Storm & SpringDecember 2023 Volume 12 // Issue 1 |
Contents
48 Works / 16 Contributors
Saira Ahmed, Garrett Cai, Arnav Chakravarthy, Anna Dobbelaere, Arcus Foo, Hayden Kaplanov, Maia Lee, Tessa Lee, Catherine Li, Lucia Liu, Rose Philander, That_Traveler1, Rohan Venkatesan, Isabella Wu, Jerry Yang, Suri Yau
Saira Ahmed, Garrett Cai, Arnav Chakravarthy, Anna Dobbelaere, Arcus Foo, Hayden Kaplanov, Maia Lee, Tessa Lee, Catherine Li, Lucia Liu, Rose Philander, That_Traveler1, Rohan Venkatesan, Isabella Wu, Jerry Yang, Suri Yau
Written
"Spring’s Promise" by Rohan Venkatesan
As storms rage on, turning day into night
As gray clouds gather, blocking out all light
Winds whip furiously, ferocious and wild
The fury of nature unpredictable and unrivaled
But behind the clouds, a familiar old friend returns
Spring emerges, darkness gives way to light's burn.
A reassuring old friend, constant and true,
Spring’s promise, that it will return anew.
As gray clouds gather, blocking out all light
Winds whip furiously, ferocious and wild
The fury of nature unpredictable and unrivaled
But behind the clouds, a familiar old friend returns
Spring emerges, darkness gives way to light's burn.
A reassuring old friend, constant and true,
Spring’s promise, that it will return anew.
"thursday, October" by Maia Lee
to be this young is art.
we are strung up across the louvre, sitting pretty
behind glass cases,
beyond red lines we do not cross.
L’impressionnisme—if you look too closely you might see
the brushstrokes make no sense.
one body carved hollow by rough hands
turns a rigid eye to the supple young:
footfalls softer than snow,
each a flute of golden effervescence;
doomed by their brilliance
the way a star becomes a supernova
before it becomes nothing at all.
ephemerality is why they do
what they do to them. it will all be over soon.
often times i feel as if nobody told me it would be like this
sifting through broken glass with baby-soft hands,
sucking in the parts that are too much.
nothing tastes as good as being wanted feels.
nothing tastes good as when you leave i feel nothing
it is thursday, October
& i am neither here nor there anymore.
we are strung up across the louvre, sitting pretty
behind glass cases,
beyond red lines we do not cross.
L’impressionnisme—if you look too closely you might see
the brushstrokes make no sense.
one body carved hollow by rough hands
turns a rigid eye to the supple young:
footfalls softer than snow,
each a flute of golden effervescence;
doomed by their brilliance
the way a star becomes a supernova
before it becomes nothing at all.
ephemerality is why they do
what they do to them. it will all be over soon.
often times i feel as if nobody told me it would be like this
sifting through broken glass with baby-soft hands,
sucking in the parts that are too much.
nothing tastes as good as being wanted feels.
nothing tastes good as when you leave i feel nothing
it is thursday, October
& i am neither here nor there anymore.
"Everything i never wanted" by Anonymous
I miss August and the certainty that came with it. August held my future like water in her cupped hands, and when I peered down to its still surface, I saw everything as it was. Everything as it should be.
September turned sour slowly, like a fruit that never quite reached its prime. I wouldn’t have noticed unless I searched for it—and I searched, digging through every syllable and signal trying to prove myself delusional. As
August trickled away the air tasted of astringency, and something at the back of my throat yearned to break free. I silenced my worries beneath the not-quite-summer sun, rolled down the windows, played blink-182 a bit too loudly. Still I had my best friends; we promised each other this winter wouldn’t get the best of us. Still I could kiss him to forget the bitterness.
When October burst forth in orange and vermillion, there was no more denying it. The tension between us turned tangible, a mangled creature whose heart had run dry long ago. We took a knife to it in my car as oblivious strangers passed by. He shut the door with a sorry about this and I slammed on the gas and the thing at the back of my throat finally escaped with a bloody, victorious shriek and the world kept spinning.
And time passed, as it usually does, but October stretched out longer still. I had so many questions. What do I wear now that it’s getting colder? Is it too early to bare my heart and soul to another?
At some point in October, the summer breeze that bound me and my friends whispered away in a cold morning gale. At some point in October, I threw myself headfirst into a blaze of light before I could see what awaited me on the other side. As October stepped out the door, leaving me to rot like the last bits of green on autumn leaves, I realized I had been asking all the wrong questions.
When the first gust of November air arrived, the sun surrendered to the clouds. I found the answers I truly sought right in front of me. In smudged ink my epiphanies announced themselves. Too fast, too loud. Was it
better to keep my mind in the shadows, or better to know I was guilty all along? The eleventh month dipped a spoon into the sky and indulged in its ephemeral blues as I watched myself wash away in a current of everything
I never wanted.
September turned sour slowly, like a fruit that never quite reached its prime. I wouldn’t have noticed unless I searched for it—and I searched, digging through every syllable and signal trying to prove myself delusional. As
August trickled away the air tasted of astringency, and something at the back of my throat yearned to break free. I silenced my worries beneath the not-quite-summer sun, rolled down the windows, played blink-182 a bit too loudly. Still I had my best friends; we promised each other this winter wouldn’t get the best of us. Still I could kiss him to forget the bitterness.
When October burst forth in orange and vermillion, there was no more denying it. The tension between us turned tangible, a mangled creature whose heart had run dry long ago. We took a knife to it in my car as oblivious strangers passed by. He shut the door with a sorry about this and I slammed on the gas and the thing at the back of my throat finally escaped with a bloody, victorious shriek and the world kept spinning.
And time passed, as it usually does, but October stretched out longer still. I had so many questions. What do I wear now that it’s getting colder? Is it too early to bare my heart and soul to another?
At some point in October, the summer breeze that bound me and my friends whispered away in a cold morning gale. At some point in October, I threw myself headfirst into a blaze of light before I could see what awaited me on the other side. As October stepped out the door, leaving me to rot like the last bits of green on autumn leaves, I realized I had been asking all the wrong questions.
When the first gust of November air arrived, the sun surrendered to the clouds. I found the answers I truly sought right in front of me. In smudged ink my epiphanies announced themselves. Too fast, too loud. Was it
better to keep my mind in the shadows, or better to know I was guilty all along? The eleventh month dipped a spoon into the sky and indulged in its ephemeral blues as I watched myself wash away in a current of everything
I never wanted.
"I sang" by Rose Philander
by the sea my song i sang
one, two, three, four--
over waves it ran and rang
the sound of peace i’d replicate
by the boats it struck the sails
five, six, seven, eight--
yet still the fisher’s ears debate
the tone at which i told the tales
over yonder, syncing skies, my heart
beats one, two, three, four--
the sun ne’er shine, nor clouds part
as light tumbles to dirt
rain pours down, deep i sink
five, six, seven, eight--
and left, a faded pen and ink
written: six, seven, eight.
one, two, three, four--
over waves it ran and rang
the sound of peace i’d replicate
by the boats it struck the sails
five, six, seven, eight--
yet still the fisher’s ears debate
the tone at which i told the tales
over yonder, syncing skies, my heart
beats one, two, three, four--
the sun ne’er shine, nor clouds part
as light tumbles to dirt
rain pours down, deep i sink
five, six, seven, eight--
and left, a faded pen and ink
written: six, seven, eight.
"The Artist's Late Lament" by Arcus Foo
In the dead of night
when all is at peace
Every mouse stilled
not even a peep.
All tucked in bed
silent and tight
Is when the artist is haunted by ghosts of the worst kind.
Wake up! Wake up!
Swirling colors-
Aphrodisiac Athena!
Kaleidoscope stars-
and stories to hear ya!
There’s no time for sleep
with such wonderful visions!
Stop counting sheep
and start your commission!
The colors
they scream
they whisper
they joke-
They’re driving you crazy
the insane invoked!
Your head starts spinning
thinking unstraight
“You must write it down!”
“It’s fate!” they say
You spring out of bed
head spinning with force
You snatch a pen,
write it down, and quietly curse
Michelangelo, Da Vinci, they all can’t compare-
to You, the prodigy of this new year!
When the sun slowly rises
golden light painting air
Eyes bleary from sleep
you’ll get up and stare
What last night you had raved and rambled and seen-
It’s all utter dog poo
not one redeemable piece!!
Yawning and groaning
you wish you had stayed asleep
Instead of wasting your time on this artistic stupidity
Yet when you tuck yourself into bed late tonight
it will all start again
when the clock strikes midnight!
when all is at peace
Every mouse stilled
not even a peep.
All tucked in bed
silent and tight
Is when the artist is haunted by ghosts of the worst kind.
Wake up! Wake up!
Swirling colors-
Aphrodisiac Athena!
Kaleidoscope stars-
and stories to hear ya!
There’s no time for sleep
with such wonderful visions!
Stop counting sheep
and start your commission!
The colors
they scream
they whisper
they joke-
They’re driving you crazy
the insane invoked!
Your head starts spinning
thinking unstraight
“You must write it down!”
“It’s fate!” they say
You spring out of bed
head spinning with force
You snatch a pen,
write it down, and quietly curse
Michelangelo, Da Vinci, they all can’t compare-
to You, the prodigy of this new year!
When the sun slowly rises
golden light painting air
Eyes bleary from sleep
you’ll get up and stare
What last night you had raved and rambled and seen-
It’s all utter dog poo
not one redeemable piece!!
Yawning and groaning
you wish you had stayed asleep
Instead of wasting your time on this artistic stupidity
Yet when you tuck yourself into bed late tonight
it will all start again
when the clock strikes midnight!
"Record" by Hayden Kaplanov
"His solitude drove him, if only because there was nothing else to drive him. In the absence of a stimulus, create your own. If he had kept track of the days his languishing self had noted that yet more time had passed and he remained conscious - or at least capable of perception - the resulting value would far exceed what his soul was able to comprehend.
He thought constantly of his rapidly dwindling hope for company; the promise of it seemed everything to him, as it carried the weight and aspirations and deathbed revelations of what was practically life itself to him, a whittled-down recollection of an eon of perseverance. Indisputable proof of a species that had left its mark and made a significance where there was none, in his eyes.
The proof, however, was left with nothing to show for it, and he would come to consider it worthless to his duties. It was impossible for him to remove himself from the plane, but his oversight focused on rearranging the plane."
He thought constantly of his rapidly dwindling hope for company; the promise of it seemed everything to him, as it carried the weight and aspirations and deathbed revelations of what was practically life itself to him, a whittled-down recollection of an eon of perseverance. Indisputable proof of a species that had left its mark and made a significance where there was none, in his eyes.
The proof, however, was left with nothing to show for it, and he would come to consider it worthless to his duties. It was impossible for him to remove himself from the plane, but his oversight focused on rearranging the plane."
"Two Suns (Pseudo Psychology Cube Thought Experiment)" by Arcus Foo
1. Close your eyes and think of an open field. What is it filled with? What are the surroundings like?
2. Think of a cube. How big is it? What is it made of, what is the surface like, what about the color? Where in the field is it? Is it transparent, can you see through it?
3. Think of a ladder. How long is it, and where is it in the field? What’s the distance between the ladder and the cube?
The field is your mind, the cube represents you, the horse is your ideal soulmate, the ladder height is your goals, and the distance between the ladder and the cube is your relationships. For example, a clear cube could mean you’re an open book and a well groomed horse could mean you value beauty in a partner. It’s just a TikTok thought experiment but it’s fun to do with friends (one of mine imagined a human flesh cube??)
2. Think of a cube. How big is it? What is it made of, what is the surface like, what about the color? Where in the field is it? Is it transparent, can you see through it?
3. Think of a ladder. How long is it, and where is it in the field? What’s the distance between the ladder and the cube?
The field is your mind, the cube represents you, the horse is your ideal soulmate, the ladder height is your goals, and the distance between the ladder and the cube is your relationships. For example, a clear cube could mean you’re an open book and a well groomed horse could mean you value beauty in a partner. It’s just a TikTok thought experiment but it’s fun to do with friends (one of mine imagined a human flesh cube??)
"Withering" by Anonymous
Flowers, once vibrant blooms of life,
Now succumb to the gentle touch of time.
Their colors, once a symphony of hues,
Fade into muted shades of melancholy.
Each delicate petal wilts and withers,
As nature's cruel cycle takes its toll.
But amidst this inevitable decline,
A poignant beauty begins to emerge.
For even in decay, there lies a grace,
A fragile elegance that defies the grave.
Now succumb to the gentle touch of time.
Their colors, once a symphony of hues,
Fade into muted shades of melancholy.
Each delicate petal wilts and withers,
As nature's cruel cycle takes its toll.
But amidst this inevitable decline,
A poignant beauty begins to emerge.
For even in decay, there lies a grace,
A fragile elegance that defies the grave.
"Within her eyes" by Anna Dobbelaere
Within her eyes
is broken glass
a tension I could touch
She acts in ways
she can’t explain—afraid
the rush will turn to rust
Holds no fear
in her clenched hands,
she says we’re born for dust
In hopes you’ll see behind her veil--
in no one she can trust
is broken glass
a tension I could touch
She acts in ways
she can’t explain—afraid
the rush will turn to rust
Holds no fear
in her clenched hands,
she says we’re born for dust
In hopes you’ll see behind her veil--
in no one she can trust
"Constellations" by Anonymous
Speckles of light across your chest
Is it moonlight or the street lamp outside?
Either way
The path creates a line of stars
Twinkling, a constellation
So delicate
So skillfully it fades
But for now I can hold it
In the palm of my hand
Is it moonlight or the street lamp outside?
Either way
The path creates a line of stars
Twinkling, a constellation
So delicate
So skillfully it fades
But for now I can hold it
In the palm of my hand
"wet" by Anonymous
raindrops gently fall
painting the azure landscape
teardrops from the sky
painting the azure landscape
teardrops from the sky
"Watercolors fly" by Anonymous
you know me
so effortlessly
I can hear the resemblance
in our voices, our minds
yours grazes mine
the tear stains were washed away
I see the world in a lighter way
through wider eyes
and softer sighs
when I meet them with yours
after dusk, in blue twilights
bring me to your favorite places
we can watch the watercolors fly
so effortlessly
I can hear the resemblance
in our voices, our minds
yours grazes mine
the tear stains were washed away
I see the world in a lighter way
through wider eyes
and softer sighs
when I meet them with yours
after dusk, in blue twilights
bring me to your favorite places
we can watch the watercolors fly