CHHS's Literary Magazine
by Lulu Van Hook
I had a nightmare. A nightmare that haunts me every time I shut my eyes, A nightmare that was always wiping away my smiles. The constant waking alarm that was my scream. Was this what I had to call for, as a dream? I had a nightmare. Salty tears streaming down my face, Beads of sweat dripping down my forehead. I could not get to my safe place, For I was stuck in this war that was inside my head. This was my nightmare. I’m running and running into nothing but darkness. Only sounds of pittering, pattering, and panting, echoing all around. The closer I get the more I can see, Two glass rooms with eyes looking at me. This was my nightmare. The first room there is a wooden door with one lock standing in my way. A key in my right hand that works. The second room there is a door chained closed with too many locks to count. A key in my left hand that does not work. This was my recurring nightmare. Like a rose with a thorn that rips into my skin, Like I have never been born, Like I will never fit in. This was my recurring nightmare. Surrounded by eyes of blue. I yearn for familiar brown eyes and straight black hair. I listen for the sounds of my native language. The sounds so deeply familiar but unknown to me. This was my recurring nightmare. One door holds my forgotten past. The other holds the bright future ahead of me. One door holds visions of my lost motherland. The other holds visions of my adopted fatherland. I wish I dreamt a happy dream. Every dream rid of darkness and full of hope. My very soul finding its way. My heart no longer feeling half broken. No longer yearning to be found. I wish I dreamt a happy dream. Tender love being bestowed upon me. Still half broken, but also half whole. My soul still not perfect, but working hard to get it right. Knowing who I am, knowing where I belong. This is my forever reality. This is my waking reality.
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by Robin Huang
Under a deep ocean-blue sky, diamonds strewn across its surface and the moon a round marble tacked on a board, a lonely road cuts through a beige sea of wheat, a single beat-up Camaro rumbles down the asphalt, the golden beams of headlights piercing the dark. You run a hand through thick black hair, the other firmly grasped on the steering wheel like a lifeline. You can’t afford to fall asleep--you’re driving. Google Maps tells you there’s still ninety-seven miles until Oklahoma City, and without a motel in sight, there’s no stopping for the next two hours. Besides, even if there was one, you’re too freaked out stay the night. You’ve seen The Shining. Being murdered is not on the agenda tonight. The stereo plays whatever no-name indie band is saved on his iPhone, the bass beating at the leather seats, the car bouncing down the road to its rhythm. Opposite in shotgun, he’s pressed his forehead against the window and passed out. A line of drool trickles out the corner of his mouth. He’s too big for the car, if he stood his head would hit the moon, so he’s awkwardly Tetris-ed himself neatly and as comfortably as the seat will let him. Your pillow, a peace offering, is forgotten on his lap under his hands. You’re both slightly damp with a layer of sweat, the unforgiving midwest summer weighing down on skin persistently. When you reach down to the cupholder for the watered-down and overpriced Starbucks brew, you lift the white cup to realise it’s all out, drunk to the very dregs. You heave a sigh. It’s been all you at the steering wheel for the last two hours, and it’ll be all you for the next three. You don’t know if you two will make it. Then, a feather-light touch skims across your forearm resting on the gearshift, and you almost leap with surprise. The car wavers to the left on the road. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he mumbles. He brushes a thumb on the edge of his lip to wipe away the crusted saliva and stretches his endlessly long legs, his gargantuan feet pushing against the floor. You re-centre the car on the road carefully. “What time is it? Where are we?” “Ninety-five miles,” now, “until Oklahoma City.” “Yeah? What is that, an hour and some?” “Mhmm.” The music fills the space between. He checks his phone, but you know there’s no service--there’s none in Kansas usually--and he puts it down as quickly as he scoops his up. Two more songs play. At this hour, conversation takes too much effort, and stretches patience too thin. You stifle a yawn. Then, his fingers brush against your arm again, and you glance at him momentarily before looking back at the stagnant black road. “Yeah?” “Pull over.” “What? Is something wrong?” “Pull over, let me drive for a while.” You look at him again. His eyes are all gentle and bright in the dark, and you are suddenly overcome with a wave of exhaustion. “You sure?” you ask out of courtesy, but honestly, you really want to stop driving. “Of course. You’ve been driving for a too long, and you’re obviously tired. Let me take the wheel. Final stretch.” You sigh, nod reluctantly, and carefully maneuver the car to the side of the road. When you both exit the car and step onto the road, you both gasp with relief. It’s good to finally stretch your legs out again, breathe in fresh air out of the stale car that reeks of French fries and milkshake. The moon is brighter when it’s unfiltered by a streaky window. Crickets sing their own melody cheerfully, a lovely break from guitars and cymbals. You don’t want to go back into the mundane metal box right after liberation, but you promptly switch sides and buckle your seatbelts, ready for another hour and a half of road. To your left, he starts up the car and it whirs to life again. Through the dark, he stares at you for a moment, and you’re unsure why he hasn’t driven off yet. “Get some sleep, alright?” he tells you. He rests his hand over your own, warm on your lap, lingering before he withdraws. You blush and nod. You draw your legs up to your chest and press a cheek against the vibrating window, closing heavy eyelids and blowing out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding all that time. The car pulls away from the temporary, insignificant rest stop, and leaves it behind with a hundred miles of identical rows of corn. by Robin Huang
These hands hold the weight of the sky keep it from crushing us flat, keep it from collapsing onto the earth in a heartbeat and swallowing us into non-existence. These hands are covered in calluses, strong and hardened, lined deep with wrinkles like a map to nowhere. In your beginning, These hands held you near my chest when you gulped in your first your eyes stretched open wide to drink in the world. already gathering an adoring audience though you fragile as snow, your toothless smile is far from cold. It is just you and me, and the rest of the planet. These hands bounced you at my hip when we stepped into a dizzying, packed market, your round eyes following every colour, every voice with giggly amazement a whirlwind of spices and smiles you did not hear the passing whispers and suspicion, did not notice when less laughter remained at the end of each day. These hands folded up war-streaked newspapers into little squares before burning them in the stove my own version of exorcising ghosts that never fail to haunt me, praying things will get better while watching you tumble in oblivion on the street outside hand-me-down shirts and broken toys. These hands held yours when we walked to school together, the first time and every time until school was boarded up with broken windows books thrown into a pile in the town square and set alight hate strewn across the walls in paint, words so vile, you did not recognise. These hands held yours when we stopped walking to school together. These hands trembled as I watched our neighbours fade Slowly trickling away to find safety across the borders or stolen away from homes on accusations made of dust by delusional men with shiny badges and guns. Two things they have in common: They will not come back, and they do not say good-bye. These hands thumbed away your tears from rose-petal cheeks, your eyes a clear sea-glass hardened by witnessing too much too fast: babies torn from their mothers’ arms, men becoming children, crying out for salvation, lives as worthless as litter These hands cannot keep you away from the real world, a pile of ashes, any longer. These hands stole you away from bed in the dead of night awoken by an orchestra of sirens and screams, Scooped you in arms and scampered away to safety every breath black and burning and beating against my chest, the earth trembling underfoot to the sound of drums made of fire in the distance. When we returned, half of the house was replaced with soot. These hands stowed away old trinkets buried in rubble useless and priceless alike, some leafed in dirt and others in gold. Cleared the half-made house until it was as empty as the jar of flour in the kitchen, took them down to the market and begged for pittance and a bite of bread. These hands traced newspapers and alleyways to find a new home for us across the sea, a destructive sea that only bares teeth and bad news. When the mouth of a shark is kinder than the hands of a man drunk with power, it is time to run. These hands counted the last copper coins on the bottom of an empty rice bag and slipped them to a stranger downtown with a shaky promise posted that he knew a way out. Quietly handed folded-up papers with our familiar faces printed with foreign names. When borders become the bars of a jail cell, it is time to run. These hands threw things hastily into a bag gathered you up with only the clothes on our backs These hands shook when I locked the door one last time, silently brushed away tears before you caught them yourself-- they are contagious, after all. We were stowed away in the belly of a metal box to be taken far, far away from home. These hands covered your ears, shielded your eyes when men spat poison and women hid their children accusing us as monsters: two strangers, worn and weary, with no coins or words left after walking through terror in a foreign land. These hands brought us across countless miles in countless days You tried to keep up as we crossed the world: snow-capped mountains, furious whipping rivers, the earth itself threatening to swallow us whole Vultures circled over our heads, greedy claws, screeching for money from empty pockets. I will not lie and say I did not miss home, that I do not miss home. These hands bartered with uniformed men, whose faces were made of brick eyes blank cracked plaster every word I spoke echoed back emptily They repeated in an accented mantra the only words I understood: “Go home, we don’t want you here.” These hands finally crawled their way to the sea, after months of struggle and a strangling thousands of miles, eating sand and sticks At the sea waited an endless blue that met the sky at the edge of the earth. We were herded to a circle with a hundred more strangers Stripped of the last breadcrumbs in our pockets for a passage across. You looked at me with round, glowing eyes as to what was on the other side I do not remember the last time I witnessed such pure joy, and had no heart to break it so I kept my head up too. You kept my head up too. These hands cradled you like you were small again, in the still of night as the ocean waves lurched, lapped the edges of the crammed raft, kneeling silently with forty other desperate wanderers. The water as boundless as the midnight above, stars carved a path through the water, casted hope for the first time in our hearts. These hands reached for you first when the waves became mountains and rocks--no, knives--glared out of shadows. The raft lurched, people spilling out and sinking like stones. Shouts ring through the air For nobody to hear. These hands held you near my chest when you gasped your last, your eyes closed to let go of the wide, wide world, Watching an angelic audience up above that I could not see. Midnight blue swirling around, chilling bones. You were fragile as snow and just as cold. It is just me and the rest of the planet, and I am afraid I hold up the sky in vain. by Zainab Antepli
1) You will be looked at like you turned blue and grew three heads when you tell people you don't eat pork- yes that includes bacon 2) It’s awesome passing by other Muslims in public and saying “Assalamualaikum” (Peace be upon you) and having them say “Waalaikumsalam” (And may peace be upon you) It’s puts a smile on your face and gives you a strangely comforting feeling, like you see others who go through the same things you do 3) You will get millions of ridiculous questions asked to you, for example: why do you fast for a month? Do you know Arabic? And even comments from people who've been to Muslim majority countries and try to relate, though you've never been to them, but you nod along to be polite 4) When an 8 year-old classmate hangs upside down from the monkey bars and labels you as a terrorist, for the first time, and tells you that you come from a religion of hate, you will feel thunder and lightning build up in your chest but you will also hear the SNAP of your small heart breaking. Know that this won't be the first and last time you will hear those words, but swallow your anger and respond in a way that shows why they are wrong, rather than strands of ugly words 5) Your mother will be stared at, insulted, and ridiculed for wearing her hijab, but never forget that the hijab is to be worn by women who are proud to wear their religion. That your mother holds her head high in pride every morning when she puts it on and goes to the hospital and save lives 6) You will hear thunderous laughter from your classmates when you say you love authentic southern Thanksgiving dinner instead of humus and pita 7) People will ask you where you are from- even when you try and explain you were born in Ohio and live in North Carolina 8) It can be painful. It can hurt. But remember you are always more than one word. Never buy the poison that is being sold to you, especially when it comes to you from the mouths of corrupt and powerful beasts who scream from the rooftops 9) When people ask if all Muslims know is hate, violence, war and corruption- first take in a deep breath and control that part of you that wants to just roll your eyes and walk away. Smile and list the various Muslim philosophers, scientist, astronomers, musicians, artist, poets, painters, writers, professors, doctors, nurses, surgeons, activist, photographers, journalists, and the list goes on. Explain Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, and how his compassion and love for humanity kept him going, to spread Islam all over. How his generosity and kindness is an example that many Muslims strive to live by. Boastfully mention Saladin who was in fact a very powerful and peaceful general who controlled Jerusalem for years and was followed by many powerful Muslim leaders who ruled Jerusalem for more than a century 10) Living in America, the ocean of opportunity, can also become a pool of lava fueled by words and stirred by hands of hate, and in those times, you must remember that every experience both good and bad will shape you to who you are and who you will become. So wear that label proudly, you are an American Muslim, and dammit you are happy to be one by Gabriela Warner
She said you were gone. That when you took your last breath It was a breath for life. A breath I knew you never really wanted. A breath I knew you might one day take. A breath you told me you wanted so badly But couldn’t bear to take. You were a stick of dynamite And the world was your match; You were hanging by a string And I alone couldn’t keep you from detonating. We were drowning And the only thing keeping us afloat Was the thought of never seeing the world again. But I wasn’t strong enough And the world pulled you down Leaving me with the last words of goodbye. I want to sit with you again. I want to see you laugh again. I want to see the bright blue eyes filled with light of life And for you to be here beside me. But for those wishes The payment is death And I took an oath to keep going. For you. But maybe you’re happy now. Maybe you were never meant to hold on as long as you did. All good things come to an end And all stories finish. But your story lives within me And forevermore will. Because you are the sun And I was just the earth revolving around you. by Mary Schrader
Where did decorum go Where have manners gone When did cursing and cussing Slurping and slumping Become not only acceptable But the norm When did please and thank you Become now and about time When did sir and ma'am Become dude and bitch when did it become fine to pepper your sentences with profanity when once you would be scolded for such a thing When did the family meal become an endangered species due to people's inability to look up from their screens I know this doesn't apply to everyone But why has society allowed rudeness to run so rampant by Mary Schrader
The sky once dark now bright, With the stars celestial light. And as the lofty moon drifts by the sleepy world below, She smiles most benevolently where'er she chooses to go. Thus in their perfect dance they keep, The glorious beauty while we sleep. So the long slowly night drifts away, Into the rosy break of day. by Mary Schrader
The orchestra swells The ensemble leaps The hero rebels The heroine weeps The villain enters with a crash Chaos begins to ensue Then the problem is solved To the happy ending we all make a dash The couple spins in a pas de deux And the curtain only falls once all is resolved by Richard Gao
Mom’s soup dumplings 一百分, 10/10 Coming out of the steamer looking 一百分, 10/10 Soft like a marshmallow, yet firm as a post. A true masterpiece, enough to make any guild man swallow their pride, after all it's 一百分, 10/10 The tingly aroma explodes on my nose like dynamite 一百分, 10/10 Every little dragon, fierce and mighty, gazes at me, Readying their fiery breath to blast at me full of flavor. It’s a call to arms, but no weapons shall be involved, This’ll just be hand to hand, just me and the dragon, nice… The look of each is fiery enough to make fire feel burnt, If I had to compare this to a party, it would be so turnt, The feel of each is as smooth as a dragon’s scales, They all seem peaceful, but inside tells a more violent tale, With every bite, it bites back, sending fiery pain through my nerves, The only way to calm down such a beast is using mankind’s most powerful creation, Chopsticks. Every gold slab is worth millions, But man, a sliver of these dumplings would be worth more than all the gold slabs combined, The depths of each hollow pocket, you couldn’t get to the bottom even if you mined, For eternity, because the treasure just keeps growing and growing, Like the width of a river, which starts out streaming but becomes raging And the taste, OOOOOooooo the taste! It’s a breath of fresh air Gets my blood pumping, like the fresh prince of Bel-air. Here’s a good idea, sell it at the state fair, Customers, they’ll be rushing in, coming in from everywhere, Asking for the recipe, likes it’s the Krabby patty formula, Or the Coke recipe, as if it’s some crazy phenomena, BECAUSE IT IS! But every time someone asks for this recipe, And asks how to create this physical fantasy, My mom always says,”No, 这是一百分, 10/10 不可以.” pronunciations 一百分(Ee bai fen) 这是一百分(Zhe shi ee bai fen) 不可以(Bu ke yi) by Ali Porterfield
You keep a collection of broken hearts. I know because I’ve seen them You keep them behind the recycling bin In the little coat closet Beside the hearth. I’ve seen the threads and needles I’ve seen the stitches, every one Dripping with red As they try to fix the unfixable. I’ve seen the blood staining your coat hems; I’ve seen the darkness in your eyes When you look at me. Who did those hearts belong to? Did they let you take them away? Even as I think that I’ll never trust you, That I’ll never let you get close enough To steal my heart from my chest, I step closer, closer. I feel myself giving in. Is this my fate? Is this Where this has been going This whole time? Like railroad tracks, there is No deviating, no leaving the path. We see the signs and keep going. Like clockwork, we fall into line. Is that where my heart is destined To beat its final times? Behind a recycling bin And covered by winter coats? Do me better than them, I tell you. Be careful with me. Even though I know That every precedent is misery, I tell myself they’re history. Be careful with me. I’m different from them, And this is different from then. Do me better than them, I tell you, But I know that you won’t. |
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