“The depth of darkness to which you can descend and still live is an exact measure of the height to which you can aspire to reach.”
— Gaius Plinius Secundus Roman author
illuminate
issue 02 | winter 2024 literary arts magazine
special thanks to: Andrea Szeto Lisa Piazza published 12.08.24 cover art by Lyra O’Broin Alameda High School
software used: Adobe InDesign, Adobe Illustrator, Adobe Photoshop, Procreate
Dear Reader,
Thank you for taking the time to read the second edition of illuminate literary arts magazine! The theme of this issue symbolizes the uncharted waters of the subconscious and the limitless creativity of the mind that arises if one dares to explore its depths.
As you flip through these pages, you will see amazing examples of how our fellow students have gone beyond the surface by delving into the depths of their experiences to uncover and share with us their creative art and writing. Our cover depicts the fluorescent glow of jellyfish, which serves as a beacon within the obscure depths of the subconscious. And like the jellyfish’s light, we hope this publication will further illuminate and inspire the talent of young artists and writers at Alameda High School.
What began as a small dream in 2023 has now flourished into a youth-led publication where students can express their creativity. Throughout each issue, we strive to create a composition of diverse pieces that showcase how powerful and unique each individual voice can be. Especially during such a pivotal political period in history, we encourage young voices to speak up and submit so that we can highlight your remarkable talent. We are deeply grateful to all who contributed to our second issue; your creativity and dedication have made this magazine possible. Finally, thank you for giving us a chance to shine a light on the talent of our student body.
Olivia Vu Genevieve Yuen Editor-in-Chief Managing Editor
Grace Lee | multimedia art senior
Cora Barillaro | digital art senior
Under the pale moon,
A lone moonflower blooms—
Its petals soft and pure,
Yet fleeting as the night.
Like us, it bloomed in darkness,
Where no sun could touch,
Whispers of love carried
By winds too strong to hold.
Vy Tu | multimedia art senior
Vy Tu | poem senior
We reached for each other, In shadows, in silence— But the dawn came too soon,
Stealing you away with the light. Now I stand alone,
Watching the moonflower close,
A love that was beautiful, But never meant to stay.
Nakia Bliss | multimedia art senior
Dean Brooke | 3D model senior
In the ocean’s depths What does all see? It’s turbulence, Mythic blurs of life, Consumes and takes And drags down all Along with it. It’s radiance, Is a mere lie: A reflection Of brighter stars That laughs down at it.
It’s grandness, Seeming endless, Is known only on Earth. It’s but a thin coat Around a small world.
An enchantress Under sheer sunlight. It’s so beatific, So very bright, Is it not?
I would stare at it And see myself. A wobbly image, But still of my being. Of how I am seen. I see that reflection And it mocks me.
Trinity Peng | poem senior
We’ll buy apples from the farmer’s market, pick dandelions into crowns along the sidewalk.
Pet the snout of passing dogs, Wander onto the sandy shore. And we’ll dance until sunlight wisps away.
Salt, like dissolved stars, with the ocean we’ll sway.
Can we take a photo together?
I miss you, even in the moment.
Flower petals drape over stems, like silk gowns.
My coat, over your shoulders.
In the city, the stars aren’t visible during dawn. Yet to my right, you’re here.
I slice a crisp apple, let’s rest for a while.
The bridge was a portal, where for a half a second the bustling of traffic stopped. The turquoise waves lapped gently at the surface, golden shimmers twinkling across the marveling stretch of water that seemed to encompass her whole view. The deep blue sea glimmered, winks of gold dancing across its uneven, imperfect surface. Yet, in this light, no one could see its imperfections. No one could see the way the waves never moved in unison, or how the surface wasn’t a smooth velvety one.
The traffic let out its breath.
It was quickly vanishing now, the sea leaving her vision, as she strained her neck to watch the last glimpses of the expanse of diamonds grow smaller and smaller. The view was only real in her mind now, where she was once on the bridge that contained a thousand memories.
Beyond Tabitha Kim | photography senior
Maithili Tikhe | poem
sophomore
you’re drowning in a lake; gasping for breath that won’t come you say you can swim; but those limbs haven’t moved once the water surrounds; you’re grasping for a quick death you look up and you’re shocked; darling, I’m still around, and I pull you right out, my heart still pounding
“Let me sink,” you scream at that deep blue I’m holding your hands, your face so concerning “I love you,” I say, and in your death you’ll wonder if it’s true.
Love is the oxygen that you desperately need, and I’m sorry, babe, if I’m a fire who ran out of kindling.
“You used to be warm,” and now, I repent your anger consumes me, lighting the room, I am spent. when there’s nothing left to give, you blame me for your burns instead Is it my fault that you met your deathbed?
Silence Lyra O’Broin | digital art sophomore
The building is harsh and looms over me with an abstract scale and concrete structure. There is an open window on what I think is the third floor but it’s hard to tell how high it really is, as it is the only one I see. Out of the window come sounds of thunderous clicking that could be a printer making marks on endless papers, or maybe a computer thinking. I am standing in an amalgamation of every city I’ve ever seen, the tops of buildings hazy like it is a cold day in San Francisco and the fog has rolled in. There are cars zooming by, faster than you would think a car could drive, but with the windows so dark and the cars so zippy I cannot tell who is driving, or if anyone is. The sun beats down from all directions.
I have taken in my surroundings except I have missed the door on the first floor of the monotonous building. It is a decrepit wooden door, surrounded by endless featureless concrete. I try to open it and I turn the handle and push but it does not open. I think about it for a second, maybe I can pick the lock, and then I realize the door is backwards. There is a chain, a deadbolt, and a button on the handle, all facing me. I slide the chain, turn the deadbolt, and release the lock, and then I pull the handle and push the door. Instead of moving on its hinges the door falls flat onto the floor. I step on it while walking in.
I am inside the concrete building. The room I am in is neither large nor small, and its walls are as plain as the exterior was. I almost look back at the door, but I stop myself because I think what I came from was Hell and I would prefer to share Eurydice’s fate, rather than Orpheus’. Everything is gray. I walk forward a step and hear something deafening behind me, and this time I cannot refrain from looking. The door is back but it is no longer the door it was. There is a glass elevator door in its place. A digital screen above it says that the elevator is on floor negative sixty one and a sign says to be patient. In what feels like seconds but could just as well be hours the elevator reaches floor negative sixty. I have no choice but to wait for it to come. It does not make sense that it happens so fast but soon the screen flashes a boldface 1. I look into the elevator expecting more anemic gray. I am sick of this building’s color homogeneity but the elevator has a solid lime green interior and despite the emetic color I feel cured. The glass doors slide open and I walk into the viridescent elevator.
The elevator goes beep as it ascends the floors. There are no buttons and no numbers inside this elevator, it is just a green box with a glass door. Through the door all I can see is a concrete wall with numbers painted on it, but the numbers are not really floor numbers. A 1 is coming, now a 7, and then there is “√2 = 1.414213562...” but it keeps going somewhere I cannot see.
The elevator continues beeping at the same tempo. This is boring but less so than the room I was in before, so I do not mind it that much. The elevator is not going very fast, more like one you would find in a school than in a skyscraper. I have seen many numbers in the shaft but I have not seen three. The elevator reads this thought and proves me wrong, as now the number 3 is painted on the shaft and the elevator is stopping. Another room is slowly becoming visible as the elevator ascends, one that is the size of a warehouse and still made of the same concrete as everything I have seen here. The elevator aligns itself and makes its final beep as the doors slide open.
I must have misjudged. This room is not like the other one, it is fantastical and unbelievable and I cannot see anything clearly. There are clouds on the ground and above me I see a body of water that holds—what is that?—sharks. They are bigger than a sea creature should be, especially one that is above your head. And there is a glass wall separating the water and me and it all makes sense where I am. Where am I? What is going on? And I am walking under the sharks and one of them is a hammerhead shark and he smashes his hammerhead against the glass. And it cracks and I think this is like the crack in the ceiling above my bed that I should probably paint over but then the shark continues to try to break the glass. I am going to die here. While I am watching the shark, a thick fog stumbles in and I am too distracted to notice that I can only see about 5 feet in front of me. Through the fog I see a bright light getting bigger, closer, and it is moving toward me and it is a car. I jump out of the way and I can see that there is no one in the driver’s seat. The room’s light coming from somewhere dims and soon I am left in the dark.
(click here to read more)
Petersen III | digital art
It was always just me and Umma. 8912 Jeong-Seo Avenue, Seoul KR, Apt 34, third floor. Umma said we lived here because it was quiet, she said she liked the balcony. I knew the real reason we lived here. I’ve known it since the day the other kids laughed at me when Umma would pick me up on the back of her bike, still wearing her stained “Big Fried Chicken” apron, her work clothes.
We didn’t have a car, we had a bike. A red Halmani bike. Thievery was not uncommon in our neighborhood, so we kept the bike on our balcony. I remember pushing the back wheel up the stairs while Umma pulled the handle bars from the other end. The balcony, I remember so vividly, was littered with pots and plants of all shapes and sizes. In the spring it would rain nonstop, the cracks in the concrete began to excrete moss, I would watch as the gray turned to a light green. I can still smell the rain, and that green moss, ever growing.
As I got older, Umma began to get weaker, no longer could she carry the bike up the stairs. On Saturdays she would collect cardboard from people’s trash cans and sell it for a few won. I remember coming home from cram school to last night’s kimchi stew simmering away on our plug in stove. Umma was still out, selling dates and other vegetables on the roadside, going from car to car, knocking on windows.
I studied hard to get into university, scholarships were given of course. When I got the letter in the mail, Umma embraced me. “My son, my son.” she repeated between sobs. University was far away, so I couldn’t go home often. I think that’s what I would tell myself.
Christmas was the first time I saw her since I’d left. Umma was smaller, even frailer. She had sewn me a pair of mittens, she said they would keep my hands warm so I could study more. We then sat on the balcony. Our beloved red bike had turned into rusted brown, infusing itself with the moss engulfing the whole of the balcony. Umma put a singular red Christmas ornament on the handlebar, fashioned out of a small toy chinese lantern. The one you would give a child during a festival.
Jaydon Nguyen | multimedia art sophomore
I sit with her on the bench where we first met, nothing to talk about, nothing to look at. It’s all plain. I feel the weight of her shoulder against mine, it’s warm. It feels different. It’s never been this silent, we used to be filled with lustful glances and curiosities. Now we just sit watching the sky get darker as if we were waiting for the other one to speak. I remember the sounds of her laughter filling the room, the way she would play with her hair, even her eyes. I drift asleep, I feel the brisk air hit me as I fade into a slumber. It’s silent, the air has calmed, I flutter my eyes open.
I find myself all alone.
Sitting on a bench with nothing to do. Remembering how she would hold my arm and tell me her dreams. I can’t handle the fact that she is gone, I stare at the garden, the hydrangea flowers she planted, now dead. The petals scattered across the ground blowing softly. I sit there and stare out looking for anything to look at but there is nothing to see.
Birb Lars Petersen III | multimedia art
senior
Michael Olivares | multimedia art junior
Nakia Bliss | multimedia art senior
Olivia Vu
editor-in-chief
head designer publicist
designer designer
cover artist
Genevieve Yuen
managing editor
Zoey Jalleh
Chloe Song
Lyra O’Broin
artist artist Cora Barillaro
head of submissions
head of finance
copy editor
copy editor
copy editor
secretary
community outreach
Lars Petersen III
Trinity Peng
Akhil Mummidi
Louisa Varner
Katie McNab
Khanh Tu
Ella Randecker
Esther Huang writer
interested in joining our staff?
contact us through our social media for an application!
illuminate literary arts magazine is a platform devoted to empowering student voices through the publication of youth-based literature and art. Students are encouraged to submit a variety of mediums from poetry to drawings, and our editorial board will select submissions to be included in a digital magazine. In our ever-changing world, many struggle to find the right space to express themselves and feel connected. However, this magazine is dedicated to changing that, by shining a light on those eager to be seen and heard, one publication at a time.
illuminate staff meet every other Monday in room A107, so stop by if you’re interested! where & when?
