Cranberry Snow-Cones Dalia Levanon Is it possible
for it to be so cold that the blood which lives within the heated shelter of my body begins to freeze turning to ice a cherry-slush inching up the capillaries in my legs solid cubes congealing in my lungs the streams of once warm liquid that rushed through my veins slowing as the particles turn into sparkling crystals and I am a human diamond with icicles for arteries and a smooth sleek dripping ice sculpture cold to the touch that sits where my heart once was? The thermostat remains silent it’s answer lost in the faint whirring of cold air circulating around my room.
0 Comments
Hoarding Ivy Huang I am known to many as a hoarder. At dinners, aunts and uncles would always tease about the stockpile of food I had gathered on my plate. At home, my mom always nagged about the piles of books and pens I refused to put away. My fifth-grade desk was infamous for its seemingly miscellaneous isle of garbage. I was obsessed with preserving the world around me. I just couldn’t throw away the pieces of myself.
My family moved around a lot. I was born at a hospital in Brooklyn, but my parents sent me and my younger brother to live with my aunt in China because they were not financially prepared to raise us yet. Shortly after, my brother and I moved back to New York with my aunt. Today, I can only vaguely recall my time in the Fuzhou village. It was a part of me that only appeared in the form of a mist, and quickly disappeared as soon as I tried to chase it. All I can recall are the sword fights with the other village children, and running across busy streets with cars racing by. Everything else I know comes from stories my cousins and aunts tell. They told me of the time my brother and I had to flee to a family friend’s house because robbers with guns had come in the middle of the night. I have no recollection of this event to this day. I beat myself up for not remembering. I tried mourning the loss of these memories, but it is hard to say goodbye to someone you’ve never met. When my parents finally raised enough money to support us, we moved with them to Mississippi. We then moved to Colorado, and then back to New York. Everything was a blur. I had no friends, but that didn’t matter because nothing seemed to last. I discovered my love for writing when I was in seventh grade. My English teacher had assigned us a realistic fiction assignment. For once, I didn’t have to write a personal narrative about memories I could not access. The assignment allowed me to deviate from my chaotic life. I wrote about a girl named Stephanie Peralta, who’s super smart and goes to Stuyvesant and eventually gets into Harvard. I was unaware at the time, but Stephanie Peralta is not entirely different from me. Even though she is everything I am not (besides the Stuy part), she is a figment of my dreams and memories. I wanted to be smart, and as a seventh-grader preparing for the SHSAT, I wanted to get into Stuyvesant High School. I named my character Stephanie after a tutor I looked up to, who also went to Harvard. After this realization, I became infatuated with literature and writing. It was a way I could resurrect my lost memories into being. I began reading books like The Stranger, Hard Times, The Great Gatsby, Lord of the Flies, and Blood Meridian. When diving into this literary journey, I discovered the power writers had. The images they paint, and the techniques they use can elicit certain feelings and ideas. For the first time, I was in control. And this time, no one can throw away the memories I could hoard within paper and ink. While writing wasn’t a part of my identity growing up, it has certainly become a part of who I am today. One of the many reasons to write fiction, as C.S. Lewis says, is to let ideas “steal past those watchful dragons” that guard our hearts. For me, it is a way to reconstruct memories I had lost, and chase away the demons that have lived in my mind rent-free. I could store anything I wanted in paper and ink; they were the vessels that safely stored my memories. Some call me a hoarder; I consider myself a writer. A Truth Universally Acknowledged Ivy Huang It is a truth universally acknowledged that every youngling at the prestigious Stuyvesant High School should strive for success (Austen, 1).
“Now, what I want is Success. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Success. Plant nothing else and root out everything else (Dickens, 1).1 There are only two types of people in the world: winners and losers. Winners are those who have achieved the sole purpose of life: getting into an Ivy League. The latter, sadly, fail to meet such standards and go on to live happy lives. Many of us are aware of the substance known as ... Happiness. My colleagues and teachers alike, have all witnessed the dangerous toll Happiness can have on children. As educators, it is our duty to protect our students from this toxic mixture of dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin, and endorphins in their brains.” The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a school conference room, and the speaker’s square forefinger emphasized his observations by underscoring every sentence with a line on the bare chalkboard (Dickens, 1). The crowd of teachers erupted in cheers at Mr. Strangledchild’s words. One teacher was shaking in her boots as she recalled how one year, Happiness caused many of her students to pursue their dreams and worst of all: live life carefree. Smiling squarely at the applause, the speaker continued, “Raise these children with the fundamental values of Obedience, Obedience, and Obedience. Stress the importance of practical occupations. Doctors, lawyers, engineers, and accountants are all respectable positions. Discourage preposterous ‘jobs’ like that of a so-called ‘singer’, ‘writer’, ‘artist’ and even worse... an ‘actor’. Drill these thoughts into their malleable minds. Pour your spirits into their ears and when they’re finally ready for harvest— I mean graduation —they can be winners.” “At Stuyvesant, we want nothing but Success, sir; nothing but Success!” Another teacher had stood up out of the crowd of oversized tunics and mahogany sweaters. The rest slowly followed, slumping out of the plain gray conference-room chairs as their claps joined the cadence of the speaker’s wristwatch. At exactly eleven o’clock three Seniors descended to the lunchroom for a nutritious school lunch meal consisting of a pale banana and leftover cheese melted half-way on a dry hot dog bun. 98.5 did not mind the stench of the cheese, as she was more concerned with 94, their subpar peer. They2 were pronounced to be a very bad student indeed, a mixture of substandard indifference and mediocrity; they had no prospect whatsoever, no notable talent, no taste, no accomplishment. 97.15 thought the same, and added, “They have nothing, in short, to recommend them, but being an extraordinarily healthy person. I shall never forget their appearance this morning. No eye-bags, can you believe? They really looked almost wild” (Austen, 89). “They did, 97.15. They did, indeed. Very nonsensical to come at all! Last week, I heard they get more than three hours of sleep, nightly! I could hardly keep my countenance.” (Austen, 89) “Yes, and their smile; I hope you saw their smile this morning! Their smile was so wide and their composure was so lively, I am absolutely certain she has been infected with Happiness.” “No way,” gasped 96.3; “but I thought 94 got into Cornell, did they not? My mother told me it is impossible for Ivy Leaguers to catch Happiness.” “Oh please, Cornell is barely an Ivy League.” The trio’s chuckles were interrupted by a sudden appearance of 94 in the distance. To the surprise and horror of both 97.15 and 96.3, 98.5 makes a gesture towards 94, ushering them over. 1 This is from Charles Dickens’ novel Hard Times which takes place during the industrial revolution in England and satirizes economic conditions at the time as well as the education system. 2 94 is non-binary Chicken Soup Jenny Zheng The door to the patio is open, and the fresh air wafts in. The white maple wood that colors most of the room blends in with the beech floorboards. Light fixtures hang over the countertop, but it is the natural light streaming in through the windows that illuminates the room. I take a step towards the stove but pause to survey my grandma’s bright kitchen.
My grandma’s kitchen holds some of my most glorious memories, including the countless times I have watched and helped her cook chicken soup. Chicken soup, made from so many steps and ingredients, is like a Gorilla Glue that bonds us together. Each slice of carrot, each notch in the wooden cutting board, and each handful of celery tossed into the bubbling pot form another drop of glue. Chicken soup is a dish that requires both time and patience. When I wash and peel the onions, and my grandma chops them into thin slivers, these long moments allow for some storytelling, leading me to love my grandma and our family even more. She tells me stories from her childhood, including her father fishing and bringing home the fish for dinner. One of my favorite stories that she often shares is when her grandpa brought home a cat. She loved the cat, but her mom didn’t. The cat seemed to know this and would hide under the bed every time it heard my great-grandma coming into the room and would come out when she left. These tales still make my face crinkle up in laughter every time I listen to them. After the soup cooks and cools, we call in the rest of our family to try it. Each spoonful of chicken and soft egg noodles mixed into a flavorful broth builds up the flavors in my mouth until I’m left with an empty bowl. We share our love with each other, just like we share the fruits of our labor in the kitchen with the rest of our family. When I was younger, and my clumsy hands were not yet trusted to hold a cutting knife, I would get on my tippy-toes and watch my grandma as she chopped the vegetables, measured the spices, and diced the chicken. We would listen to my grandma’s favorite songs as we watched the pot shake and tremble. Now that I am older, I chop and slice with my grandma, chat with her as we wait for the soup to cook, and sing along to the songs I have heard numerous times. I realize how I have bonded with the room as well, seeing that many new additions were ones that I had suggested to be added. I see the shag rug that I helped choose when I could barely run, the plants that I begged my grandparents to keep when I started fifth grade, and the lights that I changed when I got to middle school. The pots on the stove glow, and the shiny kitchen knives, from the meat cleaver to the steak knives, all hang in an orderly row. Because I have grown older, I understand more of what my grandma says and does, and I can also realize how much I have grown to look up to her and to love her. I remember the well-lit room, the clean patio, and the cream-colored floral plates and bowls as if they were right before my eyes because I have touched this room and because I have spent time with my grandma in this room that holds so much joy. Over many years, I have had chicken soup in various restaurants. And even though these places are highly praised and loved by many, their chicken soup can never compare to my grandma’s. Simply put, my grandma’s has a mix of secret ingredients that no restaurant could ever purchase: the kitchen air, family love, and an ever-strengthening glue. Burns on Snow Christina Liu The moment I opened my eyes, a soft haze of icy pale blue filled my vision. It was the first fall of goose down, of confectioner’s sugar, of dandelion puffs. Slipping out of my comfortable bed, I was greeted with a soft chill that was just enough to make me want to fall into the warmth of my kitchen.
I slipped into my socks and made my way to the stove. Even though I was only eight-years-old, I was tall enough to see above the counters. My mom was hulling and dicing strawberries. The red stains under her nails were pretty, and when I told her so, she smiled and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. Then, out of the blue, she said, “I thought that you might like to spend the day with Sarah, so I arranged to leave you two together in this apartment, and I don’t want it to be a mess when I come back, understood?” “Yes, mom. I won’t touch the stove, use the oven, open the door to strangers, climb out the window, go outside, play with the snow, feed the pigeons and squirrels on the windowsill...” I was going to go on and on like this, but, fortunately, my mom stopped me from doing so. Soon, after bundling up, she left me in the apartment with a kiss. A few minutes later, Sarah rang the doorbell. “Hey! So, we have the whole place to ourselves! This is going to be fun,” she said. Yep, it sure is, I thought to myself. Sarah was my neighborhood friend. We had a lot in common, such as our favorite books, hobbies, and songs. I grinned at her and asked if she wanted to see a new toy that I had gotten for my birthday. It was a chemistry kit with shiny, glazed surfaces and strange chemicals and gadgets that I was dying to try out. I knew that the labeling said the set was for kids ages eleven and older, but I knew that I wasn’t clumsy enough to mess up. We set about putting everything on the counter, fitting together pieces, and sorting out the different chemicals. After a bit of mixing and pouring, we finally got to the part with the Bunsen Burner. I read the instructions on the page but misread the part about isopropyl alcohol. I thought that I should pour it into the fire and went to get a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “Are you sure we should do that? My mom says that pouring alcohol into fire makes it burn even more,” Sarah warned me. “I’m sure. See, it says it right here,” I wave the page at her. Did the clocks all stop, or was it just me? Did the snow stop falling from the sky? Why wasn’t the fire moving like it was supposed to? I poured the alcohol into the fire. The fire died. Then it reared up on its hind legs, and I was momentarily stunned. My hand was close to the flames, and my nerves signaled for me to pull my hand away, but it was too late. Long sharp needles of fire pierced my palm, sending alarms running to my brain, the place where I had not adequately consulted before my foolish act. I dashed to the medicine cabinet for the bottle of aloe vera gel that we kept. I rubbed some onto my burns, hoping that they would heal. My mom soon came home, scolded me for my brainless decisions, and put more gel onto the wounds. Sarah and her mom left, leaving the apartment to my mom and me. At night, the burns had receded a little, but the pink flesh was still bright on my hands, reminding me of my rash behavior. I looked out the window, seeing that the goose down, confectioner’s sugar, and dandelion puffs on the ground had been trampled on, messed with, ruined. I noticed that the snow was still falling, so I stuck my head out into the wind to taste the snowflakes and to let a soft tear trickle down my cheek, dripping onto the already gray snow. |
Writers
All
Archives
February 2022
|