FirstFlight Literary Magazine 2011

renaissanceSPRING 2011

melons

Words that taste like honey dew on your lips—green, the wrong color for the fleshy fruit of a melon, but sweetly perfect in the screwy mixed up confused jumble, a psychedelic mix and match, a child’s coloring book, that is you. An empty, blank canvas filled only with guidelines, colored in with the too-hard press of a forceful child’s waxy crayon, a scribble-scrawl in the “wrong” colors and the “wrong” texture all “wrong” just because it’s out of the guidelines and doesn’t look real. But what is real anyways. If real is only the clear, cold cut trimming of some debutante’s housewife mother’s lawn emitting that cis-3-Hexenal smell to the rest of identical, copy-cat, cloned suburbia, then they can have it. If real is only the great gray monsters that rise from the depths of cement and asphalt and thick orange-vested drones with hard yellow hats, creating steel beasts that clutch and grab and drag down the bright blue of the sky, choke up smoke that engulfs and blinds and derails, then they can have it. We can live in the fantasy, the imaginary land, the Narnia that is the smell of baking apple pie, the bubble of hysteric laughter that relinquishes itself to the autumn air, the tired rub of eyes but not wanting sleep (not wanting to miss another moment of you), the trace of the thumb in concentric circles on my hand, that last look and last wave before climbing into the jaws of our personal steel CO2 emitting monsters, and the impossibility that is us, that is the song you sing and the melody I try to write, the words I scribble down in despera-tion trying to catch a fleeting, indescribable emotion—that is the metaphorical melon, green, so wrong, but inexplicably right, and therefore much better than orange (I never liked cantaloupe much anyways).

Renaissancespring 2011

FirstFlight Literary Magazine3710 Del Mar Heights RoadSan Diego CA 92130

Words that taste like honey dew on your lips—green, the wrong color for the fleshy fruit of a melon, but sweetly perfect in the screwy mixed up confused jumble, a psychedelic mix and match, a child’s coloring book, that is you. An empty, blank canvas filled only with guidelines, colored in with the too-hard press of a forceful child’s waxy crayon, a scribble-scrawl in the “wrong” colors and the “wrong” texture all “wrong” just because it’s out of the guidelines and doesn’t look real. But what is real anyways. If real is only the clear, cold cut trimming of some debutante’s housewife mother’s lawn emitting that cis-3-Hexenal smell to the rest of identical, copy-cat, cloned suburbia, then they can have it. If real is only the great gray monsters that rise from the depths of cement and asphalt and thick orange-vested drones with hard yellow hats, creating steel beasts that clutch and grab and drag down the bright blue of the sky, choke up smoke that engulfs and blinds and derails, then they can have it. We can live in the fantasy, the imaginary land, the Narnia that is the smell of baking apple pie, the bubble of hysteric laughter that relinquishes itself to the autumn air, the tired rub of eyes but not wanting sleep (not wanting to miss another moment of you), the trace of the thumb in concentric circles on my hand, that last look and last wave before climbing into the jaws of our personal steel CO2 emitting monsters, and the impossibility that is us, that is the song you sing and the melody I try to write, the words I scribble down in despera-tion trying to catch a fleeting, indescribable emotion—that is the metaphorical melon, green, so wrong, but inexplicably right, and therefore much better than orange (I never liked cantaloupe much anyways).

jennifer chengkate hohenstein

EDITORS

niki basquezcole canedytinisha schick

media editors

heather changjonathan gao

michael leung

photo editors

eden berdugoben bulowlucy chen

james hakejill wong

prose editors

James Abele, Ben Bai Lindsay Dale, Zack Jafek Kyle Joyner, Alexa LombergTida Nohra, Vanessa PiusChris Rellas, Harrison SchneiderErika SchmidtAlyssa Virker,

staff

mia boardman smith

adviser

north shores printerystudio westronen reouveni

production

2011“When you put your hand in a flowing stream, you touch the last that has gone before and the first of what is still to come.” Leonardo da Vinci

renaissance

Foreshortening creating depth through vanishing points and uncertainty, leaving lasting impressions and infinite pathways for thought and investigation of self, in the present and the unknown, made so by diving into fears, hopes and questions.

FirstFlight has taken these painting techniques employed by the maestros of the renaissance era to curate a body of beauty, teenage angst and discovery. These techniques are also the precedents for how we both create and interpret art and, thus, the life that stems from it. We reference the word renaissance beyond simply its past, instead rendering it loosely within the notion of rebirth: a constant turning and returning to creativity and innovation. While art is confronted with both the ebb and flow of this cyclical regeneration of thought, it is necessary to build upon the past and allow for a succession of innovation. We invite you to enter Renaissance as you explore the rebirth of your ideas. Remember that inquisitive intelligence never halts at a fixed mental position. Art is a reflection of stages in a ceaseless exploration. You might be surprised at what you discover as your conclusions, opinions and prejudices are altered and refined with the turn of each page. The only thing you can be sure of is that nothing will remain the same, except art itself..

Sfumato blurring lines between reality and imagination, who you are and who you would like to be, merging the past and present in the hope of finding a concrete clarity within the hazy and undefined boundaries.

Chiaroscuro creating contrast to discover your greatest strengths and weaknesses, darks and lights, highs and lows, accomplished by taking risks and challenging conventions as well as building upon and strengthening the familiar.

Balance and Proportion being able to act upon and grow from art and literature while remaining intact and grounded, centering within oneself confidence and certainty: able to live and create with intent and take lessons learned from art to the world

Amidst the charred despair“Sheltered from the crashing wave of ashen rubble,Helpless against a hostile world.”by Eva lilienfeld & Charlie yang. art by carolina jauregui & Ayesha kapil

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plank“Bump in the rolling liquid, set in the steep, and spike down the wave.”by jonathan gao

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trespasser“I have/ grown accustomed and conditioned/and repetitive and accustomed and/ so on and so on and so on.”by daniel clarkson. photo by michael leung

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before the dawn“The sun’s too hot; your wax wings have melted. There’s only one way out, and only one person can leave.”by michelle kao. art by ivan tae

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north“...link the stars together/ a road map of the sky country”by jill wong. photo by michael leung

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human“You only get one chance to handle an apocalyptic event with grace.”by ben bulow. art by isaac santiago

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a king without hubris“Infinite endings to your infinite beginnings.”bybrian thene. art by catherine li

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presently sent“adrift in mind,/and my eyes/which, mindless, drift/outward bound.”by daniel clarkson. photo by michael leung

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there is nothing better than goat cheese“I am a lemon bar. Simple. Understated. I am an avocado. Earthy. Rare. You may say I am random, conflicted, confused.”by zoey zobell. baking by Rachel connors .

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without you“My memories of you, I’ll keep with me, as I fade into the sun and the sea.”by peter chu. art by yuri taketomi

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4 FirstFlight Literary Magazine

first flight 2011

renaissanceby jennifer cheng and kate hohenstein

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charnon“We love. It is astonishingly simple, but we just love. Compassion will vanquish our tormentor.”by nick paganelli. art by spencer noble

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ode to the mode“Beyond the Vanity,/ It’s insanity! /Beyond the Vogue,/ I’ll just go rogue!.”by james hake. art by matias m-reding

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changing fate“I feel nothing and yet, I feel everything.I feel a shock, a breeze of air, a sudden jolt.”by brent parker. art by sylvia kosowski

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drabble of nothing“Summer sky’s heavy breath.”by angela qian. art by jill wong

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conifer“Her leaves are frozen in jade,The beauty of eternity.”bywilliam bao. Photos by eli besser.

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UNTITLED“If only this wasn’t a two way street and I could predict what both parties would say.”byVANESSA PIUS. ART BYCAROLINE HU.PHOTOS BY CHLOE warehall

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UNTITLED“The love in my eyes was impossible to ignore.”by ELIZABETH EVRETT. ART BY DYLAN BRADSHAW.

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i awoke to the taste of blood“Sheltered from the crashing wave of ashen rubble,Helpless against a hostile world.”by niki basquez. art by karis wong-weinrieb

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melons“That is the metaphorical melon, green, so wrong, but inexplicably right, and therefore much better than orange.”by michelle kao. photo by chloe warehall

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FirstFlight Literary Magazine 5

mine“Three. All significant things happen in three.”by jennica moffat, bailey o'brien, kysha shaffer and minji son bao. Photos by heather chang.

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40#2, statuesque“She will only last an hour, but it will be the sweet-est hour the world has ever seen.”poems by ELIZABETH EVRETT. ART by annie wang.

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anything you want“Sometimes, though, they offer to do the dishes and mow the lawn, but it is always best to refuse.”by jennifer cheng. art by caylee shimizu

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"goodnight empress"“She, effervescent and so fey,Was taken by this monarch’s play...”by angela qian. art by annie wang & ivan tae.

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the importance of stripes“But she had took his stripes, and he wasn’t a tiger without his stripes.”bytida nohra. ART BYkyle ross & erika schmidt.

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Resting in the mother’s cold hands,Laid a folded paper crane,

Orange like the sky set aflame by the setting sun,Orange like the flames that seared away tranquility,Burning with the indignation of desecrated beauty,

Burning with the light of a mother’s eternal love.

Still quivering with fear,Children clutched their mothers,Families frantically floundered,

Explosion ringing in ear,Reliving the instant with every blink

When hatred attacked humanity.

Lost in fear,Drowning in black ash

Burning their eyes,Clouding their minds,

Groping for loveIn the dark, confined.

Confined from love,Confined from life,

Aghast at the animosity,Agape at the atrocities,

Committed by othersWho claim to be right.

Adrift in the sea of charred despair,Beyond the feeble light of t e huddled mass,

A bawling baby struggles for assurance.In his mother’s cold embrace,

Sheltered from the crashing wave of ashen rubble,Helpless against a hostile world.

Amidst the carnage,Life desperately huddles together

Gawking at devastation,Cowering at death

Lurking in the corner of its eyes.

Amidst the carnage,Trembling bodies huddle together

Wailing at devastation,Shuddering at death

Strewn all around them.

AM

IDST

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BY E

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Resting in the mother’s cold hands,Laid a folded paper crane,

Orange like the sky set aflame by the setting sun,Orange like the flames that seared away tranquility,Burning with the indignation of desecrated beauty,

Burning with the light of a mother’s eternal love.

WORDS AND PHOTO BY JONATHAN GAO

PLANKPLANK

Stroke after stroke, breath after breath, the blue liquid laps across the pearly white plank that you lay on. The liquid

tickles with the orange skin painted by the sun. The mind releases a deep sigh of relief due to the escape of the onerous duty of daily life and into the

new duty of weaving through the walls of water.

The wall advances towards you in flanks of deep blue. Eyes look both ways and see no escape. The white general of water leads the charge to

stop you from achieving freedom. Duck dive right under the ranks. Hidden like a ninja, covered in black rubber which is for warmth and stealth in the frigid and

treacherous battle field.

Suddenly the nirvana is reached in the battle field, past the legions of

breakers. Gentle slopes of blue hills roll through as the white plank gently turns toward home to fulfill its purpose. Bump

in the rolling liquid, set in the steep, and spike down the wave it goes as

the plank morphs into one with the blue liquid.

Gravity brings the plank into freefall and human power turns it back up

carving into the wall — like a sculptor. Soon a chandelier forms from the wall and starts covering the plank. Fluidity and flow is needed to make it past the barrel of blue. Becoming one with the water out it goes and makes a display

of spray flashing the human power: conquering all.

A few more deep carves and release into the air, it goes from the grasps of blue. Landing on a plush white pillow of liquid, the plank has served its duty for the time and is still ready for more

adventure.FirstFlight Literary Magazine 7


Wandering woodsimagined me sober,yet fireflies buzz down my gullettoxic with wilderness and wisdom.An owl’s coo, the half-imagineddryadic sonnet, caressesthe moonlight and lullabiesmy fears to sleep.Here I am rememberedas a young boy buoyant withjoy and blessed with curiosity:ever a stick in hand, more slickthan Excalibur to fend offmy monsters and sometimespoke things.A boy with a quest to finda big bug, or a smooth stone.Yesterday was more complexthan today, or perhaps I havegrown accustomed and conditionedand repetitive and accustomed andso on and so on and so onand so, on this path, as a childI knew nothing, and yearnedto learn it all; or perhaps I kneweverything and have since forgottenwhere the big bugs burrowor the ripple of the wet furrowsthat ringed the smooth skipping stone’s flightacross the pond, that seemed as an oceanof mystery and promise.

WORDS&ART BY DANIEL CLARKSONPHOTO BY MICHAEL LEUNG


It’s Daedalus’s Labyrinth and the Minotaur is waiting. Roaming. He’ll bide his time, because he knows that’s the one thing you don’t have. Before the dawn. Get out before the dawn breaks. Time’s a creepin’ and the windows are barred. You run on desperately—hey, haven’t you been down this corridor before—who cares if you have no sense of direction? Lost. In every sense of the word. It’s a free-for-all.

You meet another hapless victim in the cross section of some rusty metallic ramps—it seems Daedalus favored warehouses over Doric order temples. There’s something wild and crazy in his eyes, something feral.

But his appearance makes you think of laughter and lame pick up lines (something about airplanes and his heart taking off) and yet—a bestial snarl.

You’re going to have to fight your way out of here. Fuck humanity.

Kicking, punching, spitting.

You’ll be the one out, or you’ll take

someone down with you. The sun’s too hot

There’s only one way out, and only

your wax wings have melted. one person can leave.

WORDS BY MIC

HELLE KAO

ART BY IVAN TA

E

BEFORE THE DAWN


with city glowthe circling moon

a compass

a road map of the sky country borders made

I look into the darkest night

and link the stars together

I look into the darkest night and link the stars together

a road map of the sky countryborders made with city glow the circling moon a compass.

sts

sts

WORDS BY JILL WONGPHOTO BY MICHAEL LEUNG

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north


hu·man \ hyoo-muhn, adj., n.-n. 1 A species smart enough to engineer Diet Coke, and dumb enough to drink it. 2 A species having the intellectual capacity to create chemical weapons and the cruelty to use them. 3 A species unique in its ability to destroy a planet. 4 A species unique in its ability to write about itself destroying a planet. Humans were once the dominant life forms on Earth.

Alright, guy. The world is ending.

Think fast. What’s your plan of action?

Couldn’t think of one? You imbecile! You only

get one chance to handle an apocalyptic event with grace; take a word of advice. Make sure you go

out with some pizzazz.

Haven’t you ever read the emergency plans pinned up on the walls of

public buildings? Oh, you’re missing out, guy. Quite a good read. Chemical

attack on a pre-school? Covered. Sniper at work? Got your answer. It

makes a person feel good about himself, knowing what to do in these situations.

Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. The only thing everyone seems to agree on is that the

world will end. Sooner or later, that tsunami, earthquake, nuclear holocaust, bird invasion, robot animation, sun death, or creepy Mayan calendar doomsday will become a

reality. But you, guy, you don’t even know what you would do if the world as we know it were ending.

Luckily for you, I’ve given this quite a bit of thought, and came

up with my survival guide to inevitable death.

1. Get super excited! Remaining calm is probably the dumbest thing you could possibly do in a situation like this. You’re dying for sure. Why would you want the last

moments of your life to be wasted away in a boring calm? Being calm isn’t going to save you from the 60-story skyscraper about to come down on

your head. Live it up.


2. Laugh at all the suckers that tried to be productive. Remember all those times you felt bad because other people were doing productive work and you were messing around/lying down/otherwise not being productive? This is a great time to not feel bad anymore. In fact, feel great—now that everyone is dying anyway, what’s the difference? All those try-hard’s just didn’t have as much fun as you did. 3. Congratulate (sarcastically) the activists in your life. The cynic in you was right; the world was just bound to end up getting destroyed. Saving the whales won’t save anything now. You can feel perfectly good about having sat back while the world destroyed itself, because now it’s destroyed for real. And all the people who spent all their time worrying about nuclear weapons and disappearing ozone are going to be just as dead as you. Congratulations.

4. Laugh.It’s all quite funny when you think about it.WORDS BY BEN BULOW

ART BY ISAAC SANTIAGO

Alright, guy. The world is ending.

Think fast. What’s your plan of action?

Couldn’t think of one? You imbecile! You only

get one chance to handle an apocalyptic event with grace; take a word of advice. Make sure you go

out with some pizzazz.

Haven’t you ever read the emergency plans pinned up on the walls of

public buildings? Oh, you’re missing out, guy. Quite a good read. Chemical

attack on a pre-school? Covered. Sniper at work? Got your answer. It

makes a person feel good about himself, knowing what to do in these situations.

Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. The only thing everyone seems to agree on is that the

world will end. Sooner or later, that tsunami, earthquake, nuclear holocaust, bird invasion, robot animation, sun death, or creepy Mayan calendar doomsday will become a

reality. But you, guy, you don’t even know what you would do if the world as we know it were ending.

Luckily for you, I’ve given this quite a bit of thought, and came

up with my survival guide to inevitable death.

1. Get super excited! Remaining calm is probably the dumbest thing you could possibly do in a situation like this. You’re dying for sure. Why would you want the last

moments of your life to be wasted away in a boring calm? Being calm isn’t going to save you from the 60-story skyscraper about to come down on

your head. Live it up.


A KING Splattered on the asphalt, no need for bandages

From left to right the blood of kings rolls down white linens

Locked from the world, he can cause no more damage

In and around royalty who arrives to only shudder

The death of his conscious waning on imaginariesWhere are all these fiends who sare one another

But he is no longer there, and sense of rhyme he no longer carries

Caught in the corner as the winged shadows creep

The linen are now soaked with the deep purple drenche1d of hope

Where blank and bright spaced matter meet

And now he sleeps peaceful as his nameless hubris copes.

WITHOUT HUBRIS

Infinite endings to your infinite beginnings

WORDS BY BRIAN THENE ART BY CATHERINE LI


seagulls, all a swim

with weighted wings

((waves crested lovingly(((skim brazenly

our thoughts

of sea, and sightly

swift seabird song.

adrift in mind,

and my eyes

which, mindless, drift

outward bound.

Presently_Sent

WORDS&ART BY DANIEL CLARKSONPHOTO BY MICHAEL LEUNG


Whether humbly perched atop flakey pastry crust and caramelized onions, or paired with a sweet harmony of fig and honey, goat cheese will never fail to pleasantly surprise your taste buds.

There is nothing better than goat cheese.

WORDS BY ZOEY ZOBELL

PHOTOS BY RACHEL CONNERS


FIND RACHEL’S RECIPES & BLOG AT BAKERITA.COM

Cooking. The practice of rhythmic slicing, dicing, chopping, rinsing, mincing. The art of creation. My life is made up of so many flavors and textures that I have no better way to

express them than through food.

I have learned throughout my life that those things that taste best are inevitably those that are messy. The perfect plum will sticky your hands and dribble juice all the way down

your chin at first succulent bite. The most flavorful tri-tip sandwich you have ever eaten will fall apart long before your last bite and drip sweet and smoky barbeque sauce onto your

fingers. Similar to the things that taste best, I have learned through my passion for cooking that the most savory moments in life would not exist without a little mess. The first time I

rode a bike, I fell and scraped my knee. My first kiss was shortly followed thereafter by my first heartbreak. A personal record mile time was not achieved without sweet, tired tears

streaming down my cheeks.

I am a girl with an undeniable attraction to flavor. A coffee cup invites me to fill it with spicy chai tea that tiangles the tip of the tongue. An empty mixing bowl lures me nearer to fill its teasing space with a dulcet medley of sliced Granny Smiths and cinnamon. A cutting

board challenges me to explore its surface with tact and artistry, to test its limits. As a mere victim of relentless taste buds, you will never find me abiding by the confinements of these

items. As such, in every aspect of my life, I strive for overwhelming gustatory success.

If you ask me to slow down, I will only run faster. Edamame flirting with piquant oil and crushed red pepper. If you ask me to take a break, I will only work harder. A steaming array of clams and muscles dressed handsomely in a mouth-watering garlic and white

wine reduction. If you ask me to follow the example of someone else, I will dare to create something shockingly innovative. Just set me free and watch me.

I am a lemon bar. Simple. Understated. I am an avocado. Earthy. Rare. You may say I am random, conflicted, confused. I say I am inspired. Inspired by the lust of a dark red cherry

dripping with melted chocolate. Inspired by the charm of a perfectly poached egg. Inspired by invigoration of a balsamic drizzle.

Wherever my life takes me, or rather I take my life, I will bring with me every, every lick, and every bite I have ever taken. Food is my music. Flavor my soundtrack. And taste, my

poignant memory. I am here today to share my knowledge, passion, and inspiration, sprinkle the world with nutmeg, and never neglect to add a garnish.


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without you

And the moment I see you, my heart skips a beat I shake and I tremble, and my whole body will freeze And when I look inside your glistening eyes, I know I’ll never reach you ‘Cause you’re just so high above me, but I don’t want you to pass me by

And the moment I see you, my heart skips a beat I shake and I tremble, and my whole body will freeze And when I look inside your glistening eyes, I know I’ll never reach you ‘Cause you’re just so high above me, but I don’t want you to pass me by WORDS BY PETER CHU ART BY YURI TAKETOMI


Looking at a most pristine glass and I don’t know what I see Something real, something fake, I don’t know what it could be You’d expect to see my face, my body, and all But what I see is you as I begin to forever fall

I’m being left behind again, and this I can’t defy You’re fading away, you’re leaving, and I just need to know why ‘Cause I hoped that you would stay here to light the darkest sky ‘Cause I can’t move or breathe without you, and so I give my last sigh

And the moment I see you, my heart skips a beat I shake and I tremble, and my whole body will freeze And when I look inside your glistening eyes, I know I’ll never reach you ‘Cause you’re just so high above me, but I don’t want you to pass me by

I just can’t go to Anywhere and I can’t hang on to my sanityI hate this feeling, but this pain is the best kind of pain, you seeI wish my heart could carry yours, but sadly, I lack the keyAnd I hate to say that without you, there would be no me So go off, walk away, and live eternally freeYour wishes are most important and the deepest to meAnd because my love for you will never cease to be,My memories of you, I’ll keep with me, as I fade

into the sun and into the sea.



renaissancewater is the driving force of all nature leonardo da vinci

FirstFlight has pooled these pages from waves of talent to channel a flood of inspiration and reawakening. We explore water as a visual representation of the themes of Renaissance, following its tide and patterns, praising it as the ultimate source of life and creativity, while being wary of the storms it can cause. Allow the flow of creativity to transport your revitalized imagination as it transcends reality through the art, and, ultimately, reawakens in a cultural revolution cast by the shadow of the greats.

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While we may not all be James Franco, the ultimate renaissance man of our time, there is something to be said for the wide-reaching things the bulk of us can do with the ever-expanding universe we call technology directly at our fingertips. To be connected no longer means face-to-face interaction but, instead, a sustained presence in the world, altering the way we act, think and most relevantly, create. So while you yourself may not be a writer, performance artist, painter and actor, the possibilities for what you can do are endless. The commonality between every human is the inability to limit imagination, if you remember to remain conscious of that, and with that inability comes a constant renewal of ideas and thoughts. Bodies and life spans may be finite, but imagination and intelligence live on, serving as catalysts for creation, discovery, and perspective.

Keep this in mind as you partake in a renaissance of your own.


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I cannot imagine the torment that would afflict my conscience if I didn’t do what I do. I could not escape the shame if I did not act to support those around me. To be silent is to accept that the life we are dealt is the only option. To be trapped in a fate that leaves me despondent, dejected, and alone? Yeah, sure, I’ll rollover and take that. No problem… Ours is not a forgiving world. It is, as Thomas Hardy put it, a blighted star. A star blighted with the scars of hatred and fear. In my world, these forces converge into a mass. This mass is growing, it is amorphous, and it is daunting. Mine is a world in which life is spent challenging that which is not supposed to be challenged. I must surmount the insurmountable, and I have done just that. I turn around, though, and so many others have not. The vast majority of my world’s citizens are

CHARNON WORDS BY NICK PAGANELLI

ART BY SPENCER NOBLE


without the courage or the assistance to make that journey, without the confidence to attack that which is aligned against them. Thus, I live in the dregs of my world. I search, through the grime and the filth, for those that need a hand. Some have begun to reach out, yearning for a steady hand to clasp their quivering, protruding fingers. Others shelter themselves in the muck. They know rather well the ways of their murky underworld; why should they emerge? What benefit awaits them? The torment of those who stand opposed at the surface? Can anyone expect them to break through the film if they are only going to be pushed back in? Homophobia lurks around me in this way. It stalks its prey, and as it sniffs for fear, it suppresses. It shatters the earth beneath it, causing those that lay trapped below to sink further. Tremors abound as it approaches, and when homophobia strikes it leaves horrendous scars. It lashes out at those who dare question is grungy authority. I confronted the beastly overlord some time ago, with marginal success. I escaped; sneaking away only when it’s wasn’t looming so close to home. I could have run away. Far away. Removing myself from the monster’s dominion would have been the easy out. A defeat, yes, but an out all the same. But I couldn’t do it. I knew those that had suffered alongside me too well. I understood their hardship. I, like them, had grappled with the torment, the despair. I knew the options being contemplated under the surface, and whenever I noticed one less soul in

bondage below, I knew the beast had won. The world had won. It had destroyed the life of an innocent child, a child who only dared to dream of something else, something more, something comfortable. Luckily there were those born outside the clutches of the dust, and they looked on in equal despair. They joined me in my return to the underworld. They hold my hand to this day, as we act together, allies in the fight. Together we charge, freeing tormented souls from their tormentor’s clutches. Some of my allies, to my surprise, have also come from the underworld. They have learned how to play the role of “normal.” They have transposed the lies of the darkness. They have, as I see it, brought with them the prison they had only just “escaped” from. Only in our work do they begin to fully comprehend their self-imposed seclusion. Nonetheless, they acted out of charity. We all did. We organized, creating an alliance that does not waiver in the eyes of the creature. The creature attacks, it smothers, but we over-come. We envelop in a warm embrace those who dare to emerge from their cold, cavernous tomb. They are rehabilitated, they are shown the wonders of the free world, but most impor-tantly they are loved. Unconditionally. What do I do? What do we do? We of-fer upon our humble refugee’s respect and sym-pathy. We love. It is astonishingly simple, but we just love. Compassion will vanquish our tormenter. Compassion will free those trapped souls. Only compassion will save a soul from its damp, filthy grave.

t


an ode to the mode

Don’t dare ask me to chooseBetween my blazers and shoes.

Clothes and body aligned,Fashion intertwined with my mind.

The ending remains clearTo the seams I adhere.

Beyond the Vanity,

It’s insanity!Beyond the Vogue,

I’ll just go rogue!

From my head to my toesEntrenched in my clothes.

From Paris to MilanGetting my fash-on.

Leather, polyester, suede, cottonI will never be forgotten.

H&M, Nordstrom, Urban, Gap,Strutting the runway…snap, snap, snap.

No pictures, please.

Down the catwalk,I walk the walk

And talk the talk.

WORDS BY JAMES HAKE ART BY MATIAS M-REDING


Beyond the Vanity,

It’s insanity!Beyond the Vogue,

I’ll just go rogue!

From my head to my toesEntrenched in my clothes.

From Paris to MilanGetting my fash-on.

Tick tock,I can’t resist from checking the clock.Moments like these require nerves of steel,So that the pain, I will not feel.Heart pounding, nervous chills,Emotions rolling like hills.Let’s get this over and done,Time is something no one can outrun.The clock keeps on beating,And my heart continues ticking.If I should fall victim to Death himself,Will my story be lost and forgotten on a decaying shelf?I no longer have control of my own fate,But, at least fate does not discriminate.My faith is in the hands of a sinister brother,I tell him, Please be gentle, do not smother.If I’m meant to go, then I shall not resist.I do not blame him; Death is just adding another name to his ever-increasing list.His victims are of no importance to him,For a man who only takes away, has no kin.He sighs and looks at his tenebrous watch,And tick tock continues the clock.Yet another, he mutters,

CHANGINGWORDS BY BRENT PARKERART BY SYLVIA KOSOWSKI

Time to go, but wait, he stutters.Is this right?Is it my right to end the fight?To show the light? To do it out of spite?He refuses with all of his might,He no longer wishes to enter at Hell’s foreboding Gate.His temper rises, his eyes glow of red, he becomes irate,He wields his fury,And suddenly, a light begins to appear.What is it? It is far too blurry.I see it now!The light is getting closer and closer!It approaches faster and faster!No, the light is getting farther and farther!It leaves slower and slower!Am I dreaming now?Or am I unconsciously awake?I feel nothing and yet, I feel everything.I feel a shock, a breeze of air, a sudden jolt.I glance over at the beating clock.Tick tock,Over and over.For only time does not end.

FATE


T

LFN YLESIW

HE

DYIN G

THE

C L O U DS .

HIGHIW

summer sky’s heavy breath

STARING AT

DRABBLE OF NOTHING WORDS BY ANGELA QIAN ART BY JILL WONG


elizabeth

I will one day create a perfect human being.So pure will she be, in fact, that sin will be repulsedand the devil will caress her beauty.It will beg for her secrets, and she(being the benevolent being she must be),will stroke his head and soothe the scars of sins.She will believe the world is as flawless as she,as we always believe our universe to made of the same stuff as we.She will only last an hour, but it will be the sweetest hourthe world has ever seen.

If people were statues, what would be their bases?

Brass, so they may rust away and leave facsimiles of human form

to stumble?Gold, so they may be stolen in the throes of envy?Sand, so they

may slip through our

foolish fingers

that seek stone hearts?

Or would there

simply be no bases-the devil may care (but most likely will not)

how God’s clumsy creations conduct themselves.

But humans are not made of

marble or lime,but rather skins and scales

and sins.The world is their base, and the heavens merely a lofty illusion

of a star-lit ceiling.


WORDS BY ELIZABETH EVRETTART BY ANNIE WANG

Never without a clever retort or congenial inquiry, this

speechlessness disturbs me. It is the only thing preventing

my advancement. Without words, how could anything happen? I scheme with every intention of execution, only to become intimidated and find myself hiding behind some barrier or another. Why can’t I compose myself, slow my racing heart,

remember my lines and overcome

the daunting task before me? For fear of denial, despite the foolproof though contrived plan? Better yet, go off script, stand up alone and hope my improvisation is at least a start. Allow the infatuation to control my words and pray for the best? If only this wasn’t a two way street and I

could predict what both parties would say.

UNTI

TLED

WORDS BY VANESSA PIUSART BY CAROLINE HU & CHLOE WAREWALL


Never without a clever retort or congenial inquiry, this

speechlessness disturbs me. It is the only thing preventing

my advancement. Without words, how could anything happen? I scheme with every intention of execution, only to become intimidated and find myself hiding behind some barrier or another. Why can’t I compose myself, slow my racing heart,

remember my lines and overcome

the daunting task before me? For fear of denial, despite the foolproof though contrived plan? Better yet, go off script, stand up alone and hope my improvisation is at least a start. Allow the infatuation to control my words and pray for the best? If only this wasn’t a two way street and I

could predict what both parties would say.

If only I had the words.FirstFlight Literary Magazine 35

Words that taste like honeydew on your lips—green, the wrong color for the fleshy fruit of a melon, but sweetly perfect in the screwy mixed-up confused jumble, a psychedelic mix and match, a child’s coloring book, that is you. An empty, blank canvas filled only with guidelines, colored in with the too-hard press of a forceful child’s waxy crayon, a scribble-scrawl in the “wrong” colors and the “wrong” texture all “wrong” just because it’s out of the guidelines and doesn’t look real.

But what is real anyway. If real is only the clear, cold-cut trimming of some debutante’s housewife mother’s lawn emitting that cis-3-Hexenal smell to the rest of identical, copy-cat, cloned suburbia, then they can have it. If real is only the great gray monsters that rise from the depths of cement and asphalt and thick orange-vested drones with hard yellow hats, creating steel beasts that clutch and grab and drag down the bright blue of the sky, choke up smoke that engulfs and blinds and derails, then they can have it.

We can live in the fantasy, >the imaginary land, >the Narnia that is the smell of baking apple pie, >the bubble of hysteric laughter that relinquishes itself to the autumn air, >the tired rub of eyes but not wanting sleep (not wanting to miss another moment of you), >the trace of the thumb in concentric circles on my hand, that last look and last wave before climbing into the jaws of our personal steel CO2 emitting monsters,

and the impossibility that is us, that is the song you sing and the melody I try to write, the words I scribble down in desperation trying to catch a fleeting, indescribable emotion— that is the metaphorical melon, green, so wrong, but inexplicably right, and therefore much better than orange (I never liked cantaloupe much anyway).


WORDS BY MICHELLE KAOART BY CHLOE WAREHALL


the love in my eyes was impossible to ignore. It was as pure as a human heart can be,as forgiving as the sea is to the moon that recklessly thrusts and thrills it,as warm as the absence of your reply left my cheeks.It was spent on the wrong subject, but its simple beauty is not one I would destroy in this life, or its parallel.

UNTITLEDWORDS BY ELIZABETH EVRETT

ART BY DYLAN BRADSHAW


I AWOKE TO THE TASTE OF BLOOD

It was warm on my lips, as it slowly dripped down my face, pooling on my pillow.

I blinked a few times to adjust to the darkness, and lifted my body to see crimson stained on my fingers and crusting on the tips of my hair.

I ripped off the sheets, and, stumbling over the clutter in my room, made my way to the bathroom. I didn’t bother turning the light on, for my eyes had somewhat adjusted to the night. The faucet began to run and I splashed

my face with water. But the water wasn’t cold. It wasn’t smooth. It was thick, and hot to my skin. I backed my hands from my face to find them

covered in the same red I awoke to.

I looked at the faucet. The steady stream of water was now a slow trickle of blood, each drop dissolving into the drain as it hit the skin. What is

this?

I turned on the light to see for myself what was happening. After a fleet-ing blindness, my eyes adjusted and I stared in horror at the words writ-

ten on the mirror: “It’s in your hands now.”

Panic. No anxiety. I rushed to grab a towel and wipe away the evidence, but it lie soaked in thick red too. There was no escape. I knew the words

written on the mirror, I knew the blood still running down my face.

It was the blood of a past life. His past life. His mistakes, his be-trayals, his regrets. His past now stains my skin, and I live with those mistake, those regrets, everyday. Why me? Why now? Why must I live with

this guilt and this anguish because you were too cowardly to fix the mess yourself?

He never intended to clean up the blood, but instead leave it for me to wake up to.

WORDS BY NIKI BASQUEZ ART BY KARIS WONG-WEINRIEB


Giae quasperit omnimpo rerspit que vent unt, ommolor epudipic te dolo et la quisim venihil miniet labor si doluptatur autem asitat.Ebitisincime ne delecae nuscimpore, volupta tiasi-menis peris eiureiunt rem faceper ehendita versped que doloreh enditas ent pos dist pe estiost otaesse-quam rae saperch ilibuste maximus, veliqua tincto-tam, untis sit aut quam quam solupta sincimuscid et reium exped ut endipsaperi as et et eicto qui tota-tas reri dolupti venienimuste perumquam, utem ut ma dio. Ut inctotati conet hillenient aut audaecatiur sum earchil lorectate volest odi coriore mquam, of-fic temodigent veliquae. Mus arion conest fugiata siti vel id que es sit quae digentent quis nat iuntem nam labor rest as sequi atusani mporepu diore, ommo-ditas alitaquo expliae ea commodi quati quam quaspis dia dia volut moditem pellam int laccaborupta dollupt asperum voluptas et landio tem fuga. Et et adisquia non pro voluptae provitemquae modio et res am es-tiaspici omniam la velique pre voluptat.Meni con re od que consedis aut quis doluptat fugi-tia ipsandisto quam cus am, sum et qui num harchi-cipid mo incias molupta nonsequasit fugia venditas exceaquo tem voloria volectur alibus quo ipsus del iligendandam ent laut harciisit lam, odis sim ne dol-lam eratur sum qui doloratquo qui rese repudae do-luptas sunti offictiatur rectur sendebit aut idebis excerchitium nobis sinctam volor sumquis aut offi-cidus andebitia dolor aspedist porias sitatis ento iligent liae optam eni dest qui tem faces dolorpor sa as autem volupta conecuptati ut ut ex eium faccu-saes eritem alit, ut laut quia consequibus, explabo. Nam verum qui ut magnitatem rere ipsam, que od et ero inciendaere, quiatent, ipieniet esequi ommosap issini il exera comnihi liquam, tem ut endae magnamus ea-tem fuga. Itatis ipsunt, sunt as dolorepelit ipid eos eaquid quia nonsedio. Occus exereperis derfere nos se derror sin net recullu ptaqui torat vel es dolendia comni bla porerum qui nam earibus essunt entia si oc-cus, sum dusapit ab impos dello ma dolutem re eniendi consedi genduntiae endi vitia veligent.Axim fugitemped molecum rernatia consequ ideliqu

atquam et etum que verspic itesed et rerum fugiat.Lestore peligenis estis nis audia pelestiur, est, si-tempos pro milignis et et ut lab idebition possitae officiam, volorion corepre nones dolorep edipidunda volupta turitio nsequi reic tota dolecti atectaspid ea sant lique explab inisci dolorro custiaeperit as dolo maionse reritas evendae pliti commolu ptatque con cusciatem ressitatiist vero eaquamu scidend ucil-landant, asitat.Ulpariore velitate ea sum fugitas piscien disseque magni berion repedip sunture hendipic te laboreste consequ asperferum harum facilia inimili tectus doles mincia dis etur aut quid et la volore, sitem venist, sin pa aut liquam facipsum volorit ut quuntiorem con-sequas quis quia doluptur accus.Sed eatur as aborpor rorporerepe verferferis aliatus.Nim faccuptatiis ipsapient que consecerum ratem qua-temp orerum ipsandae repta aut labo. Temporum et quias volupti intia sam corest estia poreperibea sum anis mi, odis nesti doluptae con comnimi nullore rferita epedit pa dolorro ribus, ut et, volorro vi-tatur simaximusam quis quo velit ab issi arunda qui qui deliquuntem facime sinuscia volore volor aperup-tate que veligendis ut quatet doluptatem as alitati-bus velest, ut odicium si iliciminimet faccus volupta dolupti onsequis dolor molupta ectotatet in pedit omnihici sit adi dolum inctate nonem quidelignam, con con rendic to earum quae commo bla sitiandiam suntiis tinulpa et earundendi aditas que coreptatus.Itatur, officium fuga. Ut latinum aspe doloreium quunti ullenduntum quiante nobis sundae am faccae que pro con es ipis et iscium comnihillaut pligenecum ipient velendistium faccupta culpa cus molectem aut audandit hitatempores exped quas quo escipit inimus-dant ommolor rovitatur aut moluptium quibus simi, om-nimus et utaessinist, omnimi, consequas velles molore enimintus, od et quatinverat experfereium re dolores expliqui resseque nihil maximus earia con poruptur?Acerchillit in nonsecture eaqui adipsunt hillam, volorpo ribusdae sam es quatiasit fugiate optatem quistin ctemporio ommolor entistius dolorporem consed ex exerspere lat abo. Ris ab ipsam volupta spellam

4/24Get it in your head, that we don’t care about you.

4/24I miss the beach. And Board&dank. Fragments of my dream keep appearing in real life. Seriously. I’m freaked out.

[[MINE]]

4/25 I remember why I don’t like the sun now. It puts me in pain, it makes me feel dirty, and exhausted.

4/27Today you saw me the way I saw you.

4/27 For the greater well-being of yourself, you will click this link.

4/23He makes me feel intelligent without compromising his own intellect. He’s impressively expressively knowledgeable, creatively rational, universally conscious, and his tongue does more than just speak the truth.


posts taken from the joint tumblr diary of

MINJI SON, BAILEY O’BRIEN, JENNICA MOFFATT, KYSHA SHAFFERART BY HEATHER CHANG

atquam et etum que verspic itesed et rerum fugiat.Lestore peligenis estis nis audia pelestiur, est, si-tempos pro milignis et et ut lab idebition possitae officiam, volorion corepre nones dolorep edipidunda volupta turitio nsequi reic tota dolecti atectaspid ea sant lique explab inisci dolorro custiaeperit as dolo maionse reritas evendae pliti commolu ptatque con cusciatem ressitatiist vero eaquamu scidend ucil-landant, asitat.Ulpariore velitate ea sum fugitas piscien disseque magni berion repedip sunture hendipic te laboreste consequ asperferum harum facilia inimili tectus doles mincia dis etur aut quid et la volore, sitem venist, sin pa aut liquam facipsum volorit ut quuntiorem con-sequas quis quia doluptur accus.Sed eatur as aborpor rorporerepe verferferis aliatus.Nim faccuptatiis ipsapient que consecerum ratem qua-temp orerum ipsandae repta aut labo. Temporum et quias volupti intia sam corest estia poreperibea sum anis mi, odis nesti doluptae con comnimi nullore rferita epedit pa dolorro ribus, ut et, volorro vi-tatur simaximusam quis quo velit ab issi arunda qui qui deliquuntem facime sinuscia volore volor aperup-tate que veligendis ut quatet doluptatem as alitati-bus velest, ut odicium si iliciminimet faccus volupta dolupti onsequis dolor molupta ectotatet in pedit omnihici sit adi dolum inctate nonem quidelignam, con con rendic to earum quae commo bla sitiandiam suntiis tinulpa et earundendi aditas que coreptatus.Itatur, officium fuga. Ut latinum aspe doloreium quunti ullenduntum quiante nobis sundae am faccae que pro con es ipis et iscium comnihillaut pligenecum ipient velendistium faccupta culpa cus molectem aut audandit hitatempores exped quas quo escipit inimus-dant ommolor rovitatur aut moluptium quibus simi, om-nimus et utaessinist, omnimi, consequas velles molore enimintus, od et quatinverat experfereium re dolores expliqui resseque nihil maximus earia con poruptur?Acerchillit in nonsecture eaqui adipsunt hillam, volorpo ribusdae sam es quatiasit fugiate optatem quistin ctemporio ommolor entistius dolorporem consed ex exerspere lat abo. Ris ab ipsam volupta spellam

dessimi, simincta quature ctotaspere, qui quat.Ucimolupta cori officto modipidi duciliasita quias dollore venihil invelecabor alibea dolupta tusandis nullia pro totatia sedit esectur adis elenianis mi, tem num faceaquatem fugiand eligenet ut et, int hill-ant ut ut et volor sint, sus sa nihit, que nam simet dolupis etur sunt, es magnias pelest fuga. Raest au-testis asim quas natem destet pel mosandes aut vele-cae nonsed et quis maiore eatem fugit ad mi, aciisi dolorat experion et omnis cullabo. Quossecus, audam simus re estion eaquatus sa que plantio. Itature, in-ulpar umquunt.Debitat emperi ut dolorep erspedit quos am et, te-tur si bea non exces re, ommolesenis dit quatum la volorum, nisquo moditatus, voluptatem doluptatur as volestiur, occupis reicid miliae verchil liquaepudam, ulpa velique et od minvellicae nullaborum inulpa co-nectin nonsenet restiscienem ium hillaborepro volor aut fugitas expella menducia provit et, que consequ osapellest, offic to beriation cus derit et qui nus-tiorrum ratur, culliti odi ipsam fuga. Ex ent ea co-rum ipitam re cusanihil essit hici doluptus aliae sunt venem in possi aceatenis eaquassimod quam non-sedit resendi dipis venditi odis everum fuga. Itam estota saecte rem rem aut liqui dem faci cumendant ut omnis reste si sita consequi qui sumquossit as mil eos qui vel id moles eum harit veriae earum es-sim cus intem quamus et porio venderum repta pliquis iminvellis qui to iducimi nciunt il maiorit ipsunt as doluptaquis magnis cus estia pa doluptas explaut aperchi llestruptasi conserovidus core niam ipsum de-ris eature illupta turemporem. Beate nam volut pore porerest lant, officidem enis sam ipsuntiis reptatur, quodio. Nam, optat.Pis comnis endion cuptas etusdae laborrum alic to-ritatur rerspid minis dolut mil eatum ut untendi tatquas imaios nullupicia doluptatem qui tet accum eate pro vendanis quos rerum rerum dis milit, sit eate il expliqu assinctum si dolestemquo iligeni mol-orentem volent.Dellorendel ipissitio conectam ut pedit eaquae serrum eos re veniam qui dolor sam sin et omnienissim in eum

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4/17 Sunday bullet points- I pretend, not because i like to but because i have to- i have to defend myself again because i let my walls down again. - everything will be made beautiful in time. so why is it taking so long- the worst part is…that shes a phony- some things are better left unsaid- being kind to kids and old people is so hard sometimes- i love you- three. all the significant things happen in threes. - physical or emotional pain? physical distracts from the emotion, but emotion seems to bring the - physical, what..??- i still remember a line from a movie from years ago, yet i cant recall what book i was supposed - to buy for english class. - change hair, temporarily change yourself.

4/12Taking a nap delusional

every momment is so damn fleeting. that last song, that last message you read, that last ciga-rette, the last smile you smiled, the things happening right now, even the words i type now, it’ll be gone forever. idk. i sometimes wish i can relive some things over instead of always missing.

i cant be just satisfied with yes that was a good time.YES THAT WAS A GOOD TIME.YES THAT WAS A GOOD TIME.

reblogFirstFlight Literary Magazine 41

MINJI SON, BAILEY O’BRIEN, JENNICA MOFFATT, KYSHA SHAFFERART BY HEATHER CHANG


Below the maple tree,Autumn brings a rain of fire

A short dance of yellow and ember,Orchestrated - by the wind

What remainsIs branching mahogany,

Empty of summer’s splendor and glory,A casualty of autumn.

But underneath the conifer tree,Seasons never change

Her leaves are frozen in jade,The beauty of eternity

Touched by the white of winter,The streets are lined

With branches - of frosted green

coniferWORDS BY WILLIAM BAO

ART BY ELI BESSER

once in a while, some small love stories and moments- sometimes fake, sometimes real,fill your brain and stay there, no matter how much you would like them to leave.you ask politely, but they remain like stray kittens that think they belong.sometimes, though, they offer to do the dishes and mow the lawn,and you are tempted,but it is always best to refuse.they try to trick you, to get you to think that yes:you are in love, or that perhaps your world has been shattered becausewell, he didn’t want you back.of course, they are lured away, as most kittens can be,but find a way to linger, never far from home.

WORDS BY JENNIFER CHENGART BY CAYLEE SHIMIZU



"Good night, empress," so gently phrased,A fond farewell to end the day.He said it with a casual airUnwitting of the very rareGallantry he had just displayed.The hand which on his shoulder laid,Was taken in a courtly way,He kissed it and smilingly dared,"Good night, empress."She, effervescent and so fey,Was taken by this monarch's play:Before untouched, her newfound careWas to his words helplessly bared;The emperor who that evening bade,"Good night, empress."

WORDS BY ANGELA QIANART BY ANNIIE WANG

WORDS BY TIDA NOHRAART BY KYLE ROSS &

ERIKA SCHMIDT


“There was a tiger.”Short, sighing breath.“He was part of a family of tigers. His friends were tigers, too. And they were all living in the jungle.”Cuddling closer, he buried his face into her side until his voice was nearly muffled, and continued, lisping every ‘s’ ever so slightly.“One day the tiger saw a rabbit.”He tugged her hand free of the throw blanket and traced his much smaller one where her wedding band used to be.“And he followed it into the forest for a long, long time, until all the light went away and all the trees were higher than he’d ever seen.”A pause to lick his lips.“He wanted to catch up to the rabbit, but it kept running and running and so he kept following. But then the rabbit was gone and the tiger was all alone in the dark.”He took a moment to burrow further, pulling the throw blanket up beneath his jaw as he poured forth the story.“And he was scared, because he didn’t like the dark and he didn’t know how to get home.”A moment of silence.“But then there was a really pretty fairy, and she told him she could show him how to get home to his tiger friends and tiger family.”His small, soft fingers curled tightly into the blanket.“But she would have to take something from him to do it.”The holes in the woven blanket were prodded further open by the fiddling digits, tug-ging at the seams.“But he really wanted to go home, and he was sad because he missed his family, so he said okay and she told him to close his eyes.”He closed his eyes, being the tiger. Or like he didn’t want to see this part.“And when he opened them he was home, and all of his friends and his mom and dad and everyone were there. And he was happy.”His eyes stayed closed.“But she had took his stripes, and he wasn’t a tiger without his stripes. He cried and cried, but the other tigers said he couldn’t be one of them anymore. So they left him, all alone. Just like in the forest.”He sat up, moved away to the other end of the couch and frowned at his hands.“The end.”

WORDS BY TIDA NOHRAART BY KYLE ROSS &

ERIKA SCHMIDT

THE IMPORTANCE OF STRIPES

TP Players school productions of As You Like It, The Who’s Tommy and ConsequencesPoster Designs by Dan Mckinney

by Cearges Feyduby Cearges Feydu

original translation by Jim Carmodyoriginal translation by Jim Carmody

MAY 4-7 & MAY 11-14visit tpplayers.com for more info

tp players presents

TP Players school productions of As You Like It, The Who’s Tommy and ConsequencesPoster Designs by Dan Mckinney

by Cearges Feyduby Cearges Feydu

original translation by Jim Carmodyoriginal translation by Jim Carmody

MAY 4-7 & MAY 11-14visit tpplayers.com for more info

tp players presents

01 Fliying Kites eliTE BEATS02 Can’t Handle It BK (Brian Kim)03 Light (from “Next to Normal”) Olivia Chomas, Akaina Ghosh, Robert Johnson, Edwin Kwon, Daniel Liu. 04 More Than Nothing Sierra Scott05 You and I (Ingrid Michaelson) Megan Mubaraki & Andy Zhao06 Khachaturian Toccata Sara Shu07 Suenos De Esos Laura Figueroa & Alejandro Arreguin08 Oh! Darling (Beatles Cover) Olivia Chomas & Robert Johnson09 His Eye is on the Sparrow (Lauryn Hill Cover) Nicci Cazares 10 Cissy Strut The Blue Notes11 Valentine (Kina Grannis Cover) Akaina Ghosh & Robert Johnson 12 Sibelius Violin Concerto in D Minor (excerpt) Alice Fang 13 Love Song #2 Charlie Gange14 DJ Got Us Fallin’ in Love (Usher Cover) Owen Chen & Jenny Zhan 15 A Single Star Miles Skinner16 Edge Britt Devore

Renaissancespring 2011

FirstFlight Literary Magazine3710 Del Mar Heights Road

San Diego CA 92130

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FirstFlight Literary Magazine 2011