transcend
illuminate
issue 03 | spring 2025 literary arts magazine
special thanks to: Andrea Szeto Lisa Piazza published 05.25.25 front cover art by Grace Lee Alameda High School
art on pages 3-5 by Cora Barillaro
letter from the editors
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the third edition of illuminate literary arts magazine! Within these pages, the very aspirations of our organization’s foundation have now come to life—a timeless tapestry woven together by the artistry of students everywhere. The theme of this issue, , illustrates not only the limitless potential of imagination but, most importantly, our ability to defy the forces holding us down, to rise above and beyond the challenges, whatever that may mean for you.
In this spirit, we are excited and proud to present this special issue which, for the first time, encapsulates student work (over 40 pieces) from high schools across the city of Alameda and beyond, including Alameda High School, Encinal High School, Alameda Science & Technology Institute, Saint Joseph Notre Dame High School, and College Preparatory School. This diverse representation of student talent reflects how illuminate has unified art and literature to foster incredible connection and community.
The cover, featuring a young woman holding a myriad of glowing stars and celestial objects, is a testament to the transcendent nature of the art and writing that these talented students have produced. Just as the shooting stars she embraces emit a luminous glow, we hope these pieces will also illuminate and inspire the talent of young artists and writers in our community.
We are deeply thankful to our student representatives from each of these schools. Your dedication and hard work have made this district-wide collaboration a reality. We are also grateful to everyone who contributed to this issue. Your creativity and passion have brought this magazine to life. Lastly, we want to express our heartfelt thanks to all the students whose work we are about to showcase. Your talent and perseverance are truly inspiring. transcend
Olivia Vu Genevieve Yuen Editor-in-Chief Managing Editor
“We have to our differences to transform our future.”
— António Guterres transcend
Secretary-General of the United Nations
Beyond Reach
Eva McCants ︱ digital art sophomore ● AHS
Once dear, there were stars.
An ocean of wonder,
Covered the world
Little jewels for everyone. So some didn’t like them.
Once dear, there were stars.
Magical piece of light
Oh if I could smile like they do.
Imperfect fiery ball of infinite destruction
Beauty belonging to the universe.
So some didn’t like them. Once dear,
The sky was aglow with diamonds.
Empty black space surrounded by a quiet sleepy hope. I’m here The stars liked to say. And cupped me in their little dipper. It’s okay, we won’t be gone long.
So some didn’t like them.
Once dear, there were stars. But then they all were taken.
The Stars Fell Reincarnation in Hands of God
Abby Moore ︱ digital art senior ● AHS
Amelia Kirk ︱ poem freshman ● AHS
Doll
Trinity Peng ︱ poem senior ● AHS
Lace trim, sewn throughout my body. My bones, a corset.
Snip away loose strands, dress myself in ribbons and silk.
Curl my bangs, and pray to God. My Chinese name, as beautiful as the moon. But, I can laugh, sing, hold my mother. All the things, you look past.
I won’t blame you. You too, Are porcelain-made. But I’ll ask, how much do you believe in those you deem misshapen?
In China, little cousin sells toys at the street market. They look like her, I won’t say. Because she doesn’t deserve to be known by her face.
I wonder, if grandfather still finds grandmother beautiful. And I wonder, how lost my mother feels. My body is not for you to mend. Do not price me, neither valuable nor worthless. You are not my Maker, and I am not your doll.
Traditional
Fractured Grip Fractured Grip
Vy Tu ︱ poem senior ● AHS
I pull, I tear, yet hold on tight,
The harder I grasp, the worse the fight.
Veins of crimson, threads undone,
What’s left to break when all is gone?
Twist and sever, skin meets glass,
Echoes scream of what won’t last.
Fingers bleed but won’t let go,
Bound by pain I’ll never show.
Billie Eilish in the Eyes of AI Billie Eilish in the Eyes of AI
Violet Hasten ︱ painting
sophomore ● CPS
Take my Mind, Take my Body k. ︱ prose
sophomore ● AHS
Dear Mother, who taught me the true meaning of love,
There are two questions that often linger in a person’s mind: When will the reality of this world come to light, and when will it consume me?
When I was eleven years old, I began to wonder what it would take to escape you, and I think that is when I found my answer. You will never truly be ready to leave your mother—and that is the reality. You will always fear the things you don’t understand, and the moment you grasp that, it has already consumed you.
I‘ve heard stories of families that could only come straight from fiction because, in mine, there is no awe, no trips to the park or home-cooked breakfasts. I began every morning praying that today might be even slightly different, only for my eyes to open to the same empty halls. I’d drag myself to your room where you sat glued to the TV and stare at the screen with you, hoping for anything besides static monotone words to break the silence. All I got were burning eyes, dry as stone, long past the point of tears. It left scars that haven’t faded even now, and I swore I would never become like you. Children make too many promises they are unable to keep. I forgave you then, and I still do because you are my mother, and no other reason besides that. Or maybe I am just a fool, blinded by naive wishes for something I will never have.
After years of observing others, I realized there is only one way to love your mother, you watch her shatter right in your hands—and you break with her. And when all that remains are brittle shards, you let them pierce your veins until your blood merges with hers.
I don’t know you beyond your title and the facade of lies you’ve curated. I can handle some lies, but I can’t handle the unknown, which is why I’m asking to know your story. A selfish request, not because I want to understand you—I believe we are long past that—but because I want to understand myself.
Reality is a brutal concept, it’ll dig its fingers into the depths of your skull and unearth everything you’ve spent years burying. You cannot lie to reality because you are simply theirs to ruin.
And still, at the end of the day, we are blood. I hold your shards with me and I carry your weight through my veins.
But holding your fragments makes me question myself, is there a part of me that can live independently, or am I merely a reflection of your wounds? If there is any separation at all, where does your blood end and mine begin?
Perhaps that is the cruelest part of being your child; knowing that no matter what I do, I will always carry pieces of you. That is reality, and that is how it has consumed me.
Yours always, k.
A Dream of Stars
Destanie Wright ︱ poem junior ● AHS
O to become a star to shine so bright. That is my dream tonight
The only dream I pray will come true. To shine so bright, just like you to sparkle to flicker to glisten. Not up up above but down below. In truth I’d shine alone and steal others light just like all stars do
Water
Sydney Uy ︱ poem sophomore ● ASTI
she is my mother, the second to my own I climbed out of her womb
seething with the dripping heat of water
she’s sewn herself out of tapestries the white pearlescent shine of the surface the moaning depths of cool breath
each layer of water carefully placed like a jigsaw puzzle clicking into place like echolocation she feeds into herself as rain pours from the sky rainy days yet silent nights under her womb swathed in bubbles of silk as she pushes her hands together can we even fathom the beauty she screams as we strangle her careful creations with nets and fishing wire?
she is the titan who waves her hair over sands a galant beast that no other planet has ever met her anger erupts from volcanic vents in her skin
yet we don’t heed her warnings as she slowly climbs to shore her soft hands digging into the ghost of land
she is our mother, second to our own we must dive back into her womb —untangle her from our disgrace. for she is our mother—the water who created us.
Tranquility
Lucia Arroyo ︱ 3D model
junior ● AHS
Windows
Dallas Thacker ︱ graphite drawing
junior ● AHS
Dear, My Love
Mikayla Wong ︱ poem sophomore ● AHS
after hours, I talk to my shadow we envision our last moments and pen letters beginning with
dear, my love
when sun peaks through the cracks of the windows and the shadows fade, I will cup our letters and bury them but the sun, it sears the walls where the shadows lay, and still the first thing I reach for is our letters searching eternally, until I fill myself with the smell of smoke, and the feel of crumbling concrete I am bounded to the heated surface, only I scan the words that read
dear, my love
“let me have one last conversation with you, all I want to ask is, did I ever mean anything to you?”
Twilight Glow
Kaiqi Tan ︱ photography sophomore ● AHS
I said “You are my sun” I will rise and set with you I always looked to you your brightness my light in the dark you said “you are my sky” “something I can’t live without” I was your whole world but somewhere along the road you decided that I was something you had already conquered you decided to reach for the stars ripping me open my blood pumping out the rain that would never stop I fell all the way to the ground and never rose again because without you How could I?
Sky Fall Ava Estilaei ︱ poem sophomore ● EHS
Myphitic Blight-Hauler
Preston Graham ︱ 3D model senior ● AHS
“My piece of art is a plastic model from the Sci-Fi table top war game ‘Warhammer 40K’ painted with acrylics and various types of shades and glazes, as well as wood chips from my backyard.”
front view
side view #1
side view #2
“It’s a half-daemon halfmachine monster of horror from the deepest (and grossest) corners of the galaxy.”
side view #3
Abby Song ︱ drawing
Silence
Silence
Morgan Takao & Yingran Yang ︱ poem sophomores ● AHS
I stood petrified to what had happened to me.
In front of me, I had watched and kept silent.
I shall never forgive them for this.
The whispers in my ears from the depths of the mirror
I decided to look at myself.
The look in my eyes never left me
After one day I was able to get up and saw myself
I had changed that much so fast to have remorse. I had not even blinked.
(credits to Night by Elie Wiesel)
30 Years Brishna Dorani ︱ short story
senior ● AHS
Lying on that smelly bed that the IRC brought them last week, Yara had finally made her decision. She got up and stuck the sticky note full of her future goals, for the next 30 years, to the wall. The sticky note included becoming a doctor, saving about $900 a month to have one million dollars in 30 years, learning as many skills as possible, and ignoring having fun. And that was it. She stopped watching YouTube, she would give her phone to her brother so he could hide it for the next four hours, and she’d do or learn something new and full of value. She stopped going to any school events or any event at all. During the last months of school, everybody would walk home with their friends to have more time to talk, but she’d take the bus to reach home faster and start doing her homework. Of course, she was at the top of her class. A+’s in all of her classes from the beginning of freshman year to the end of her senior year. She got accepted to many good universities and colleges.
Eventually after a lot of hard effort and work, she did become a doctor. A doctor who made a lot of money, and she did reach her saving goal, she even saved a bit more than she had aimed for. Now she even had her practice too. This was the last goal she had added to the sticky, plus paying back all that student debt she had.
She finally opened her computer with an open heart and went to book a ticket to go back to Afghanistan. Lying on that smelly bed 30 years ago, this was her goal. To become something really good and then go back.
Taking her foot off the plane in Kabul, there was this chilly breeze that dried her wet eyes. She was back to the motherland she had given up everything for. “It’s home again,” she said to herself. “It’s mama land.” She was hoping that the Grudge that had formed in her throat for the past 30 years would finally either fall out or heal itself somehow. All those cries and nights where the brain was against the heart just for this land.
After a few days of the tiredness of the long trip, she realized something extremely upsetting. Afghanistan wasn’t what she was expecting. Everybody had left. And they did forever. The people that she had given up her freedom to become something good to make them proud were gone. And it felt wrong. Although she had calls telling her everything, since she was really busy, she never paid that much attention. Now there was nothing left. No best friend Grandpa, all her friends had gotten married and had kids, and the narrow street leading to her house was gone. The people weren’t the same.
She did realize her mistake. What was it that she had to make people proud of? I mean everyone liked her the way she was. Why didn’t she come during those free summer breaks to see those family members? Why did she have to watch the weddings of the most important people in her life through Facetime? Why was Eid not the same and she never complained because she was waiting for “that day”?
Some of us humans give up everything for the future. We lose a lot more important things in life and we sometimes don’t even realize it.
Calla Lily
Sophia Lau ︱ graphite drawing sophomore ● AHS
Sea Rocks
Katey Lee ︱ photography
junior ● EHS
Unmeet
Vy Tu ︱ poem senior ● AHS
We loved like rain that never touched the ground I knew you more than you could ever see You spoke sweet words, but all were filled with lies And silence grew between both you and me
I saw too much but chose to close my eyes Pretending not to see what I had known The leaves had turned, the wind was full of sighs Yet still I stayed though love hung overgrown
We hurt each other more than we could mend Still holding on to things that slipped away And when you looked at me with tearful eyes, you begged me then, “Could love still find a way?”
But love’s not built upon just one more chance
We loved, we lost, no way to meet again
Sunset
Ritisha Batchu ︱ painting senior ● AHS
As I walked along the beach, with its light brown sand, I saw something on the ground; something strange, yet grand. It was a large pile of Ashes as black as the night; and somehow I sensed from it both darkness and light.
Ash Beach
They were the Ashes of our failed hopes and dreams.
Ashes of the forgotten and remembered.
Ashes of the lost and found.
Of our faults, our fears, our failures.
Of those who risked their lives, who fought for us, for our future.
A wave then hit me; not of water, but of feelings.
Guilt and greed, gone.
Rage and remorse, relinquished.
Gratitude and resolve, restored.
Respect and grace, gained.
Hope and honor, healed.
Victoria Diaz ︱ poem sophomore ● AHS
For a moment, I could picture the battle, long and hard: the gunfire and the clashing armies that left this beachland scarred.
Pages from my history books, reimaged in my mind; into strong, resilient fighters in a world that was not kind.
Here on this planet, these heroes and warriors have made a difference for us. Now it is time for me, you, all of us to make a difference for our future.
Decades have passed, but these ashes still remain. It seems to me these cold, dark embers deserve more than just a dull, brass plaque.
I want all our actions to enact their finest hopes; their strongest dreams, as we, the progeny and heirs of their victory, give them breath and scope.
As I start to leave the quieted beach with the sun hanging down low, I hear their ‘wakened voices urge me to carry their dreams and go.
As I see the Ashes in the distance, I know what I must do: try to bring a bit more hope with a little help from YOU!
A Cutting Sound (Excerpt)
Vinicius Avelino da Silva ︱ short story
sophomore ● AHS
The old man walked into the city. He had lived a long time, and many misfortunes led him there, alone and with little to call his own. But those are stories of the past and there is no time for them here. Instead we shall turn to the small city, and the man that walked into it. The town was part of a large empire, and much like all the other small towns, this one had little importance. But despite this, the city was always very busy and most of the people within hardly had any time to do anything, leaving most miserable, though they had little time to notice. And that was the state the city was in as the man walked through the cobbled stone streets.
People were hurriedly bustling about as the old man reached the main market. He slowly and painfully sat down near an inn. It had a sign that read The Thrown Cat with a carving of a boy swinging a cat by its tail. The market square was filled with many stands selling everything from bright orange pumpkins to scented candles. The clamor of the market melded and tangled, growing like a large system of paths, connecting the area with exchanges and trades.
Then, like a blockade halting trade, a sharp sound cut through the marketplace’s roads and paths of sound, stopping bargains and trade. The old man played his flute to an old tune, one that had been largely forgotten in the lands of the empire. Even the merchants, who were so often on the road, hearing news from many places, had no recollection of the song.
The music drifted through the stands as if it were browsing through the diverse assortment of commodities on display. It was an old and weathered song, coming from an old and weathered flute, being played by an old and weathered man, and still it was beautiful. The man had gone through many sad and hard things in his life but still he played, and still he smiled.
But soon he was interrupted by one of the merchants. He was a portly fellow, with a prominent bald patch on the top of his head and he seemed to be sweating more than was reasonable for a mild autumn’s day.
“Sir, would you kindly stop playing that thing of yours? There are important things happening here, and we have no time for things such as that.” he said roughly, with a hint of discomfort hidden behind his careful politeness, “Unless you are here to sell your flute, you will have to move to somewhere else. Music doesn’t sell these days, and we have no need for it here.”
The old man wordlessly got up from where he sat, nodded to the merchant and walked away to another section of the city, still smiling. He arrived at somewhere very different from where he had been before. Where previously there had been a multitude of smells and sights and sensations, constantly traveling from one side of the market to another, there was now only uniformity. There were high walls and buildings built primarily for efficiency and purpose rather than any form of visual pleasantness. And where before he heard the yells of vendors advertising their wears now he heard the gruff shout of orders and hard physical labor. The old man wandered around the large fenced area and found he was at the local guard and knight training facility.
He sat near a large spiked gate, from where he could glimpse inside. There were many groups doing various different things, people sparring, running, training. Some men in armor walked about, supervising the activities, occasionally yelling at those around them. Grunts and groans filled the air as the trainees tried to meet the demands of their supervisors. A stern, determined air pooled around the camp forming a grim shield around it.
Then, like a hero’s sword coming down on an enemy, a sharp sound cut through the training camp’s grim shield, stopping swords and arrows. The old man played his flute to an old tune, one that had been largely forgotten in the lands of the empire. Even the knights, those who were so often sent out to distant lands, seeing many diverse things from far away places, had no recollection of the song.
The music paced through the many activities, as if it was training for some future battle. It was an old and weathered song, coming from an old and weathered flute, being played by an old and weathered man, and still it was beautiful. The man had gone through many sad and hard things in his life but still he played, and still he smiled.
But soon he was interrupted by one of the knights. He was tall and proud and branded the sword on his waist like someone who had many victories to his name. He had long blond hair and eyes too cold for someone meant to be the guardian of a city.
(click here to read more)
The Chosen One (Excerpt)
Junaius Rose-Koeberl ︱ short story sophomore ● AHS
It was another one of those days, some people were looking to adopt a kid, probably someone young and outgoing. It was raining outside and I was in my room, it wasn’t worth it for me to sit nicely in a line with all the other kids. I liked the rain, it was a friend to me, all of the other kids hated it, they loved the obnoxious sun, even though it burned their skin. That’s what I don’t get about people, why do they love something that will hurt them? I looked out the window, it opened slightly and I put my hands out. Drops of water fell onto my fingertips and palms, the water was cold against my skin. The feeling was relieving to me, the coldest cold, colder than the musty cold of the orphanage. I closed my eyes and imagined the rain dancing along my hands. I could always feel that stronger feeling, the sense that something was deep out there in the forest. Something was deep in the heart of the wilderness. I heard a knock on my door. I shut the window and wiped my wet hands on my shirt. Three people came in, the house lady, and two women. I sat down on my bed.
(click here to read more)
Soundscapes of the Crow
Rhiannon Tse Harris ︱ multimedia art
senior ● AHS
Out of Our Shells
Eleanor Jonas ︱ painting junior ● AHS
Gleeble Old Bug
Pascal Aurelius ︱ poem
junior ● AHS
I sat in bed
Hath stomach franged
I slunder to bath
Like a man saw hanged
Upon the sink
Lay frivoled and shine
A gleeble old bug
From a long past far time
“Hello” said the bug
Slittering about
Then more came his friends
Out the drain spout
I turn on my heel
And spin the house quake
Dance like gleeble
To the sound of stom-ache
So goes the saying
No water shall chug
Before dance tune of old stomach bug
March Twenty-Sixth
Miki Harris ︱ poem sophomore ● EHS
as of march twenty-sixth, it has been fifteen years and two months since my birth my grand entrance into the world where my wasianess graced alameda county i clung to my mother and leaned against my father as i learned to walk and talk the world was so new and i was a sprout on their branch that waited waited waited for rain
during those fifteen years and two months my parents watched me morph evolve like a butterfly carrying scars with stories pinkies with promises and bracelets with friendships they saw me filling in their shoes and growing into their clothes they taught me how to sew once they realized i was taller than them and after school i waited waited waited for them to pick me up
fifteen years and two months later a teenager sits on a bathroom floor hair no longer straight like it used to be and waits waits waits for the future
House Sparrow
Through the Lens of Europe
Luc Trinh ︱ photography sophomore ● AHS
Luc Trinh’s photos were taken in Switzerland and Italy during his trip to Europe. about
The Rusty Boxcar
Julian Chea ︱ poem
senior ● AHS
That long iron ribbon
Cuts across them sheets o’ gold
That engine pumps her pistons
While I get dusty and old
My heart’s a rusty boxcar
The latch is down and jammed
I’ve tried before to open it
But it melts my desperate hand
Shadows hide the ragged curls
A whiff of timber, gravel, straw
Empty as the day I chose
To live outside the law
From east to left and up down south
I been strung along this rail
Ain’t nowhere new to go by now
Just a mad dog chasing its tail
And so beats on that sharp white sun
Burning all, remembering none
My boxcar stops in a lonely yard
When a splash of color leaps in
Smoothing down those rough red walls
My cloudy eyes go clear again
Her wild grin with crooked teeth
A bowl of carved-up dominoes
Her skin of Spanish leather from
The blacksmith’s beauty parlor glows
A raging crow’s nest tops it all, tossed by Tulsa twisters
The sky all but disappeared that mystic time I kissed her
But like passing through a quaint ghost town
The dandelion withers, flies away
And when that hobo miss
Caught a gust of desert mist
She took with her the light of day
Behind her shut the boxcar door
That rusty latch would budge no more
As I picture that lavender bindle resting on her dainty shoulder
My boxcar rattles hard and slow, that I no longer hold her
I cry and pound, nobody hears
Nothing stops that train
Rumblin down that iron ribbon
Across that dry gold plain
An Unfamiliar World
Megan Cho ︱ poem senior ● AHS
I awaken
In a place
One that is new
But feels so fake
I look around
Nothing is real
I can’t remember
How I got here
Trees so tall
They touch the sky
I see a path
A mysterious light
I run to follow
To find my friend
But the further I go
The path doesn’t end
Desperate I try
To reach that light
Call out her name
Though it is Quiet
I yell again
Into the Void
Hoping to hear
Just one small voice
I stare in front of me
But all I see
Are endless hills
My mind can’t leave
Northern Flicker Bird Portrait
Nakia Bliss ︱ multimedia art senior ● AHS
Ramune
Celina Tong ︱ digital art senior ● ASTI
Playing With Fire
Mikayla Wong ︱ poem sophomore ● AHS
you burn a fire into my core lingering in the flames, I reach for a little more it is empty at the end of the ocean and all I can do is reside in shallow water when the world keeps getting hotter found warmth in every space and you are seen in every place yet impossible to hold in warm embrace
still, there is a scorching desire in me to give you my heart by the bonfire and to chill myself with your words a desire to see your lips part and to hold a bursting heart together in your hands to call your name under the limelight and about you, I write and write and write
but if love ever lies underneath our breaths our hot breaths will mix with turbulent winds that blow me away and slowly breeze by leaving me once again, hot and dry
Painted Skies
Tabby Kim ︱ photography senior ● AHS
editorial board
Olivia Vu managing editor
editor-in-chief
head designer publicist
Genevieve Yuen
Zoey Jalleh head artist designer designer
Cora Barillaro
Chloe Song
head of submissions
copy editor
copy editor
head of finance
secretary
community outreach
Trinity Peng
Louisa Varner
Katherine McNab
Akhil Mummidi
Ella Randecker
Esther Huang
Alameda Student Representatives
EHS rep.
ASTI rep.
SJND rep.
Miki Harris
Melisa Yilmaz
Violet Wu
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 published in our 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.
where & when?
@illuminatemag illuminate staff meet every other Monday in room A107 at AHS, so stop by if you’re interested!
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