Garden Stroll Poem
The winter wind tugs the stubborn last leaf,
past is its glory days, yet it clings fast.
Battered and dead, it refuses relief,
but on a mild day, it falls at long last.
Always, I remain, though my time has passed.
When my presence is no longer welcome,
still I linger here, forever steadfast,
desperately beating a broken drum.
I once called someone my confidant—
all I was to her was competition.
What was to me a fond sisterly bond,
was a tool to further her ambitions.
My best was never enough; she left.
She walks by, so familiar yet foreign.
All but forgotten, alone I bled red,
hiding my pain like a secret weapon.
Struggling against the waters of fate,
until I tired myself out and drowned,
but for what? The one who laughed at my state?
It took some time, but I came around.
With love, I thank her for changing her mind.
Our paths were never meant to be intertwined.
- Helen He
Tap tap tap goes the sound through the wall
In the bedroom and kitchen and up through the hall
Surely it’s got to be distracting now
To give no reaction, I can't comprehend how
Tap tap tap moves around and around
My fingers are tired from making this sound
Through the small hole in the wall I peer into the house
I feel as if though I’m as small as a mouse
His hands cover his ears all day and all night
I start tapping even louder just out of spite
I watch as my tapping drives him insane
He rips down the walls to take away the pain
As he pulls down the last wall and trips into my trap
His last three words were tap tap tap.
-Maggie Schmidt
My hamster, Nana, wasn’t in her cage.
“Nana, where are you?” I yelled. It was dead at night and nobody in my apartment complex was awake. What if Nana got kidnapped? I turned on my flashlight and kept looking around the house.
Once I opened the door to the bathroom, I heard a squeaking noise coming from the bathtub. I pushed the curtains away and there Nana was, jumping and scratching along the walls of the bathtub.
“Oh my GOD NANA! HOW DID YOU GET HERE?!”
It seemed my neighbors woke up, because after I yelled at my hamster, I heard faint shouting outside my window.
“Shut up, we’re trying to sleep!”
“‘Kay, Sorry!”
Fever
Blue:
The sky, the flames, the sea.
Blue represents eternity;
Loyalty, imagination.
And yet, as days pass by,
All we see are carnation coloured clouds,
The orange lilies in our yard.
Wondering who’s next.
The neighbours died yesterday.
Or are they still clinging to life?
They should give up on such puerile behaviour:
Even the thought of recovery is romantic.
We live in a new world.
A new century approaches us.
Like Noah’s arc, only the faithful will survive.
May the Lord guide our fates.
- Helen Zheng
Song of the Cicadas
by Helen He
It was a warm and vibrant spring day, and I sat in my mother’s snug embrace, my chubby fingers wrapped around her rough, sandpaper-like hands. I gazed out the window of the taxi as asphalt roads gave way to the neglected dirt roads of the verdant countryside, and laughter bubbled out of my throat as I jolted up and down. It was my first time out of the artificial metal and glass cities I lived in, and I was utterly fascinated by this world of illogically-planted trees that grew closer and farther in a seemingly unending cycle.
Soon, mountain walls of stone and stubbornly clinging shrubs rose around us. They threw plunging shadows upon the path, and only a thin sliver of the clear, cerulean sky could be seen. My mother pulled down the taxi window and breathed in the “fresh country air of my hometown,” as she liked to say. However, despite taking a breath deep into my lungs, I just couldn’t tell why this air was so special; there was only dampness and pine trees, and I much preferred the ever-changing, much more intriguing scents of the city.
All of a sudden, the driver slammed the brakes, and the taxi jerked to a stop, shaking me out of my thoughts. After a quick explanation to my grandfather, the driver left the car. Bewildered, I peered out the car window to see the dirt road ahead submerged in a pool of black water, presumably from a flood. I watched as the driver scrambled around outside the taxi, attempting to find a way around. My mother and grandfather exchanged words in a hushed and worried tone, and my mother gripped my hand tensely.
Moments later, the driver returned to the taxi and shoved the door shut. He gravely presented us with two options; he could either take us back to our home in the city, or we would have to proceed by foot. The air felt heavy as my mother and grandfather glanced at each other. This road was the only way to my family’s ancestral home, and my family was expecting us!
Tentatively, my mother suggested, “Father, the mountains have changed since you last lived here, and I don’t think the child will be able to make it over the mountains. Perhaps the best course of action in this situation would be to return home.”
My grandfather reassured my mother, saying, “What! You always worry too much! I will never forget the way home through the very mountains I grew up in! And I know a shortcut. We will go.”
Since my grandfather had spoken in such a final manner, my mother could only hesitantly nod and follow his lead.
After thanking and paying the driver, my grandfather started to lead us up the mountain. The way up was treacherous, to say the least; grass grasped at my bare ankles, and there was the ever-present screeching of cicadas. The unrelenting sun scorched my back, and my sweat-drenched clothes clung to me. My eyes were wet with tears after my new shoes became scuffed, and I tripped and fell so many times that I stopped counting. I swore I would never come to this filthy and vile place again. I thought nothing could be worse.
But I was wrong. Dark grey storm clouds rolled in and soon covered the sun entirely. The vivid hues of the mountains became muted, and the screeching of the cicadas gradually ceased. Suddenly, the day wasn’t so scalding anymore. At first, I raised my arms and welcomed the shade. When the first raindrop fell, I marveled at how just a few droplets of water could bring me such relief. However, the rhythmic drip-drip of the rain soon became a roar, a downpour.
Barely able to see even a few feet in front of me, I sprinted after my mother and grandfather. Massive droplets of water flew into my eyes and threatened to separate me from my family, but I was set on reaching our goal, a little stone cave. Usually, I would fret about the snakes, rats, bugs, bats, and other creepy creatures that might live there, but I couldn’t care less. The rain had drenched me to the bone, and I was shivering uncontrollably.
My family and I crammed together inside the cave. While we had to press tightly against each other to fit, the shelter managed to protect us from the pattering rain. My mother and grandfather soon began to discuss our next course of action, which led to my grandfather revealing the rather unfortunate fact that we were lost—and had been for the past hour. He was directing us around in random directions in hopes that we would somehow come across a landmark he recognized. The mountain was only so big, and we would most certainly find our way at some point.
Although I was drenched and muddy and should have been miserable, I had a peculiar feeling of security. Huddled with my loved ones, I felt treasured and warm in my heart. I didn’t even mind that we were lost if it meant we would stay in this cave a little longer. Mesmerized by the drip-drop of rain droplets from the mouth of the cave, I was the first to notice when the rainstorm ended.
Soon, we resumed our journey. My grandfather once again took the lead, and, this time, he led us atop the cave from the side. He and my mother had decided that a higher vantage point would help us find our way. Abruptly, I heard my grandfather excitedly exclaim in joy!
“It’s whale rock!” he hollered. “I can see my older sister’s house from here!”
Curious to see my ancestral home, I scrambled up the slope as well. Then, the view I saw took my breath away. Countless mountain peaks and valleys coded in mist dipped and rose before me. A crisp gust of wind ruffled my hair and rustled the long, golden grasse below my feet. The fairly roomy cave that had sheltered all three of us from the rain before was but a tiny nook in the stone. I took a deep breath and was struck by the soothing smell of fresh soil and lush forests. I felt like I was above the world!
As I stood watching the world, peacefulness and the triumph of victory filled my heart. Although the path to the top was treacherous, it was all worth it in the end. For the first time, I understood the beauty of nature; it wasn’t fast and noisy like the cities, but instead, a slow serenity. I knew in my core that, despite all the setbacks we had faced, I would make the same journey, live today all over again. After all, it was all the things that went wrong that made the ultimate success feel so precious.
By a tranquil river, a bit swollen from the rain, I could see smoke rising from the houses of an idyllic village, and the journey down the gentle slope was swift. Soon, the traditional homes that had housed countless generations before me came into view. Baskets of red, yellow, and white beans left at doorsteps to dry added a dash of color, and I could make out the distant barking of the village dogs. However, I thought only of my family waiting in the village.
I ran into the outstretched arms of my great-aunt, and she clasped me tightly. I could smell the aroma of cooking on her clothes mixed with a hint of sweet pine. I could hear the roar of cicadas blended with the laughter of my family. And that’s when I realized. This was the scent of home. And the cicadas weren’t screeching after all—they were singing the story of a reunited family.
Yesterday we wrapped up the first week of Project Write with a visit to the Dolley Todd House and an introduction to Science Fiction writing. During our tour of the house we learned about life in a cramped, 18th century urban home during the yellow fever outbreak of 1793. The home belonged to Dolley and John Todd. John eventually succumbed to yellow fever, leaving Dolley, who later met and married James Madison the fourth president of the United States. Following the tour, back at the Benjamin Franklin Museum, we discussed subgenres of Sci Fi, such as Dystopian and Alternate Histories, as well as the spaces where Sci Fi, Fantasy and Horror overlap under the larger umbrella of Speculative Fiction.
As a strategy to hone ideas and begin writing, we first composed a whiteboard of current environmental, social and political moments. Then each student pulled, at random, an adjective, plot element and character type out of a grab bag to incorporate into their stories, so in the coming days you may be reading an excerpt from a strange world inhabited with cyborgs that underwent an extinction event, inspired by the current deforestation of the Amazon.
Happy reading everyone! We look forward to your comments and feedback.
