been five years. Be more of a shock if everything was different. MARCUS Remember all the times we skipped classes just to ride around? HAZEL (laughing) Getting Chick fil-a while everyone was stuck in Chem. MARCUS Can I ask you something? HAZEL Of course. Hazel’s phone rings again. This time, it continues to ring. HAZEL Sorry. One sec. Hazel answers the phone. HAZEL Yea, I’m here. He hasn’t texted back though. Ok. Love you. Hazel hangs up the phone. HAZEL Sorry. That was my husband. Wondering about my cousin. You were saying? MARCUS I...I was just going to ask how your family was. HAZEL Oh. They’re doing good. Dad finally retired from TVA. He’s really into motorcycles now. Mom is just glad he gets out of the house. MARCUS Well, I’m glad ever..everything is alright. And congrats on your marriage!

Andrew Song

HAZEL Thank you! Thought that I wouldn’t get married so soon. But if you know, you know. Marcus just nods. Hazel’s phone rings again. She answers. HAZEL Hello? yea, I’m inside...ok Hazel hangs up the phone. HAZEL That was him. I gotta go, but it was great to see you. And thank you so much for finding my camera. Hazel embraces Marcus and walks away. Then, Cayden appears. CAYDEN What was that about? Marcus doesn’t respond as Hazel walks away. CAYDEN You good? MARCUS Yea. You find your friend? CAYDEN No. I think he drove off. Can you drop me off at my house? I’ll just have to sneak in. Marcus keeps staring at where Hazel went. He finally looks away and starts walking with Cayden. CAYDEN Was that your girl or something? MARCUS No, just a friend from high school. Marcus and Cayden head out.

Andrew Song

EXT. CAYDEN’S HOUSE - NIGHT Marcus and Cayden arrive. Cayden gets out of the car. MARCUS Spokane is in Washington by the way. CAYDEN Oh. MARCUS I’ll see you around. Cayden smiles before going inside. Then, Marcus drives off. EXT. OPEN FIELD - SUNRISE Marcus is in an open field. Then, he just watches the sunrise.

DIALECTICAL GROWTH ANASTASIA SOTIROPOULOS

Vuk Burgic | Unsplash

Anastasia Sotiropoulos

Creative Writing Minor Prose subplan

Dialectical Growth, or What It’s Called When a Tree Grows in an Odd Direction Because of an Obstruction On my 11th birthday, my mom sobbed, and I was angry. Outside, a massive oak was about to be cut down. But why did she care? We never even sat under it. Our house was built in 1977 as a one-story U-shape of wood-paneled walls and popcorn ceilings. The horseshoe hugs a courtyard consisting of a scorched bonsai, foliage of the forgettable variety, and in 2012, a massive oak. The oak reclined directly at the U’s bowl, with arms stretching over the entirety of our roof and over to the other side, its meaty fingers dangling over front windows. Only now do I realize how precisely perpendicular its limbs ran to the center of our hallway and living room—our most communal spaces, those of most traction. Depending on your persuasion, the tree was either: 1. trying to protect us all. or 2. trying to murder us all. The arborist said it had to be at least a hundred years old. Our house was obviously built around it. Also, it had to go. One wrong summer storm and the whole thing could come collapsing down on us. I began to wonder what would happen to its roots when it was sawed away—how far under my bed did they reach? The alleyway, road, neighbors? My dad told me something about a tree’s roots forming underground networks with trees nearby, how Everything’s Connected. I began to wonder if our oak was tethered to the one next door, and were they all friends with the trees a block down? This was all an attempt at sympathy, but I could not stop breathing envy. It was my birthday! but I was sharing it with the funeral of a tree. There was even a procession: the arborist and his men in tan vests, my parents behind them, my gardener-grandmother sullen, my father translating for my grandfather. I sat inside the air conditioned kitchen, watching out from behind the glass. Once the men had left, my mom’s lips stiffened. I didn’t see her cry often, so although not performative, this felt weird. We were not a family that went outside. I was once caught being taught how to climb a tree by the neighbor girl, and it did not go over well. Besides my history with breaking arms, I wasn’t supposed to be outside in the first place; Dallas summers those years were thick with hysteria over mosquito-borne West Nile. And when the 79

Anastasia Sotiropoulos

air wasn’t filled with constantly televised death counts, there was a humidity so oppressive it excused, even encouraged, Wii Tennis and DS Nintendogs. The rest of the year, my dad’s CD shelves of pirated black-and-white movies kept me inside. An L-shaped couch for a U-shaped house. The tree was just part of the scenery. I do have some memories in our backyard, but almost all are on July thirds, my birthday. Our church, only a mile away, celebrated its patriotism a day early, and it always leaked into our sky. Before double-digits, I’d get on my dad’s shoulders. The oak sat behind us. When they cut it down, my dad told me to let her cry. I’ve always thought my mom cries in her native tongue, and the Greekness of her tears make me think of the Whorfian hypothesis, which argues that our perception of reality depends on our cognition, which depends on the language we use. Think Russian’s obligatory distinction between lighter blues (“goluboy”) and darker blues (“siniy”). In studies, a greater specificity in language translates to a greater ability to, on a visual processing level, discriminate between shades of blue. German speakers with the masculine Schlüssel find keys jagged, metal, useful; Spanish with the feminine llave see them little, lovely, tiny golden intricate things. Is a tree the German feminine Brücke, an elegant, fragile, slender bridge; or a masculine puente, sturdy, dangerous, and big? In Latin, all the trees are feminine, even the ones that don’t look it: quercus, oak, feminine. One theory offers that it’s because the Romans believed nymphs lived in the trees, plush young women with fertile hips and a sweetness even to men. And while Greek’s trees are neuter, the ancient Greeks had dryads, too: protectors, frolickers, not immortal but very long-living. My mom cried like her old girlfriends were dead. But our tree seemed like a man. Maybe it was the thick fingers or inability to understand personal space, or maybe it was simply that I saw it as less of a companion and more of a protector on its better days. All I knew is that he had wronged us, whether intentional or not. It took them twelve hours to bring him down. It’s been a decade without him, and I’ve left the south for Northern California. I’ve lived in four houses since, all squares and rectangles with neat trees staked a polite distance from roofs. Now, I live in a dorm. It’s morning and I look down from the third-story window at the mini jacarandas propped on either side of the walkway. Their elbows are poised and calculated, neither cradling nor choking our front door. In early September, their hair was violet; now they’re bald. They feel like distant grandmas. 80

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I haven’t had coffee, so my thoughts are sporadic, sending me back to those fireworks early on the third, how I could see them from our backyard, how I felt so special, as if they were just for me. I think about how my mom cried that the tree wouldn’t see them that year, and how dramatic I thought she was. I call my dad and ask if our old tree was an oak. He says yes, but doesn’t ask why I’m asking, just says it’s the reason our house is the shape it is. I don’t ask him what happened to the roots underneath, or if he believes in nymphs, and we wish each other a good day.

PUZZLE HUNT KATHERINE WONG

Davis Patton | Unsplash

Katherine Wong

Creative Writing Minor Prose subplan

Puzzle Hunt An Excerpt

After Victoria’s Halloween incident, the rest of freshman fall semester was much less eventful. I took another midterm and did slightly better than the first time. We had a friends-giving potluck, and I pan-fried some frozen potstickers from the local Asian supermarket. Both Ravi and Victoria declared computer science as their majors, even though we still had almost two full years left to decide. Winter break was a much needed intermission. I stuffed a couple t-shirts, jeans, and a mesh packing pouch of underwear into my carry-on luggage, boarded a plane back to Atlanta, and landed at around noon. Both my parents came to pick me up, perched in the front seats of our family’s 15 year old silver Nissan Versa. Immediately upon opening the car door, I was hit with the familiar smell of worn carpet. An old air freshener shaped like a cloud hung on the rearview mirror, its smell long faded. My dad stayed in the driver’s seat, while my mom came out to give me a hug and help load the luggage into the trunk. As I buried my face into her neck, I took in a deep breath and let the smell of cooking oil fill my lungs. For a few seconds, no words were spoken. Only the sound of our out-of-sync heartbeats, like rattling drums in our chests. Around us, the airport continued to move: honking cars, luggage wheels scraping against concrete pavement, automatic doors pulsing open and closed. Finally, I let go and gave my mom a weak smile. “I’m sleepy—can we go home?” It wasn’t cold enough yet to snow as I had been hoping, but the skies were still shrouded in a blanket of stormy gray. On the 40 minute drive home, it began to rain: first, a gentle tapping, which then turned into loud hammering. The droplets thudded against the windshield and windows; I watched them race downwards and collect into pools at the bottom, where the car’s metal frame met the glass. The familiar suburban streets that I’d grown up with passed by us in streaking watercolor paintings. The Publix my mom dragged me to whenever she needed accompaniment to buy groceries. A sprawling green park with a court and playground that I took basketball lessons at as a kid. The Denny’s I went to after freshman year homecoming. My elementary school. Suddenly, the separation between me and those memories felt so large—a gaping canyon that I could no longer cross. At home, my mom had hung up a simple Christmas wreath made of fake evergreen leaves and cranberries at the center of our front door. Inside, there was no tree, only a few pots of poinsettia placed in random places throughout the house. The shelf above our boarded-up, non-functional fireplace. The center of the dining table. The bathroom near the kitchen, atop the toilet’s back ledge. I left my suitcase sitting 83

Katherine Wong

upright on its wheels by the door and ran to my room. At the corner of the hallway was Celeste’s room; her door was shut closed, light leaking from the thin crack at the bottom, the sound of chattering conversation muted behind the walls. I didn’t bother to knock or go say hi. Instead, I went straight to my room and collapsed on the bed, still dressed in my sweats that I had worn on the plane. I didn’t care about contaminating my bed with dirty clothes; here, nothing could plague my mind. There was no creeping dread from an upcoming deadline, no croaking music permeating through the walls from the people who lived next door. Only the soft embrace of my mattress and a heavy comforter. I let my eyes close as I fell into a deep nap. *** Despite it being the holidays and there no longer being classes to talk about, I still woke up everyday to an avalanche of text notifications. The group chat, titled “HOSPITAL HOMIES” with a nurse emoji in honor of Halloweekend, consisted of Victoria, Ravi, and Grace. Because Grace and I rarely texted in the chat, most of the notifications ended up being long back-and-forth conversations between Ravi and Victoria. Sometimes, an exchange of dumb Instagram memes with ‘your mom’ or poop jokes—classic middle school boy humor. Other times, slightly deeper revelations about goals and bucket list items for next semester. The fourth morning of winter break, I woke up to over a hundred new texts. Still half-asleep in bed, I lowered the brightness on my phone screen and scrolled up all the way up to the beginning of the conversation. Victoria: did you guys see the news? Ravi: What news? Victoria: one of the students in Sequoia died Victoria: the dorm across the street from us Ravi: What??? Grace: Oh my god I heard from my mom Grace: She was also a freshman I think Ravi: Do you know why she died? Victoria: i think it was suicide Victoria: they found her in her dorm room after finals week I reread the beginning of the conversation multiple times, double-checking that I was correctly understanding what had happened. My fingers continued to scroll all the way down to the end of the group chat conversation, then through one of the news articles that Victoria had sent. The phone in my hand was hot. My ears rang with disbelief. My own experiences—sweaty hands in the study room, sobbing in the bathroom after my first midterm—flooded through my mind, and I wondered if perhaps she had been through similar things. 84

Katherine Wong

I typed a response to the conversation and clicked send. Me: :( that’s horrible Me: does anyone know why About an hour later, I got a response. Victoria: might be because of academic stress, according to eileen who lived in her dorm Victoria: :( very sad *** I spent the next few days waking up past 2:00 PM and laying on my bed for the rest of the afternoon—watching television, drifting in and out of sleep, and thinking about the recent news. I came out of my room only for dinners, where I’d sit with my family in silence while scraping my bowl clean of rice, attempting to avoid the ill fate my parents had always prescribed to me growing up: that any leftover grains of rice would equate to the number of pimples my future boyfriend would have. Usually, Celeste was the only person talking; she’d run her mouth nonstop about how annoying her history teacher was or how the girl in her math class in the grade above had yet another boyfriend, then finish off the conversation by asking our mom whether she could go to the mall with her friends on Saturday, to which she would reluctantly nod yes. “Why are you always letting her slack off?” I confronted my mom one dinner after Celeste had stormed off to her room to call friends. “You’re not a mother,” is all she said, and the discussion was over. On the fifth day—just a day before Christmas Eve—I woke up to my mom’s yells shaking the hallway, rapid and sharp like a knife in her native language. I knew they were directed at me, but still, I covered my face with my comforter and pretended to be asleep. “Camellia! Wake up right this instant!” A flower of frustration bloomed in my chest, and I groaned loud enough so she could hear. “What was that I just heard?” “Let me sleep!” “It’s three in the afternoon—how much more sleep could you possibly need?” I opened my crust-lined eyes and reached for my phone. The time was only 1:34 PM. Still not entirely conscious, I placed my phone face-down back on the bedside table and turned the other way, burrowing my entire body underneath the covers. A few minutes later, my mom yanked the blankets off the bed. I was in pajama shorts and an old graphic tee from the science museum I used to volunteer at in high school—barely anything. Instantly, I was met with cold air. The overgrown, 85

Katherine Wong

unshaven hairs on my legs stood straight up, like electrified trees in a forest. “Since when did you become this lazy?” My mom ground the words out between her teeth and reached for the pillows next. “So useless?” “It’s winter break! Why can’t I just rest?” “You do nothing now,” my mom said, “All the ambition you had in high school has left your body.” She took a sharp inhale. “You don’t make a decision about what to study. You don’t look for ways to make extra income. You don’t even help out around the house. What am I supposed to do with two unmotivated daughters? Huh?” At this, I sat up and stared at my mom in the eyes. From the beginning, I had always been a rule-follower—the student who got all As, never snuck out, never tried drugs. To be doubted as so made my insides twist into a pretzel. “What do you think I’ve been doing all semester?” “Eh?” “I said, what do you think I’ve been doing this whole semester? I go to every lecture. Attend as many office hour sessions as I can. Study until 3:00 AM, trying to understand concepts that everybody else already learned in high school!” My vision began to blur, eyes itchy. “I am not Celeste! I don’t waste my time doing nothing all day, pretending that things will just somehow work out perfectly. Why can’t you recognize my effort?” My mom’s mouth opened like she was about to say something. But instead, she closed it and stormed out of the room, stomps sharp and punctuated against the carpet floor. I was wide awake now, simmering in a soup of bitterness. My chest was pounding. Hands sweating. I walked over to my desk and opened my laptop. In the search bar, I typed the URL to Handshake—our school’s platform for on-campus job listings. Later, my dad came into my room, holding a plate of sliced pears as a peace offering. “Your mom wanted me to give this to you,” he said. I took the plate from him wordlessly. Shoved a piece into my mouth. My teeth sunk into the white flesh; crisp, clear juice burst onto my tongue. “She only wants what’s best for you,” he continued, “She’s under a lot of stress right now. Please try to be nice to her.” “I am doing my best,” I said. I turned away from my dad and towards my plate, signaling to him that this conversation was over. *** Even when I returned back to campus after New Years, my mom’s temper was still as turbulent as the Pacific Ocean. One day would be calm and gentle, waves 86

Katherine Wong

lapping at the shoreline, my notifications slim with only the couple I love you and Send more pictures texts. The next, a tempest storm—rocky and rainy with the power to sink ships. The second day of school, and during the first day of the required essay writing class I had with Ravi this semester, I opened my laptop to several text notifications from my mom. Quickly, I switched out of the messages app before Ravi could peek over at my screen. I glanced over at him; his eyes were on his own laptop, playing Pokemon Go while our professor rambled on about the syllabus at the front of the classroom. Nothing in his expression gave any indication of seeing anything. I let out a breath of relief. “This class is going to be such a chore,” Ravi said immediately after stepping out of the classroom. I gave a sharp shush in response. “Be quiet! What if the professor hears you?” “It’s true though! These required Gen Ed classes are so annoying.” Secretly, I agreed with Ravi. Just based on the syllabus—a skeleton of topics like rhetorical analysis and writing a strong thesis statement, things I assumed were already common sense to students at an elite institution—the class was shaping up to be a glorified caricature of AP Lang and indeed a waste of time. And yet, on a campus where everyone seemed to only care about tech and Silicon Valley and AI startups, I felt the need to defend it. “You’re such a classic CS major.” “Says the soon-to-be CS major.” “Who said I was declaring CS?” “Take a look at everyone around you—it’s the logical assumption.” It was true. Both Ravi and Victoria were now declared computer science majors, along with a slew of other students. I, however, was still completely unsure of what major to pursue, let alone what career. The possibilities swam in my mind: I could get a computer science degree and work as a software engineer in the Bay Area, or study for the LSAT and go to law school on the East Coast, or forget about prying my family out of Georgia’s raggedy suburbs and just work at a nonprofit. None of these sounded particularly interesting or appealing. If money didn’t matter, I’d choose to just live on a tropical island and drink coconut water everyday. Or, more optimistically, I’d move to New York City or London and be a lead on the fifth or sixth run of a big, popular musical like Hadestown or Les Mis. I took a second to imagine it: what it’d be like to stand on stage in costume and thick layers of makeup with a microphone system strapped to my back, spotlights blinding my vision. “I’m still pretty undecided,” I said, “I just want a stable job that makes money.” Ravi laughed. “Sounds like selling out is what you’re leaning towards.” While walking back to our dorm, we passed by Sequoia—the dorm that the girl had died in. Ravi didn’t seem to notice; he was talking about the Lunar New Year 87

Katherine Wong

party that Victoria had invited our group chat to, hosted by our school’s Chinese Students Association. It was apparently going to involve making dumplings from scratch, Mahjong, and lots of alcohol. While Ravi talked, I kept my eyes glued to the dorm building for as long as possible. Which of those windows was that girl’s room? Did she have a roommate? I eventually shifted my gaze to the ground, watching my shoes splash into leftover puddles from last night’s light rain. “I barely know anything about East Asian culture,” Ravi said, “Do you think it’s weird for a brown guy to show up to a Lunar New Year party?” “It’s definitely fine. Victoria invited you for a reason.” “Are you going to go?” I paused. The party was next Wednesday—the first day of the Lunar New Year. It was also the night before my early morning lecture. “I’ll think about it,” is all I said, and we continued to walk.

STONER ELLEN YANG

Ellen Yang

English Major Literature emphasis

Stoner and the Forgotten Point of Higher Education How one book reminds us of what college ought to be

"The love of literature, of language, of the mystery of the mind and heart showing themselves in the minute, strange, and unexpected combinations of letters and words, in the blackest and coldest print—the love which he had hidden as if it were illicit and dangerous, he began to display, tentatively at first, and then boldly, and then proudly." -John Williams in “Stoner” There are certain books that slip into your life unexpectedly. Stoner by John Williams is one of those books for me—a modest, unassuming novel that, recently, profoundly altered how I think about learning, literature, and the role of education. Although it has been reprinted in many “classic” editions, it still feels like a hidden gem, a novel that hasn’t fully found its place in the traditional literary canon. This is surprising, given how masterfully it captures something so essential: the solemn, powerful discovery of self that happens only through reading, writing, and intellectual engagement. It’s not just about learning facts or advancing one’s career—it’s about the transformation that occurs when a person truly dedicates themselves to a life of the mind. Stoner begins with William Stoner, a farm boy who stumbles into higher education almost by accident. He enrolls at university to study agriculture, but instead finds himself gradually captivated by literature. His introduction to this new world is anything but smooth. Initially, rather than feeling awed by Shakespeare and the humanities, he seems overwhelmed, almost too naive for it all. He becomes so consumed by the demands of his first English course that he barely sleeps, drained physically and emotionally. Yet, what appears at first to be a struggle is actually the beginning of a love affair—one that will quietly reshape the course of his life. Stoner's discovery of literature doesn’t happen in a grand or dramatic moment; instead, it unfolds slowly, through a series of small, mundane awakenings. His love for literature becomes the core of his identity, though it offers him little in the way of worldly success. This narrative resonates deeply with me, particularly as a firstgeneration American college student from a lower-middle-class background. In my family, higher education carried the weight of expectation: it was a practical means to a more secure life. College was supposed to be a step toward financial stability, a ticket to a better job. And yet, like Stoner, I found something much deeper and more transformative in the classroom. For the first few years of college, I worked 90

Ellen Yang

20 to 30 hours a week to support myself, balancing coursework with financial necessity. It wasn’t until I finally stopped working those extra hours and allowed myself to focus fully on my studies that I began to experience the true luxury of learning. To sit in a classroom, surrounded by ideas, engaged with texts, not for what they could get me but for what they could teach me—this was a kind of freedom I hadn’t fully realized I could have. This luxury of learning is something that Stoner captures so well, but it is also something that feels increasingly rare. Recently, I read Steven Tagle’s letter in the Dear Stanford project, and I was struck with awe as I learned about the kinds of relationships students once had with their lecturers. Tagle recounts how the Jones Lecturers and Stegner Fellows at Stanford were more than just teachers—they were mentors, collaborators, and friends in the truest sense. He describes taking intimate, hands-on workshops, working one-on-one with lecturers to shape his novel, attending readings they hosted in San Francisco, and even being welcomed into their homes. These lecturers did far more than teach—they cultivated a creative community, supported their students with genuine care, and embodied what a life dedicated to writing could look like. Reading about these experiences, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss. As Tagle described exchanging emails with lecturers he never even formally studied with, or being congratulated by a former professor on his MFA acceptance years after graduating, I thought about how rare those kinds of relationships have become in the post-COVID college experience. As a senior today, it feels like the stuff of legends. The connection Tagle and his peers had with their lecturers, where education extended beyond the classroom into genuine intellectual and creative companionship, is a kind of academic life I had always dreamed of but have only occasionally glimpsed, despite my many efforts to reach out to professors, attend talks, and utilize the university’s resources, including grants and fellowships. This is especially so because I spent so much time early in college working, my eyes already set on the endless horizon of labor. I regret it. I now see that the truest value of education is not transactional but relational, built through slow, deliberate engagement over time. Stoner experiences something similar in the novel. His passion for literature, once discovered, becomes central to his life, even as the world around him fails to recognize its value. He remains steadfast in his dedication to teaching and scholarship, even when personal and professional challenges arise. This reserved dedication is at the heart of Stoner, and it’s what makes the novel so powerful. Stoner doesn’t become famous or wealthy or even loved, but he leads a life deeply 91

Ellen Yang

committed to something that brings him meaning. There’s something poignant about reading Stoner at a time when higher education is increasingly framed as a means to an end, a stepping stone toward financial success rather than an opportunity for intellectual and personal growth. This shift is not just a theoretical problem—it’s unfolding in real time at institutions like my own. The recent firing of the Jones Lecturers from Stanford’s creative writing program feels like an extension of this troubling trend. These lecturers, much like William Stoner, dedicated their careers to teaching and fostering a community of writers. They didn’t pursue this work for fame or fortune, but because they believed in the value of creative expression and intellectual exploration. Now, they’ve been dismissed in favor of a more “efficient” system, one that prioritizes economic calculations over the immeasurable worth of mentorship and intellectual engagement. Stoner’s story, and the current situation at Stanford, reflect a broader crisis in higher education. When universities market themselves as stepping stones to careers, they strip away something fundamental: the belief that education is valuable in and of itself. The more we reduce higher education to a credentialing system, the more we lose sight of what makes it transformative. Yes, college can open doors to career opportunities, but its real gift lies in the space it creates for thinking deeply, exploring ideas, and discovering what matters to us beyond the pragmatic. This fallacy—that education is merely preparation for work—is pervasive and dangerous. It leads to disillusionment when students realize that even the most successful careers often don’t satisfy the human need for intellectual and emotional fulfillment. Many forms of work, particularly in our current economy, feel antithetical to the human spirit, demanding more from us than we can give without offering much in return. In contrast, the kind of intellectual work that Stoner exemplifies—teaching, reading, writing, thinking—is not just valuable, but necessary for the cultivation of a life that feels meaningful. In Stoner, we see the power of intellectual commitment, even in the face of a world that often undervalues it. Stoner’s life may seem small or uneventful to some, but it is rich with the kind of persistent dedication to learning that so many of us seek. As I reflect on my own experience, I find that the most profound moments of my education have been the ones where I was able to focus not on what my studies could do for me, but on what I could do within my studies—how they could expand my understanding of the world and my place in it.

Ellen Yang

In a time when universities are increasingly focused on profit and pragmatism, Stoner offers a reminder of what is truly at stake. Higher education, at its best, should not be about checking boxes or accumulating credentials—it should be about intellectual exploration, creating space for growth, and fostering the kind of deep, meaningful engagement with the world that makes life richer and more rewarding. It’s not just about preparing for the next step in life; it’s about learning how to live fully in the present. This is what William Stoner’s life teaches us, and it’s what we stand to lose if we continue to treat education as a mere commodity. We need to protect the spaces where minds can flourish, curiosity can thrive, and learning is valued not for what it can produce, but for how it can transform us. Stoner may be a quiet novel, but its message is anything but—it’s a reminder that the life of the mind is not just important, but essential.

PILOT RICHARD GUANGWEI YIN

Trevor Young

Richard Guangwei Yin

Creative Writing Minor Prose subplan

Pilot I’ve been waiting for nearly an hour by the time he pulls into the lot. His truck blocks the setting sun, and I take one last drag of my blunt before dropping the dying stub and crushing it beneath my sneaker. When he finally kills the engine, there’s a moment of silence, broken by the gentle roar of the freeway, a waterfall crashing in the distance. From behind the tinted glass, a man emerges. He stands atop the fuel tank and inhales deeply, his taut arms stretched upwards. I’m relieved; he looks like his photos. The bottom of his Hawkeye tee slips up, exposing a slight paunch, his happy trail leading down into his waistband. You must be Steven, he declares. Beads of perspiration coat his forehead. I wonder if his truck has AC. Yeah, I reply, removing my sunglasses. Daniel? You took your sweet time. My bad, my bad, he says, grinning weakly. Got hungry, made a pit stop in Folsom. Sorry for not giving you the heads up. It’s okay. I step off my bike, yanking on the collar of my shirt to cool myself before popping out my kickstand. You parking here? I ask, trying a frown. No one’s ever taken this long. He nods, looking past me at the woods behind the lot. Before scratching the back of his head he lifts his cap to tuck his long, brown hair behind his ears. I wonder if I should have left after the first half hour; my shoulders ache from hunching over the handlebars of my bike. Since seven thirty, I watched the passing freights and occasional SUV piled high with campers, their bags stuffed with fireworks, speeding towards the forest preserve up the freeway. From the roof above the pumps, fat white seagulls take turns diving at discarded French fries. The gas station mini-mart is closed: it’s the Fourth of July. Wanna come inside? Daniel asks, indicating with his head. I nod. Mind the step. I take one last look at my bike—abandoned by itself in the parking lot. By now, the asphalt has peeled off entirely, exposing the raw, cracked cement. I’ve been coming to the Pilot for months now, fucking strangers in the restroom behind the minimart. The manager knows me, he’s come to recognize my face. Every time I buy a Monster or a box of Trojans, his brow dips in a furrow, and he shakes his head as he hands me the restroom key, an admonishment on the tip of his tongue. His name is Jun, but I call him Mr. Kim; his wife and three kids are enshrined next to the cash register in a little macaroni-lined frame. We’ve spoken briefly, always politely, about the mundane. He knows I go to college nearby, that I’m studying biology, as he did in Korea. It surprised me, during our last exchange, when he let it slip that he had a PhD. I had always assumed station attendants never went 95

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to college. As far as I know, Mr. Kim has no idea his Pilot is a cruising hotspot. It was always him, though, who I last saw before slipping into the bathroom. I think of his familiar red uniform, the reassurance of his congeniality. With his presence there was a safety, some semblance of security, however superimposed. My first time at the Pilot, a stranger had pushed me into the bathroom stall, pinning me against the tiled wall. His kisses were closer to bites, and when he yanked down on my pants and pressed himself against me, I panicked and kneed him in the groin. On my way home, it hit me that I had forgotten to return the restroom keys. The man, by then, had thankfully gone, and I sheepishly muttered something to Mr. Kim about needing to rescue my roommate. Instead of a scolding, he smiled, his only response being “It’s a good thing you remembered”. He remarked that I looked a bit pale, and asked if everything was okay. I lied, smiling before pushing through the doors and biking the mile back to campus. In my apartment, I found my roommate lodged in his usual position, supine, his face lit by the glow of the flatscreen, absorbed by the muted gunfire. His round face was cherublike, his attention undivided. I resented his innocence. His parents were both tenured at our university; he had never lifted a finger in his entire life. Each Friday his girlfriend would drive over to pick him up for the weekend. She was like his mom, and he was her charge: this nepo-manchild, a swirling pot of narcissism. In my lesser moments, I hated him. You been here before? Daniel asks. Yeah. Hm, you would have left already otherwise. I try not to let my embarrassment show. I had stayed for the same reason I had come. Three months ago, I had been broken up with. When our mutual friends had all split in my ex's favor, I cordoned myself off to my bedroom to watch the same YouTube videos on loop for days: these vlogs of a middle aged British retiree who went on cruises in the caribbean. I repeated her little sayings to myself, anticipating her next posts, exchanging in my mind her life with my own. With each encounter at the Pilot I was granted a small reprieve from the banality of my day to day. The danger of these hookups excited me: the potential for violence. Our first year of dating, I was the one who struggled for direction. Meanwhile, he flourished. Awards, clubs, student government appointments. The path forward was so clear; first a PhD on the east coast, then a postdoc at a respectable lab, before finally tenure at a major university. When we met, I thought to myself: this was the man I want to be. I convinced myself that he made me better, smarter, more likeable, more attractive. With him, my reality took on an almost acceptable cadence. Upon entering, Daniel propped up a mylar windshield screen to block out the dying sun’s rays. Above, a flimsy little LED puck sticks to the ceiling behind the seats. 96

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He sits behind me, the mattress sagging beneath his bulk. As he cracks open a beer, I try not to stare as he lifts the can to his mouth, his veins bulging. Do you want anything to drink? He asks, tilting the can in my direction. I’m good. I refrain from joining him. Instead, I study the tiny sunflower bobblehead above the steering wheel coated with dust, fixed in a state of suspended animation; beneath it, taped to the console, is a four by six, faded from the sun. Squinting, I can make out the faint impression of a girl, toddler-aged, with a round face and a toothy grin. Her shoulder-length hair is caught in the wind, and she’s hugging someone, her chubby fingers gripping onto their neck. The man, beardless, dimple-cheeked, is mid laugh. That’s Stephanie, my daughter, he says from behind me. She lives in Iowa with her grandmother. That’s you in the photo? He nods. You ever been? No, I’ve never been east of Arizona. The tiny liberal arts school I attend just outside Sacramento is a stopover town. Where are you from? he asks. Oregon, but my parents are from Taiwan. I’ve never been to Taiwan. Neither have I. It’s nice, my parents say. Sunny, almost tropical. I swing my legs around the seat and stand in the middle of the cabin directly in front of him. We’re at eye level, with him sitting on the bed. I stand in front of the light so he can’t help but look at me. He gazes down at my legs. I’m wearing short shorts. Do you want me to take off my clothes? I ask him. He is silent for a moment. Yes. He replies. As I pull off my shirt, he reaches out to touch my back. I shudder, involuntarily, at the contact. His hand is warm, yet I recoil, wishing that he had asked. You’re so smooth, he says. Slipping off my underwear, I stand naked in front of him. He’s still fully clothed, and I feel ridiculous, my outfit a heap at my feet, rubbing my open palm against my cheek as I shiver. When we kiss, I discover his breath is pleasantly redolent of booze. My neck prickles as he grabs me like a stray cat, and I press my hand against him to lessen the pressure. It dawns on me how easy it would be for him to snap my neck, just a ring of his hands. He could dump me on the side of the road a few miles down the highway; it could be days before anyone would discover the remains. 97

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That hurts, I gasp, and his grip loosens, his eyes growing wide. He rubs the base of my neck, peppering it with kisses. His fingers comb through my hair and I stifle a laugh; I’ve never felt more like a pet. Pulling away, I take his face in my hands. I wonder how many drinks he’s had. The scratch of his beard against my skin grows maddening. We fuck like rabbits. Afterwards, a six-pack materializes from his fridge and I accept the offer. We sit on his mattress and clink. I had expected stray shirts and unwashed boxers to be strewn about, the odor of cigarettes and piss to emanate from the vents. But to my surprise, he’s kept his cabin tidy. It smells nice, like teakwood and amber. As we gaze up out of the skylight and count the stars. Holding my hand, Daniel tells me about his ex-wife, his high school sweetheart, the mother of his daughter. He tells me about his baby girl, who’s in fourth grade. They see each other less than a dozen times a year; he falls asleep dreaming of her face. Twenty, he repeats. I was twenty when we had her. I try to suppress my shock; that’s my age now. How many guys have you slept with? He asks. Are they mostly older? I fight a yawn. No. I don’t discriminate. He leans forward to meet my lips. You take it too well to be a newbie. My face burning, I make smalltalk. I ask him to tell me about his hometown. I question him about Stephanie. I want to know if he’s a good father. If he hits her, like my father did. If he’s grabbed her so hard that it hurts. I attempt to picture his daughter happy, grinning wide like in the photo, chasing after the lumbering shadow of her father. Daniel tells me her favorite game is tag, and I try to picture if she's quiet or loud, observant or air-headed. As we lay together, I hold his head in my arms, this great brute of a man. I am a mother, a nymph, a lover. I could suffocate him in his sleep, cease the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he slumbers. Come with me, baby, he says as we start again, pressing himself against me. I can bring you anywhere you want to go. Nebraska. Kansas. New Mexico. The whole world is ours for the taking. I’m enchanted, intoxicated by the cheap beer he’s plied me with. I tell him that I’ll be his forever and we giggle like schoolchildren. Soon, I lose track of time completely. Hours pass. He locks me against the headboard and pushes himself onto me. Pain fades into a dull throbbing. I grow dizzy and sore. My skull bumps up against the wall. My foot gets trapped under his leg. The line between mania and bliss becomes hard to follow. Later, I would uncover purple and green in places I did not know could bruise. When each movement begins to hurt, I ask him to stop, the pressure of his grip on my wrists dreadfully urgent. 98

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Can we pause? I repeat, but he continues as if I were mute. I look into his eyes, his gaze obtuse, concentrated on my mouth. Please. Stop, I beg, my hand reaching up. At some point, he finishes with a heaving tremor, pulling himself from me. I lie there, holding myself, thinking I’ve hallucinated. Daniel is silent. I begin to think he’s fallen asleep. I try to close my eyes. The minifridge hums to life, and I realize I’ve bitten my tongue, the tang of iron reminiscent of my mother’s blood pudding that I’ve always hated. In my dreams, I’m with my ex, a lanky, baby-faced soccer player, beautiful, not in any traditional sense, his features sharp, almost feminine. Despite this, he drew my gaze, his allure, intangible as it may have been, seeped through my intoxication and embarrassment. We met, drunk, at a dorm mixer our first week, and I remember how he possessed an ease that came only from being denied little. I envied him: his white, always-available parents who checked in on him over facetime every night. His stable, neurotypical circle. His successful sister. His coddled upbringing. Now, I can see how our relationship was the approximation of one, born from the media we consumed, made for the enjoyment of our peers. We were the ideal couple to photograph for the admissions brochures, both freshly out of the closet, our intimacy safe for work—slow and hesitant, our inexperience laughable, two actors in a play. When I came to the Pilot, the men never hesitated, never asked what was acceptable and what crossed the line. Veteran topographers of the body, they relished what time had denied them, abandoning decorum, patience, even consent. I missed him the most when I was with them. The earnestness of his affection, however flailing. In my dream, we are on a walk. The path is the one we took just before he broke up with me; a winding trail leading from the astronomy building up a hill. The moon towers above us, perversely large, as shriveled, malnourished squirrels dart out from the brush, their tails reminiscent of the misaligned bristles of an overused broomhead. That night, I tried to hurt him. I put into words thoughts that should never be shared between two. When he told me he was leaving, in the absence of whatever bound us, be it desperation or desire, we could, for the first time, be completely honest with each other. He said things I was not prepared for, and I, feeling ugly and small, wanted him to shoulder my pain, taste my blood. I will never forget the look of agony on his face. I can just make out the contours of his lips moving. I’m awakened by the sound of gunfire. I scramble out of bed as Daniel tears off the cover blocking out the front window. No, not gunfire. Outside it’s black save for a single lancing arc of neon green light. Above us, an explosion blossoms, as wide as the sky, expanding outwards. Many more join in, each rocket blooming crimson, 99

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violet, deep orange and baby blue. We come to our senses and remember the date. Guffawing, we latch onto each other in disbelief, tears beading our eyes, as the sounds of the fireworks erupt through the empty lot. “Happy Fourth,” Daniel says to me, turning to pick me up and kissing me till I’m blue. “Happy Fourth,” I gasp. The next morning, he leaves, pulling out of the lot back onto the freeway, never to return. Next week, I am back at the Pilot, in another truckers cabin. I would walk my bike home afterwards, bleeding a little, afraid that I was wrong in the head, as my father would say. I come back to my night with Daniel often, even years later now, when I’m alone. It’s usually before falling asleep when I have just tucked myself into bed. I lie beneath my sheets, gazing up at the ceiling, and wonder how he’s doing. I try to imagine which state he’s crisscrossing at that very moment. Is it Kansas? Or Kentucky? Maybe Idaho. In my lesser moments, I try to place blame. I blame myself most of all. It all seems inevitable now. I’m married. I have a husband and a daughter of my own. She’s seven, smarter than me, better likely in every way. I want, very badly, for her to learn from my mistakes, but I can’t imagine how. We live in Brooklyn, far far away from my college town. It would feel nice to hate Daniel, but that doesn’t seem fair. In my mind, the border between ignorance and complacency, victimhood and acknowledgment are all imagined. So much empty space. I wonder about Stephanie, his daughter. She must be a teenager now, nearly as old as I was when I first started smoking. I think about Mr. Kim, who I haven’t seen in years. At my last college reunion, as I exited the freeway, I saw that the gas station had closed down, the pumps sat abandoned, the mini-mart windows shuttered for good. I pulled into the lot and parked in the same spot, shutting off the engine. I waited there for a moment, for what I do not know.

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MY HEART ALFRED YU

Artem Balashevsky | Unsplash

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Alfred Yu

Creative Writing Minor Poetry subplan

My heart is bleeding today. We are in a car, and beyond the red splattered over our windshield, I see the brief outline of two beautiful birds before they fly away.

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FLOODBABY ANNA ZHENG

Cristina Gottardi | Unsplash

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Anna Zheng

Creative Writing Minor Prose subplan

Floodbaby The flood left a broken refrigerator, five pounds of stinking ground beef, scattered and silt-caked fridge magnets, and a baby on the floor of Nora’s kitchen. In the afternoon sunlight it was a lump of yellowish clay, but she knew she’d heard it breathing. She picked it up. The first time she’d had an ultrasound it had looked like this, a twitching ghostly blob moving over the screen. It was like she was possessed, she’d told the doctor, who hadn’t found it funny. That was before Izzy was born, before she had a name, before she had done anything or meant anything except the morning sickness that left Nora bent over a toilet first thing, then again as soon as she smelled the coffee in the teacher’s lounge on her morning break. Two years ago she might have gone next door and grabbed Joanna, but the neighbors were all gone now. The Moores and the Jacksons had cleared out after the first flood, and the Kerners had left yesterday afternoon after loading a moving truck with everything from the attic. It smelled like wet dog, shit, and mildew. The edges were sticky and rough with grit, the center almost oily and shiny. But the tiny weight of it in her hand felt like it needed her. Carefully, she touched it with her other hand. She thought she could feel a heartbeat, or maybe it was the pulse in her own palm, and she pushed. She rounded the head into a ball, carved eye sockets in with her pinkies. It wasn’t delicate work. The nose was a two-fingered pinch. For the mouth, she traced out a shape with her nail, but it didn’t really show against the lumpy mud. An itchy, low burn spread across her fingers. One of them was bleeding. A bit of gravel, or maybe glass, she could see the dark smears she left on the yellow clay. She put the wet clay baby on the counter and went to rinse the cut off with bottled water. Behind her, a new crack opened in the clay. It took a breath in and wailed. “What do you mean a baby?” Through the phone she could hear Izzy typing. Izzy was busy. Izzy was a hard worker. Izzy was fast rising, a business executive at forty, and lived by her calendar like it was law. Izzy had left home as soon as she could, graduating early with a scholarship to college across the country, internships over the summers, a job, a shiny apartment with her shiny finance husband in DC in a neighborhood she described as chic. The last time she’d come back to North Carolina had been Roger’s funeral, and that had been three years ago. “I mean a baby. There was a baby in my house.” When she talked to Izzy, she could still see the little girl in grass-stained jeans and pigtails who clutched her hand anytime they saw another adult. “Mom, stop changing the subject. You need to sell the house while they’re still 104

Anna Zheng

offering buyouts. There’s no market for that piece of shit otherwise and you don’t have the income to keep fixing everything. We’re worried about you living alone.” We, these days, meant James-and-Izzy. James-and-Izzy were worried. James-and-Izzy knew the housing market. James-and-Izzy wanted dogs, but only when they were sure. The one time Nora had met James, he had talked to her about investing her teacher’s salary in a Roth IRA. She suspected that this was why Izzy liked him—just like her, he always had a plan and expected the world to follow it. “I’m doing okay.” A gurgle from the misshapen bundle in her arms. She had fed the baby the first day from her lunch of ham sandwich and chips. It had still been hungry afterwards, crying, until it had eaten the plate as well. Now it was gumming a piece of tupperware. It ate everything, but especially liked plastic. Wood disappeared in a second, cloth was sucked up like spaghetti, but it had to chew on the plastic. “You don’t have a plan and you don’t have deliverables. What are you going to do when the insurance money runs out? I can’t keep bailing you out, Mom.” More tapping. She wondered if Izzy still chewed on her hair when she was thinking. Probably not. “I didn’t ask you to.” “So you were planning to just live in a house with no electricity for six months?” “It was just once. I would have figured it out.” Izzy’s sigh sounded like static over the phone. “Just look at the brochures I sent. At least think about it.” She didn’t look at the brochures. She already knew what they said, the pictures of happy old people. Besides, she had a house to clean. The mucking and gutting was hard on her back but she didn’t want to ask James-and-Izzy for help. So she tore up floorboards, and mopped mud, and paid the delivery man who drove out from Charleston an extra fifty to wrestle the new fridge into place for her. And the baby needed to be fed. She had already learned if she didn’t, it would eat the cup of pens, her spare reading glasses, anything around. But if she gave it a moldy floorboard to swallow, it would focus on that. As it dried, something about it had become more defined. Stubby limbs had hands and fingers, the cheeks grew round, its muddy eyes took in everything happening. The child grew larger. It could walk. She found herself wiping smears of yellow clay off the doorknobs, off her own sagging forearms and the thighs of her jogging pants where it gripped her. The water-swollen wallpaper got replaced. The carpets she eventually gave up on vacuuming and served for dinner. It was growing fast and beautiful, already a toddler two months in. Its face smoothed out, and it sprouted beige hair, only slightly browner than the shag carpet had been. She took out Izzy’s old clothes from storage and dressed it in red sweaters when the weather got colder. 105

Anna Zheng

And if the sweaters looked a little nibbled on after each wear, she didn’t mind. Izzy had wanted to toss them anyway when she’d found the box in high school, didn’t see the use for keeping something so small and old. It wasn’t like she’d ever wear them again, she said, squeezing two forearms in and laughing. Nora didn’t know how to tell Izzy that every time she looked away, Izzy seemed to have stretched longer, angular, older, and she was afraid that if she didn’t keep something, it would be like that tiny girl she once held hadn’t been there at all. After dinner, Norah took the child on slow walks around the neighborhood with its empty houses to the nearby pond to watch ducks, and the clay hand was just dry enough to feel like flesh in hers. Except when it rained, which made her bones ache and the child disturbingly squishy, so they would stay in while the child stared out the window at the falling water. At night, she cradled it under her arm and felt it breathe against her. It seemed to radiate heat, and in the mornings, the skin under her arm would feel sweaty and loose like wet soil. She slept deeper than she had in years. She knew she was getting older. The ways the flesh sagged off her bones, her belly drooping below her waistband in a pouch of stretch marks and wrinkles, the hair falling off her head in handfuls. She looked in the mirror more these days, streaks of clay in odd places. Mostly because the child needed grooming, careful fingers carding back its wooly hair, squeezing a clean shirt on, a slight pinch of the cheeks. Some days, her old flesh looked too alien to bear. She took her hands and squeezed it back into shape, and sometimes it felt like it was holding. In the winter Nora fell off a ladder while cleaning leaves out of the gutter and fractured her knee. Maybe once the neighbors would have helped, but now even when she screamed in pain the street was empty. Inside, the child screamed too, running out and flinging its arms around her legs, crying muddy furrows into its face. She groaned and finally fumbled her phone out to call Izzy, who called emergency services, who got her to the doctor a town over, who took her blood and an X-ray and put her leg in a cast and gave her a set of crutches and strict instructions to not even think about ladders. When she came home, the child had eaten through the downstairs curtains and was balled up in the last one of them. She couldn’t crouch so easily anymore, but she sat with it until it uncurled and clung to her. It reached out and tentatively chewed on her hair. She let it, and curled around its warm weight. Izzy called to check in. “Did you look at the brochures?” “Sure.” 106

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“You shouldn’t have been on that ladder. You’re a danger to yourself.” Sometimes she wondered if Izzy even remembered growing up here, the evenings that Nora had held her until she cried herself to sleep. “At least think about moving somewhere where it doesn’t flood.” “Well I can’t leave the baby right now, this is its home too.” “What baby?” For once Izzy wasn’t typing at all. Nora found herself wishing she was. “I have to take care of things here. It’s our home.” “The cost to benefit ratio makes no sense. No one who isn’t batshit lives in that town anymore. You’ll get hurt. ” Izzy’s voice spiked and she caught herself. When she spoke again, Nora had lost her somewhere. “I’ll take some time off work and come visit you, and maybe we can make a sensible decision together.” Something seized in Nora’s chest. She looked around her living room and saw for the first time how Izzy would see it, how bare the house was, the floorboards she hadn’t quite finished replacing, the table with a cracked plate, as if someone had taken a bite out of the edge, the tattered curtains she hadn’t thrown out yet, tracks of yellow clay in the corners of the room, on the windows. She cleared her throat and tried. “You’re too busy.” “This is more important. I’ll put it in my calendar and be there Monday.” That night, the child was restless. It wailed and smashed its head against her chest and tangled itself in the blankets. She held it tight and kissed its forehead again and again. In the morning, her lips were chapped and bloody, but the child lay curled at her side. It was raining when they went for a walk. Nora slowly, making her way on her crutches through puddles, the child silently holding onto her arm. Ribbons of mud flowed off of it. Arm in arm, they sat at the bench next to the pond and waited for the rain to wash them away.

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