mosaic 2015

mosaicThe Publication of the Arts

SPRING 2015

Front Cover: Flour, Willow Wallace ’15, digital printBack Cover: Crow, Chloe Corriveau ’15, acrylic, 24” x 24”All content © 2015 Santa Catalina School students as indicated.

Student Editors Katherine Kamel ’15

Christine Marella ’15

Sharmaine Sun ’15

Hannah Grogin ’16

Ashten Nguyen ’16

Grace Russell ’16

Faculty Advisor Mr. Simon Hunt

Staff Jessica Almos ’18

Ivy Armijo ’17

Rowan Azhderian ’18

Maddie Bennett ’15

Sammy Bennett ’17

Loleï Brenot ’17

Laura Colosky ’15

Cecily Donovan ’15

Isis Enders ’17

Maddy Fisher ’15

Annabel Grunwald ’18

Ilana Hagen ’17

Annarose Hunt ’17

Katherine Kim ’18

Victoria Kvitek ’16

Ana Leon Nuñez ’18

Jenna Mann ’18

Tara Mann ’18

Madeleine Oh ’18

Daniella Wilson ’15

Design & Production Communications Office

The Publication of the Arts 3

mosaicThe Publication of the Arts

SPRING 2015

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Katherine Kim ’18

Victoria Kvitek ’16

Ana Leon Nuñez ’18

Jenna Mann ’18

Tara Mann ’18

Madeleine Oh ’18

Daniella Wilson ’15

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Photograph, Flour ........................................................... Willow Wallace ’15 ....................................Front CoverPhotograph, Mission Blue ............................................... Fila Oen ’18 ..............................................................1Art, Overheard Conversations ......................................... Jenna Mazza ’16 ......................................................2Art, Melting ..................................................................... Stella Crall ’15...........................................................4Poem, Stones ................................................................. Annarose Hunt ’17 ....................................................5Novel Excerpt, Chapter One: A Lunatic Intensity ............. Sharmaine Sun ’15 ...................................................6Photograph, The Embracing Gray ................................... Brianna Brady ’16 .....................................................7Art, Bitter Advantage ...................................................... Lauren Mendoza ’15 .................................................9Fiction, River Voice ......................................................... Christine Marella ’15 ...............................................10Photograph, Early Fireworks ........................................... Sammy Bennett ’17 ................................................11Photograph, Woods Creek ............................................. Leslie Gobel ’15 ......................................................13Poem, A Lifetime ............................................................ Lucy Stowe ’16.......................................................14Art, Elliott Smith .............................................................. Ariana Fadel ’18 ......................................................15Fiction, Culaccino ........................................................... Christine Marella ’15 ...............................................15Fiction, Angelic ............................................................... Rachel D’Agui ’18 ...................................................16Photograph, Moonset ..................................................... Maddy Fisher ’15 ....................................................16Fiction, IX ........................................................................ Christine Marella ’15 ...............................................17Poem, Folie à Deux ........................................................ Gracie Young ’18 ....................................................18Art, Melanie Martinez ...................................................... Saige Madden ’18 ..................................................19Poem, Malady ................................................................ Sharmaine Sun ’15 .................................................20Photograph, Upon This Rock .......................................... Collette White ’16 ...................................................21Fiction, Book Boy ........................................................... Octavia Dickinson ’17 .............................................22Art, Mixes ....................................................................... Grace Russell ’16 ...................................................23Photograph, Persimmons ............................................... Amanda Radner ’16................................................24Poem, Replacement Parts .............................................. Sharmaine Sun ’15 .................................................25

Table of Contents


Poem, Juliana ................................................................. Christine Marella ’15 ...............................................26Photograph, Pots ........................................................... Coco Wang ’18 ......................................................27Photograph, Untitled ...................................................... Hee Jung Kang ’17 .................................................28Fiction, Grayscaling ........................................................ Sharmaine Sun ’15 .................................................28Fiction, The Glimmering .................................................. Christine Marella ’15 ...............................................29Poem, Shadows ............................................................. Lucy Stowe ’16.......................................................29Poem, Twisted, Trapped ................................................. Octavia Dickinson ’17 .............................................30Art, Censored ................................................................. Chloe Corriveau ’15 ................................................31Photograph, Emerge ...................................................... Makenna Wallace ’16 ..............................................32Fiction, When You Wake ................................................. Christine Marella ’15 ...............................................32Non-fiction, Childhood Dance With Death ....................... Maddy Fisher ’15 ....................................................34Novel Excerpt, An Incarcerated Man: Chapter One ......... Giovanna Mitchell ’15..............................................35Photograph, Yin and Yang .............................................. Willow Wallace ’15 ..................................................35Photograph, Urban Light of LACMA ............................... Taylor Moises ’17 ....................................................37Art, Sleeping Beamer ...................................................... Ellie Browne ’15 ......................................................39Poem, Emilia and the Stork ............................................. Sharmaine Sun ’15 .................................................40Poem, Daughter ............................................................. Emmy Siletto ’17 ....................................................41Art, Chanel ..................................................................... Coco Wang ’18 ......................................................41Photograph, Going Somewhere ..................................... Talia Varjian ’18 .......................................................42Fiction, Untitled ............................................................... Madigan Webb ’17 .................................................42Fiction, La otra ................................................................ Río Turrini-Smith ’15 ...............................................43Photograph, Weaver ....................................................... Julia Clark ’15 .........................................................45Photograph, Sedimentary ............................................... Hannah Grogin ’16 .................................................46Poem, Forecast .............................................................. Christine Marella ’15 ...............................................46Poem, Karolina ............................................................... Sharmaine Sun ’15 .................................................47Fiction, Rebirth ............................................................... Tara Mann ’18 .........................................................48Art, Galaxies ................................................................... Grace Russell ’16 ...................................................49Poem, After Pa ............................................................... Christine Marella ’15 ...............................................50Photograph, An Abyss .................................................... Hee Jung Kang ’17 .................................................51Photograph, Looking Up ................................................ Sofia D’Amico ’17 ...................................................52Fiction, Till Death ............................................................ Sharmaine Sun ’15 .................................................53Poem, Fingerprints ......................................................... Annarose Hunt ’17 ..................................................54Photograph, Bus Ride .................................................... Ariana Fadel ’18 ......................................................55Fiction, Tatterdemalion .................................................... Sharmaine Sun ’15 .................................................55Photograph, On the Inside .............................................. Leslie Gobel ’15 ......................................................56Poem, On the Wing ........................................................ Christine Marella ’15 ...............................................57Art, Surface .................................................................... Lauren Mendoza ’15 ...............................................58Fiction, It Wasn’t My Fault ............................................... Madison Gong ’18 ..................................................58Non-fiction, Turmeric ...................................................... Sharmaine Sun ’15 .................................................59Photograph, Cross Societies .......................................... Tamara Attia ’15......................................................59Art, To Dorothy ............................................................... Coco Wang ’18 ......................................................60Poem, Half-Empty Heart ................................................. Elsa Sandbach ’17..................................................61Poem, Ritual ................................................................... Christine Marella ’15 ...............................................62Poem, The Ink That Bleeds ............................................. Sharmaine Sun ’15 .................................................63Art, Blocks ...................................................................... Courtney Lindly ’15 .................................................63Musical Mosaic ...............................................................................................................................................64Art, Headphones ............................................................ Ellie Browne ’15 ......................................................64Art, Five Hours of Smooth Jazz ...................................... Grace Russell ’16 ...........................Inside Back CoverArt, Crow ........................................................................ Chloe Corriveau ’15 ..................................Back Cover

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Acknowledgments

Sister ClaireMr. John Aimé

Mrs. Michelle AveryMs. Crystal Boyd ’89

Mrs. Molly CalvertMr. Marc Howard ’93 LS

Dr. Nancy HuntDr. Gerry Kapolka

Mrs. Jamie LeMaireMs. Claire Lerner

Ms. Christian McEwenDr. John Murphy

Mr. Richard PattersonMrs. Masha SerttuncMrs. Melissa SheetsMs. Courtney ShoveMr. Dale Thompson

Ms. Catherine Tufariello

…and all the students of Santa Catalina who submitted their work.

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Stones

Annarose Hunt ’17

I don’t see anything in the world,No, nothing quite like a stone—Sitting as ages swell up and unfurl,Solitary, grey, and all on its own.

Built of the things nearby when it took shape,No two bits are ever the same.Each unique in form, texture, and shade,Oddly-picked particles in a great matching game.

Eternal the stones are, though they change,They shift and shuffle, crack and erode,Just like we, little humans, tend to rearrange,Match up and split off and learn and grow.

So when I say I love you, I mean it long,Not like a human, but like a rock.Forever and ever, each day more strong,Like the pebbles we skipped under the dock.

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Even a puddle was an adventure. She sized up her opponent, which was really just a mere excuse for a few droplets of a small, vital coincidence of elements molding together, much like she was. It seemed vast, unconquerable as the life ahead of her, and gloriously terrifying. Drinking in the deepest breath possible, she readied herself to take the leap across the unknown. Before her small, clenched toes could propel her over, she froze. A swell of self-doubt arose, making her wonder if she should examine this adversary further before attempting to fulfill her quest.

Before she could learn more about her foe, the unwelcome voice of the father pierced her concentration, effectively deflating it. “Ilsa, come and have your dinner! It’s too dark for you to play outside!” She trudged home, dragging her blue squeaky galoshes with every step. She had insisted on the dark navy of the rainboots against her parents’ recommendation of a more feminine color or print, preferring the moody, severe houndstooth to the fluffy, empty promise of pink.

When she stepped inside, she felt the air warm from the heating so recently installed but sensed a chill that hadn’t

been in the rich autumn air. As quietly as a child can, she climbed onto a chair at the dinner table. The parents weren’t speaking. She tried to eat but barely noticed the overcooked pasta and store-bought sauce. Instead, all she saw was the flaming red on both of the parents’ faces, one in sheer anger and the other in the shape of a hand. Gulping down what she could, she scampered to her room and hid under her pillow, crying and not knowing why.

She was one of the insignificant dregs of society, the unwanted, the mistake.

By the next morning, the parents were speaking once more. She detected a hint of deceit in their seemingly customary interactions, the gentle hand on the mother’s back, the crooked smile on the father’s swollen face, but she knew better than to suggest that there was anything wrong with their efforts to convince themselves that they were a happy family. Anyway, the inevitable was imminent. The one with the bruises always came to console her.

Soon enough, the father came by. He patted her head, murmuring more for himself than for her, “One day you’ll understand what love is, kid. It ain’t as perfect as you imagine, but it don’t go

Chapter One: A Lunatic Intensity

Sharmaine Sun ’15


as far as compromise. Oh Ilsa, if the other has traits you wish didn’t exist, just overlook them. Pretend they aren’t there, ya know? It’s the easiest way to a happy relationship.” Considering the parents’ relationship, she shouldn’t have taken his advice, but, ever the complacent, agreeable child, she simply nodded once and ran off to find more intriguing adventures.

Now she knew there was no greater adventure than love, and now she knew real, honest love was not deluding oneself into thinking the other is flawless but rather a calm acceptance, a coming to terms of sorts. Love is the power to see flaws and embrace them as you embrace your love.

With the parents’ twisted, delusional approach, only exponentially greater anger and frustration could result once the inevitable realization came that perfection couldn’t stem from effort.

For a while, a quiet calm ruled the household, but the outbursts were never surprising in their punctuated interruptions. Resigned to the periodic cries of “Alison! Please!” and “No, Charlie, you listen!” she grew accustomed to the frequent quarrels, like hot water, quick to boil and quick to simmer down. When the rest of the world offered no solace from the persistent noise, she, ever the child stoic, rested her face between the stair posts above the parents, making sure

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not to let her legs dangle, and tried to decipher what they were really arguing about. Often she came closer to figuring that out than they did.

School was a welcome distraction. As she walked there and back every morning and afternoon, she was careful to mind the cracks in the sidewalk and liked to pretend she was someone new. Some days she would stroll down that road with tilted head and swinging arms, other days she’d drag her feet in a limping swagger. While she sat in a classroom of twenty-two other children learning to write their names, she labored in deciding whether to write hers with the “I” and the “I” looking the same or to write it distinctly by capping off her “I” on both ends. After writing it thirty-four times every which way on her lined paper, she finally chose not to distinguish the two letters in such a drastic way but to write the “I” a hair taller than the “I” to still establish that her name was Ilsa, not Ilsa.

That day she came home to the water boiling at full heat once again. Having dropped her small red backpack near the couch by the door, she was beckoned by the intricacies of the world, and she lay, little face squinting at the grey-blue sky, wondering how eyebrow hairs knew exactly where to grow, until the mother called her for dinner once more. This time it was the mother with the marks and the father with the clenched fists.

It was the mother’s turn to speak to her the next morning, twisted smile plastered on. “Ilsa, please listen to mommy. No matter what mommy and daddy do or say to each other, we love each other very much. What matters more is that we love you very much, and we don’t want you to grow up thinking that we don’t care. Now, why don’t you show mommy what you did in school yesterday?” She allowed herself to be won over by the mother’s speech, for she had heard it many times before. Pulling out her paper with the thirty-four “Ilsa”s, she handed it reluctantly to the mother’s eager hand. “Ilsa, why didn’t you write on the lines? They’re printed there for a reason. If they wanted you to write all over the place in different directions they wouldn’t have given you paper with lines. Oh Ilsa, why are you writing your “I” without the two lines on the top and bottom? That way your pretty name would be clearer. I chose it, you know…” The mother continued for some time.

Not knowing how to voice her desire for subtlety and rejection of conforming to what was given, she closed her eyes, not trusting herself to open them without a deluge spilling over, hands clenched so tightly four tiny crescents marked each palm. The mother didn’t notice her frustration.


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Virginia dies the summer I am thirteen.

We do not know until a man in a starched suit and silver badge appears at the front threshold with a navy cap clutched under his arm. It is morning, just after dawn, and my mother is wearing a robe and slippers and I watch from the stairwell as she sinks to the floor in a heap, suddenly, quietly. I do not move. The man crouches beside her for a while before he sees me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I have already read his lips.

Last night your daughter jumped from Hoover Bridge.

Afterward, our mother sits on the back porch in silence for the better part of a month, wasting away beneath a wool blanket. She stares off into the wood that hems our backyard. I do not know what she looks at. Maybe she sees my sister, plucked from her fifteenth year. Maybe she sees Virginia flying—I know she flew before she fell. I see it in my dreams every night. Virginia climbing over the railing. Virginia edging toward the ledge that drops off seventy feet into the wide river mouth. Virginia staring out over the riverbed, out over the trees, out over the sky. Virginia closing her eyes. Virginia leaning forward like a feather into the wind.

It takes several days before I realize she is not coming home, even with the dreams and the flowers on our doorstep and the meals the neighbors bring, even though the second half of my room is empty, her unmade bed stale, her makeup untouched on the bathroom counter. All of a sudden, everything of hers is sacred and my mother is on the porch out back and I sit in the kitchen staring at the floor, listening to the beams creak and moan in the deepest parts of the house, and I feel something so heavy inside me that my chest collapses and I almost crash through the floorboards.

I go to the bridge. I sit at the base where its steel legs arch up and connect with the body and the ground. I find a rock to sit on and stay for several hours each day. At first, I do not know what I am waiting for. I know Virginia will not come running from the trees, but so badly I wish to see her again. I want to see her pale skin and dark hair, and I want her fingers to brush my bangs and pinch my cheeks, and I want her to come home.

One morning I go to the river and there is a group of people further downstream dressed in bright orange coats, leaning over a mound of rocks. I watch from behind the safety of a tree trunk as they

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pull a small limp pile from the water. They lay it on the ground and place a white sheet over its entirety. That pile is a girl.

Virginia, I think, and I run from the trees toward the people. Virginia, Virginia, I find myself screaming her name, and I am weeping, kneeling, uncovering, and being dragged back, and I see this is not my sister’s face. Under the sheet is a stranger’s hard purple lips and milky skin. Her eyes are open, blackened, and brimming with a fear that I feel take hold of my own body. The people in the group send me home, horrified by my actions. I return each morning.

I want to see the bodies pulled from the river. Bloated fingers and foreheads, skin surfacing with green, like the woods are growing deep inside them. There

are many of them each year, kids from the city who walk miles and miles to find Hoover Bridge. The bridge sings to them, mesmerizing them, leading them from their homes and schools, out to my town. Virginia heard this song.

This summer, three boys and two girls jump. I am never there to see the flights. I see two of them pulled from the river’s jaw, a bed of rocks about three hundred yards downstream. They look so forlorn, so peaceful and broken. Like cracked linoleum, there is a luminescence to their bloodless bodies.

At the end of the summer, my mother has lost thirty pounds and her voice. I cannot bear the sight of her; she cannot see me without crying, without being reminded of Virginia.

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I think: this is what my sister must have felt like.

Finally, as the summer days begin to shorten, I go through Virginia’s things. It feels as though I am disturbing a great spirit, a silence, a way that things are supposed to be. I have searched for the answer in the river, but the water gives no closure; the rush of the current around the rocks gives me no resolution. The boys and girls who fly from the bridge do not offer me insight into my sister’s head, nor do their delicate remains reprieve me of my own sorrow and curiosity. I need to know why Virginia walked to the bridge that night. I need to know what drew her over the edge.

I find a letter in her jewelry chest. The top corner is dated just one month before she jumped.

I cry for three nights and read the letter over and over again. A dull ache behind my lungs hollows my chest into an arid desert; breathing becomes manual and labored. I cannot sleep. During the days when I stay hunched over the letter in my bedroom, my mother, innocent of my discovery, moves from her bed back to the porch. She is a bone with eyes sunken and gray as though the clouds outside have dissolved into her irises. She moves slowly, painfully, and I think in the last three months she has aged

twenty years. When I look in the mirror, I see my skull through pallid skin and almost do not recognize my own face.

I write Virginia a letter of my own because it is the only thing I can think of.

On a night when the wind is still, I walk out of our house, my letter folded into my sweatshirt pocket. I am barefoot, and the gravel on the road presses into the pads of my feet. With each step I feel a magnetic pull, hear a low hum rising from somewhere far off. When I arrive, I am alone. I have not been to the top except when passing over in car rides to the city with my mother and Virginia, and now I look down into the river and feel its energy pulsing beneath my feet. I did not feel this energy in the months I sat at the base of the bridge, but now it is pulled up through my soles and into my body. Climbing over the fencing, I find it easy to slip under the barbed wire and between the metal spikes. I stand on the precipice, a foot behind the sudden drop, holding onto the chain links of the fence with my fingers.

Virginia! I call, but the night sucks my voice out into the darkness, and the river roars seventy feet below. Virginia! I call, and now there are tears on my cheeks. A breeze picks up and blows pieces of hair into my tears and mouth, but still I call her name out into the river.


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I know she hears me.A gust fills my clothes until they are tearing away from my body, whipping violently against my skin. I crouch on the concrete ledge, and still the wind does not cease. The river beckons me toward it with receiving, watery arms, begging me to step forward.

I will catch you, it says.

I can’t, I say aloud.

I see the stars rise in the sky and the thread of morning attach itself to the horizon. My tears are steady like the current below, and with trembling hands I remove the letter from my pocket and toss it into the wind that carries it down, down, down. A voice calls out once more, but it is not the voice of the river.

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A Lifetime

Lucy Stowe ’16

Her warm hands wrapped around his strong fingersas she stared into his eyesshe couldn’t help but smileall she knew was that she liked this guy

when he held her in his armsshe giggled and she sleptalthough she thought herself strong, her legs proved ineptto walk through the halls she would soon forget

soon she could run, and soon she got lostfor the first time in the storewalking down the aisles, she didn’t know what forhe swore he’d never let her out of his sight anymore

when she turned ten, he thought she was so oldhe treated her like a princessbecause he realized he didn’t have an excessof time left with his little girl

his hairs were turning gray when she began high schoolon her second day, he made sure that all the boys knew his ruleshe was no longer the super hero she’d thought was so cool

not long after she was bornit seemed he was again alonehe’d have to settle for weekly callstheir only communication: the phone


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Last year the horses froze to death during a winter like this: long, drawn out like a wire that attaches one electrical post to another, low and swinging and eternal. Mama stayed indoors with the cough, cradled it inside her chest like a child. In March, we dug through packed snow. They were six hard bodies, smooth and sinewy, frost collecting in eyelids and nostrils. Jelly was pregnant, expecting a foal in the spring. Her belly was swollen, hard as stone.

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Angelic

Rachel D’Agui ’18

She wouldn’t tell him her name. He’d seen her before; of course he’d seen her. Who hadn’t? The loud noises emanating from the speakers shook the floor. The distraction agitated him. Tonight, he’d almost succeeded. Every night, he’d caught glimpses of her. Her lithe form had teased him as she fluttered, danced, glided across the floor, always just out of his reach. She’d almost seemed ephemeral, flitting in and out of existence like a lousy light bulb. But tonight they had danced. Tonight he had lived. She wouldn’t give him this satisfaction again; she knew his excitement was in the chase.

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The black dog is tethered to the lean-to, following you with his eyes. You run, the pick-up’s headlights jumping over your body, into the garage. I hear you from inside the truck—stumbling around in the darkness—imagine you are looking for more than a quick smoke to settle your nerves. You come out, close the door. Don’t look at me, I think to the moon, whose silver eye peers down from above the treeline. What am I doing here my hands find the window-crank and labor at the handle until the air is cool and I can breathe again if you start the engine I will scream my hands are too cold the dogs circle around the white headlight pools on the gravel. You’ve mistaken my silence for impatience and slide back into the truck, hand on my thigh, other on the ignition I feel my fingers numbing but you remove the key and darkness swims in through the open window, cool and breathing on my neck. You both are breathing on my neck. You smell pungent and tired. There is a sliver of light on your cheek and chin where your stubble is growing out. I want to touch you, but I stop halfway. Will you remember my hand drawing back, a heavy moon through the trees, this moment, as I speak to you will you remember? You laugh, but there is water in your ears and eyes and mouth and you say why do you always ask?

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Folie à Deux

Gracie Young ’18

There were nights that froze our hearts,when we realized we were born sick.We used to wire our minds,stitch our ribs,and let our cold souls mingle.Our seams would splitand our thoughts would bleedin a vein that connectsyou to me.

The ocean that corroded your spinewelled up insideand leaked quietly, down rosy cheeks,pooled on well loved wrists.

On a ship, by the seathey took you from meand locked you in a white walled housethat echoes on a lotus island.They scrub out your scars with salineand, whisper-soft, kiss away your tattoos.They clean pretty pink capillaries of dizzy-headed toxins.They’ll hide murky bottles from your lips.They fear the drinks and drugs that have taken you away.

Though it’s lateand my ribs begin to crack and break,I waitand send love out into a great frigid voidfor a hope, a prayer, a ringing chordto let me know you’re out there somewhere.

They’ll cut your hair and clothe your frail formon that lotus choked islandbeyond an ocean I cannot cross.But I will wait, I will wait,Until by wind, by water, by pure desireyou return to mewith sober veinsand clean headed stories to tell.

Seven months will come again,Seventeen months, and thenI will still be looking for youon misty boats and craggy coasts,for when the north wind breathes you back to lifeand brings you home. Until then,you are missing from me,a hand I cannot hold, sad, guarded eyes I cannot look into,a splintering laugh that falls mute on my ears.Until then,I will miss you.


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They’ll cut your hair and clothe your frail formon that lotus choked islandbeyond an ocean I cannot cross.But I will wait, I will wait,Until by wind, by water, by pure desireyou return to mewith sober veinsand clean headed stories to tell.

Seven months will come again,Seventeen months, and thenI will still be looking for youon misty boats and craggy coasts,for when the north wind breathes you back to lifeand brings you home. Until then,you are missing from me,a hand I cannot hold, sad, guarded eyes I cannot look into,a splintering laugh that falls mute on my ears.Until then,I will miss you.

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Malady

Sharmaine Sun ’15

The blurry scarlet webbing of your veinsThrobs under a translucent patchwork still.I heard a strange small rattle as you spoke,

A whistling from your windpipes far too loud.It coupled with the ticking of the clock

And made a song that only I could hear.You talked of contradiction in your mind,The voices calling both joy and despair.I clung to you, to try to save you then;

You cried that my embraces were too strong,But I could only know that you were there

If I could feel your ribs pressed in my spine.It haunts me still, to see that you’re not here,And not to feel your breath against my ear.


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Angie sighs as she re-shelves Pet Sematary for the third time. Every week, someone comes in, picks up a book (Stephen King and the undead, lately), and always, without fail, leaves it in the science aisle. She swears, they’re just doing it to annoy her.

This time, though, this time she takes out her small notepad and pen and jots down a note.

What is read in Horror stays in Horror.

She leaves it tucked between pages 228 and 229.

A week later, Angie clocks out, locks up the librarian’s office, and mutters angrily about being stuck as an assistant and why couldn’t she have gotten the job as a barista? She has class in the morning, early, on Russian politics and the Polish economy after World War II, and just wants to get home and sleep, but instead she’s locking down a library.

As Angie winds her way through the seemingly endless aisles, a flash of black, purple, and green catches her eye. She turns to check it out—

—and notices she’s in the Science section.

“Oh, come on,” she groans, arms slumping. She slams the keys and her backpack down, taking out the notepad again to leave another, sterner note.

Please put the books back where you found them.

Just as she opens the book, a piece of paper slithers to the ground, and, curious, she picks it up.

This book belongs in Science because, seriously, they need to start studying zombies.

Despite her irritation, a small smile forms on her lips, and she adds the call number

Book Boy

Octavia Dickinson ’17


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for Horror to her note. Slipping it in, she shoves the thick novel next to a book entitled Death, And Afterwards, which is actually a book about decomposition of a human body.

Next time, the person’s note says:

I know the call number for Horror, but what’s your call number?

Chuckling, she writes back with:

I don’t give my number to strangers.

The reply is:

You know me; I’m the boy who leaves books in the wrong aisle.

A few weeks after that first note, Angie’s working her midday shift, and, when she goes to shelve a book on the scientific discoveries of the 19th century, lo and behold, there is Pet Sematary, with slivers of paper sticking out all through the book.

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Shaking her head, she grabs it and returns it to Horror. She leaves another note, and after she tucks it in and shelves it, someone walks down the aisle. Angie’s just about to leave, nodding a “hello” to the boy next to her when he speaks.

“So, are you ready for that test tomorrow? I hear it’s going to focus hard on the military losses of Russia after the war,” he says while oh-so-casually taking out Pet Sematary, a small square of paper, and a pen, writing something down and sticking it between pages 408 and 409. Angie’s jaw drops. “What?” she says, amazed. “But—surely—”“Do you know if the coffee shop down the road is any good?”“It’s taking you this long to read that book?” “Oh, I finished it weeks ago,” he smiles at her. “I didn’t know any other way to talk to you.”“Maybe saying ‘hi’ in school would have worked.”“This was more fun,” he winks at her. “Now, want to check out that coffee shop with me?”

The next book he misplaces is Rot & Ruin, and Angie just smiles and scribbles a note.

Pers

imm

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Am

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Rad

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16, d

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Replacement Parts

Sharmaine Sun ’15

We were nothing to the worldAnd everything to each other.Although this seems a tale well-told,Allow me to add another.

You were everything he couldn’t be;I was everything she was.Together we stared out into the seaAnd held hands—just because.

But I wasn’t as placid as she had been,And you grated on my nerves.I couldn’t decide quite where to begin;You couldn’t handle my sudden swerves.

And when you asked me to calm it down,And I told you to leave,It seemed all we had was suddenly drowned,As she had, last New Year’s Eve.

You were silence; I was rage;It looked like it’d never end.We were both ready to turn the pageAnd move to the next bend.

But for some sick reason we kept trying to findThem in one another.You were desperate; I was blind;We were equally smothered.

Nevertheless, we needed each other to have, to hold.I still choked out his name, and you prayed at her grave.And there it is, the story all told:You left me more than he ever gave;I wasn’t the one you failed to save.

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Juliana


in the middle of the night

two stones drop into the pit

of your left lung. one is from me.

the other is from the tree

outside your window who

bows heavy with fuchsia petals.

the springtime warmth has

made you restless, kicking

about in the dust. you feel

the new weight in your chest

like a woman feels her unborn;

and you want it gone.

of course, you cannot climb

into your chest chamber,

hollow though it is, to dig out

the stones. they will grow

into you, as your body

grows used to a new old lover–

take it from me: i’ve lived with

my own now for years. some-

day, you stop noticing that

emptiness and stone

both carry the same weight.


Pots

, Coc

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’18,

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Grayscaling

Sharmaine Sun ’15

Beige. She hated the idea of it, the indecisiveness of the shade, but she also recognized that she was beige—not pure enough to be crisp white, but not vibrant enough or interesting enough to be yellow. Then she met him. He was green, a deep, rich forest, with just enough blue and black to give him complexity that added spice. When they were together, he made her brighter, but every day she knew that she’d always be beige, that he’d find someone cobalt or chartreuse or oxblood. He tried to show her the pale rainbow beneath her beige. She found someone gray.

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Shadows

Lucy Stowe ’16

When I was youngI was scared to touchThe shadows in fearThat they’d breakI didn’t think their Skinny black armsCould ever hold my weightBut as I grew oldThe shadows stayed And my belief began to strayI knew the shadowsOld and wiseEntrusted with my fate

The Glimmering


She was not tall, but willowy in legs and wrists and neck; smiled vaguely and laughed at whomever put his hand on her knee, brushed her cheek, drove her home. We were older than we wanted to be and mucking through a dark year—a father’s death, a sister’s miscarriage. Her lover brought flowers which she threw out the washroom window, so she immersed herself, decorating the apartment in reflective surfaces to check at intervals for changes in her reflection.

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Twisted, Trapped

Octavia Dickinson ’17

The monsters aren’t under your bed;They’re trapped in your head.

Screaming, howling, broken, wailing—You’ve caught them and made them yours.

Tortured, twisted, tricked for endless hours—They started as nightmares,

Simple dreams, lost in the wild,Chased by lions and bears.You were theirs as a child,

But now you’ve taken, torn and hurt them.Your mind’s in total bedlam.

You used to fear your demons—Their presence tasted like bitter oranges, sour lemons.

Now their tang is on your breath;Their cruel, evil taunts on your tongue,Their blood dripping from your teeth,

And tainted air fills your lungs.They used to scare you, when you were small;

Now you’ve trapped and conquered all.Their old evil is your new weapon,The familiarity you fall back upon.

Now you hurt others, attack and repel.I guess facing your fear didn’t go so well.


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When You Wake


When you wake, the bed legs measure the rising water: two, three notches—I have been up, startled by the dawn sailing through this house, shimmering with dark saline portals, masts forced upright, anchoring in the hall.


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You wade into the living room through the alcove and swim to the kitchen for coffee. By this time, the island is submerged: you stand on the granite top, knee deep, bent over a mug and a soggy edition of the Sunday paper. The current rocks your elbows, pulls at my waist. We sink toward the floorboards and find them no longer there.

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I never feared the supernatural as a child until the spring of my eighth year when I was faced with a zombie in my home, or at least that’s what I thought at the time. It was a warm spring morn-ing in Clarksville, Tennessee, when my mother introduced me to my new baby-sitter, Lauren. She was in high school (which was about the coolest thing I could imagine), so I couldn’t wait to show off my Polly Pockets or to watch cartoons with her once my mother left for work. I took her to the kitchen and turned on the small television. While we watched Spongebob, we made small talk about the weather, school, and my peewee soccer career. Somewhere in the transition from talking about how I wanted grilled cheese for lunch to why Kraft American Singles were the most superior of cheeses, I noticed her eyes had glazed over. “Do you like Kraft cheese?” I said to try to get her atten-tion. Waving my hands in front of her face had no effect.

Suddenly, her whole body was trem-bling. “Lauren?” I asked hesitantly, won-dering what kind of weird high school trend this was. Immediately, Lauren collapsed convulsing and bleeding from the mouth. As the pool of blood grew, I realized that this was no game. Like most children, I called my mother at the first sign of danger. Dialing with small, shaky fingers, I made my way into the

living room, afraid of Lauren, making sure I had a clear view of the teenager on the floor as I hid behind the couch. “Hello?” said my mom. “ThebabysitterisshakingonthegroundandIdon’tknowwhattodocanyoucomehome?” I said in one breath. “What? The bird is fine!” replied Mom. The biggest crisis of my life and my mother wants to talk about our pet bird?!

Once I finally got the message across, she told me to call 9-1-1. Somehow this scared me more. My mother always told me that kids who call 9-1-1 for no reason get in trouble. I didn’t want to get in trouble! I was only eight; I had so much to live for! Finally gathering the courage, I dialed the phone, spoke to an emergency dispatcher, and told her my address. I took a peek at Lauren and saw that she was shaking again. What if she’s dead? What if she comes back to life and tries to get revenge on me for not saving her? Bolting from the living room, up the stairs to my room, and locking the door, I had a vision of Lauren reviving and chasing me around the neighborhood, blood dripping from her face. Fortunately, this conception never had a chance to become reality because not two minutes later the para-medics arrived. Thankfully, they brought her back to consciousness, she fully recovered, and I am happy to report that she is doing well today.

Childhood Dance With Death

Maddy Fisher ’15


Chapter One The Incarcerated Man and the four guards finally reached the cell block numbered 856. The smallest guard opened up the black entry gate while the other three, in unison, jabbed their batons into the Incarcerated Man’s back and shoved him forward. “Welcome to your new home, Slick,” the tallest and the most spiteful of the four jail guards taunted. “Must be quite a change from your former life on the outside,” he continued. “But

certainly way too good for you sick-minded types.” Looking back at the cell of a man who had just spat on the prisoner, the guard chuckled and said, “Seems like your fellow inmates already know why you’re here. Good luck, Fella. I don’t think you’ll make it past dinnertime.” Then, the smallest guard approached the Incarcerated Man and unlocked his shackles. To make certain that the Incarcerated Man knew not to misbehave, the tallest of the guards took one last strike at him, only this time to the right side of his head. The

An Incarcerated Man

Giovanna Mitchell ’15

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other three guards burst into laughter as their prisoner landed hard on the concrete floor of the cell. Still laughing, the guards quickly exited the small cell and closed the black gate shut, strutting away and feeling as though they had just completed a job well done.After blacking out for a long period of time, the Incarcerated Man finally awoke. He slowly opened his eyes and tried to study his surroundings. He found himself contained within a 6 x 9 foot cell block that only held 3 things: a small metal bed, a tiny metal sink, and a small metal pot, in which he was apparently supposed to do “his business.” The walls were made of solid concrete; the years of filth from prior residents was abundant; and the indescribable smell of the confined space was rancid. For a moment, he thought that maybe this was all just a bad dream. He tried to pinch himself to wake up, but it didn’t take more than an instant for him to realize that this wasn’t a dream at all: It was his worst nightmare. Taking a deep breath, and with his body throbbing and his head still ringing from the various beatings he had endured while being transported from the police station to the prison, the Incarcerated Man tried to replay the day’s events in his head. He thought long and hard about what had happened that day in order to see if he could sort out exactly how he had suddenly become Incarcerated. But he was unable to

make any sense of it. Just this morning, his day had started out like any other: He woke up at 5:00 a.m., took his shower, and, after making his usual cup of coffee, strolled out onto his veranda that faced a large backyard in order to enjoy his prized garden. Having grown up with blizzards in the Midwest, he had always longed to have sunshine year-round and a beautiful garden that brimmed with flowers and greenery. Although he could well-afford to hire a professional landscaping service to attend to his gladiolas and hydrangeas, he much preferred to do the work himself. So, as it was, he awoke early each day to enjoy the warm sunshine and to admire the natural beauty of his yard, and to take stock in the things that really mattered to him. His move to California many years ago had been a wise one, professionally, that permitted him to cultivate his technology business as well as his landscape. Now that he was nearing the age of retirement, he had planned to spend more time enjoying the great outdoors, expanding his green-thumb abilities, and, finally, spending more time with his three children.

After finishing his morning coffee, he spent about 45 minutes in the yard, tending to his beloved flowers, spraying for weeds, and checking the water timers. Satisfied with his work, he returned inside to dress, to gather his portfolio, and then head to the office. In such a good mood about his morning


garden routine, he failed to notice that his estranged wife’s car was missing from the garage. He also didn’t sense anything unusual when he didn’t receive a “goodbye” from his youngest child on his way out the door. He had already done his usual tapping on his teenage daughter’s bedroom door to say “goodbye,” but, again, he received no response. Although this was unusual, he just assumed that she was sleeping in….again. He also managed to not

notice the two black-and-white police cars situated at the bottom of the long driveway that led up to his custom-built home. When they pulled him over a few moments later as he was about to switch lanes to enter the freeway, he thought that the only reason was that he was driving a tad over the speed limit. Considering that he was driving a Ferrari, it wasn’t unusual for him to accelerate a little bit too quickly as he drove to work. In any event, he figured

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that a speeding ticket wasn’t the worst thing in the world that could happen to him. He simply figured that the cops would quickly recognize who he was and then just let him off with a warning. He knew in an instant that something was wrong as soon as one burly police officer maliciously dragged him out of his car shouting, “You’re under arrest!” Practically throwing him across the hood of his car, he bellowed, “You have the right to remain silent! Anything that you say CAN and WILL be used against you in a court of law!” It was in that moment that he received his first bash to the head from one of the arresting officers as he was thrown into the back seat of the squad car. He was pretty sure that they had shouted the rest of his Miranda Rights at him, but he really had no way of knowing because his good ear, which had taken most of the beatings, had swollen up, making him hard of hearing. Dazed and confused, he was dragged by the two police officers into the police station where they interrogated him for 6 or 7 hours. He was not offered anything to eat or drink. No medical attention was given to him despite his requests to address his injured head. His wrists were cuffed behind his back. His ankles and waist were tied with leather straps to a small wooden chair. Bright lights shone directly in his eyes the whole time, and he was frequently swatted in the back and on the head

with batons and powerful fists. One time, when he was not quick enough in answering one of the detective’s questions, the detective threw a cup of hot coffee in his face. He knew nothing of the questions that were being posed to him. It was as if the language being spoken to him was a foreign one. Although the words were in English and the names of the victims they mentioned did sound familiar to him, he had no sense of what these people were talking about. His mind started to process this event like a scene from a play: Someone had decided to make up a horrific story contained of vile and gruesome details, and he was cast as the villain. Well…at least that was what was being told to him. The investigating officers had continually pressured him to admit his guilt since, according to them, there was damning evidence. But where was this evidence? What proof was there that he had done anything? What did he even do? He asked desperately for verification, but he received only more physical abuse in response. Physically and mentally worn down, he drifted off into a comatose state, at one point thinking… Someone has made false allegations against me…

Finally, the Chief of Police directed that he be given a chance to make a telephone call. His cell phone was not provided to him, of course. When he


tried to explain that he was not able to make a phone call without having access to the numbers contained within his cell phone, the Chief of Police and his fellow officers chastised him and jeered aloud, “Too bad for you, Buddy Boy! It’s into the clink you go!” Only after each arresting officer had taken a final swing at him (to the face, to the testicles, and another time to his already damaged ear), all under the guise that he was “resisting arrest,” was he hauled away, along with a collection of other convicted men, to the jail of Incarceration for hardened criminals. Upon arrival, he was strip-searched and humiliated in front of numerous police officers; for what? He still did not know. Despite the passage of some 12 hours since he had been first taken into custody, he still had not been given anything to eat or drink. His pained body had not reacted well to the mental and physical abuse he had been forced to endure, and, because of that, he had unfortunately urinated and defecated at least twice in the canvas brown jumpsuit he was forced to wear. He had watched as the angry prison guards shredded his silk shirt and slacks, threatened to torture him with his designer leather belt, mocked his Rolex wrist watch, and took turns counting the crisp one hundred dollar bills in his wallet. The man didn’t even care if they took his possessions, so long as they didn’t actually carry out their threats.

Now, locked away in this tiny jail cell and with his ear and head still throbbing and his back and lower body aching in pain, he tried to lie down and force himself to go to sleep on the small, uncomfortable metal bed frame. Of course, sleep eluded him, so he decided instead toconsider how long he would be confined. Never, in a million years, would it have occurred to him that he, an unconvicted person, would be treated like a hardened criminal. “What happened to the notion of ‘innocent until proven guilty?’” he asked himself over and over again. “Just exactly how is it, in the land of the free and the home of the brave, that a mere allegation can result in Incarceration?” Well? How can that possibly be? was the last thought of the Incarcerated Man before sleep finally overtook him.

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Emilia and the Stork

Sharmaine Sun ’15

He, with elegant ebony-dipped wings,Tried to make me a visit this year.I hope he placed you softly downAnd that you knew not fear.

I wanted more than anything toSend him off with an empty sack;I wanted more for you to be cherished, And so I sent you back.

I like to think you were a girlAnd not my greatest nightmare;He carried you in his long, strong beak,As a gift, a prize I could not bear.

But still I ached to let you goBefore I even saw you,And he was pecked and chided thenFor you slowed him as he flew.

You’d be a child of August,Yet through June you’d stay,And his friends would fly to and froWhile he stood by you every day.

I know his rocking couldn’t have beenThe same as mine would be,And all the lullabies that I sang

Were to myself, you see.It hurts to know I won’t be thereTo hear your singing voiceOr look right into your warm brown eyes,But, after all, it was my choice.

Every year, I’ll imagine you,While you two soar above,Specks of white finding other lost kidsAnd teaching them to love.


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Daughter

Emmy Siletto ’17

One hundred thousand lullabiessung in the sweetest tunea satin ribbon for your hairand all the sun of June

The rolling waves of turquoise glassand endless hills of goldthe way my angel spoke your namecould all this beauty hold

My little love, my pearl, my joyhow innocent your smilewhy can’t the world just stop mid-spinand stay like this a while

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Untitled

Madigan Webb ’17

“What’s God?” Jenny asks her dad. He smiles. “God is the father of everything.” A confused look crosses her face. “But I thought you were my father.” He chuckles. “I am. What I mean is…God is the father of the entire universe and everything in it. God is also the feeling you get when Mommy tucks you in at night or when you see a puppy on the street. God is love. Does that answer your question?” She thinks for a moment, then answers, “Yes.” They both look forward. “Daddy,” she asks, looking at him, “where do babies come from?”

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Era el verano de 2014, estaba caminando por la calle, cuando vi una figura extraña al lado de la biblioteca. Con el sol del mediodía directamente detrás de esta persona, no podía ver ninguna característica aparte de una silueta rara apoyada contra la pared. Tenía esta forma, solo un hombro en contacto con la pared, y un pie en contacto con la tierra con el otro pie apilado sobre el primero, creando un ángulo inclinado a la biblioteca. Con ambas manos en los bolsillos, los brazos crearon triángulos como alas. En todo, parecía casi como un gran pájaro durmiendo equilibrado en la sombra.

Seguí caminando, pero cuando traté de pasarla, me caí a la acera, chocándome contra sus pies. La persona no se había movido.

--“¡Ay perdón, perdón, lo siento” le grité.

--“No pidas perdón cuando no tienes la culpa.”

Me quedé paralizada en la acera y traté de mirarla, pero todavía no pude ver su cara.

--“¿Qué dijo Ud.?”, le pregunté.

--“Dije que no debes pedir perdón si no es tu culpa”, y cuando vio el alarma en mis ojos, añadió, “y no era mi culpa tampoco.”

--“Mi mamá siempre me dice eso”.

--“Y la mía también. Fue por eso que acabo de darte este consejo.”

Me puse en pie, y por primera vez vi el pelo moreno, los ojos cafés con un poquito de verde, y el lunar rojo en la mejilla izquierda.

--“¿Qué es eso?” le pregunté, al mismo momento que ella dio un grito ahogado.

Nos miramos por algunos momentos largos hasta que ella me preguntó, “¿Dónde vive tu familia?”

Le contesté que vivián en Costa Rica, Idaho, California e Italia.

Hubo una pausa. “Sí. Pero los tíos no viven ahora en Costa Rica. Cuando falleció su tío, su tía no se quedó en Costa Rica y ahora vive en Monterey.”

Silencio. Yo sabía que esto había sido el plan.

La otra Inspired by “El otro,” by Jorge Luis Borges

Río Turrini-Smith ’15

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Ahora le pregunté, “¿Y Maris. Qué ha pasado? Desde que era muy niña he querido una hija, y siempre me ha gustado el nombre “Maris” para una niña. Todavía no se lo había dicho a nadie, pero esta mujer extranjera reaccionó inmediatamente a su nombre.

Una expresión de tristeza y deseo cruzó su cara, y me dio un momento de miedo.

Antes de que pudiera replicarme, yo le dije lo que me había ocurrido en ese momento.

--“Si esta niña existirá en mi futuro, debe ser que ya existe en tu tiempo también, si de veras eres yo. Si estamos ahorita en el mismo tiempo, puede ser que Maris exista en este tiempo también.

--“Puede ser que tengas razón. Pero también puede ser que nosotros no existamos en ningún tiempo excepto nuestro propio momento imposible.”

--“Pero estoy en el mismo lugar y el sol todavía brilla de la misma manera, y mis libros de la biblioteca todavía están tardes. Nada ha cambiado excepto que estoy hablando contigo, una mujer que parece ser yo del futuro.”

Cuando lo dije, me arrodillé para recoger los libros que se habían caído cuando nos chocamos, y vio que dos libros eran suyas. Ella se arrodilló

también y tomó uno de los míos para ver la última página con la fecha del recibo.

Con horror vimos que la fecha en mi libro era 2034, y la de su libro era 2014.

--“Cómo puede ser” susurró.

Hubo un silencio y notábamos que en solo unos minutos, el día se había oscurecido a la luz crepuscular, y el letrero en la ventana de la biblioteca dijo “Cerrado”. --“Cómo puede ser”, pregunté otra vez.

-- “Pienso que somos la misma”, me dijo con una nota nueva de urgencia.

Me daba cuenta que nunca me había contestado la pregunta sobre Maris, y me daba cuenta también que no quería saber. Esta mujer ya sabía todo lo que había pasado en su vida y la que posiblemente será mi vida también. En cualquier caso, estas cosas no habían pasado para mí, y no existían en mi vida. Podía ser que fuéramos la misma persona, pero en ese momento, no teníamos las mismas vidas. Podía ser que eventualmente yo me convertiría en esta versión de Río, pero por el momento yo era yo, y ella era ella, y no quería saber si ella tenía mi hija.

Le dije todos estos miedos, y me replicó, “Parece que sí. No sé quién es más real o actual pero parece


que estamos aquí juntas en esta calle, ambas Río y ambas de años separados. Yo vivo en 2034 y no tengo ninguna memoria de este encuentro y es posible que no vayas a recordar nada cuando regresamos a nuestras propias realidades. Por eso, pienso que todo lo que ha pasado en este tiempo distinto, no puede afectar nuestros otros tiempos. Claro que no podemos estar seguras, y pienso que puede haber consecuencias desastrosas si la alternativa sea verdadera. Eres sabia en tu decisión de retirar tu pregunta. No te voy a decir nada.”

Le miré con ojos grandes. Empecé a sentir una presión enorme en la cabeza.

Ella siguió, “Dame tus libros y toma los míos. De alguna manera, los libros han cambiado años y pienso que deberíamos devolverlos.”

Nos cambiamos los libros y ella empezó a decir algo, pero en ese momento pestañeé, y estuve al fin del camino. Abrí los libros suyos en mis manos, y en el luminoso sol del mediodía, vi que la fecha en el recibo decía 2014.

Giré hacía atrás y la calle estaba vacía.

Sólo vi un pájaro pequeño durmiendo en la sombra y oí el eco de una voz tanto familiar como extraña, diciendo, “No confíes en la vida predeterminada. ¡Crea tu propio destino!”

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Forecast


in georgia some-where is a vast open plain. on it, you stand & watch the sky wipe overpink. on the radio a crackling jazz lends you its vibr-ating arms and legs. somewhere in the east bay there is a porch & a circle of dogs he feeds in the morning & the same jazz spills from the radio in the kitchen & mingles with thesmell of burning toaster waffles. theirsmoke floats out the window, is mistakenfor a lost thunder-cloud somewhere in monterey.


Karolina

Sharmaine Sun ’15

In memory of Soverskan på Oknö

He watched as his sister’s dimpled knucklesWere filled with slender threads of bone

While she slept through the bloom of the honeysucklesThough her hair and nails hadn’t grown.

Their mother poured milk down her throat every dayHoping that one day she’d open her eyes.Once in a while she would sit up and pray,

Yet they said there was no chance that she’d rise.

And when she did, some thirty years later,She couldn’t remember their faces.

Her mind, her thoughts were no greaterThan anything time erases.

Now they say she was awake all those years,Hibernating, hiding from reality.

It explains her hair and nails and tears—The fear of her own mortality.

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“You believe in people having past lives and being reborn?” Andrew nodded in answer to my question. “I’ve always admired that kind of stuff.” I thought about all the Greek myths I had read, especially those referring to the Underworld and what happens after we die. “What do you think it would be like if we found out that it was real? Like, not just a myth or a guess.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess our lives would be different. We would know what to expect after we die. We wouldn’t know exactly what the afterlife would be like, but we would know that there is something after this life and that, if we had been good, it wouldn’t be too bad. But we also wouldn’t know where anyone else went, and when we died we might never see some people again. I guess, we might not worry too much in this life.” Andrew summarized, “We would make the most of life. We would do things we might not do if we did not know what to expect after death.” At those words I turned my head, and Andrew and I looked at each other.

“Like, what kind of things?” I whispered.

Andrew breathed out his next words. “Like this.”

And then he kissed me.

Rebirth

Tara Mann ’18


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After Pa


Mama tells Jerry to quit that habit,there’s no woman who’ll take it,but he quits the table insteadand goes outside. We sit around(two empty chairs now)and look at each other and nothing.

I follow him out.

It’s single digits with the windchill,mercury plummeting to its kneesinside the frosted thermometer—

Jerry takes his cigarettes with icy breathand back-and-forth pacing on the porch.He has a furrow between his eyebrowsdeep like a fold in paper. It is creased.

I sit on the bench, too stiff to swingJerry sits beside me, taps the ashonto the ground.And we both look out. Say nothing.He throws the butt into the snow.


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She was always a little smarter than he liked them, but he never challenged her, always preferring to let things slide. Their romance wasn’t merely a whirlwind; it was a typhoon of sidelong glances, fingertips sneaking to forbidden places, the rush that their mutual unfamiliarity brought. Both were entranced by the idea of loving a stranger so wholly, yet every touch added to the inferno already blazing threateningly. As the weeks rolled by, she coerced him into admitting that he only stayed because he was in love with how much she loved him.

He allowed her to keep trying but refused to acknowledge her attempts. She clung desperately to the fibers of hope that they’d regain whatever they had, that they could rediscover their shared love of superhero films and the smell of rain, but he insisted on reminding her every day that they hated each other’s music and couldn’t deal with conflict in the same way. The biscuits she made him were left crumbling on the kitchen counter. She felt weak for needing to continue to believe. He felt trapped, manipulated into fidelity, once the newness had disappeared.

Once in a while, things would blow up and he would shout and she would cry and return to her customary hollow in the worn couch. He accused her of playing the victim; she accused him of being selfish instead of just ending it with her. But they always fell back into step with the old, familiar flow of things, two people peacefully —passively—coexisting, because she knew without him she’d have nothing to do and he knew without her he’d come to miss the strange little things. With that, “why” became “why not,” and they settled into a staleness even her biscuits failed to achieve.

Till Death

Sharmaine Sun ’15

56 mosaic

Fingerprints

Annarose Hunt ’17

She sits on a bus;Five tiny, sticky fingertips are pressed to the window,To the hills, and the houses, and the people.She longs to be a part of them.Her mother’s hand rests,Between her shoulder blades it lies,Unmoving, unchanging, simply there,The way their life never was. Through the window, the girl can feel the breath of the village,The hope of a new home,Home itself a feeling she never knew,Having spent a lifetime chasing and fleeing.What they chased, she did not know;What they fled, she did not know.Her mother said she was just too young, Though she thought otherwise.Maybe with this bus came the settling she longed for;Maybe tomorrow, there wouldn’t be another bus;Maybe her bed would stay made, not packed,Maybe someone would learn her name.Clara June, it was her father’s choice,And she missed all of him so much,Even the way her body bruised when he left the roomAnd the broken bottles and the smell of beer.Maybe she’d have friends and neighborsTo celebrate her birthday with,If her mother could rememberWithout remembering him.So, once again, she lets her hopes get too high.She stands and follows her mother down the steps of the bus.She lets it leave, taking her fingerprints with it,Leaving only the hopes for a new touch in this place.


Bus

Ride

, Aria

na F

adel

’18,

dig

ital p

rint

Tatterdemalion

Sharmaine Sun ’15

The sky was weeping again this morning. He crouched there on the porch, waiting, adding to the pile of rocks he kept for her. Every day was a rock, smooth and solid and comfortably heavy, and every day he sat, despite the jeerings of other children, half-pitying, half-admiring his idealism. Loneliness never felt so clean; silence never so still. He dreamed of a mother; he woke to the rocks. The rain continued to pitter down, bouncing off her rock pile, streaking down his face, but the wetness on his cheeks was salty.

58 mosaic

On

the

Insid

e, L

eslie

Gob

el ’1

5, s

ilver

gela

tin p

hoto

grap

h


On the Wing


The land is heralded by crows that foresee earthquakesand bad winds that take up (like blood in water)

during the Indian summer.

Shaken like the dust, we rumble in the nightand turn in beds, turn around corners,heat cloaking heads and shoulders—

Yes, I’ve loved. Combed my hair. Let language,like a willow, bow toward my feet,

but tomorrow we wait for the heat to sleep,

set back our watches—watch the red sky,a net, gather the crows and cast them up

until this valley is covered; beak brine shimmering, eyes that make a satin night,

and the storm of their goingis brimming in my ears,

is feathers on my tongue.

60 mosaic

Reflection,

Willo

w W

alla

ce ’1

5, d

igita

l prin

tIt Wasn’t My Fault

Madison Gong ’18

Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock steadily counted the seconds, unaware that time had stopped for the occupants of the house. Lillian had stumbled into the room, her glass of wine dangling from her hand. She gazed at the pristine sheets in the crib, the perfectly placed toys on the shelves, and the untouched piles of tiny clothes in the corner. Nine long months of preparing. The excitement of the family in the waiting room. Her husband’s eager and smiling face. It wasn’t my fault. She collapsed on the floor sobbing uncontrollably as her husband rushed into the room, trying to console her.

Surfa

ce, L

aure

n M

endo

za ’1

5, m

ixed

med

ia, 6

.5” x

9.3

”


“Satay,” she preaches, “is an art.” Her deft, tanned fingers weave the tender meat onto water-soaked bamboo sticks. One must find the delicate balance between packing the sticks too tightly and leaving them sparse. When I try, the sticks poke. The spices sting. My balance is still weak. I’m not quite ready for the satay, but their mysterious fragrance waits for me. Threading satay is like being a woman—one must project oneself as just enough, just pretty enough but not intimidating, just clever enough but not bossy. If there is too much meat on the bamboo, the satay is left raw and wanting. If there isn’t enough, the satay is being stingy and prudish. Life is like the sticks—smooth and calculating, sharp and lethal, ready to jab when focus is lost.

It’s a long and taxing process—satay. Three grueling days of seasoning, threading, grilling. At some point, this process is like life. I question whether it’s worth it at every turn, but, after it all, I have no doubts that it was. I only wish I could be as sure in real life. Satay brings us together. When we undertake such a tedious process, we become partners, embarking on the quest of finding the perfect balance of spices together. Nevertheless, no batch tastes exactly the same. We have taken what was passed down through the ages and

added our own signature. It’s a proud feeling—an aroma that is all one’s own.I can only claim a mere sixteenth of Malay in me—barely a drop, really, but that drop burns through my veins long after three days of work have been maniacally consumed by a community trying their best to remember what authenticity tastes like. But that exhilarating burn fades, and I’m once again numb to the intricacies of my blood. Turmeric continues to stain my fingers yellow weeks later. It refuses to let me forget.

Turmeric

Sharmaine Sun ’15

Cros

s So

cietie

s, T

amar

a At

tia ’1

5, d

igita

l prin

t

62 mosaic

To D

orot

hy, C

oco

Wan

g ’1

8, a

cryli

c on

can

vas,

20”

x 1

6”


Half-Empty Heart

Elsa Sandbach ’17

you pulled from yourselfa heart

a fingertipa lung

and a gallon of bloodyou left them on the doorstep of my mind with a card that said forever yours

you told me my mind was thicker than heartmy heart softer than touch

my soul lighter than air and my eyes more beautiful than your sanguine veins

i pulled from myselfa charred stomach

a blackened sweetbread a shattered femur

and a gallon of tears as blue as bloodi gave you no words

you lit your heart on fireset your fingertip on ice

baked your lung into a casserole and gave it to me for dinner with a side of kissesyou washed my hair with meyer lemon soap and blood

and gave me a soggy english to japanese dictionary

i ran awayyou did too

i’m sorryso are you

sometimes you miss your lungsometimes i miss you

64 mosaic

Ritual


when you want to be alone,you go into the city.

your voice used to be like yellow and now it’s red and brooding

bloodshot orange. i am tired of your switching shades—

we all know that summer’s undone the strings and you

are afraid of what’s been loosened. so

stand still somewhere in midtown, be brushed by passersby—

i know you’re finding facesthat turn toward you and stare past,

think: this is how to be found without being looked for.


The Ink That Bleeds

Sharmaine Sun ’15

The memories I have of you cling to meLike graceful swirls of ink remain on paper.I pat, scrub, dig at them, yet, when they come inContact with my watery defensive tools,They only seep farther, deeper into me.I can’t just cut them away. Some twisted voiceReminds me every time I’m about toThat doing so would be cutting awayA piece of myself. Besides, my attemptsTo wash myself clean have branched them outInto an intricate web of delicate slivers,Beautiful in their own way, trapping me,Making themselves impossible to remove.Do you remember me like I remember you?

Bloc

ks, C

ourtn

ey L

indl

y ’1

5, d

igita

l med

ia, 1

1” x

7.6

”

66 mosaic

To experience more of Santa Catalina’s creativity, please

enjoy Musical Mosaic 2015, an album of music written

and performed by students. It is available for download at:

soundcloud.com/scsmosaic/sets/mosaic-2015/

To listen on a mobile device, you must install and log into the SoundCloud app.

1. “Hurricane” (2:10) Written and performed by Annarose Hunt ’17 Featuring Jessica Oh ’17 (Voice, Guitar)

2. “The Convict’s Lullaby” (3:14) Written and performed by Sharmaine Sun ’15 (Voice, Guitar)

3. “Number One Fan” (3:55) Written and performed by Jessica Oh ’17 (Voice, Guitar)

4. “Kingdom by the Sea” (2:59) Written and performed by Sung Ha Hong ’15 (Guitar, Cello, Apple Loops, MIDI Effects)

5. “Song for a Sibling” (3:00) Written and performed by Annarose Hunt ’17 (Voice, Guitar)

6. “Snow Thaws” (2:34) Written and performed by Sharmaine Sun ’15 (Voice, Piano)

7. “What You’re Made Of” (3:36) Written and performed by Jessica Oh ’17 (Voice, Guitar)

8. “I Taught Myself” (1:58) Written and performed by Annarose Hunt ’17 (Voice, Guitar)

9. “Goodbye for Now (Serena’s Theme)” (1:36) Written and performed by Sharmaine Sun ’15 (Piano) He

adph

ones

, Ellie

Bro

wne

’15,

acr

ylic,

3” x

6”

Five

Hou

rs o

f Sm

ooth

Jaz

z, G

race

Rus

sell ’

16, a

cryli

c, 2

0” x

30”

1500 Mark Thomas Drive | Monterey, CA 93940-5291 | 831.655.9300 | santacatalina.org

mosaic 2015

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