Poetry

First Place:
Keya Mehta - “elegy for mamani’s pomegranates”

Second Place:
Nadia Scharfstein - “Frozen Women”

Third Place:
Jiwan Kim - “There’s Some of the Same in Change”
Jessica Zhang - “The Birds”

Honorable Mentions:
Lila Goldin - “Psyche: A Triptych”
Aarushi Gupta - “Watching My Father Solder My Necklace Clasp”
Victor Huang - “Things That Happen During a Family Fight”
Aigerim Bibol - “this is how we forget” (will not appear online due to acceptance at another publication)
Grace Huang - “What America Means” (will not appear online due to acceptance at another publication)

Fiction

First Place:
Cathleen Balid - “Sweet Corn”

Second Place:
Maayan Ram - “This Cage Of Ours”
Allison Xu - “The Dumpling Bistro”

Keya Mehta

mamani wakes at dawn, and strips her pomegranate tree bare,

            rips carmine child after carmine child from the embosom of bronzed branches

in the kitchen, as the beams of sun alight the vales of our collarbones, she takes the knife and

            begins silvered surgery, with timeworn fingers,

each crease a groove into which the handle slips

            she pierces saffron skin, and lets bloody gems scatter between her hands

we own only white handcloths, so thin, they feel like pearly membranes against your palms

            i watch my grandmother drag these creamy fabrics across the blood-stains

and remember what mama told me about the days of war,

when the only sunbursts one saw tore buildings in half

how mamani’s pomegranate tree sprouted only three red globes, 

and how her siblings clawed at her callow palms, gaunt faces upturned,

begging for more

as noonday lights the world on fire, the handcloths are hung to dry,

red handprints burned upon their surface,

deaths that can never be dried.

Nadia Scharfstein

after paintings by Delacroix, Vermeer, and Millais

She asks to be more than a frozen mime:
stomp on the men she is standing on,
pull her dress up and let her tired arm down. 

After posing, does she go home and weep,
change her name, hide herself among the People
and fight as Éponine did? 

Or this time, she wraps her head in scarf,
to enfold the dull glints of gold, the metallic pearl
swaying from her lobe, and she looks back: 

unseen eyebrows wondering why
she is here and not jumping freely in a river,
grasping the surface to hold up her skirt. 

She wishes she were breathing like she didn’t know,
like the roses were unpicked and still in her palm,
and she could stand without touching the ground, 

her hair wouldn’t be wrong and her dress heavy,
voice falling from flowers like freckles and men
splash glacier water to freeze her.

Jiwan Kim

The screaming of children at the community park
Sounded the same as when
I was one of them.
The pool’s overwhelming chlorine harassed my nose
As it did when my sister submerged me, unprompted. 
Now, the water would only reach the top of my shins.

My feet would drag on the floor
If I mounted the monkey bars.
The slide would tremble
If I climbed the ladder.
Even though I had grown tall enough
To jump onto the swings myself,
The seat would squish my thighs,
Pushing me off.  

The families sitting on damp towels
Still indulged in refreshingly sweet ice cream,
Though the choices had devolved into SpongeBob
Popsicles and orange creamsicles.

My beloved pool-day snack was nowhere to be seen:
The Choco Taco.  

I stomped up to the ice cream truck
For snapping the last connection
To my childhood.
But standing at the window was my ice cream guy.
The same guy who laughed at chocolate smeared around my mouth.
The same guy who wore his matted braids up in a knot.
The same smile he flashed whenever my dad thanked him
As my feet dangled from the jungle gym.

My hopeful mutter, Could I have
A Choco Ta– was interrupted
By his I have one in the back.
He slammed the frozen solid novelty onto the counter,
Best if used by August 9th 2015 printed on the side.
I saved this for a little girl who used to drown. He laughed. 

I passed him exactly two dollars and forty-nine cents.
Your sister still meddling with you? he crooned.
You still selling ice cream? I mocked.
He smiled. You’ll never see anyone else in this truck. 

I unwrapped my Choco Taco
To reveal a rock-hard, freezer-burnt brick.
A boy on a nearby swing urged me for a push.
I dropped the weight from my hand.
For the breeze from his legs as he kicked
Was more refreshing anyway.

Jessica Zhang

I cannot

Tell them

About my

Sparrows.

But between us,

They nest here

And sing all day,

Because plumage

Or dimorphism

Teaches them how

To love. Tomorrow

They’ll learn to want.

Tomorrow, these luggages

And bottles will crack open

At the TSA, and your critters

And stray feathers will cause security

Delays. Here, there are more foreign birds

Than telephone lines, the whole slew of distance

Flyers present at a graduation. Forgive them for their

            Exhaustion. Come August and they’ll depart for new lands.

                        They’ll take their provisions and fly northward, as the

                                    Migrants do, as the vagabonds and stragglers

                                                                        All come and go; the species

                                                                                                That always leaves. 

Lila Goldin

1. Where did you come from? 

I come from my mother & father in Atlanta & grandmother’s childhood home
In Costa Rica & the salted snow of Poland & the march. 

My brother’s golden horn & brother’s tattered bookmark
& prestigious colleges & pressure
& doctors & their father’s doctors before them.  

A black poodle & the Berkshires & Lake Ashmere
& a trip to the homeland & plastic Polly Pockets in my toddler-sized purse &
a seafoam-eyed girl I wish I’d met sooner. 

I come from generations of wanderers & embroidered hearts and stars
& pink pancakes that spell my name on a May morning.

2. Do you understand who you are?

 I understand what it means to be wrong—
Albeit I hate the feeling
My grubby hands grasping for a sewing needle
in the cracks of a cobblestone floor
to stitch a wound of my own creation. 

Through the clear water—
I’ve felt the collapsing of lungs on the
bottom of the swimming pool.

I do not understand a lack of trust in others—
Something I hope one day I will know
For my own naivety is a nemesis
as much as the liars. 

3. Do you know what you will become?

I know math & chemistry & world history
I can read & write & pray
I can lucid dream & sin & repent
I can lie & cover up the lies with thinly sliced band-aids
I know how to cry without smudging mascara & how to read eyes
I make decisions & sometimes (many times) they are the wrong ones
Even though I believe I’m always right 

I know I can think of death’s cold kiss & wish away the thoughts
& tell myself I never thought of them in the first place.

Aarushi Gupta

After Urvashi Bahuguna

Praise a man, whose first instinct,

            is to cauterize metal. Praise his iron,

                        held as carefully as a paintbrush,

                                    white knuckles so close to heat

                                                all in the name of tinkering.

Praise focus—way I coax my pupils to align,

            so two fathers become one, way the pill

                        in the top left cabinet pours molten

silver over my neurons. Praise

a fire who likes its games,

cobalt flame curling around the clasp one moment,

            and fingers the next. Praise the woman who worships

at the repair shop altar, who sees fire in everything:

        chains linking hands like children,

girl leaning over with torch clasped like a prayer.

even this poem, a piece of kindling.

Victor Huang

i.
Yelling.
Parents yell,
Children yell,
Yelling so loud like thunder,
You curl under layers of blankets with a pillow over your head,
Drowning screams which swallow you whole.
Each word coming out of your mouth,
Each tooth grinding in its jaw,
As the beast chews you up,
You lay there severely disfigured,
Painfully dissolving inside the beast’s stomach. 

ii.
Tension.
Everyone is on edge,
One little mistake and the rubber band snaps,
The yelling starts again,
Stairs creak under stomping,
Cups break,
Chairs break,
Doors slam,
Our entire house is destroyed. 

iii.
Silence.
Our house becomes so quiet
As a spider crawls into the darkness of our home,
You can hear wooden boards creak down the hallway,
Water rushing from the bathroom sink
As Mom splashes her swollen eyes to wash
Tears of anger, anxiety, and sadness away. 

iv.
Peace.
Like a freshly bloomed lily,
Like waking after dreams of a turbulent storm,
A family at peace can breathe and grow.

Other Honorable Mentions (Poetry)

Cathleen Balid

Today the children watch Mari’s face light up from the fire, her fingers charred with burnt corn kernels. She sucks a bite and laughs, lips pinked with warmth. Then she returns the sweet corn to be burned again. The children­—bony-legged Jon Jon, shy Lala, and Luis with the plastic soccer ball tucked between his legs—sit enraptured by the scent, or maybe by her, because Mari, at sixteen, is the type of person who knows exactly what she wants to do in life. Long hair playing in the wind, Mari is firm, kind, immutable.

We live in a province that bends along the bed of a gray stream, our houses colorful against the sticky canopy of leaves. Mari tells me we paint our houses lantern orange because we want them to be beautiful in spite of the fact that they are dead and wooden, cracked open and sloping inwards. She tells me that our houses are not really houses; when she points to her book, the page yellowed like a blade of sun, she shows me houses that are straight and evenly lined, like teeth.

“But where will you find that?” I question. I kick a pebble into the stream, watching it tremble and disappear silently. There is a small satisfaction, I think, in the hard kick of something so small, in something so wide and fluid.

“I don’t know,” Mari answers. She clutches her old book to her chest. “I’ll go to Saudi, siguro. Or America.”

The water is smooth and blank before us, and I wrinkle my nose. The pebble is gone now. “Just for the straight houses?”

“No, for the idea, Kit.” Her voice is soft. “The idea.”

#

Mari is our class representative by day and a vendor at night. She wears her crisp white uniform in school, her shoes glossy from Old Navy, and she shakes her head at my untied shoelaces and crumpled blue skirt. She discusses the attendance with the teacher, distant behind her pale, ironed laugh. It is only in the night, her mascara clumped and illuminated by the fire, that she becomes alive and touchable. In the night, I squeeze the kernels behind my teeth and Mari laughs at the thin, burned stick in my fingers: here, stars point-tipped against the fabric of the sky, there is only us, our faces bright and close together.

Mari tells me that she is a vendor because of Manong Pedro and Manang Marilyn. “To pay them back,” she explains. She is the daughter of a fractured house, and where there were cracks, they used themselves, bone and skin and spittle. “I need the money to help them.”

“But then how will you go to America?”

The air stifles. Mari is quiet. She only turns over the corn, pressing absently or maybe vehemently, until it is dark and discolored. “We can’t sell this anymore,” she responds simply. Then, she goes off to find a plastic bag.

#

In this province of crinkled wood and dirty bitter water, Mari hates the smoke. She wrinkles her nose at the tacky, sluggish traysikels, their metal wheels powdered with dust and grass, and she hides behind the wrinkled spines of her books. Mari’s face becomes softer when she reads, dreamy, without any of the hard cracks along her eyes. When I tell her this, she smiles. She says it is because in her imagination, she is in a world that is lined and pristine and perfect.

“What about you, Kit?” she asks me intently. “What is your dream?”

I unbraid my hair and smile without my lips. I don’t tell her that I don’t have a dream: that my dream is the runny gray water and the sugary burnt corn and the broken, tired houses, and Mari beside me. That when I see her read, I hate her, sometimes, because she is there and not here, because she has already left us.

#

In this province, Mari has always loved the children. She feeds the infant Paulita and wipes the sweat off the restless running boys, leans into the girls who have no mothers, the ones who curl themselves into their hair. Mari is a bending, redactive force; with the children, she holds the sticks firmly and elaborately. Sometimes she turns to me, eyes softened, buttery.

Soot-faced, the children call Mari beautiful adjectives like matalino and maganda. All innocent smiles, they do not see the fissures in the province, and maybe they are all the better for it. They taste the sweetness of corn, of gusts of wind in glops of heat, and they laugh freely with their round, marble eyes. When I look at Mari, I think that once we were like them, our laughs evaporating from our mouths. Sometimes, we are still like them. At sixteen, we dream and wish like children: deeply, stupidly, completely.

#

Today, we sell our corn again. Our throats run red from screaming, marketing, fingering shiny copper coins, and slipping them into our pockets. As the afternoon slides into night, the province dims and my voice quiets. Mari is tireless as I sink down, the fire burned to a low crackle, the boys playing basketball with their jagged legs and snapping wrists. Mari is tireless, and I wrestle with the night: how Mari is bright, and beautiful, and incomplete. How she flickers in this damp night, how I desperately stay still.

Mari glances at me, ruddy, sweat-stained. She curves our faces together, her breath sugary with sweet corn, and pushes my cheeks up with her hot fingers. “There.” She smiles, satisfied, and I remember that Mari is kind, always kind. In her steady eyes it is easy to dream about what she could be, if she was not in this province, in this country.

I bridge my fingers with hers and breathe in the smoke. Here, tonight, Mari is beside me, selling corn. Her past is bent and refracted, her future slippery and crackling. Her lit figure only a small, burning kernel in this wide, uncertain world.

Maayan Ram

It woke up to the sound of PIPPA’s gentle humming noise, soft and gentle, like that of a sleeping human. Sleepily it yawned, revealing rows of sharp white teeth yet untouched by the yellow of age, and stretched its limbs. The coolness of the air sent goosebumps across its pinkish skin, the fur sparsely decorating each delicate arm standing on edge.

Sensing its movement, PIPPA came to life. The computer made a terse clicking noise, a sound similar to a human sucking in air through their teeth, and the lights slowly came on.

“Welcome, s–subject B–B36NV77264ZIL.”

“Welcome, PIPPA,” it said, sighing. “I’m tired. Is there any food left?”

Machinery whirred and hummed as PIPPA paused—whether it was to think about the question, or for another reason altogether, it did not know. Eventually, the familiar stutter filled the room again. “Y–yes, B36NV77264ZIL.”

The thick smell of spoiled meat filled the air as a thin bowl retracted from the floor. It groaned.

“PIPPA! That does not count as food.” Glaring at the wall of rusting chrome pipes, it got up and padded across the room, away from the pungent stink. Its claws clinked against the smooth white floor, the perfectly arranged hexagonal tiles—each bisected by jagged cracks—shining in the artificial light.

“I am sorry, B36NV77264ZIL. I will adjust my code.”

You do that, it thought morosely, knowing that PIPPA never had enough space in that miniscule, oil-stained hard drive. The computer had been meant for observation, not interaction. PIPPA would record its actions and send them to Head Scientist Rii, where they would be uploaded into the database—but that was the limit of its computational power.

Head Scientist Rii…once, she’d come into its room to check on a malfunctioning drone. She’d been so kind and gentle…when she had left, it felt as if all the light had gone with her.

“Y-you m-must eat, B36NV77264ZIL. You are too small,” PIPPA said, seeming almost nervous. The bowl retreated into the floor yet again, immediately replaced by a plate, almost indistinguishable from the other, containing a liquid that smelled strongly of boiled leather. It dipped its snout within the dish, aware of the cameras glaring at it, and let a tentative lick. It tasted like watery soup, but it wasn’t too bad.

At least PIPPA’s RAM worked fine.

“A healthy diet is essential to growth,” the computer intoned behind it. The worry—or, at least, whatever attempt at worry a machine could muster—was thick in its voice.

It knew that it was unusually small, even when so young. Hundreds of its kind had lived and died before it, in this laboratory. In a clean white place designed to house and study its kind, where they could live their longest, most peaceful lives, free of disease and worry. They were recorded in the database, where it could view them at its pleasure; where it could look at the shimmering images, of varks smiling at the camera, pressed against the flag of Exarth hung behind them, on the tallest post in the Great Room.

It had barely reached the edges of the flag when they had taken its picture—for the archives, they’d said. It thought morosely of future varks viewing as it struggled to touch the flag, to emulate all the other varks before it. The supervisors who’d taken the picture had looked at it with disdain, noting the small stature, the wiry frame, the characteristically large eyes and thin snout. They started speaking in their low, rumbling tongue.

They hadn’t known it could listen. One of them—a tall, muscled one with gray-streaked hair—had sighed, looked at it, and muttered a terse “porkling.”

And it had suddenly felt extremely, unjustifiably angry with the world. The world outside this laboratory, which viewed all the varks as nothing more than that vile term. PIPPA had felt more humane than them, that stuttering, malfunctioning machine with its broken hard drive. It was cold and calculating and had never treated it in any way other than a professional manner.

But…

PIPPA never called it porkling, or carted it off to be killed. The computer was, in its own way, kind, keeping it happy, well-fed, unhurt. Which was its job, of course, but the world was not paid to hate the varks, and yet it did.

Yet it did.

“B–B36NV77264ZIL. Please move away from the door,” intoned PIPPA. “S–subject A–A5NV4642NULL, please enter the room.”

It got up, surprised, and moved obediently away from the door. There was a click of machinery, and the smooth white wall slid aside, opening up into the hallway it knew so well. Except…there was something new there.

Another vark.

It reared its head back in surprise as the vark entered the room. The newcomer was hunched over, with rheumy eyes and wrinkled skin. Old.

But…varks never got old. They could never live long enough to get old. It tried not to show its confusion as the strange vark padded over to him.

“Null,” it said, and held out a thin, pale limb. There was a scattering of dark stains over it, like the vark had showered in oil, but there was no scent to its wrinkled skin. Null had a jagged scar running across one milky eye, it could see.

When it did not answer, the vark snorted impatiently. “What is your name?”

“We subjects don’t have names,” it said carefully. Was the old vark mad? It had once read of how old age affected humans. Perhaps this was how it looked.

“Listen to yourself, little porkling,” Null snorted. “Subjects. We are meat and nothing more. Subjects…hah! How they brainwash our young now.”

“Excuse me?” it asked, heat rising to its cheeks.

The vark rolled its eyes. “We are not here to be studied, little subject. We have never, ever been.”

This vark is mad, it thought. They have sent me a mad companion…for what? Is this a test?

“Oh, dear little porkling. You still trust them,” chuckled Null. “They have killed so many of us, oh so many, and yet you still trust them? These…magical scientists who house us and study our kind…for nothing? Not so many of us remain that are still so…naive. Helpless.” The elder looked amused, eyes resting on its weak, small limbs.

It lowered its head, embarrassed. “Leave me alone,” it whispered.

But Null continued. “I have heard of you. The loyal, precocious little porkling. So happy. So intelligent. So…small.”

“Leave me alone,” it repeated, but its voice was barely a whisper.

“I’m disappointed. You had such great praise. But at the end of the day, we are all still porklings. The only difference is that I will still live when you die.”

“How do you know that?” it said softly, looking up at the elder. It could sense how much the other believed in those words; it had said them with much conviction, yet they were tinged in sadness.

Null shook its head sadly. “I know nothing but that I am still alive, and I remain alive. My skin wrinkles, but I am still strong, while my children and grandchildren grow pale and sickly, the final signs of the vark life cycle—or so we’ve been told.” It laughed a laugh full of irony. “It could easily be some sort of poison, administered through our food, or through the injections of antibiotics they so eagerly insist we take.”

“But for what reason?”

The old vark grinned. “Think.”

And it thought…

All varks knew of the Deal. When humans had first realized what they were, how they could think and speak just as they did, the two species had made the Deal, and the varks were protected.

But…then, a few years later, the humans added the Clause: when the varks died, their bodies would be donated, so that they could feed starving humans.

“Porklings are very nutritious,” the vark said bitterly. “So, so very nutritious…cheaply produced, too. There was only one moral problem: we are conscious. Not only that, but we speak. The humans needed to get past that tiny little obstacle, and this laboratory was the answer. That clause.”

“It is quite moral to donate your body after death,” it said, irritated. To even suggest that the scientists, who created PIPPA, were anything other than kind and caring—!

“And after that little problem,” sang Null, ignoring it, “there was another one. Because when any delicious little animal dies of old age, their flesh is tough and their meat spoils quickly. So the scientists devised another clever little plan…”

“Stop talking!” it hissed, getting up and walking over to the other side of the room. It suddenly felt incredibly claustrophobic, trapped in this room, with this mad old vark.

“Haven’t you ever wondered why the life of a porkling is so very short?” The elder grinned maliciously. “Haven’t you ever thought, why do they never attempt to make us live longer?”

Null leaned forward, an awful smirk on its face. “It’s because we’re being poisoned.”

It laughed at the elder. “Ha! Is this what you are trying to convince me of? Of—of this treason? The scientists would never harm us, much less poison us. And for what reason?”

“For food. For greed. What else do humans need?” The vark sighed. “I do not know why I am alive. Perhaps I have some inherent immunity to the poison they feed us.”

“That’s presumptuous. You don’t know anything—you’re just guessing!” it protested.

The elder vark hissed, “Look around! We’re stuck in this small, useless lab, never allowed to see the outside. The humans monitor our bodies and our every movement, making sure that we never want to leave—that we never think of leaving. And yet, despite their promises of studying our kind, not once have they done anything more than ‘take samples.’ Open your eyes! We’re being raised to be slaughtered, one by one, and eaten by the human masters you so love!”

They are not our masters, it wanted to say, but instead kept silent. Because something about what the elder was saying reverberated with it; deep inside its mind, it knew something about what the other said was right.

“I need to think,” it said instead, and curled up in its corner. PIPPA hummed and increased the temperature to the dry, hot heat that the computer knew it loved, and it closed its eyes in appreciation.

Null looked at it with sadness, and gently sank to the floor. “Very well. But know that when you wake up, I will still be there. Just in case you were hoping,” it added.

It said nothing in reply. What was there to say?

When PIPPA roused it for its afternoon studies, the elder was sound asleep. It looked at the vark and felt a throb of something like sympathy, but it shook its head and left the room. Padding through the stainless steel hallways, fellow varks looming calmly over it as their own PIPPAs chittered through the shining, many-limbed drones circling them overhead. The varks had built a community within the Lab, where trust was currency and every vark lived for the moment.

How could they not when death loomed over them, a reminder of their short lives?

The scientists always knew who was sick and who wasn’t. They would find them, isolate them, even before the vark knew itself.

Some chose to live the remainder of their short lives in peace, within the walls of the Lab. Some asked to leave, visit the world right before their death.

Others asked for death, quick and painless.

Of all the things, that was never granted. The scientists had sworn to never harm the varks, willingly or unwillingly. And so they never did.

It thought of Null’s words and was suddenly angry. They had sworn. How could they be poisoning the varks if they swore?

“Please return to your quarters,” PIPPA droned. “Please return to your quarters. This is Code Five(A92). Please return to your quarters.”

A breach of the outer shell, it thought worriedly. What had occurred?

Instead of voicing its concerns, however, it followed PIPPA’s drone back to the cubical. Its stomach felt cramped and its chest tight; it would not be able to eat tonight.

The cubicle door slid aside to reveal Null, leaning against the wall in wait. “Welcome back, porkling.” The older vark smirked, revealing teeth yellowed with age.

“I told you to leave me alone,” it snapped back, deliberately moving to the other side of the cubicle to get away from the overwhelming aura of the elder.

Null sighed, looking pained. “That I cannot do. What can I say to convince you of the lies of the Lab? We are living a hell. Don’t you wish that your life was not limited to a decade at most?”

“Of course I wish that!” it shouted, chest heaving. “Everyone wishes that! But it’s hopeless. We’re trapped.”

“But what if I told you that we can escape?” the elder asked softly.

There was something about its tone of voice…

“You,” it breathed. “You breached the wall. You’re the reason the alarm is on.”

“Don’t speak so loudly!” Null hissed. Then it smiled proudly. “But yes. I did. We can finally be free of this place!”

“But–”

“Don’t you want to see the world? To explore, unconcerned? Think of this as an early holiday.”

It sighed. “This place is the only home I’ve ever had. How could I leave it?”

“Through a tunnel.” The elder vark turned to one of the white walls of the cubicle and began tapping it gently. “Your little room is the closest to the edge. It took much convincing to get myself transferred here—but, then again, I am an old vark. This was my dying plea. As if I’d die before I leave this place.” It snorted, amused with itself.

“You wanted to come here?”

“You intrigued me. An especially small, intelligent vark. I knew you would be forced to accept the truth, sooner or later.”

“I’m not sure if I believe it still,” it admitted. “But…I’d like to see the world.”

“An intelligent reply,” stated Null, grinning. It tapped the wall again and, seemingly satisfied, dug its claws into the white material.

And the wall gave way. Behind was a tunnel about the width and height of a vark, crudely carved from the solid, pale material of the Lab. It was a gash, a wound, an open sore standing out against the orderly, perfect arrangement of tiles in the cell; when it peered into the hole, searching for the exit, it seemed as if the cramped tunnel would stretch on forever, a lightless entrance to freedom.

“Took all night and all day, but I had a shovel,” the elder said proudly.

“A shovel?”

“Human tool,” it explained. Smiling, the vark held out its hand. “Let us do introductions again. I am Null.”

It placed its hand in the other’s. “I am…Zill,” Zill said.

Null grinned widely. “Nice to meet you, fellow porkling. Now, let’s escape this wretched place, all right?”

The walls began to whirr, the usually comforting click and clack of PIPPA’s presence suddenly turning urgent, threatening.

“No,” PIPPA said, with something that sounded almost like desperation. “You cannot leave. Y-you are subjects, you are not allowed to leave, t-this is an outright breach of clause 2(a)–” The computer paused, machinery clicking, and made a noise that was identical to that of a human taking a deep breath. When it spoke again, its voice was hollow and emotionless. “You c-cannot leave.”

“We must go,” Null hissed, pulling on Zill’s hand. It darted through the hole in the wall, beckoning to the smaller vark with a wrinkled paw.

Zill hesitated. Even after the hole had been revealed, the road to freedom placed right under its nose, it had felt like some strange daydream. And yet it was now faced with the facts, that it could have the freedom it so yearned for—

“Do not l-leave. You w-will be killed,” PIPPA intoned, dead voice reverberating through the small room. A drone detached from the wall, beeping intensely.

Null’s face paled. “Come on, Zill!”

Its face twisted in desperation and anguish. “I can’t! I can’t! I’m not prepared for this! We have to plan—to get food, supplies, anything!”

“We don’t have time! We have to go now!” Null shouted. The thrum of the drone’s engine increased as it hovered over the two varks, the hiss of steam emerging from its exhaust as it began to beep aggressively. They could hear PIPPA clicking and stuttering as its voice suddenly boomed intensely, echoing across the laboratory.

“Code r-red in Hallway 885. I repeat, c-code red in Hallway 885. S-subjects B36NV77264ZIL and A–A5NV4642NULL have breached the inner wall.”

I have no choice now, Zill thought. I will never be given this chance again. I have to go! It took one last desperate look at the laboratory and darted into the hole, where Null was waiting with a pained but relieved expression.

“You’ve made the right choice,” it said, offering a reassuring smile. The elder placed a stained limb on the smaller vark’s shoulder and squeezed it kindly.

“Thank you,” Zill said quickly, smiling in return. Then its brow furrowed. “Where does this tunnel lead?”

Null gestured vaguely. “To freedom.”

“To freedom,” the younger vark repeated softly.

They inched through the tunnel, with Zill at the front. Its small size had become an advantage in the cramped burrow, allowing it to sprint ahead of the older, larger vark. The tunnel itself was impossible to see in, and its crude making meant that the two subjects often stumbled over a fallen pile of plaster. They had no measure of time; hours could have passed during the long crawl through the burrow.

And, at last, Zill saw an end. “Null! Null!” it exclaimed, blinking as its eyes watered from the sudden burst of light.

The two rushed out of the tunnel. They emerged into a field of grass; each blade was as long as a vark’s frontal limb, and waved in the wind ever so gently.

In the wind! The young vark had never felt such a thing. It was strikingly cold, and each breath of unfiltered air Zill took, the wind stabbed cold shards of glass violently into its throat. Behind them stood the Lab, a blindingly white dome that loomed above them. Immediately, the two felt uneasy in its shadow; it was a reminder that their troubles were not done. A reminder that, though this field of grass was so new and exciting, it was still on the premises of the Lab.

And yet they had such hope. A hope for the future, for what this world could bring them. It was impossible not to dream; that, at the very least, they shared with the humans that trapped them.

“I can’t believe this,” the elder murmured. “We’re outside. We’re nearly free!”

“N-Not yet,” PIPPA said. Its voice echoed through the field, low and threatening, as the drone descended from the sky and hovered above the two varks. Already its monitor was beeping gently, a warning of the hundreds of drones that would soon swarm the sky. Porklings never escaped the Lab. “I warned you, s-subject A5NV4642NULL.” There was a terrible sound, and two long, metallic arms extended from its small body, reaching for the two varks.

Null pushed Zill forward. “Go! I’ll be right behind you.”

The smaller vark hesitated but, looking at Null’s determined expression, nodded and sped ahead, leaping into the air—

—only to be stopped, suddenly, as a metallic gray arm shot through the air and pierced into the small, pink-gray body, crushing it. The little vark let out a soft whimper, and fell silent.

And then Null was alone.

PIPPA’s bladed arm hovered over the vark as the drone narrowed its glowing red eyes. Its stutter grew more rapid, though even that could not hide the malice in its voice, so filled with disgust that it made Null’s fur stand up on its end. “It is a-all your fault.”

“No. It is yours,” Null said, and its voice was surprisingly calm. Perhaps, having run away from death for so long, facing it was no longer terrifying. “You killed Zill.”

“Had we not t-told you that this would be your f-final time? That, if you were t-to try this again, you would be n-neutralized? The Lab is a d-delicately balanced thing, and you have upset it for t-too long, subject.”

“You can’t kill me,” the old vark laughed. “You’ll have to feed my old, leathery body to some humans, and they won’t be pleased at all.”

PIPPA did not hesitate. “It does not m-matter. It is common for varks to l-look or t-taste strange.”

“Of course,” Null said, and laughed again, because it could do nothing else.

“Why do you d-do this, s-subject? You h-have a long and r-rich life, and a-all your wishes are g-granted.”

Would this be its confession? Its final words, permitted by the oh-so-kind scientists of the Lab? Zill had never been granted such a right; for the little vark, at least, Null would make its words last.

The vark smiled bitterly as it replied, “For the world we never knew. For the lives you have taken.” But as the words left its mouth, they felt hollow. Empty of meaning. Bravery meant nothing in the face of PIPPA, in the face of the Lab–it had attempted to escape, yet again, and failed. A few futile words would not save it from its fate.

The drone shook its small head and let out a long, mechanical sigh. The action had no emotion to it; it was code, performed like an actor on a stage, as if reciting lines that it didn’t truly believe in. For whose sake was it? Null’s? Or was it for the human scientists, watching through the drone’s little camera? “We p-pity you, s-subject. You are old and frail, and you do nothing but c-corrupt our d-delicately balanced Lab. You have attempted escape three times, v-violating clause 2(a) and 5(c).”

But the drone could only fake pity, just like its artificial exhale. “So what will you do? Kill me?”

“Yes.”

The metallic arm shot out and pierced through Null’s chest. The old vark let out a final, wheezing breath as the drone’s fingers, sharp as blades on each metal-plated tip, withdrew from the caved-in rib cage, dripping purplish blood.

It took one last look at the wrinkled, crumpled mass nestled in the waving grass and clicked its annoyance at the stain of violet fluid on its clean, white body.

“Porkling,” PIPPA spat, disgusted, and flew away.

Allison Xu

It had never occurred to me that one day I would be working in Cheng’s Dumpling Bistro. I’ve dined there plenty of times, and the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Cheng, are my father’s close friends. But even then, the idea of serving as a waitress and interacting with customers was unthinkable to me.

Yet, here I am, clad in a white uniform with a beaming dumpling logo embroidered over the top pocket, standing behind the front counter with a stack of vinyl-bound menus on one side and a twelve-inch bronze Cai Shen statue on the other.

Mr. and Mrs. Cheng, both in their mid-fifties, started the bistro when they immigrated to America thirty years ago. They work hard all day long, wrapping dumplings, taking orders, and answering calls. Their business ran well until the outbreak of Covid-19, which first forced them to shut down and later limited their service to only takeout and delivery. When the county allowed in-person dining, they needed a helper, and my father recommended me.

It happens to be my summer break. My father thought that after I had been hibernating in my bedroom and taking online courses for the whole freshman year of college, it would be good for me to step out into the real world. At first, I frowned at his proposal. But he then mentioned the mask policy—as a waitress, I would be required to wear a mask all the time.

Wearing a mask doesn’t bother me, and it even comes as a relief to me. Preventing virus spread is only part of the reason. To me, wearing a mask means less exposure, less judgment, sporting a shield over imperfect features, awkward expressions, or vulnerable feelings. So I agreed with his suggestion.

Cheng's Dumpling Bistro is in the Asian plaza, tucked between a bubble tea shop and a pho restaurant. It’s a small place, eight walnut tables arranged neatly across the honey-colored hardwood floor, simple white walls decorated with framed paintings of bamboo.

Today is my first day working in this restaurant, with a shift of three to nine p.m. Even though it has already passed seven o’clock, the restaurant is empty. Occasionally, one or two people enter to pick up an order made through Uber Eats or DoorDash, then hurry away to their cars. I guess most people aren’t ready for dining in yet.

The first dine-in customers are an Asian woman with a ponytail and a fair-skinned man with curly hair, both in their early twenties. They take a seat in a booth near the window. I can tell it’s the man’s first time at the restaurant by the way he keeps looking at the woman for guidance on what to order.

“Their dumplings are the best in town,” she says to the man, who seems to be her boyfriend. Her English has a slight Chinese accent. He nods and looks at her with amusement.

They order two plates of dumplings, one scallop and pork, and one vegetable with egg. I jot down their order and compliment them on the excellent choices. The woman looks at me appreciatively.

Their dumplings are ready in twenty minutes. I set the plates on the center of the table, the bulging, translucent surface of the dumplings glimmering an attractive shimmer. The steaming food looks much more appetizing on blue-and-white porcelain plates than in plastic-lidded to-go boxes.

When I’m back to the front counter, I busy myself with filling condiment cups with vinegar and soy sauce, while sneaking a few peeks at the couple. The woman is teaching the man how to use chopsticks. His fingers twist awkwardly to pick up a dumpling, which slips out of his grip several times. When he finally ferries one gingerly to his mouth, she cheers for him, and they both chuckle. They look content, happy, in love.

A few more customers dine in. More delivery orders arrive. I’m a little overwhelmed, but I find myself enjoying the feeling of being busy, among people.

#

I’ve been working in Cheng’s restaurant for three days now. I’ve memorized all the dumplings on the menu and can answer all kinds of questions about ingredients and flavors.

Before dinner hours, when no customers are inside yet, I edge open a corner of the curtain that divides the kitchen and the dining space and watch Mr. and Mrs. Cheng make dumplings. On a long oval-shaped table Mr. Cheng rolls small balls of dough, which swiftly spin and expand into flat round wrappers under a wooden roller. On the other end of the table, Mrs. Cheng sets a dumpling wrapper in her palm and places a tablespoon of filling in the middle, pinching closed the rim with her fingertips as if creating a delicate artwork. They work quietly and collectedly. I lift my mask slightly and catch a whiff of the mingled smells of chives, seafood, sesame oil, and many other ingredients.

My mother once taught me how to make dumplings. “The best part of making dumplings is that the whole family can sit together and work together,” she said. I only know some basics and my dumplings are misshapen and hardly stand, but the feeling of working together is beautiful.

The door swings open, bringing me back to the present. An Asian-looking young man in a black polo shirt paces in. “One person,” he says. I usher him to a small table and bring him a menu.

He flips open the menu and points at the pork and squash dumpling without giving it any thought. “Anything else?” I ask.

“No, thank you,” he says while taking off his mask. He has a handsome face with a well-defined jawline and long dark eyes. He looks up at me and asks, “Are you new here?”

“Yes, my first week.” I collect the menu from his hand.

“I ask because I work in the bubble tea store next door, and I’ve never seen you around,” he adds. “I’m Mason, by the way.”

I notice the small orange-colored “Musing Star Tea” printed on his t-shirt.

“I’m Flora. I’m just working here this summer until college starts.”

“You’re a college student? Me too.” He grins, a dimple in his right cheek.

A group of customers file in, so I excuse myself and walk away to greet them.

Soon I’m well-occupied with customers, and Mrs. Cheng helps me handle delivery orders. As I cruise among the tables with trays, I peer at Mason, who is savoring the dumplings with red pepper dipping sauce. As if he has sensed my glance, he turns his head in my direction and our eyes meet. I smile awkwardly and avert my head in a hurry.

#

Mrs. Cheng says I’m good with customers and picking things up quickly. She shows me how to make good-looking dumplings. I never knew dumplings could have so many shapes: money sack, yuanbao ingot, ear of wheat, half moon. I don’t have nimble fingers like hers, but I can finally make dumplings that stand, which is enough to make me proud the whole day.

Mason comes a couple of times a week, usually before the busy dining hours, and orders the same dumplings every time. He tells me he’s a rising senior studying psychology at a local college and plans to go to medical school. He is excited to learn that I major in creative writing.

“Do you write poetry?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Only a little. I like to write historical fiction.”

“That’s cool.” His black eyes twinkle. “One day I’ll see your books on Amazon.”

“Hope so.”

He takes out a mini bubble tea keychain from his pants pocket and hands it to me. “We have free keychains to give out. I got one for you.”

I hoop the keychain on my index finger and let the tiny cup dangle with colorful sparks. “Thank you. It’s cute.”

“You should come to have bubble tea sometime. We have tons of flavors to choose from.” He sounds like a salesperson. “You can step out for a few minutes, take off the mask, and get some fresh air.”

I nod without comment.

When he leaves, I toy with the keychain in my palm, thinking about Mason’s words about taking off the mask for fresh air. I walk into the restroom and look at myself in the mirror. Above the blue mask, my almond-shaped eyes are large and bright, a gift of beauty inherited from my mother. My hand eases to my cheek and rests there for a moment. A tinge of pain seems to tingle underneath the fabric. A knot of sorrow twists my heart, and I withdraw my hand to my tightened chest.

#

People come to eat dumplings for different purposes. Some need a quick meal, some want to explore authentic Chinese food, and others are here to remember their culture and identities.

On the square table in the center, a Chinese American woman is having a plate of boiled dumplings and a basket of xiao long bao with her young daughter, who’s around seven years old and wears a pink polka dot dress. The girl kneels on the chair and sucks the soup out of a xiao long bao in a spoon she’s holding.

“It tastes good,” she says and bites into the juicy meatball inside the soft wrapper. “Should I dip it in a sauce?” She points to the dispensing bottles at the end of the table.

Her mother looks at her with a frown. “说中文,” she asks her to speak in Chinese.      

The girl pouts and switches to Chinese, which is less fluent and carries an American accent.

“Chinese is your mother tongue,” her mother says. “Practice speaking it every day.”

When the girl uses a fork to pick up a dumpling, the mother asks her to use chopsticks. The girl whines and says chopsticks are hard to use.

I used to be like that. My mother always asked me to speak more Chinese so I could learn more about my own culture and communicate with my relatives when visiting my hometown in China. She took me to Chinese school every Sunday, but I read English books or drew cartoons in the class. Now, I only know limited Chinese and can’t read or write characters beyond the most basic ones, to my regret.

#

I had a dream at night in which I was in the backseat of a car that bumped and swerved on a country road. “Flora, sit tight!” my mother shrieked from the driver’s seat. The car suddenly flew off the track and rolled down the hill, my head slamming against the ceiling, blood flooding into my eyes.

I scream awake and bolt up from the bed. The morning sunlight slips through the shutters and spills into my quiet bedroom. I heave ragged breaths, wiping off the tears weaving down my cheeks. My eyes flick to the framed photo on my nightstand, of my mother and me sitting on a picnic cloth in front of patches of red tulips. It was taken by my father on my twelfth birthday. In it, my mother’s lips stretch to a bright smile and the sun gleams on her long dark hair.

I stroke the picture and a sudden ache stabs my heart. My father rushes in, and I tell him I had the same nightmare again. He sits down on my bed and holds me in his arms. He has grown more wrinkles and gray hair since my mother’s death three years ago. I know he misses her as much as I do.

#

The time in the dumpling bistro allows me to stay away from my sorrowful reminiscence. I occupy myself with tasks I used to hate, like greeting customers, answering calls, and cleaning and tidying up the tables. I like the room full of customers, who relish the food, build connections, and talk about their day.

Mason comes more frequently. I can’t help asking him, “Why do you always order the same pork and squash dumplings?”

“The first time I came to eat here, I ordered this dumpling, and I liked it. Since then, I just kept ordering it.” He shrugs.

“But other fillings also taste good. You should try a different flavor next time.”

“Maybe.” His tone tells me he won’t.

#

In the blink of an eye, it’s already mid-August. Cheng’s Dumpling Bistro is nominated as one of the best Chinese restaurants in the area. This afternoon, a reporter from a local magazine interviews Mr. and Mrs. Cheng about how their restaurant has survived and thrived during the pandemic. A photographer shoots portraits of them holding a platter of steaming dumplings, smiles illuminating their wrinkled faces.

I lean against the kitchen door frame and watch them talk in accented English about their stories during the pandemic, from lack of cash flow to dining restrictions to staff shortages. But they always kept up hope and believed there would be a way out.

When the reporters leave, Mrs. Cheng asks me how they did answering the questions.

“Really good,” I reassure her. “Readers will love your stories.”

#

Dinnertime is busy tonight. When my shift is over, I rub my sore back and stretch my stiff shoulders. As I step out and scan the parking lot for my father’s car, I remember he has left for a business trip, so I need to take the subway home.

I stroll toward the nearest station. The night is crisp and cool. I unhook my mask and stuff it in my purse, inhaling a gulp of fresh air.

“Flora!” A voice from behind stops me. I turn around and see Mason striding toward me, excitement across his face.

“Just got off work too?” I ask, waiting for him to catch up.

“Yup.” He stops by my side. “I think this is my first time seeing you without a mask.”

His tone is casual, but the realization that I’m not wearing a mask makes my body freeze. My hand reaches up to my face. It’s too late. The yellow glow of streetlamps has already revealed the long, jagged scar running down my left cheek.

“Are you taking the subway too?” Mason asks. I nod and duck my head. We walk forward, side by side.

I quietly slip my hand into my purse and fish out the mask, hesitating whether I should put it on.

“Are you going to put on your mask again?” asks Mason, as if he has read my mind. “Your face is pretty without it.”

Heat rushes to my face. “Really?” My voice thins to a whisper. “But you probably saw the scar.”

“Yeah. But that doesn’t change anything.” His voice is warm.

“That’s nice of you,” I murmur, squeezing the mask in my hand. I feel an urge to share something that has been buried deep inside of me.

“About the scar…it’s from a car accident when I was sixteen.” I bite my lip, a lump clogging my throat. “I lost my mom in it. I survived with broken bones and scars like the one on my face.”

A few beats of silence fall. “It must’ve been very hard to tell me that. I’m sorry about your mother.” Mason’s voice turns solemn.

Tears sting my eyes. A breeze brushes my face, cooling my hot tears and burning cheeks.

We part at the subway station, taking different lines. “Text me when you get home,” Mason insists before heading to the open door of an arriving train.

#

Today is my last day working at Cheng’s Dumpling Bistro. In a couple of days, I’ll be flying to my college in another city. Mr. Cheng has hired another girl who will start tomorrow.

“Hope she can be half as good as you,” Mrs. Cheng says.

I smile. “I’ll miss you and Mr. Cheng. I’ve learned a lot here.”

“Come see us in the winter holidays.”

“Definitely.” I give her a hug.

When I leave the restaurant, I stop by the bubble tea store to say bye to Mason. I’ve passed by this shop so many times, but this is my first time stepping inside.

Mason is rinsing the shaker cups. He grins at me. “Give me a few seconds to close the store.”

I wait outside and sit on the concrete store step, taking off my mask. The bustling street is slowing down. The air bears a sweet fragrance of gardenias. I run my fingers across the scar, rough and bumpy, but no longer painful. My mind revolves around the past three months, the pleasant aroma, the wispy steam, the clinking of spoons and plates, and the feeling of liveliness.

Mason comes out and sits next to me. “So, your last day. Ready for in-person college?”

“Honestly, a little nervous.”

“You’ll be fine. College is a fun experience.”

“Good to know.”

Silence passes between us before Mason changes the topic.

“Before you leave, you want to know the real reason why I always order the same pork and squash dumplings?”

“Real reason?” I turn to him.

“I grew up with my grandmother. She often made pork and squash dumplings. She passed away two years ago.” He looks up, a wistful look in his gaze. “I thought I would never be able to eat those dumplings again until I found Cheng’s. The taste is the same and reminds me of her.”

A controlled sadness infuses his voice and tugs at me. I pat his arm lightly, imagining the bittersweetness he felt from the food attached to his past.

“You’re right. I should also try other dumpling flavors,” Mason says, peering at me, his tone lightening. “How about you? Started writing your historical fiction?”

“No, and not anytime soon. I have another story in mind, though.”

“Really? About what?”

I flash a smile, letting the answer simmer on my tongue before letting it out. “A dumpling bistro.”

Without another word, we both turn to look at Cheng’s bistro, which is closed and dark now, except for the beaming gold-plated dumpling logo gleaming in the moonlight.