Austringer 2020

The Austringer

Our Lady of Good Counsel High School Spring 2020

The Austringer

-- Is a student-run literary and arts magazine at Our Lady of Good Counsel High School in Olney, Maryland. Our title, Austringer, refers to one who partakes in the art of falconry: the art of taming a falcon, our school mascot. As such, the mission of the magazine here at Good Counsel is to capture the artistic spirit of the student body in the form of art, poetry, prose, and photography. The Austringer meets weekly as a club and reviews submissions anonymously for publication. The finished product reflects our combined appreciation for the arts, and our hopes that the larger community may share in it.

Acknowledgements

The 2020 Austringer Staff would like to thank the 2019 Editors, namely Brent Smith, Alexia Ayuk, and Emily Miller, for selecting and curating many of the pieces included in this edition. While the 2019 edition was not published, the 2020 Staff wanted to ensure that these artistic creations were not lost in the past. Many works included in this issue are from the class of 2019. We thank them for their contributions. We would also like to thank our principal, Mr. Campbell, and our president, Dr. Barker, for their encouragement and support for this club and publication. Lastly, thank you to the creative students of Good Counsel for submitting your artistic works, and to all who are reading this issue. We hope that this publication exemplifies the creative spirit of our student body.

Austringer 2019 - 2020 Staff

Jourdanous Agaze, ‘20

Adaeze Chukwuka, ‘20

Eliza Henne, ‘20

Ella Keegan, ‘20

Kaitlyn Matsko, ‘21

Veronica Velarde, ‘22

Faculty Moderator

Arlene Ayuk, ‘21

Stephen Cyrus, ‘20

Beatrice Ieronimo, ‘20

Morgan Lawrence, ‘21

Mary Thorpe, ‘21

Hanna Yomi, 21

Georgia Chaconas, English Department

Submissions Process

We encourage artists of all types to submit their work for publication. Submissions are reviewed by the staff anonymously. Poetry, prose, non-fiction essays, and all writing should be submitted as word documents. Austringer staff will work with accepted writers towards a final publication format. Photographs and pictures of visual art should be sent in final form as pdf attachments. Please include a title for all works, including art. Email submissions to austringergc@gmail.com.

Visit our website: www.gcaustringer.org for club news, local arts events, links to past publications, and more. We welcome your suggestions and feedback about content you would like to include.

Seeking a Traveller

By Eliza Henne

Bring me a rose

And perhaps a serenade

But also an invitation;

We don’t have to blind ourselves to the world

In favor of seeing each other

Travel with me, winding down

In cobbled streets where the artists are

We’ll find something beautiful, or everything

If we walk through the museums and palaces

And the golden fire can play on our faces

The twining of our hands

And in our eyes

We can sit, silent and listening

To the bittersweet acoustic

Over coffee, dusted with cinnamon

Or to the strings,

Ascending octaves above the rest of the symphony,

Yet never fearing the unknown height

And yet the irony

That among the sights, the sounds

All of which could

Quite simply

Sweep me into the clouds

That I travel the universe already

Trapped in your eyes

Muses

By Emily Miller

Muses misconstrued

Paint the walls around

While inspiration suffocates me

And the muses simply observe

I tremble with motivation

While trying to appease a thought

But rhymes drone on and meter ensues

I scramble to invoke poem’s tune

As the muses’ grips clasp around

Tightening my emotions

The tune begins to scream

Like an eager breath in your lungs

And the poem begins to flow freely

I shrivel with expression’s release

And the muses’ grip loosens

While maintaining inspiration’s hold

THAI

By Chad Frick

The most popular girl in my town knows my name. Her name is Thai, she is 40 years old and is my barber. A self-made American woman of Vietnamese descent, Thai has been cutting my hair and giving me “the usual” for as long as I can remember.

Main Street Barber, which I have always simply referred to as “Thai’s” is a simple brick building, warm brownish-red with sky blue and bright red lights in the window indicating that Thai is ready to begin styling. I’m greeted with a smile and a wave. “Hi Cha,” she says.

The most popular lady in town knows not only my name, she knows the names of the hundreds of customers she serves every month – except for my youngest brother Brett, who she has been mistakenly calling Bradley for too long to correct her now.

Despite her tendency to mispronounce names, Thai knows each customer individually and personally.

I take a seat in her black leather chair, facing the mirror. Thai throws a dark polyester cloth around me and clips a beige towel around my neck. A TV hangs upon the scratched white wall behind me, poorly centered and with wires dangling beneath it. Oftentimes the TV displays breaking news of catastrophe and sorrow. Backwards headlines flash at me through the mirror. When I was younger, Thai would change the channel. Nowadays she’ll gaze up at the screen, with her 10

dark eyes and gold frames processing the senseless acts that she and I are blessed not to be victims of. She shakes her head as she refocuses on my hair. “Just crazy Cha, people are crazy.”

I watched myself grow up in Thai’s mirror. I didn’t know it at the time. I saw myself fight back tears at six-years-old when she failed to spike my hair in the front, and I was too shy to ask. Unable to stop smiling at nine, I witnessed my own excitement when given the liberty to ride my bike home from Thai’s by myself. Ten-years-old, infuriated, and with an army of lice hell-bent on destroying my chances with the second most popular girl in town, I watched Thai shave away my Justin Bieber flow.

A new barber opened up in my neighborhood when I was twelve, so I gave it a try. SportsClips boasts of making every customer “feel like an MVP.” First-timers are treated to the luxury of a steamed towel for the face, an expensive shampoo, and a relaxing massage for the back and shoulders. I sat in a dimly lit room with freshly-painted red walls, and received the only professional back massage of my life, listening to a sports-talk radio show. I was not asked how my family was doing, where my mom has been, or if my little brothers needed a haircut anytime soon. But I prefer the simplicity of Thai’s. Her kindness is more valuable to me than luxurious treatment.

It is less than a mile from my home to Thai’s workplace. To get from A to B, three barber shops are passed. I wonder why it is that my parents decided for me that it was Thai who would cut my hair all my life. Perhaps because it is adjacent to the beer store, outside of which I learned patience, waiting on my father and the ice cream he would promise me. Or maybe it’s the nonstop spinning of the magical red, white and blue barber’s pole that enchanted me when I had passed it for the first time.

I explained to Thai once that she was the most popular girl I have ever met. Grinning, she looked at me sideways through the mirror. She chuckled, then looked down smiling. “Everybody know Thai” she said softly.

“AMSTERDAM”

Sara Robb

Complicated

By Stephen Cyrus

*inspired by James Baldwin’s “Notes of a Native Son” Essay*

Nothing turns to something. This hatred isn’t nothing. These conundrums and mood rings, the cat calls and bird sings.

It’s bad.

Stuck in his mind, it’s so sad.

Trapped in his stubbornness, I’m glad I lied, I’m not, I wish I had ... known him. This bitterness inside, coincides with understanding. It’s the feelings we can’t hide, racial divide, it’s no surprise, a big disease, I couldn’t find I ...

can’t understand why I hide my pain, with this anger, I gotta stop and refrain, I’ll never make a gain, I’ll never make a change, this nonviolence leads me insane, it’s ... not perfect, but at least I’m worth it.

SAFE

By Uzoma Elekwachi

Give me a break

I don’t have a spare

Break my spare

Undwindling

Success

A gash in ideals

A plug in priority

Dripping remorse

Delicious distaste

Healthy horse

Sipping poison

Refreshed

Depressed

Gone

Clay and Brick

In my youth I sought the means to turn my clay to brick, And though I was repelled by the first and feared the other,

I was fascinated with the revision itself: To me, the ends were the means. How, I wondered, do I remould myself? What turns steel to sword and shield? Wood to workbench?

So I took to the current, the steady stream, And in darting my hand in the bed, Grasping deep into my bruised past, Something smoldering clutched my fingers.

Only once I stilled my shaking hand

I found a word written along the lifeline of my palm: Crucibility.**

I wondered what it meant, But looking around, I found no help in understanding it.

So I studied the word:

Scrambling through articles and volumes left me no quicker, Latin left me lost and Miller left me hollow.

Rooted in English though it was, The trunk beyond was unwaveringly dense, branches lettered with leaves in confounding patterns. With no one to conduct me, I was lost. Then one night, a dream enveloped me. In an ocean of blackness I saw myself drenched in flames. Yet I was still and solemn and bore mankind’s compulsory burden: In one hand, clay, and the other, brick.

By Daniel Cummins

When I awoke, my thoughts cackled

like the splintering wood of a rotted foundation. As day settled in and light lay its tender touch on my hand,

I saw it again: Crucibility.

Crucibility.

I realized then that it was my word to define, To be done with how I wanted.

The roots and trunk and branches were mine to refashion,

And the clay beneath the steady riverbed anticipated my reformative touch.

With patience they waited to be changed.

I had misconceived what that meant––Change was not something to be sought out, Not a blockade against the past.

But something to be greeted, saying, “It’s nice to meet you.”

After all,

The guilty man never did flee to change his ways. Change came to him.

What a wonderful thing it is to be uncertain.

To see the clay and brick

And appreciate the faults of each.

To draw and redraw ourselves from the startled, damaged things we once were––

Not burying and forgetting them, but incorporating them into our artwork––

And to seize our crucibles and exploit them to make us greater.

**Aplace or situation in which concentrated forces interact to cause or influence change or development.

“Mountaineers

Are Always Free” Caleigh O’Connor

TIRED WALLS

By Declan Slattery

I often think about the barriers that line the highway that connects my town to the rest of the world. When the highway rises, they also rise. It is a common belief that highways like this one never stop. They just keep cutting across the American Midwest until cement turns to ocean and even then they keep going. The barriers follow suit, accompanying the highway to wherever it leads.

Behind these barriers lies forest. Thick foliage that once dominated the entirety of the country, but were pushed away from society and replaced with great concrete paths and bridges destined to stand until the edge of time and be coated with layers of dirt and spray paint.

Being a backseat rider, I notice these truths frequently while I dream out the window. When I began to drive my eyes left the comfort of the trees and bushes that would just barely poke their heads over the walls that held them back and onto the road. That’s why I came to

Soon there will be no backseat windows at all, and the walls will become a mere filler for my peripheral vision.

But when I was a child in the backseat of my mother’s Ford Explorer I would watch the walls rise and sink along with the horizon. Every so often, and only children notice this, a door can be seen on a segment of these walls. A locked door leading to the other side where no highway would dare venture. I would dream of the key that belonged to these doors. It must have existed, and someone must have it in their possession. Who? My mind could simply think magical things at the time, for I do believe most people only grow accustomed to the realities of society once they find themselves in the front seat of the car. A magic person, it must be. A trustworthy person acquainted with nature who was allowed to come and go as they please. I longed for this. To leave behind my suburban watering hole for something raw and primal. To abandon the middle American highway that leads nowhere and find something no one but children have ever wished to find. To sleep in the thick branches of trees until my name is gone and the backseat where I often find myself steadily fighting the tug of my seatbelt is forgotten. Nothing behind me but the tired walls that kept me from the world.

Cleanup Detail

By Haley Hopkins

The latest story played on the news. Batman had just defeated yet another “world-ending” supervillain for the fourth time this week. New record. I picked up my cleaning supplies and stepped out of my apartment to make my way over to the company van. Just another long, boring day of cleanup. It’s a hassle to pick out those… little chunks on the floor. The broken glass and stains on the walls. But hey, someone’s gotta do it, right? I always wanted to be a hero—to take down some terrorist over a game of poker while effortlessly getting the girl. But that’ll never be me. No, I’m the cleanup guy. The one you call after some kind of mess. Most cleaning services aren’t willing to do these kinds of jobs. Heck, my company had to tackle that Terminator mess for months all by myself after John Connor saved the world. I don’t think I ever want to see a computer again. I put the key in the ignition and started my drive to the next cleaning site. Gotham City… yuck. That place is just too seedy. Good thing Batman doesn’t kill goons or I’d have twice the mess to clean up. But I don’t like to think too much about these things because it makes me a bit sad inside. I studied hard in school, did all of the extracurriculars I could. My parents—no, everyone—told me that with my merits and test scores, it would be easy to apply to a hero training academy. But it’s never that easy. Now look at me. I’m just some cleaning guy, living alone. The smell of chlorine permeates me everywhere I go. Where’s my reputation, my appearance to others? I can’t find a girlfriend and I can’t even remember the last time I’ve gone out with friends. Don’t believe me? Try picking up someone with the line “I clean bodies for a living.” Great. I arrived at the site. I took out the old bucket, mop, and incinerator from my van and got to work. This job shouldn’t take too long. When it boils down to it, this job doesn’t require

that much thinking. The mind drifts a lot during moments like these, and I began to reflect on my parents’ first reaction to my job.

My father had clenched his teeth when he first received the news.

“Haley, you are a disappointment to this family.”

“Harold!”

“I’m sorry Marie, but that’s just what it is.

He had opportunity and potential and now it’s all wasted.”

“Dad it’s really not all that bad. I make pretty good money, and I get by just fine.”

“You clean up for a living? Cleaning up other heroes’ and villains’ messes? Why couldn’t you be a hero, like your cousin Rob?”

“Dad, Rob has no money. He’s a deadbeat and he’s taken out more civilians in his battles than he’s defeated villains.”

“Yes, but he’s a hero. That’s something that the family can be proud of. Who cares about some wacko kid cleaning up other people’s messes for a living? There’s no legacy.”

And that was the end of it. A few years ago, Rob went on to abduct the mayor’s daughter for ransom and was killed in a police shootout. But despite all of this my family still talks about him in an affectionate tone.

I splashed the mop in the bucket and began sweeping. There’s something strangely comforting about a task like this. It’s simple. Therapeutic. With all of the hustle and bustle and fast-paced action our society faces—especially compounded by the threat of new villains each day—it’s nice to be alone with your thoughts. Yes, there are many renowned heroes out there, but people in that profession are a dime a dozen. Just last year in 2040 it became the most over-saturated profession here in the United States, passing even computer science.

As a result, finding work as a hero is hard and most people just barely scrape by. A Forbes article that recently came out stated that the average “hero” finds just over 20 jobs in an entire lifetime. 20 jobs. That includes rescuing cats and helping the elderly lady cross the street.

But people doing this hero gig wear it as a badge of honor. Their families lavish them with praise as they continue to drain their pockets to buy for their “little hero” new suits and gadgets that will rarely even be used.

I finished mopping the black and turned on the incinerator to begin throwing the rubbish and trash inside. Now came the easy part—cleaning up the inside wreckage. Everything became a blur as I entered a large building and cleaned each floor—1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th—and finally, I was walking up the stairs to the roof (It seemed like Batman took out all of those “nefarious” elevators in the process), dragging alongside me a “leash” to a now rather large levitating trash bag. By the way—levitating trash bags? They are the best advancement in technology that I can ever remember.

As I opened the door to enter the rooftop, I noticed a man standing on a ledge in front of me.

“D-d-don’t move another step, h-hero,” he stammered.

I couldn’t see the crowd down below from this angle, but I could hear it. Some were screaming at him, begging him not to jump. Others were shouting for someone to call the police or the hero association. But it would be too late. I would have to do something right now if I hoped to save him. But… I wasn’t trained for this. I don’t know how to diffuse these kinds of situations. What am I supposed to do?

“Hey, listen,” I tried to say in my calmest voice. “I won’t come any closer, okay? I’m staying right here.”

“G-g-good. Don’t…” I tried to make heads or tails out of this. He shouldn’t even be here; this building was supposed to be cleared before I came. Who is he? I examined his clothes from behind. He was wearing a black suit and had a red tie

over his shoulder. I remembered the broken

cubicles that I cleaned on the third and fourth

floor. Alright… he might be an office worker here. There was a dented phone on the ground next to him that was still on. The glass was broken, I could only guess because he threw it out in anger, but I could just make out the picture he used for his wallpaper: he was eating ice cream with a woman and a kid, probably his wife and son. Okay. My mind shifted back to the situation at hand. Even with all of this information, I still needed to say something. So of course, my mouth took over my brain and I asked something that I hoped I wouldn’t regret.

“Why are you doing this?”His posture loosened a bit. Just the tiniest bit. But enough that I could tell he was about to say something. “You heroes have it so easy. All of your fame and glory. What about us? I wanted nothing more than to be a hero when I was younger. Now? I’m stuck with some stupid white-collar job and Karen’s taken my son and left me for one of you You stupid, stuck-up, greedy bastards.”

“I’m not a hero.” “You’re not—what?” He looked over his shoulder now with a surprised look on his face. I shifted my position a little to loosen the tension from standing around for what felt like forever. But I could see him tense up again. He thought that I was going to make a move for it, to pull him back.

“I said I wouldn’t move any closer. And I’m not a hero. I clean up their messes for a living. That’s why I’m here now.”

“Ah, God is this really the end? Is this the best you could send me?” He looked at the sky. “A janitor?”

“I won’t disagree with you. But I’m the only other one here,” I crossed my legs and sat down, a few arm lengths away.

We sat for a few moments, the wind, a welcome reprieve from the muffled sobs and frustrated sighs weighing him down. “I will not choose what many men desire because I will not jump with common spirits and rank me with the barbarous multitudes,” I said.

He stared at me. I could feel it, but I was locked on the lights of the apartments and buildings around the city.

“William Shakespeare,” I smiled. “The Merchant of Venice. I’m sitting on a rooftop quoting Shakespeare.” He chuckled.

“IRREGULARITY” Anna Lussier

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the whole world strives to be more than it actually is. That people aren’t satisfied being average.” “What’s wrong with being a hero?” He pleaded. “Because you’re not,” I answered. “Because, I’m not.”

I took a deep breath and began to think. Perhaps the best thing I can do in this situation is to share my perspective. What has bothered me all my life also irks him. I mustered up my courage to speak.

“There are days, when I crave the cape. When the evolutionary prowess of x-ray vision, supersonic flight, or earth jarring intelligence are atop of every Christmas wish list I’ve ever had.

Those days happen, but then I sink into my chair at day’s end, turn on the TV and laugh at some silly comedy show. Not fearing if my identity will be discovered. Not asking myself if my popularity and my value to others stems from what I can do, rather than who I am. Not focused on another exceptional day of grandiosity and that perfect smile, while everything around me has gone to pot. It’s on those days I’m reminded that I don’t want shoulders that broad. That my problems are bad, but they’re not super-bad.”

I looked down at the ground. “Buddy, I don’t know about your wife and your kid. Maybe it works out. Maybe you get that happy ending. But you’ll never know if you jump.”

I got up and walked back to the door. “Hope to see you on the ground floor. Try using the stairs to get there.”

Ten minutes later, I reached the first floor and began to pack my supplies into the van. No screams, just disinterested people walking about. I looked up. Nothing there. He’d gone, and a smile crept upon my face. My quiet super power? Being average.

Before I Pass

By Arlene Ayuk

before i pass, i need an heir with which i will leave my sorrows and shortcomings. my life now is so that my children will live a worser one. for if the next humanity does not suffer, than this one has failed. and i hope that the inheritances get progressively worse and worse, until there is left only hell to get and give — and then maybe we will understand that we should have done something while we could still inherit the notion of a next.

before i pass, i will go on a journey. and on this journey i will burn every bridge that i cross. if not for the burning of bridges, a bond and a love would form between separate peoples. so i will destroy the links between these separate peoples until there is left only a schism of things and nothing bridging the one and the other — and then maybe we will understand that we should have done something while the bridges were still intact.

Reflection

By Austin Jameson

Suburbs, grew up in a big house, real nice place

Private school, khaki pants, white shirt paired with a white face

Hallways filled with fake smiles, white lies, and have a nice day! And wide eyes and these bright lights to compensate for their blind faith

Don’t be afraid of what they think just what they might say Say goodbye politely and tell them to be sure to drive safe Just passed you in the left lane I won’t be seeing you the next day The choice I made was obvious, you said my way or the highway

Conversations

By Eliza Henne

Daughter, what color do you see?

This one is red, but with undertones of blue, And some brown. Do you see it?

It’s very slight.

My mother laughs.

I don’t have eyes like yours. You’re the artist.

I smile, rubbing at dashes of lipstick Streaked over my inner arm.

Daughter, what is the name of this song?

It’s one of the Mozart concertos,

And it’s in D major, but I forget which one. Is it 4 or 5?

My mother laughs.

I don’t have ears like yours.

I can’t tell one note from another.

I smile, wiping away the frustrated teardrops Flecked on my violin.

Daughter, how heavy is your backpack?

It can’t be that bad, only a few textbooks

Plus a couple more pounds

For a tablet and some binders.

My mother laughs.

I don’t have strength like yours. You will hurt your back if you’re not careful.

I smile, watching her small hands grip the rail, Pulling herself slowly up the stairs.

Daughter, are you feeling better?

Yes, the migraine is going away

But I’ll take painkillers and coffee

And keep working.

My mother laughs.

I don’t have strength like yours.

Oh! I forgot to take my pills

I smile, remembering all of her bitter medicine

But she’s still not

MELANIN

BY Hannah Yomi

Every day

I look at my skin

Full of the oh so coveted pigment

With the name of melanin

Melanin

Some people love it

Some people hate it

Some people attempt to achieve it

With a tint of orange instead of a deep brown color

Before the days of slavery

My ancestors embraced the melanin in us

Taught us to love the kinks and coils

The uncontrollable untamed livelihood

Shown to the world through our skin and our curls

And then something changed

But then something came

Things were arranged

And nothing stayed the same

As our brothers and sisters walked away

In shackles and chains into our darkest days

From the home land they were being led astray

Into a world they didn’t know, that didn’t love them,

That tried to wipe the love from the ancestors of yesterday

Bury me in the ocean with my ancestor that jumped from the ships

Because they knew death was better than bondage. Trying to cross that final bridge

To freedom, hold on the ridge

Of our history and trying to break the bond which Holds us from the truth within

Slavery hits and there are almost 1 million caged birds

Singing so shrill and scared

Because the caged bird sings of freedom

But massa never really seemed to care

Over 200 years later

The fight for freedom and acceptance still rings true I see it in my own eyes

Born in this country who loved me

Then hates me

Embraced me

Then gave away me

Put me in the chains of massa

Stories and lies

Paints me as savage

So that no one would try to save me

Paints me as an animal

In the middle of a battle

As savage as they come

Gorilla girl what they named me

African booty scratcher is how they portray me

Violent enough so that people who look like me get shot without warning

Without thoughts of the lives they’ve stolen

And it’s funny because some of these same people think we’re the thieves

The Criminals

The deadbeats

The clowns

You know they based clowns off of us

Big lips and button noses

Afros that are tall and curly

Big feet

The jokes

The bums

The druggies and drug dealers

The thugs

The fools

So frowned upon as a people

But when we develop something new and original It’s stolen, just like our freedom

So one day in the future,

Full of a dream of freedom and equality that MLK dreamed of ‘Imma have a ‘lil baby girl

Full of melanin and kinks and coils sprouting from her head ‘Imma tell her

You are a free girl not a fool

Don’t feel suppressed

Let the melanin and your culture shine brighter than the sun

No matter what rise up from the ashes and broken backs and the chains that were put on us

No matter what because

Still you rise

Still I rise

Still we rise

A Day in Pekin

By Julius Lancaster

The sun rises in the clear blue sky in Pekin; it’s a cold winter morning, and the new year is approaching. I walk out of the bedroom in my wooden house, looking around the beautiful garden in the morning: the fog gives the pond, the little bridge, the little stone-made mountain, and the little pine trees a mysterious vail. The morning sun rises above the delicate wooden roof, glorious and peaceful. I take a deep breath, inhaling in and then breathing out; I can smell the order of my wooden furnitures, paper and ink made with traditional procedures, and the pine trees in the garden. Then, after washing up, I start to boil water for my morning tea and carefully follow the procedures of tea making for a cup of fragrant green tea. When it’s made, I close my eyes and hold the cup near my nose, listening to the songs of the birds and simultaneously enjoying the tranquility of the morning. Then I stand up and use some buns that I purchased from the market to make breakfast. Taking the first bite to the bun, I enjoy the sweetness and the aroma of the combination of tea and bun. I then finish the meal as a ritual, and stand up and walk to my study located next to the inner garden. I sit down and grab my writing brush and start to copy some poems from the Poem Collection. Then I read a line: my beautiful girl, lies on my shoulders on the wall of the city. People know love and romance 2,500 years ago. Then, I raise my head, looking at the tallest tree in my garden. I planted you in the year my wife died; now your numerous leaves can shade the whole garden. My tears drop on the words that I just wrote with my writing brush; they are faded. Yang, I miss you. It’s been so many years. I miss you so badly, but I can’t leave this world because I promised you to make China the greatest again and witness the beauty and happiness for you, I am your eyes in this world.

After cleaning my tears with tissues, I dress up, grab my walking stick, and go for a walk. Stepping out to the street, I feel the cold wind instantaneously stiffen my face. But a little boy runs away from his father and exclaims: ‘it’s Mr. MuRong, you want to have a snow fight with me?!”

“What’s your name little boy?”

“ZhuGeAnLan!”

“AnLan is a good name; do you know what it means?”

“I know, I know! It means settling and appeasing waves and turbulence!”

“Good kid, be capable and have a strong will, you will be a man who appeases the world!”

“Sorry for his rudeness, Mr. MuRong.” His parents apologize with cross-hand gestures. “It’s okay, AnLan is bright kid, please educate him well.” I make a cross-hand gesture in return.

As I continue to walk in the street, I stop and stare at the white snow on the roofs of wooden buildings, how pure, how clean, how lovely! When I was a kid, the snow in Pekin used to be black due to severe air pollution. The government tried hard to improve the situation, but failed because of its inefficiencies due to corruption. After Yang died, I successfully overthrew the government and established the most efficient political system in Chinese history. I promised her I would make China great again; so I did. Now the water is clean; the sky is blue; and we as a country returned to our traditional values with a system that ensures liberty for all. I remember the first date I had with Yang, she shut my mouth so many times because I was saying bad things about the Communist party. In the old days, people forgot what it meant to be Chinese; they forgot all our traditional quintessences and embraced the so-called “socialist values.” China became such a culturally destitute country with mad political passions; entrepreneurs were not capable; the president was an uneducated fool. When I first told Yang I was going to take them out, she laughed at me hilariously. Oh how I miss her laughter!

I stopped by a restaurant and ordered some noodles; the sounds from TV drew my attention: after three months of fighting, the Russian government finally agreed to withdraw their troops from their North Asian territory. Now China’s northern border meets the United States at the Bering Strait; our boys are coming home to celebrate the New Year!

“Here you go Mr. MuRong, your noodles is ready.”

“How much is it?”

“We don’t charge the former Prime Minister. If you didn’t conquer Mongolia fifteen years ago, we wouldn’t be able to defeat the Russians and take back our Northern Territory in three months.”

“Thank you! Our boys did a wonderful job! ” I laugh loudly and proudly, looking at the Flying-Dragon Banner hung at the window of the restaurant.

After finishing the noodles, I start to walk toward TianAnMen Square. On the way, the dampening candle light from lanterns draws me to the memories with Yang in LinAn, many many years ago, it was a new year as well. I held her hand while we walked around the West Lake; it was gorgeous: the soft wind nourished the willow trees near the walkways by the lake; there were so many stores near the lake as well, and the paper lanterns in the stores were exactly like those I am seeing now. She liked them so much that I purchased the most sophisticated one to decorate our home; when she held it, she was as glad as a kid; the dying candlelight danced on her sweet and smiling face. It was the best image I saw in my whole life, the sweetest dream in my life, the only thing I ever wanted from this world. After her death, I dared dream no more.

I never went back to LinAn again.

Finally, I arrived at the TianAnMen Square. As I looked at the Square, I started to think of the student protesters in 1989. They were the real patriots; they strived for reforms with their blood and lives. But the communist government gunned them down as if they were livestock. I hope their souls can rest In peace. I gave the communists payback; I executed the leader of the party for the crime of high treason, outlawed Communism, and confiscated all the properties of the communist party members. I hope I have given the students justice; their blood wasn’t shed in vain.

I take a glance at the gate tower, no more political slogans and the glorified portrayal of Mao ZeDong- the man will stink in history books for thousands of years, the biggest humiliation ever in Chinese history. It took me almost a lifetime to clean up the spiritual poison he left behind and to demolish the enormous system he built to establish a real republic.

Thanks to the Americans for blowing up his son in North Korea; otherwise I wouldn’t even have the chance to start the revolution. Yang always hated it every time we talked about the infamous Chairman Mao.

I walk in the Forbidden City and get on the top of the TianAnMen gate tower. Standing in the middle, I recall the day of my inauguration. She held the Constitution, and I put my left hand on it, vowing to faithfully execute the Office of Prime Minister. I was neither excited nor nervous. Staring at her eyes, I told her with my eyes that I did all this for her.

Staring at the Flying-Dragon Banner under the poetic sunset of Pekin, listening to the laughters of children playing on the Square, I stand high in the cold wind, alone.

“Forever Liminal”

Grace Tuttle

PLEASE I CAN’T BREATHE

By Lauren Smith

Breath is life.

George Floyd, an unarmed, nonviolent black man was arrested in Minneapolis Minnesota for a counterfeit bill.

He said he couldn’t breathe. Everything hurt.

That’s what it felt like watching the video.

“They’re going to kill me.”

That’s what he said. And that’s what they did. It is astounding to me. My chest hurts writing this. Isn’t it unfathomable?

If George Floyd had his knee on your neck, for ten minutes, how would you feel? How would your family feel? How would your community feel? Your friends?

Every year we are forced to drown in names. Names of black people murdered. Names of mothers, sons, fathers, daughters, cousins, friends, significant others—

Our suffering should be your suffering. Our pain should be your pain. Our outrage should be your outrage. Our humanity should be your humanity. Our injustice should be your injustice. Our murder should be your murder.

Don’t let the land of the free hold us captive. Your compliance, your complacency, is murder.

It is the knee on our necks.

Everyone dies.

George Floyd’s family probably never imagined that their loved one wouldn’t come home.

Never imagined that his slow, painful death would be on the internet.

Death, like breath, is a part of life.

To be black in America is to not be able to breathe.

THE AUTHOR

By Stephen Cyrus

She comes back to me

The click of her heels, snapping into place,

Like the fall of fresh leaves,

The colors are varied on her face.

The scent of burning wood

Drawn to that perfection,

In winter’s never-ending frost

She tampers with her reflection.

She returns.

Crossed, scrambled, with no sense of direction.

My hands grasp her tight

As I make the connections–

And give her attention.

That much needed intervention

With gentle, non-spoken mentions -

Spoken with careful selection.

She refocuses my gaze and I let her go free,

Like the weight lifted off my shoulders, no pain—

She runs ‘til she feels empty,

The color that was once in her is drained.