La Pluma (Issue #2) - Diary of the Subconcious

How dare you?

You just trespassed.

You trampled over an invisible boundary, invaded personal property, stuck your over-san-itized, over-moisturized, grubby, germ-carrying hands all over this piece of paper and you didn’t even realize…that you were starting to read someone’s diary.

How dare you? How dare you have the audacity to be curious, to wonder, to dream, to even wish to explore the inner asylum of minds?

Haven’t you ever been told to stay within the pit of your potential, to satisfy yourself with the scraps of crap that Life throws your way?

You believed that things could actually be better…

You walked on the rickety bridge of breaking hope and thought that you would make it to the other side. You took a risk—you gave of yourself to an idea, an intangible, unde-pendable slither of minute possibility, like the writers, artists, and staff that produced these black lines on this white paper.

Hold on.

You know that right? You know that’s all this is. Black lines. On white paper.

Black lines that tell of archeologists, kings, and Mr. Malicious Society…of challenge, re-venge, and dandelions…of logical itches…of piano and jazz…of blood and tears…of sixes and threes…of overlapping nightmares and bad weather.

Maybe you will read between these black lines. Maybe they will make you feel or see or think. Maybe they will say more to you than anyone you know. Maybe...

Wait. I forgot. You’re still trespassing. But I’ll admit that I was expecting you.

Well, what are you waiting for? Turn the page. Dream on.

Note to Dreamer

Kanwalroop SinghPresidentMonta Vista Published Writers

WritingNaked Dreams by Nidhi Khullar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

November by Yasmin Majeed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

A Distortion of Words by Chèvre Chang. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

Countdown by Michelle Jiang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

Dandy Days by Amarante Chang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

Like Jazz by Levi Barred. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

The Itch by Yasmin Majeed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Challenge by Jeremy Nichols . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

Overlappings by Nona Penner. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Logical Progression by Katherine Lu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

The Pianist by Mengyou Wu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

Ozymandius by Selene Rubino . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Weight of Blood, Weight of Tears by Lauren Yang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

Red Lights and Black Lines by Rachael Yao . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

Nightmare by Maraam Dwidar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

3 a.m. by Alice Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Vial of Discord by Somel Jammu & Kanwalroop Singh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Six Word Dreams by Serena Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

Credits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

ArtSalvation by Wendy Du . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

Up in the Clouds by Andrew Stewart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

Smile by Laura Plouse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

Inside Out by Laura Plouse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

Branching Out by Aleksandra Plaza . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

Breeze on a Windmill by Madula Ramabathiran . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14

Photography by Laura Plouse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Artwork by Shreya Shanar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Abandoned Leaves by Hazel Hyon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

Photography by Laura Wenus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Photography by Laura Wenus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

Afternoon Dreams by Neha Jammu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

Photography by Laura Plouse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Artwork by Freda Ding . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

Epehmereal Dream Eternal Memory by Helen Han . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

One by Jenny Michelfelder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

School of Dreams by Sommel Jammu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Photography by Laura Plouse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

Heart and Soul by Wendy Du . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Dream on by Abhinandan Nandi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

6

Today, I awaken and find

my naked dreams

strewn on the floor by my bed

like so many pieces of my

Life.

Panicking, I frantically gather them close to my heart,

trying to protect my naked thoughts

from Mr. Malicious Society

that would posses them, sully them, rape them,

hungry for their simplistic beauty,

given the slightest chance.

But for now, here they lie.

The new and the forgotten all together

in my hands.

I lift them, the very essence of my life,

and bring them before my eyes.

The dreams of yesterday

were the dreams of today

are the dreams of tomorrow.

And I watch the little mirrors, content.

Under a blanket of happiness, watching merrily,

suddenly my neck prickles, dread, fear, terror

Society sees them, tries to seize them

7

8

novemberby Yasmin Majeed

Up in the Clouds by Andrew Stewart

My throat is tight from thesnickering cold wind that waltzesaround us

in spite, we push against itswing tipped shoes and cherry blossom corsagesfreckled grass and tan oak trees are humming alongto this icy orchestration

are we the only ones who hear the syncopationof a thousand curling cumuliof a million bursting moons?

this deafening lull is what binds ourquivering legs and willowed arms to these silent dreams

we scream.

9

10

Remainders of the past.

She has to wonder. What will happen when the future finds our homes, our possessions, our remains? Will we be but memories buried in the Earth?

And then she freezes. Her fingers twitch and tremble, a ner-vous dance of agitated excitement.

She sees the corner of some box. A casket.

She doesn’t want to tell her colleagues yet. Selfish, she wants the glory to be hers, and hers only.

Five hours later, she opens the iron, blood-chipped casket. Pulse racing, she sees a skeleton grin a too-wide-smile back.

She screams, and her fellow archaeologists flock to her, thinking she screams from the excitement of a miraculous find.

What they don’t feel as they congratulate her, is the icy, dead cold that rapidly trickles over her nose, eyes, and mouth.

She wakes up that night unable to move, after a nightmare she can’t remember. An icy presence weighs upon her stomach, and she sees a shadow of some malignant entity.

She wants to know what’s going on.

Countdownby Michelle Jiang

Inside Out by Laura Plouse

It’s a summer Wednesday like any other. She’s out in the field with the rest of her colleagues, meticulously brushing away the dirt from each broken chair, its paint chipped and flaking; each cracked piece of a bronze plate adorned with tiny brushstrokes of people.

E

T

11

grips it close to her chest in pain. She feels as if her arm has been shoved into a meat-grinder.

Moments later, a numbed feeling possesses her arm. She warily peeks at it. There are no words left.

Later in the day, she sees ghosts, too – a pale, fog-like silhou-ette in the corner of her eye, trailing a few feet behind her. It’s in the shape of a hunchbacked young short-haired man, and her innards feel like she’s being accosted by frost and fire at the same time whenever she sees it. She’s scared, she knows it, but she’s horrifically fascinated, too – a sort of sick entrancement. It’s a racing of the heartbeat, the burst of adrenaline, the dizzy-ing feeling of choking back burning sickness.

Sick euphoria.

She thinks she’s becoming jaded to these occurrences. They’re becoming part of her routine.

Even when the sink sprays a jet of warm blood over her hands, she merely smiles and hums, smoothing soap over her hands, and convinces herself that the rich, wine-red, thick liquid is water.

She denies that violent shudder of apprehension which wracks her frame when the dried, crackly red smears won’t disappear off the towel.

She’s going crazy, she feels it, it’s going all too fast. It’s like a count-down, but a choked, cut countdown – a countdown skipping half the numbers.

And her life spirals downward like an all-consuming whirlpool, snapping jaws devouring her whole into the depths of this night-mare.

SCold fingers in the pallid rain caress her throat in some mock-ing parody of a lover’s soft kiss. They brush her jugular, up and down, a repeated intimidating motion that could have been considered soothing, had they been warm hands and not invisible entities.

She feels cold arm-shaped icicles encircle her.

A nose nuzzles her throat as ears press against her pulse.

She cannot move at all, and she wants to sleep forever, despite the freezing conditions and the cold, dead, wet, amphibian-like skin against hers.

She wants to lean back. She wants to feel safe. She wants to let go.

But if she lets go, then this won’t be a dream anymore.

And she will find herself ensnared in the devil’s hold.

There is no answer from the thing perched on her body.

This isn’t a dream, she thinks, but some small part of her clings to the hope that maybe, this is some elaborate nightmare.

She can see her room– the lavender blinds in her windows; the bookshelf crammed to the brim; her tiny armchair sofa, soft throw pillows still strewn around after reading Lord of the Rings; and her desk, covered in papers, pens, sketching pencils and her many moleskin journals, with a letter from her grandmother wedged between two.

There is a force pulling at her, wanting her to let go, to close her eyelids and give up. She concentrates on not doing so. She feels a stony, earthen certainty that if she were to ever give up, she would be gone from this world.

After what seems like hours of struggling to keep awake, the shad-owy entity finally blurs out with the morning light, and she re-gains the ability of movement.

But she doesn’t want to know what happened – all she wants is for that to be a nightmare, something that will never happen again.

Ne can see her room through peripheral vision, and ever

She hasn’t gone to work in three days. She’s too scared– she doesn’t want to go to some mental asylum.

The following morning, her bedroom door slams open of its own accord, and then slowly creaks its way back to its original position. She slams it shut and locks the door, eyes wide and disoriented, confused from lack of sleep.

The blinds shoot straight up as soon as she looks at them. The lights begin to flicker on and off, and she sinks to the floor, screeching her lungs out in pure terror.

No one hears her.

She stays curled up on the floor for most of the day, scrunch-ing her body with her knees, eyes squeezed shut. Household appliances go off of their own accord.

Eventually, she takes a deep breath and gets up. So what if objects move? She resolves to adapt.

She hears the buzzing of talking, but no matter how much she strains her ears, she can never make out any words. It’s like eavesdropping on a muffled conversation.

On the third morning when she wakes up, she is greeted by a bloody mess on her arm. There are words etched on her arm, and a kitchen knife lies on a bedside table.

Good morning.

She gapes in half-astonishment, half-fear, but mumbles a good morning into the air. The words sear into her arm, and she

Even when the sink sprays a jet of warm blood over her hands, she merely smiles and hums.

12

She’s running through a maze, with ghostly walls, as if she could burst through any second with a bubbly pop. But she knows better. This is all a trick, and the walls are poisoned. She recognizes the acid clinging to them.

She feels like a fly manipulated into visiting a spider’s parlor, but she can’t find the spider. For all she knows, she could be running to it, but something tells her that she’s not.

The walls suddenly turn, and she feels her insides wrench as she screams. She cannot grab onto anything– one touch of the wall, and she’s a pile of radioactively decaying flesh.

If this were a dream, she would give anything to be awake right now.

The walls stop turning and she continues her sprint. Heart lurching, head dizzy, mouth dry, eyes tired– the last thing she wants to do is run forward. But some unknown force compels her to.

She swivels around the corner, and stops mid-step, stumbling backwards. She is the fly entangled in the spider’s web, while the spider stares straight back at her with a familiar ominous smile -— the skeleton with the too-wide grin.

He sits leisurely upon a golden, shimmering throne, bone arms resting upon the throne’s. His left arm supports the chin of his skull.

The only clothing covering the grotesque, haunting figure is a cloak of royal purple.

But what she notices most is the crown on his head. It gleams with the sparkle of a newly polished sword, and is adorned with emeralds – the largest in the center, and six smaller ones adorning each side.

A grand total of thirteen.

The skeleton speaks, his voice is scratchy and brittle, hollow and deadened.

I’ll make you a deal, he says.

What’s in it for me?

You’ve already gotten your share.

Her mouth parts in silent confusion.

You received the glory from finding my grave, whispers the skeleton. In exchange, I receive your body. I take your human-ity, your warmth, your soul away. Just like you took away my slumber for your selfish desires.

Realization hits her. She hates herself at that moment, her stupid pride and her stupid greed and her stupid ambition.

But I’ll let you go, he continues. If you play my game.

It’s her only choice now. Her last chance.

She accepts the challenge.

Five

Branching Out by Aleksandra Plaza

13

He smirks. Don’t let go. And he raises his arms.

Don’t let go.

Her soul is being pulled to pieces, her lungs are sore from screaming. Arms are pulling her in over a thousand direc-tions, and she wants this to end, but she wants to live at the same time, and as her indecision increases, so does the pain.

She wants to live. She endures it for as long as she can, but like any other human, she breaks into pieces.

Stop, she bleats, pleadingly, rivulets running down her face. Please.

The skeleton lowers his arms. His impossibly wide grin sharpens.

It was your decision, your decision to cast away your body, and lose your soul.

And with a final piercing agony that burns a memory into the very marrow of her bones, her vision blots out.

She had been damned from the very beginning, when she first opened that casket.

There was never any escape from the maze.

TShe wakes up sweating cold daggers, blankets curled around her.

Fists pounds on her door a few moments later.

Finally, the first person to care. But it is too late.

She gets up anyways, and opens the door.

They converse over breakfast– waffles in syrup and bacon with eggs.

How have you been? I’m sorry I haven’t visited lately.

Fine. Her voice is brittle and testy.

You know, you’re acting like an entirely different person. Usually, you go on about some new discovery at the archaeology site.

She merely stares down the eggs, shoving them from one side of the plate to the other.

A cell phone call interrupts them.

Her best friend flips it open, a look of worry on her face.

Sorry, I have to go. I’ll see you later –— how about four this evening?

Sure, she mutters back.

Her friend gives a slight frown, creased with worry for her. Call me if you need someone to talk to, alright?

Then her friend winks, a playful grin tugging at her lips. Oh, and you probably want to take a look in the mirror. You look horrible…Gosh, take a break from your work!

The door booms shut.

She scoffs at her friend’s shallow remark –— if only she knew.

And she feels the twinge of slow, burning anger and sadness –— fate is making a fool out of her.

OShe stands before her bathroom mirror thirteen seconds before midnight, face pale and shaking, a quiver plaguing her heart. Her tired, dry eyes resemble raccoons’. Her hair bunches around her shoulders, lank, damp, and disheveled.

This is the only way to see what you’ve become, a voice tells her. The only way.

In a burst of courage, her terrified fingers reach to flick the light switch on.

The lights sizzle and die milliseconds after.

Her throat works, but she cannot scream.

The grinning skeleton stares her in the eye.

She is terrified, shaking, wanting help, wanting to scream, for anybody, anything. For time to reverse itself, for the thrice damned lights to turn on, for someone to run in and notice something is wrong, for her heart to stop beating so hard, and for her to never have stumbled upon that stupid casket. She would give anything to be someone else, hell, even some-where else, and she wishes it was all a dream.

It’s not.

The skull slowly turns. Its grotesque grin stretches. And with a mechanical movement, its maggot-white fingers reach towards her.

They shift through the mirror as if it was pond water, creaing a gentle ripple.

The skeletal fingers continue, and they rest over her heart, tapping an eerie rhythm, penetrating a screechy, sick song into her soul.

And with a sudden movement, they plunge in. She feels a pulsating pain, but she feels so detached, and her vision is blurring out.

After clinging to hope for so long, she finally accepts the inevitable and lets go.

Her countdown finally slips to the number of zero.

The last thing she sees is the skeleton’s grin.

Her countdown finally slips to the number of zero.

14

Dandy Days

15

Dandy Days

Day 3: I have decided that I want

to fly. I am tired of looking at the same park everyday. I will make

myself wings and soar...

Day 5: And I am off! I

made a face at the oak and soared away. The

puff came from a little boy.

Day 4: I have just changed

from yellow flower to a white puffball. I will now wait for a breeze. Pity the oak is in my way. Someone should move

him, the way that he’s been teasing me...

“Mommy! There’s a dandelion!”

His mother carefully breaks off my stem and hands me to her

son. A little boy with a lopsided birth-day hat swims into my view.

“Make a wish.”He smiles and closes his eyes

before blowing my seeds into the air.

...I float away

on the wind, dancing and making circles, and I

see the little boy take one last look at me as his mother adjust his birthday hat before he and his mother race across a field.

I wonder what he wished for.

Day 1: I used to have a goal.

Does it really matter anymore? I am the only dandelion in this field,

right between an oak and a pine. I wanted to be as strong and as tall as the oak because

he was taller than the pine. Though the pine was older, the oak was more energetic. And his leaves were something to marvel at.

I told the oak about my thoughts today, and he laughed at me.

Today is a new day. I will find a goal in life, a dream to soar to...

Day 2: I started reminisc-

ing about flying. I don’t remember much about flying other than twirling

and somersaulting in the air. The breeze was nice and I was able to see quite a few houses before I landed in a nearby park. Those few moments of pure freedom are experiences

that I like to dwell on. I find something exhilarating in not being able to

control where I go.

16Photography by Laura Plouse

17

It’s not the kind you can scratch. It’s the kind that makes your legs move like march hares when you’re sitting in class. It’s the kind that makes you leap big grasshopper jumps through the streets. It’s the kind that makes you desperately hope that when you open the blinds of your bedroom window you’ll see ivory-tusked elephants lumbering through lush undergrowth. It’s the kind of itch that makes you want to scream when what you actually see is rows and rows of shingles on suburban roofs and ceramic gnomes on freshly groomed lawns.

This itch is not easy to lose.

It doesn’t make me happy. It makes me sick. I feel clogged up with anxiety and restlessness.

I’m not always completely aware of it, but sometimes I’ll be just sitting, reading a book or watching TV when I suddenly feel it come on. I’ll start to think about all the oth-er millions and billions of people watching the same shows I am and reading the same books and how most of them will spend the rest of their lives just reading books and watching TV. And then, it’s like a vast ocean of wanderlust is storming in my body. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life read-ing about what the world is like. I want to breathe it all in, I want to grab it and never loosen my grip. But, maybe one day this itch will just disappear. A rabbit back into the hat. Or maybe everyone has their own itch that makes them get

up with the sun and dream with the night. Maybe this itch is just a will-o’-wisp, something to lure me away from what my path is. I don’t know. I might always want to have the world, I might not. I may forget about lion roars and whale

songs and Technicolor lizards. I may never give another moment to singing dunes, the Galapagos and the Amazon. I might never get to see the Taj Mahal or the Colosseum. I might never kiss the

Blarney Stone or ride a gondola through the canals of Venice. I’ll have to wait if I’m ever going to know if I fulfill my hun-ger. I’ll just have to go on itching for the world.

“I’ll just have to go on itching for the world...”

Artwork by Shreya Shankar

18

Upon my fur the wind doth plays

I look away to avoid their gaze.

my strength is none 

compared to his new one.

A coppery scent fills the air

at this time I aught not care.

Who thinks he 

that challenges me?

He may be strong he may be young

but who has ruled this forest long?

The answer, me who won it just

mostly for pride but some for lust.

I own this forest proud and true

down to the very last shrew.

Although I may see that dreaded light

I will not die without a fight.

My fangs and claws I do let fly

and at my feet my challenger doth lie.

In this battle I may have won

but soon nature and I will be one.

Without me the clan will fall

even now I hear the sirens call.

I must not die!

I will not die!

Upon my fur the wind doth plays

I look away to avoid their gaze.

my strength is none 

compared to his new one.

A coppery scent fills the air

at this time I aught not care.

Who thinks he 

that challenges me?

He may be strong he may be young

but who has ruled this forest long?

The answer, me who won it just

mostly for pride but some for lust.

I own this forest proud and true

down to the very last shrew.

Although I may see that dreaded light

I will not die without a fight.

My fangs and claws I do let fly

and at my feet my challenger doth lie.

In this battle I may have won

but soon nature and I will be one.

Without me the clan will fall

even now I hear the sirens call.

I must not die!

I will not die!

19

The ocean trembled. Above me, my eyes could see the faint scars on the sky. Water rippled about me as the reply of the thunder was forced upon my ears; it pushed me further into dark oblivion. My lungs were waiting for air, but I gave them none. The pressure was suffocating me—ready to puncture my lungs like a bal-loon. And the fear made it worse. I could no longer see the motor of the boat anymore, but I imagined it was spinning furiously, propelling my only hope away from me.

I continued to sink. The darkness was abso-lute. The angry ocean snarled and snapped at the sky above, then recoiled back into itself in frothy, tumbling billows of foam. Soon, even that noise was blocked out, and the only sound I could hear was the frantic beating of my own heart.

Suddenly, something brushed my arm. It was powerful, sending a wall of water at me as it whipped away. I tried to swim up, but the turmoil above pushed me down. Terror was old news now; I knew I was a goner. Again I felt something--this time by my side. It wrapped around me. I wriggled, bubbles rising from my mouth. Then, a gigantic, bulbous head rose in front of me, and I managed to catch a glimpse of a set of eyes—murderous eyes...

Gasping, I woke up, drenched in sweat. I immediately switched on my lamp and waited to come to grips with reality. It was just a night-mare. Just a nightmare.

I sensed the storm above; it was sending light currents down to the bottom where I was at rest in my den. Then, a splash.

I detected it with my plate-sized eyes — a small figure landed in the water.

Lifting myself up with no effort at all, I expanded in size almost instantaneously. I coiled and uncoiled my tentacles experimentally. Fish darted away from me as I rose streamlining to-wards the sinking figure.

I waited. I was patient. My hunting mode was in gear. Stealth. That was the key. Besides, once this creature was in my grasp, there would be no way it could escape. I was immense and brimming with strength.

One of my tentacles snaked upwards. I brushed the figure’s strange tentacle. Before the figure could do much, I wrapped my tentacle around it and drifted up to get a closer look before I took a bite.

Splashing feet woke me up from my dream. I was my old little self again—no bigger than a barnacle. Hands splashed into the shallow water and voices yelled at me. I wiggled my tentacles in protest, but to no avail. Ink marked another escape.

by Nona Penner

Photo by Laura Wenus

20

gradually become aware; I hear the ghostly strains of Hotel California wind their way around my head, whisper through my ears.

…Welcome to the hotel CaliforniaSuch a lovely place (such a lovely place).…You can check out any time you like

But you can’t ever leave…

Surroundings fade in, blurrily. One minute it seems like I’m at a party – that soft

yellow light, the feeling of people waltzing, dancing, chat-ting. Then I’m alone, echoing silence ringing, soothing and unnerving.

“Hello.” The voice doesn’t come from anywhere, any-one. “Hello.” The yellow light is gone, snuffed out as if it had never been. When did that happen? When did the darkness creep in, swallowing that light laughter?

“I’m afraid that,” said the voice, but stopped, abruptly. I waited for it to say more. It seemed the thing to do. But there was only continued silence.

“It’s a game, see?” said another voice after an eternity of

I

dark stillness. “You have to get out. It’s quite simple.”

“Quite simple,” echoed a third voice. “Yes.”

There are shackles around my wrists and arms. This seems perfectly reasonable: after all, I must get out. It falls to the voices, then, to keep me in. I set to work picking the locks.

I am out of my cell (thinking back on it now, it was always a cell, smooth grey stone with metal bars, no bedding, a torch holder outside, not lit) and standing in a large emp-ty space. It could be a hallway, or perhaps simply a shadowy room. I walk through the gloom, slightly apprehensive but not overly frightened. I don’t feel much of anything.

logical progressionby Katherine Lu

Photography by Laura Wenus

21

I come across what seems to be a shop window. The large glass panels are murky—or maybe that is the pall that hangs around like smoke, insinuating itself into my senses—and on them are stamped words, perhaps letters. Symbols, even, that I may not understand. I can’t read them; they waver and slither behind a grey veil. I don’t care. Yet it bothers me somewhat that I can’t tell what is inside the shop; the windows themselves seem to warp, like a funhouse mirror, reflecting the outside or twisting the inside. At once it is a candy store — I can see a gumball machine, and the walls are covered in plastic containers full of colorful confectionaries (somewhat muted,

but still quite distinctive in this washed-out place). The next moment those colors are gone, yellow letters smeared across glass are all that is left. The dark behind the glass is impen-etrable.

I walk on. Further down there are lights, clamoring white and red and muzzle-flash yellow, ghosting through the air. It seems as though I’m looking at them through mist.

The place sharpens as I get nearer—it’s an arcade. The machines work, it’s possible to play; I know that just as I know that I have been through here before. This is familiar. I walk a little faster, a little more confidently.

Now I am standing in front of an elevator, steel doors reflecting my face, but distorted, and just a bit sinister. The metal looks old, dull and scratched, the walls around it not much better; dirty, cracks in the corners and sticky spider webs a clinging grey that hang from the ceiling. There are num-bers next to the elevator: buttons, yellow with age. And in the middle—a big red one, labeled QUORUM. I press it.

The elevator doors open with a rattle. As I step in, two others—a boy and a girl—run up from behind. I hear “wait for us!” even if their lips don’t move.

The doors close.

“That was close,” says the boy in relief.

“Uh-huh,” agrees the girl. She turns to me. “Do you know the way out?”

I shake my head, and she seems to understand.

“We should stick together, then.” Advantage in num-bers. Logical.

The elevator doors open, this time smooth and silent. Outside yawns a blackness that can only ever be achieved deep underground. Light from the elevator pools out from behind us, casting our shadows on jagged brown rock. We step out, and the elevator doors close again. We are all unnerved, afraid in the dark; when a hulking shape looms up from our right, the other two bolt, screaming silently. I stand as a lamp is lit; I stand as the boogeyman, large, clawed, hairy, beckons me to follow.

I do so.

I am taken to a smoky room, lit yellow by burning oil lamps. The smell of burning fat hangs heavy in the air, and pipe smoke puffs from a dozen breathing lips. A man in a top hat, cane, tuxedo—dapper and hugely charismatic—speaks to a group of other well dressed people around a long rectangular table. He sweeps an arm out, white glove blurring. I can hear something about freedom and coalition and escape, and I nod and call hear, hear! with the others. The dapper man stands up, carried by excitement, gesticulating wildly; he paces around the table and nearly to the wall.

It takes a few seconds to register the cockroach that drops from the ceiling onto his top hat. He doesn’t notice—he keeps speaking, even as a few chitinous heads poke out from the bottom of his pant legs; soon he is engulfed by the bugs, a man-shaped swarm; he is made of cockroaches, and they expand to cover us all...

We are all unnerved, afraid in the dark; when a hulking shape looms up from our right, the other two bolt.

22

by Mengyou Wu

Sing to me softlyDays warm in the sun

Of places I wentTo grass seeds a run

My meadows and cloudsStill there longingly

Wait with the melody

The dusty keysHidden behind red cloth

Could play softlyOf a time far awaySlowly it will unfurlSounds in rowsLife would come again

An empty vase to fill with roseMy meadows and clouds

Outside with the musicAnd me dancing

With the silent pianistAcross sooty abandoned floors

Of a broken homeAnd me smiling

For a momentSinging softly

Afternoon Dreams by Neha Jammu

To which the song ends too soon

The notes read accordantly

The Pianist

Afternoon Dreams by Neha Jammu

23

by Selene Rubino

Photography by Laura Plouse

I am Ozymandius, wiser than the prophets and far-sighted as the star-gazers. I lift mighty pillars and swim chan-nels, split spears and crack marble. My enemies are dangerous, my subjects many. The riches in my coffers cannot be counted, not if one worked at it a lifetime, or two lifetimes, or fifty. Few do not know me by name. I intend to become King.

This land is vast and lush beyond imagining. It borders naught but wilderness, and those who venture out do not re-turn. At the very beginning, before which there are no records, our nation was torn by strife and uncontrolled greed. Our forefathers banded together and fought to establish a people’s government, where each man’s greed neutralized anothers. But the people were hasty in their judgements, and a sickness fell upon our land. The people begged for a ruler and our forefa-thers reluctantly agreed. A King was chosen, a good and wise man, and his progeny were to rule forever after. For a while the land was at peace. But the King’s children were tainted with power, reckless in their judgements, and once more a sickness fell upon our land. Once more the people begged for a savior, but the forefathers drew back in disgust.

“Man is not fit to rule!” they spit. “Man cannot be saved!” they groaned. They gave the

people to an old, dirty, most wicked witch. And they en-tered the wilderness.

Curious, is it not? Curious that the best intentions

work only as well as the worst luck. For that old, dirty, wicked witch brought peace to the land. She chose a man in the street and crowned him King, and when he died she chose another. By some trick of fate, or magic spell, the witch’s choices were all kingly in spirit as well as name. The witch died with high honors. Her dirt was washed away in the clearest spring, her disgusting sores rubbed clean. The funeral procession stretched through and beyond the city walls. Before the witch’s dead body was lain onto the bier, her voice rang out, naming her successor. The people, fearful, did not approach to light the bier with torches. Instead, a sun ray focused on the witch. It burned away her skin, revealing a beautiful woman wearing diamonds and silk, pale and clear as the witch had once been dirty. And the bier went up in flames.

A young girl was found bearing the name of the witch’s successor. Her dress was muddied, her skin blackened. She was taught to croak and to shuffle, and in time she too was a witch.

The origins of our nation have faded with the ages. Few now believe in the literal truth of the first witch’s existence or the story of her death. I only know that tradition is kept.

Scholars and wise men debate the truth of her existence, and the story of her death. I am no scholar. I am wiser than the wise men, and I intend to be King. The witch exists in history and in effect, thus, she exists.

O Z Y M A N D I U S

24

Weight of Blood by Lauren Yang

Artwork by Freda Ding

Four months ago he met a nice girl at one of the church services. They got along wonder-fully. People think that she may be the one. They say they can almost hear the wedding bells ringing. But he knows better. There will never be anyone; he is married to visions of rotting flesh and gore.

The nightmares occur so frequently he has lost count of the number of nights he has woken with sweat gathered at his brow and drops of the liquid trickling down his spine. An unbear-able anxiety manifests within him, ravishing his mind and body. He thinks he may be afraid of sleeping, but that is a ridiculous thought. He is a celebrated war hero. He is the savior of his country. He can’t have fears.

He yelled at his five-year-old niece for splattering tomato sauce all over her shirt. He could not help himself. The memories of blood-caked corpses would not go away. He can never undo the knowledge that he could make bodies contort until they were no longer recognizable as human. He could not forget the sound of skin ripping as the tires of his patrol car made pavement of them all. He can never let go of the hatred and disgust in his victims’ eyes the moment before death. She is too young to be one of them. She is too young to die.

WEIGHT OF TEARS

* * *

* * *

WEIGHT OF TEARS

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3 a.m.by Alice Lee

One by Jenny Michelfelder

She opened the letter:“We regret to inform you...”

He found, one broken-hearted morning,Her love was not his;

She heard it on the news,That the crash stole their savings;

The sky—it kept fallingAnd he watched as his friends

Sank.

But—and there is always a but:

There are stillEscapades out the window

Into a car with no destination,Snaking out the city, winding through the hills.

What you have in front of youIs an expanse of blinking lights and piercing velveteen stars,

What you feel on your skinIs the sweetness of the rushing nighttime air,

And all that surrounds youIs a hand in the other.

No matter the college, “The One,” the green,There always will be

Yogurt swirling in a cupAnd nighttime races against ourselves.

atilda sat tensely in the corner of the classroom, ears cocked, head crooked; thinking on Mr. Seltsam’s each and every word. He spoke of Lord Voldemort, of Lu-

cifer, of literature in the past and present, with an unparalleled finesse.

“What is in the beating heart of every story? What is in its veins and arteries? What is the shape of its skeleton?”

“Struggle,” he answered himself with clarity. “Struggle to live, to love, to laugh. Show me the plot, the bone...the strug-gle. In Lolita, all of you will see the structure of the skeleton. In fact, you must build it.

“Like archaeologists you will dig through mounds and mounds of words to find the bones and put them together; you will tell me what that skeleton looks like. If you can describe the consistency of its bones and the length of its arms, then you can understand the essence of stories, the essence of life.”

The bell rang and everyone stood up, grabbing their bags, laughing and leaving the classroom until only Matilda was left, still in a trance. She gazed at the teacher in awe. He was beau-tiful, and she wasn’t the only one who thought so. He had chiseled features, the look of a Greek sculpture, but she saw more than stone in his face. It surged with a mental vitality and strength of intellect that—

“Are you alright, Matilda?”“Yeah, I’m just thinking,” she blinked slowly, and then

smiled. “Or is that forbidden at a Catholic school?”

“Encouraged is more like it,” he laughed. “Well I’m glad to know someone understood what I was saying.”

“Oh everyone understood, just no one cares.”“Except you.”“Nope, not even me.”He laughed again.“See you tomorrow, Mr. Seltsam.”Amaia met her outside by the small tree that stood next to

the upperclassmen lunch tables. “Where were you, best friend?” she laughed jokingly. “In the bathroom,” Matilda lied.“And you didn’t invite me?”“No. Too bad, it was quite exhilarating.”They exchanged their set of vials filled with blood, as they

did at the beginning of every week for good luck. It had been their ritual since they first became friends. Equal amounts of both Matilda’s and Amaia’s blood made up each vial. People had often asked them what the vials contained, but they always replied that it was red food coloring.

They separated themselves from the rest of the school, try-ing to project a cool kind of isolation. It was, after all their last year at St. Cyril’s Catholic Preparatory for young girls.

They had altered their skirts so they were a tad too short, their necklines a tad too low, and their goth makeup a tad too obvious—bending school rules just enough to get by without

Vial of Discord

by Somel Jammu & Kanwalroop Singh

MSchool of Dreams by Somel Jammu

28

a fuss. They laughed at how most people thought them weird. And as often as they could, they skipped mass or arrived right when everyone else would be vacating the pews.

Mr. Seltsam noticed and brought it to Matilda’s attention one day after class.

“Matilda, why do you skip mass so often?”“I’m excused from going.”“Why?”“I have an illness.”“Oh? What kind?”“I’m allergic to church.”“That’s quite a dangerous statement to make when you’re

enrolled at a Catholic school.”Matilda paused, looking straight into his eyes.“I guess I’m quite a dangerous girl.”Mr. Seltsam didn’t mention it again.He did, however, give Matilda warm smiles during lec-

tures. He often spoke to her after class and he asked about the vial of blood with a genuine interest. She told him it was blood, but instead of looking at her with disgust, he smiled.

* * *

Amaia began to notice that Matilda spent more and more time in the bathroom, and whenever they talked about some-thing, the conversation would inevitably turn to literature.

“Matilda, let’s go out this weekend.”“M’kay.”

“That’s all you’re gonna say? Just ‘okay’? Aren’t you even a little excited? You don’t even care where we’ll be going?”

“Well, let me think. I get to spend the majority of my day in a random place with you. I’m ecstatic,” replied Matilda.

“If you’re going to act like that, I’m not going.”“Fine, it’s not like I’ll die without you. I’ll just read some

more of Lolita since we’re having a discussion soon anyways.”“What is it with you and that class!” Amaia exclaimed.“Amaia, he’s a good teacher and it’s an interesting class.”“I’ll have to see that for myself. Mrs. Claudius is so god-

damn boring, it’s impossible to stay awake during her lectures.”The next day, as Matilda left her literature classroom, she

found herself face to face with a jittery Amaia.“No wonder! He is gorgeous. Why didn’t you tell me?”“Amaia, that’s not why. I’m not shallow, okay? I see him as

more than a piece of eye candy. I see into his soul.”Amaia highly doubted that. When someone like Mr. Selt-

sam was your teacher, you would obviously do all you could to spend as much time with him as possible. But she wasn’t going to let Matilda have all the fun. A gleam arose in Amaia’s eyes.

“You don’t have to be ashamed.”“I’m not, Amaia. It’s not what you think.”

Students passed by as Amaia and Matilda stared at each other, still standing in front of the classroom.

“I’m sorry,” Matilda finally whispered. “I didn’t mean to say any of that.”

“No, Matilda, I accused you, so I’m sorry.”“Friends?”“I guess I’ll have to deal with you a little longer.”Amaia grasped her vial of blood and pressed it to her fore-

head, lips, shoulder to shoulder, back to her lips, and winked.

* * *

“Alright, class, that’s it for today. Make sure to finish read-ing the rest of Lolita—we’ll discuss the ending tomorrow.”

The class issued a collective groan as they left the room.“Matilda,” Mr. Seltsam called out, clearing his throat.

“Can I speak with you for a few minutes?”Matilda was halfway out the door, but turned around to

walk back to Mr. Seltsam’s desk.“Yes?”“Matilda...I don’t know if you realize this, but you have

a ‘D+’ in Literature right now. You’re going to graduate soon and you’ll need to pull your grade up. Why haven’t you been turning in some of your assignments?”

“Mr. Seltsam, I don’t do homework.”“Matilda—““I always pay attention during class and give my ideas

during discussions. How can I still be failing?”

“Listen, Matilda, I can extend the deadline for you. Turn in some of the missing assignments and I promise your grade will improve. I appreciate the effort you put in during class, but it’s Literature and Writing; I have to see that you can express yourself just as well in writing.”

* * *

“Where the hell is she?”Amaia irritably pushed herself away from the tree and

entered the school building, slowly walking towards Matilda’s literature classroom while fingering her vial.

The classroom’s door was propped open, and as she came closer, she heard Matilda and Mr. Seltsam discussing some-thing. Matilda did not sound happy.

Something told Amaia that she probably shouldn’t enter. So she stood outside by the door, out of sight, listening to what was going on.

“...I have to see that you can express yourself just as well in writing.”

“Why can’t I—

But she wasn’t going to let Matilda have all the fun. A gleam arose in Amaia’s eyes.

29

At that moment, Amaia peered around the corner as slyly as she could and her last white thread of patience caught on fire and burned.

Mr. Seltsam was sitting on his desk with both of his hands on Matilda’s shoulders, who stood in front of him.

“Matilda,” he reassured, “You are a wonderful girl.”Amaia whipped out her cell phone and quickly pressed

the ‘Record Audio’ button. Tilting it towards the door, but be-ing careful to keep it from being seen, she tried to listen to what Mr. Seltsam was saying.

“You really, really are a wonderful girl. It seems to me that you’re just misunderstood. But don’t let that hold you back. You’re growing into a beautiful woman, and in order to get ahead, sometimes...you have to do things you don’t want to do. If you agree to what I said earlier, we can work this out together. I’m here for you, Matilda.”

* * *

“I still don’t understand why we need to go.”“It’s Easter Sunday, Matilda.”“Let’s just ditch.”“Matilda.”“What?”Amaia sighed and continued walking down the hallway

with Matilda as they followed the rest of the students to the congregation hall.

Matilda slid into the very last pew in the back and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I’ll be back,” said Amaia.“Whatever.”Amaia exited the congregation hall, picking up her pace

out in the hallway.Breathing in and out through her nose, she sprinted down

the hallway, turned, slowed, and stared at the red box on the wall. She grasped the handle and pulled the lever down.

A high-pitched ringing broke out over the intercom used for emergency announcements. Amaia didn’t flinch; she didn’t even cover her ears. Instead, she sprinted down the hallways again. The announcements office was up ahead.

* * *

Thankful for the disruption, Matilda followed the others out of the congregation hall, down the main hallway, and into the cool April air. It was a beautiful evening. A pity that it had to be spent in Jesus’ honor, she thought. It was also a pity that Amaia wasn’t there to keep her company.

“I hope she doesn’t catch on fire and die,” Matilda mut-tered under her breath, chuckling. “What a pity that’d be.”

* * *

At first, Amaia considered hiding in one of the bathroom stalls until the teachers left the building; but it was probably Photography by Laura Plouse

30

one of the first places they’d check for “trapped” students. Instead, she slipped behind the massive trophy case and waited.

“Willem, I think we’d better leave the building, too.”“Have you checked the West wing, Seltsam?”“Yes, I’m sure they’re all out by now. The fire department’s

been called in, too.”“Alright. We’d better help Claudius round up everyone.”Footsteps echoed in the empty hallways as Principal Wil-

lem and Mr. Seltsam hurried to the front entrance and outside where the whole school had been gathered in the emergency. Carefully, Amaia squeezed herself out from behind the trophy

case and quickly made her way to the announcements office. Her eyes scanned the small office until she saw the microphone perched on the white table. She pulled out her small, black cellphone and checked to see that the microphone was on.

She pressed and held the round “On Air” button on the microphone’s stand. Then without hesitation, she pressed “Play” on her cell phone.

Careful not to move the cell phone too far away from the microphone, she sat down into a chair and listened to an-nouncements.

* * *

There was a crackling sound like something had caught on fire and exploded inside the school building. Now Matilda was worried. What if there really was a fire and Amaia was still in there somewhere?

She realized that the sound came from the intercoms lo-cated near the kindergarten playground and the lunch area. The muffled crackling continued for a few seconds until a scratchy recording of a male voice came over the intercom.

“You really, really are a wonderful girl...”Mr. Seltsam froze. Murmurs rippled through the crowd

like an undulating ocean.“It seems to me that you’re just misunderstood. But don’t

let that hold you back...”Mr. Seltsam heard his heart pound in his head as he

looked out at a sea of faces that stared back--some blank, some confused, some shocked. The cross that hung from his neck flashed in the dimming sunlight. Several teachers exchanged looks of bewilderment. He spotted Matilda.

“You’re growing into a beautiful woman, and in order to get ahead, sometimes...you have to do things you don’t want to do...”

Matilda felt something cold inside her stomach; it was a thick, silver smoke that crawled and twisted its way up to her heart, gripping it and choking the warm blood out till she saw black ink spots explode in front of her eyes, almost as if they were coming down from heaven itself. She staggered back.

“Matilda, dear! Oh lord, dear lord...” Mrs. Claudius was pushing her way through the giant assembly of students to get

to Matilda now.“Disregard the announcements, girls. Don’t pay any at-

tention to them—it’s all bogus, just a prank...just a prank,” the remaining teachers reassured.

“If you agree to what I said earlier, we can work this out together. I’m here for you, Matilda.”

A collective gasp issued. Matilda felt a soft arm cushion her neck as gravity seemed to disappear.

* * *Dazed, Mr. Seltsam’s eyes searched the vast ocean of faces

watching him. Principal Willem was striding up the school building stairs, his back turned to Mr. Seltsam. Mr. Seltsam pushed through the near-hissing crowd and quickened his pace as he raced up the stairs after Mr. Willem.

“Willem—”Mr. Willem held up his hand without stopping or even

turning to look at Mr. Seltsam.“Seltsam, I’m not sure exactly what is going on here—”“Look, Willem, I’m telling you this is a prank. It’s true

that I spoke those exact words, but it’s a lie to say that I implied what everyone thinks.”

Inside the building now, the principal stopped and gave Mr. Seltsam a confused look.

“Seltsam, what are you trying to say? That you called Ms. Ross a “beautiful woman” because you ran out of vocabulary? That she had “to agree to” certain “things” conveniently un-mentioned in the telecast? I am the principal of a Catholic school for young girls, sir,” he spat. “And I do not intend to let it go down in the name of scandal, especially on your part.”

“Willem, just listen to me—that ‘announcement’ was only a part of the conversation I was having with Matilda one day. We were discussing her grade in my class and I told her that if she completed her assignments, she could raise her grade before she graduated,” Mr. Seltsam reasoned. “I realize that the way this information was presented to you and the rest of the school made it seem otherwise; made it seem as though I was hinting at something else, but honest to God—”

“Do not take the name of the lord—!”“Please, Willem, try to understand...I am aware of the fact

that I’m the adult here and responsible for what has happened. But speak to Matilda, and I guarantee she will confirm every-thing I’ve told you.”

“Seltsam, I will need to speak to Ms. Ross regardless. All I can say is that you had better hope God is with you.”

With that, Principal Willem left Mr. Seltsam standing in the hallway. Mr. Seltsam turned and started down another hall, until he reached his classroom. Sinking into his chair behind the small, cluttered desk, he let his head rest on his arms, closed his eyes, and began to pray.

* * *

“I hope she doesn’t catch on fire and die,” Matilda muttered un-der her breath, chuckling. “What a pity that’d be.”

31

Wood beams blurred and faded into her surroundings. The white walls emanated a gloomy starkness and she heard the hum of fluorescent lights. A shrouded figure hunched over a few feet away. It seemed to be talking.

“...hope you’re feeling better. I think Amaia can see you now. I’ll go get her...”

Matilda shuddered. Something was horrendously wrong. Then she remembered Amaia. She shot off the couch.

“No! Don’t bring her in here...”But Mrs. Claudius was already gone. For a few minutes,

she tried to gather her thoughts. What would she say? What could she say? Amaia didn’t care who suffered because of her actions, just as long as she didn’t. And she realized that no mat-ter what she did, she would be unable to make Amaia repent.

Chin up and head slightly tilted, Amaia appeared.Matilda narrowed her eyes in disgust.“Its over,” she said, “You, me, and whatever kind of fake

friendship we’ve had until now is over. I don’t ever want to talk

to you, see you, or even hear you breathe. And I want you to get your jealous, backstabbing, nasty little face out. Now.”

She was trembling with anger now, on the verge of tears.“How do you know it was me? It could’ve been anyone,”

said Amaia coolly.“No. No one else would invest so much time into bring-

ing me down. You were jealous Amaia, because finally I found someone who believed in me.”

Amaia walked towards Matilda, stopping when she was directly in front of her.

“I was trying to protect you.”“That’s bullshit.”“Is this what I get for trying to stop some dirty teacher

from taking advantage of you? Do you really think he cares what grade you have? There are probably plenty of other girls failing, so why would he talk to you? Because you’re gullible, naive, and stupid. Because he could trap you, and you would be so far gone you wouldn’t even think once, let alone twice.”

Matilda was stunned into silence.“If you were really trying to protect me, you would have

told me. You wouldn’t have secretly recorded me and then an-nounced it to the whole school.”

“If I had told you, you wouldn’t have listened—”“Oh! I see. So you wanted me to listen? Well, I listened.

And so did more than three hundred other people!”“He had to be exposed.”“Don’t act like you’re some kind of Mother Teresa!”“Don’t you understand?” Amaia cried out in frustration.

“That’s not what it’s about. One day, Matilda, one day you’ll thank me for what I did. I was not about to let him hurt you.”

“How can you know for sure?”“Can you ever know anything for sure? Do you think he

would be dumb enough to get himself caught at school?”“No, but—”

“Matilda, he’s practically seduced you already. Just look at yourself,” she whispered softly.

“Amaia...”“We have to stop him. We have to stop what he’s trying to

do, Matilda. But I can’t do it alone.”

* * *

Principal Willem’s mahogany desk gleamed in the early morning light. Matilda sat straight in the stiff, matching chair before his desk and stared at her hands in her lap. She was so confused. For once, she felt like she should pray. Maybe God would tell her what to do. What was right and what was wrong. Her eyes began to well with tears.

The door clicked open. Principal Willem entered and sat down in his large, leather chair while clearing his throat.

“Ms. Ross, I’m sure you already know what you were called here for.”

Matilda didn’t look up.“I have only one question that only you know and can

answer—did Mr. Seltsam ever, even once, attempt to have a relationship with you other than that of student-teacher by in-appropriate behavior?”

Matilda closed her eyes and the tears were squeezed out past her lids. A single tear crept to the edge of her lashes and fell into her open hands.

“Please, Ms. Ross, don’t be afraid to tell me the truth,” he urged softly. “You will not be held responsible for anything you say, and anything you do say will stay in this room. What Mr. Seltsam has been accused of doing is a serious matter.”

Mr. Willem’s words pounded inside Matilda’s head. Amaia’s words had also made sense; it just didn’t feel right.

She raised her face so it was angled towards the ceiling, eyes still closed. A tear dripped off the end of her chin.

“Help me, God,” she choked.Mr. Willem sat and waited patiently, hands still folded.“Ms. Ross,” he repeated slowly after a few seconds, “did

Mr. Seltsam ever...”Matilda allowed for Mr. Willem’s words to be drowned

out by her churning mind and opening her eyes, stared at the ceiling before looking at him briefly. Then she slowly stood up and trudged to the door, placing her hand on the gleaming silver handle.

Principal Willem began to get up from his chair.“Ms. Ross, where are—”Matilda looked back over her shoulder and cut him off.“Yes, Mr. Willem,” she answered dryly. “The answer is

yes.”Then she twisted the door handle and stepped outside the

office where Amaia was waiting.

“Help me, God,” she choked.

32

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Heart and Soul by Wendy Du

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Dream On by Abhinandan Nandi

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CreditsOrganization:Monta Vista Published Writers

Advisor:Michelle Balmeo

Staff:Co-PresidentKanwalroop Singh

Co-PresidentSomel Jammu

Publishing ManagerRebecca Yin

DesignerKatherine Lu

TreasurerCalvin Song

Senior Fundraising CoordinatorLaxman Dhulipala

Fundraising CoordinatorAnandi Somasundaram

Fundraising CoordinatorPreet Sivia

Senior Public RelationsNatalie Wong

Public RelationsMansi Pathak

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