Letter from the Editors
Welcome to Outlook!
We're so happy that you've found your way here! We, the editors, are pleased to present a home for the creative work for the Westridge community. Here you will find poetry, prose, and artwork of all varieties. Here we embrace expression in all of its forms. Here you will find what you are looking for, nestled in between words. And we hope that you will want your words to be presented here as well.
Happy reading!
Max, Quinn, Jadyn, and Nicki
;
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Poems
les dernier pétale
Em Singbad
we’ve set fire to our pillows
& sleep in the ashes
we’ve smashed our clocks
& prefer the silence
a cult to capitalism
a monument to mindlessness
we’ve rewritten the calendar in plastic pens & plastic bags
putting our currency where our caprices are
convenience reigns supreme
chemicals & carelessness
consuming with no regard
devouring ourselves, the modern Jormungandr
our cry for help
too little, too late
no one concentrated, no one cared
les dernières chutes de pétales
!
Humane Power
Hannya Kandil
I see my portrait;
Different face, hidden hair.
I’m young and still growing,
Wondering as I stare.
I knew not what would happen
Surrendering to you,
And I do feel saddened
Now that we’re doomed.
But I regret nothing occurred in the past.
I willingly moved as I did as its lasts
And I do accept that we’re leaving and not coming back.
Purify your heart
Before it departs
For love, not hatred
For I am still waiting.
Don’t think of who blame must hunt
Or if it’s a test from God
Or is we were star-crossed
If they could forgive us.
Does a man have that power?
Does a woman have that power?
For one fearing rumors,
Truth one hopes to find
One will probably wonder
What last went through my mind.
Well, I wish to celebrate
Gifts given to me
Different friends of my young age
My dear family.
Father hopes I add pride to his tree.
Mother hopes love leaves me undeceived.
I want to lie, say it’s not the dread they feel.
Now the secret I’ve kept
Is this final wish
To feel the life left
In your fingertips
Helpless we lay, bleeding love and life.
I want to see the sky,
Mirrored in your eyes
Before their lids heave a sigh.
Does love have that power?
Does soul have that power,
In the final hour?
Sang
Audrey Ma
This poem speaks of the Chinese tradition of filial piety, and particularly about the power that the elders have over the younger generations. Within my cantonese household, my elders are never critiqued for what they say and are always respected. I learned to listen to my elders and ask less questions, never forgetting to refrain from talking back. The title of this poem, “sang”, is in english but is also similar to the pronunciation of “voice” in cantonese.
we open our mouths
but the water rushes in
sinking us lower
and rendering us mute.
They see they sky
And breathe the crisp air
Waves supporting them
As they command the seas.
we try to swim up,
to take a breath of the crisp air
But those in the middle push us down,
remind us of the greatness of those who rule the shallows:
Always respect Them,
that’s the authority They hold.
no matter how much we speak
yell
shout
scream
we are drowned out,
reminded constantly:
don’t talk back.
so we sink back down
drowning our lungs
because we know those up above,
They only listen to that voice in Their head.
; ; ;
R fic
Mags Graff
I
We met at school.
He said hi to me.
I said hi back.
That was it, no sparks, no fireworks.
We had some classes together.
I learned his name.
What a nice name he had.
I didn’t yet know he burned.
I don’t know exactly when it happened.
Maybe late November, early December.
One day we just…
Exploded.
He was filled with light and passion.
He burned with the power of one thousand suns.
He lit up my dark places.
And cast shadows over everything else.
It didn’t take long for me to know I loved him.
This strange man of fury.
We didn’t have a meet cute, a notable way we met.
We just came together.
Two broken parts that didn’t make a whole.
But fit a little anyways.
​
II
I love you, I said.
His eyes widened with shock.
Clearly he had not been expecting this.
Before he could say anything, I spoke again.
I know you don’t love me.
Relief graced his beautiful features.
He gave me a hug.
Our first hug.
He said
we are still friends.
I said okay
and I meant it.
If there was one thing I knew,
it was the soul of my belovéd.
And though he might care for me,
he will always be disgusted by me.
Apollo’s little pet,
his loyal dog,
willing to do anything,
for just one tiny piece of him.
I didn’t tell him,
because I wanted him to feel the same.
I told him,
because I told him everything.
​
III
One year later,
Apollo asks me,
why do you never date,
but always complain about being single?
I resisted the urge to laugh.
It was so obvious to me,
and the rest of the world,
that I was a goner.
I didn’t feel like lying that day
I said
because if I date, I will end up hurting the other person.
The people I date can never be
my number one,
my heart and soul.
They can never truly have me.
I can never belong to anyone else.
He looked mildly confused,
my sweet companion,
intelligent in all,
but the matters of the heart.
I love you, I said.
He glared at me.
​
IV
Late at night,
after finishing a long-winded debate about god knows what,
we fell into bed together,
and laid in silence.
Listening to the other breath.
Something changed.
A spark flew,
but not one of passion.
It was like a soft tingle,
A little glimmer of light in my heart.
We both felt it.
I know that now.
He wouldn’t say I love you before me.
Instead he asked me
If the world was ending, what would you say?
I didn’t have to think
I love you
me too
Not an epic battle won,
no kiss in the rain.
He couldn’t even say I love you.
But it was enough for me.
​
​
V
I cried during his wedding.
Not for the reasons you’d expect.
I cried in happiness,
watching Apollo and his husband take their vows.
I knew he’d never marry me.
I was ok with that.
He was marrying someone worth his time,
beautiful and intelligent,
someone who made him whole.
I also cried in fear.
He might be whole,
but I am still broken.
I told myself it didn’t matter,
that he always came first.
​
VI
I loved his kids.
Sometimes I felt like they were my own.
I lived with them,
took care of them.
But they called me uncle,
not dad, or papa, or anything like that.
Apollo’s husband felt jealous
that his own children loved someone more than their father.
He put up with me though
even inside his own home.
Knowing he needed me,
and I needed Apollo.
He thought that maybe his husband wasn’t whole without me.
He was too scared to test his theory.
​
VII
Our friendship
no,
partnership,
lasted longer than I had ever hoped for.
We stayed together through our lives,
still broken.
But not as jagged.
We sat in silence with our cats and books and tea.
Before long the silence was broken,
with a heated argument
about something utterly pointless.
But at the end we smiled.
We always did like to fight.
So we sat again,
in perfect harmony,
and enjoyed the other’s presence.
In moments like these,
it was hard to forget
our feelings didn’t match.
VIII
​
I’m surprised I’ve lived this long.
80 years.
So much pain.
But so much joy.
I knew my love would stay by my side
until the final end.
I only want to die in his arms,
safe in our home.
I feel myself leaving this place,
drifting into the wind.
Apollo looks at me with a completely soaked face,
eyes red and hair in a disarray.
He says it first this time
“I love you”
I smile as much as I can
“I love you too”
I feel myself leaving too fast,
and grow fearful
I need to do something before I go.
“Kiss me”
He takes my limp body into his arms
and gently kisses my lips.
It gives me the strength to let go,
to say goodbye.
I did it,
I kept him safe and happy,
The things I promised
I would do when we were just kids.
The kiss was for selfish reasons.
I didn’t want to go
without having the one thing I always wanted.
​
​
IX
Images flashing through my head,
Him and I getting married,
adopting children,
holding hands.
Him looking at me with adoration in his eyes, not scorn.
It would have made me happy
It would have made me whole
But it wouldn’t have made him whole
And that, ultimately, was what I desired.
! ! !
Blanket
Gracie Bender
Fair-skinned and blue-eyed,
I am the majority.
In a room of 100,
95 look like me.
At 6, I never gave second thought to plastic porcelain faces,
Pin-straight angel hair, and radiant ocean eyes
That lined every toy aisle
Because I didn’t have to
I never had to squint to see myself
Because everywhere,
There were more who looked like me.
My fair complexion
Is a security blanket,
Never fading,
Keeping me continuously in reach
Of my privilege security blanket.
When blue and red lights flash behind my car,
I grab hold of my blanket,
And the lights begin to fade.
My blanket makes it possible
To effortlessly float from day to day
Because my blue eyes aren’t hyper-aware
Of every possible threat
That being white, never leads me to fear.
Who I Never Saw Again
Hannya Kandil
Whenever my life needs me
To run anywhere,
I find myself thinking
If only this I could share.
Give one love’s mast and sail,
Who has this simple gift taken.
She’s trapped with no trail.
She must be weeping.
That girl, small in shape,
No food for her to waste,
With no reason to smile;
She's a slave, she’s shackled.
When my state and name had changed,
I passed her and she gazed.
She thought I was meant
To free her, but we never met again.
I remember no equality,
Protected lawfully,
I used my life’s strength,
For I feel I understand,
That who I can free all
No one need not moan or sigh
Then again, I recall
That girl I left behind.
She tries to please and dance,
But she’s hit and falls again.
No music could calm her,
No gifts could cheer, either.
For every night, she waits
For the man to stab the pain.
She’s left with wounds, no mercy,
Then, one night, she came and spoke to me.
She leaned and she asked me to end her life,
She bribed me, she begged me with all her might.
She then, in tears, accused me of pride,
But I trembled and wondered, how can I?
And then she stood for me,
Hidden strength I could see.
I had to punish her for all,
For she begged me, she called.
I broke what made me better.
I fought for freedom, for I wavered.
But when she saw that I would leave,
She filled with sorrow and fell to her knees.
And all that I could do
Was to give her love so true.
But still, I couldn’t return,
Behind me, her weeping, I heard.
So now, when I run, I sigh,
I wish if she followed me behind.
Again, I say goodbye.
She’ll never fly,
But her story need not to be mine.
Bedroom
Nicki Klar
My bed is made neatly
while stains hide underneath the sheets
I spend time waiting for something to happen
wondering if I chose to stop feeding blood to my head
would I pass out?
A devil on my door welcomes visitors underneath
film photos of my very first pups
on the background of a checkered apartment floor.
I tell my mom I want a lock
to shut out everything I can’t face
and she tells me there’s no such thing
and walks out into the kitchen.
I stare up at the ceiling
the slightest pastel pink, glossed over
so you can see the faint reflection of your shape
if you care to focus.
Morning by morning
my car drags my shadow to school
while I stay asleep
under the covers,
dreaming of the time when my bed
was up against the window
And family photos weren’t just memories.
Based on a true story
Sydney Sasaki
I’m so sick of thinking
Staying up at night
I ain’t here to play the games
That ain’t on my mind
When I think about his face
These problems don’t exist
But if I’m being honest with you
I’m tired of that fantasy
I’m tired of the daydream
I’m tired of just waiting for sleep to see you
I’m tired of imaginary
cause I think my mind is ready
need to leave this sanctuary for something true
cause I just want the real thing
I just want the real thing
I want all those nights
When we cuddle fall asleep together
I want all those deep talks
tell me everything dear
I know that you want this too
And I’ve been searching for you
Up here and down there
Baby wherever you at just come through
Cause I’m tired of that fantasy
I’m tired of the daydream
Tired of just waiting for sleep to see you
I’m tired of imaginary
Cause I think my mind is ready
Need to leave this sanctuary for something true
Yeah cause I just want the real thing
I just want the real thing
Cause I don’t wanna think
I don’t want to live in fantasy
I don’t wanna have you in my mind
I want to see you in reality
Real thing
Yeah
Cause I just want the real thing
; ; ;
Dear future lover
I’ve waited my whole life for you
Being able to call you mine will be a dream come true
Without love like this the world is nothing
For love is acceptance of one another
For that is all any human being wishes for
Acceptance and love from others
It makes them feel secure
To not be an outcast from the rest
And With that being said
I guess love is a dream
Well at least for me
One day I wish to meet someone who will show me the same love and care as I do
Who will let me steal their hoodies and cuddle close to them while we fall fast asleep
Who will cook me breakfast in bed in the mornings and kiss my forehead every goodnight
Who will be there for me when I need them
To hold me tight as tears run down my face
Or if he’s away, to send me long sweet paragraphs every day
Who will treat me like a princess, like every girl should
And someone who will never give up on me like some of my friends should
Dear future lover
I don’t know how much else I can say
As for a hopeless romantic could go on all day
About what you wish in a relationship
There’s no stopping what I can say
So, I just pray
That one day
I will see you in a coffee shop
As I see you
Sipping your hot chocolate
With a book in front of you
As well as a computer and a backpack
then you slowly turn your head
And look up at me
And smile so bright as if you’ve never seen anything prettier in the world
Quickly grabbing your things to walk up and sit next to me
We start a conversation about who we want to be
And I’m pretty sure you know how the rest goes
As movies portray this too
Love is unreal
Love is like the wind
You can’t see it
But you can always sense its presence
Love is luck
Whether you find it now or later
As it’s not up to us
You cannot force love
It’s up to fate
To determine
When I will meet my one another
So dear future lover
As you can tell I have a lot to say
But if you have forgot already
I will remind you that one thing you should take away
Is that I wait
and long for you everyday
So please hurry
Because I’m getting impatient
As it seems I just can’t wait
To see the beautiful face of my dear future lover
Sydney Sasaki
Dear future lover
Your love
Anonymous
! ! !
My love is singing to you to keep the monsters away
My love is texting you till 12 am because neither of us can sleep
My love is lying to my family about who I’m meeting at them mall so I can see you
My love is the emptiness I felt when you weren’t there
My love is meaning every time I said I loved you
My love is watching you say you never meant it
My love is watching you distance yourself from me
My love wasn’t included in the seven abhorrent, worthless, execrable definitions copied off an equally horrendous website.
And neither was yours.
Your love is special
Your love is sweet
Your love is kind
Your love is watching you measure your thighs and waist
Your love is looking at the white marks on your arm that you drew with such precision. Your love is calling me despite hating phone calls
Your love is holding me through an anxiety attack.
Your love is
Your love was
And I miss it.
my memories of summer are scented candles, honey sweet in each nostril and hot to the touch. the two of us, made of grass and lemon and limestone, lying prostrate in the earth like little tombstones. you were born nine months after your mother swallowed a watermelon seed, grew in her womb so quietly and came into this earth screaming. and she held your tiny head like she’d hold a mid-august stone fruit heaving at its seams. when her bones ache and her marrow sours she remembers the shrill sound of your first cry, molten gold pouring onto her skin. me knowing this and kissing your neck. knowing this and tucking your smile against the thumping of my pulse point, feather-light and violent on your teeth.
storm smelling silver
before its crash i taste it
quiet on my tongue
Max Endieveri
post-summer haibun
???
Nicki Klar
I felt something you couldn't face.
Prose
singularity
Jadyn Lee
my father comes into the kitchen during late nights with the cold smell of the market still fused to his clothes, the garage door still closing its decrepit mouth. the lamplight cuts his cheeks into strips like the shadows blinds make when houses shutter their eyes closed.
he doesn't say hi to me as he unpacks the shopping bags. it's exacting, the way he does it, like the way you'd peel an orange—thumbnail slivering into rutted skin, a delicate decortication—the plastic yawning open beneath his hands like a solitary screaming mouth. the stale ten pm light always makes him look less like my father and more like someone rembrandt might have painted, faded around the edges and yin-yanged, with shadow in one eye and brown in the other. a study in eclipses of the moon.
i want to know how his day was but i know that nothing he'd answer would be the truth. just as nothing i'd answer would be the truth. "bad," meant to encapsulate that lingering lonely sort of feeling, of realizing life is a cycle that stretches like a wad of gum, thin in the middle from being stretched and scabbed in the middle with holes. "eh" to temper the question, "eh" not really delivering anything from answerer to receiver, "eh" the answer that is a non-answer. "good" to encapsulate a lie.
he goes to bed and leaves me in the kitchen doing my homework. i finish it quickly and then go to bed.
i used to stay up late nights reading or watching tv, texting on my phone, eating snacks, anything to stay up. life was too important to waste on lying in the dark, blank slate, and nobody home. but now i have fallen in love with the slow, lazy susurrus that tugs me under. it is like lying at the line between beach and ocean on a hot night, when it is dark and the water is black and it weaves over the sand. and best of all, lying there—careless—it is easy.
my dad does not have trouble falling asleep. i can hear his snores from where i sit downstairs, in front of the window, watching the city lights as an indication of time passing by. he goes to bed like a bullet train—awake one second, asleep the next. it's so quick that i wonder if he feels the same way, if he thinks sleep is easier. or maybe he's just tired.
i think about asking him, but i would not. after all, his answer would be a lie.
Powder Moon
Quinn Neubert
It is dark. Waxy candles sit on the windowsill, the flames casting shadows onto the dust-coated stucco. Floorboards protest every step. A pair of yellow pumps enter the kitchen. Little hands tug at a skirt, pleading for attention.
“Mama, what’s gonna happen when the numbers get to zero?”
Stop the beep of the stovetop timer. Take the pot off the flame. Empty the packet into noodles, hide it with cheese. Stir. Watch it thicken. Drag the wooden spoon through it until it reaches the desired consistency.
“The effects are instantaneous. Virtually painless.”
The merchant hadn’t asked questions; arsenic production had spiked within the days preparing for the end, and it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. A mother killing her family wasn’t so tragic anymore. It was a mercy.
Use that same spoon to scrape the pot, enjoy these moments, make sure there’s enough for everyone. Moments, food, scrape the pot. Pour wine. Give the kids ice cream. Hands around her waist and she smiles at the contact. The kids eat the ice cream, the husband drinks the wine. She watches.
Scrape the pot, scrape and tear until there’s nothing left. Enjoy.
Drink the wine in the night. Candlelight. Breathing stops. Ice cream melts.
 Wine spills.
“You’re my babies! I could never live without you!”
The children sleep. The husband sleeps. The wine seeps into the tablecloth.
They stiffen, grow cold, she doesn’t have to watch but she needs to. A gross fascination, a necessary pain after waiting and waiting.
“I’m sorry.”
Her turn now. Shaking hands. Pour the wine, take the packet, shake it out, watch powder dissolve, enjoy. Arsenic stains her gums. No one in the house breathes. It is quiet. Say goodnight to everything that couldn’t be saved.
Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight.
The Good Brother
Quinn Neubert
I hate it when Charlie has to go away.
Mama and papa try to tell me that he has to leave because he’s sick–– that I’m lucky to have a brain that works like it’s supposed to.
I try to tell them how bored I am without a brother to play with. They tell me Charlie is likely more bored than I am, all locked up in a little room in the institution. They say institution the same way they say disturbed or horror.
I beg them to give him another chance.
They do, at first. Charlie comes back home, and we get to play again. I am not bored anymore.
But then everything starts again. The neighborhood cats start to show up in his toy chest again, their intestines playing cat’s cradle over his other toys. My papa’s razors are found at the bottom of the slide in the park across the street. Mama’s vitamins are replaced with bits of dishwasher tablets.
Mama and papa stop giving out chances. I complain again, ask for another chance for Charlie.
They say no, tell me that Charlie’s brain makes him charming but dangerous, makes it easy for him to pretend that he’s normal, makes it easy for him to trick his doctors into thinking he can be rehabilitated. They tell me I will have to put up with my boredom so I can stay safe from him.
I hate it when Charlie has to go away.
It makes me have to pretend to be good until he comes back.
The O'Donald Sisters
Molly Morgan
The sky was steel blue like my eyes. It reflected back to me the words I heard as I looked up. The clouds swirled, and birds flew. The grass was emerald and cold against my back. The insects squirming as I pinned them to the solid ground. My eyes were open, absorbing all they could register. The faint sounds of cattle and sheep chirped around me. Slowly, I sat up. The metal cross against my neck left a little imprint on my skin. As I walked through the field, I heard the words again. “Your sister is in the north.” The North, why would my sister be in the North? I have a sister? I nervously rubbed the necklace between my fingers. Has she been in the North this whole time? Does that make her . . . No impossible. My parents would never have let that happen.
The house sat. Staring back at me tauntingly. I had run away, you see. The problem is that there aren’t many places to run in Wexford. If you run more south, you will hit the water, and you don’t want to run north. At least not if you are like me. North is where the Protestants live. North is where my people don’t go. Either way, though, you will hit some sort of wall. That is why I cannot fathom my sister there. My mummy told me she is named Orla, Orla O’Donald. I wonder if they make fun of her name up there. That is probably the least of her worries. These things swirl through my head as my mom shouts at me. “Saorise O’Donald, you walk your little arse here righ now.” I knew what awaited me
The wooden spoon had left a little bruise, but that would fade soon. My parents explained to me what had happened to my sister and that’s what really mattered. My mummy and daddy met at a camp somewhere in America. They always have quite the stories to tell. It was a Catholic camp, I assure you, so most got as exciting as singing the wrong lyrics during mass. Once in awhile, though, they’ll share a good one. Our story takes place back home, however. A place where they sing the same lyrics, but some don’t call it mass at all. Orla was born here, again in Ireland. She was a little baby when they went to Dublin. My young parents walked through the streets, marveling at the big city baby in arms until she wasn’t.
You see, the year was 1916, the day of April 24th. So as my parents walked by the shiny new Dublin Post Office, they witnessed history. History is not always pleasant to be a part of, though. They found this out the hard way when the bomb exploded. Sometime within the fray baby Orla was lost. My parents searched and searched but believed her dead. After asking British soldiers it was confirmed, no one knew where Orla went. They blamed the rebels. Well, they accused them until the next week when the same freedom fighters were assassinated for all of Ireland to see. Crazy as it seems now, this sort of occurrence was not uncommon that week. Throughout the Easter Uprising, many went missing or were killed. Dublin was under martial law. My parents managed to escape the war zone, but their family had diminished by one. Orla was gone, so they thought. They were quite wrong. My older sister had been adopted and taken in up North by some British soldier and his family.
With this information, I made my plans. I was to go up to the border and demand my way across. I was naive and didn’t understand the depth of this moment. Despite that, though, I went. I snuck out and hitchhiked all the way up. I rode in cabs with drivers who would let me ride for free if I’d just listen to their stories. Of course, I did, you never tell a cab driver to be quiet down here. I somehow managed to get across and into the city of Londonderry. Derry, as my people call it, is small but bustling. It borders Donegal, so many of the residents support the republic. I wondered how this moment could go any smoother. Then we began to drive through the wealthy neighborhood. British flags hung from house and store roofs. Orange banners made it clear exactly where I was. So as I stood at her door. I said a little prayer to Mary and knocked.
An old woman answers. She asked me what she could do? I told her, “I am looking for my sister.” My accent threw her off. She quickly assured me that there was no such girl there. A voice from the stairs betrayed her, though, as a young girl descended. Her steel blue eyes met mine. We stared at each other, and then I smiled. For a moment, there was no divide just two girls staring at each other. Both sides have always been one and the same, only with a slightly different version of the story to tell.