Editor's Letter
The World’s Atomic Matters - Logan Roscoe
On Our Shoulders - Themi Perera
Redwoods - Orly Galatin
The Last Neanderthal - Kate Trout
Humanity + Science? - Olivia Taylor-Gao
Judge - Grace Kaur
Projections - Themi Perera
Welcome to Issue 4.5, Atrium’s second open submission summer issue!
When we first opened our submissions to any and all Cal students last summer for Issue 2.5, we couldn’t have expected the massive outpouring of talent displayed in the poetry, prose, and art we received. It was an honor to be able to publish the work of so many brilliant young creators, all passionate about the intersection of the sciences and humanities as we the Atrium staff are. Following the success of Issue 2.5, we knew we had to once more give a platform to writers and artists who think about STEM beyond what is taught in textbooks. That brings us to this very magazine you’re reading!
I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to all of our wonderful contributorswithout them, this issue and Atrium as a whole would not be possible. Within these pages, you’ll find musings on the wisdom of old redwood trees, a bittersweet story about the last living neanderthal, and more.
Without further ado, I invite you to delve into this issue - enjoy!
With love, Gabriella Smith
Editor-in-Chief, Atrium
CA walking flare, disgraced by human error, Marked as damned to be our sins’ sole bearer. Benighted folk all watch the bright blue smoke Rise from the inferno pride evoked.
In falling ash, unknowing kids thrash, Cancer dormant for years past the flash. Full lives ahead, men clean the graphite’s spread, Days from now their flesh encased in lead.
How much hell can seize the earth From deformed plants that science birthed?
A world at risk, while clocks and bodies tick, Blank turned cheeks are singed pursuing tricks. Dead trees ablaze, as guns and hounds all race, Suited men consumed with gaining praise.
Chernobyl’s air, which ruins past repair, Cuts through matter and leaves none to spare. These prices paid because our knowledge made What was once atomic unrestrained.
Choosing to bury to grieve our heads our legacy our greed we run from we forget we lose we remember THE HEAT THE HEAT THE HEAT THE HEAT THE HEAT of the tide of sunlight of smoke of her hands weighing. searing. grasping. And it rests And it falls on our shoulders.
Resistant and timeless, the redwood stands tall Gently whispering through it all, Roots entwined with the earth below, Silent secrets only it knows.
Crimson bark and emerald leaves, Stories woven in the breeze, Every ring a tale untold, Of ancient days and ages old.
Underneath the moonlit sky, Branches reaching, scraping high, In this grove where shadows play, Timeless echoes find their way.
Redwood tree, in the forest’s heart, Keeper of the past, where dreams impart, Standing strong, where the wild things roam, In your shade, I find a home.
Somewhere on the Eurasian Steppe, c. 38,000 B.C.E.
I am cold.
I am so cold that I can barely think, barely walk, barely breathe. I trudge heavily through the howling blizzard, a ghostly white landscape stretching endlessly ahead of me. My breath sits frigid and heavy in my lungs, my blood like ice in my veins. My fingers and toes are frostbitten and numb. I want nothing more than to lie down in the snow and drift off to sleep, but I know that is only the trickster Death calling to me. I need to keep going.
Suddenly, out of the dark and the blinding snow, comes a light. Distant and dimly flickering, but there all the same. I stumble desperately towards it, grasping for it like a distant star. Finally, I discover a cave with a narrow opening half-hidden by the snow, faintly illuminated from within.
Inside that cave, I find you. Huddled beside a meager fire, wrapped in a ragged and tattered animal fur. At the sight of me, you yelp in surprise and scramble backwards, reaching for your spear. You are too weak to stand, but you point it at me threateningly from the ground, shouting words that I do not understand. I hold up my hands in surrender; I too am frail and exhausted, and have no wish to fight.
I notice an angry red wound on your leg, oozing pus and blood. Your ankle is broken, twisted at an unnatural angle. Your eyes dart around wildly. Your forehead is slick with sweat, and I can tell that you are sunk deep in the burning haze of fever. I approach cautiously, and again you wave your spear in my direction. I crouch submissively and shuffle to a spot against the wall, wishing only to share your fire. You keep your eyes on me, suspicious and frightened, but eventually you seem to realize the same thing—neither of us has the strength to harm the other. We share an uneasy peace for a while, staring into the flickering flames. I lean gratefully into the warmth, feeling life return to my body little by little.
I look over at you. You are not like anyone I have ever seen before. You’re different, somehow. My mother told me stories about those like you, different-but not-quite-the-same. A strange and incomprehensible reflection of ourselves. It is clear that you are growing weaker by the moment, and I ask what happened to your leg for it to be so badly mangled. You shrink away from me, and respond once more in a strange tongue that I cannot interpret. I point at your wound and ask again. Eventually, through elaborate gesturing and scratchings in the dirt, I come to understand.
Sharp-tooth. The death-bringer. The beast that took my own mother.
I feel a surge of great pity for you. It is clear that you are alone, and it is clear that you are going to die. I point again, and I ask if I can help you. You stare at me warily, but you don’t flinch away.
I have herbs that I can grind into a poultice, and I show them to you. My mother taught me how to make splints. After a great deal of coaxing, you allow me to examine the wound. I clean it as best I can with melted snow, and spread the poultice over it with gentle hands. You grimace and groan in pain, but you let me work. I take two mostly uncharred sticks from the edge of the fire and align them with your broken ankle, wrapping them tight with a scrap of leather which I tear from my own clothes.
I sit back and smile at you. You examine my work, and seem satisfied. In return, you offer me a hunk of cooked meat that I hadn’t seen before, tucked away in a bundle of leather in a small corner of the cave. Through more elaborate handmotioning and pointing, I learn that you fought the sharp-tooth for this meat, which you seem to be very proud of. I think silently to myself that even a good share of meat isn’t worth such an awful injury, but I accept it gratefully anyway.
We cannot understand each other, but we learn to communicate through gestures and imitations and sounds. We continue to share what’s left of the meat, and your fever slowly ebbs. When the blizzard is finally over, we leave the cave together, and set out into the great unknown.
During the day, we wander the grasslands, hunting rabbits and other small game. You’re forced to hobble along on your broken ankle with a large walking stick for support, and our progress is slow, but I don’t mind passing the time with you. At night, glowing fire dances in the sky, bright streaks of color illuminating the night, spirits reaching down to touch the earth. We watch them together. They remind me of you.
I find a strange beauty in your flaming hair and your sharp, angled brow. You are stronger than I am, well-muscled and sturdy, and often I find myself studying the sloping curve of your broad back, so different from my own wiry frame. One night, when we have laid down for sleep, I trace the foreign contours of your face with my hands, and you let me. I run my fingers through your hair. You take my hands in yours, and you smile at me.
In our travels, we come across many roving bands of those like me. Some groups are larger than others. None of them are my kin. We avoid them, just to be safe.
We do not see any who look like you.
I lost my family, but I come to understand that you are far more alone than I will ever be.
Eventually, the snow melts into the soil, and winter gives way to spring. The earth is alive again. The great mammoths roam the sprawling plains with their young. The horses graze, tails swatting away the insects. The deer and the antelopes bound far away across the swaying grass at the sound of our footsteps. I pick handfuls of purple flowers and tuck them into your wild hair.
Your ankle has healed, and you run joyfully ahead of me. You grin and dare me with your eyes to chase you. You are strong, but I am quick, long-legged and limber, and I catch up to you in an instant, tackling you to the ground.
Laughing gleefully, we fail to notice the pair of eyes stalking us silently through the meadow, until it is too late. Four massive paws and two long, glinting fangs emerge from the tall grass. We are not alone.
Sharp-tooth.
You shove me out of harm’s way, and you smile at me sorrowfully in the instant before the beast leaps for your throat, claws flashing and fangs bared. A guttural scream tears itself from my lungs. I lunge with my spear in hand and thrust it forward, driving the sharp-tooth back. It snarls and swipes at me, its maw dripping with your blood.
Then it rears back onto its hind legs, rising to meet me. I thrust again, and my spearhead makes contact. The sharp-tooth falls, and I drive the spear into its heart again and again, until its body finally shudders and stills. I heave for breath, and feel the fury drain from me slowly, as despair rises to take its place.
The beast is dead, but you are bleeding in the dirt. I fall to my knees beside you, and I sob. You take my hands in yours, even as the light slowly leaves your eyes. I press my forehead to yours, and you gently caress my face.
In a heartbeat, you are gone. I cradle you against my chest, breathing you in. Suddenly, I feel a sharp stab of pain. I hold my palm to my stomach, and it comes away red. I am bleeding, too. My vision is going dark at the edges, a sea of shadow threatening to pull me under. Suddenly, I feel nothing but peace.
Using the last of my dwindling strength, I drag you to a nearby rock shelter within a jumble of boulders at the base of a cliff, hidden from the elements. I scrape at the soil with trembling hands until I have dug us a shallow grave. All is quiet and still, as if the world is holding its breath. The wind whistles gently through the swaying grass. Up above, the clouds have parted to reveal a sky of the most beautiful blue, and for just a moment, the land is bathed in light.
I lay you down gently, and then I crawl on my hands and knees to curl up beside you. I gaze up at the sun-streaked sky through a hole in the stone above my head. I close my eyes, and I hold you, and I let my breathing slow until I fade into nothing. I hope that, someday, when they discover our bones and pull us from the soft embrace of the earth, I will still have my arms around you, and they will know that I loved you.
We could look at life through a purely scientific lens. We eat, we breathe, we live, we die. The actions of life are simply biochemical reactions that sustain us. From this perspective, one would assume everything we do is genetically based. Yet humanity makes us ask: why do we exist on earth? Each creature has a different perspective. For a plant, it may be simply to grow and sustain itself but for humans, life involves complex emotions, impactful experiences, and a search for meaning– our existence is not solely due to the biological drive to survive.
Our humanity causes us to ponder our existence. Why do I enjoy movies and miss my mother's cooking? Why do we experience awe and wonder? Why do we dream? What determines these aspects of our nature?
Ultimately I conclude the human experience is beautiful and unique, not entirely captured by scientific explanation. Whatever caused us to be created this way I am grateful for and appreciate. The myriad of this life's journey and experiences have made our lives distinct, meaningful, and ultimately human.
Grace Kaur
Arboresque, Climate projections fork and furcate
Curving sky-high
Green, orange, red-hot futures.
They counterfeit Dendroidea sp.’s beauty
Written in rock, fossils frozen in time
By an icy globe. In the story we pen, The stakes rise with the seas.
We were handed the wheel too young to drive, [Lecture notes: “Projections ≠ predictions”] [“We cannot delay at this crossroads”]
But I predict that a deer in headlights gets hit.
Wilds, Weald, Verdure- a thousand namings
Is it an accident that arbor and ardor sound alike?
We hold the match to our muse, mirror, and mother
The tree of life glares from the classroom wall.
