EXTENDED PIECES
Literary Fiction
Fall 2023
I am twenty-two. Maybe you are scoffing at the fact that it is ridiculous for me to say I am growing old because everyone is. I might not be an expert at growing old, but as a June birthday, I have been the oldest person in the classroom for so long, so maybe I do have some credit to share my wisdom.
Each September, every reunion with people on campus starts with: “How do you feel about being a (fill in the applicable class year)?”
I reply with either “Oh, you know how it goes” or “It’s okay…” (Can you tell I am not good at lying in social situations).
By Christine Jeong
Buddha’s first teachings started with the Four Noble Truths.
The first of my four noble lies started with pig’s blood
- Agnes Tran | Spring 2021
Naga-Girl and Naga Queen
mourn
graveyards blooming with
thymus tulips
sprouted all over your liver
- Caterina Dong | Fall 2022
Naoko takes every excuse to go back to Hawai’i. She left Oahu for Rhode Island 16 years ago, and has returned at least ten times since then.
- Miya Lohmeier | Spring 2021
In Tagaung—a prospering city-state where the women wore thanaka every day to ward off the sun’s jealous rays;
- Sandra Moore | Fall 2019
The first lie I remember telling happened in the bathroom of my childhood home, the bathroom that I would later find out was inhabited by…
- Agnes Tran | Fall 2019
Past Issues
We were on the C-line. He was black and wore black. His hoodie was not a dark, formidable shade…
- Ray Huang | Fall 2022
Let me tell you how we arrived here. Let me tell you our story.
My great-uncle, my Chacha-ji, sat softly on the…
- Adi Thatai | Fall 2022
Truyện is Story, Chuyện is Story,
I am writing a story.
“Story” has two different, but similar words. My parents and I, with our time-capsuled Vietnamese…
- Adi Thitai | Spring 2021
Traveline
- Kaanchi Chopra | Fall 2019
These are stories of words- about them, containing them, and using them. The sight of seventeen thick, imposing, identical…
- Agnes Tran | Fall 2019
The Water Rises
- Yeonsu Park | Fall 2019
let me first tell you that never in my life will I ever experience this sweltering, thick heat outside of my homeland. but so too will I never…
- Katie Chiou | Fall 2019
Blog Posts
Literary Fiction
By Indigo Mudbhary | CW: mention of sexual assault
On December 23rd, 2022, at 4:37am, a medium-height, 18-year- old girl with bad posture and two tight braids will leave her house in San Francisco, California. She will close the front door as quietly as possible, tiptoeing down the gray steps which will be slick and slippery from the morning dew. The heavy blanket of fog will make it so that she can’t see more than ten feet ahead of herself. She will get in her father’s light blue electric Chevyvolt = and type a Berkeley address into Apple Maps. She will then put on a Spotify playlist titled “This is Abba” and drive past the pastel-colored houses, down the hill toward her high school, which she graduated from in May.