CHHS's Literary Magazine
By Susana Núñez-Jimenez
You saw me take my first steps Little feet making little mistakes Felt as free as you did when you finally reached the “american dream” How were you to know this would crumble apart in the next fifteen years Trump as president has you fear being put into handcuffs Which I’ve been wearing every time I am pushed to walk into St. Thomas More Having you change from a Bud smoking Binge drinking Hand swinging Word flinging Father to a Man with a “holier than thou” attitude Religious to the point of my suffocation on The Word of the Lord Your daughter is now a teen in the 21st century The past three years she has changed her little shuffles into leaps of faith But every step that she takes is just another mistake to you You’re blindly taking the reins and you don’t know they’re around my neck I sculpted you something from the heart in my ceramics class A hand gesture that points out with its third digit that you’re a complete ass You always bring up God Not rude, strange or odd in any way And then you bring up the nature of being me, a sin James 4:12 says that only God can judge So who, in heaven’s name, do you think you are, father You criticized me while I was in the emergency room for the third time We were having normal conversation I bring up how much I miss my wrestler, guitarist, drummer, saxophonist, and duck-like friends You stared through the lids of your darker-than-my-thoughts eyes You speak, and I want to turn into my late grandmother Resurrect And leave you bruised yet again for what came out of your arrogant minded mouth “You’re not normal. It’s not normal for a young lady like you to have only guy friends” And you left me sobbing in that cell of the basement of hell I’ll be sure to personally welcome you there after we both bid everyone else farewell Sincerely, Your little girl, who isn’t quite sure that label even fits her P.S. Your god expected religious fruit from Adam and Eve Not a religious nut
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By Susana Núñez-Jimenez
You have the urge to draw something Anything Forced to create happiness when you have none of it If they see your true self, stuck longer It teaches you, the most brutally honest, to be a grade “A” liar With your expressive emotions and actions But when you choose to express yourself Triggered staff Can’t get a hold of any utensil but the overprotective short golf pencils No pens, no markers, no paints, no nothing But your own two hands They don’t know Your very hands are the most dangerous tool you have at your disposal Out of developed insanity, you choose to draw with the best material Nail and flesh An agonizing masterpiece Ashamed and proud Better than voicing your thoughts out loud When you feel insecure of what comes out of your mouth No filter Brings you to ask for your precious uke Gets approved Arrives Inconsistent policies of staff has you die a little more inside You sit in the corner of your room and wonder why The only thing you can do on this unit is cry Walls walking to you wanting a hug, closing in on the curled up ball on the floor You don’t even know who you are anymore Feeling empty of not being able to be you When all you are is an addict to visual and musical arts No access, feeling Handcuffed, abused, used and defeated Locked on the 5th floor reaching up to the heavens None of that, it’s all hell Expecting you to be content and well Staff coming at you with discharge papers feeling relieved, almost alive Sun rises, apparent professional says you’re nowhere near leaving The corner, the floor, the wall, it all calls you back by your name With all the meds they give you, just feel weak Wait for the day that seems to never near Too many nights spent drowned in your own bitter tears Get up and try to break out of here This mentality Gives you fear Fear Of yourself Of society Judgment And others Another silent week No access to music A life without your only friends, the bands in your playlists Makes you sick Try to compensate by chanting Car Radio because You have these thoughts so often you out To replace these mots with what you once sought ‘Cause somebody stole your sense of control And now you just sit in silence Quiet is violent By Suvinuji
Someone needed to keep me on the straight and narrow After choosing to sell myself shorter than I thought I would After cutting away any bit of pride I had left After turning brother blood into stranger things It was seen, I needed some kind of moral standard If I kept going the way I was, I was going to have a bad time Thinking I had lost control Thinking there was no answer to a question I made up Thinking I was done for I was going to have a bad time, I WAS having a bad time Convinced that my life was falling around me, it eventually did Fed myself doubt, insecurities, and self-deprecation Fed myself beyond artificial highs and lows Fed myself knowledge of the spoken unspeakable Just because I thought it, it was. Fallen Down Did I deserve the silence of the outside when the inside screamed? Probably. Because I made the wrong choices Probably. Because I didn't care what was to happen Probably. Because I hurt someone and opened the wound, infecting me in the process I deserved it. But it didn't deserve me Forgiven Grateful By Alison Zhang
It’s suffocating. A sugarcoat of twisted lies Dipped in waterfalls of bitter chocolate tears And abandoned to melt Like ice cream in blistering heat. And it crusts over, sticky sweet, A mess of curdled milk, Omitted promises, Broken promises, Penny on a dollar Dead dreams Banana split boats, Nothing the way it seems, Candied cream cobbler Poison if you holler Forgotten nightmares with Sweat ‘round your collar And you’re just headed for the slaughter Can’t-breath-’cause-there’s-water Just-keeping-gobbling-it-up Until-you-finally-take-a-pause To-inhale– And then there’s only silence. And somehow, The silence is even more sickly Than the sound. By Alison Zhang
Some mouths are of butterflies And run like rivers for the world to listen. They are the chosen ones, the extraordinaries, Pristine picket-fenced machinery polished with silver And brimming with “Think before you speak.” Well hello there. I am the Silence. The waterlogged house of Thank You cards, The intangible, the noiseless nightmare Of public speaking. My lips open too, and from them pours A lifetime of words I want to say but never do, A past-present-future so blurred That out drips “It’s nothing.” My mouth is one of moths and mothballs Roaring with a waterfall that no one hears. I am a dusty contraption, the unremarkable, Rippling shadow under Nice To Meet You Letterheads And those who cry “Speak up.” I can’t. I was never taught how to pick and choose words From my vocabulary vending machine, Or to bribe others with small talk Or to pocket change the machine spit back out. I only know how to wire wood To my hand and scribble down scraps Of an epiphany, of fear, of logic, Until the words stop gushing out of a voiceless maw And instead trickle down my hand to spill over Blank canvas, coloring without color And there’s the proof, look: “Speak is silver.” (And Silence is golden.) By Katie Duff
Hurricane Sandy is my lightning bolt scar We didn’t know when it would happen You never know where lightning is going to strike October 29th 2012, her big dark clouds rolled in She flooded streets, tunnels, and subway lines The magical lights that never went off in NYC, Went off that day because of Sandy’s intensity 75 Delaware Ave is where I made so many good memories My parents frantically trying to contact our loved ones I remember feeling so helpless because I couldn’t help my family In my head I didn’t think I’d ever return again Sandy was powerful like Voldemort Sandy was an obscurus Dark, ominous, and terrifying Nobody knew how destructive she would be I went to school the next morning where everyone talked about the storm I couldn’t focus all day because all I could think about was my family I returned home that afternoon to find out that my dad left for NY to help my family He was like Harry Potter saving Hogwarts The aftermath of the storm came with many difficult decisions and hardships No hot water for months, no bathroom, a small supply of food, and sharing your home with your whole family My childhood home was destroyed in the storm I felt like a piece of me died when I heard the news So many memories were made in such a small home But none of those memories can be obliviated from my mind By Yukimo
The wind grows soft, As leaves fall from tree branches. The squirrels’ chatter dies down to a whisper, while the bubbling brook edges along silently. Leaves crunch underfoot In the crisp, cool air, Welcome after the scorching heat of summer. The sun turns an auburn red, Outlined by a navy blue sky. The occasional blackbird darts across, As a chattering finch quiets down to a murmur. The cicadas and mosquitoes have died and gone, While everyone else has hunkered down to sleep. The chill morning air has a biting cold, Making noses runny and cheeks glow. A soft, warm jacket keeps it at bay, While the first frost has come again. The air is still, with a numbing bite Everyone has left, or is asleep this night. Every breath makes tiny white clouds, As we dream of summer. We don our mittens, hats, and scarves, Our hands warmed by a thermos of hot cocoa or cider. As fall has come and gone, And winter is upon us. It makes us daydream of summer And hold onto the pieces of it, That still survive within us, Waiting for summer to come again. Welcome Home
By Elizabeth Ekstrand A car’s headlights illuminated the overgrown shrubbery of a rural forest neighborhood. Violent flashes of lightning struck dangerously close to the ground, interspersed with loud booms of thunder. Each of the forest’s animals had already retreated for the night. The inside of the car appeared to provide solace, but upon closer inspection, it was anything but peaceful. The rain pounded doggedly against the front window of the car, almost drowning out the outraged voices of its occupants. Driving the car was an ordinary middle aged woman, who had just avoided hitting a mailbox in her anguish. Her husband sat stiff as a board in the passenger seat, shouting her down without taking so much as a minute to comprehend her arguments. “I’m telling you, this is the time to see a doctor!” she exclaimed right next to the man’s ear. The man grimaced. Pain permeated his body- no, his head- the sixth migraine in eight full days. Why me? he thought, barely mustering up the energy to shout again. “We can’t afford it, and I’ll just take the stuff in the bathroom-” “The same stuff that expired in 2008,” the woman replied, face turning white and jerk of the fingers becoming neurotic. I can’t make it worse by driving like this. If I increase that pain, his attempt to get help will certainly be deferred… and all thanks to some blundering fool of a doctor who never paid attention in class… stop, it's not him… just don't go there. In the backseat sat a young girl unobtrusively surfing her phone. She’d turned on night mode so that her activity wasn’t apparent through her window. A sigh escaped her lips as she stared out at the gloom and doom. Her mother would never stop beseeching her father to schedule a doctor’s visit, but to the girl, Orianna, those efforts were futile. As the family of three pulled up to the driveway, Orianna jumped out. She rolled her eyes upon seeing the neighborhood cat, Diamond, sprinting up to them. Some strange impulse implored her to stomp on the cat, kick him, before she’d be noticed. Sensing her thoughts in a uniquely feline way, Diamond locked eyes with her. Even as the arguing couple climbed the stairs, the silent Orianna close behind, the cat jumped up on her legs. Her jeans ripped, revealing her pale calves. Her parents stilled at the sound, simultaneous frowns appearing on their faces. Orianna was fed up. Cursing Diamond, she brushed past her parents without a word and went through the doorway. The soft hallway carpet of her house seemed to stretch infinitely in either direction. It was as if Orianna had regained her toddler’s body. She felt the soft resistance of the carpet, the swinging of her arms, the creaking of the bathroom door, in a way that she never had. Stop being silly and get done with it before you’re punished. Undeterred, she continued to walk. Orianna put duty first. Duty first. Out came the welcoming arms of her parents, somehow in agreement. The hallway dissolved and she found herself in a crowded auditorium, sensed the clapping reverberate around the hall as she strode up to the stage. Music from The Little Mermaid came on, Ori began to replicate the combination as taught by her teacher, and all the while, her classmates just gazed out at the audience while fingering their hair. Even in ballet at age four, duty first, she mused, repressing nostalgic tears. This time, it came from above her head rather than inside of it. “Stop.” A brittle, impatient command. Yes, she had a duty to fulfill right here, right now. Dreams, day and night, were for the living. At last, she reached the end of the hall, smiling at the familiar closet door. Silently, she rose on her toes like a ballerina at the barre, opened the door, and reached for the top shelf. A plastic Jack-O-Lantern of Halloween candy spilled a few pieces, but most remained clenched in Orianna’s fist. With a satisfied smile, Orianna turned to face the door opposite her. More tears threatened to come. She tensed, then shook her head, realizing just how useless that would be. Relax… you’re only… The door creaked as she opened it. “...Lillian?” she called to a small ball of pink and white curled up on the bed. The other looked up, hardly believing the voice she heard. “Ori?” Round, blue, unseeing eyes gazed at the door. Lillian heard Orianna and recognized the change in the air around her, but couldn’t view the ever-present ponytail of Ori’s hair. “Is it really…” At that point, a chocolate bar broke in half in front of her, spinning towards her hands. Dark chocolate- bitter but sweet, a tribute to this night. “Catch,” Ori said, trying to keep her voice strong. She replaced the rest of the chocolate inside of the orange bin. Silence filled the room until the voice from above huffed impatiently, and Orianna spoke. “Lillian...It’s… good to see you again. I mean, I guess. I’m sorry, but I must move quickly and discuss recent happenings with you. It seems as though a court case against the hospital has been pursued, if I am not wrong, and I would like to obtain more information on it. Please answer honestly.” Were her words hers? “No, mine, and this is hardly a welcome home. Just do it and get out of there. Be grateful I even offered, I don’t do it with the old farts, you know,” the same voice from around her commented. Thank goodness Lily couldn’t hear. In the meantime, Lillian recoiled at the clinically short tone of her sister’s voice. “What? Ori, this isn’t you…” She remembered the times Ori had played with her and pranked her. The eleven-year-old girl’s innocent eyes shriveled into slits. “Please...” Orianna felt a pang in her chest, if one could argue that her chest even existed anymore. She placed a soothing hand on Lillian’s back. Over the past few weeks, she’d been trained in the fine art of formal speech by that voice. If one focused enough on their language, emotion would be pushed to the backburner, an ideal. Ori had forgotten the stories tucked away in her journal, how emotion came with the language, not the other way around. Organisms had to adapt to their environments, right? Surprisingly, Death didn’t always make bad company. “Lily… this is crucial. There is only a certain amount of time I can spend here.” Already, her spirit began to wane, along with her resolve. “Now, I assume Mom and Dad- they’ve attempted to get an indictment against Dr. Roland?” Lillian spun her chair around to her desk and retrieved a packet of fine print from its drawer. Ori’s eyes widened, though she said nothing. Perhaps this would make it more efficient for her, regardless of the fact that the papers were stolen. “Thank you,” Ori replied. It took all of her willpower to stay away from her sister. The document floated toward her at a twitch of her hand. She briefly scanned it with her invisible eyes. 16 year old leukemia patient Orianna Olrich received 1.5 mg of propofol before undergoing a splenectomy, a surgical procedure recommended unanimously by her team of physicians. Certified anesthesiologist Dr. John Roland was directly responsible for Orianna’s dosage of the medication, according to testimony from Document 6. The administered dosage was 0.25 mg above that recommended for her weight. At 1:23 PM, Orianna stopped breathing. Attempts to resuscitate her through various methods were unsuccessful. By 1:31 PM, Orianna was proclaimed dead. “Now you know,” the unwelcome third guest said. Her outraged family had indeed obtained an indictment, a charge against Dr. Roland. But at the last moment, a new piece of evidence presented itself, proving the doctor to be blameless. Orianna had lost the battle while she’d been under. The drug dosage might have been off, but it hadn’t been the direct cause. To this day, the court was deliberating on her case. Orianna shook her head. What a ruthless effort… for nought. She flung the papers across the room. The writer’s elaborate language may as well have been that of an emotionless alien orbiting Earth. She pondered whether the formally dressed government official had any sympathy lurking beneath that lipsticked mask. “5 minutes,” came the warning from the walls. Bored, apathetic. Infuriating. Speaking of sympathy, Orianna, Lillian is right there, she thought to herself, a welcome change. Ori turned to see the candy in her sister’s hand. She grabbed a lifesaver. Before Lily could protest, Ori placed half of it into her mouth, making Lily grab onto the other half with her teeth. To show her I’m real... Lillian couldn’t control herself. “Ori… we’re gonna lose, Mom and Dad say so. They killed you.” She wanted nothing more than to destroy the whole house, the whole world. Fury rendered her body taut and stiff. Ori removed the candy and looked wistfully at Lily’s blonde curls. “No. The cancer would have taken me no matter what, Lily. I-I’m sorry.” She didn’t voice the peculiar pleasure she derived from seeing her doctor be let off. Really, truly, it wasn’t his fault. Lillian opened her mouth, quelling her anger. “Ori, I-” she paused. No number of lead play roles could prepare her for this. No monologues were appropriate here. What was? “Ori… this is bad, but… without you in my life, I don’t know-” what kind of life I would have… Lily thought. Orianna ran her ghost hand through Lily’s hair. “Tell Mom and Dad hello, okay? As adults, they can’t see me… tell Dad to fix his migraines, too. He doesn’t need to bear the pain I have.” And the rain outside fell no longer. “Orianna…” said the voice, but Ori raised a finger, relishing in her temporary but precious power. The voice could no longer be heard. Not now. Now, it was only Ori and her sister. A single nod. A single tear. A single child remaining in the family. A single sentence. Lillian embraced her sister with all of her petite body. Both of their shirts gathered splotches from the waterfalls of their eyes. Orianna’s ghost form, for some inexplicable reason, didn’t prevent her from producing tangible tears. For that, Lillian was oddly grateful. She could swear that she felt a pulse in Ori’s heart again. “I love you, Ori.” “Me too.” They stayed there for a long time. By Elizabeth Ekstrand
I approach the dais with trepidation, gaze wandering over the massive space surrounding me. The high ceiling of the place broadcasts any move of my body to the observers through cavernous sound. These observers sit at plain desks throughout the room, eyes trained on me, their smiles insincere with a careful purpose. Elongated snakes of black and yellow slide smoothly upward. Though children laugh in this place, I can’t. I’m here to be trained in one of the finest arts known to man. I make no move until my δάσκαλος* arrives, then bow my head as low as possible. He bows back. Without a word exchanged, scorching fire circles the room. I cannot bear to make eye contact with the dragon. I raise my fireproof shield. In my other hand, I loop my sword around, chopping the neck of the brutal creature off with minimal effort. δάσκαλος shakes his head, chuckling. "Do you believe you are the only one capable of that?" With a grit of my teeth, I bound towards the next monster. This time, I unearth my bow and arrows, shooting the brute in the eye. A simple wave of my hand directs the fire back at him, leading him to cry out in agony. No remorse surfaces; for me, this is perfunctory. My δάσκαλος sits with his hands on his forehead. "Abundant dramatics." "What?" "Try again." And I do. But no screams of torture or shots in the leg seem to satisfy the man. At last, the room falls silent once again, somehow eerie. The children upstairs ignore us, as if we’re just sitting in front of computers or something, not slaying dragons. My δάσκαλος finishes scrawling his name on a square object and hands it to me. "You say you were born for this; you believe it is your destiny. Every day, you will disperse from all humanity to slay the dragon. And tomorrow the dragon returns. Do not consider for an instant that any way you can slay him is free of flaws." Without another word, he hands the object to me. I nod once and turn on my heel, feeling the rough bump of his indentation on the creamy pages. My lips quirk amusedly as I digest his monologue. All those years ago, I would have cried out at the sight of dragon's blood. All those years ago, I'd nearly deluded myself into staying far, far away from any dragons. Yet I knew that any number of the monsters could be pursuing me at any given time. Back then, I'd let them win. I still sense my own erratic breathing, but it's all for the best. You don't do it for nothing. A warmth spreads through my body as I collapse into the cozy red chair my parents purchased secondhand. Secondhand, but yours. I see my friends, my family, the individuals bustling about before the last bell rings in class. As if on cue, the dragon tromps into the room with thudding footfalls. Not a single soul notices. With a deep breath, the beast breathes fire on everyone, then comes straight for me. Its final victim. That can't happen. Though I'd like to live in the now and view those surfaces in front of me as opaque, I can't. We were meant for this. We live for this. So I sit down spread smooth white in front of me pick up a sword with a short graphite point and feel the adrenaline take off as I slay the dragon. *δάσκαλος= Greek for “teacher” |
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