AllureDecember 2022 Volume 11 // Issue 1 |
Contents
28 Works / 14 Contributors
Saira Ahmed, Anna Dobbelaere, Harry Guan, Melody Huang, Ryan Huang, Seoyoung Hwang, Junbok Lee, Tessa Lee, David Lin, Lucia Liu, Claire Oh, Lindsay Qin, Nilofer Yu, Tiffany Yu
Saira Ahmed, Anna Dobbelaere, Harry Guan, Melody Huang, Ryan Huang, Seoyoung Hwang, Junbok Lee, Tessa Lee, David Lin, Lucia Liu, Claire Oh, Lindsay Qin, Nilofer Yu, Tiffany Yu
Written
"baby steps" by Nilofer Yu
a sense of childhood
that no one will ever reach
do you chase it still?
that no one will ever reach
do you chase it still?
"Failure to Connect" by Anonymous
We are born on parallel walkways, alone. The walkways are identical, but we start in different places going in different directions. The texture underfoot varies with position. New people can go wherever they want, but once you’ve spent some time on the walkway, a force materializes, attracting you to the place where you belong. It can be opposed, with effort.
There is a pattern in the floor that can be followed by those who understand the walkway well. The pattern is hard to observe and harder to extrapolate upon, so after the orientation period, most people only know how to get where they’ve already been.
On our heads, we wear blindfolds and noise-canceling headsets with microphones such that we can only communicate via intercom. On our feet we wear shoes that dampen the texture and obscure where we are.
We're meant to be trying to get to the same point along the walkway, so that ultimately if we’re confident we’re in the same place at the same time, we can reach out our hands and connect. And finally know that we are not alone.
We describe to each other what we feel with our feet. Some people’s headphones are faulty or they don’t listen so they never get to the same spot as anyone else. Some people have staticky microphones that force you to concentrate hard to find the thread that makes sense in all of the noise.
Everyone seems to think that they have the shoes with the thinnest soles, but senses can be deceptive, and it can be easy to project false texture onto the ground. You always have to wonder if the person you’re speaking to knows the thickness of their soles, otherwise, they could direct you to the wrong place entirely.
Sometimes when I speak to someone I don’t think they could get anywhere near where I belong, so I don’t make an effort to meet them where they are. Then all of a sudden I feel them reach out across the divide but I am so far away. I notice too late, and I run to where I think they are but the moment has passed and they will not reach again. They’ve learned that I am not where they think I should be.
I think that you and I belong close; you describe your floors like how I describe mine. Your voice sounds clear and you make sense. One day I was sure we were in the same place and I felt you extend. My fingertips tingling with anticipation, I reached in turn. And my hand fell limply through the air.
I’m not sure if I believe that a real connection is possible. Maybe the walkways are just all too far away from each other and everyone else is lying; maybe my idea of a “real” connection has been poisoned by the media; maybe my walkway stands uniquely far away; maybe everyone feels that way at this age.
I still imagine that we were in the right spot, but that my arms were just too short. I could try leaning over the edge but I don’t know yet if I trust you to catch me. Regardless, I feel the allure. A need to keep trying. So, for now, we talk. And with each passing day, I believe I can feel my arms starting to grow.
There is a pattern in the floor that can be followed by those who understand the walkway well. The pattern is hard to observe and harder to extrapolate upon, so after the orientation period, most people only know how to get where they’ve already been.
On our heads, we wear blindfolds and noise-canceling headsets with microphones such that we can only communicate via intercom. On our feet we wear shoes that dampen the texture and obscure where we are.
We're meant to be trying to get to the same point along the walkway, so that ultimately if we’re confident we’re in the same place at the same time, we can reach out our hands and connect. And finally know that we are not alone.
We describe to each other what we feel with our feet. Some people’s headphones are faulty or they don’t listen so they never get to the same spot as anyone else. Some people have staticky microphones that force you to concentrate hard to find the thread that makes sense in all of the noise.
Everyone seems to think that they have the shoes with the thinnest soles, but senses can be deceptive, and it can be easy to project false texture onto the ground. You always have to wonder if the person you’re speaking to knows the thickness of their soles, otherwise, they could direct you to the wrong place entirely.
Sometimes when I speak to someone I don’t think they could get anywhere near where I belong, so I don’t make an effort to meet them where they are. Then all of a sudden I feel them reach out across the divide but I am so far away. I notice too late, and I run to where I think they are but the moment has passed and they will not reach again. They’ve learned that I am not where they think I should be.
I think that you and I belong close; you describe your floors like how I describe mine. Your voice sounds clear and you make sense. One day I was sure we were in the same place and I felt you extend. My fingertips tingling with anticipation, I reached in turn. And my hand fell limply through the air.
I’m not sure if I believe that a real connection is possible. Maybe the walkways are just all too far away from each other and everyone else is lying; maybe my idea of a “real” connection has been poisoned by the media; maybe my walkway stands uniquely far away; maybe everyone feels that way at this age.
I still imagine that we were in the right spot, but that my arms were just too short. I could try leaning over the edge but I don’t know yet if I trust you to catch me. Regardless, I feel the allure. A need to keep trying. So, for now, we talk. And with each passing day, I believe I can feel my arms starting to grow.
"So there I was, eating a sandwich" by Anonymous
To the left of me
is a Usamo qualifier.
He's eating a sandwich.
To the right of me
sits a top ranked musician.
He's eating a sandwich.
Talking to me
is a Usaco camp qualifier.
He's eating a sandwich.
All of us are eating a sandwich.
In my seat
I’m eating a sandwich.
I’m eating a sandwich.
is a Usamo qualifier.
He's eating a sandwich.
To the right of me
sits a top ranked musician.
He's eating a sandwich.
Talking to me
is a Usaco camp qualifier.
He's eating a sandwich.
All of us are eating a sandwich.
In my seat
I’m eating a sandwich.
I’m eating a sandwich.
"time capsule" by Nilofer Yu
can't bear to write you now
not a letter even
not another love song.
they called us poetic
but you dropped the words
while I fell behind meter,
pen and ink
they meet--
our eyes, how should we know?
what happened to my sleepless nights
eager to embrace the morning?
what happened to my precious smile
caught your eye yet always hidden?
light to my life
your hope, will it find its way?
were we destined a curse if
our tale began in autumn
as the red only grew richer
amid the trees we looked up to--
we laughed in the persistent wind
that scattered scarlet upon the grey
and as this minute dries up
I am left with a departed friend
it seems I missed the moment
perhaps I was that moment
when what we are turned to what I was--
not in bloom this season.
I left you a withered blossom between footsteps
I keep you a stately leaf between pages
but no bouquets, please.
there are no flowers left
to make of you
not a letter even
not another love song.
they called us poetic
but you dropped the words
while I fell behind meter,
pen and ink
they meet--
our eyes, how should we know?
what happened to my sleepless nights
eager to embrace the morning?
what happened to my precious smile
caught your eye yet always hidden?
light to my life
your hope, will it find its way?
were we destined a curse if
our tale began in autumn
as the red only grew richer
amid the trees we looked up to--
we laughed in the persistent wind
that scattered scarlet upon the grey
and as this minute dries up
I am left with a departed friend
it seems I missed the moment
perhaps I was that moment
when what we are turned to what I was--
not in bloom this season.
I left you a withered blossom between footsteps
I keep you a stately leaf between pages
but no bouquets, please.
there are no flowers left
to make of you
"Which Fire Burned Brighter?" by David Lin
To my eye
We say
American fire
Burns the brightest of them all;
We should not have got in; won as well,
But their ghostly white masks were brighter;
Single file; bare foot; they emerge
As a bright line of white, stronger than ever,
Standing on a river; like Jesus,
So bright; like night and traps.
At the mouth of a cave
The fire burns the owners,
And the fire heats up the metal cans among
The things they carried
So hot Americans say we can no longer carry
When their minds trigger their flamethrowers,
We burn the reflections on the ponds;
Seeing the ponds catch fire.
This war was too hot, too bright to enter.
Christianity spills gasoline
On orange clothed monks
A sacred ritual; a religion set on fire
The fire blows east; the people run west
The fire leaves a trail of ashes.
And shown inside the swamp, the water
Rises to knee level,
Like a dream suddenly growing
Water rising; drowning Vietnam in orange
Here is a marriage of America
And death; there is no reception;
The American bride is lost and the Vietnamese groom
hides; under the vines, a ceremony
Of broken vows
O why do we fuel death?
O why did we set fire to the white line of masks?
On the vines and high-rise rivers
We ask which fire burned brighter?
The flamethrower, the white masks, the wedding, or the monks.
*italics are from the poem “The Fire Bombing” by James Dicke
We say
American fire
Burns the brightest of them all;
We should not have got in; won as well,
But their ghostly white masks were brighter;
Single file; bare foot; they emerge
As a bright line of white, stronger than ever,
Standing on a river; like Jesus,
So bright; like night and traps.
At the mouth of a cave
The fire burns the owners,
And the fire heats up the metal cans among
The things they carried
So hot Americans say we can no longer carry
When their minds trigger their flamethrowers,
We burn the reflections on the ponds;
Seeing the ponds catch fire.
This war was too hot, too bright to enter.
Christianity spills gasoline
On orange clothed monks
A sacred ritual; a religion set on fire
The fire blows east; the people run west
The fire leaves a trail of ashes.
And shown inside the swamp, the water
Rises to knee level,
Like a dream suddenly growing
Water rising; drowning Vietnam in orange
Here is a marriage of America
And death; there is no reception;
The American bride is lost and the Vietnamese groom
hides; under the vines, a ceremony
Of broken vows
O why do we fuel death?
O why did we set fire to the white line of masks?
On the vines and high-rise rivers
We ask which fire burned brighter?
The flamethrower, the white masks, the wedding, or the monks.
*italics are from the poem “The Fire Bombing” by James Dicke
"Better Luck Next Time" by Anonymous
All around me stand these strangers
sending gifts of time and care,
they speak my name so softly
acts of kindness everywhere.
I give back dull unfeeling speech
and words I do not mean,
they bubble up like reflux
make existence feel unclean.
I wish that I could offer more
I don’t know why they stay,
I’ve fallen ill with apathy
neuropathy untamed.
And it is not me that speaks,
it's the cracked face of my shell
I stand inside my mock control room,
homunculus, myself.
And I wish that I were out there
freely caring, feeling free,
any clue that I could live is something
I do not perceive.
In my entrails it is written:
do not weep and do not grieve,
for my fate is still uncertain
and this carcass is not me.
sending gifts of time and care,
they speak my name so softly
acts of kindness everywhere.
I give back dull unfeeling speech
and words I do not mean,
they bubble up like reflux
make existence feel unclean.
I wish that I could offer more
I don’t know why they stay,
I’ve fallen ill with apathy
neuropathy untamed.
And it is not me that speaks,
it's the cracked face of my shell
I stand inside my mock control room,
homunculus, myself.
And I wish that I were out there
freely caring, feeling free,
any clue that I could live is something
I do not perceive.
In my entrails it is written:
do not weep and do not grieve,
for my fate is still uncertain
and this carcass is not me.
"I am a Shrub" by Anonymous
I am a shrub
But not those tall ones
That are used in suburbia
To block houses
From the street
Those small ones,
With only a couple branches
That don’t grow much
Beyond their first couple years.
But not those tall ones
That are used in suburbia
To block houses
From the street
Those small ones,
With only a couple branches
That don’t grow much
Beyond their first couple years.
"the water is overflowing" by Anonymous
a fever dream of quarantines
i flooded my room
with tears cried while falling into dreams
i woke up drowning,
reached to break the surface
but i fell in deep
i scream and no one can hear
or they refuse and close their ears
the allure of something new
i cry for the past
i wake up drowning
but i chose this path
and they all surround me
in a crowded room
faces i knew
but they'll never know the truth
and i stand here
refusing to say it and with nothing to do
where did it go?
the friendships i had
the people i loved
did they love me back?
i look down at a mix of old and new
photographs of faces
i try to trace them
shutting it down,
i recognize nobody
blocking it out,
i become a lost body
and the weight is growing
the water is filling
a deep hole, rapidly overflowing
moving on without knowing
the freedom that follows
after meeting someone new
and the fear that swallows
because the past will never know the truth
i flooded my room
with tears cried while falling into dreams
i woke up drowning,
reached to break the surface
but i fell in deep
i scream and no one can hear
or they refuse and close their ears
the allure of something new
i cry for the past
i wake up drowning
but i chose this path
and they all surround me
in a crowded room
faces i knew
but they'll never know the truth
and i stand here
refusing to say it and with nothing to do
where did it go?
the friendships i had
the people i loved
did they love me back?
i look down at a mix of old and new
photographs of faces
i try to trace them
shutting it down,
i recognize nobody
blocking it out,
i become a lost body
and the weight is growing
the water is filling
a deep hole, rapidly overflowing
moving on without knowing
the freedom that follows
after meeting someone new
and the fear that swallows
because the past will never know the truth
"tiptoe" by Anna Dobbelaere
prioritizing self-preservation
when consumed by isolation
is hard like bruises
enveloped by a gray haze
after falling on cold concrete
by myself
too far gone
to look back
looking back, it's all a blur
a warped perception of the world
crashing down:
onto cold concrete and shattered glass
a wave of grief, watch you take a step
too far gone to look back
the ground turns red
when consumed by isolation
is hard like bruises
enveloped by a gray haze
after falling on cold concrete
by myself
too far gone
to look back
looking back, it's all a blur
a warped perception of the world
crashing down:
onto cold concrete and shattered glass
a wave of grief, watch you take a step
too far gone to look back
the ground turns red