The Folio / Spring 2026

The Folio

The Folio

Conestoga High School

200 Irish Road, Berwyn, PA, 19312

Cover Design ©Eden Liu

Section Breaks © Rey Bandyopadhyay, Kyleen Zhang

Staff Page © Niki Chen

Staff Photo © VIbha Besagi

Copyright © 2026 Conestoga High School Literary Magazine Staff

Internal Design © Rey Bandyopadhyay, Vibha Besagi, Niki Chen, Jessica Li, Eden Liu, Shirin Patel, Caroline Tierney, Kyleen Zhang

Copyright © of each work belongs to the respective author or artist

First Edition 2026

All right reserved. All works are copyright of their respective creators as indicated herein and are reproduced with permission. The Folio is a public forum for student expression produced by the students of Conestoga High School.

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From the Editors

Managing Editors

Navami Muglurmath

Elise Gerstle

Amy Li

Head Art Editor Art Editors

Head Lit Editor Lit Editors

Head Copy Editor Copy Editors

Head Business Manager Business Managers

Vibha Besagi

Rey Bandyopadhyay

Niki Chen

Jessica Li

Eden Liu

Shirin Patel

Caroline Tierney

Kyleen Zhang

Ethan Loi

Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi

Sukanya Menon

Archana Nair

Jessica Joseph

Ezoza Mukhammadomonova

Austin Wang

Eva Cao

Rachel Wang

Ada Lavelle

Emerick Lange

Maitreyi Senthil

Ridhima Parnati

Madeline Widner

Arima Agarwal

Chloe Proud

Welcome, reader, to a bustling hub of intellectual debate and artistic flourish: The Folio. In the heart of Athens, Greece, beneath skies watched by gods and mortals alike, we invite you to step into our amphitheater–an exedra. Here, citygoers can pause to rest from the day’s tasks, appraise art, and hold philosophical discussions about human existence and divine intervention.

Of course, the sanctuary of our exedra could not be curated without the help of Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. McGuinn, our didaskaloi, teachers of craft and inquiry who shape our discourse as deftly as Apollo tunes his lyre. We also extend our gratitude to The Folio’s staff, who rose to the challenge of transforming our conversations into a collection of enduring works.

Our exedra is full of creative thinkers who have envisioned realms beyond our own; telling brilliant epics where humans strive to live among the gods and fatal flaws bring ruin to even the greatest heroes. Through words, sculptures, and strokes of paint, we design explanations for phenomena we do not yet understand.

Today, contributors at The Folio offer you a collection of works that capture both the definitive and the supernatural. We invite you to our exedra, where three worlds collide beneath the setting sun.

This assortment of stories grows like vines twisting up stone columns, leading a willing reader to a kingdom resting in the clouds, run by beings capable of transforming fate with the snap of a finger. High on Olympus, the air is thin with power. It quivers under the strokes of Zeus’s bolts and the enchanting songs of the nine muses. However, even immortals are bound by pride, jealousy, and desire…

From these heights, we descend into the mortal world, where humans venture between the sun and the sea. Mortals chase glory like Achilles, build beyond their limits like Daedalus, and, like Icarus, risk everything

for a glimpse of something greater. Artists and writers alike captivate their audiences with memories of war, love, and loss.

Beyond the living world lies the underworld, where Hades reigns over the deceased. The river Acheron carries drifting souls from the comfort of the living to the cold and desolate fields of Asphodel. Whispers of cruel judgements gather in shadows beneath the exedra’s stone columns, clinging to the edges of human consciousness. Perpetuated by distant howls of a three-headed beast and rumors of clawed angels, the flourishes of beloved stories decay, littering the exedra with rotten leaves.

So rest on our stone benches, reader. Appreciate the creations of your fellow civilians. Let their beliefs challenge and strengthen your own. Here, you will witness remarkable stories, but may also fall into remarkable peril. Let these works guide you upward to fantastical wonders, ground you in human struggle, and draw you deeper into reflection. But be wary, friend–the gods do not always take kindly to mortals treading in their realms…

Sincerely,

The Editors

Table of Contents

You must be new around here! Er—don’t worry though!

Hello! Hermes, god of thieves, travel, trade, etc, etc, etc. I’ll show you around the place. Olympus has a vast supply of various wonders, and plenty of stories of further splendor!

Elise Gerstle

The greatest power, never truly her own

Sukanya Menon

She crosses the board with a single move, She is certain because she has nothing to lose. She fights the battle, She deals swift deaths, She clears the path ahead with every step,

While he, slow and square-bound, waits for her hand. The horses and knights shift at her command.

It is strange the most capable does not have the most worth, For she is the most powerful tool on this checkered Earth.

Yet, it is his single step that decides it all, One quiet move that determines rise or fall.

A queen who bleeds so the king may keep his throne, The greatest power, never truly her own.

San Juan

Lucy Thompson

The Battle Unicorn

Sukanya Menon

A crash marches forward, so powerful, thundering like a battle cry They stomp through the mud, making the earth sigh.

By day, little boys and girls draw Soft creatures of glitter and shimmering awe.

But out in the grass where you can hear the birds’ lullaby Lies skin thick as armor and a horn pointed high A spear towards the clouds, reaching up to the sky.

Its mane isn’t tangled with flowers and flair, Just bristly small hair poking out here and there.

She is a battle unicorn ready to flare.

Bay Area Sunrises Bay Area Sunrises

Colored Configurations

When colors shift throughout the day, the epitome of beauty seems to lie in the wavering of our emotions. Cool sea glass soothes the feisty Egyptian sun, and rich violets deepen the day’s jovial, golden hour.

The colorless wind blows ‘way the blaze of autumn leaves, and the clear, cool rain revives the rainbow hues of spring. The icy sheets of silvery snow slip off the moon’s edges, gliding off the midnight sky and shuffling onto the grey frost of a quiet, expectant morning. The obsidian rage of storm can be quieted by the deep, bold blue of the evening, and the cloud’s soft, steel grey tendrils.

When colors shift through the years, the epitome of beauty changes, and weaves between the hedges of a maze of sage bushes and olive memories, little facets of emerald that knit together the shadows of death and the shimmers of life.

Donuts

Coffee

Mooncakes Mooncakes

Rachel Wang Rachel Wang

From the bottle of soda I got for $2 we drink alone beneath the moon. It feels odd to do something this calm in the bustle of an autumn vacation, but it still tastes the same: bubbly, tangy, a little warm.

We went on that train earlier, Eleven hours to Sydney from Melbourne. The station was hot, a little humid, and so loud – a mix of clicking boot heels, hurried yells of anxious families, and the automated “Boarding, boarding!” from the speakers. Any earlier in the day and they’d blend into a chaotic cacophony, but we took the afternoon train to “skip the morning rush,” as per your advice.

On the ride, I was submerged in all the work the universe forgot to hurl at me during the months prior. Those eleven hours felt like a million too few.

I’d bet that somewhere in all that time you took some unflattering photos of me,hunched over essay drafts and an unending pile of Chinese writing practice. I could smell your morning coffee by my ear in every stifled laugh as you took them.

I must have fallen asleep somewhere in the final two hours, because I woke up in my cousin’s car with you sprawled out next to me.

He glanced back at us briefly, muttering something along the lines of “girls are weird” before parking at my aunt’s house. She’d left a box of mooncakes, one of those gift sets everyone just has to get their hands on around this time, with flavors like yuzu or rose.

As my cousin stalked up the stairs, you gave me a knowing look and grabbed the box

We biked for maybe thirty minutes, tracing along the edge of the harbor,

the spiky opera house silhouette piercing the starry, purple sky. It was 3 a.m. and we had at most two hours of sleep, but that was enough for us (and for the crickets, too, apparently). We stopped by a 7-Eleven because you said you “need a flat surface.” I bought a soda and some napkins, returning to the sight of you hunched over the box, slicing the pastries into eighths.

I didn’t take any stupid pictures, though. Does that make me better than you? Not sure.

Now, from that shared bottle of soda, we drink with our legs dipped into the water, our shoes discarded next to the streetlight. Much to my embarrassment, you’re going through your camera roll, holding your blinding phone screen in my face when you find the train pictures. But I don’t think it matters as much now.

As we dig through the sliced pastries, I kind of wonder what the real moon might taste like, and if it ever feels lonely, too, so high above us, as cakey dough crumbles on my tongue.

30 | Olympus

Lucent Lucent

AITAH for turning my lover into a heifer to protect her from my wife?

Archana Nair

r/AITAH

u/Sky_Father

AITAH for turning my lover into a heifer to protect her from my wife?

Note: I don’t see how I could possibly be the asshole in this situation but my wife wanted me to post this on here.

I, Zeus, (790,000M) have been married to my wife, Hera, (795,000F) for thousands of years. I love her, but our relationship has always been complicated.

For context: as the king of gods, It is my duty to be a good ruler, and in order to do so, I do my utmost to find means of connecting the beings that I rule over. While my methods of doing so may be unique, they are nonetheless very effective. I am simply doing my duty by siring the children of goddesses, nymphs, and mortals. As such, a freshwater nymph, Io (23F) caught my attention. Again, while I love my wife and think that she is very beautiful, it would be utterly foolish to deny just how stunning this young maiden was. My wife is well aware of my endeavors, and she unfortunately does not understand the significance and importance of my duties. Hence, I planned ahead, to avoid inconveniencing her or Io. I covered the land of Argos with clouds so that my wife would be unable to see anything from Mount Olympus. I then seduced Io and slept with her. Unfortunately, due to my wife’s overly-emotional tendencies and lack of trust, she began to approach Argos. I had to do something because my wife isn’t the most rational and often tends to take her anger out on my lovers by punishing them. So, as a wise king and gracious lover, I turned Io into a heifer. When my wife arrived and just saw me with a heifer, she calmed down. Given how gorgeous Io had been as a nymph, she was just as beautiful as a heifer. This was something that no one could deny. Not even my wife, because she asked me to give Io to her as a present. Now, like I’ve said before, I love my wife and just like with my duties as king, I take my duties as a husband very seriously. So when my wife asked me for something, I did what any good husband would do and gave it to her. It’s not as though she had known the heifer was actually Io in another form. Thus, I not only protected my lover but also kept my wife happy, and if that isn’t

the mark of a truly superior male I don’t know what is. I will, of course, eventually find an appropriate time to turn Io back into her original form, but for the time being this was the best solution to the predicament I was in. So, AITAH?

EDIT: Small update, my wife somehow found out that the heifer was Io. She then had Io tied to a tree and made Argos Panoptes guard her. When I found out about this I knew I had to do something so I sent my wonderful son Hermes to steal Io away from that monstrous giant. Hermes did have to slay Argos, but he managed to rescue Io. Before he could bring her to me, my wife found out and decided to torment Io further. She sent a gadfly to sting Io’s hide and cause her unending pain, leading to her wandering far and wide in an attempt to escape this torture. She eventually travelled all the way to the banks of the River Nile in Egypt, which is where I found her. I then transformed her back into her original form and she was able to give birth to our baby boy who we named Epaphos. So really, my initial intentions behind transforming her were well founded and despite a few minor setbacks, I not only saved her but also gave her a son. What more could a woman want?

Join the discussion...

LadyOfAthens

Dad… what?? Sorry not sorry but I’m with mom on this one. YTA

Hera_Teléia

You turned her into a COW. No amount of fancy words or elaborate justifications are going to change that. Would it really kill you to stop sleeping with anything that moves?

Oh, and the people have spoken, dear husband, YTA.

TheMessenger

You go dad! Always happy to help. Definitely NTA

YourFavDryad

So Zeus cheated on Hera AGAIN and turned Io into a cow. And then Hera tormented and tortured Io too. I can’t be the only one who thinks that everyone sucks here?? Yeah ESH, (Except for my poor girl Io of course!)

art is magic Mixed media

Niharika Sule

Untitled, 2002

Navami Muglurmath

It snowed again, just last week. Remember when you used to drag me outside before the sun even rose, eager to test the snow out? I was your apprentice, handing you paraffin wax and rubber cords as you tinkered with the sled, intent on improving its aerodynamics. You looked so serious, crouching in the driveway as I held a flashlight, warm in the scarf you bundled me in. I complained about the early hour, but you never listened. You always said the first run of fresh snow mattered the most.

I remember our prints in the snow, size 6 and size 13 Doc Martens running circles around each other. You’d stomp paths ahead of me, packing the snow down with heavy steps and then telling me to place my boots exactly where yours had been so I wouldn’t collapse into a pile of ice. I’d stretch my legs as far as I could to match your stride, wobbling between your footprints as you laughed, slowing down just enough to make sure I didn’t fall.

Teasingly, you used to push me lightly into snowbanks, telling me to collect snow for a snow fort. Ever the rebel, I just laid in the snow, making angels. I tried to do it again this year. The snow was just as cold and quiet as I remembered it, but it felt strange lying there, all by myself. I half-expected you to appear with an armload of snowballs and start pelting me with them, like you did when we were kids.

I walked down to the bottom of the hill where the fence leans a little to the left, where we used to sit against to catch our breaths. I used to try to climb atop the fence, but you always stopped me, saying I’d fall. I remember thinking that my big brother would always keep me safe, always keep me warm in a frozen place like this.

The hill is still here, the fence is still crooked, and every winter the snow comes back the same. I stood there for a while, catching my breath, until the cold started creeping through my boots and I realized the only footprints in the yard were mine.

Under the Southern Sky

Clouds Among Branches

Random Relatable Things

Rey Bandyopadhyay

Random Relatable Things

Rey Bandyopadhyay

when you do ab exercises like twice and you’re like WHY DON’T I HAVE A SIX PACK YET

*sob*

when the entire week feels like friday EXCEPT for friday itself

when you convince yourself you finished eating something, like a cookie, because it’s GONE, and then later you see it behind something and you’re like I KNEW I DIDN’T FINISH THAT

when you see someone you kind of know, and you’re both in a situation where you’re alone together, and you’d like to talk to them but it’s awkward to start conversation so you both just sit there in silence

when your friend is in front of you in the hallway but they’re talking to other people and you don’t want to interrupt so you walk a little slower to stay behind them (is this just me? am i just that antisocial?)

when you try on an outfit that looks good laid out but it looks like trash when you wear it and it ends up taking twenty minutes to pick an outfit

when you blink too much and the mascara goes on your eyelid, but you don’t wanna redo your makeup after washing it off so you just dab a lot of concealer or eyeshadow or foundation on it to cover it

when you tell yourself you’ll do something later and it never gets done

when you’re in pain for some reason, and you realize it’s probably because you’ve been sitting down hunched over a textbook for hours but you can’t get up and stretch because it’s already 11pm and you have other things to get done

when you blank out when someone tells you their name so whenever you need to get their attention you can’t call their name so you just have to kinda run to catch up w/ them and say hi (and hope someone who knows their name will yell it really loud eventually)

when you wear a ring and you keep fidgeting with it and then you swap it to another finger that’s bigger and then it gets stuck there and it’s a struggle and you question why you were fidgeting with it only to do it again two minutes later cuz you don’t want to listen to the teacher’s lecture

when you’re typing really fast so it looks like you’re taking notes but you’re actually just making a list of really real moments

when you’re walking in a group of three people but you don’t fit in line with them so you have to walk right behind them and it’s awkward because neither of them can hear you/see you in a crowded hallway

the feeling when you can text someone but talking to them in public is awkward cuz they’re a dang introvert so you have to start all the conversations and they just nod and look at their phone..?

when your friend gets a crush on your crush that you haven’t told them about so you just have to sit there and listen in agony

when you’re in the bathroom and you just like randomly question existence while doing your business

when you try to spray deodorant under your shirt and it just completely misses

when you forget something, like homework, and you know you should’ve remembered and you were doing something

pointless instead of it so you get reaaallllyy mad at yourself in your head

when you’re trying to take a test but you can think about literally everything EXCEPT THE TEST. random song lyrics! a weird thing you said earlier! that one random fact for another class! another test that you have to take later!

when you make a reference and none of your friends get it and they look at you a little funny

when you write something and then you just absolutely hate it and never look at it again / when you write something and you love it and come back to it the next day and think it’s awful / when you literally cannot write at all until it’s 12 AM and you need to sleep and you suddenly lock in

when the folio doesn’t have enough lit so you submit your list of silly and funny relatable things even though it’s definitely nowhere near as thought out as the other beautiful pieces but the college roasts piece last year was very silly and funny and it got in so you decide to give it a shot

Hekate

Dip pen and watercolor

Jessica Li

Selene

Dip pen and watercolor

Jessica Li

How we used to skate

Thin Ice Rey

Spun while soft snowflakes came down You taught me to dance

Bandyopadhyay

It’s been years since then I wish you would look at me

Want to skate again

Early winter hits

The lake not fully frozen

Each step making cracks

“Come join me,” I say But you just stand on the edge

Too scared to step out

You’ve seen many fall

Fading angels through the ice

Your skates sit untouched

I’d give it all for Us swans to dance again, but The ice is too thin

You don’t look at me

And walk home through the forest

The sun starts to set

Tears freeze on my cheeks

Icy fractures spread like webs

I cannot be saved

Rey Bandyopadhyay

Cold Ridhima Parnati

Snow is falling again And so is my mood The winds howl, The days get shorter I’m waiting Still standing in the cold.

I want to leave But I stop myself, Frozen, unable to move. I see everyone by the fire Enjoying the comfort of the heat. I tell myself, I don’t deserve the warmth. Everyone else enjoys it But me.

I want the warmth. I want to feel just as warm

And I know the cold isn’t keeping me here, But I stay anyway.

House Drawing

Pen and watercolor

Caroline Tierney

Fading

Arima Agrawal

No one warned me that growing up changes what once felt eternal.

Best friends forever turn into lost strangers. Places with my mark shrink to dust. Memories flicker like candles on a windy night. You wake up one day to feel the child in you slowly taking its leave. Growing up is losing versions of yourself: the fearless one, the loud one, or maybe just the one who believed monsters hid under the bed.

But maybe it’s not all fading. New strengths take their first breath. New boundaries unfold.

New warm lights I run toward . Maybe it’s a book with chapters left to craft. Maybe it’s learning to carry who I was, without dropping who I am becoming.

god made man

Aether Janardhan

what makes a man a god?

i have the ability to rend flesh from bone, make gold from earth, and write songs from silence. i have risen great pillars of stone from the ground to the sky. i have built homes for the inhabitants of the city of my mind, fluttering about like a mad flock of butterflies.

yet i am a man.

all i want is to be the greatest in the land. i want to be worshipped, revered, adored. i want heads to turn when i enter the room and the sun to rise into the sky with my presence. i want to be praised, for all i do and all that i am. i want to be praised for the land i pull from the sea and the sun i summon from the sky.

is that so much to ask?

i am quiet, yes, but i remain benevolent, creating beautiful things and stirring them into the world for an infuriating lack of applause. when i rise to demand gratitude for my actions, the words seize in my throat, and i find myself unable to communicate with mortals.

yet i am mortal.

i want you to love me. i want you to love me as if i were god, to worship me, to revere and cherish every facet of my mind and inch of my body. i want you to hold me, as if in prayer, and tell me you love me, and say that everything will be okay.

i want to be the god of your devotion, above man and considered as such, considered as beautiful and perfect and constantly in need of the utmost admiration. i want crowds to cheer for me, animals to flock to me, and all living beings to bow to my presence.

i am afraid, truthfully. i am afraid of death, of my own mortality. i want to live forever, to be loved forever, to be cherished and adored without having to pour so much of myself into everything. i may be vain, but it is because i am afraid of being let go. afraid of being forgotten. i am beautiful, so why am i not loved?

all i am is human. how can i transcend this?

Am I?

Colored pencil

Evie Loi

Wolves

Rey Bandyopadhyay

Author’s Note: A symposium was a formal drinking party in Ancient Greece held after a meal in a room called the andron that often consisted of philosophical conversation.

Dated to the 7th moon waxing of the first month of summer: a day of growth, hope, and balance.

The bearded man walks into the room and I learn that his name is Alkamenes, meaning valiant and strong. I wonder what he is doing speaking with us when he looks fit to be leading men into war. His eyes are blue and piercing, and the walls seem to bend around them as if the room itself is intimidated by his presence. The man who has called us to his symposium sits at the head of the room, gazing down at his guests. The look on his face is kind, too kind, as if he is meant to be one of us and Alkamenes is the philosopher. My father once told me that a man who gives trust too easily is a man who is too often surrounded by the corrupt and therefore who cannot be trusted himself. However, if not for the kindness of our host, a man such as I would have never sat at the same table with the elites whom I see in this room, so I set aside my father’s advice as the host begins to speak.

“I have called you all here today with some questions in mind. Are we, as people, inherently moral, or is it our society that gives us these ideas? If left alone,

would we become as savage and wild as the wolves of the forest?”

Alkamenes, the beastly man, raises his glass and the room falls quiet. “I do not believe that, if born separate from society, a human child would fare better than that of an animal.” His voice is unexpected: clear as glass and firm as marble. It is the voice of a man who truly believes each word he says.

There are murmurs of agreement, and our host gives a small laugh. “But then, tell me, my good friend. How is it that us, as men, have found ourselves in this prosperous empire, dominant over the animal kingdom? What is the difference between us and them?” He smiles, as if he knows he has had the final say. I myself cannot think of a response to this, nor could I ever gather the courage to voice it aloud.

But the bearded man only looks at the host knowingly. “Ah, Darius, I fear you have answered your own question. It is because we were lucky enough to be born in a time in which humanity has built its own empires, in a time where generations of tiring work has led to the glorious cities in which we live. If you found yourself in a time with an empire of wolves, would

you assert your humanity as an excuse for dominance?”

“An empire of wolves could never exist,” someone says in an unused, raspy voice, and I realize it is my own.

Suddenly all the eyes in the room have turned to me, and I find that all logical thoughts have flown out of my brain and it is now full of unintelligible dirt.

The corners of Alkamenes’s lips turn up. “And pray tell, boy, why? Is there really anything that makes us better than them?”

The intrigued look he gives me, as if my opinion mattered to greater men than I, makes me want to live up to his expectations. But I cannot make my lips form a single word, even as I clench my nails deep into my fists. Red half-moons form on my palms: but if I press hard enough, maybe the words will come out.

Another man sitting across from me. raises his glass to respond. “Wolves do not harm men without a purpose. Men, however, hunt wolves for sport. Are we truly as morally correct as we think we are? Is our society not a flawed one? We say it is our human ability to reason and to communicate that makes us better than the savage wolf, but does the wolf not also live in family groups, and solve the problems that are presented to them, and hunt to survive?” This is a man with a similar social standing to mine: I’ve shared many a drink with him. He looks at me as if his questions are for me alone. Alkamenes nods agreeably as he talks, and I start to feel like my side of the argument is incredibly stupid.

A memory comes to mind of a day

in my childhood when I went out into the woods, determined to chart the constellations myself. As the sun started to set, I ran through the forest as fast as I could, my sandaled feet clapping against the dirt. The tallest tree in the forest sat at the top of a hill, watching over its siblings like a shepherd watches his sheep. With my father’s cloak hanging off of my shoulders, I climbed that tree for a view of the heavens. With a reed pen in one hand and an inkwell propped up on a branch, I started to paint each detail of the night sky. When the cold wind threatened to blow me out of the branches, I wrapped my father’s cloak tighter around myself, clung to the branches, and continued to draw. As I painstakingly sketched the stars, I swear I could see Artemis driving her silver chariot across the sky, a silhouette against the full moon. Once I was finished, I rolled up my masterpiece. Finding that my legs had become paresthetic from hours of disuse, I reacted as a boy of seven would: shrieking and falling off the tree, and landing in the frigid lake below.

I crawled out of the lake, cloak dripping with plants and the smell of fish, and began the walk home. Suddenly, a pair of glowing eyes came out of the forest, and took the shape of a white wolf with a patchy coat. It foamed at the mouth, and it had a look of utter hatred in its eyes. It did not seem to recognize that I was young, that I posed no danger to it. The second I tried to run, the creature jumped at me. I ducked into the shadows, but it got its teeth into my star chart, claws scraping through the skin of my forearm. Seemingly satisfied with its new sheet of vellum paper,

made from animal skin, the wolf limped away. I watched from the safety of a bush, arm stinging and heart racing.

I tell this story only to the man across from me, avoiding the great men who are clearly listening. If I focus, then they are no longer here and I am up in the tallest tree again, painting the heavens. I show him the long, jagged scars, and he nods in understanding. “I see. Maybe the noble wolf we write stories of is not so noble in practice.”

Alkamenes waits until the other man has finished talking. Once the room is filled with silence, he speaks, his words echoing against the elegant marble of the andron walls. “My boy, I do not blame you for your impression of wolves: a violent experience at a young age. But one wolf is not all wolves, just like we all are not the same kind of man who would kill others for sport. The wolf you encountered seems to have been infected with the disease of fury, or madness: it causes them to be unnaturally violent. I, myself, when I was very small, met a wolf pup who was not aggressive at all: in fact, he seemed to behave exactly like a human child. I do not know if it was the blessing of Lupa, but I believe wolves have the capacity to feel anger and to cry and to love, just as men do.”

The host gives a laugh, but Alkamenes does not falter.

“Would you, boy, say that every man in this room is the same? That we are all good, or we are all evil?”

I am lost in thought when I realize

his question was for me, and the entire room is waiting for my reply. My hands tighten into fists once more, and crescents of blood finally bloom on my palms. They’re wolves, all of them, waiting to pick my thoughts to pieces.

“Go on,” he says, patiently.

“I believe that every man in this room is evil.” The men look incredulous, looking around at each other in anger and disbelief, murmuring among themselves.

“And I believe every man in this room is good: we are simply defined by whether we are more one or the other. Humanity is not one man, and one bloodthirsty wolf does not speak for his whole species.” Two simple sentences, and yet the greatest man in the room nods at me in agreement.

The host clinks his glass and gestures for the whole room to look at him.

“We all, I believe, have been outsmarted, by a young boy from a farming village in Eleusis. Pray tell, boy, would a man born outside of our society be good or bad?”

My hands unclench. “A man outside of society’s main goal would not be morality, but survival. If his surroundings require him to be evil to survive, so be it!

No one would tell him off for it, because he would only have Gaia and the animals for company,”

The host raises his glass, and so does the rest of the room. My face blushes red, from alcohol, but mostly from pride.

those stars in her eyes

Aether Janardhan

Trigger warning: Suicide.

The stars glimmered brightly from up this close. I reached my hand out to them past the railing of the boat, flexing my fingers as if I could grab them.

The other crewmates were belowdecks, scrambling to deal with the wreckage from the crash into a large piece of space debris. That left me all alone on top of the deck to lazily mop at the floorboards and gaze longingly at my love, shimmering just overhead.

A common story on the ship told of a lonely woman, long ago, who did not want to live on earth. She wandered away into space, walking where no one else had gone. She ran away to the

empty abyss, even though the vacuum tore at her skin and her organs with the pressure of a thousand suns. Eventually, she exploded into stardust.

Every star that came after that was her, living in the one place she belonged. Or so the story went – people often said that it wasn’t true, and it was commonly accepted as a simple mythical legend, nothing to take seriously. after all, why would anybody with all of science?

Still, sometimes I would see a woman’s face in the reflection of the wooden floorboards or off the metal buckles on the captain’s boots. I knew science just didn’t explain everything about the universe, that there were some questions that nobody could answer.

Now, here, alone with my thoughts, I swore I heard a voice singing to me from the stars. The rock the boat had crashed into pushed against the wood of the ship, slowly pressuring the panels to give. It croaked and groaned in harmony to the singing of the stars.

You hate it here, she sang. Come join me where you will be loved. come home, come into my arms, darling. I almost let go of my broom, gasping when I heard her. I looked around at first– I knew where the voice was coming from, but could I really believe it?

Surely I was just losing my grip on sanity from years of service on this godforsaken boat. Surely this was just my loneliness playing tricks on me because of the constant twilight, the endless gloaming out here. Surely this prison-like voyage was finally driving me mad, sending my mind far out into the sky and past those very stars.

I looked back up at the stars. Her voice grew louder, sweeter. Stars from everywhere sang you belong with us, you belong home. from belowdecks, i heard screaming. there was a rumbling below my feet.

Her voice was becoming more louder now. Still, her beckon remained gentle. My arms fell by my side for just a moment before I was running to the railings, hitching up my skirt and climbing to get a better view of the stars. I grabbed onto the mast to prevent falling over, the shaking of the ground beneath my feet causing large barrels to fall over and roll about.

A bright light was erupting from the doors and windows that led belowdecks. The air was starting to glow, turn hot. Despite the eruption I witnessed, my head felt clear. The voices continued to sing. I love you, darling. Come home to me. you’re miserable here, aren’t you?

In the coalescing stardust, I saw her face – a beautiful woman, all by her lonesome, singing with a thousand voices. More beautiful than the ocean below my feet and the space above my head. More beautiful than all of life itself. I stopped breathing as she held her arms out to me.

I looked back at the ship. It was cracking now. The only life I’d ever known falling to pieces. The screaming had all but silenced. I turned back to the woman, and she smiled at me softly. You’re miserable here, aren’t you?

so come home.

And perhaps out of desperation, in a moment of weakness, I stepped off the edge. Despite myself, despite everything the crew would say, I followed my heart’s calling. I followed her song. I jumped into her arms and exploded into glittering dust, finer than sand.

I came home.

Cerulean Grace

Colored pencil and pen

Sophia Yu

Long before the Parthenon was in ruins, Athena sent down the first Olea europaea to win the favor of the mortals. Now, the sun shines down on the temple’s pillars and the ocean breeze blows sea spray onto the rocks along the beach. All is well in the great city of Athens.

9:30am

the same way you do

Eva Cao

Trigger warning: Mentions of eating disorder.

“(there is egg and rice soup in the pot.)”

So I help myself to a serving because you would lecture me if not. You’re always making sure we eat well, even though I never want food in the morning.

1:00pm

“(will you eat now or later? I am not hungry.)”

Soon, so you don’t complain about being hungry later, because I know you won’t eat until one of us does; it always is that way.

6:00pm

“(did you eat at work? I made food at home.)”

I got mashed potatoes when I had the chance to, and you tell me I shouldn’t eat that every day: the same thing you tell me every sunday.

11:00pm

“(go to sleep early. there is school tomorrow.)”

I studied late, and now I’m brushing my teeth, but I’m not staring at my face in the mirror. I wonder if this is how you look at yourself too.

7:00am

You didn’t say anything because you were sleeping, but you didn’t have to.

I already talked to myself, the same way you do.

And so it is mine

Rachel Wang

I have faith: I feel this to be true, But it’s not a faith In a me or a you.

Not a god or a game, Nor a love or a blame— It’s not a thing So much as a flame:

A spark, Against myself and my reason, Nested in the back of my mind, That the universe makes space For me for a reason, And it will all, one day, turn out fine.

I may not get everything I want, But I’ll learn and I’ll grow and I’ll climb. That’s all we need to live for, really: To flow in the current of time.

Stagnancy is what causes death. Change is the food of life.

My beliefs are my betterment, And so in spite Of all the horror and hunger and lines, I’m telling you that I have faith in this world Simply because it is mine.

All I’ll ever be

(is love of you)

Rachel Wang

Ihave forgotten the taste of water that wasn’t poured by your hand. The laundry is a mountain of linen I no longer care to climb. The clock on the wall has stopped ticking; to my ear it is silent compared to your voice. God, please, let me be the floorboards that carry her weight, the wood that holds her up when she lays down her aching body.

I tried to go out today, to be a person with a name, but I saw a bowl of oranges on the counter and wondered if the fruits felt lucky to be peeled by your fingers. I am a useless, hollow thing, jealous of some produce. God, please, let me be the pillowcase that catches her dreams, let me feel the heat of her skin and breath.

My friends speak of “potential” and “the future” but my future is a narrow hallway that ends at your door. I am genuflecting in the kitchen, staring at the crumbs you left last night. God, please, strip away the parts of me that aren’t of her. I’m sick of being a boy, just make me into something she’ll look at so I can feel again.

I am shrinking into a single, aching point of light. The dishes stay dirty, the mail stays sealed. My bed stays unmade, unless you are the one to muss the sheets. I have no pride left to save, only this liturgy. Look at me, God, I have folded myself into a paper bird, waiting for her wind to tell me which way is North. I am done with being human. All I’ll ever be is love.

But what do I know?

The Ant

Author’s note: This is a contrapuntal poem! You can read only the non-indented lines, or only the indented lines, or just read straight down.

Give me your heart; let me crush it in my fist and I will carry the shards reverently, but then pass it up to the river. I think the river knows more, more songs of love and embraces

More than what I know can be found in its foaming torrents and tides. What? You knew it? Then why did you come to me? You should find someone who can actually help you learn how to find it yourself.

And You, Me?

Rachel Wang

Hello! I remember you from last night! You caught a lot of fireflies. What about you? Do you remember me? Or was my light not strong enough?

I watched you gather the night in your palms, fingers weaving a cage for the frantic and the bright. They were small suns, weren’t they? Luminous yellow things, stuttering like dying flashlights against the glass of your jar.

You favored the ones that burned high, the ones whose phosphorescence stung the backs of your retinas. But I was standing in the tall grass, too, pulsing with a low-voltage heart.

I wonder if I am even worth the capture. I wonder if my light was so dim, so flickering and faint, that I didn’t even earn the indignity of being jailed behind your glass. Do you remember me? Or was I just a shadow among the neon? I’m still waiting for a hand to reach for me, even if only to snuff me out.

Frog Friends on Flowers! Watercolor and pen

In Another Life

Sophia Yu

In another life, my mother chose herself first.

She didn’t watch the dreams of her childhood slip through her fingers, didn’t burn her own candle down to keep someone else’s light alive, because hers was dazzling too.

She would have let the gentle breeze carry her down bustling, moonlit streets, feet aching in five-inch vermilion

stilettos, but heart wide for the young night that spoke with promise and passion.

She would have clinked glasses of Merlot on ivy-draped balconies in cities she only knows from postcards in this life, ate without feeding others or saving the last bite, and slept in on much-needed Saturdays without guilt or apology.

She would have woken up in Paris, sunlight tangled in her unkempt hair, and laughed loudly, unapologetically, while being surrounded by the pungent aroma of freshly brewed espresso.

She would have written silly love stories about fateful encounters she wished to experience, pursued men who were out of her league, or read Jane Austen novels from that old, run-down bookstore she always dreamed of visiting.

She would have learned to love her beauty and her soul, untainted by the weight of others’ expectations, and kept her run-of-the-mill last name as a vow to the girl she used to be.

God, maybe she could have been happy. Her eyes probably would have lit up the room.

She could have been laced with warmth, brazenly witty and mischievous, and unburdened by the heaviness of what ifs and regrets.

She could have loved wholly and steadfastly, never once feeling caged to a life that clipped her wings.

But if she hadn’t settled, hadn’t given her all to him and me, I wouldn’t have been here to love her with a child’s awe.

I wouldn’t have known the hush of her gentle lullabies and assurances, her tired, yet unrelenting eyes, and the way she gave me everything, even the life she might have lived.

So for the sacrifices she made that became my name, my breath, my being, It breaks me to say this, but maybe the happiest version of her never knew me.

And maybe, somewhere in her heart, she loved me so much she let her other life go.

Mama

Navami Muglurmath

Trigger warning: Knives.

Mama, let me tell you: My life hangs on the edge of the knife I was born from, like the one you chop okra with, scrape vegetables into the pan with, and feed them to me with.

It’s rusted and disfigured and Mama, it’s just like us.

But I still cut your fruit into flowers And feed them to you when you’re too sick to feed yourself, and I carve pretty things for you when you think there’s nothing pretty left anymore.

Mama, please don’t worry about me, don’t cut your hair into pieces with that knife. I’m still growing, still learning, Please keep telling me stories of when you were young, Please grow with me so our lives may no longer hang from the edge of a knife.

AutumnEarlyKnocks

Emerick Lange

August fades into September as the biting bugs of the warm season slowly fade away. Pleasantly mild Summer mornings are replaced with the breezy chill of almost fall. Autumn has always been impatient, and this year she is tired of waiting. But Summer is not giving up easily. Autumn is her sister, after all.

She smiles as she counters Autumn’s chill, Spinning humid rain showers and bright sun rays. But Autumn just smiles with her, Because she knows September is hers.

She hears it in the crunch of early falling leaves, And in the soft sounds of nature settling down to rest. Summer knows it too, had known from the moment her sister came to her door, tapping her foot and sending shivers through the air. She finally gives way, Holding her sister tight one more time, Before sweeping away to wait for the time to come For Summer’s warm embrace to take its place again.

Peter Teh Great

Jensen Joseph

Jonathan: Peter, you are sooooo lame.

Peter: What do you want from me, Jonathan?!

Jonathan: You have nothing special about you. Unlike YOU, I’m going to become the 14996 th president of the United States ya know.

Peter: At least I don’t have such a lame name like Jonathan Bird XII. I’ll prove you wrong by going back into the past and becoming a great.

~25 years later~

As Peter tightened the last bolt, the machine started humming. As he wiped the sweat off his forehead, the screen glowed with, “To Year [ENTER YEAR],” and he first decided to meet Ivan the Great. Who wants to learn about history when you could just go back into the past and learn it while it happens?

Peter: I must learn more because learning just from one person is not enough if I want to be a Great. Where should I go? Or should I say, when? LOL. Ima go meet Ivan the Terrible, Alexander the Great, George Washington, Donald Trump, Joe Biden, Emperor Meiji, Mansa Musa, Cyrus the Great, and King Ramkhamhaeng the Great.

Peter went to 1667 to first get accustomed to the people of the time and because 67. There he later ruled Russia and became known as Peter the Great. He was planning to be known asPeter teh Great, but in the early 1900s, historians changed it because they thought that it was a spelling error. As ruler, Peter took a bunch of selfies secretly and was even able to make a statue of himself without people realizing it.

Peter: This is good enough, I’ma go back and prove Jonathan wrong. *Peter: -pulls out phone and shows picture-*

Jonathan: You are so bad at AI, even I can tell that’s AI! Unlike you, I can keep a promise, ya fool. I’m the president.

Peter: Hold up, wait a minute.

Peter went back in time, told people that there will be a “dangerous” virus in the year 2020, the Soviet Union will fall apart in 1991, a person named George Washington will become the first president of the United States, and that a person named Jonathan Bird XII would become the 22566th President of the United States of America. Peter went back to the future and found himself standing with giant diagrams in the sky with saying, “Peter the Genius ��”

Historians wondered “How did Peter the Great know that there will be these things?” Some claimed “He must have been friends with a witch or practiced witchcraft!”

Peter: See, those pictures I showed you 2 seconds ago were real, not AI. How do you think the date of the picture says it was taken in the 1600s?

Jonathan: Oh, dang you were right. My fault, gang. But that isn’t even crazy, because anyone can do that now since you created the time machine.

Peter: Ok, at this point I’m ending it all. I’m making sure that all time machines will stop working, and anyone who is currently in the past will come back. You want so much from me, but now I don’t care what you think; I don’t care what anyone thinks. I’ma do what I want, fool.

Peter then started working out and became the biggest man ever. After weeks of hard and vigorous training, Peter had learned and made possible the one arm one finger planche, one arm human flag, front lever, and one arm handstand pushups because he thought it would be cool.

Smokey

Colored pencil

Kate Orr

Zombie

gray sisters random saturday vlog (ps thx for 100k subs <3)

Elise Gerstle

Author’s note: The gray sisters, or “Graeae”, are oracles in Greek mythology who share a single eye and a single tooth between the three of them. They are typically depicted as old hags, possessing formidable knowledge about both the present and the future.

INT. MINIMALIST LIVING ROOM

DEINO sits on a white couch, with ENYO and PEMPHREDO on either side. All three are old and gray-haired, with no eyes or teeth. Only DEINO has one large blue eye, while PEMPHREDO has a single tooth.

DEINO

(looking at camera while her sisters stare ten feet to the left, where they clearly think the camera is)

Hi everybody, and thank you SO much for helping us hit 100k subscribers on our YouTube channel! (She speaks with a noticeable lisp, slurring over consonants. This is evidently due to her lack of having teeth.)

DEINO

If you’re not part of our happy little Gray family yet, it’s not too late. Today we want to give you guys a little dayin-the-life vlog as a treat because SO many of you have asked how we function with just one eye and one tooth.

ENYO

(turning even farther away from the camera, with slurred speech similar to DEINO’s)

Deino hogs the eye.

DEINO

Shut up. We’re going to break those struggles and strategies down for you today, plus bring you along on an errand. But not until you smash like and subscribe!

PEMPHREDO

(still facing a nonexistent camera several feet to the left)

We’ll wait. And if you don’t, we’ll know. PEMPHREDO taps her temple but misses and jabs herself in the face where her eye would be if DEINO didn’t have it at the moment.

FADE OUT

INTRO MUSIC AND VISUALS

INT. LARGE PARKING LOT

A sign for Trader Joe’s is seen behind THE GRAY SISTERS, who are holding reusable cloth bags. PEMPHREDO has the eye, and ENYO has the tooth. All three GRAY SISTERS walk forward toward the store but occasionally turn back to face the camera.

ENYO (speaking more clearly thanks to the single tooth in her mouth) So basically, today we have to buy ingredients for a pasta salad at our favorite store. She gestures to where she thinks the Trader Joe’s sign is but actually points to a shopping cart that she then trips over.

ENYO (unceremoniously pushing the shopping cart away and continuing her monologue)

Anyway, the pasta salad is for a potluck we’ve been invited to with the ladies in our neighborhood.

DEINO

(Talking to a nearby car rather than the camera)

They’re scared of us. They only invited us because they think we can tell them which of their husbands have a Tinder account.

PEMPHREDO

They’re right, of course. But I’m not advising Ashleigh to go through Bart’s phone unless she brings something more interesting than vegan walking tacos. They have reached Trader Joe’s.

PEMPHREDO

Deino, you’re about to walk into a door. DEINO doesn’t hear in time and smacks into the glass door, startling several shoppers. CAMERAMAN can be heard trying not to laugh.

FADE OUT

INT. TRADER JOE’S

ENYO

My turn with the eye, Pemphredo. It’s been more than an hour.

PEMPHREDO

No, because Deino cut into my time with the eye while she was trying to brush her hair. ENYO

Did I ask, though?

PEMPHREDO rolls her eye, removes it with her inch-long pink acrylic nails (which appear to have been applied by a blind person), and gropes for ENYO’s outstretched hand. ENYO finds the eye and pops it into her face backwards. It rolls around a couple times before she can focus on the camera. ENYO then pulls out the tooth and shoves it into DEINO’s mouth.

DEINO

Ow. PEMPHREDO

Where’s the camera?

CAMERAMAN

Here.

PEMPHREDO

Okay. Pasta salad is our dish of choice because the neighborhood ladies LOVE pasta salad. Except for Patricia, who claims she has celiac but really just likes the idea of people having to make special meals for her. DEINO

Let’s get the pasta first. How about fusilli?

PEMPHREDO

Yeah. That’s Aisle Four. She walks confidently forward, not toward Aisle Four but toward PETE, an unassuming and alarmed shopper in Aisle One. ENYO

You’re gonna hit Pete, Pemphredo.

PEMPHREDO (stopping)

Sorry, Pete. PETE

How the heck do you know my name?

PEMPHREDO

(talking to the air past PETE’s right ear)

Resign now, before Axel forgets to pay the water bill. And stop sniffing Sharpies; it’s bad for you. PETE

(flabbergasted, adjusting glasses)

What in tarnation–

THE GRAY SISTERS apologize again and hurry off to AISLE FOUR, led by ENYO. Once they are far away, PETE can be seen in the corner of the camera, gazing conflictedly at a Sharpie he’s taken out of his pocket.

CAMERAMAN follows THE GRAY SISTERS to Aisle Four, where DEINO and PEMPHREDO are blindly reaching for the correct box of uncooked pasta among several disorganized options. ENYO attempts to direct them, being the only one who can see, but to no avail.

ENYO

I’m pretty sure they don’t have fusilli. I don’t see it anywhere.

DEINO

Neither do I.

PEMPHREDO

No duh, Sherlock. CAMERMAN

They definitely don’t have fusilli. ENYO

Steve, we hired you to be an impartial filmer. Stop talking.

CAMERAMAN

I’m being helpful. Plus, you still haven’t told me who I’ll get married to; I’m going to mess with your footage until you do.

DEINO

Your cat-sitter thinks you’re hot; that’s the only reason she lets you pay her ten bucks an evening. You cheapskate. Will you shut up now?

CAMERAMAN

Wait, really?

DEINO

I am three seconds from shoving the tooth into your mouth, Steve.

CAMERAMAN shuts up.

ENYO

I’m getting an employee to help us.

ENYO leaves the aisle, returning quickly with an EMILIA, a young employee.

ENYO

Guys, I found Emilia.

EMILIA

How do you–DEINO

–Know your name? You just give Emilia vibes, honey. Do you guys have any fusilli pasta? We wanna make a pasta salad. Oh, and do you consent to being filmed on our vlog? Apparently we’re supposed to do that now.

Oh, aren’t you a dear. Isn’t she a dear, girls? Too bad she still picks her nose. EMILIA (under breath)

What the [censored]?

PEMPHREDO

Could you show us to the refrigerated deli section?

EMILIA

Um. Yeah.

EMILIA leads ENYO out of the aisle. DEINO and PEMPHREDO follow close behind, occasionally bumping into shelves. They turn a few corners and arrive at a refrigerated shelf with many varieties of pasta salad.

PEMPHREDO

Is it weird to bring a premade dish to a potluck?

EMILIA

Um. Sure? We don’t have any more fusilli, but we have pre-made pasta salads in the refrigerated deli section.

ENYO

ENYO

No. We’re two-thirds blind, which I’m sure is a nice excuse for bad potluck contributions. Plus, Bertha lies about bringing homemade cookies; they’re

from Whole Foods every time.

DEINO

Cool, then let’s get the premade thing.

ENYO

Yeah. Thanks so much, Emilia. I hate to be the bringer of bad news, but no matter how much your Nona says you’re destined for Harvard, you’re getting a 950 on your first SAT.

EMILIA

Excuse me?

ENYO

I recommend scheduling a retake this spring; the proctor will fall asleep and someone will have written a few handy formulas and a Hail Mary on desk twenty-three.

EMILIA stares blankly for about five seconds before grabbing her phone from a pocket and beginning to type furiously. ENYO grabs a pasta salad and leads her sisters back toward the checkout counter.

DEINO abruptly grabs the eye out of ENYO’s face and puts it in her own eye socket.

ENYO

Deino! It’s been way less than an hour! DEINO

That’s payback from last week when you wanted to see the whole episode of Love Island and wouldn’t share. ENYO

You can’t even talk. You hogged it all of last Wednesday, like it wasn’t your own fault you hadn’t been using your time with the eye to read our book club book.

ENYO attempts to take back the eye. DEINO defends herself by whacking ENYO with her purse.

PEMPHREDO

(to CAMERAMAN, who she mistakes for her sisters)

Stop fighting, you two! We’re in public!

ENYO

This isn’t over, Deino. Anyway, where’s the checkout counter?

CASHIER

Right here, Ma’am.

DEINO

Just a pasta salad for us today. She puts the pasta salad on the conveyor belt. CASHIER picks it up. DEINO

Could you turn on the conveyor belt, Tricia? I’m sorry to be a pain; I just love watching it. It’s not often I get to see it move stuff, you know, given my sisters’ eye-hogging.

ENYO

You liar.

CASHIER blinks, perhaps wondering how DEINO knows her name despite not wearing a nametag, and switches on the conveyor belt briefly.

DEINO

Thank you very much, Tricia. He does like you back, by the way, so stop speculating and start actually talking to him.

PEMPHREDO

Think again about that bag, Tricia. With us, in a matter of weeks it’ll blow out of a dumpster and be flitting around the roadside. And then a bird’s going to find it and peck at it, thinking it’s food. Do you want that, Tricia?

CASHIER

(exasperated)

Right. No plastic bag. Enjoy your pasta salad, I guess.

ENYO

(to several feet left of camera)

Well, there you go. Mission accomplished. Thanks for watching, everybody. We’ll see you next week, and we’ll debrief all the gossip at the ladies’ potluck, so it’s an episode you won’t want to miss!

CASHIER does a double-take but scans the pasta salad and puts it in a plastic bag.

ENYO turns away from the camera and crashes into a shelf with chocolates and magazines.

FADE OUT

Box of Grapes

Eva Cao

On the table lies a perfectly clean, purple box full of green grapes.

The box is solid: it’s made of plastic. It would never break unless it had reason to. Either too much force, or it was intended to open but nobody knew how.

Meanwhile, the grapes are softer. They’re not mush, rather they’re more delicate than the box. Just the right amount of force, and they would turn to what resembles spilled guts.

I never saw the box empty, I only ever saw it open when you were near us–your friends.

You never minded when I asked for a few grapes; but I know you wouldn’t have offered if I hadn’t asked first.

Would I, Without You?

Kyleen Zhang

Today, I brought a box of grapes to lunch. It’s not much, just a snack to taste, to bite and feel satisfied by the light crunch.

I open the box gently, careful not to spill the few grapes I have to share with you. It’s only you who asks, I guess other people aren’t too drawn to the appeal of green grapes. (They’re better than purple though; we can agree on that.)

I expect the question; it’s been the same since elementary school. I’ll slide the box over, leave it within reach of both our hands. I’ve gotten used to it at this point, I wouldn’t be mad if you just took some. Still, I guess it’s polite to ask.

It’s easier to give my grapes to you now, remembering my selfishness not that long ago. But it’s not like I’m generous, because it was always you who asked first.

And the next time you ask for a few, I’ll finally ask the question Would I give, without you?

Fruit Studies

Chenyou Zhang

BEGINNINGS AT THE EN D

Emerick Lange

Why do human beings seek out community at times when we know it will not last? We wait until the last possible second, the moment before our lives are irrevocably changed and we are forced to start from scratch, to notice what has been right in front of us for years. We stretch our arms out to the world and invite it in; we strike up conversations for the fun of what we might gain. We force ourselves out and beckon others in, despite knowing that soon it will be for naught.

But why? Have we finally woken up to what we might be missing? So many squandered connections that could have blossomed will now only have the time to bud. Is it something like dread, pulling us back from what is to come? Clinging to the familiar in the face of a future none of us can possibly know. Is it a release of fear, allowing us to glide out of comfort zones we’ve stagnated in for so long? Comfort that went from a safety line to a tether while we were too close to notice the shift. Perhaps it is a combination of all of these, and a million other factors, shifting and weaving into a tapestry binding us together, right before we are torn apart.

We could muse on this for ages, find historical examples and studies of human psychology to discover the quirk of the human brain that creates this phenomenon, but the fact still remains that this community is temporary. Sure, the wonders of modern technology have made sustaining contact over large distances more accessible, but bonds built in such a short period of time are not forged in the same iron of friendship destined to survive prolonged separation. But the temporary nature of these communities does not render them obsolete. A laugh shared, a game won, a project completed. Moments of love in the face of uncertainty. Sitting shoulder to shoulder and knowing that you are here, right now, and soon this will all be over.

sunkissed window Photography

Jazz’s Rhythm

Alcohol marker

Mary Wolters

Reasons to Endure

Austin Wang

Why do humans rely on emotions that inevitably betray them?

It seems like a strange design flaw. Several emotions burden man. Love blinds us. Hope makes promises it cannot keep. And all the while Grief waits patiently for the moment both of them fail. If emotions so often lead us toward suffering, it would make more sense to live without them, to move through the world with a steady indifference, untouched by the rise and fall of attachment.

And yet we do not.

Love alone is not sustenance, but somehow we cannot survive without it. Love warms the soul even as it clouds the eyes, painting the world in softer hues - soft pinks and gentle golds - until even the sharpest edges seem smooth. Through Love we forgive too easily, believe too quickly, and cling far tighter than we should.

Still, we love anyway.

And even worse is Hope.

Hope is much quieter than Love, yet do not be deceived, for it is far more dangerous. Love lives in the present moment, but Hope builds futures out of fragile glass. Hope whispers that tomorrow will be kind-

er than today, that things will work out as they should, that the story will end the way we want it to.

Hope tells you the vet will walk through the door smiling. Hope promises a successful operation for your cat. Hope promises you will take her home again.

And so you remember her.

You remember the softness of her fur beneath your fingers, how it trapped warmth against your skin, as if she carried a small piece of sunlight inside her. Sometimes her whiskers brushed against your hand as she pushed her face closer, demanding attention in the insistent, affectionate way that only cats can.

When she curled against your chest at night, she would begin to purr almost immediately, the sound low and steady, like a small engine humming somewhere deep inside her. The vibration traveled through your ribs and settled into your breathing until the rhythm of the purring and the rhythm of your own body became one and the same.

You remember the way she greeted you at the door every afternoon, tail raised high like a small flag of triumph, her tiny, fragile body weaving between your legs as if you

had been gone for years rather than hours. Her tiny paws pitter-pattered softly against the floor as she followed you from room to room.

The moment a can opened in the kitchen, her ears would twitch instantly, alert and hopeful, and she would appear beside you as if she had materialized out of thin air.

She moved with the confidence of a creature who believed the world had been built entirely for her own comfort. Not a tiny cat, but a tiger.

Her eyes were blue and iridescent, the kind of blue that caught sunlight and scattered it back into the room. In the mornings, she would sit on the windowsill, perfectly still except for the slow flick of her tail, content to watch the world from her warm square of light. Hope promises she will sit there again.

Instead, there is a waiting room.

The chair beneath you is plastic and slightly rough, the kind designed to discourage comfort. The air smells faintly of antiseptic. White lights hum quietly overhead, filling the room with a sterile brightness that makes everything look too clean, too still.

Somewhere above you, a clock ticks steadily. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Each second stretches longer than the last.

Muffled voices drift through the closed door

“Love alone is not sustenance, but somehow we cannot survive without it.”

down the hallway. Somewhere deeper in the clinic, another animal barks once, sharply, before the building falls silent again.

Her small pink carrier sits beside your feet. Pink for a princess.

It is empty.

Hope sits beside you in the waiting room like a silent companion, hands folded patiently in its lap. It tells you the operation will go well. It tells you the vet will walk through the door smiling. It tells you that soon you will carry her home again and place her gently on the couch where she always sleeps.

But Hope is not medicine. Hope is not a surgeon’s hands. Hope cannot bargain with time.

And when the door finally opens, Hope is the first thing to leave the room.

And Grief is the first to enter.

Grief trods in much more slowly, step by step, sending vibrations through the room so you can feel each wave of sadness. Each step is heavy, deliberate. Step by step, the

room seems to tilt beneath the weight of it. The voices in your head grow louder, and your heart cracks into even more pieces.

Grief tells you the operation was unsuccessful, that there was nothing more they could have done. They tried their best, and it was not enough.

Your cat will never go home again.

Grief does not leave when the words are said.

It lingers long after everything else is gone. It takes the seat where Hope used to sit, inching closer and closer until it is right beside you, settling into the hollow spaces where warmth used to live. It presses in. It suffocates you. Until it becomes the only thing you can feel, the only thing you can think about, the only thing you can remember.

For a brief moment, a shameful, flickering moment, you wish you had never loved her at all. It seems like the simplest solution. If Love had never existed, then neither would this aching emptiness.

Love is, after all, what makes the loss unbearable.

But then you remember.

You remember the soft warmth of her fur beneath your hands. The bright blue eyes catching the sunlight in the morning. The

gentle weight of her curled against your chest, purring steadily like a small engine that could run forever.

It is Memory, rushing in to bring you comfort.

Without Love, there would have been no loss. But there would have been no Joy either.

Without Hope, you would not have endured the waiting in that sterile room. Without Hope, you would have sat there knowing only the certainty of Sorrow.

Emotions do not save us from the cruelty of the world. They cannot stop loss. They cannot bargain with time.

But they make living possible.

Love fills our days with warmth that would otherwise never exist. Hope gives us the courage to step forward into uncertain futures. Even Grief, heavy as it is, reminds us that something beautiful once lived in the space it now occupies.

So why do humans rely on emotions that inevitably betray them?

Emotions betray us, yes. They always have. Yet we rely on them anyway, for they give us the reasons to endure. And so, despite everything, we love again. We hope again.

Of Siren Songs and Other False Realities

Anonymous

At the edge of a forest, a young girl froze, her ears picking up a strange new sound. A light ringing, a tinkling, that fell and rose, like a siren’s song, drifting around.

She could feel the sound echo through her mind, knowing the temptation within those notes. A panicked thought, she finally divined of the evil action that such sound promotes.

She returned home, in a frenzied haze, doing all the things the song commanded. Relentless under her parents’ stunned gaze, the reason why, they angrily demanded

Truly, she insisted,it wasn’t her choice but that of the song, drifting inside, Whispering in her ear, like a cruel voice she couldn’t resist; her hands were tied.

So she sought to find the source of the song, the cause of the evil now lurking inside her. She hoped she could put an end to the wrong if she could find and destroy the noise’s caller.

She returned to the forest where she first heard that haunting, hypnotizing, corrupting call. She followed the voice to a clearing, where she inferred she could finally put an end to it all.

When she pushed past the leaves, a bell was all she did find no siren, no song, just her own mind

Strong, Confident, Hopeful, Uncertain

Mixed media

mount caucasus

Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi

Trigger warning: Mentions of blood.

the shackles on my wrist have rubbed my skin raw. my ankles, too, are red and bloodied from the chafing of metal on flesh. it used to torment me, the endless agony as the beak tore into my torso, ripping out my liver, blood staining the rock to which i was chained.

now, i hardly notice it. i merely stare at the earth below me, watching blinking city lights and oceans rising above rocky shores, gazing at rockets soaring in the sky and forests giving way to deserts.

each day bleeds into the next, and my mind runs on a never-ending loop. i have yet to figure out whether my gift will burn the world, that i’ve fought so hard to nurture, to the ground.

Eternity

Valentina Z. Martinez

Author’s note: It is based on The Myth of Sisyphus.

The incessant ring of the clock seeps into my ears, Dragging me from the tranquility of unconsciousness.

I stare at the ceiling as the weight of day settles on my chest, A dull ache I have carried before.

Reluctantly I rise,

Feet meeting the cold floor as chills creep down my spine.

Hands reaching for the same routines, Each motion rehearsed a thousand times over.

Outside, the world lies indifferent to my effort,. Unmoved by my silent struggle,

The quiet strain of simply continuing.

As I step out the door, I feel the hill again.

Steep, familiar, unforgiving.

Still, I push forward.

I move through hours that resist me, And beautiful moments that slip away.

The burning sun dulls as I near the summit, And I move through the crushing certainty, That tomorrow will ask the same of me.

Still, I eternally go on.

There is something in the rising, In choosing to wake again. In lifting the weight and calling it mine.

Walls

Arima Agrawal

The walls quietly listen

To the laughter bouncing off,

To the arguments breaking,

To the cries hurting the soul.

But most of all, They listen to me.

Watching the night unfold, Listening to my slow steady breaths, The walls remember what I forgot.

If walls could talk they wouldn’t shout. They would whisper what they hear.

The details of hurrying moments,

The silences that hold meaning, The words left unspoken, Are all heard by these walls. Because rooms never forget what I left behind.

On Effigy Mounds

Rachel Wang

McGregor was meant to be brief: a dotted line in our lives, consumed by the rush of sun and road trips––the miles idling by into years and those into quick greetings, postage stamps. I refused the town at first and began with the Wisconsin Bluffs. Their magnificence was shorn at my feet, but in private I fell to their whims––prodded them with my tears, my fingertips laid waste to their softpacked soil.

Now I say, it was the towboat that kept me here, swaying along the bank of the Mississippi River Valley. I remember the chill that stifled my thoughts––so I could only speak aloud the sounds that decamped from my tongue––and the rest of that year I carried with me the frost on the trees, the idea of freedom.

This, I couldn’t leave––not once it had opened up to me, bared its sound, its neglected voice to my heart, wholly latched onto my ankles.

I was knee-deep in work, chasing out deer mice and shuffling papers, numbers, my glasses, when you returned “bone-tired from travel,” so

you said (as if I would not smell the city on your coat, the leather of your purse, the perfume in your hair).

And I think it surprised you to come back to our town, to once again meet Ms. Mary’s eyes at the checkout, to hear that my great uncle had barely moved from that porch chair, to feel the weight shift on your arm, the tug of another.

And I think, stronger than your perfume was your look, your hesitance to remember.

The meal we shared was warm. The embrace, even more so.

All this to say, I enjoyed your visit (there’s not enough time in the day), and you forgot your scarf. I shipped it up to you and will await your response, patiently.

McGregor is lovely; the tow boat continues on, churning up white and proclaiming itself with that same sorry surety. The river whips and carries with it occasionally a tune of mine, something only you could hum.

Baby Shoes

Ceramic Amy Li

Artist’s note: Inspired by Ernest Hemingway’s six word poem. The Folio...113

a mortal's sacrifice

Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi

Trigger warning: Descriptions of gore.

i have slit my wrists to give you lifeblood, and i have torn my skin from my flesh to bandage your wounds.

i have bottled tears, painted scars, broken bones, and offered them to you like a dog showing its owner what it found in the backyard and hoping it will be enough to keep the anger at bay.

i have extricated my soul from its vessel, and shredded it into ribbons. the same ones that decorate the heart-shaped box i gifted you last week.

did you appreciate that it was still pumping long after it had been ripped out of my chest? or would you rather i lay dying murmuring prayers of devotion for the last time?

all i do is tear myself apart, strip myself of all things human, hoping to keep you alive, keep you near me, just for one more moment. how many times do i have to walk through hellfire just to prove to you that i’m pure? and how many times do i have to sacrifice myself at your altar before i too am recognized as divine?

Let Me Go Colored pencil and charcoal

Kate Orr

Motherland

Chloe Proud

I drive past people who have, like me, lived in Morocco their whole lives. They carry goods on their backs in hopes of selling them to wide-eyed tourists inside the walls of the Medina.

Zebra skins, beaded bracelets, oil lamps, and golden keychains. Supplies to make the rugs that, with any luck, will be stomped across by those who have the means to do so; each knot, a step closer to arthritic pain for the woman who made it. I make this drive weekly. Ten minutes from my home to a riad- where the tourists spend lavish nights- and another twelve hours from the riad to the heart of the Sahara. The drive is made longer by a hotel stay, pit stops, fruitful encounters, and bathroom breaks at the request of my new bosses: the family of four who just settled into my jeep.

I introduce myself, they fail to pronounce my name. I give them the English version. They triumph in their pronunciation. I speak four languages. Berber, the indigenous language of Morocco, is my mother-tongue, spoken commonly where I grew

up in the Sahara. Moroccan Arabic is what I most often speak- on the streets of Marrakech, at the bank, with my coworkers. I speak Spanish enough to give tours, but not enough to answer questions. Proficient in English, I often have to make small talk in my car in the language, with many guests from the UK and America.

After introductions and about an hour, we make it to our first stop: the caspas of Ait Zineb. I tell the family that it was a filming location for Cleopatra, a film where the masses cared more about Elizabeth Taylor’s violet eyes in the poster than the background’s terracotta castles and sprawling landscapes. The family goes off to explore and I find myself alone. I look for a bench with a view, settle in, and eat a snack while imagining what this place must’ve been like in the 12th century, when the caspas weren’t empty or infested with tourists. As I look out, I picture the hustlers, homemakers, working children, and donkeys–utilized not for those who pay for a ride and an Instagram picture, but to transport ivory and golden ore. I often think about how I ended up here. My

aversion to tourists runs deep within, but they are what sustain my life. I cherish the interactions I have, getting to discuss my country and share the beauty of it with others, realizing the privilege of my job as compared to the fates of some of my school friends. But it seems that nobody understands Morocco the way I do, for better or for worse.

The family files back into my car after their meal of tagine and mint tea. We drive through the backroads of familiar towns and across the snowy Atlas Mountains as the family occasionally makes frightened remarks at the treacherous journey. I reassure them that I’ve been traversing the high-altitude twists and turns since I learned to drive. The father of the family stomps on his imaginary brake on the passenger seat’s floor around every corner. In the valleys, they exclaim at the countless stray dogs lining the roads and foraging for sustenance. To me, the canines are commonplace, specks in my periphery.

Our next stop is one I look forward to, a small convenience store where the family can stretch their legs, get a snack, and spend some time away from their all-hearing tour guide. For me, I enjoy this stop because I get to reunite with my fellow guides and my friends who own the store. It is refreshing to finally speak Arabic again: a language that simply flows off my tongue as opposed to the gymnastics of English I have been speaking. We talk

“The entire outdoor tent is lined with geodes, pots, and mysterious fossils, camel saddles and mosaic lamps.”

about sports; more specifically, about the African Cup of Nations, where the Moroccan team is in a clearly favorable position. We discuss our clients, sharing stories of the conversations we overhear when people think we’re on the phone. The other guides know exactly what I experience weekly, from the foot cramps resulting from the drive to the envy of a familial structure and ability to experience our country in such a sumptuous way. I just never think they feel it as deeply as I do.

After a quick stop at the convenience store, we make our way to the place where my clients spend a night on the way to the desert. Kasbah Hnini is a luxurious boutique hotel, where guests are served fruits on silver platters and offered body scrubs and complementary slippers. They stay in huts, which is a term I hate to use for the swanky terracotta home they are sleeping in. The staff quarters are on the floor beneath the dining room, and I don’t mind them as they are a place to sleep and catch up with colleagues. I just hate to imagine what is going on above me, where people are enjoying meals of Moroccan delica-

cies and having loving conversations with members of their kin. I feel my envy begin to boil as I attempt to suppress it and get a good night’s rest.

An early start finds us the next morning, our final stretches of road before we make it to the Sahara. Two hours of driving gets us to our next stop, a Berber village. The man that greets us is someone I’ve known for years, since I got the job as a guide after university. He gives the family the “authentic” Berber experience, wrapping their heads with tagelmusts, indigo-dyed scarves, feeding them Madfouna, and attempting to sell them rugs. He tells them about his upbringing in Timbuktu as he sits with them on the carpeted ground outside, stories of good food and African legend, telling them of Mansa Musa’s gold and tales of rags to riches- the parts of his country he is proud of. The entire outdoor tent is lined with geodes, pots, mysterious fossils, camel saddles and mosaic lamps. I can tell the family is enthralled, taking in each word with a nod of the head. His charisma is something I’ve always admired. He knows the way to their hearts. We go on our way after the man’s parting gifts to the children are received and an expensive rug is bought for shipping back to the States.

We pass through the gorge of Todra River, where the family gets out of the car for photos and to try to pet the stray cats that reside in the bushes. I wish I could see the gorge for the first time again, longing to

remember my inaugural setting foot on the sediment and looking up at the formations with blinding sun in my young eyes. After about three more hours of driving, eavesdropping, and answering questions, we make it to the desert. We’ve reached my favorite part of the drive, where I get to steer my Jeep over tall and rugged sand dunes for about 15 minutes before arriving at the camp. The family oohs and ahhs upon seeing the dune formations and glorious landscapes as the car seesaws. I grew up in the Sahara, I’m used to the camels on the side of the road and the sunsets of amber skies. Sometimes, though, I wish I wasn’t.

I wish I was the family that I picked up yesterday, wide-eyed and privileged to get to view my country from the rose-colored glasses they have access to. They get to enjoy the beauty of the Sahara without the concern of the source of their next meal; they get to ride camels without the burden of necessities to carry on their back; they get to be here for a week. And then, they get to go home. This is my home, and they think to themselves, I’m sure, that I must be so lucky to live here. I resent them, accept my payment, and drive back across the dunes in pursuit of my next bosses.

Dunes

A Definitive Guide to Properly Befriending a Puddle (beginner friendly)

Rachel Wang

Whether you commute by walking, driving, or taking public transport, you’ve likely encountered a puddle on the way to your destination. Thinking of befriending one? Follow these tips!

1. The Approach: When you see the puddle, never shadow it or do anything that seems to “assert dominance” without its consent. Looming over it will make it feel threatened, and a puddle in distress will quickly retreat into the nearest storm drain.

Pro tip: Approach at a 45-degree angle! This will allow the puddle to see you and your reflection clearly, establishing that you are indeed a being of threedimensions (rather than a poster falling from the nearby public school wall) and perhaps more-than-mediocre fashion taste.

2. Conversation Starters: DO NOT bring up the topic of evaporation, as it is the social equivalent of “every birthday is one year closer to death” for a puddle. Instead, compliment its immaculate turbidity, or the way it holds a discarded gum wrapper with such effortless grace.

Other options include:

- (If it is in possession of a leaf, small pebble, etc.) Congratulate it on its new seasonal centerpiece. Puddles take great pride in their curation skills.

- Depending on what it happens to be reflecting, be sure to offer some praise! For example, acknowledge its minimalist taste if it’s under a clear blue sky, or call its display of nearby buildings chic and innovative.

3. Physical Boundaries and Body Language: Due to its lack of limbs, the puddle likely can’t perform a handshake, but a gentle ripple on its surface works just as well. A single tap with the toe of a rain boot is acceptable, but a “Cannonball” or rough stomp is a breach of contract and a personal insult to its ancestors.

Warning: If a bike or hurried pedestrian passes through your friend, don’t panic or call the police for assault and battery. Instead, stay calm and wait for the sediment to settle. After all, a good friend stays true even through murky times!

4. Parting Ways: When the sun inevitably comes out, do not say, “Goodbye.” Say, “I look forward to the next precipitation.” It’s much more poetic and lessens the sting of the incoming vaporization.

It’s important to remember that not every interaction is perfect. Remember these troubleshooting techniques and apply them when necessary:

1. “Shallowness”: If the puddle is less than an inch deep or just seems to be losing its edge, do not point out its receding shoreline or bring up the sun. A kinder gesture would be to offer some structural support by subtly redirecting a nearby trickle.

2. Competitive Puddling: If another puddle forms nearby with a wider diameter or flashier reflections (e.g. a neon sign), remember that loyalty is key! Puddles get easily discouraged by competition, so remind your friend that size isn’t everything and that its specific blend of gravel and cigarette butts is what makes it unique.

3. Splashing: Let’s say you tried to bond with a puddle, but it soaked your favorite socks. Don’t take it personally; this was likely a defensive reflex. Check for nearby traffic. If a car or large bus caused the splash, the puddle is as much of a victim as you are. Forgive, forget, and maybe invest in better waterproofing.

Where Did All the Stars Go?

Annaliese DiBari

I told the stars about you.

And the stars in the sky said they knew the stars in your eyes

And I said I did too.

I wished for you on shooting stars

But were they ever really stars?

They burned in our planet’s defenses before they ever reached me. Did the stars in your eyes burn too?

Or did they wink out, like a light flickering in an attic?

Was it a supernova, an explosion I wouldn’t see until it was too late?

Why are they gone?

All I know is now, when you look at me

Your eyes don’t glow like they used to.

All I see is a dark part of space

Waiting for a reason to shine. Where did all the stars go?

Waiting Room

Colored pencil, pen, and marker

Xara Mozhdehi

Halloween Comic Strips Halloween Comic Strips Halloween Comic Strips

You must be lost, traveler. Not many who find themselves down here do so of their own volition. As the ferryman, I must warn you, the journey ahead is a dark and treacherous one. However, as long as you pay your fare and don’t stare too deep into the waters, I can assure you that your journey will be… somewhat smooth.

Luminesce

Photography

Jessica Joseph

The Light Within Photography

Vibha Besagi

RUNNING

Chloe Kim

She’s running again.

It feels like that’s all she does these days. It feels like that’s all she’s ever done.

Running away from her problems, Running towards what she wants.

Reaching out with shaking fingers, Breaths growing sharper and faster with every step she takes. As she pulls her leadened legs forwards, Hands curling around empty air again

And again

And again

Until they finally, finally Close around her prey.

She ran from loneliness

And she stumbled upon friends. She bolted from despair And discovered hope. A reliable pattern, A comforting dance,

Like the gentle, predictable ebb and flow of waves on sand.

132 | Underworld

But of course,

Of course it couldn’t be that easy.

Of course she would always have to run.

This time not away from something, Not intentionally.

This time, she was only looking Searching

Scouring the world for what she wanted. What she needed.

She chases And chases And chases After love.

Too scared to look at what is behind her.

Too afraid to know what she is running from this time. And as her breaths grow labored and her legs lock up,

As the exhaustion threatens to pull her into its crushing hold, She wonders.

She wonders if maybe this is the one thing she will never catch.

She wonders if this is the one chase that will never end.

She wonders if she’ll always be looking for this elusive feeling.

She wonders if she’ll always be running away from whatever keeps it at arms’ length.

She wonders if she’ll ever stop running.

She wonders, watching as the road stretches out

Long and endless as far as she can see.

And she keeps running

Even if she’ll never catch it.

She keeps running

Because stopping would mean turning around.

corpse

Anonymous

Trigger warning: Derealization.

Author’s Note: The voices have names and faces.

you have twenty questions to guess what i am.

Q. are you a human?

A. i'm not sure.

19/20

Q. are you alive?

A. only some of the time.

18/20

Q. are you an animal?

A. in spirit and in value, but not in function.

17/20

Q. are you real?

A. no.

16/20

Q. are you where you're meant to be?

A. there is nowhere i am meant to be.

134 | Underworld

15/20

Q. do you carry any special talent or worth?

A. merely false masquerades and feeble attempts.

14/20

Q. is there a reason you are the way you are?

A. no.

13/20

Q. will everything be fine again tomorrow morning?

A. it always is.

12/20

Q. happy birthday.

A. thank you.

12/20

Q. is there anyone to celebrate you?

A. yes.

11/20

Q. would he weep when you drown?

A. yes.

10/20

Q. would he be the only one?

A. i don't know.

9/20

Q. over halfway through. do you have an idea yet?

A. i think so, but i'll keep entertaining you.

9/20

Q. what is a 'personality'?

A. what i don't have.

8/20

Q. what is a 'god'?

A. what i am not.

7/20

Q. what is a 'voice'?

A. he who holds me back when the depths are calling, even if he wants to descend as well.

6/20

Q. can you be held by a 'voice'?

A. i cannot be held by a 'person' either.

5/20

Q. are you a 'person'?

A. at one point i was.

4/20

| Underworld

Q. were you alive at some point?

A. i must have been.

3/20

Q. when all of you are singing, do you harmonize with the call?

A. the notes are always the same.

2/20

Q. do you have good grades?

A. by other’s standards, yes. not by my own.

1/20

Q. do you believe yourself to be 'happy'?

A. there is always sadness more permeating than whatever i am capable of feeling.

0/20 guess submitted — an orchestra of individual mirror fragments, playing a discordant tune of hope and drowning; reflected in the luminescent light of the moon. result — correct! thank you for playing.

Look–

My teeth are lined

Neatly in two rows, like Ivory keys.

I can feel them

Digging into my cheek

When I’m smiling up at you, but Aren’t I pretty?

My face feels tight today. I don’t remember how you liked it. I practiced smiling too long in the mirror, And now it won’t quite come off.

I think my cheekbones moved last night. They were lower yesterday, I’m sure of it. But I look happier now, and Aren’t I pretty?

I fixed my eyes, like you said. I stayed up all night

Holding my eyes open, Wider, wider, they’re too red now, My brown irises are almost green. But they’re brighter now, Just like you wanted, so Aren’t I pretty?

I brushed my hair again; Ten, fifty, one hundred strokes

‘Till it cascaded smoothly

Down my shoulders.

Some of it caught in the comb’s teeth. You liked it better this way, Nice and straight. Tell me, Aren’t I pretty?

THE CORE OF MY DESIGN

Digital Aether Janardhan

a tantalizing reunion

It all began with an invitation.

Heyyy

It’s been a while I miss you. We should catch up Dinner at mine Friday?

hey yeah sorry, things have been rough

i’d love to catch up though dinner sounds great!

Awesome sauce

Can’t wait to see you <3

Read Wednesday

Those two days warped the fabric of time within my apartment, passing in a glacial blur of feverish anticipation. But before I knew it, I was placing a lid on the pot of dark liquid simmering on my stove as I heard your hesitant knocks on my front door. I rushed to the cracked mirror in my bedroom, staring into it as I ran my shaky hands through my long, tangled hair and tugged at my maroon sundress.

It took an inhuman amount of restraint to keep my jaw in place when I opened the door. There you stood, dressed in an ivory sweater and blue jeans, your luscious ebony hair billowing down your back. I could tell you had makeup on, though I didn’t understand why. Your face was flawless, you were flawless, just as you’ve always been. But there you were, in all your glory, standing on my doorstep.

I invited you in, fumbling over my words as I always did, trying to greet you while hiding the excitement that threatened to drip from every word that escaped my mouth. You smiled at me with that gentle smile you reserved for the members of your inner circle, your closest confidants. I felt a surge of pride knowing that I was still part of that circle, despite how distant we’d grown.

Besides, no distance could ever damage the bond that we had. We always had been different. More than just friends. More than best friends even. And I know you always felt that way too. It’s how we know each other so well, how I can read you like a book. From the miniscule crease between your perfectly straight brows to the crook of your rosy lips, I had always been able to tell when there was something on your

mind.

As I led you past my sagging, stained couch to the rickety wooden dining table I’d bargained for at a yard sale, I silently prayed you wouldn’t notice the makeshift pile of post-its propped under one of the legs. I was overcome with a deep sense of shame. You deserved better than this. You deserved an exquisite and expensive dinner, like that fancy Italian place you’d been wanting to go to, not my pathetic, dingy little apartment. But I suppose for now, this had to do. We have more than enough time after all.

You sat at the table and I asked you how you’d been doing lately, not that I wasn’t already aware. Your lips spread in a thin, shaky smile, parting slightly to say that you were fine, but I paused and shot you a knowing glance. You had let out a weak laugh before staring down at your hands, twisting your engagement ring nervously while I continued lighting the daffodil scented candles I’d placed around the room.

As I walked into the kitchen to get the dishware and set the table, you began talking about your fiancé. I still remembered him from college. A truly unremarkable man in all respects. And the way I saw it, nowhere near what you deserved. But you loved him, so there wasn’t much I could do. At the time at least.

You told me about his recent disappearance as I placed the silverware on the table and filled our glasses with that red wine you love so much. A little pricey for my usual tastes, but you were worth it. You relayed your worries regarding how soon the wedding was and how this was so out of character for him. I had to hold back my scoff as I adjusted the black dahlias I’d

placed in a vase earlier that day, before sitting across from you.

When you choked on your words and paused, a slow, pained silence filling the room, I grasped your trembling hand in mine. You looked up at me suddenly, your dazzling emerald eyes dampened slightly at the edges. I stroked your soft porcelain skin gently with my thumb before telling you that everything would be okay. I was here for you. So why worry? As long as we were together, nothing else mattered.

I smiled as a watery chuckle bubbled from your lips and you apologized for bringing the mood down. You tried to change the topic, asking me what I’d been up to lately. I simply shrugged. All that I’d done lately was prepare meticulously for this dinner. Nothing but the best for you. Yet another melodious laugh escaped your lips. What I would give to hear that sound every day for the rest of my life.

What I would give to hear that sound every day for the rest of my life.

I walked back to the kitchen, turning off the stove and lifting the lid from the pot. The strong scent of cooked meat greeted me instantly. I grimaced slightly, wondering if I’d lit enough candles to mask the stench. I plated the long pork roast on my finest china, with some vegetables on the side, before walking back to the dining table.

With one look at the plate I placed before you, a wide grin spread across your face. I’d been expecting it, of course. You’d always loved my cooking, especially my long pork roast. It was my signature dish after all. You didn’t mention the smell. Maybe it was the stress turning into the hunger that I saw in your eyes, or maybe the candles were doing their job. Regardless, you looked excited, and that’s all that mattered. You were excited, and so was I.

And so, you dug in, starting with the meat just like you did when we were younger. Some things never change. I picked at the vegetables on my plate, gazing intently at you as you ate. I’d like to think I had my expression schooled into something pleasant, but the giddiness that was consuming me with each bite you took makes it seem unlikely in retrospect.

You took a large sip of your wine, your eyes lighting up when you realized I’d remembered your favorite cabernet. I simply smiled in response. We ate in silence for a while, but once the initial hunger and excitement faded, I noticed the shift in your expression, the way the movements of your jaw slowed. You took longer to chew, found it harder to swallow, drank your wine more frequently.

I refilled your glass and waited for you to say something. You had always been so smart. There’s no way you hadn’t noticed by now. I’m not that great of a cook. This may have been my signature dish, but things were different this time. This time was special.

Eventually, I couldn’t hold it back any longer. This was it. It was time for the test. The moment I had been waiting for. I asked

you if everything was alright, my tone light and casual. You smiled, but I could see the hint of nervousness you tried to mask. It was a little… tougher and chewier than what you remembered.

I tilted my head, furrowing my brows. I explained that I’d tried cooking with a different kind of meat from a new store. I dropped my gaze onto my plate, my tone took on an apologetic lilt, as I told you not to eat it if it was bad. You quickly reached out, placed your hand on mine and shook your head. You reassured me that it was nothing, that regardless of the meat, it tasted wonderful and you loved my cooking.

I asked if you were sure. I really tried to give you as many chances as I could, but you were adamant. You resumed eating with the gusto with which you’d started, smiling at me and changing the topic. I could tell that it was difficult, but you ate it all nonetheless. Just as I’d thought.

After what seemed to be hours of reminiscing on fond memories as you drank more wine and ate more of my roast, the dinner was over. My once dim and silent apartment was now filled with your joyful, intoxicated giggles and the sweet scent of daffodils that hung almost oppressively, barely masking the stench of death that lingered at the table and in the kitchen.

As you stood up from the table, stumbling slightly, I rushed to your side to help. Wrapping an arm around your waist, I pulled you close, steadying you. You leaned closer, and I stiffened slightly, unused to the proximity. Holding you in my arms, I carefully guided you to my bedroom, gently silencing your mumbled protests. The light, floral scent of your perfume and

your vanilla shampoo greeted me gently, to which I leaned my head closer to yours and inhaled it greedily.

Once we were in my bedroom, I helped you remove your makeup before guiding you to my bed and tucking you in. Soon enough, you were fast asleep. I stood there, staring at your sublime, unconscious form. You had always looked so stunning, but you looked truly ethereal like this, long hair spread out on my pillows, your chest rising and falling softly as you curled into my blankets, on my bed.

Now, as I wash the dishes with a blend of hydrogen peroxide and industrial grade bleach, I know for sure that I was right. No matter how happy you looked on social media, no matter the lies you fed yourself and those around you, I knew. I always knew. You never loved him, and my test proved it.

How could you truly love him if you couldn’t even tell that he was your dinner? It’s clear now, your love for my cooking, your love for me has, and will always trump everything else. You don’t have to say it my love, I know. I know the truth because I know you.

It’s okay though. I’ve taken care of everything, as I always have. Now that he’s finally out of the way, you can be with your true love, the one you were meant to be with ever since that fateful first day of 9th grade.

You can finally be with me.

what i wouldn’t give

Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi

Trigger warning: Implications of sexual assault.

i would do anything to go back. to scrub the sinful feeling of those hands on my wrists. to erase that memory entirely.

i remember the murkiness in my head as my eyes flickered open. the heaviness in my limbs as my heels scraped against the gravel road. the world faded into black, then reappeared a bleary haze, a constant shift away and then back to reality. when those hands released my wrists and my head hit the hard ground, i turned. my knees dug into the stones, as i crawled, like some kind of injured animal, towards the city lights in the distance.

just to be dragged right back. laughter. cheers. the cold chill of the air. the faint beep of the ‘record’ button. hands on my legs, on my torso. sudden and complete silence.

i don’t remember much, but i remember enough. and there is nothing i wouldn’t give, to cleanse my soul, to undo all of the bruises, to remember none of it at all.

Charcoal and colored pencil

my heart's on fire, love!

Block ink printing

Aether Janardhan

fuel

Aether Janardhan

THE FIRE BLAZES ETERNAL ROAR OF MY HEART

LOOK INTO THE FLAME AND FIND WHERE SHE STARTS!

BURN IT ALL DOWN, GO HIGHER AND HIGHER

MY DESTINY IS ASH IN THE PYRE SHE IS SO BEAUTIFUL, SO BRIGHT, AND SO BLINDING

ALL THE GEARS TURNING, CHURNING, AND GRINDING

MY BONES INTO DUST, MY BLOOD INTO SOUL THE FIRE BURNS AS THE BELLS TOLL

We Are Writers

Annaliese DiBari

We are writers, my darling. It is not blood that runs in our veins; we do not cry tears. When we bleed, we bleed ink on paper.

The walls of our minds are papered in dreams, The thoughts and hopes of those that never existed. We have hundreds of characters crammed in our minds, Their sole outlet being the worlds we build.

We cast our spells, not with wands, but pens. We are the dreamers, the thinkers, the tortured, the starry-eyed. The ones who lie awake in the darkest hours of night. We are the lights in the attic, the sound of scratching quills.

Our lives are spent living in our own minds, on our own pages, So that when we’re gone someone might pick us up from between the words, And bring us back to life.

To be a writer is both a blessing and a curse, my darling

For we may die tortured, But we shall live forever.

She and Me

Pillars of Evil

Annaliese DiBari

1.

Maybe I’m haughty and arrogant

Or perhaps I just know my worth.

I teach mortals that others are only an irritant

For they’ve been superior since birth.

What am I?

2.

I? I show them what there is to be gained,

How many pleasures the world has to offer.

I, who leads away from the poor, the pained

And instead shove more gold in their coffers.

What am I?

3.

An untamed hunger for love, for power

A desperate seeking of bliss

The fire I light causes others to cower

Just for the taste of a kiss.

What am I?

4.

“The grass is greener on the other side”,

And it is I who makes it so.

By I gratitude and appreciation are denied

To make room for the jealousy I know. What am I?

5.

Eat, keep eating, there’s more on the table

This is the thing I preach.

Gorge yourself now while your body is able

Until beyond fullness you reach.

What am I?

6.

“The effort’s too much,” I tell them. I push hard work aside

It is from I which all idlers stem

I convince them to waste their short lives.

What am I?

7.

I am the one who stands on the edges of battlefields

Who whispers hate in the soldiers’ ears

I who tells them to throw down their shields

And charge at the enemy, yet shed no tears.

What am I?

Us, from which stems evil

We promise you know us well.

No one can resist our pull

And now we’ll lead you to hell.

Who are we?

Well Founded Fear

Anonymous

Author’s note: This is why I prefer headphones to earbuds.

There once was a man, quite a dear, though he had a rather strong fear, not of spiders and sharks, nor death and the dark, but of the orange goo in his ear.

A Villanelle for Prometheus

Rey Bandyopadhyay

Author’s note: Devoted to his creation, punished because of its mistakes.

From clay he crafted flesh and bone

From the heavens, stole the burning flame

For this he suffers eternity alone

Civilization, he built up on his own

Tied to a mountain, he took the blame

From clay he crafted flesh and bone

An eagle for his pain is flown

Made man rival god in a deadly game

For this he suffers eternity alone

Zeus punished the Titan, kept godly throne

But human war was not his aim

From clay he crafted flesh and bone

Mankind his love, the space was sewn

Replaced old Titans who were detained

For this he suffers eternity alone

But yet his story remains unknown

Prometheus took no acclaim

From clay he crafted flesh and bone

For this he suffers eternity alone

Blue Bones

Colored pencil

Kiera McHugh

Blades of Gold

Kyleen Zhang

Trigger Warning: Mentions of blades and blood.

The first time I’d noticed yougold chained across your chest, the medals heavy with triumph, lustrous against the blinding lights abovemy heart ached, a familiar feeling after lackluster performances and missed podiums.

I watched as the worldthe judges, my coaches, my friendsheld you above it all, and out of everyone there

I bet you didn’t even look at me twice, my chest empty and dull, unworthy of your gaze.

I expected my envy to surge forth, to drive me from my haven, away from you and your perfection.

But you were special. I’d dream of you coming over as I lay down teary-eyed, fresh from failureyour blades waltzing above me, tauntingly close to my face - just so I could experience a fraction of your grace.

My fantasies consisted of you looping your hands around my facesculpting me into your perfect girl, angelic and all - and I let them haunt my mind, echoing scenarios where I could experience your love.

But I’ll confess that all I want is for you to indulge in me, and let the whole world see you cut edges deep inside my skin, push me until I bruise, with my cheek pressed against the cold.

I’d be thankful for the memories of your blades, letting the scars forever be a reminder of my unnamed place.

And once my blood is shed, dripping onto the ice below, I’ll whisper a soft thank you, my voice cracking as you turn and glide away from a corpse, a crucifixion, the body of a devotee.

String, marker, and pen

New Heart

Mixed media Kate Orr Trigger warning: Themes of addiction.

A Universe Less Cruel Than Ours

Austin Wang

Trigger warning: Suicide, grief, loss.

Author’s note: This piece deals with themes of grief, regret, and loss, including suicide. It is meant to reflect the emotional complexity of losing someone and the thoughts that can follow. If you or someone you know is struggling, please know you are not alone.

Three months ago, as we sat on that hilltop, stargazing, you got up and declared to the world you were invincible.

Then you pointed at the moon, saying something about how close it looked; how it felt like you could almost reach it if you just tried hard enough.

Yet all I was looking at was your hand.

The way it cut through the night sky. The way your fingers stretched toward something distant and unreachable. I remember thinking about how unshakeable you looked. How certain you were. Like nothing in the world could ever touch you.

Maybe I should have been looking at your face instead.

Maybe then I would have seen it.

I would have seen the faint wrinkles at the corners of your eyes. The way you rubbed them like you hadn’t slept in days. The way your laugh always came a second too late, like you had to decide to join in. The way you stopped mid-sentence sometimes, like you forgot what you were going to say, and then just smiled and brushed it off like it was nothing.

The way you kept looking up at the sky.

But not to admire it, no. Like you were trying to get away.

The exhaustion was there. It had to have been. In your eyes, in your voice, in the

way your smile lingered just a little too long, and in the way it didn’t quite reach the rest of your face.

And I didn’t see it. Because I wasn’t looking for it.

I was looking at you the way I always did. Like you were something to admire, something to hold onto, something I would have time to understand later.

God, I was such an idiot.

If my eyes hadn’t been so blinded by love, if I hadn’t been so busy memorizing the way your hand moved through the air and the way your voice sounded when you got excited, maybe I would’ve noticed the parts of you that were slipping.

So why did you have to go and die? Why did you have to kill yourself?

I’m sorry. That sounds harsh. I know it does. But I don’t know how else to ask it. Every softer version feels fake, like I’m pretending this didn’t happen. Like I’m pretending you’re just somewhere out there and not gone forever.

I keep asking anyway. Asking and asking and asking.

than ours, we had more time together. Maybe in that universe, I say it. Maybe I don’t wait for the right moment, or the right words, or the right version of myself to appear. Maybe I just tell you.

I tell you that I love you.

I tell you that I’ve been loving you secretly for longer than I can admit, that every time you laughed, something inside me shifted and I didn’t know what to do with it except keep it to myself.

Maybe in that universe, it’s enough.

They say a star shines the brightest before it dies.

I think about that now. About how alive you seemed that night, how easy it was to believe that nothing could touch you, how your voice carried across that hill like it belonged there, like it had always belonged there. You were bright and radiant, shining like the sun.

I didn’t think to question it.

I scroll through old photos now, trying to hold onto what I have left of you, because I’m scared of what happens if I don’t.

And nothing answers.

Maybe in a universe a little less cruel

But they are no substitute for the real thing. They aren’t you.

They flatten you into something still and silent, something that does not change and does not breathe.

They miss things.

They miss the way your eyes would squint when you smiled too hard. The faint red marks along your neck that you always tried to cover. The way your shirt would bunch a little at your stomach when you sat down and how you’d tug at it without even thinking. The way your hair never stayed where you put it, the way you’d push it back and then forget about it two seconds later.

They miss the way your laughter caught in your throat. The slight rasp in your voice when you talked too long. The way you were always moving, always reaching, always chasing something just out of reach.

They miss everything.

They miss those small, imperfect things you tried to hide but never really could. The parts you didn’t like about yourself. The parts you thought made you less.

But those imperfections are what made you perfect. Those are the things I remember. Those are the things I loved. Because they were real and they were yours.

I listen to your voicemail on repeat, as if there is something in it I haven’t heard before, something I might have missed. Maybe if I hear it enough times it’ll start to feel real again.

“Hey! I’m not here right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you soon!”

But you won’t. You won’t ever again.

And it’s such a small thing, such a simple, ordinary sentence. Something you probably recorded without thinking. But it carries so much more weight than anything you ever said to me when you were still here, because now it is all I have left that sounds like you.

And even that is not enough. Because a recording can’t hesitate, and it can’t laugh, and it can’t change. It can’t be you in the ways that mattered.

I hate to admit it, but I’m forgetting you.

Not all at once. And not in any way that I can stop, either. Slowly, in small chunks and pieces, I am forgetting you. In details that slip away before I even realize they’re gone.

And even those are starting to blur.

The exact way your smile curved when you were trying not to laugh. The rhythm of your voice when you said my name. The way you looked at the sky like it was

something you could belong to.

And I hate it. I hate that I’m losing you like this. And now I have to remember you for longer than I ever got to know you.

I keep thinking that if I had just said something. Anything. If I had just told you, if I had just once reached for you the way you were always reaching for everything else, you would still be here. That there was a moment, somewhere, where this could have been different. That I missed it.

You said you were invincible. You were supposed to be.

You were supposed to stay. And I was supposed to tell you.

I still go back to that hill sometimes. I lie in the same place and stare at the same sky, and wait for something, anything, to feel the way it did before.

But it never does.

I wish on every star I see. Every single one. And I ask for the same thing every time. I ask for you back. I beg and I beg and I beg, like if I want it badly enough, something might change.

guess. In the stars, or the light, or whatever people say to make it hurt less. You’re somewhere in all the places you used to look at like they meant something more.

You always said we were meant for something greater than this. You said we all had wings once, that we were meant to fly, meant to dream, and that we weren’t supposed to stay here forever.

Looks like you figured out how to get your wings back. Just not in the way I ever wanted you to.

You’re scattered among the stardust, weightless and free, like you always dreamed to be.

And I’m not there floating with you.

I’m stuck here on Earth. Still here. Still bound to the dirt. Still wishing. Still waiting.

I hope one day I regrow my wings too, so I could join you up there among the stars.

I just wish you had stayed long enough for me to tell you.

But it never does.

You’re somewhere out there now, I

And I keep thinking, if I had just said it sooner, maybe you would have stayed.

Attention Whore

Graphite

Kate Orr

Trigger warning: Themes of self-harm.

Rock, Paper, Scissors Reimagined

The 1st Tale

Ethan Loi

Trigger warning: Depictions of death.

Author’s note: This is from the first poem comprising the larger work “The Splintered Tales.” It is the beginning of a reimagining of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. Taking place both on modern-day Earth and within the infinite realm of Quietus (analogous to the Greek underworld). The full story, if it were to be written, explores the relation between art and human mortality. Edited by Elise Gerstle.

From place herein, a broken piece of ours, From sights around that ever cease the powers. A break from all that lies within the world: Away from mortal spaces, thin, unfurled. The brink of real wonders, found without, The songs of thoughts now lost, resound in doubt.

Behold! Our world, as far realities collide, A bewildered man, within, thus does reside. Upon the Earth, umbra greets the speckled sky, The Sun topples from his mythic carriage, high, Just at the door, down by the upmost stair, A simple love retrieved with tender care.

This weary man stands by the opened door, His reddened eyes in silent optic chore. Before him now, indeed, a blurry sight: A scrawled-out message, bound in red and white. Yet swift of feet and slow of thought is he, His mind now wallows in distant memory, He does discern; his mind does wander far. Who could find him by light of distant star? The message, too, amuses him besides. By no logic now, each word in it abides! It was grand in form, but not a bit too long, The first few lines, a broken lover’s song.

The author calmly speaks her mind in cheer, And humbly asks that he not rudely jeer, For her simple work was made with honest aim, Her harbored feelings had no prior claim. The man had no intent to mock the writer so, The lull of muse, oh so closely did he know.

He did not dare demean such lovely work, He scanned the page and cherished every quirk, Demean her disclosure? What an awful act indeed! She quite clearly loved him more than even he’d. Yet doubts remained within his shallow mind, For what in him, in favor, could she find?

Oh, must she jest? A voice within him warns, New fears bombard him like a bed of thorns, A lady who admires him, he asks, can it be so? A man so fit for love? The clearest answer: No! He is a fool; he knows this all too well, The slightest stress he struggles long to quell!

His doubts follow near on his ‘turn to bed— A demonic flurry battering in his head. With heavy heart, he places the letter near, And from his eye, he sheds a single tear, What man are you to hide away and cry?

If you are found, what is your alibi?

The voice inside rebukes him further still, Twisting his thoughts ‘til he is feeling ill. In harsh protest, he recalls a lovely tune, A lullaby beneath a forgotten moon. In ruffled bed, he sleeps till break of morn, When uneven clothing, coarse, does he adorn,

He walks around the studio with speed, To no normal noise outside does he take heed. He occupies himself with gathering his paints, To free himself amidst his great constraints, A confusing mind, brought down to what is still, The world seems calm and all that’s left is will.

With teal blue, his brush effortlessly glides, And in each stroke, he secretly confides, A promise, a curse, or something in between, Till the canvas was disorganized and clean. Just now, a rapid knocking from the door! The man descends, more peeved now than before.

Through parted curtain, he spies a shaded face, What a gentle sight amidst a dreary place! With bated breath, he fiddles with the locks, Much to the beat of the ever-ticking clocks, With shaking hands and pain within his chest, He swings wide the door until it comes to rest.

Before him now, a vision under muted light, A lady, lightly dressed in red and white. With soft regards, their dialogue begins, Within his head, emotion slowly spins. Within hers, a sort of logic finds its hold, In endless search of value more than gold.

The awkward pair smiles then with hesitation, Cloddish talk, blooming fast from its creation, “I’ve seen your work! What motivates your zeal? What awe of life and passion must you feel?”

Her quick remark crushes his heart within, She knew his work? From where could he begin?

“Now, my studio is not open, I’m afraid, Yet I can share the way my work is made…”

As their lively conversation ran its course, Creative visions were revealed there perforce, He shares with her his clumsy work so far. The wonder on her face was utterly bizarre.

The tree he sketched, a mindless scrawl of lines, As he signs the page, she traces his designs. Then, from the stairs, she leaps up to her feet. She bounds on down onto the rugged street. She whirls about, inviting quickly with a grin. He slowly waves, voice hushed by urban din,

Yet he steps forward in wit’s anarchic blur, With jutting step, he slowly follows her, She beckons me. The man’s weak mind recalled, At her minute leave, his heart had been appalled, “Wait up!” His awkward voice squeaked out, “Did you call for me? My brain remains in doubt!”

She did not turn. She motioned for him, near, From passers-by, rebukes are what they hear. The crowd transmutes around the quiet pair. This time, alone, does Death forever err. She extends her hand and he responds in kind.

A sudden shock repeats within his mind,

Death’s cold hand was felt with joy and pain, His body falls to rot amidst the rain.

“Arise!” Cried Death, her hand still upon his own, Her face is grim and still. Her sockets, all alone. His body, gone; his soul retains his form. His mind remains in love’s chaotic storm.

vacillate Digital Ishana Popuru

Flood Marker

Xara Mozhdehi

a living corpse

Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi

i can count his ribs as if his bones are a table and his skin the cloth draped over it, thin and worn, not with age, but use, so you can still make out the frame carved from old wood.

i remember he used to cry at night when nightmares plagued him. now he cries because he is living them; the screams are too agonizing to shut out, the sirens too loud to smother with a lullaby he knows all too well. every breath he takes, i am reminded it may be his last, before he is buried under debris and rubble or cremated by the fire raining from the sky, that even a mother’s love cannot save him from. i hold him in my arms as his chest rises and falls, scared to know what it will feel like with his limbs limp and body heavy. “he is a child!” i scream to the world. my voice is drowned out by the bombs.

Trigger warning: Descriptions of war. 176 | Underworld

the result of those calligraphy classes

Aether Janardan

Author’s Note: Both Miyata and Momoka use he/him!

“Hey, Miyata. I found a stack of these letters from when we were like, 10 - yeah, back when we were still friends. Do you know how many I wrote to you after you cut me off? It was crazy!”

19/2/2007

IT’S MY BIRTHDAY TOMORROW!!! So I’m writing you a Special Birthday Letter! I think we should run down to the river today, I have an excellent feeling about the current... like it’ll carry to us some absolutely giant snails. I’ll show them to Father, and he will be even more impressed than last time. I had a lot of fun last time, even though I ruined my shoes, but I bought some galoshes so I don’t have to worry about that this time! Do you have any other celebration plans? I’m sure we could just explore my house and make a party out of that.

- Miyata

19/2/2007

Why are you sending me a letter? I live right next door to you. Anyways, I’d love to go to the river! I’m happy to hear you got galoshes - I should probably ask my brother to buy me some since he’ll get mad if I get my shoes wet again. And I know you own really expensive shoes… So it’d be bad if you ruined them for sure… But don’t worry. We can do way more fun stuff then just “Go down to the river” for your birthday! Though I bet exploring your mansion ( castle might be a more apt term ) would honestly be better.

( P. S. Shouldn’t you have something really fancy planned? I feel like your parents should be going all out for your 10th birthday. )

- Momoka

19/2/2007

See, the very nice thing about living next door is that we receive each other’s letters immediately. Besides, Father’s been helping me practice my handwriting, so I figured I would put that practice to use in something. My parents did offer to do a lot of different things to celebrate, but I told them to keep it simple, which leaves me plenty of time to spare for you! You are my best friend, after all… It is getting late… I’ll see you tomorrow.

- Miyata

13/3/2007

February was really really fun, so I figured I’d send you a Birthday Letter of my own. My brother sister brother offered to take me out to a fancy dinner place without our parents, and said I could invite you along too. Do you wanna come? I want to celebrate with you, since you’re my best friend and whatnot… besides, we’ve kind of already reserved a table for 3 and there’s no way my brother’s letting our parents come along. Also, it’s in the afternoon, so you don’t have to worry about curfew. I know your parents don’t like it when you’re out in the woods too late, but you won’t be alone, since we can protect you…

- Momoka

13/3/2007

I would love to accompany you! It was very sweet of Aoi to invite you along for dinner without the two of your parents coming along… I’m sure they’d ruin the mood if they arrived. I asked my parents and they were completely fine with my departure, under the condition I spend my entire time out with you two. ( In fact, I believe we could even have some sort of sleep-over… if you’d like, of course. But perhaps we can discuss that when we meet. ) I’ve also prepared some gifts for you, so watch out!

- Miyata

16/11/2007

It’s not close to either of our birthdays, but I came across some of Aoi’s nice pens and figured I’d write you something as fancy as what you write me. I’m afraid my vernacular isn’t quite to the level yours is… aha… Whatever your dad is teaching you in the way of language sure is fancy. You speak like an old person! That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though. It’s very… scholarly. And I think that’s cool. It’s been almost two weeks since we’ve hung out… we should do it again sometime! I’ve gotten my hand on some old fairytale books that are really fun… maybe you’d like them? Let me know if you’re interested in coming over and I can show them to you.

- Momoka

16/11/2007

It has been a while since we met, hasn’t it? I honestly find the way I write and speak kind of corny, but it’s a habit now. Father wants it to be even MORE formal, but there’s no way I’m letting that happen. Anyways, I’ll see if I can muster up the energy to come to your house after school today. It’s been taking more and more out of me lately.

- Miyata

29/12/2007

Isn’t it crazy the last time we met was in November…? I know it wasn’t THAT long ago, but I want to hang out again before the New Year’s. I was hoping to…well, actually, that would probably be better to tell you about in person. I miss you, hehe… I know you said you’re tired, but since we haven’t had school for the last week, are you feeling better? I hope so!

- Momoka

1/1/2008

Happy New Years…! I’m sorry I didn’t end up going to your house. I think whatever those things outside your house are preventing my letters from coming through. Maybe they ate the mailman? Or something, haha. Sorry, I sound really serious, don’t I…? I’ll try and come over once that howling calms down. You should step out, too! Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever…

2/2/2008

Have you… been outside at all this year? It’s just that my family has been talking to your parents, and, they seem pretty worried about you… and none of us have seen you. But your mom and dad have been going out… and I even said hi to your granddad… but you haven’t been outside at all…? We should go down to the river. Getting sunlight is good for you! I’m sure it’ll help with your fatigue.

20/2/2008

Happy birthday! I’m sending you a Birthday Letter even though I don’t think you’re responding… but you haven’t been responding to any of our emails, and it’s not like we can talk in person, so this is basically my only way of contacting you. I hope you have a good day today! I’ll mail you a gift.

15/5/2008

Sorry I didn’t send you a Birthday Letter on my birthday… um, but turning 11 was alright. I really appreciated the blouse your mom got me. I just wish you could deliver it yourself, haha… I don’t know if you heard, but our parents actually, um… they’re not around anymore. The funeral is in a week or two… I know your grandparents and dad are coming. Are you? You don’t have to, of course, since neither of us really liked them.

I might not be able to write that much, since we’re busy with all this. We’re hoping Aoi will take custody of me.

- Momoka

16/11/2008

It’s been a really wild year, but! Good news! Aoi and I are gonna be able to live in our old house, just the two of us. She - she’s actually a girl now! - actually didn’t want me to tell you about it… she’s pretty mad at you since you haven’t talked to us in almost a year now. Honestly, I’m a little mad, too… it’s nothing crazy, though! It’s just that, well, it’s been a tough few months, and I could’ve really used a friend…

Anyways, I’d love to talk it out now that things are settling down. We’re in the same old house as ever, so, yay!

- Momoka

29/12/2008

Aoi’s been setting up renovations at our house. You know, to get rid of any traces our parents left behind. It’s gonna take a few months to fix it up, though, and that means…We’re moving away. I guess she doesn’t trust your family enough to let me go over and say goodbye, but she said I could write a letter for some closure. I don’t know if you’re dead, or moved away without telling me, or anything like that, but I guess I’m telling you now - we won’t beable to talk at all, ever, after a few weeks.

I’m going to assume you’re not going to reach out to me about this, so I’ll just say it now. Bye.

Hopefully I’ll see you in half a year.

But I’m starting to think I won’t.

X/X/XXXX

I am dead.

I should be dead to you, anyways.

- Momoka

Electrical Stained Glass

Fractured

Valentina Z. Martinez

Between blossoms and rot she splits her breath. A cherished daughter bathed in love and light, Lies bound by scarlet seeds to ache and death, Where not even the moon brightens the night.

As frost melts and flowers grow, she returns. Storms vanish as she holds her mother tight. The depressing winter weather adjourns, And the sun shines as the two reunite.

No single world can hold her restless soul, Nor can she choose where she wishes to grow. Spring must rise and winter must take its toll, Therefore, she will rise high and descend low.

So, Persephone stands where worlds divide, Half bathed in dawn, half shadowed deep inside.

Shape and Form Study

Colored pencil

Caroline Tierney

Eulogy

Ethan Loi

Author’s note: Edited by Archana Nair.

Trigger warning: Death.

The vessel lies afloat above the gleaming sea, Their souls have far to go to meet their plea, There upon the deck, eclectic in its state, Every form of wayward mortal, collect now as to fate.

The man stands by, found nervousness within, He tries to think, but wit is wearing thin.

Yet amongst the varied dead, novelty abides, And tales retained, which each carefully confides.

The man, laughing with the group once more, His tale embarks across the forest floor,

The souls quiet to hear the man’s chant, An ancient song in the Faztd cant:

“Ishuk huqyt Tjea Worluni Foru! Hemla unaeta yoan ogal vi cen thu!

Erganama tel, Guenheulrvel, Hehyg qugusa jarugan he magan! …jarugan he magan! …vi cen thu!

Unide gin ger hunlocs. Goa hemla xectic! Demr sio frine heruu yodsa demr sic!

Adulsihuvech, Suul gedhavaneq, Hugen hegen eergia kilmanu! …hegen eergia kilmanu! …demr sic!

Kle Worlun moregan. Helh uhgad iru. Furga uhha kujel eds do keljigiru.

Huherlbihyl, Ag gin ermeril, Fugal he maeral kalan morga, …he maeral kalan morga! …uhgad iru!

Kuman, gin juer yoa dywpon wfnil yon.

Ogl vi eds jnu tjea Folrugtehpon!

Kukalmahurot, Herouthajanot, Sel hu huher bu kuher julago!

…huher bu kuher julago! …wfnil yon!

Olive relayed a tale as she concedes, It thus recounted her oft remembered deeds. She speaks of the darkness in the deep; That fear remains within her boundless sleep. A darker tale of a time long ago, A simple tale for all mankind to know:

“The Abyss was a place which none could describe, Every sight below, a realm of the inane, Revolting memories of death lingers on still, Mindlessness ravages on and on within me, Insanity is the only word to describe it all. Nothing was there, truly nothing in essence. Aberrant thoughts were brought forth in my mind. Life was taken quickly, death providing much the same.”

Yet so, it seems, not all could tell a tale, Their newest peer could speak to no avail. His speech is as mindless as a babbling brook, Every word from his mouth, all sense it forsook.

A young man, Ethan, his name one recalls, When asked of a tale, Ethan quickly bawls:

“Sole man I was, a pack upon my back, A hunting man, with tool at my belt, And fletcher, too! I had a swift and sudden knack! I was adorned in cloth and fur and felt. I worked with honest aim in every work, I worked with Honor, no action did I ever shirk!

Yet I knew well:

I was no Fool, my brain, it so does retain, It’s various intriguing uses thereby, My wit has brought forth so in plain, A solution so my Wanderer’s eyes may, Reach the Sun and Sky.

And so, thus, it was so that:

I brought forth my work, so fit for kingly court, It is a wonder, lo! No one had retort!”

The silence now would deafen even covered ear, He truly said no words, as all was awfully blear.

“What sort of tale is this?” The man exclaimed, “With such a tale, we all here have been maimed!”

With no regret, they threw Ethan off the boat, They could not care less if he would sink or float.

Even so, the last mortal had their tale to tell, Xsavior Lemant, a younger man as well. He sheepishly motioned for the rest to attend, As every soul there, he thought as his friend. He spoke no words before his simple song, Yet it caused everyone to hum along:

“Before my death, I was nothing but a man A thing within a world without a plan. In the world of life, I was a mindless peer, Yet as I died, I was filled with novel cheer. My friends and love, my Mom and Dad, They have with them what I never had. I love them so and wish them well, If I could only find a way to tell… But no mind to that, for I am dead, What I said in life is all I’ve said. Yet if their minds could hear me now, To them I make this final vow: My friends, I wish you live with joy, With logic, act, and love, employ. Your lives are precious, so work with life, Free yourselves from your fated strife. To my parents, too, I do implore: Live on with joy forevermore. Don’t fret for me. I live on still. Conflict no more, my closing will.

I love you both, I hope you see, That you can love in lack of me. And to my love: I love you yet!

For all the fun, I’m in your debt… I beg you now, move on with care! Your love will grow without me there! I love you so, please hear me, please… Know my cries and give me ease! You cannot hear. I know that so. Yet I hope it’s long before you know. My friends, my love, my Mom and Dad, I hope you’re grieving, yet you’re glad. I am gone and you are still there, So, enjoy the beauty of earth and air!

I’m afraid I won’t see you in time for grad night…

But I’ll wait for you here. I hope that’s alright?”

Her Eyes Are Gone

Anonymous

Trigger warning: Blood.

Author’s Note: Life is a beautiful thing, never let go of yours.

The soft yet spiky ground under her body is a shade of emerald never known before

But the grass will never be seen

Her eyes are gone

The sun sets, lighting the sky ablaze in the brightest yellow known to man

But the sky will never be seen

Her eyes are gone

Over time, flowers the hue of amethyst bloom around her

But the flowers will never be seen

Her eyes are gone

Soon, fiery orange leaves coat the ground

But the leaves will never be seen

Her eyes are gone

A layer of ethereal white show freezes every piece of life

But the snow will never be seen

Her eyes are gone

The deep cuts going into her thighs from every angle bleed a red more vibrant than any rose ever

given to a true love

But her blood will never be seen

Her eyes are gone

On the ground beside her body lay two eyes, a shade of blue to rival any ocean ever discovered

A color crafted with pure light and joy

But the crystal eyes will never be seen

She is gone

She was left for dead in a world of beauty that she will never know

Her blood is now dry, confining the once beautiful landscape in a layer of brown, darker than charcoal

But nothing will ever be seen

Her eyes are gone

The two holes in her skull are a black darker than the shadows of her past

But she will never be found

No one noticed

Her eyes are gone

Jessica Li

Meet the Staff

The Birth of Athena

The Three Sisters of Fate

About the Folio

We are a student-run art and literary magazine from Conestoga High School in Berwyn, Pennsylvania. Although we have only been The Folio since 2007, we have collected, compiled, designed, and published student-produced art and literature since 1967. Our staff members are dedicated to furthering their own artistic and literary talents and promoting an interest in the humanities school-wide. The Folio welcomes submissions from all ‘Stoga students. Applications to join The Folio open during course selection in February. More information can be found on our website: stogafolio.org. You can also find us on Instagram @stogafolio.

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