Issue 39

Richmond

By Finn McDonald

Ghosts roam the nearby international orange,
in view of precious plots, this land-
not mine, not anyone’s you know.

A rich mound of people who say:
“Well, this has to be the most beautiful city in the world!”
The hunched overs pushed so far from here
they lie like zombies in the place we govern.
Hills on hills of green lush
federally protected eye candy.
Don’t let them fool ya-
not baby ruth or twix or sour patch,
but a stash of trimmed hedges, clean edges.
Red and Blue shine as
Safeway carts and blankets
park under pine.
Disturbing the peace.
Our piece.

San Francisco made density test.
A Mr. Gerry chemistry experiment.
An Aunt Mandy salad dressing in summertime.
Cream rises to the top, say something

One percenters here, hunched overs there
Refuse to blend, numb, heels dug in, eyes fogged over,
atop the rich-mound in the Richmond.

Finn is 17, the youngest of four, and lives in San Francisco. He spends a lot of time playing basketball, but writing, mostly poems and short stories, has always been where he really figure things out. His favorite book is A Visit from the Goon Squad because it captures how messy and layered life can be. When he is not on the court or writing, he is usually at the beach with his dog or out sailing, trying to catch a quiet moment.

An Overflowing Abecedarian from the Tower on Morga Street

By Christine Novelero

Attached to the main house, but only accessible
by way of tsinelas-clad feet. First is the step from seamless white tile to
concrete, steep enough to stumble. I certainly do, despite the wooden
door frame. More than once. If I can manage two, three near-misses in less than
eight days, how much more Auntie May, Lolo Badong, all my mother’s
family who can truly call this house home? But this is
Guinobatan, town small enough for a guarantee that someone will
hear and catch your fall. Tread down, turn left, look up,
in wait lies the stairs: drippingly steep, tropical heat
kissing every inch of skin. After the peeling, off-white incline, the door
latch—untouched for seven years. The last time I passed by. Inside:
musty. The first word that wafts through my nostrils, like
nothing else in hyper-sanitized suburban America. Naturally, dust
overlays everything. Lolo Badong’s steel bookcase, hundreds of titles on
philosophy and religion and Filipino history. How I wish that but a
quarter of them could fit into my suitcase, a priceless inheritance for the
ride home. A murky-eyed Beanie Boo, sooty and sitting
silently. I apologize for the seven years of solitude but never take him home.
To my home. This, now, is his. According to my mother, this room is really
Uncle Padi’s. Padi for priest. Everyone calls him the humblest, most
virtuous person they know. I’ve christened him my living patron saint.
When his days of white t-shirts and plain sandals and
‘xtraordinary service are over, he’ll have only the room of his
youth to return to. As hallowed as this tower may be, the
zone of true peace lies on the balcony. Admittedly, it’s not quite
a tower’s grand lookout, more so one rooftop among many.
Between chiseled stone rails and the ceiling of our suite,
clotheslines sway softly, awaiting embroidered panties and skinny jeans to
dry. The ghosts of my mother and Lolo Badong linger in the
evening air. When she was the youngest daughter and he was her
father. Even the crumbs of their conversations haven’t lost their taste:
grades, God, the tangled threads that lie at a small town’s
heart. Or not. A decade later, she followed her sisters to the stars, hence why
I stand here today. Here: made in America, 24-hour flight to Manila,
jumping the meridian between tomorrow and today just to
kiss my lolo’s age-spotted hand, to light a candle at my
lola’s locked tomb. But I am a country divided, a house united unto
myself: my heart, too, haunts the tower suite. An archive, a lighthouse.
Never will we be too far to meet again.

Christine Novelero is a creative writing student at Kinder HSPVA in Houston, Texas. She is a Scholastic Writing Awards Gold Key winner. Her writings have been published in Scribere, The Weight Journal, Voice & Virtue, and others. Outside of writing, she is a chaser of sleep, a dancer at heart, sister to three cats, lover of soft things, an unwitting seeker of metaphor, and a passionate volunteer.

Maybe I’m Not Afraid of Failure, Just Witnesses

By Myra Arora

I could fall a hundred times
if no one saw it.
Spill the whole bowl of effort on the floor
and laugh,
if no one was watching.

But with eyes?
I flinch before I even move.
I double-check certainty
until it’s a cage.

Maybe I’m not scared of getting it wrong
just scared of you
seeing me get it wrong.

Of the way silence stretches
after a wrong answer.
The pause.
The sideways glance.
The subtle note someone files under
“not that smart.”

Isn’t it strange?
How the sting isn’t from the fall
but from the imagined commentary?

Not the act,
but the audit.

Not failure,
but failure witnessed.

We don’t fear the mess.
We fear the mirrors.
(please clap)

Myra Arora is a high school senior from New Delhi who writes poetry in lowercase and lives life mostly in italics. While her primary work spans AI research, social entrepreneurship, and editorial leadership, poetry is her pause—her way of navigating the unspoken parts of being sixteen and hyper-aware. Her work aims to sit somewhere between vulnerability and observation, laced with introspection, dry humor, and a little digital-age existentialism.

Beluga

By Sisi Zhang

Beluga

Every time I walk into an aquarium, I feel as if I’m entering a dream——not of humans, but of the marine animals. What are we to them, then, if we are within their dreams? I tried to capture the answer through film.

Sisi Zhang is a writer and photographer from Shanghai, China. She is currently a high school student at The Stony Brook School, New York State. Her works reflect her unique perspectives on life and connect her world with those of others. Most of her photography captures tranquil moments in nature, while her writing often explores feelings and thoughts. Nevertheless, both to her are forms of storytelling.

Ryujin 3.5 , Ryujin Leg

By William Shen-Costello

Ryujin 3.5

Ryujin Leg

The name is Ryujin from the designer, Satoshi Kamiya. Although the design is not original, the rendition is completely my own, taking 100 hours with the only reference being the design’s crease pattern.

William Shen-Costello is a seventeen year old attending Stuyvesant High School in Manhattan, NY. After discovering origami at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, he quickly fell in love and taught himself to be highly proficient with the help of YouTube and other online resources. Other than folding origami, William enjoys fishing and hiking in the wilderness of upstate New York as a pastime.

The World’s Wife

By Robbie Kozman

“The World’s Wife” is a collection of poetry by Carol Ann Duffy. This feminist anthology of poems subverts well-known stories and myths with women at the center. Duffy challenges us to reimagine history and literature, in order to challenge patriarchy and sexist conceptions of female identity.

In “Medusa,” Duffy utilizes various literary devices to confront stereotyped femininity head on with parodic subversion. She uses alliteration and the rule of three to reimagine Medusa’s conventionally poisoned mind. In the beginning of the poem, Medusa is skeptical of her husband’s faithfulness. She remarks “a doubt, a jealousy grew in my mind… as though my thoughts hissed and spat on my scalp.” These emotions compact into the rule of three, suggesting that Medusa’s insecurity is obsessive and evolving. “Hissed” and “spat” are onomatopoeic, evoking the sounds of a snake. Duffy alliterates Medusa’s transformation into a Gorgon; her “bride’s breath” connotes the once strong marriage, which is ‘destroyed’ by the “soured, stank” of a jealous relationship. Later, a “buzzing bee” and “singing bird” are turned into stone. Overall, this demonstrates that jealousy and rage have consumed Medusa, as a result of her male partner.

As the poem progresses, the reader gains sympathy for Medusa. Medusa maintains her love for Poseidon but knows that he will “stray from home.” Refusing to take responsibility for his adultery, Poseidon shows up with “a shield for a heart” and “a sword for a tongue.” He, as a reference to patriarchal society, has made Medusa into a monster. She is to blame while Poseidon is devoid of feeling and love. As such, Duffy is critical of the misogynistic treatment of women as trophies, or property to be used and discarded without any consequence. “Medusa” represents a pattern of women’s reactions to wrongdoings against them, where they are unjustly seen as the ones punishable and deserving of the mistreatment by the patriarchal Man (capital M). Duffy cleverly positions the myth as a symbol of female empowerment—by looking at Medusa straight on, women can take back their agency and challenge the patriarchy.

My second favorite piece in the anthology is “Little Red-Cap.” Duffy refreshingly disrupts the fairytale of “Little Red Riding Hood.” She employs allusion, internal rhyme, and intertextuality to flip the story’s traditional dynamic and challenge patriarchal conventions. Red is enamoured with the wolf. His jaw is stained by “red wine,” which is a drink of sophistication. He has “big eyes” and “ears”—a sexual, even phallic reference. Although the wolf is intimidating, Red is the instigator. She “clapped eyes on the wolf,” revealing her intentions and desire to exert power. Expressions like “sweet sixteen,” alluding to the age of consent, and “never been,” indicate that Red knows she can play up her innocence to grab the wolf’s attention. Paradoxically, her strength almost comes from the fact that she is perceived to have none. In this sense, the reader is compelled to reconsider the roles of the hunter and the hunted within wider hierarchical structures of gender and power, as the Wolf is an allegorical figure.

The sexual encounter between Red and the wolf develops into a ten-year struggle. Despite the wolf being originally presented as more prey than predator, he is later depicted as controlling in their relationship. The internal rhyme reflects the repetitive nature of his behavior, “season after season.” The wolf’s “heavy matted paws” indicate that he is rough and graceless, and Red’s search for the “white dove” conveys her desire for fulfillment; the replacement of lust with love. Thus, by taking “an axe to the wolf,” Red does not require the help of a male to liberate her. In fact, Red (instead of the original woodsman) fills the wolf’s belly “with stones,” intertextually subverting the gender roles. This is the poem’s greatest metaphor for empowerment. Furthermore, Red sees the “glistening, virgin white” of her “grandmother’s bones”—a broader metaphor for exerted ‘purity,’ or reclaimed honor for past generations of oppressed women. The very act of killing the wolf is symbolic of escaping patriarchal oppression and even killing the patriarchy itself.

In sum, Duffy has amassed a powerful collection of brilliant, feminist poetry that is filled with intriguing metaphors and layers of meaning. She reimagines patriarchal conceptions of female identity, both challenging centuries of male control, and demonstrating female independence. I highly recommend this creative anthology.

Robbie Kozman is focusing his studies on English, history, and economics. He plays varsity basketball, soccer, and golf and is a member of the senior school concert and jazz bands. Robbie’s writing have been recognized by Scholastics Art and Writing and Polar Expressions Publishing in Canada.