[phoenixmsj]

EDITORIAL BOARD 2021 - 22

Editor-in-Chief: Yawen Xue Editor-in-Chair: Michelle Zhao Layout Editor: Angela Xiong Business Manager: Mingxin Wang Publicity/Events Manager: Shelley Li

Writing Editors: Shelley Li, Andria Luo, Joanne Park, Sakshi Umrotkar, Marissa Wang, Angela Xiong, Yawen Xue

Art Editors: Marissa Wang, Mingxin Wang, Michelle Zhao

Copy Editors: Serena Cai, Joanne Park, Lucy Yao

[phoenixmsj]

EDITORIAL BOARD 2020 - 21

Editor-in-Chief: Zainab Fatima Editor-in-Chair: Yawen Xue Layout Editor: Katherine Zhang Business Manager: Michelle Zhao Publicity/Events Manager: Aria Lakhmani

Writing Editors: Zainab Fatima, Aria Lakhmani, Shelly Li, Laura Ma, Tanisha Srivatsa, Ellie Tng, Sakshi Umrotkar, Angela Xiong, Yawen Xue

Art Editors: Julianna Dong, Jiahui Huang, Mingxin Wang, Selina Yang, Katherine Zhang, Michelle Zhao

Copy Editors: Laura Ma, Tanisha Srivatsa

[phoenixmsj]

MSJ ONLINE SPOTLIGHT #53

Prompt: Describe the most difficult adversity you have faced, and describe how you dealt with it. 

by anonymous

On my first day of high school, I started a notepad on my phone to track ‘inspo’. Quotes, lyrics, phrases, random lines I read through a bus window. Anything. This collection of notes became a way for me to track my mental health over the years. 

I began optimistic. “You give me the kind of feelings people write novels about.” But pretty soon, my notes began reflecting my increasingly chaotic headspace. “We’re all breathing borrowed air.” “is anyBODY HERE DOES ANYBODY HEAR?” Early in high school, I had tried so hard to control every aspect of my life that I stopped enjoying the things that brought me peace. I felt worthless and grew numb to failure instead of trying to grow from it. I lost my present by constantly worrying about the future. “What if who I hoped to be was always me?” I isolated myself emotionally, afraid that I would take out my pent up emotions on the people I loved. And even when all I needed was a break, I refused to take one, only sharpening my self-loathing. I had accepted exhaustion as a constant in my life. “Some nights we dance with tears in our eyes.”

Connecting with my brother was critical in escaping this negative mindset. I finally felt safe with someone I could unconditionally trust. I began opening up to more of my family and friends and realized just how many people had experienced the same chaos I had. Now, I’m much better at finding and appreciating the small moments in my day that keep me motivated. I can work hard without feeling like I always need to be tired and relax without feeling guilty after. “I wash the dirt off dancing in the rain.”

[phoenixmsj]

MSJ ONLINE SPOTLIGHT #51

step by step

by Jeslyn Wu, msj ‘22

T.W.: eating disorder

She blinks. The figure in the mirror blinks back at her. It’s definitely her in the reflection, with her straight long hair and slightly scarred chin. Still, Eliza hadn’t noticed just how much her thighs stuck out.

Her face screws up at this realization. Pulling off the sweatshirt, she turns back around in her bra and jeans to face herself again. She’s decently tall, and she’d always thought she was okay- she fit into 0 jeans and size xs-s clothes easily enough. But now, staring at her body, a feeling of unsettlement buries deeper into her mind. She pokes the slight roll around her tummy, the fat around her thighs, the cushion of her hips, and she wishes that she were made of the marzipan she had just rolled out. Then, she could remove the excess around her waist and stretch her legs thin. Huffing out a breath, she resolves to eat less- starting with her baking.

--

Bright blue numbers blink up at her. One one three... one one two... one one two. Six pounds. She’s lost six pounds in three weeks. Not nearly enough. She can still pinch her waist and thighs. Eliza looks into the mirror. She gazes at her full cheeks and wide face. Her eyes and mind still reel from the strain of today and this just makes it all worse.

She knows now that she is not the smartest, the most athletic, not even the nicest girl in school. Just average, just mediocre, that’s all she ever was. She can’t control her grades no matter how long she stares at her textbooks and she can’t call herself an artist with her mediocre sketches and photos. She’s spinning out of control- but she can control herself to become the thinnest.

This is something she can control. This is something she can do.

So the rules begin. Avoid breakfast at all costs. Don’t eat- just drink something first if you’re hungry. Only take one bite of something if you really want it. And never, ever, ever, eat more than 800 calories.

--

She bakes again one day and forgets to measure the calories of everything out. She’d stayed with smaller treats after last week’s weigh-in but now she’s finally made a large, wonderfully golden apple pie, packed full of sweet apples and flaky crust. Almost without realizing, she’s eaten most of the pie, just by breaking pieces of crust off and dipping it into the sweet filling. Her stomach feels suspiciously quiet, finally satiated for the first time in weeks. Her mind feels unsettled though, and immediately thinks of the small pink pills she’d bought last week. Laxatives. She’d been too scared to try them, but now is a good time. Without thinking, she retrieves the small packet hidden in her backpack and pops one small pill into her mouth, hoping for the best.

Forty minutes later, her stomach feels like it’s wrenching itself apart into pieces that drop out of her body in a flood. She gazes down at the remnants of her undigested snack with mixed emotions before flushing it and walking briskly out.

Ten minutes later, her stomach gurgles but it’s perfectly flat, satisfying her mind. Laxatives worked extremely well. Time to work them into the rules.

--

A month later, she realizes that she’d forgotten to eat the entire day. Her stomach digs a gnawing hole into her body, but she relishes each gurgle of her stomach as a sign she did something right.

Her head feels a little light and dizzy, but even in this haze, she’s happy. Because when she goes to step onto the cool metal, blue numbers tell her all she needs to know. She’s just under a hundred now, she’s making progress. She can feel her ribs, she can feel the tense muscles in her legs.

People seem to notice too- she’s basking in the glow of compliments over her lost weight. Still, the attention isn’t all good. Her grandparents scold her as usual, but their words have more of an edge to them. Friends have taken to telling her to eat more; apparently skipping lunch every day isn’t good. But she does eat! She’ll just have to be more careful how she appears to people.

--

Homecoming night the next year, and she collapses. She’s brought back to the cold hard bleacher underneath her and a swarm of people wondering why she’s lying down during the game. Hands brush over her forehead, but she feebly shakes them off.

Weakly, she protests being brought to the nurse. But it’s no use as three of her friends heft her up and hobble with her into the office.

There, they explain her collapse and recent lack of eating- their three expectant faces through the glass are the last thing she sees before she turns to answer the nurse’s questions. She’s not dumb, and she just shrugs and explains how a lack of water and excitement must have gotten to her.

The nurse, an older woman with glasses, peers at her over the glasses. Eliza doesn’t think she buys it, but she can’t do anything. So Eliza shrugs again, and repeats that she’s really fine.

On her way out, a brochure is pressed into her hand. When she starts to give it back, the nurse looks at her with a concerned look in her eyes. “Just look into it Eliza, I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Eliza’s more surprised that she knows her name than at the brochure’s contents, but Eliza remembers with a jolt how she had been at the nurse’s at least weekly to ask about how scars really formed and why a paper cut hurt so much more than bruising a knee. She assumes those early years when she’d been interested in things beside food had stayed with the nurse.

Shaking her head slightly, Eliza mumbles a thank you at the floor and shuffles out to meet her friends again.

When they look up at her with worried frowns, she just tosses a grin at them and starts for the door, asking if they have the updated score.

--

She is 16 and 91 pounds. She can wrap two fingers around her wrist and still have some room left to spare. Her arms and legs have nearly parallel sides and her stomach is more concave than anything now.

The rules aren’t enough anymore. Now, the only rule is to do as much as you can. Eat as little as possible. Exercise as much as possible. Take caffeine or laxatives if you’re in doubt.

Eliza has never felt more in control. She helps lead several clubes and her grades have improved. Most importantly, her body does what she wants it too and everyone notices. Other girls notice her, and stop to ask for her secrets. Boys stop for a second at her, even ones grades above her.

The dizziness, shaking, and instability? Those are just unfortunate side effects. Eliza can deal with them because the prize she’s won, personal satisfaction and public envy, is worth it.

--

When her research team goes to LA to present their findings, she’s ecstatic. A whole two weeks away from her family’s worried glances, school, and time to be free instead. They’re there to present, visit conferences, and tour the colleges, but the advisors have included time at the parks as well.

By now, a week of the trip has passed, a week full of malls, campuses, and sun. But not food.

Nearly midnight in the Parks finds Eliza blinking against a ringing in her ears and the disappearance of light in her vision. Conversation about the last ride abruptly stops as Eliza pitches wildly forward, buckling on her left leg. Voices crowd her even as Eliza shakes her head, set on snapping out of this in a moment.

She shakes her head once but it veers her off balance onto her buckling leg. In the middle of the ride exit, Eliza crashes out cold, slumping against the garishly colorful amusement park’s walls.

--

Eliza does not regain full consciousness for another two hours.

After she passed out, her friends tried in vain to revive her with cold water, slight pinches, and slaps. Amidst tears, the director of the program is called, and it’s to all their surprises when Eliza becomes coherent enough to mumble a plea to not call her parents. She’s asked again and again, but she repeats it again and again and in the end, only the park medic is brought.

Back in their hotel room, Eliza feels as if she’s watching what happened from someplace outside her body as her friends shakily retell the story. She can envision her motionless body, she can envision the scene.

It’s the thought of her parents that starts to make her sit up straight. The looks on their faces when she began refusing second servings, then began to stop even finishing first servings. The unreadable looks they gave each other when she left to work out for the second time in a day.

And, most importantly, her own face when she began.

Their hotel room is on the seventeenth floor. All three other girls in the room stand with her outside as she drops her laxative packets over the balcony to fall down down down before landing somewhere in the lush fake green landscaping.

They finally get back into bed at two am. But Eliza is kept awake for far longer thinking how she really almost died, how her body really feels, how she really feels.

--

Recovery by herself is not easy. It is too easy to slip back into not eating, not caring what her body says. So two weeks after the trip, she finds the brochure underneath a pile of junk, and stands frozen with hesitation in front of the nurse’s door.

The thoughts of her friend’s faces telling her she passed out, of her family looking at her push away her plate, of looking into the toilet the first time she’d used laxatives all pass through her mind. She can identify those feelings now: they had been guilt and shock at herself.

Taking a deep breath, she harvests a little courage and knocks on the door. It opens to a smiling face, one that softens, not with pity, but with kindness at Eliza.

Eliza looks her in the eye, and takes the first step.

[phoenixmsj]

MSJ ONLINE SPOTLIGHT #49

Prompt: “Scientific‌ ‌research‌ ‌is‌ ‌a‌ ‌human‌ ‌endeavor.‌ ‌The‌ ‌choices‌ ‌of‌ ‌topics‌ ‌that‌ ‌we‌ ‌research‌ ‌are‌ ‌based‌ ‌on‌ ‌our‌ ‌biases,‌ ‌our‌ ‌beliefs,‌ ‌and‌ ‌what‌ ‌we‌ ‌bring:‌ ‌our‌ ‌cultures‌ ‌and‌ ‌our‌ ‌families.‌ ‌The‌ ‌kinds‌ ‌of‌ ‌problems‌ ‌that‌ ‌people‌ ‌put‌ ‌their‌ ‌talents‌ ‌to‌ ‌solving‌ ‌depends‌ ‌on‌ ‌their‌ ‌values.”‌ ‌-Dr.‌ ‌Clifton‌ ‌Poodry.‌ ‌How‌ ‌has‌ ‌your‌ ‌own‌ ‌background‌ ‌influenced‌ ‌the‌ ‌types‌ ‌of‌ ‌problems‌ ‌you‌ ‌want‌ ‌to‌ ‌solve?‌

by anonymous

I’ve always loved to draw: it’s a way to bring my imagination into reality. When a phrase, a scene, or a character clicks with me, I feel an irresistible urge to recreate it in my own style. More recently, I’ve found computer science to be another avenue for my ideas to enter the world, while allowing versatile interactions than drawings can ever achieve on their own. Video games combine art and computer science--character and environment design are as much a part of a game as its mechanics. I want to bring to life with code the stories behind my drawings for other people to experience and understand. Most important to me is how I can take solace playing video games, ranging from stalking wyverns in the action-packed Monster Hunter Tri and following the emotional journey of the visual novel You Left Me. I’m inspired to make a game that plays with the full spectrum of human emotion in an ultimately cathartic manner.

But before I do that, I need to address the issues rampant in gaming culture and industry. 

When I expressed to my male gamer friends that I was upset about being harassed in an online game, they dismissed my feelings and told me I had to get used to it: such was the reality of online gaming. There are no repercussions for bad sportsmanship, and it’s engaged with as the norm. My friends advised me on how to talk back and frustrate such players, but that’s not a culture I want to participate in. I don’t want to normalize and become desensitized to the impact of hurtful jokes, many of which are at the expense of minority groups. Discriminatory behavior and derogatory language is not limited to the player base--it is prevalent among those who make the games as well. 

“Diversity should not be a focal point of the design of Riot Games’ products because gaming culture is the last remaining safe haven for white teen boys,” said a supervisor for Riot Games, the company behind the massively popular League of Legends. As an Asian-American female, I would not be accepted in most gaming industry workplaces. Minority groups suffer workplace harassment from their white male colleagues and have fewer opportunities than their harassers. Video game workers are treated as a means to an end: they are expected to work overtime to make deadlines, only to be laid off once their game is done.

My mother always taught me to be kind and helpful to others, not for the expectation of praise or an owed favor but because it is the right thing to do. I want to change the culture surrounding video games for the better, from the player base to the workplace. I’ll push for more stringent regulation of in-game harassment. I’ll advocate for workers’ rights with the Game Workers Unite movement. I’m striving for a world in which people care about one another, whether they are facing one another in person or behind screens.

[phoenixmsj]

MSJ ONLINE SPOTLIGHT #47

Moonsong

by Yawen Xue, msj ‘22

If I strain my ears, I can hear wolves howling beneath distant stars. Ah-ooooooh, they say. Ah-ooooooh. The full moon hides tonight, fearful of her own followers. And I don’t blame her. Here in the city, everyone is cursing the moon.

Moon fever is not a pretty thing. It makes blood run blue, makes the sky burn red. And then it sends the diseased to the grave. The doctors think it spreads through respiratory particles. There’s no cure for it, and it has forced everyone to stay indoors. Nobody knows how it came about -- some call it bioterrorism, others call it divine punishment for lack of faith.

You call it paranoia.

From my balcony three floors below, I can see you at the top of the skyline, your knees folded to your chest like bird wings. You’re as close to the moon as anyone will ever be. The clear plastic cup in your hand gleams scarlet with cranberry juice, but you hold it like it’s a crystal vase of red wine.

“Care to join me?” you ask. 

“I don’t want to risk going outside,” I say, gesturing toward the three floors between us.

You shrug and give me a smile, wide and wild and wolfish. I won’t be surprised if you start speaking in ah-oooooohs. 

“Do you want me to come down, then?” you ask and down the last of the cranberry juice. “We can go to the lake and watch the stars.”

I shake my head. Nobody should be out when moon fever is high and flourishing, especially not you, because you won’t think twice before approaching someone who talks like a sick wolf and has blue blood running through her veins. I’ve known you for almost fifteen years -- you’ve been my only friend since I was two, and I’m not about to lose you to moon fever.

“Too bad,” you say. Three minutes later, you’re knocking on my door.

“Don’t be so scared of moon fever,” you tell me. “It’s all an old wives’ tale.”

“Are you saying all these sick people in the hospital don’t exist?” I almost laugh. “What about your neighbor? You went to his funeral, didn’t you? His blood was blue.”

A shadow passes over your face, but you smile it away.

We stare at the sky tonight, from the lake a few blocks from home.

Ah-ooooooh, says a wolf, somewhere.

Snow flutters in a faintly moon-red sky, but you somehow decide it’s the perfect time to grab ice cream at the parlor near the drugstore. 

“We don’t have to wait in line on a day like this,” you reason. 

Nowadays, I don’t see the point of telling you to be careful anymore -- I’ve resigned myself to your constant stream of reckless ideas. Besides, I’d never admit it to you, but it’s strangely exhilarating to disregard every safety rule in existence.

As soon as we emerge outside our building, icy wind chills me to my veins. I can see that you’re shivering too, but you pretend it’s not cold at all.

When we turn a corner a block away from the ice cream parlor, you freeze in your steps.

There is a long line of people in heavy coats, crawling slowly forward.

“What are they doing here?” I whisper. “And you said we won’t have to wait in line.”

You squint your eyes and stand on the tips of your toes to see the front of the line.

“They’re going to the drugstore,” you finally tell me. “Not the ice cream parlor. There’s no line for the ice cream parlor.”

“I want to see what’s going on.”

“So do I.”

We sprint toward the front of the drugstore, ignoring suspicious glances from people waiting in line. A jellyfish blue banner flaps over the drugstore’s broadest window.

Air-filtering masks, now with eight germ-proof layers. Buy them while you still have time!

The long line continues to crawl toward the 8-layer masks, trembling and fluttering like moths who’d just emerged from their cocoons and aren’t quite sure of their ability to fly.

You scoff and snort in derision.

Next to the drugstore, the ice cream parlor is closed.

12-layer air-filtering masks are available for sale.

People assemble in lines and spend all their income to buy them.

16-layer air-filtering masks are available for sale.

People assemble in lines and spend all their income to buy them.

24-layer, 30-layer, 36-layer…

Day and night, the TV buzzes moon fever statistics nonstop. Every six hours, the news channel tells us how many people have died, how many people have contracted the sickness, how many people have been hospitalized with undiagnosed symptoms. 

“If all of this is true,” you say, “the graveyards must be packed like sardines and the undertakers must have gotten really rich. Relax, this is all just a ploy from the government to make us paranoid so they can make money.”

The TV cuts to a picture of a diagnosed patient in the final stage of moon fever. The capillaries under her eyes make her skin almost blue, as if there’s ice in her blood and ice in her soul. 

“Actors,” you shake your head. “The whole bunch of them.”

No amount of your scoffing could convince me to shake away my fear. Most of all, I’m terrified I’d lose you. You, laughing alone in a city ravaged by moon fever.

Your teeth are falling out, slowly. One. By. One. 

“It’s nothing,” you tell me when the first tooth falls. “I get into fights, that’s all.”

You bury the tooth in a little clay pot on the window. You say it’s because you want a skeleton army, like the one in Greek legends.

And then more and more of your teeth disappear, as though they’re sick of you, you plant all of them in your clay pot.

“Geez, how many fights do you get into?”

“Lost count,” you say, grinning like it’s something to be proud of. You don’t speak clearly anymore, and nowadays there’s always a layer of powder coating your face and your hands.

At night, we keep watching the sky from the lake. We see the moon wane and wax and wane again. Sometimes we hear wolves on distant hills. 

We don’t go outside in the daylight anymore. Nobody wants to see a freakishly red sky. Nobody wants to think about the way moon fever turns their blood the color the sky should be.

One of these nights, an eclipse casts a red shadow over the round moon. It dips the whole world in a grotesque crimson.

“We should be indoors,” I say, my voice shaking.

“Calm down, you’re being paranoid. You’re becoming like one of these old people!”

“Well, at least my teeth aren’t running away from me.”

“Oh, shut up. Better toothless than boring.”

I open my mouth to retort, but you gesture for me to stop. Your eyes take on a pained tinge. You spit into your palm. There it is, a tooth, small and white as ghosts. 

“Last canine,” you say, somewhat triumphantly, but this time the shadows in your eyes aren’t going away. In the light of the red, red moon, your eyes are shining much too brightly. 

“Oh god, are you crying?”

I hold my breath, waiting for your answer. If you cry, the world shatters and spins lose and pulls apart. You never, ever cry.

You don’t reply. You just stare at the moon as red slowly fades from its edges. Your hands curl a bit around the tooth, but not enough to hide it from my view. The roots of your last canine are stained in some dark liquid. It looks like blood, but it’s a vivid dragonfly blue, so bright it almost glows in the dark.

I recoil from you rapidly, my heart pounding.

You’ve betrayed me.

You with your wolfish smile.

You with your glazed-over eyes.

You with your bright blue blood.

You with your moon fever.

“Ah-ooooooh?” you ask, tilting your head a bit to one side, smiling as if that’s a very funny thing to say.

I thought I’d lose you to moon fever when you die, but I lost you long before that. Now I know why you never bother to be careful -- you’ve had the fever for months and it’s not like you have anything to lose.

You’re not brave. You dragged me down with you because you’re afraid to be alone.

Now, I wonder if the blood in my veins is red; if it’s blue, a bittersweet forget-me-not blue that burns into retinas and never lets go. 

I set down a vase of tooth-white lilies on your nightstand by your hospital bed. Its sweet scent of death hangs over me and within me.

You open your eyes by a crescent sliver. Even when the doctor says you’d die before moonrise tomorrow, you have the audacity to grin.

You don’t say a thing, but I know too well the sound echoing in your mind.

Ah-ooooooh.

[phoenixmsj]

MSJ ONLINE SPOTLIGHT #45

Prompt: The lessons we take from obstacles we encounter can be fundamental to later success. Recount a time when you faced a challenge, setback, or failure. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience?

by anonymous

“But, Mom I don’t want to move…” I groaned in reaction to the news of my dad’s new job in northern California. Where was I going to be without my best friend James? Or Thomas? Who would I even talk to? I was going to be living in a completely new environment where I was lost and isolated from any people or friends I knew.

Fifth-grade was the beginning of a rough time for me. I was overweight and one of the first things my classmates brought attention to was my obesity.

I was on the playground during recess when I saw students in my grade playing a game I myself played. As I approached them rather timidly, walking toward the one familiar aspect in this alien environment, one of them notices and sneers, “Hey fatty, want to play?”

That definitely wasn’t the greeting I was expecting. My mouth, open to make my own greeting, fumbled out a couple of nonsensical syllables, then instantly clammed up. I started doing a backward shuffle, with one thought ingrained in my mind: this place was scary.

From that point forward, I couldn’t approach anyone. It’s not that I wanted to be lonely, but whenever I approached someone my stomach would attack itself and if I stopped trying so hard, the stomach pains stopped. Therefore, avoiding people meant my stomach didn’t hurt.

I found my solace in video games, because on this platform, I could talk to people without revealing my biggest insecurity: my weight. Without inhibitions, I could converse online with people over a voice communication system and find “portable” friends. Soon, my closest and only friend was an online character who I knew as “unEarthed.” Academics took a backseat, as my only goal became to beef up my gaming skills with “unEarthed,” the only person I felt like I could really talk to.

Then, during the summer of 8th grade, “unEarthed” didn’t come online. Not just once or twice, but I never saw him again. The reality of the frailty in online friendships crashed down on me; my replacement for friends turned out to be even more superficial than what I sought to replace. Once again, I needed to change.

Freshman year of high school was my transition point, being that it was a new environment for everyone. 

Band camp was my first experience with high school and arguably the most important part of my pivot. I got to talk and laugh with people that didn’t judge me for what I looked like because I made an effort to talk to them first. I was accepted and I finally felt like I belonged. Through music I got to encounter a wonderful group of people and I was truly grateful, yet there was another hobby that had a special place in my life: gaming. My trick to being myself was to find other people like me, but how was I going to find people like that?

My lucky discovery of the MSJ esports club in sophomore year was a serendipity to my progress away from my social anxiety. It seemed like the club was tuned exactly toward my desires, and I began to create my own team. There were people like me, the wall huggers, hanging around the club room. Despite the raging beehive in my stomach, I approached them one by one, not as a recruiter, but as a potential friend. I met people that day that became my core group of friends and we formed an e-sports team. 

As we prepared for the very first match in the tournament, I experienced a feeling of vertigo as I realized the sheer contrast between the beginning of high school and now and can’t believe how far I’ve come. As the tournament initializes, a rush of adrenaline courses through my body as I get ready to win this tournament… with a team.

[phoenixmsj]

MSJ ONLINE SPOTLIGHT #44

Rodin, The Kiss

by Supriya Dixit, msj ‘20

Dark storm clouds birth a city that bathes in starlight after every rain. The cobblestone takes on an unearthly glow, painted with light in large, deft strokes and littered street lamps exhale a warm yellow that dispels into the damp air.

Float down the stairs to the walkway outside, quiet and still. Halt for just a moment, cherish the cold air that hugs your cheeks and nips the tip of your nose. Breathe it in and hold it. Let it piece you back together. Step onto the sidewalk, your coat brushing past your calves, let fate pick you up and whisk you away. 

Sync your footsteps to the soft, bleary jazz flowing from cafe speakers, and walk through the swing-eighths and faint sirens suspended in the air. Slow your gait when you pass its pale roseate table sets. Close your eyes. Feel the bass line tap your shoulders, the luscious saxophone melt into your hands, and the soft, lustrous cymbals spread over your fingertips. Breathe in and hold it.

Memorize the subtle curves of empty intersections, trace them one after another in the cracked-glass streets of the city. Walk until you can hear the water lapping against the sides of boats. You'll reach a golden bridge studded with water droplets-- one he haunts until first light. You'll see him immediately, perched on the railing aimlessly thumbing the intricacies of the balustrade.

He’s cherubic, but frail and melancholy, dangling his legs over the edge of the water. His cheeks are smeared with a pink hint of regret, grief, desperation; the hue grows darker every passing second. You watch fatigue draping itself across his shoulders, he trembles under its weight. Oh, how gravity paralyzes him so!

You feel his suffering chisel into your psyche from afar. Be with him. Dab his indecision away from his forehead with your handkerchief. Hold his porcelain hands in your own, wipe away the colorless ichor dripping from his eyes. Listen earnestly to his quiet whimpering.

Promise him your heart for the night. Promise him that his wounds will turn golden and fade away. 

He finally turns to you, tears welling up in his saucer eyes and gently pulls his hands away. He slides closer and barely gasps out— 

Love incessantly.

The words crystallize the moment they fall from his lips and into your vacant hands, shattering on impact. Clench the brittle shards and watch him slip away from you. Watch the black water swallow him whole.

Feel the cold damp air rushing into the spot he once filled. 

You bubble back to reality, alone again. The ground shifts slightly underneath your feet. 

When the sunlight finally warms your own dazed and tear stricken face, you peer over the balustrade one last time.

[phoenixmsj]

MSJ ONLINE SPOTLIGHT #43

Casket, Mid-Autumn

by Elizabeth Deng, msj ‘21

On the day you died I donned the dress I met your parents in

blue now black, swathes of star-dotted gossamer 

shifting in the gravity of my thighs.

I paced the pews awaiting the mourning,

the weeping that would reverberate

for weeks after you’ve gone.

In the end there was just one voice. 

Wailing in her agony, cries crescendoing

filling the organ’s chambers 

until it trembled in resonant silence.

She sounded like me. But I said I wouldn’t cry anymore.

When the sobbing stalled, I knelt.

At the altar I prayed for you

and I prayed for those left behind, left alive

in your absence

and when they brought you in I prayed you’d remember me.

I rose to kiss your still brow

[phoenixmsj]

MSJ ONLINE SPOTLIGHT #40

Prompt: What would you say is your greatest talent or skill? How have you developed and demonstrated that talent over time?

by Rick Mandal

I was playing soccer alone in the backyard, when behind me, the sound of a shutter followed the beating wings of a hummingbird savoring the nectar of late-spring persimmon flowers. I turned to see my uncle using his DSLR camera and ran to him, anxiously waiting to see the outcome of the euphonious clicks on the dimly lit screen. The violet hue on the hummingbird’s neck that shone like amethyst in the rays of the setting sun was pure magic. “I want to take a photo! I want to take a photo!” I whined. My uncle smiled and said, “Okay, let's get you your own” as he diverted my attention away from his expensive camera to an old digital Kodak fit for a beginner. I followed him around wherever he went for the next year, taking photos of all his subjects and then flaunting the blurry photos to everyone within my vicinity. With time and a plethora of tutorial videos, I graduated to using my uncle’s camera, taking pictures of everything visible within the lens’s range: dewdrops on a lawn, light refracting through a prism, even oblivious people in cafes. Scrolling through the contents of my SD cards chock full of pictures, I came to appreciate the finer details, ones that others may look over with a glance: the crow’s feet gathering around the temples of a grandpa strolling through the park or the glimmer in a toddler’s eyes over a new teddy bear. I want my photos to capture the rawest moments, ones completely unplanned, and highlight the missed feature that could make all the difference. The ability to preserve overlooked details with every snapshot is my greatest skill, and a skill I continue to develop every time I click the shutter button, whether it is for a client, for my growing portfolio, or as the treasurer of my school’s photography club, MSJ Picture Perfect. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and my goal is to showcase the beauty of everyday life’s nuances, as every imperfect moment has the opportunity to be a perfect picture.

[phoenixmsj]

MSJ ONLINE SPOTLIGHT #39

Book 3: Instructions on Preserving One’s Memory

by Nathaniel Satriya, Lynbrook ‘20

At the 6th hour, go outside and close your eyes. Recall in your mind the sensation of the sky. Is it blue, bleak, or dazzling white? Lively, heavy, or careful? Keep your eyes closed. Raise your arms above your head and turn your face up to the indifferent air. Take the time to say a prayer to the ones who loved you, and a curse to the ones who still do. Open your eyes. Do you see the fire that rages within and without you? Can you hear the colours that scream repressed harmony in the winds nearby? Close your eyes once again. Lower yourself onto the unforgiving ground, seated with legs crossed and hands on knees. Inhale carefully. Begin to imagine a world without you. Create the sights, sounds, and scents of your newly nonexistent life. Exhale sharply. Erase the rest of your life from your mind’s world. Forget your family and your friends, then forget all you claim to know. Inhale roughly. The melody of turbulence should become clear to you now. Absorb the notes that you hear, one by one. Let them crowd out the vision of your absence. Exhale in one long, unsteady breath. Sing the violent chorus as it repeats—first in your head, then in your heart. Tune the shivers in your spine to the ringing of your chest. Open your eyes one final time. Do not blink or breathe until the numbness overwhelms you. Let yourself be overtaken. Once you have accomplished this, you have succeeded. You may rest peacefully now, having succumbed to the ether that supports and extends beyond your life. The world is yours, and you are its extension. Your memory will be eternal.

[phoenixmsj]

MSJ ONLINE SPOTLIGHT #38

Away, Away

by Shialan Yu, msj ‘20

We’ve all had fortune to meet kindred souls

Whose ties with us did seem unbreakable.

But subject to Time’s whims are we all

And those bonds did break, for once, for all.

And as we did but drift apart

For reasons unknown to the heart,

On rough-turned tides, away, away,

Our tears will fall this fateful day.

[phoenixmsj]

MSJ ONLINE SPOTLIGHT #35

Prompt: Tell a story from your life, describing an experience that either demonstrates your character or helped to shape it.

by anonymous

My wooden rifle clatters to the ground as my hands, centimeters away, miss the catch. I pick it back up, my mind running through all the details that made me drop the triple. Release hand not in the right place, not enough push and height. The parade is about to start, but in the distance, storm clouds loom, threatening to cover the sky like a blanket.

Coach Maggie's words ring in my head as I prep for another practice toss. "If you drop, pick it back up right away. The judges will be watching to see how fast you recover." Before my rifle leaves my hands, I feel the first drops of rain on my shoulders. After hours of practicing in fierce winds and under the blazing sun, and being one of the few to join the elite rifle line in just their second year of color guard, I thought I was well prepared for any situation. However, as the rain begins to come down harder, making my rifle slippery, it becomes clear just how unprepared I am.

The whistle command of the drum major sounds, signalling the guard to begin moving. I feel the plastic bag I'm wearing over my uniform stick to my skin as I set in the opening position of our routine. Maggie's voice again: "If something goes wrong, act like it's supposed to be in the routine. No one will know except you." Another whistle command. I lift my head on count eight and prep for the opening triple. I let go, and time slows as I watch my rifle rotate in the air. The right position of release this time, the right height. A quick snap of my hands and the rifle back to a stop in front of me, and my smile grows wider. Next, a sauté leads into drop spins, and then a double flipback.

My fingers slide and I drop the next toss, but I'm back in the rhythm within two counts. I feel the judges' eyes on me, calculating. My hands are almost numb, but my smile is warm. I am lost in the movement, in the intertwining of dance and spinning as the music plays behind me. Graceful flourishes and chaîné turns folded between sharp catches and angles. I pour all my emotions and passions into my body and rifle, which are now one. I can't give up now, when I'm so close. As Maggie speaks in my head, each slip only makes me come back stronger. "The judges are watching you," but also, "smile and perform like you love what you're doing!" And I do, because it's true.

The music slows, and I surrender my final toss to the sky, watching it spin like the whirlwind that is life. A solid catch. A final pose. I feel something, a mixture of joy and pride, because Maggie is right. There will always be someone watching, but as long as I come back from a drop, everything will be alright.

[phoenixmsj]

MSJ ONLINE SPOTLIGHT #34

Leaving the Home Roost

by Jeslyn Wu, msj ‘22

Down the street, a pigeon wobbles out into traffic. There’s a crust of bread lying right there, maybe forgotten from someone’s sandwich out of the nearby deli. The pigeon bobs its head once, twice, before scrambling around tires to catch its next meal.

Further down the street, a girl watches the pigeon’s mad rush. A small smile appears across her face at the act before her face clears to return attention to her fidgeting hands.

Across from her, an older girl leans forward. Her face isn’t clear at all- she seems agitated.

“Lee, you can’t-” here, she stumbles, casting around for words to explain something she doesn’t really know. “You can’t just leave like that,” she eventually says.

Alicia releases a breath of air. “Just call me Alicia now. And you know I had to- remember I even asked you to leave with me.”

“But I didn’t.” she answers.

“Yeah,” Alicia says. “Jessica, why didn’t you? You... you know what she does. You know why I left. You know. But you still stayed.”

“I stayed. But not because I agreed with her, Alicia, I never did. Come on, we both know I’ve always been the more scared one.” she pleaded. “You’re only seventeen now, you can’t just leave. It’s been a week, come back now. Just wait one more year, that’s all! Just one more.”

“Then what? Then I’ll just leave again, but it’ll be a year delayed. And I can’t stand it anymore. Remember the girls we used to be? Remember when I had to make us both dinner when I was just 12? Remember how she’d get angry? I can’t stand it anymore. This is my last year in high school and I want to make it count.”

“What, like you have to actually try in this school? But, where are you even staying anyways? It’s not like you can rent an apartment or anything else, and you shouldn’t be on the streets at any time.”

“Don’t change the subject. I’m fine, just staying with friends because I actually have people who can support me, unlike your mother.”

“She’s your mother too.” Now, Jessica almost sounds pained. “She’s both of ours. You can’t just forget that.”

“I haven’t. I don’t think I ever could either. You think you could forget her slapping us for trying to make dinner? The saying might tell you to forgive and forget, but I’m not doing any of those- I’m just going to move on.”

Jessica falters. “Yeah I remember but- she needs you. I need you. You were always there for me and now you aren’t.”

“Then leave with me!” Alicia hisses. “Leave! Leave her if you really need me! But both you and I know that you won’t!”

Jessica looks at her with wide eyes, but Alicia can’t stop now.

“You made your choice!” Alicia continues quietly “And I’ve made mine. I can’t continue like this, and you can’t either. So for now... for now, I’ll leave it at this okay? I’ll always be here, but you’re older than me and I can’t make you leave. You know where to find me but otherwise... Otherwise, I wish you luck because I won’t keep living like you’re forcing yourself to.”

With her shoulders slumped at the table, Alicia looks smaller than Jessica remembers. But when Alicia says goodbye and stands up defiantly, Jessica finds herself looking up at her. She gets up from the table and leaves two twenties on the table with an offhand comment that Jessica should eat something.

Alicia walks away with her chin held high. The same pigeon from before sits contently in the sun before flying into the deep blue sky. And Alicia, watching that pigeon, can’t help but feel that she’s done the same.

[phoenixmsj]

MSJ ONLINE SPOTLIGHT #33

Shapeshifter 

by anonymous  

Shapeshifter, reach out long fingers

Brush soft round cheeks and straight-razor them flat

Chin up and whittle out a little hollow — just like that

Reach inside and rearrange warm tissue

Square off corners and sand them down — gently, gently

When you press one into your skin it should hurt

I can keep it under wraps for as long as you need me to but

I really think my heart’s gonna beat itself out of my chest someday

It’s the horrible ba-dum ba-dum of my heart working its way up my neck and —

Open my eyes to seashell walls and white noise and ringing in my ears

Raise my palm to my nape in sync with the man in the arrow-collared shirt or the woman with a mole under her left eyebrow

With the other hand I try to solidify air into a warm strong back

Do you see the smoke billow out in dragon’s-breath curls? Do you see me diving in trying to save what I can?

Shapeshifter, uncoil

You do not have to tip your chin up and stare the sky straight in the eyes

Doesn’t it burn? Doesn’t it hurt? Can’t you feel the needles fly a thousand at a time into your skin?

     If you say so, it does, I guess

Come down, please

The trees fought and clawed from tufted grasses for you

The wind is an arm around your waist and a soft sturdy body pressed up against you

     Whoosh-rustle-scratch cotton sheets

Eternity drips into sweet honeyed sunlight:

There is no greater tenderness in the world than you

standing quivering by my bed

And I — I’m petrified I’m fossilized

You take my hand in yours

You squeeze it and it’s soft

[phoenixmsj]

EDITORIAL BOARD 2019 - 20

Editor-in-Chief: Akshara Vykunta Editor-in-Chair: Carolyn Qian Layout Editor: Kelly Yang Business Manager: Zainab Fatima Publicity/Events Manager: Christine Dong, Yawen Xue

Writing Editors: Supriya Dixit, Aria Lakhmani, Jonathan Liu, Anusha Muley, Joanne Park, Shialan Yu

Art Editors: Serena Cai, Shreya Chidambaram, Julianna Dong, Rachel Hsiao, Jiahui Huang, Lucia Li, Selina Yang, Katherine Zhang, Michelle Zhao

Layout Assistants: Lucia Li, Katherine Zhang Copy Editors: Jonathan Liu, Anusha Muley, Michelle Zhao

[phoenixmsj]

EDITORIAL BOARD 2018-19

Editor-in-Chief: Vicki Xu Editor-in-Chair: Alisa Luu Layout Editor: Kelly Yang Business Manager: Akshara Vykunta Publicity/Events Manager: Carolyn Qian

Writing Editors: Annie Zeng, Anusha Muley, Jonathan Liu, Yawen Xue, Christine Dong, Supriya Dixit, Zainab Fatima, Shialan Yu

Art Editors: Evangeline Chang, Michelle Zhao, Lucia Li, Shreya Chidambaram, Selina Yang, Christy Chen Katherine Zhang Rachel Hsiao

Layout Assistants: Evangeline Chang, Lucia Li Publicity/Events Assistants: Michelle Zhao, Shialan Yu Copy Editors: Jonathan Liu, Zainab Fatima