the odyssey magazine

ODYSSEY MAGAZINE

“ Without literature, life is hell. ”

Charles Bukowski

ISB HS Literary magazine 2013

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13275.Charles_Bukowski

The Odyssey 2012-2013

The Odyssey Club Members 2012-2013Jusmita Saifullan

Alitha Partono

Becca Chairin

Molly McCarty

Cole Whiteley

Samantha Brickerd

Johanna Stiefler Johnson

Thanya Chat


1

I owe my inspiration to the starsPeople make excuses, let you down, aren’t dependableStars come out at the same time, same place, every nightProblems can seem big and overwhelmingCompare them to the endless ocean of twinkling lightsRealize just how small and insignificant they areWhen people fall, they try to drag you down with themFalling stars give us hope, enough hope to make a wishLooking up at the radiant silver poolForget all of your current endeavorsEnjoy your freedom and lifeOften I wonder what the stars do while they shimmer all night longDo they admire their serene state?Or do they find it monotonous?Do they look upon us to see what adventures await them?Witnessing all of the pain, heartacheThey must see countless acts of hate, and selfishnessEnough temptation to destroy all innocence

The stars might even turn away in disgust vowing to never look againBut they doEvery night they continue to look down on usGoing through our lives, learning all of our deepest secretsBut why look when there’s so much pain?LoveIf they witness all of this hateThink of all the times they’ve witnessed loveRandom acts of kindnessThe love of a motherTwo people breaking all of the rules to spend one night togetherThis intriguing emotion is unpredictable and pureLove often shapes the best adventuresThe best storiesBefore you do something think of the starsWould you destroy their hope in humanity or restore it?I constantly glance up at the beautiful stars and wonderDo they ever look down on us and think we’re beautiful too?

StarsBy Brittany Taylor Poetry Contest Winner: First Place

LifeinBangkok

ByElla

Park


To say that we will meetOne day,Is a lieWith plane ready for flightWe promise to greetWith fondness and delightWe both cling onTo the promised joy

To believeSeparation will be short awhileSo we pray,And trudge on,On unfamiliar streetsSo we liveIn frayed hope;

Remembering youFrozen in timeI wonderIf road's gone astray.Time runs on like a haze,Giving me its silent gaze.

Silence ONBy Helen Chang

Blundering silenceRipping your characters apartA mirrored image of you set for so long.But I knew it was within our expectationAnd I think you knew it too.

Friendships fadeIn a drop of brittle wordThat left a little stainOf unspeakable silence

To remember all those yearsWe know it was the truth: separation,Yet it stirs up unruly tears

But in the end it doesn't matterWho let go first.

Me or you.

2

Poetry Contest Winner: Second Place

UntitledBy Anonymous


3

I’ll never forget looking, searching, finding youStanding with you during the intermissionFifteen minutes, worth more than the 87 days of turmoil before it.You smelled bad, like whiskey and microwaved roses,Which I would come to learn was the smell of really bad weed.One hundred and fifteen days laterHolding hands, felt like for hoursThe sounds of screeching, screaming, cans of snow spray falling belowusThe moon was out, but I can’t remember looking at it once.Five days laterOur first fight, blown out of proportion,Just because I can, just because I wanted to.Another five daysBlissTwenty daysI love that you can’t spell the word servantAnd that you eat like a childYour voice, the way you say my nameAnd follow me around like a lost puppyThe way we can talk for hours, consume the world around usBut also revel in the silence, devouring the details.I loved the poem you wrote,But I don’t want it, don’t need it, anymoreIt’s no longer mine to keep and so I am returning it:“I am nothing of a painter,But in my head I drew a picture of you and IPerfect shades of pink, black and whiteHere I lay, just a foolI am nothing of a poetBut in my head there was a song about you and I

The beauty inside was captured by the words between the linesBut here I lay, just a fool.”And we can skip the next thirty monthsBecause they’re all the same, redundant, repetitive, superfluousbullshitI had already been in the Intensive Care Unit for two days when youchooseto go to Bonnarrooyou should have come to see me, I knew you wouldI thought you were going toI would wake up every morning, asking if you’d come, called,something, anything.The answer remained the same stagnant noThough the pity that accompanied it increased over the course of myeight day stay.There were tubes everywhere, people came to see me to say goodbye,Cried in my hair and told me I was going to be okay,Though they didn’t really seem to believe it.The jelly beans said what words could not.While my idiot doctor kept reassuring me that I was an “honest guy”and that my liver would be fineyou were off crushing, rolling, snortingthings you did well, things that made you numb and not carethe only thing they had in common was the fact that once you camedown,I was all you had, all you wanted.But that wasn’t even the worst partIt was awful when you denied itLike that time June walked in on you and that fat guyIn the bathroom at that partyYou were holding the foil

It's Friday But I'm Not In LoveBy Azreen Bhai Poetry Contest Winner: Third Place


4

And that guy, all sweaty, with the lighter and the spoon, just blinkedat her, confused.She was embarrassed, felt sorry for you,Shut the door and ran away,You went after her, asked her to not tell anyone, especially me.Worse than your absence at the hospital, by my side on that boat orwhen I had that surgery,Worse than that time on the stairs, or on my balcony, or the earfingersWorse than that picture, or that party or those liesIs that it took me another 450 days to stop.I am somewhat ashamed to still be thinking these thoughts,Standing here, saying these words,But I needed this catharsis,To purge you from my memory with one final act.I warned you from the start,I am not my mother.And one day you’ll wake up,Looking older than your number age, wrinkles on your faceAlone, naught but your crooked teethThe peril of the junkie’s existence.

UntitledBy Becca Chairin


5

Lola was sad.She had sadness bubbling in each rounded bone in her spine, each tendon on the curve of her foot, each plate in her skull, line on her

palm. It was a tangible thing, she thought, because she could feel it as it ate the lining of her stomach and stretched the skin across herknuckles tight. She could feel it when she clenched and unclenched her fists, when she let her hair down from ponytails, smiled.

It was the kind of sadness that likes to sneak up on teenagers in the dark. Not entirely explained because she had friends and a motherand father and a bed, and yet every day was a chore that went on for hours, hours.

Lola was sad.Lola wanted to die.

This is much as the star knows: it is falling out of the sky and soon it will be dead.Travelling at the speed of light, it passes meteorites and toy rockets and planets encircled with halos. Bits are torn away from its face

and back; space is skinning it alive.Every dazzling moment that passes it a moment that forces it closer to hell--that is, Earth, the star’s destination. It does all it can to

slow down but it’s no use. It is falling, and as it cries and prays to the sunrise that is life will be spared by some unrealistic turn of gravity, itrealizes there is no use. Far ahead, through the elastic darkness that implodes upon scorching eyes, it sees a foamy layer of pink clouds. Soon,people will be pointing at it, making wishes because it is a shooting star and they have no idea of its suffering.

Wishes will be whispered into windowsills or curtains, lovers’ shoulders, grassy hills. People will make trivial, wasteful wishes and grandones. Wishes will be made that are forgotten in the morning over cold cereal or bread, toasted to diminish the staleness. No one will spare athought for what happens to a star after it’s flung across the sky like a pistol shot.

The star is a pinprick children depict in drawings of night skies. A celestial body. It is falling, falling, dying.

Lola had never in her life seen a shooting star. They were phantoms, she believed--the hallucinations of insomniac minds. She lived in ablaring city where the sky was clouded by dull pollution and lights. She wished on eyelashes instead because shooting stars were unreliable.

It was an icy January evening that Lola decided to die.She had not pulled out any eyelashes that day and therefore had nothing to wish upon. She felt very sad.Wishes are for losers anyway, she decided.I’m going to die, she added.According to the puffy-lipped weather woman, it was very cold, but Lola did not put on a jacket as she walked quietly out her door and

into the city. The lights shone around her like flies with kaleidoscopic eyes that saw her through each socket. The buildings skulked andwatched her, a teenage girl, fair and bare, wearing nothing but slippers and light pajamas. She walked silently through the streets and towardsdeath. This idea made her belly jump. The wind was cruel and whipped at her hair, below zero, yet she felt nothing.

AfterlifeBy Johanna Stiefler Johnson Short Story Contest Winner: First Place


6

She reached the outskirts of the city, and was soon following the meandering trail of afootpath through the fields. It was hard to tell how long she had been walking, but the skywas pitch black now, and her fingers were blue. The air that escaped her lips was a veil ofmist that came in puffs.

Lola looked around and wondered, almost serenely, what would be the best way totake her life.

She walked forward, and her steps were weighted down by bags of sand. The thoughtthat beat themselves against her skull were frenzied warriors, and she felt them all untilthey were bruised in every lobe of her brain. Lola longed to escape this prison of skin, whichclung to her like honey in a beehive. She examined her legs--dark against the powder-sugarsnow--her bony fingers, her ragged hair between fingertips. She pressed her palms over hereyes in an attempt to make the suffocating darkness absolute.

Then she dropped her hands and looked into the sky, which is where she saw it.

The shattering sphere breaks through a sheet of clouds with ease. People in this world look up at it and exclaim.Middle school girls wish for storybook romance.Ambitious freshmen wish for glorious futures.Scientists and writers wish for breakthroughs and boys wish for beards bigger than their fathers’.The star is nearing its hell, where it will land and explode and perish. Splintering glass. When it vanishes from the sky, oblivious people

will grin because they can say they saw a shooting star.Will any of them realize that the very thing they wished upon was petrified destruction?No.The star screams, but there is nothing to be heard over the wind.Lola’s mouth kissed the air in a perfect “o”. Her eyes were satellites in her head and she stood motionless, seemingly submerged in a pool

of dark water because she heard nothing but swollen silence.The shooting star was like a piece of sunlight falling right out of the sky. Mesmerizing.Lola’s mind was supple, white, as the star grew larger. She envied is lack of emotion, its reckless fire. Little did she know that it did not

want to fall, did not wish to be a source of people’s hope and admiration. It wanted life- the ability to stay like a fixed lighthouse in the sky,forming constellations.

The star was coming towards her. Lola had never seen anything so great or bright or beautiful. It burned like all the sadness andhatefulness inside her, but it was magnificent. She spread her arms. Closed her eyes and imagined melting away like candle wax. Lola hadnever laughed so hard. Lola wanted to die.

ReachingOut

ByAlitha

Partono


7

The star is so close it can taste sea air on its fiery lips. It sees the tops of buildings and the stretching yellow fields. It sees pointingfingers, and can almost hear the wishes that are sighed into downy pillows and shouted elatedly from rooftops. It sees the girl, and she isdrawing very close.

Move, you fool.

When it hit her, the star was no longer a burning orb of light but a meteorite that left a crater in the face of the Earth. Lola burst intoflame as it cascaded around her with the force of a thousand mines, and just like that, she was nothing. She floated away upon wings ofpalpable bliss. Everything inside her stopped--heart, brain, sadness.

The star stained the face of its very hell. It no longer burned, no longer screamed, no longer cared that wishes had been made on itsexcruciating agony. Lola was dead, too, and she could see everything as though through a misted window. It was very quiet. She floatedaway, letting her eyes follow the dent in the ground, which had been made by something that was once glorious. She wondered if she couldlook closely enough to see the remains of her aorta or intestines--proof that she no longer existed as a pumping heart and veins.

The hole gaped and she had to look away because even now, dead and extinguished, its yawning emptiness blinded her. She hadstolen its place among the stars in the sky.

Scientists would study the dent in the face of the Earth and call it a meteorite. Policemen would investigate the disappearance of ateenage girl.

Tell me it’s not as bad as I think it is, moaned the fallen star, this corpse that had, not moments ago, exploded into itself and taken alife while wishing on itself to keep its own.

I’m sorry, was all she said.

Untitled

ByTata

Tangthanakul


8

“Bull’s-eye,” I mutter to myself, watching two young’uns stareat each other like they’ve discovered the meaning of life. I quickly hidemy weapon in the pocket of my jeans as surreptitiously as possible,satisfied with my work.

It’s Valentine’s Day. While the rest of the world’s malepopulation worries over flower orders, chocolate grams, and trinketsbest left unnamed, I am swamped with work. Yes, as anyone wouldexpect, February 14th is the busiest day of the year for Cupid. Justlike February 2nd is a busy day for groundhogs all over Pennsylvania.At least, I think Groundhog Day involves actual groundhogs.

Anyway, my point is that I’m exhausted and it’s not even noonyet. Too many people have decided to profess their love on Valentine’sDay every year. And they all need my help! Who else is going to makesure that they fall in love with the right person?

Well, I guess it’s time for a snack break. Sitting on a nearbybench, I conjure a granola bar from the depths of my backpack tomunch on while watching people stroll around the park. I’m halfwaythrough the honey-nut goodness when I spot a gray-haired manfidgeting with a small box while a middle-aged woman sits on a benchreading, a few feet away from him, oblivious to her surroundings. Ican see the chemistry floating in between them like intoxicatingperfume. All he needs is a little nudge.

I check that my gun is loaded before aiming at the man’s heart.The invisible bullet hits his chest and forms a barrier around him thatonly I can see. Then, I proceed to do the same with the woman. Thesecond her barrier forms, the man walks up to her and starts talking.She looks up and smiles lovingly.

Mission accomplished.I am about to put away the gun when I hear a shrill voice say,

“You’re Cupid, aren’t you?”I turn to my left and find a teenage girl staring at me in awe.

Oh, no. Teenagers are the worst. They always expect me to help themimpress a “crush” when there is not an ounce of chemistry between

them. I need to come up with a cover before it’s too late.As if reading my mind, the girl says, “Don’t worry, I won’t ask

you to get someone to like me. I’m just curious.” She shrugs.I study her freckled face and braided hair and decide that she’s

harmless. “I prefer the name Will,” I say, taking another bite from mygranola bar.

“Oh, so you’re undercover?” she asks, sitting next to me withoutinvitation.

I raise an eyebrow at her. “No. William is my middle name. AndI don’t like being associated with archers in diapers, so I don’t usuallyprefer my unfortunate first name.”

“And instead of a bow and arrow, you use a gun instead?” sheasks. She was not kidding when she said she’s curious.

“I have a crossbow at home, but people don’t seem to think it’sacceptable to carry around a medieval weapon during non-Halloweendays,” I explain. “My dad is more of the bow and arrow type, anyway.”Now that she’s got me talking, it’s hard to stop—I don’t get to talkabout my job often. I might need to find a Holiday MascotsAnonymous group sometime soon. I heard the tooth fairy formed onerecently.

“Can I look at it? The gun, I mean?” I eye her suspiciously, butI’m tired of being so uptight all the time. I’ll probably regret it, but Ihand her my precious weapon. She silently examines the device whileI marvel at how wonderful the park is without her voice constantlyyapping at me.

“Would you like a chocolate heart?” she asks, holding up apaper bag with the word CHOCOLATE written across it. I politelydecline. I’ve tasted way too many chocolate hearts during the pastmonth. Chocolate tasting is part of the job. Not that I’m complaining.

“Do you have a girlfriend? It must be easy finding one whenyou’re Cupid,” she asks. She seems to enjoy this encounter, un-ironically. Meanwhile, my day just went from incredibly busy toincredibly annoying. When will she go away?

The Irony of Being CupidBy Alitha Partono Short Story Contest Winner: Second Place


9

“On the contrary,” I say, throwing away the granola wrapping in a trashcan nearby. “I can’t shoot myself, and the only other Cupidaround is my dad, who I rarely spend time with anyway, so no, I have never been in a relationship.” Why I keep on answering her questions isbeyond me. But I suppose this makes for a more interesting Valentine’s Day.

“You know, I can help you with that,” she says, still fiddling with the gun. “So you just shoot two people in the chest with this, right? Andthen they fall in love. So if I—”

It dawns on me what she’s trying to do when she points the gun directly at me. This is obviously the worst mistake I have ever made. Ifshe even tries to shoot me… I don’t even want to think about it. “Wait, no! You’re not authorized to—oh!”

And she hits me perfectly. I feel a bit woozy for a few seconds.“Oops! Sorry,” she says. She bites her lower lip in regret. “I think I missed.”Something catches my eye.“Wow,” I say, completely spellbound, “that tree is really lush, green, and…beautiful.”

Hyangwonjeong and ChyhyanguyoBy Esther Lim


10

When I met you, you were lying down in the street. From thatalone I should have known you were extraordinary.

You sure looked tired. I didn’t know your name then--you werejust a stranger. And everything about you was red. Your dress. Yourlips. Your hair.

You were sanguine in every meaning of the word. Your skin wasrosy as if embarrassed, and yet even lying on the ground you looked aproud woman.

What struck me most was the elegance of your body; itreminded me of a landing swan. Your bare feet were delicately crossedas though for crucification, and your hands rested gently on your pearlnecklace in your sleep. You were lovely.

Evelyn. When I learned your name, I remembered thinking howfitting a sound it was for you. Its sound and meaning implied radiance.I remember how the sun glinted off the glass around you, like ashattered halo, and I thought everything so appropriate.

Right before I saw you, I saw a white handkerchief fall from thesky. It fluttered by in a subtle descent, like a wayward butterfly. It wasserene and it was beautiful, and I watched it for a long minute.

The crash that followed the handkerchief registered faintly inmy mind. I turned around, and saw you for the first time, sleeping.You had followed your handkerchief just as gracefully as it had fallen.The metal bent impossibly around you looked to me like a blackenedcrib.

Evelyn. Evelyn the extraordinary. Everything about you wasred, and you were perfect. In red there is birth, there is life, and thereis death. I would never know your birth. Or your life.

But in death, you were lovely.

EvelynBy Amber Barnett Short Story Contest Winner: Third Place

The Most Beautiful SuicideBy Robert Wiles May 1, 1947


11

Pink and red linesAll around your wrist.Tell me Sweetheart,How has it come to this?The one you loveHas leftAnd the ears of the worldSuddenly fall deaf.Hope is drowned outBy the silence of your screamsAnd the nightmares,Become your only dreams.Then the darknessBegins to engulf youAnd you start to wish,That your life was through.

I watchHeart breakingI know that smile your wearIs only you fakingTell me SweetheartHow do I save you from yourself?

Oh, SweetheartHold your chin high,Because that’s all they want,They want to see you cry.Don’t let them seeThrough the closed door.Don’t let them seeYour knees hit the floor.Smile and say“I’m fine,”Because you knowThey’ll ask all the timeLet them believeThat you are at your bestWhen you and I knowThis is the worst.

UnderstandBy Samantha Brickerd

Have the courage to be imperfect.By Jayna Milan


In a sick dark roomWhere the sweaty walls

Dripped with the sour smell of tobaccoLay a grey, unkempt book

Of little importance

No matter how often readIt never felt understoodBecause those who didNever acted upon it

And with every hand that clutched its seamsThey tore them

And it had pages that it did not want readThese pages were stuck together

The book was sickAnd it’s sickness seethed

The words written in blue eyesTurned scarlet

Cigarette SmokeBy Nick Callahan

12

Faceless nights where I sit up awake in that field,silence and noise coming through the pores,bleeding out streams of endless mist,oozing drops of your smile, your voice,it comes out from the room of grinders and honey and Winnie-the-Pooh bears, chirpingbirds and that one book sitting in your Amazing-Wonderful-Heartrending shelfMy honey drips on your books, your hands.There it is, my pen, in your mouth, from the honey, created,ah it grows in your mouth,And it bursts, ink spattering the honey, so that it turns yellowish-blue.You open your mouth and it is gone.But I have a smear seeping through my body, right down to the soul.Dig through me and you shall find it!

Dig Through MeBy Praewploy Kiatpipattanakun

SangkhomManthan

ByGunn

Chaiyapatranun


13

Who am I?I think the real question is, what am I not.I am not a warm, colorful summerI am not a Sunday morning.I am not a field of flowers dancing in the breezeI am much colder than just a December freeze.I am not the ray of light shining through a window on a Tuesday afternoon,I may have seen many thunderstorms, too many, too soon.I, however, am much more complicated than a late Friday night,I’m a shattered mirror in the middle of October.I am the cold, gush of wind that blows through your open doorI am the January chill that will freeze you to the core.I am the sound of muffled thunder in the distance of a storm.I am the brick tied to the sting of a balloon, preventing it from floating away,I am the unfortunate, unwanted hailstorm in May.

Who Am I?By Hannah Morgan

The Weeping WillowBy Meredith Shepard

The weeping willow, is a dying, crying treeHer draping branches caress the ground below

Her dark wooden trunk is built of hidden sorrow

She grows in the shade, ignored by allAwaiting the heavy ‘thunk’ of an axe’s fall

She puts out leaves, like little green tearsA blissful way to unburden herself of fears

She does her best to reach for the skyBut alas, the weeping willow is a crying tree,

destined to die

Untitled

ByAnonymous


14

Everyone loves the pretty oneShe’s smart, energetic and fun.Oh, she is loved by all,But she swears she’ll never fall.She will smile and keep it hiddenTo her showing tears and pain are forbidden.No matter the sorrow.She will wake up, and wear a smile tomorrow,Each day she lives has been rehearsedSome days she wishes roles were reversed.She doesn’t want to be the pretty one.All perky, bright and fun,All she really wants; is to be alone.

The Pretty OneBy Samantha Brickerd

UntitledBy Earn Phichaiphrome


15

I think of the note oftenThe crumbled feelAnd the dents of the pressed writingThe soft curves of blue inkAnd tears sting my eyes at those last words, whispering“I love you, Tomorrow and Forever.”

But that car had to comeWe had to leave your house,Without anyone knowingAnd we took the car into the towns cobbled roads.Without anyone knowingAnd the car turned the cornerWithout us knowingAnd the last thing I saw hurt more than my crippled legBlackBlack skyBlack pavementBlack smokeYour dull black eyesAnd your last colorless words,“I love you, Tomorrow and Forever.”

Tomorrow And ForeverBy Abigail Rutledge

UntitledBy Anonymous


Define “break”Because I’m afraid I don’t understandHow one syllable,Five simple lettersQuite an insignificant word, reallyCan mean so many thingsPeople break in shoesBreak out in sweatsYou can break in a horseAnd you can certainly break a promiseGlass windows, voices and days breakBones, tooI admit, the modest word itselfBreakSeemingly innocentCasts images of shattered wine glasses and skulls acrossMy guarded mindAnd I must remind myself that my parentsAlways look forward to coffee breaks, that ILike boys who aren’t afraidOf breaking the tentative ice, that theWorld could do with a bit more spontaneity andBreaking news is extemporaneousI remind myself that the word itselfBreakIs not always referring to meRemind myself to let sunlight break through the shadesAnd perhaps break open a box of chocolateWhen my mind is too tired to dwell on broken hearts

BreakBy Johanna Stiefler Johnson

16

Dubious

ThoughtsBy

CielSriprasert


17

No time wastedAttitudes changedExpressions are lost in translationBut the meaning is trueThe feelings are pure

They lay hand in hand togetherA cool wind invites shiversCloser and closer they huddleProtecting and salvaging warmth

At last silenceDarkness engulfs the skyA peaceful momentShared and expressedThe company is valued

She feels a shift then an absenceThen it’s not darkness she seesBut chocolate poolsThat reach out into eternity

Their lips touchWarmth fills her cheeksA closeness never knownAn instinct never touched

At last they breakDriven by dutyInstead of needTime is sacredThough valuedHowever short lived it may be

UntitledBy Morgan York

GerascophobiaBy Amber Barnett


mirrors of today depictlife a barren essencetoiling away as the time ticksbeings marching round void of sense

a pointless existencea single ticket from a showfilm reel stretched too tensesnapped, won’t bend, won’t bow

a view from the box seata show of moonlight playersdancing with sore feetindependent void of haunting prayers

a reel of film flash and rolland it’s overlife tolledchance lost and trolled

shamed with regrets, bitter screamsslammed with never ending wordscadavers throwing into the broken dreamsand none of the pleas ever hears

it is too late it is now knownan advice of the oldso dusty worn to the bonerarely used, rarely told:

live wisely yet without concernsin the present without the fretsdon’t watch as the threads burnand end up without regrets. 18

BlinkBy Sing-Ying Lin

Forest FireBy Helen Chang


19

I sit alone on a tainted white benchFor a bus that will never put me first

Could it be that I stand too close and stenchTo lie, to thieve, to starve or die of thirstMy weary body lies tattered and torn

Broken, beaten to a dismal pallorIn cotton fields as a slave I am swornUnlike the soldier fighting with valorWere it put to vote in the grey heavens

An eternal equality residesMake us courageous amongst our brethrenTo go where pride and fear together hideRise above the chains of white dominanceStand strong with dignity and prominence.

ToilBy Sarah Poff

Down is Up, Up is DownBy Paz Porapakkham


The Odyssey Club would like to thank...ISB High School Students

HS Creative Writing Classes

HS English Teachers

Odyssey Advisors Mr. FitzgeraldMs. Fretheim

HS Principal Mr. Bradley

HS Art Teacher Ms. Lambie-JonesKhun Toto

HS English Secretary Khun Nong

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