The Grail 2025

Archbishop Riordan High School San Francisco, California

Literary Magazine Spring, 2025 “My heart is stirred by a noble theme, as I sing my ode to the king.

My tongue is the pen of a nimble scribe.”

Psalms 45.2 Editor

Annabelle Hazard ‘27

Faculty Adviser

Mr. Michael Vezzali-Pascual ’88

Note From The Editor

For 75 years, Archbishop Riordan has been creating scholars and artists! As a literary magazine, we want to encourage everyone to both pursue and enjoy the arts.

We hope you enjoy this edition of ‘The Grail’ and we are looking forward to what lies ahead.

Thank you always and again, Annabelle

Contributing Artists Ophelia Gyalzen ‘28 Josephine Andre ‘27 Annabelle Hazard ‘27 Atticus Burson ‘27 Mikaela Vital ‘27 Loghan Hwang ‘27 Coco Boushey ‘27 Kathleen Demeter ‘27 Stella Mong ‘27 Ciarra Mangibuyat ‘27 Aadi Desai ‘27 Dylan Chemla ‘27 Fetuali’I Leae ‘27

Benjamin Reyes ‘26 Jaeda Villasenor ‘26 Mikayla Cheng ‘26 Maddalena Dito ‘26 Miki Maloney ‘26 Charlottie Yip ‘26 Amanda Li ‘25 Neel Parekh ‘25 Marco Romero ‘25 Hailey Siu ‘25 Ana Hernandez ’25 Rania Siddique ’25

Front Cover

Amanda Li ‘25

Back Cover

Marvin Wong ‘25 “The Grail” is a publication proudly produced by the students of the Literary Magazine club at Archbishop Riordan High School San Francisco, CA

Art by Josephine Andre ‘27

Vignette

Hailey Siu ‘25 The lifelike melody spilled from the open door of the room, piquing my curiosity as I passed. The rhythmic sounds were so enchanting that I couldn’t help but pay attention to it. Just as I was passing in front of the room from the hallway again, I halted, my eyes fixed on the girl with long black hair and an older woman, who wore glasses accompanied with short hair, seated on a rectangular cushioned bench. As I watched the older woman instruct the girl to slide her hands across the white keys of the instrument, my fascination grew, wondering what it could be.

Grabbing onto my mother’s hand with determination, I pulled on her fingers in an attempt to move her with my whole body. Then, I grabbed and tugged at her arm, hoping she would follow me to the room. “Mommy, what are they doing?” I asked with excitement written on my face, “I want to do that!”

While the sunlight shone down from the ceiling window into the living room, the sound of notes and chatting echoed throughout the house.

Seated by the piano beside my aunt, I shifted in my seat as she intensely observed the movement of my hands on the keys, correcting every mistake.

With each correction, she demonstrated the exact hand movements, gracefully sliding her hand across the keys for me to imitate.

As I watched her hand reach to flip the next page, the side of her hand just barely brushed against the pencil on the piano’s music rack, knocking it down into the piano strings. The pencil tumbled down the stringed wires into the bottom of the piano cabinet. We both paused, glancing at each other with wide eyes. With a disappointed sigh, we continued with our lesson as the pencil remained at the bottom of the piano cabinet.

Feeling the shiny glaze of the piano keys on my fingertips, pressing my foot on one of three silver piano pedals, I attempted to play the notes from the book. As I read and followed each note on the paper, the weight of my hands grew heavier with each note. My hands inelegantly danced across the keys, unable to focus on the activity in front of me, thinking about the upcoming schoolwork, gymnastics practice, and painting classes later this week.

Pausing the movement of my hands as they traveled across the piano, I grabbed the piano book and stored it in the small box on the bench. I cleaned up, restoring the piano back to its original state. As I draped the red cotton fabric over the keys and slowly closed the top cover, I thought , I’ll do this again next month when I finish the other things I have to do.

“Hallway Of Mirrors” by Benjamin Reyes 26’

Morning Due

Annabelle Hazard ‘27 Background Don/Dawn played by Dream The Driver played by Death Aurora played by Herself Aurora has been trying to find a date with The Driver untill she falls for his brother.

She fears that he’ll take on her curse and he he fears that he cured her -

To much her own, Aurora was just a product of grief. There wasn’t much to her other than the roll of dust and the chill of water. When she walked in a room you could smell the disdain of the last person to talk to her. If she crossed in front of someone, they’d be out the next day. She walked around inside out and upside down, trying to make the world less of a kaleidoscope and more of a monte.

A curse was something you got because of someone else’s actions. So, it wasn’t her fault the world wanted to fold itself in over her, but it was her fault for letting it happen. Maybe in a world that loved her she wouldn’t want it to. But there are too many maybes to go around when on a first date.

He found her in a half empty bathtub reading the label on one of her medications. She was more upset by the steam being let out of the room than she was seeing the flowers in his hand. The flowers weren’t pointed at her yet, but the look he gave made her fall in love with him all the same. She never thought that she could feel so pretty on the verge of a bad decision, but isn’t that when bad decisions are the best?

His eyes were caught trying to decide to leave with or without his dignity intact, like a deer in headlights, he couldn’t do anything but stand. They were ageless, wild, frozen before death the way a petrified tree is, with rings and streaks showing the years of indecisiveness in time that led him being sure. He walked over and took the pills out of her hands, reading the label as he placed them on the counter by the sink.

“These are just magnesium” “I wasn’t going to go out, I just wanted my, well... He’s not my friend yet, but for Him to think I was” “So” “So? So, it worked, you’re here” “I’m not going to take you out looking like this” “And why not, it’s my fate.”

“I wouldn’t paint over a fresco just because it’s going to crumple on its own in a few decades” And so she loved him and he her. Time doesn’t just stop when your heart does but, and slow beating is still beating. Pragmatism, nihilism, and romanticism would make who they were, and God would turn a blind eye to their sin as a woman couldn’t live without leaving eden.

When the man with soulless eyes stood on the balcony that eve, smoking her brand in her nighty, she already missed him. The purple of a polluted twilight complimented his grey, olive skin, the moonlight pooled around him like an abalone shell, she wanted to turn him into a nail polish color.

When the sun rose that morning he wasn’t dead, but resolve oozed out of him like an infected wound. It wasn’t the kind you could put a plaster on without it festering, you had to clean it and tend to it daily. So he decided to sever the whole limb instead.

He looked at her that last time like an old christian woman would walk St. Peter’s Basilica. She was as pure as a curb in skid row and the sheets pooled around her the way seafoam carried the little mermaid back to the ocean. She drifted further and farther out to sea the more he picked up off the floor, every missing piece felt like a cold gust of air on an already rainy day.

Don’s citrus woke Aurora with a start and his absence was the juice in her eyes. She made herself her own waffles that morning and poured her own tea. She took a warm shower in the last breath of the rising sun. Her pink underwear was missing when she opened her drawer.

For the next eight months the thought of him was like her period. Anytime she thought of his stubble or his monotone voice, she’d

get aches in her stomach and the world would just be worse for the next couple of days. Then the feeling would fade, her body would forget the pain, so as to not drive her mad, and then it would start all over again. She was so afraid that she made a terrible mistake.

She was so afraid she ruined his life. She thought it would hurt more to find out he was more like her than he was unlike himself. Maybe the world couldn’t be fixed overnight, but some kings take nights to make knights of kings. And curses have defined queens since they began poisoning their kings.

Don was so to a king, but by turn, yet evaded the knight.

Eight months didn’t last long. Don was too strange to the world for his own good. He couldn’t live if he was meant to live his own life. And time plagued him like an invasive species. He was the farmer and the sick dog.

He was the poison to his own king and the conviction in his own queen.

On a particularly achy week she felt she was in need of another date, but she hoped that this one would only end with a bang. She thought it ought to be flashy. So The Driver picked her up and took her to the bar. The Drivers’ cold, grey, skin juxtaposed the glitter and pink hillbilly patterns that the place drowned in. She was excited for her final night, a hot date, hot women passing out cold drinks, and of course the promise of a hot final act.

As each girl came on stage The Driver got more and more impatient, yet they were so close to the end that she begged Him just him a moment longer. She told Him ‘you ought to gain a little glitz’ and ‘I see why you haven’t had a real date in such a long while’. He went to get them more drinks.

When He returned she sipped slowly, it was fruity, smelt of almonds. Now, as the lights dimmed and the nineteen year old in the back opened his damn mouth, the opening act began.

“She is the queen you may see this morning on your own time! It’s Dawn!”

Dawn had flowers and she walked in on Aurora’s favorite song.

Relief washed over her as she began to relax into The Driver’s hand, now around her shoulders, as she was awfully fond of the pink underwear the girl wore.

Dawn turned to see the scene, the months counted in the tears that rolled down her cheeks. She looked to The Driver and asked “Brother, if the world was less selfish than you, could she live?”

And The Driver said no

And she then asked “What wisdom do I lack to make it content with itself?”

And The Driver told the younger one that acceptance isn’t the end all of true stories, You exist because Dreams often haunt more than the impatience of Death.

Art by Jaeda Villasenor 26’

It Is Happening

Atticus Burson ‘27 It is happening The children were none the wiser The adults said nothing Everyone just sat I stood up I walked out of the room Hopefully I drew no attention

Art by Amanda Li ‘25

I thought to myself It was going to happen either way I looked out the window I could feel the immense heat as the distance between me and it closed

My palms burned in pain I felt my body shaking as it bled onto my hands Nobody seemed affected by the thought of it.

Every one of my senses were saying something else Touch said burning in pain Hearing said the ignorant laughter of everyone Smell said something strong Taste said emptiness Sight said nothing but mistakes ahead I walked out of the kitchen The children looked at me with smiles They approached me It is happening

Photo by Mikayla Cheng ‘26

The Name of Nohbdy Maddalena Dito ‘26

I am son of Laertes, of peace and war I am born Ithaca I long for, my homeland, the seamark of every island Detained by Calypso and Circe for long, at last I sail home I fight alongside my Achaeans, mutinous they are, no mercy they give—six benches of men I am haunted by the ghosts of the fallen Cicones and Trojans on the field of Ismarus My vessel, shattered by the fury of the gods, destroyed by the wrath of Sky and Sea For nine days I drift aimlessly, being swept along by the winds ravenous for destruction On the tenth day, we arrive at the coastline of the Lotus Eaters I learn that those who consume the plant were to be cursed My men who ate its honeyed fruit never bothered to return, longing only to stay forever, and forgetting their motherland I ventured beyond the Lotus Eaters land, continued our seafaring onward to the unknown The next land I found was the home of the Cyclopes The Cyclopes—ignorant, idle, giants, without a law to bless them No order, no religion, no beliefs, and no gods to pray for pardon to and yet it is Zeus’s rain that provides for them In the cold cavernous halls we sat, with the fleeting fire for warmth, the fire to burn an offering to the Gods above Then he came— A massive thing the Cyclops, carrying a bundle of dry boughs, a force of nature At last, his gaze fell upon us “Strangers” he blurted, “Who are you? And where are you from? What brings you to my home?”

“We are from Troy, Achaeans,” I replied. “Blow off course by the will of Zeus, our vessel shattered by the shaker of the earth, Poseidon. We serve under Agamemnon.”

With rage, he dismembered my men with ease, making them his meal Filling his stomach with the man-flesh of my Achaeans, I prayed a silent prayer to the Gods I stabbed him by the midriff where the liver lies but if I had slain him, we would have perished right there No mortal hands could move the boulder he propped at caves entrance Dawn broke and I had given the Cyclops wine Three times I poured his cup and three times he carelessly drank Tipsy he grew, slipping away, his mind being filled with sober thoughts “Cyclops, you ask my honorable name?” I say with beguilement in my voice, “Nohbdy is my name” And the Cyclops will tell his lawless, godless brothers that “Nohbdy is killing him!”

The trick of Nohbdy is that they will think he is mad, for nobody will know Nohbdy.

“It Will Rain” by Mikaela Vital ‘27

The Bridges Rania Siddique ’25 The Golden Gate is tall and bright, Its points vanish in the foggy night.

The Bay Bridge shines with silver glow, Lights show on waters below.

The fog covers the city in a gentle embrace, Hiding the hills, softening each space.

A horn sounds from a passing boat, In its echo lingers a scary note.

The bridges connect both land and sky, Standing high as the clouds drift by.

“Bargain Bin” by Miki Maloney ‘26

“Valentine” by Benjamin Reyes ‘26

Playing With Fire by Loghan Hwang ‘27 “Playing With Fire” by Loghan Hwang ‘27

My Voice is My Instrument Charlottie Yip ‘26

“Come on, just say it!”

“It’s not that difficult.”

“Just ask the cashier what you want,” my dad urged.

To the average person, communicating with other people is a basic skill. However, that wasn’t the case with five-year-old me, asking the McDonald’s cashier for my favorite vanilla soft serve cone. Growing up, I was very quiet, but the one thing that got me to open up was singing.

Singing was the way for me to express myself. Singing was the way I could bond with people I wasn’t familiar with. Singing was the solution to being comfortable with myself and others. And singing made me realize that my most prized possession was my voice.

Back in Hong Kong, at big family gatherings, I always needed an adjusting period to be comfortable. Before dinner, all of my cousins would gather in their own little corner and play big kid games. I, on the other hand, felt a bit out of place being the youngest and years younger than them. But when the technicolor karaoke menu lit up the TV with vibrant colors and upbeat tunes, I knew I had a chance to have fun. Karaoke nights embed some of my most cherished memories with my family, my friends, and even strangers. The feeling you get from belting lyrics everyone knows by heart and the sense of community without conversation is euphoric and liberating.

As I grew older and my social skills became more refined, my singing voice continued to comfort me during dark times. When my mom needed surgery and I was separated from my parents for over a month, or when my dad was hospitalized after a twenty-foot fall, I sang myself to sleep.

Even during the countless nights where I’d break down, my voice unknowingly guided and strengthened me through difficult times.

Through expressing myself and finding passion for music, my voice became a source of resilience and a way of coping when I’m alone. Yet, simultaneously, it built me a community, lifelong friendships, and unforgettable memories.

Photo by Mikayla Cheng

The Fog Ana Hernandez ’25

I seem like a ghostly blanket, I pretend to be a blurry, soft dream.

I try to wrap San Francisco in my haze, I wonder how long I’ll linger before fading away.

I believe in the beauty of the hidden.

I know my time is brief, but I always come back.

I feel the weight of the Bay’s silence.

I worry when the warmth breaks my gaze.

I cry when the sun washes over me.

I fear the wind will scatter me into nothingness.

I fight against the morning’s lasting light.

I watch the city below, waiting for the night.

Art by Coco Boushey ‘27

Photo & Story by Kathleen Demeter ‘27

Cigar Smoke The reek of old and cigar smoke burned my lungs as I suppressed a gag. I sifted through the oak-hewn cabinets in my grandpa’s office, finding oddities under every box and pile of tax returns. An ancient typewriter, sun-bleached photos of people I’ve never met, a tarnished engagement ring that fit my finger like a glove, and my great-grandmother’s letters from Italian cousins joined the ever-growing pile of my grandpa’s forgotten memories I was saving.

My mother yelled, “Grab the rest of the stuff before the movers come!”, yanking me back to the present. Hefting my box of memories and choking down one last breath of my grandpa’s cigar smoke, I left.

“Sunsets remind me that even when things come to an end, it’s not permanent. Darkness may come, but there is always the promise of a new day. It teaches patience and faith in new beginnings.”

Photo & Quote by Stella Mong ‘27

Life Unchipped

Ciarra Mangibuyat ‘27 The piercing wail of the ambulance siren is the last thing I hear before everything goes numb. I was so naive thinking I could prevent this.

March 14th, 2205—the date I was born. The day the small chip that would decide my whole life was implanted in the back of my neck.

From an outsider’s perspective, America looked normal. Everything seemed the same as it has been for centuries, but living inside was an experience far from normal. Starting only a few decades before I was born, a law was enacted that made it so that doctors were required to insert a chip into each baby’s neck right after their birth. Every chip had a different life plan set up for each baby starting from birth up until their death. I wasn’t fortunate enough to receive a long life. Sixteen years may seem long at the moment, but once it’s over, you only wish you could get it back.

I had always known my life was shorter than most, but up until age 12, I never really thought anything of it. At least it’s better than Hailey McCaulley; her death from surfing was talked about for months. Or Ben Moore—-attacked by a lion at the zoo.

Sure mine came earlier, but it wasn’t publicly talked about.

November 21st, 2221—the date of my death. The whole week leading up to this day, I felt uneasy and didn’t know if I should try and prevent it. Only two other people ever had tried to prevent their death and neither had succeeded. I knew if I did succeed, I would have to be in hiding for the rest of my life.

Ultimately, I decided to try to stay and Leah Barlowe is the reason. Down the way from my house there’s a local library that I went to every day at 3pm sharp. It was the same routine everyday: wave to the mailman, skip along the side of the park, kick the leaves away from the walkway, and then repeat in twenty-four hours. But that week my routine changed. Right as I crossed the street and made it to the large pile of leaves, there was a girl that looked to be about eight years old. She was wearing a purple and pink floral dress with cream sandals. Her hair was tied back showing her silver earrings shining in the afternoon sun.

She smiled at me and waved nervously, “Hi” she whispered, “are you going to the library?”

I stared into her bright blue eyes for a moment before answering, “Yes, do you need help?”

“Mhm my mom told me to pick out a book to read on our flight to Italy,” she replied excitedly but sounded slightly confused. I gestured for her to follow me and we walked a few feet before meeting the library entrance.

I helped the young girl find a few books that I read when I was her age.

I sat on a leather couch and waited for her to check the books out. When she came back she sat next to me and opened one of the books to start reading. Something about her personality seemed unlike any other eight year-olds I had ever met.

I tapped her arm softly, “What’s your name?”

“Leah Barlowe” she replied.

The corners of her mouth slightly turned up before she went back to reading her book. As she turned the next page, her hair slightly swayed away from her body and I noticed the back of her neck was completely smooth. I lifted my hand to the back of my neck and placed down my index and middle fingers feeling the small, circular, lump. I quickly stopped thinking about it and continue flipping through a magazine I found laying around.

After an hour or so I walked with Leah back to her house. She lived farther than me so the walk was pretty long. The whole time, she was going on and on about whatever came to her mind but I couldn’t focus on anything she was saying.

Why didn’t she have a chip? This question kept echoing in my head. I mean, everyone had a chip. The second a baby is born, a chip is implanted in their neck. The chip holds all the knowledge we need for the rest of our lives. It tells us everything that is going to happen to us every day. We are also aware of how and when we die. I never understood why this law was created and how it is making the world safer, but everyone I’ve ever talked to about it told me it is normal and to just go along with my ‘plan’. I guess I always thought like this because my plan was boring.

Nothing interesting ever happened during my days and I knew I died early—-did I even have a life purpose?

We finally arrived at her house. I looked up to see a large brick house in front of me and a yard covered in flowers that looked similar to the ones on her dress. I looked at Leah in her eyes before she turned towards the house and I knew I had to ask her.

I grabbed her arm quickly before she could reach the doorknob, “Why don’t you have a chip?” I blurted out.

Leah formed a smile on her face before answering, “I was wondering how long it was going to take you to ask,” she continued, “I’ve lived this life before. I was born in 2145,”

Zombie by Benjamin Reyes ‘26

I looked at her seemingly very confused and she laughed before going on, “I was born in the first year the chips were required. As I grew older I started to think more and more like you. I felt like I had no purpose in life and I hated that everything was decided for us, so I rebelled. I found a way to remove my chip and once I did, the government was notified. They tracked me down before I could escape and put me in a machine. The machine brought me back to being a baby and placed another chip in my neck. I did the same thing during that life, though, so they put me in the machine again. This is my third life, but the government doesn’t know that I don’t have a chip. The machine must be broken.”

“I know everything about everyone who has ever tried preventing their deaths, though. Why have I never heard about you?” I questioned.

“Because I didn’t try to prevent my death. I tried removing my whole plan. I wanted nothing to do with it. The government also eliminated all evidence of these events—-it was a national scandal,” she explained. “this is why I asked my parents if we could go to Italy for a while. I want to get away from this country,” Before I could say anything else, she opened the door, swiftly shoved a book in my hand, and then disappeared into the dark house. The cover had large print that read, “The Life of Fiona Hamilton: An Autobiography”. I slowly flipped through the pages and saw a photo of a woman with Leah’s similar bright blue eyes.

The dedication page read, “To the person that tries to do what I could not, I hope you succeed.”

“Father VS Son II”

by Aadi Desai ‘27 & Neel Parekh ‘25

“Aquarium” by Benjamin Reyes ‘26

Basie’s Ballad

Marco Romero ‘25 It was a regular foggy day, the beginning of November. As the cold crept in, so did passersby’s walk into Luis’s art shop, “The Purple Swan”. The small jazz combo swung their rendition of Jobim’s version of “The Girl from Ipanema”; people gazed along the walls plastered with beautiful and captivating paintings. Luis Swan, the most recognized painter in the Bay Area, held an art exhibition in the Mission. The reason for the crowd of people in the shop was due to his prices. Although the pieces were considered a fine arts production that could go for hundreds, if not thousands of dollars, the paintings were all free. Luis took pride in his art, varying from portraits to landscapes, and even dabbling in photography.

Luis spottted a little kid admiring his favorite work and asked, “You sure like this one little man” “I like horses with armor!” squealed out the little kid.

“Here’s a little gift bag with some supplies for you,” said Luis, handing the kid a brown paper bag overflowing with watercolors and pencils. Luis watched the kid scuttle towards his mother jumping up and down from excitement at his new set of art supplies. Feeling touched, Luis imagined himself in the shoes of the kid. As a kid himself, he went on a trip to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art in which he observed a specific painting that caused him to fall in love with art. Every single piece of art he creates he hopes someone will be inspired like he was on his fourth-grade field trip.

During all the clutter and scuttering of feet, the jazz combo continued to chop out melancholic ballads into the night. As the night came to a close, the last of the customers walked out. Apart from Luis and his brother Carlos, only the cold hardwood floor littered with cardboard cups and napkins remained. The brothers cleaned up and parted ways. After closing up shop, Luis took his scenic route home. As he walked into his art-filled apartment, he was greeted by his cat Basie. Luis let himself sink into his couch and relax after a long day. The next morning Luis went about his day like any other, visiting his favorite cafe, then setting up his shop.

Feeling inspired, Luis opened a new can of paint, a blank canvas anticipating the genius strokes of a skilled artist. The can cracked open and an unfavorable smell protruded from it. Thinking nothing of it, Luis began to paint. The painting progressed, and the first couple of strokes that seemed like a disaster magically transformed into a drummer, later a bassist, and hints of a saxophonist growing more detailed with each stroke.

Luis, while painting, endured the foul smell, but as each minute passed the smell intensified. Taking a break to clean his eyes and forgetting his hands were lathered in the funky-smelling paint, he rubbed his eyes. In the second his fingers touched his eyes, Luis wailed, “Why does it sting so badly!”

After continually washing his hands and blasting his eyes with water, he regained his vision slightly. Everything was covered in a white glaze. Luis panicked, but remembered that in a couple of hours, it would pass. After finishing the painting that afternoon, he decided to close the shop and head home. After spending some leisure time with his feline friend, Basie, he got ready for bed, hoping in the morning to be able to see perfectly clearly and finish his painting.

As the sun slowly glossed along his face Luis slowly woke up, Basie right next to him, curled up in an almost majestic ball. As Luis stood up rubbing his eyes, he noticed that his vision was still blurry. Panic set in with every rub and after five straight minutes of abusing his eyeballs he realized, he was blind. Frantically running around his apartment, he was in shambles.

With his remaining vision, he managed to dial his brother. Waiting anxiously, Luis paced around his living room. Basie, oblivious to all of this, was more consumed with why he had not yet been fed and meowed aggressively. “I’ll be there in five!” Luis remembered Carlos saying. Those five minutes turned into ten, twenty, thirty, and an hour.

“Why does he always do this!” groaned Luis. That very moment there was a knock at the door. With little empathy, Carlos stood there shoveling McDonald’s fries into his face.

“What?” he muffled “What do you mean? I’m blind!”

“Luis calm down, you want some fries?”

“I’m gonna kill you!” Luis shouted while lunging at his brother.

After what Luis figured to be enough beating on his brother for his nonchalant attitude, they talked and decided the best course of action was to head to the doctor. At the hospital, the doctor explained to Luis and Carlos that the reason for Luis’s loss of vision was due to the amount of paint that had been damaging his corneas for the past couple of years. In short, no more painting, at least not for several years.

Days, weeks, and months passed since the doctor had taken Luis’ gift and shelved it. On a bright day with sunny skies beaming down on passersby of “The Purple Swan,” Luis sat in his art shop, his paints, brushes and canvases all covered in dust now. The painting he started was still there on the same easel, collecting dust, the lively drumset player slowly losing its color everyday. He felt like an old man watching people pass by, or in his instance, black blobs that occasionally crowded around his windows. Luis thought of many things, like when he would get to paint or see art again. A voice in his head said to close shop, run away, live in the woods, because each time Luis opened his art shop he slowly, little by little, was losing his passion. At the same time, each day when he closed, he was tempted to open a fresh can of paint and quench his never ending thirst for art. As he closed his shop that day and navigated the streets with his trusty cane, he reached his apartment. A cylindrical bunch of blobs sat in front of his door. Luis leaned over to see what they were and as soon as his hand made contact, he knew. Paint. Like a child on Christmas morning, he collected all of them and brought them inside. For a while he just sat and stared at them, conjuring many different painting ideas in his mind, from a silly portrait of Basie to a beautiful painting of his shop at night time. At the same time the words of his doctor echoed in his head: “If you continue to even come into contact with paint, it might cause permanent damage and you will lose your vision.” When Luis remembered that, he put the paint opener down reluctantly. All through the night he could sense the paints calling to him, sitting in his living room just waiting to be opened.

“No, I shouldn’t paint. I just need to wait a year or so more.”

Those words caused him to give up. As his foggy eyes finally rested, so did Basie next to him like they had done hundreds of nights together.

The apartment was dead silent, cold hardwood floors, the only occasional noise coming from cars passing by or the ice machine cycling a new batch of crystalline orbs. It was a beautiful night, the moon perching beautifully in the sky and both Luis and Basie resting in complete peace. Although these were the best conditions to slumber, at 12:47 am, a sound echoed throughout the apartment, like a wave of pure evil. All that was heard was a slight hiss from the recently gifted paints Luis had just opened.

Photo by Ophelia Gyalzen ‘28

Trees

by Benjamin Reyes ‘26 Art by Fetuali’I Leae ‘27

NEV-902

Dylan Chemla ‘27 One of Jupiter’s moons is a desolate place where nothing grows and there are gigantic mountains all around. Everything is a darkish orange and the sky is light orange. A man with dark colored clothes and with light weight armour was climbing on the mountain and his coms were activated, saying.

“Are you at the top of the mountain yet, NEV-902?” said C40.

“Not yet,” said NEV-902.

“You have to get there soon before the Zebop eats the scientists that are trapped in the base,” NEV-902 finished climbing to the top of the mountain where he saw a wrecked research lab that looked like an abandoned military base with explosion marks and destroyed buildings. “I am at the research lab,” “Good, before you enter the lab, just remember that a Zebop is very dangerous, it ate every creature that was in the lab,” said C40.

“I got it,” NEV-902 entered the lab and looked for vents to enter. He found one and opened it. “Hey C40, can you send the layout to this lab?”

“On it,” NEV-902 opened the layout on his gauntlet as a hologram. He followed it to the safe room. He stopped, hearing a loud noise coming near him.

NEV-902 looked down at a hallway through a vent, and saw rubble on the ground and nothing else. Then he saw a tentacled creature pass by!

His coms activated, and C40 said, “Hey, did you read the briefing about this mission?”

“I skimmed it,” he said humorously.

“Well, did you know anything about a Zebop?”

“No.” “Well to let you know a Zebop weighs five hundred pounds, can go zero to sixty in ten seconds, and one of its tentacles can crush a boulder,” “Then why wasn’t I able to bring any weapons?”

“Do you know how hard it is to catch a Zebop?”

“Very hard?”

“It is extremely hard to catch a Zebop.”

NEV-902 kept crawling through the vents. He reached a dead end, saw a vent hatch and opened it,. Then he jumped down very quietly so that he didn’tmake any loud noises that might alert the Zebop.

“Now that you’re at the entrance to the safe room, crack open the control panel and cut the green wire,” NEV-902 cracked open the panel and cut the green wire. The door to the safe room opened and there were a couple of scientists in there.

“Hello, I am NEV-902. I am here to save you from that Zebop out there,” “Thank you!” said one of the scientists.

A loud noise came closer and closer to them.

“The Zebop is coming,” said one of the scientists.

“Ok, you guys can escape through vents. Here is the layout of the vents.

It will lead you outside,” said NEV-902.

NEV-902 handed his gauntlet to one of the scientists. NEV-902 helped all the scientists into the vents while the noise kept coming closer and closer. As the last scientist got into the vents, the Zebop arrived. NEV902 shut the vents and told them, “Follow the layout to get out of the lab,” NEV-902 looked down and saw the Zebop. It was dark red, at least twenty feet tall, no eyes, had at least twenty tentacles, teeth that seemed to be sharp rocks, and a mouth that must have been ten feet wide and five feet tall! NEV-902 starred at the Zebop, then in a blink of an eye he sprinted away from it. He had a head start against the Zebop and he said to himself, “If I just keep taking turns. It will slow down the Zebop,” He kept taking turns, but the Zebop was right behind him. As he was running, he saw a container that wasn’t damaged and it looked like it could fit the Zebop. NEV-902 ran to the container, jumped up through the hatch in the ceiling, closed it, then closed the container once the

Zebop was fully in. He said to himself, “This container isn’t going to hold the Zebop in there forever. I am not going to wait and find out!”

Outside of the lab, the scientist waited for NEV-902. Then they saw a person emerge from the vent they came out of.

Then they saw NEV-902, and one of the scientists said, “How are we going to get off the mountain?sI there a ship coming?”

NEV-902 responded, saying, “No one is coming because the Zebop would have heard it and destroyed it,” “Then how are we going to get off this mountain?” asked one of the scientists. “Here are some parachute packs. When we jump, I will tell you all when to activate them,” A loud roar came from the lab.

“The Zebop is coming!” yelled one of the scientists.

Then the Zebop broke out of the lab’s front gates.

“Jump now!” screamed NEV-902.

They all jumped off the mountain. As they were falling NEV-902 yelled, “Activate your parachute!”

They all activated their parachutes and landed on the ground. When they landed on the ground NEV-902 said , “Quick, we can get into the transport I used to get here!”

“Where will we go once we get into the transport?” asked one of the scientists.

“We will go to a space station that is about one hundred miles from here and you’ll be able to go back to Earth,” said NEV-902.

Relieved and exhausetd, they enter the transport and travel one hundred miles to reach the space station. After they reach the space station, they parted ways.

Photo by Aadi Desai ‘27