The Grail Spring 2024

Theme: "Renewal"

Life and death are cyclical, never the end within themselves. As we shed our old selves and become reborn through God’s grace, we become cognizant of this beauty within our lives, especially within the Riordan community. As our school graduates its frst fully coed class, celebrating countless victories along the way, it has become apparent that the death of our old ways has blossomed into an ever stronger, ever wealthier diversity of experiences within our students and the art they’ve created. -- The Editors

Table of Contents

Poetry ... Pages 1-12

Fiction ... Pages 13-32 49-72

Art & Photography ... Pages 33-48

Nonfction ... Pages 73-80

Contributing Artists ... Inside Back Page

Contributing Artists

Jake Beeman '24

Colette Boushey '27

Talia Bumanglag ’24

Jimena Cachon ‘26

Michelle Chavero '24

Dylan Chemla '27

Mikayla Cheng '26

Xochitl Churchill '24

Vincent Douglas ’25

Sasha Feliciana-Chan ’26

Annabelle Hazard '27

Jasmine Hong '25

Ellie Jantz ’26

Rachel Kavanagh '24

William Lacey ‘24

Amanda Li '25

Max Li ‘26

Sherry Li '24

Sophia Louie ‘24

Miki Maloney '26

Isaac Martin '26

Kyra Michalchuk '24

Frederica Michalchuk '26

Xavier Rauls ’24

Benjamin Reyes '26

Julian Serrano ’24

Colum Slattery ‘24

Maxine Maria Sutisna '25

Kingston Thouchalanh ’27

(back cover art)

Mikaela Vital '27

(front cover art)

Miles Witte '27

Timothy Yuen '26

Crystal Wei '26

Cara Wong ’24

Angie Zheng '26

Editors

Sophie Bucker '24

Annabelle Hazard '27

Aiden Jantz ’24

Faculty Adviser

Mr. Michael Vezzali-Pascual ’88

Poetry

Over the Rainbow

Sasha Felicia-Chan ‘26

I try to forget my past. I try and try again, It haunts me like a dream.

Even if some time has wasted away, It’s the wound that never seems to heal.

But now it’s time to move on, The sun is beaming brightly on a beautiful day, with a glimmer of hope on the horizon. Within me I feel a renewed sense of life, ready to take control.

With fate in my hands, Nothing can stop me, All rules made by me, with the world resting at my feet.

Sonnet 4

Xavier Rauls ’24

Colors of fre begging for alms

As winter’s chill begins to devour

For it, as what is to be ripe is sour

And lush fowery ember’s qualms

Return home to earthy for’arms

A great cloud cover as ground will cower

Warlike winds call all the leaves to scour

Return! The once-everlive palms

Oh, home! The once weeping blades

To fourish into new blossoming green

The war it endured in between

Avoided the sickle that cleaves

Welcomed home to blooming parades

Born anew gone from sick winter’s thieves

Mistakes

Isaac Martin '26

I seem to repeatedly make mistakes Hurting those who I care about the most Blinded by hopeless delusions and bottled up harrow, Unfairly taking out my pent-up rage onto you I've been plagued with guilt ever since, With each passing day, I grow more and more wistful Driven frantic with regret, Alone, empty without you I know I messed up, I greatly hurt you I’m sorry, I truly am Can you please fnd it in your heart

To start over and forgive me? All I ask is for you to listen to my plea, And to grant me one last chance.

Fear

Talia Bumanglag ’24

Fear

Everyday a new unbearable fear dawns upon me.

I fear I will never be enough

That the light which burns inside me will soon die

The ficker of hope in my eyes will dim

The glow of my skin will dull

And I’ll be left as a shell of a human

Perhaps one day the sky will fall

And I will be buried under the stars I once gazed under.

I’ll fy too high as Icarus once did and my wings will fail us once again

Maybe one day I will have a daughter

The most beautiful thing to come from me

The representation of ancestors, hard work, tears, blood

Birthed into a creation I once dreamed of

And yet her creator is inevitably her downfall I fear that one day you’ll see a side of me

The one that’s usually locked away

Put in a cage to rot forever

Never to see the light of day

She will slipped out and up and around And obscure the idea of me that lived in you.

I fear the frst steps behind us are now the best of us

That our footprints

Our legacy

Will fade with the wind

And that we

I,

Will never feel the same sense of foreverness

Ever.

Again

Every Day I’m Born Again

Cara Wong ‘24

The exhaustion of a dead-beat day

Feet dragging, eyes drooping, soul fading

The uphill journey to climb into bed

And despite the respite at the top, a storm of thoughts keeps me awake

But after the whirlwind fnally starts to die down

My eyes close, my breath slows, and into sleep I fall

A night both dreamless and full of dreams

Hours that feel only like a single peaceful moment

The sun comes up, consciousness fades in

My eyes tired, my mind momentarily groggy, but my body revived

Blinking and stretching I rise

A new day ahead, a fresh set of chances

Filled with life again

Annabelle Hazard '27

Don’t smile because you can

Smile because you can’t stop

Smile because he told you to

Smile though your breaking

Smile because pain could not fnd a better way to show

Smile because the muscles will stretch and grow

Leaving you a hideous wrinkly mess who won’t be loved

But don’t stop smiling, that’s off putting

A smile will stretch your eyes

So much so, you will begin to cry

Smile to fll the void, the lonely place in your heart

Smiling is the only way to to give away everything you have

Because you do not deserve happiness or joy

Not the comfort you seek

You self pitying little freak

Take everything you have

Wrap in a smile

Keep it always polished

It will not fade

It will not warp

You’ve trained yourself to show nothing more

And at that point you’ll pass away

But do not worry

They’ll never know

Because you can only be buried in the perfect acab

And you’re never fully dressed without a smile

The Last December

Vincent Douglas ’25

And now, I do remember

It was a very cold and beige December

When I spoke to the girl with the twisted heart And I felt my mind fall apart. That was when my vision grew clearer And I understood the evil was nearer. I became witness to the horrors all around And I was frightened by what I found. My friends and I were addicted to our phones Just bumbling around like Dougie Jones. And all the crime that is ignored And the politicians that are adored. So why don’t you just take a look And you will see life is like that Burgess book. And all the people call for war

Because they just want more and more But they still honor Uncle Ted. There is a feeling in my head. Was it there from the time of birth?

And does Old Cain still walk the Earth? So many days when I feared I would fall Just listening to Pink building his wall. It was an inspiration of pain and suffering And that feeling my mind was buffering. Blurred lines of life and dreams

All around me are hate-flled screams. People worship hammer and sickle, And others follow Travis Bickle. Such disease spread by hate

Just little fsh biting bait.

Even Roger is flled with rage

Which is unhealthy at his age.

Some call to be left alone and cross that bridge

And spend peaceful days at Ruby Ridge. They’ll live freely with no border

But even Lydon calls for order.

All just facades put up for image

As no one makes the pilgrimage. Then a clearing in the fog

When Mike saw the face of God. Out of school and out of prison, Michael Travis’ life was driven

To a career of spreading truth

And he moved on from his violent youth.

So my mind fell to my control

And I learned to patrol

The feelings and thoughts of hatred and fear

That I once held so dear.

Fog in San Francisco

Sherry Li '24

Oh, mystic San Francisco, the mountain around you,

Hiding the secrets that are buried in my heart.

Rolling in with a sigh of the Sun,

Veling the city in a watery, soothing lullaby.

Golden Gate Bridge, your majestic fgure, covered by fog, Hazy outline, showing your mystery.

Through the streets, the mist blows gently, Smooth the heat in people’s hearts, calming down everything.

Hugging your cool, vapourous arms,

The city awakens by you.

Misty morning, everything is in shadow,

As if time were gently held at the bay area.

Oh, the fog of San Francisco, tell us your story, This is a euphemistic short poem, brief but infectious.

In your tender cloak, the city falls asleep again, Good night, foggy San Francisco.

Protector of the Bay

Rachel

Kavanagh

'24

Oh, Golden Gate, with grace you stand tall, Spanning the horizon, a beacon for all.

Steel cables dancing in the breeze’s embrace, Connecting each peninsula with elegant grace.

In the golden hues of the sun’s fond kiss, Your towers gleam, pure bliss.

Oh, guardian of the bay, majestic and true, Whispers of history echo through you.

Gateway of dreams, where seagulls soar, Your beauty resonates forevermore.

Bumps In The Road

William Lacey ‘24

As the gleaming sun fades into the water down through the horizon

It shines colors of pink and orange through The red bridge suspended over that deep blue water

Underneath all the people enjoying the view

All see one red bridge That means we’re home

All under one red bridge and blue sky through the fog you can see its red beauty gleaming with water droplets looking mysterious is what we call home.

Golden Hour in SF Sophia Louie ‘24

As evening unfolds its gentle embrace, The hustle and bustle of San Francisco gently fades away, The sky transforms into a ballroom, Where hues of the rainbow gracefully sway.

Crimson intertwines with orange, Pink gracefully waltzes into purple, In a mere two minutes, the sun bids adieu, Yet, hours linger in the twilight's subtle allure.

A golden palette paints the world in its descent, Its touch, a tender blanket on every skin it meets, As the sun's warmth whispers in the breeze, An enchanting spectacle, where time sweetly greets.

The sun dips low, a feeting golden time, An hour that feels borrowed.

So, sit and enjoy the show, Where moments linger, and memories grow.

Fiction

The Orange Amongst the White

Julian Serrano '24

I walked to school one day, one cold near-winter’s day. A frostbitten morning; a nose shining red. The long, wide roads to school were flled with dead trees that hung over the world, covering the withered sun and sprinkling the land with dead foliage. I wore a sweater, and it clung nicely to me, warming my body when everything else in the world shivered. I was weary, until I saw her down the lane as the cars rushed past us near a big chain-linked fence. She walked in front of me, not caring or bothering to take notice of my presence. My footsteps reached the concrete silently, and my soul danced in my chest, awakened by a love that had been festering for many autumn days. She was a ginger, her hair bouncing with every step, and my heart futtered its wax wings when the wind pushed the strands of orange gently, allowing it to sway like hung, drying clothes.

The way she walked, every step a sign of immaculateness allowed to exist because beauty needed a home, caring to reside in her. Who was she? She was Patricia – Patricia Olivia O’Neil. I knew her name, knew oh so much, yet, of course, I’d never said a single solemn word to her. No, speaking to such a beauty would be too much mental exertion, too much taxation. No, I was undeserving, anyway; I was a loner, not immaculate, not a beauty, not desirable. I was fettered by my own lack of will, while she was not. She was not anything I was; she was everything, and I wasn’t anything. She, in every aspect, made a part of existence more pleasurable, made the smile upon the face of the world more upturned. The way she bejeweled her computer with stickers made me happy, the way she played with a hair-band made my breath short with excitement. And there she was, walking in front of me,

playing with my heart without even knowing my name. There she was, Patricia Olivia O’Neil, there to make my cold nights warm with blazing mental images of me and her, somehow, someway in love.

I was never dirty with my attraction; no, you should be shunned for miring beauty with your murky ideas of such a sinful lust for such an innocent fower. No, none of my mental images were dirty – they were clean desires to hug and soothe such a heavenly woman; to have her soft skin and lips against me. I had been so lonely in those days, so lonely that those were my only earthly desires – to be held, to be comforted, to be told that I was loved by something beautiful, something radiant with grace and the light of a near-winter’s day. Even so, I never said a word. In fact, walking behind her that morning was the closest I had been to her physically. The two of us shared only one class together, it was a higherlevel course that I took for no good reason at all. She was there, across class from me, and I’d gaze at her as she sat, the beautiful scene rendered imperfect by the imperfect faces around her. The way her green eyes danced from boredom, to curiosity, to attentiveness, to boredom oncemore. She would talk to her friends regularly, but her voice was rather silent – the teachers often asking her to repeat any given phrase uttered – but that made her all the more gorgeous. Her voice so soft, like a whisper, coming from such a pleasant mouth. Sometimes hearing it made me light of breath, but instead of fainting I just listened attentively to every word, hanging on with loosening grip as dreams fooded my waking reality with hope.

Every once in a while I’d see her face turn downtrodden, something clearly disturbing the background of her fervent mind, and she’d rest her frown on her palm, the green in her half-closed eyes breaking my heart with their apathy. I never wanted to see her sad, yet there was nothing I could do but observe, observe as her mood changed throughout the month, changed throughout the year, and changed throughout the

minute. She was a fckle woman, and sometimes I wondered more about the content of her character. I knew she was smart, she always raised her hand whenever a question appeared; I knew she was popular, for many fellows buzzed around her like bees to a fower; but there was something about her character that I could infer but never prove, as one can’t prove character without having ever spoken to the person of such character. One day I decided that it was best to be ignorant about her personality, for I believed that I’d be disappointed that it wasn’t as comely as her body. She was a painting of beauty, not a physical, breathing creature. Just something to admire from your eyes from afar. Only judged by the eyes; nothing more, nothing less. I never thought I could ever get anywhere with her. No, I never could. We’d never see a starlit sky, never love each other like the sun and moon, never see one another as anything but background characters in diametrically opposed stories. Her story was vibrant; my story was glum. That’s all there was to it.

One day smoothed over the rolling, wet hills, and I was at school once more. It was a moist, sopping rain cast upon our lowly dwellings, and the once thought-to-be fat streets became rivers without short notice. My socks soaked on the walk to school. The day seemed to be drab and morose. The gym was cold despite the heat of exercise. I was there, alone, doing the task I was told to do. I took in the faces of the boys who were playing basketball with eagerness and a sportsman behavior. They were all tall, clearly on the team, and when they moved, the ball bent to their will. They were strong – they were powerful people. I, however, was powerless. I looked down at myself, looked at the clothes draped over my slender frame, and looked at my arm that lay without strength, brittle-boned. My face went glum. I knew that they had women that they were in love with, and that the women loved them back – because they were strong, because things bent to their wills. My heart felt a prick of pain. I took

the basketball I had in my hands and laid it down on the foor and sat on it, my back to the gym wall. The foor never looked like a more prosperous prospect. I’m awful. I love Patricia more than anybody, yet she would never dare love me back. Instead, she’d rather love one of those jerks. It’s stupid, it’s all stupid. I wish I could talk to her. I wish that she would just say that she loves me. I love her. I do, I truly do. But she’d sooner hate me than love me back. I’m a creep. I’m a gangly mess of bone. I’m disgusting. She’ll never love me. No, she won’t… she won’t.’ As I sat there on my basketball these thoughts would disintegrate the last shreds of hope left in my wayward soul, leaving a sad, putrid child in its place, watching as others played, as was always.

A few nights later I started feeling a weariness in my joints, and motion was a harder task than before. I went to the doctors. They did some tests, then after seeing the results they did more tests; then more, then more. The news was bad, yet they told it with a cautious tone. The reality wasn’t as merciful as their words, however, as I was dying. I didn’t even know what of, for their explanation was blocked-out by an incessant ringing in my ears. The world fell silent that day, whatever tune that kept me moving forward ended with a curt crrk. It was over. I was going to die, die very slowly, without mercy. Some rare thing, something very rare, something very cruel. My mother held me with a teary face. I comforted her like she’d comforted me many times when I was little. I’d never seen my dad so distraught. The next day I walked around our pool, deciding to skip school. In my hand was a rake, and I kicked it up in the air with every step. As I looked at the cold, blue, water, it refected my face back. Was the “me” in the refection terminally ill? Was it happy? No, for it was me. I was going to die, die very soon. I would’ve been angry any other day, but I don’t even think I understood. ‘Die? No, no… that’s just not right, is it? I look fne. I feel fne. Am I dying? What…

what does that mean? Will it really all go black soon?’ Horror consumed me, and I dropped to my knees. The energy that I used to sustain myself fell. My legs scraped the concrete. I was going to die, yet I wasn’t even able to drive a car. ‘No, no, no. No, I–I was alive yesterday. No, there will be a next year, right? I’ll still see Christmas, right?’

I walked around some more, kicking the rake as I went. The thoughts trickled-in like water down a drain. I started asking myself questions that I’d never asked myself before, started confronting the parts of my mind I never wished to confront. Before I knew it I was watching the sunset through the trees, my breath becoming mist. I didn’t want the night to arrive, for my thoughts would only get worse. But by then my thoughts were gone, only resolutions remaining. I decided that there were still things I needed to do before I went out, yet how they would be accomplished would be a matter for another day. My mind rested, and after the next day passed the weekend came, and after that the week began. This was it. My fnal hour.

There she was, sitting there before class, the lights above refected in her eyes. I began walking towards her, but something caught my nerves when her green irises locked mine, and I turned away. ‘No, there’s no tomorrow. I can’t run away. There’s nowhere to go. There’s only her, there in that chair. The world is no more, mine gone. Only her, only that chair.’ Everything in my body exacerbated itself with the effort. I turned and continued toward her. She looked at me expectantly, curious and cautious about the stranger that was approaching her. Her eyes were asking me what I wanted. “Hey…” the words were strained. I didn’t want to speak, and oncemore I had an internal battle.

“Need something?” she asked, her beautiful eyes staring at me, her soft voice vocalizing. There was a rush, like the charge of the bull. “Patricia, you’re–you’re. You’re beautiful, and – and. I like you,

like you a l-like a lot.”

The struggle was over, my legs squirmed through the isles to my seat across the room, and I sat down with the weight of the world on me. When I dared look up from my desk she was observing me, and for the frst time I had felt what it must’ve been like from her perspective. Then, there was a sound. It sounded like the squeak of a mouse, but I knew what it was. It was a laugh, a laugh from her, so cute and lovely. I fell apart, breaking the lead in my mechanical pencil over and over until the sensation went away.

Lunch arrived, and as I walked to my empty table I stared at the ground, until there was a soft, quiet voice that called out to me. I looked up, and there she was, Patricia Olivia O’Neil, her face expectant and happily curious. “Hey,” she said.

Blood rushed to my heart with haste, everything in me scrambling to understand the situation, my brain barely comprehending the creature before me and her ginger hair and pink-painted nails. I was lost for breath, and soon enough I felt my legs giving out beneath me. The fall was quaint, my nerves calmly allowing the wind to carry me to the ground. I don’t remember what happened next, all I remember was that my eyes opened to meet her eyes staring at me with worry. I had fainted, fallen right into the grass, and she had been calling for help, my head resting in her lap. She became easy when she saw that I was awake, the caution and panic gone from her countenance. “You okay?” she asked in a whisper. I swallowed hard and nodded, the last tension feeing, despite my signs of an increasing physical hardship. I sat up slowly and saw her delightful countenance and orange hair falling into the grass. She wore a skirt and a matching button-up with a collar. She was like a fower amongst the grass, the frmament amongst clouds. Even though it was winter the world looked vibrant and colorful, a dazzling show of energy

and grace, like a symphonic masterpiece of beauty.

“What, um, what did you wanna talk to me about?” I asked after a period of silence.

She just fung her wrist in a motion that told me to forget about it all. The silence befell us again, fnding room in the space between me and her. She realized that she still needed to say what she told me to forget about, so she did.

“Thank you. For what you said yesterday, I mean.”

“Oh, um, you’re, um – you’re welcome.”

Neither of us knew what to say after that, fnding the scene to be a dance of awkward shamblings and stumbling, neither able to place our minds on a string of words apt enough to be useful in conversation. We both tried to at the same time, but both stopped to allow the other to talk, neither of us ending up with any utterance. ‘God, what do I even say next?’

“God, I don’t know what to say next,” I told her. “Honestly, I don’t. Just seeing you made me faint just now, and I just – and I just, um… don’t even know where to begin. We’ve never even talked to each other.”

“We’ve just now,” she said. Her sweet optimism made my heart spur into high-gear, and there was a smile on her face. ‘I have to be honest with her about how I feel. Bluntness is my sharpest weapon now.’

“Why did you, um,” she tried to say. “Why did you say that, anyways?”

“Why? Because I believe it, honestly. I see you every day across the room, yet I’ve never had the stinkin’ guts to talk to you. I thought, ‘might as well get all my cards on the table,’ y’know.”

She nodded, a wobbly-shy smile on her face, unfamiliar with the light of such a compliment. I looked at her, and she looked at me, and again we were lost. Again neither of us knew how to fnd the end to the maze of human interaction, so I decided to cut my losses.

I got up. It was over, at least in my mind, and I prepared to sit and eat lunch away from the world.

“Hey, where’re you going?”

She shot up with concern. The scene surprised me, and I asked myself why she cared.

“I’m hungry,” was my response.

I walked away, but she caught up to me after quickening her pace.

“I’m hungry, too.”

I turned to her, her eyes too daunting to allow this to progress any further. I wanted to stop it quickly, but again there was a battle in my soul, for I knew that I’d never get another opportunity of this sort. I sat down at my table near a tree outside the cafeteria. I signaled for her to join me. She did, sitting across from me, slightly nervous at what had been transpiring. My hands went into my bag to fnd my sandwich, and they were trembling.

“So, you do anything fun?” she asked.

“Hm? No… no.”

“Oh, c’mon, you obviously do something fun.”

“Not something too fun. I play video games sometimes. I dunno, sometimes I read.”

“What do you read?”

“I dunno. Books.”

“Everyone reads books, you gotta be more specifc.”

“Pssht, I don’t know. I never pay attention.”

“What book’re you reading now?”

“Oh, it’s, um, called something like – aw, I don’t remember. It’s an oldie…”

“How old?”

“1900s, like, WWI era.”

“That’s not that old.”

“Sorry.”

“Why’d you apologize.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re apologizing for apologizing?”

Right then I had the crippling urge to apologize, yet reason pulled me away and I said nothing. She was trying to start a

conversation, for what purpose I had no clue, and I was letting her down with my lackluster efforts. This was why she’d never love me: I was too afraid of her, too afraid to love her.

“You know,” she began, “you’re the only person that’s ever called me beautiful.”

“Really? That’s a shame. Honestly, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve seen at this school.”

“Yeah?”

“M-hm. You are, you really are. God, some days I just can’t stop thinking about you.” I realized I shouldn’t have said that.

“That was creepy, sorry.”

“Nah, it’s, um… fne.”

Lunch was spent afterward in silence. I was too mentally exhausted from the events, and she was unfamiliar with the type of character I was. She knew how to talk with rational people, but I had an irrational fear of her that made it so the only words I spoke were those that praised her tranquil looks. I was caught by her mystical appearance; the gaze of an angel turned me to stone: cold and terrifed of her.

The day went by, the magic of the scene dissipated. That night as I fell asleep the image of her placed itself in my thoughts. The insanity of that day made me smile, smile at my good fortune after such bad luck with my diagnosis. I decided to read the book that I was reading, mainly because she talked with me about it briefy and every page made me think of our conversation, and, by extension, her. The words, much like her orange hair, fowed blissfully and gently, the sensations so great and amorous, yet not my own. None of it was my own, no aspect of the world mine, and the thought made me sad. From all my years I did nothing and never was anything, but after speaking with her those thoughts beckoned less loudly, their cries with less voice. One could only want more…

I walked to school the next day, rain clouds swimming above, the concrete hard beneath me. The cars sped by, themselves pushing the rain to the sidewalk as they surged through the

wide roads. I wore a rain-jacket, fully enrobed in the plastic exterior, the moistness still reaching my body. The world was a soppy mess: littered scraps of paper disintegrating in the puddles, trash bags refecting droplets of water through the plastic, food turning to mush on the ground. It was abysmal. It was disheartening. Then, near the chain-linked fence in front of me I saw her, Patricia Olivia O’Neil, walking with her orange hair bouncing beneath an umbrella. I smiled, but didn’t say anything. I couldn’t have another awkward scene transpire, not again.

She turned around after my boot splashed a puddle, and when she saw my face she smiled through pillowy lips. “Heya,” she said. I stopped in my tracks. She walked over to me and after a few moments we began walking together. She wanted to say many things, but found words to be futile. At the same time her and I seemed to conclude that our relationship was a strange one. We were opposed in all aspects, and I was going to die soon, yet she walked with me, walked with me when I was most destitute and sorrowful. She lit my drab life with her blazing fre-lit hair. I thought I’d hate her if I ever met her, but she was nice: caring for me, a stranger, in whatever benevolent way she could. She was far more deserving of life than me, I realized, for she cherished it and everybody in it. She was beautiful yet didn’t allow it to turn her rotten. She was wellread, social, kind, and intelligent. She deserved to die old, while I barely deserved the life I already spent. I didn’t want to tell her that I was going to die soon, and she probably wouldn’t notice my absence. No, she wouldn’t care anyways, I reasoned, so there wasn’t any point in mentioning it. That day we spent another lunch together, and I didn’t complain. No words, just silence. We spent many more lunches like that – made it a habit. We walked to school together when we could, her even waiting for me so that we could trot together – made it a habit, too. We never spoke, and if we did it was telepathic, our brains sending signals of

mutual understanding to each other instead of using vocal communication. I became happy. It was a joyous occasion to feel happy, and I hadn’t felt it in a very long time. I became feverish with the sensation of jubilance. I came to await everyday eagerly, no longer fearing the outside of my house. She would be there, waiting for me, Patricia Olivia O’Neil, the most beautiful girl to ever enter into my solemnly grim life.

The reaper was awaiting me, and my health rapidly deteriorated. It was an ailment that attacked my strength, making every action more laborious, deteriorating my motorabilities slowly, like a creeping barrage. Every day it became an even greater burden to get out of bed, and there was one day wherein I struggled to leave my house. I stumbled everywhere I went, down the halls, and with feeble legs fell and slammed my head against the wall. My parents saw the state I was in, and they took me to the hospital. The news was bad, my fnal stay would come far earlier than they had anticipated, and they had very little hope that I’d ever see a classroom again. The time was arriving, and I didn’t even say goodbye.

We went down the road, past the chain-linked fence that she and I walked infront of, past the society that I shied away from, to the hospital, where all would dissipate, dissipate into my fragile and inevitable end. I wished the car would stop, but I was inanimate, the steering wheel so far from my hands. This was the road, the fnal road I would tread upon, the last place before my last moment. Back to where I came from, arriving fnally, ending with due haste, in the same manner which I had lived my life: alone. Everyone was quick, hoping desperately to give me all those fnal, sacred, weary minutes, yet they were as powerless as I, and the end would arrive uncontrollably.

The days went by without her, as I sat there, in the hospital bed, my life disintegrating in the rain. As I lay I could hear Christmas choirs crying in the distance, them speaking of birth

and tender nights. Angels, how they cried: the sounds of God fettering me to a cruel torment. I just wanted to be with her for one more day, just one more. That was all I asked of the heavens as I sat with broken wings in that hospital bed. One day came, and she was there, near the door, her face sad. I must’ve looked like a wreck in that hospital bed, for it was enough to make her cry. That was not a great sight. She was too beautiful for tears, too elegant for sorrow. I had caused her too much unnecessary pain. I was selfsh, selfsh for making her feel this way, selfsh for barging in on her life when mine reached its winter. She walked over to the hospital bed, and I saw her unblemished face, and it was sorrowful. This was no way to be seen by such a wholesome fower. This was no way to send-off my life. I was imperfect, the situation was miserable, and she had no right to exist amongst it. Even so, despite it all, I was glad, glad for her last appearance amongst the white winter.

“I love you,” I said. That was all I needed to say, and as I became a distant, fading memory I slept my great sleep peacefully, knowing that while my life wasn’t lived well, that I did the best I could at the very end.

Slacker

Jake Beeman '24

Broken glass cracks under bootheels, pale light burns on an expanse of blacktop, a lot near completely devoid of life save one or two brightly glowing apartment-block windows at its far end. With a shrill crack, a glass bottle whipped at the concrete side of a drain pipe outlet explodes into a bloom of shrapnel, pieces ring as they hit the ground. A laugh echoes faintly on stark concrete, carried on the wind. The windows of apartment blocks, like visors in abstract knights’ armor, stare on in stern disapproval. The footsteps resume, a lethargic aimless march like the shamble of homunculi. Motion not in the aim of destination or journey, but in avoidance; a procrastination, not so specifcally against some task or fear, but in opposition to the entire affair of time. Passage in the abstract, of time, of joy, of life, combatted indirectly through a savoring of all encompassing boredom. It is better to rot slowly than quickly, to avoid going home, not in fear of anything to be found there, except sleep, the passive acceptance of one day’s end and the beginning of another just the same. This meaningless waste had long been ritual, as any unpleasant habit does: no longer even a wholehearted attempt to ignore time’s passage, a waste in the fullest sense, devoid of enjoyment, short of occasional violence against whatever objects and appliances lay abandoned in the lot that day. As in the many days before, the will to this waste faded, conversations on life support, artifcially perpetuated without subject or purpose, died a long deserved death. Their contents, to be exhumed and defled until even their base ideas rot into the dust of a purely social performance, words as occupation of a dead air, as much in the soul as in the conversation, are lowered to their hasty grave. Two dark silhouettes part ways, their empty tread now guided by that which was avoided, the rest of an end, the day incinerated into smoke without fre. Pale surgical light slowly

gives way to streetlights’ blanketing yellow warmth, closer to a faint light pollution than illumination in any meaningful sense. Weathered low-boots softly pace forward on the calm surface of dimly lit sidewalk, aggregate and imperfections in the concrete form a pattern of dizzying television static, their grit eroding the boot’s tread day by day, becoming a fat decoration, a reminder of the stability they once provided. Low rise apartment blocks tower in the dim yellowish moonlight of an empty urban street, Teutonic guardians standing frm in shadow, their faces stark, half illuminated like statues in tribute to the glory of some totalitarian regime. Before man they stand gods, monoliths of man’s own creation, not worshiped in the conscious, but demanding of a deep respect of the soul; a religious instinct of man devoid of god and myth, prostrating itself before obelisks and pantheons of geometric concrete.

Sodium-vapor lit streets stretch unto eternity, an alien landscape overtaken in an amber glow. Surreal in barren stillness, canyons of abstract concrete blocks whistle softly in the evening breeze. Behind the wind’s low whistle and hum of distant motorways, the beat of a march drums, the quiet percussion of boots on concrete, thumping a methodical pace through the orange-yellow dreamscape. After an eternity of unchanging straight away, the march nears its end. Harsh industrial light dims to the sparse illumination of occasional streetlamps; buildings stoop to two story boxes. A wooden staircase creaks, under the dim illumination of a stair-top lamp, a key clicks contentedly into its lock: the fnal piercing blow of the day’s end.

Golden sun fows through a wooden window frame, warm light engrosses a bed, highlighted like the plinth of a holy relic. Eyes dart to life, the haze of half-sleep burning away in piercing sunlight. A bedroom’s dark gray walls and glossy white artifcial furniture glow in heavenly morning light. A bedsheet cast aside, and the light creak of wooden foors: another day arises. Scanning the room, dark ringed eyes roll

lethargically in their sockets, taking in, thoughtlessly, the familiar sight.

A drab green army jacket and worn blue jeans rustle, grabbed by fumbling hands from where they lay on the foor, hastily fastened with buttons and zippers. At the bottom of a mountainous staircase, boots are slipped on with a brief clack on the foorboards, a glance in a wall mirror with an ironic grin, another day begins, blindly wandering on. Out the door and down yet more stairs, the street hums with light morning traffc. An empty bus stop waits quietly, only its roof graced by the morning light cresting the buildings’ shadow.

Purposelessly looping through the city had long ago become the procedure for aimless days, moving, by bus, train, and sidewalk, to every corner. The blinding whirl of sights, places, and hours passing through enamel windows, endless journeys to places devoid of interest and purpose.

A wave of air blows in a sudden wall-like gust, electric motors sing in a whirring drone, snapping and jolting, long connector poles spark with electricity on overhead wires. Squeaking brakes and an industrial hydraulic hiss blow away daydreams in the whirlwind. Chiming with a prerecorded message, bus doors slide open to an empty cabin.

Meaningless to the eye, twenty minutes blur like an unfocused flm photo before the same prerecorded chime rings, its calm voice reading a familiar street’s name. Returning from the depths of the mind, stumbling out, half blind, through clear plexiglass doors, a landscape of bright concrete reveals itself through the whirl. Blinding sun’s refection, only tamed by the shade of sparse decorative trees, overwhelms the eye; a glimpse of a utopian fever dream: a shining falsehood, sourceless propaganda to impossible ideals. Blinding glare dims in squinting eyes, the shimmering landscape returns to reality: one or two benches bolted atop a landscape of light gray squares, unweathered concrete shaded by the ragged canopy of saplings.

Warm sun rays retain some of the feeting vision’s warmth. Sitting atop a park bench, the radiant heat envelops; beaming on a serene face, the calm light slowly cooks away all thoughts. Considerations of what is to be done and panic over that left undone evaporate in gently rising heat; as they fade, a subtle smile takes their place.

Slipped out from a coat pocket, a small, worn paperback book rests in pale bony hands; white pages aglow in refecting light like fowing linen. Slowly as mechanically printed words pass, the sun grows. With each page the heat intensifes, stewing the mind in baking lethargy: eyes grow in weight, and words wither in meaning.

In a growing intoxication of heat, thoughts begin to wilt; like a distillation, the unpleasant evaporates, leaving only the mind to boil. Meaningless print scrolls by, obscured in the overgrowth of near delirium.

Stashing the weathered book in the jacket’s holster-pocket, underlined eyes once again scan, staring blind without thought, searching like radar without an operator. Arising from the park bench, uneasy, feverishly, and slowly, the blindness of the mind fades, fushed away like the fow of blood; movement now directed to a new task of a nearly primordial demand. Walking out of the square, and up quiet city blocks, rows of houses pass in the refection of glassy eyes. Apartment blocks in neutral white and gray on the large thoroughfare mix with and eventually give way to smaller blocks of muted pastel colors, mingling like a set of gaudy dinnerware faded by an eternity on the shelf. Under two foors of dark green stucco, wide glass panes crowded with hanging neon signs peer into a cavernous dark room. Rows of refrigerators hum in unison, their dim white light emanating through glass doors onto worn linoleum foors and plaster walls papered in yellowing posters. Through beckoning open doors, the faintly sweet smell of sugar in two hundred forms, brightly cellophane wrapped caloric surplus and bottles of watered down corn syrup, corrosive to body

and soul. Through endless rows of gleaming aluminum cans, screaming for attention in multicolor labels, one catches the eye: a tall silver and white can embossed with a decadent pattern and hieroglyph-like logo.

The puzzle pieces of a still jumbled mind click into place, buzzing with a primordial approval. Grasping the can, a satisfyingly perfect ft in the palm, and dishing a few crumpled dollars to the indifferent counter attendant, a concealed anticipation grows, a desire near its actualization. Only a few steps back into the bright day, the will’s resistance gives way entirely to the can’s siren call: grasping the icy aluminum frmly and eagerly pulling on the tab, a crisp crack and shrill hiss whirl in the ears, delivering an innate, physiological satisfaction. In an instant, the intense taste of near industrial chemicals reaches the tongue, eyes widening and awaking in the familiar acidic taste: more a clinical tonic than a drink. The mind is fnally satisfed, jolted to full function with the power of caffeine, artifcial sugar, and potent chemicals.

After a moment, any desire to linger dies in twitching hyperactivity: drifting steps once again wander. Back in the sickly bliss of the sun, the mind maintains a greenhouse-like heat, a decadence of time in famine of purpose wastes the day in frivolity.

In the pass of hours, arid expanses of concrete fade in and out, different only in location and superfcialities, until a fnal bound is reached. The burning sun, obscured in thin parasols of fog high above, fails to scorch the earth; stout buildings and wind twisted trees face an endless expanse. Across a wide boulevard, a crumbling retaining wall towers above a stretch of dark sand bordering green-blue sea. Cold salt air buffets the landscape, leaving buildings faded in a pale white dust of salt, their faces worn in the endless sand blast. Walking along a cracked sidewalk, thoughts begin to dwell; the mind, weaning from the sun’s intoxication, cools like iron pulled from a furnace. Blown in on the cold wind, long

avoided ideas infect an awakening mind: time wasted in a comatose of the soul, decay in anticipation of an unknown event never to occur.

Slowly swirling, the thoughts intensify, becoming like the sea's drowning tide, holding the soul under inescapable freezing water. Intensifying panic and echoing ideas rattle the mind like hammers. Ambitionless failure, lethargic waste of life, an inevitable path towards death of soul and mind at the hands of blankly perpetuated existence.

The spirit besieges itself in the fre of introspective hate, screaming under the weight of crumbling delusions. A rotadex of regrets, mistakes, and failures spins at incomprehensible speed, accelerating exponentially, running its disorganized cycle of jumbled memory. Whirling like a torrent, the show continues, until like an overspun magnetic tape, it fies off its track.

Returning to reality as the reels of the minds spin empty, a night seascape reveals itself. Covered in mist like a statue in the morning dew, feeling returns to a now ghostly pale face. The thin white light of far off street lamps refects on damp concrete, contrasting against the rolling black mass of water out beyond the dark sand.

Leaning against the sea wall’s worn concrete, the mind recollects itself into solitary calm. Stretching into dark night, the coastline follows the boulevard’s straight path before terminating at a cliff’s stark incline. At its top, a large building’s golden light glows in the foggy darkness, an island of visibility on an otherwise opaque horizon.

Admiring the friendly halo glow for a moment, eyes dazzle, a closed mouthed smile of contentment in the willful delirium of an industrially manufactured divine light. Wretched among the lightless street, the glow blesses with the Holy Spirit of the illusory.

The false god’s presence bends and wisps in the blowing fog, dying through a thickening wall of gray-white, becoming only a faintly colored reminder before fading into obscured

oblivion.

Robbed of solace in self delusion, the street returns to empty night, sinful in darkness: the gnashing of car tires on concrete, the despondent wail of brakes, punctuated by the tortured scream of car horns. Among the brimstone of car exhaust, the need to leave becomes overwhelming, the industrial screech of a tangible hell is unbearable.

Stumbling blindly along the unlit sidewalk, disoriented by the noise, escaping the shrieking motorway trumps all else in the mind. Lost in fight, a concrete expanse appears before and fades behind in seeming eternity before a solitary beacon reveals itself in all consuming fog. Atop a monolithic metal pole, a green light blazes against the shrouded darkness; near its base a heavy yellow sheet of dotted plastic sunken into a sidewalk recess indicates the long sought escape. Nearly slamming the large round metal button emanating from the pole on a safety-yellow plastic box, the light switches to a burning yellow before enveloping the fog in smoldering red. The beeping chatter of the box commands forward a pathway fnally revealed against the vehicles’ aluminum torrent.

Watched in hundreds of glowing halogen eyes, staring blankly among a drum of eagerly idling engines, crossing the river of asphalt on a bridge of thick yellow lines provides the long sought fight.

Moving along stretching dark city blocks, the motorway’s noise fades, blowing sea wind slowly becomes the quiet and still chill of night time fog; a shallow geometric canyon of dark, abstract concrete envelops both eye and soul. Wandering the nighttime blocks in a state of purgatory, an hour passes before a fnal salvation reveals itself.

Lit by a miniscule bulb, a small square sign atop a metal pole signals a bus stop; miraculously, the right route to return home. The face of a steel wristwatch reads one thirty in softly iridescent radium green, nearly foating against an invisible background; late enough the bus comes once on the hour at best.

Slumping against the pole, sitting tired on the cold sidewalk, a shivering hand pulls the book from its holster. Nearly invisible in the dark, memory flls in the cover’s image: a shimmering palace of emerald standing atop an impossibly jagged mountain, glowing in venerated perfection. Flipping through the pages’ thin paper, their meaning is nearly unintelligible; words twist and shift through mental perception, just enough light to contrive, but not to perceive. Lost in the vain effort, the mind merely quits, eyes admire the nearly ethereal fog as the book slips back into a coat pocket. Eventually, the fog begins to brighten, a low electrical hum permeates the air. Second by second, a vague white glow becomes brighter and better defned, becoming two white beams shooting through the night, surrounded by the emanating light of large windows. The hum becomes a drone, and then a screech. Hydraulics sing in unison as rattling and zapping slows to a halt. Arising quickly to stand, doors slide open just as boots gain their footing; clacking onto a hard gripplastic foor as the prerecorded message chimes. Sitting on a brightly colored bench seat, enveloped in crisp white light, so bright the windows become like walls of black, gladness mixes with inescapable melancholy: a day’s cycle fnished for another to begin just the same.

Art & Photography

By: Benjamin Reyes (Sophomore) Benjamin Reyes '26

Colette Boushey '27

Mikaela Vital '27 (opposite and above)

Dylan Chemla '27

Ellie Jantz ’26

Jasmine Hong '25

Amanda Li '25

"Adam"

Miki Maloney '26

Frederica Michalchuk ’26

Crystal Wei '26

Kyra Michalchuk '24

Xochitl Churchill '24

Annabelle Hazard '27

Annabelle Hazard '27

Mikayla Cheng '26

Timothy Yuen '26

Somewhere Around the Pacifc

Vincent Douglas ’25

Considering what we have just done, I only think it appropriate to tell you where I was for those months. I have told you, and everyone else, a dozen times before, but there are several days that I have purposefully left out for fear of being thought insane. You, however, now know me better than anyone else, and I believe that I can confde in you this tale that I have kept in my mind for several years now. It has been slowly eating away at my memory for a chance to be told.

On September 13, 2005, a date which has forever been engraved in my brain, my brother died. We were on a cruise for a chance to have a break from our duties, but something went wrong after a week at sea, and the ship sank. I never bothered to fnd out what did go wrong, for I would spend too much time on how I may have fxed it.

It was late at night when he dragged me out of my bed. How he broke down the door to my room, I will never know as he was never very athletic. We ran down the wet, wooden deck before I slipped and was knocked unconscious. When I awoke, it was day, and it was just the two of us on a small raft. It was merely a part of the shipwreck which my brother had lifted us onto. He was dead when I woke.

There was a certain elegance to his body: his arm covering his eyes and the streams of blood coming from his mouth. He was one year and one day older than me, and he never let me forget it.

There was nothing on the raft (if you could call it that) except us, and his mp3 player. It contained only eleven songs, all from the 70’s, which he described as “the only eleven songs you’ll ever need.” They served as my only form of entertainment for weeks, and now I wish to never hear them ever again for they only bring sour memories.

I never remember eating or drinking the entire six weeks, but I must have at some point. My skin had been

burned over and over again. Every movement was painful. It was clear skies and waters the entire time. Never a single cloud or wave. Just still water as far as the eye could see.

People always say that when you are alone for so long, you go insane, but that never happened to me. I stayed calm, sometimes not saying a word for days at a time.

The frst song on the player was “Alone Again, Naturally” by Gilbert O’Sullivan. I never listened to the lyrics before, and they struck me as kind of a sweet song. A man is about to die, but he took the time to relay to me the story of his life. There is something comforting about that. My brother never got the chance to say goodbye to me before he died, and his body became less and less every day.

Now, weeks later, something happened that I have never told a soul. It was late at night. The player was on its last leg. It was solar powered, but the salty air had ruined it over the past month. It was sputtering the Blue Öyster Cult song “Astronomy,” which was a strange fascination of my brother. He claimed that it was about a shipwrecked sailor, who was saved by a cult but eventually died. Some extraterrestrial intelligence witnessed his death, resurrected him, and gave him the power to change form. Apparently, he took the form of a woman and eventually started World War One, but I never understood this story by listening to the lyrics. My brother claimed that there were dozens of other songs which told the whole story, but none of them were on his device.

It was late at night, when an animal swam below me. I turned to look, my skin bloody and raw, and saw a massive sperm whale not six inches under the water. Its giant eye stared into mine, into my soul. As it swam, I noticed that it had no tail. Instead, it had the eight arms of an octopus in its place. I stared, but was too tired to react. I let the feeling of amazement wash over me peacefully.

At this point, the next song had begun to play: “Hey You” by Pink Floyd. I remember I had heard it in that movie The Squid and the Whale. The title comes from that sculpture

in New York where a sperm whale is trying to eat a giant squid wrapped around it. Now, I was facing a behemoth that was part-squid and part-whale. These two animals, mortal enemies, were one.

It stayed with me for days, physically. Five days, it drifted peacefully beside me. Sometimes I would stare deep into that pupil, and I can swear it was talking to me. I could hear it in my mind. The voice it used was my brother’s, but it was not him talking. What was left of him was silent, right beside me.

One night, it just disappeared into the deep. The next day, I found land.

I will never know what my mother was feeling when she entered the hospital. Her two eldest sons had been missing for six weeks, and then they were found. When we were gone, she must have had a certain optimism that we could still be alive, and then it was confrmed for me. She knew one son was safe, but the other had died.

We held my brother’s funeral two weeks later. It was a closed casket as no one could bear to look at him. His “graceful androgyny” he was so proud of had become nothing more than hair, bones, and loose fesh.

I still wonder if what I saw was real. I am sure it was, as I touched it with my own skin. I saw no other illusions in my time, and no doctor found anything wrong with my mental state when I returned. It must still be out there, somewhere around the Pacifc. Perhaps someday, I will venture out into those waters again to fnd that friend which guided me to safety.

I apologize if I am making you uncomfortable. It is clear to me that I frighten you, and yet you have not asked me to stop. I am truly sorry. I would never want to do anything to make you fear me. It’s been a long day. Let’s get some sleep.

The World With No Voice

Maxine Maria Sutisna '25

Call me Shiro. If you really want to know about it, the frst thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born and what my life is like. If you want to know the truth, my life is full of plants, wild animals, and has two seasons. Two seasons: either the wind blowing through my face or spaceships and missiles riding the wind. Parents? I don’t really know what happened, but there is a journal that my parents left me, before they passed on. They sacrifced their lives, to give me the freedom to breathe. Believe to disbelieve is what my perspective is. Every day, every hour, every minute is just another tick on my clock. I’m no fan, but no stranger to the sound. The day just passes like a show I just watch. Show, no show, read, no read, everything is just so lonely and empty. My days are flled with the struggle to survive. Hunting or killing runs in my blood at ease. Always wary and vigilant of my surroundings- either kill or get killed. Animals run wild and free, big and strong, sharp teeth, two, three times bigger than average. Animals look like beasts, feast like beasts. You get caught off guard for a second and that’s it, you’re gone. Outside my front door is just another place, all destroyed, ruined by bullets, booms, robots, and spaceships fying above me every day, looking for who knows what. My house was surrounded by traps and defenses. The wood that built it had seen better days, it looked ghostly. But inside it was warm, it was home, my safe place. No need to be on the lookout every second. It felt like my parents had not left, pictures of us hanging all around helped me remember and know I had someone. Many family photographs around the house, but I don’t recall any of them. The journal was the home of my memories I don't remember, but it was a journal written to be remembered. The journal was like a bible, endless stories and pages, I tried my best to read it every time I got the chance to.

One day, a day before the anniversary of the start of my lonely and wary life, I stumbled upon a blank page. Did they purposely skip this page? Or does this blank page have a meaning? If you ask me what I did next? Nothing. I kept reading the next page. Not long into the next page it was written You won’t see me, Unless you hear me. You wouldn’t care, unless you read me. But I know you have a miraculous feeling that I’m here. I stopped. Confused and intrigued, it felt like the words were calling me to dive deeper into the page. I read it once, twice, ten times, and then I rushed into the kitchen, grabbed a lighter… chick…chick…the fre fickered. I directly put the fre underneath the page and voila… The riddle is solved. Word by word. Phrase by phrase started to form. I was utterly happy and anxious, not knowing what it would say. I’m not ready. Her cursive handwriting was dancing on the page with harmony. It was beautiful. Hi my little buttercup!

I realized that I would have failed you greatly as your mother if I did not try to ease your pain from the loss of your father and I, if I didn’t at least attempt to address what will likely be the greatest question of your young life. You will forever be the most strong, independent, intelligent, and courageous young lady that ever lived on this planet. With that comes an explanation to how and whom you’ve become.

Read this carefully; Walk up to the room full of books Third shelf on the right Second book form the wall “Untold”

Inside is a watch that we have made for you. Nothing can change, watch the count down, there is a time limit to it.

My girl, I hope you do fnd what you have been looking for. This is for you.

xoxo MomTears started to run down my cheeks. This void in me

started to rattle. Endless questions walled up and I had this unexplainable fear of the answer. Was I ready?

I followed my mothers instructions and headed up to the bookshelf that she mentioned. Found the book, and I was lost for words. How can she know that the book would still be there? How long has it been there? Did they know that I would be alone? I question everything in my head. I opened the dusty, old book and just then and there it was staring at me, “use me…you have found me,” The vintage leather watch spoke to me. No instructions. Just the vintage leather watch. What's so special about this watch? It didn’t explain the answers to my questions. So what did she mean, I’ll fnd what I have been looking for? This confused me. It looked like a normal watch and was used like a normal watch. I wore it day in and out. I hated its ticking sound, time felt like it was slowing down with every tick, but I love it with all my heart. Something with a dash of value and love from my parents. I like to lightly stroke a circle around the top of the watch frame, admiring the exquisite carving of the numerals. Click…What did I just do!? Blue thin lights started to appear, flling all the carving cracks, it got brighter and brighter! Swoosh… the light formed a spiral castingan illustration of a clock on top of the spiral. The light grew brighter and surrounded me. In disbelief and confusion, the light spun rapidly and brought me to my front door. Well everything seems normal, all of that for nothing. Slowly the sound of an engine got closer, a car pulled up and parked right in front of my house. It had dark tinted windows and a bright red point job with silver rims. Wait, that looks like the abandoned car in front of my porch. My mind drifted to sea, confused. It can’t be, is it? How could it be? Answers I'm not ready for. Slowly the car doors open, a foot steps down. One pair looked very rough and big, it looked like it had been worn out. The other pair looks more slim, small, but a bit rough on the edges. Both stood up, I’ve been trucked by lightning, utterly lost for words. It is them… tears

started to well up, a piece of my heart lit up with happiness and joy. I ran to them and gave them a huge hug. A feeling I never had felt, LOVE. This is it, it’s the feeling that I can’t even describe. I felt a deep connection and affection that brought me happiness, comfort, peacefulness, like I'm home. My parents gave me that look. You know… that huge, grin to grin smile and eyes that light up with joy. I couldn’t say anything, that moment is just unforgettable. We all came into the house and my mom and dad started to prepare for lunch. Mom had started to cook. I asked “What are we having for lunch mom?” She smiled and kept on cooking. Oww…maybe she doesn’t want me to know, I just waited. Midway through her cooking I asked “Do you need some help mom?” She smiled and shook her head left and right, then kept on cooking. Is it me or she doesn’t answer me? Am I doing something wrong that makes her not want to answer me? I went over to my dad who was setting up the table.

“Dad let me do it,” I said to him. He answered me with a smile and handed me some of the plates.

“Dad, do you want me to put it here?” I asked. He took my hand and placed my hand where he wanted it. With a high tone I said “Why won’t you just answer me? Is it that hard?”

Dad just looked at me and smiled, took my hand and brought me to the kitchen. He pointed to his ear and head, he smiled. Then he pointed to his mouth and pouted. I stared at him and furrowed, “what do you mean dad?” With a slightly confused tone. Mom looked at me and made the same gesture as dad did. I was still puzzled. Food was ready, Mom brought it to the table and Dad had all the drinks set. Mom tapped me on the shoulder and with her hand gestured for me to sit beside her. She patted the chair, continued to take my plate and plated the food for me and Dad. She moved her hand gently towards the food and gestured to eat. I fnally understood what my

dad was trying to say, they could not speak nor say anything back, but they could hear me and understand what I'm saying. They can only communicate with me by using gestures or facial expressions. So while lunch was going on, I started to ask about the watch. My mom smiled with a really happy and proud mother look. Dad stopped munching and held my hand, he stood up,went to his work room - the room full of books and took out a book. He came back and gave me the book “Untold”.

“This is the book that I found the watch in,” I mumbled. Dad looked at me and nodded.

He opened the last page to it, pointed to a small tear on the page, and asked me to pull something out of the page. I never realized that the page had a page inside of it. It is a bit thicker than the other page, but I never would have noticed it if he didn’t point it out. With both hands he gestured to open it up. I opened it, and it had writings and pictures of the function of the watch and described the meaning of the watch. Dad pointed to a section: Time fys, time passes, but you can write your story with time. Time has memories and answers for you. Shift the time and date you’ll see what time has to offer and tell you.

“What do you mean dad?” I looked at him.

Mom suddenly took my watch and started to turn the hour hand and date. She pressed the XII number on my watch. The blue light came on and did the same thing and voila, I think I’m somewhere else again.

Bang…Bang…Boom…I ran terrifed. Guns and bullets fring everywhere. Where did she send me? I ran to my parents, where they were zipping up their gear. Black suits with shoulder pads and a vest. Getting ready for war. I hugged them and they picked me up, hid me in the safe room with the book, and kissed me on the forehead. Chaos was all over. My dad had gone out the house and taken care of the robots that were attacking to get past the front door and into the house. My mom has just stepped out of the safe room

and left me. I wanted to see and know what was happening, so I went out quietly, I left the book inside. Why my house? What is so special about them attacking my house? I stepped up to the window, I saw my dad fghting and mom was fghting by his side. They were unstoppable. I was scared but also super mesmerized by how cohesive, cool, and brave my parents were. Suddenly out of nowhere a robot grabbed me by my back, pulled me, and I screamed at the top of my lungs “Ahhhhh…Helpppp!” Mom heard me and turned her head and ran to me. She shot the robot, other robots started running towards me and my mom. Mom quickly grabbed me and ran to my room up the stairs and gave me an envelope with the writing “Bonded.” She locked the door and gestured for me to hide under the bed. The sound of chaos was drilling through my head. She kissed me on the forehead once again, but this time it felt different. The kiss felt like she was saying good luck and goodbye, like a rainbow created of emotions that was shown. Then she sprayed perfume on me and left. I fell asleep and woke up to no sound of chaos, no robots shooting. I got up from under the bed, tried opening the door but it was locked. I climbed out the window and went into the house from the front door. I looked around, everything was destroyed, bullet holes everywhere, and my parents were nowhere to be found. What happened? I don’t remember a single thing that happened. Tick…tick…my time ran out… Sazame…blue lights came out, formed a spiral, a clock on top, and spun around me… Zoome… And I was back to my life. I looked down to my hands, I was still holding on to the envelope mom gave me. I opened it. It said: Dear my love, I saw you have used the time of your watch, you came to see… May I ask if you have found what you are looking for? I hope you have. It seems odd that you may be confused why and how. But you have been playing yourself as your role in your past. Even though in the moment you forget, once you are back in your present, you’ll remember everything. I know

your dad and I have left you with nothing to remember at one point in your life, we wanted you to cherish every moment you had with us as you were older and more mature. I want you to have a clear memory without any vision of the war, that’s why I spread you with the renewed memory perfume. Questions like why our house? Why us? What’s special about us? I’ll be answering all your questions. The reason why is because you are the last human that has the ability and intelligence to speak and conduct their human ran robot experiment, where your dad and I frst started it. The key to start it was with your voice and your blood. That is why they are after you. They will be hunting for you, but for now you’ll be safe. Your dad and I had made sure of that. I want you to remember that we love you very much,and we will never endanger you. I hope you have seen how much we love you and how important you are. You will always be our little butter cup.

Strive high, stay strong, and be you ! -xoxo Mom-

Tears ran down my face, I couldn’t stop them. The things that they did for me to still be here were unbelievable and unforgettable. I’m so grateful to call them my parents. Now I know who raised me, I know who shaped me into the person I am now. I know what life was like before all this, and they loved me with all they had. It didn’t matter how long they were by my side, it didn’t. No matter how painful it was, the love that they had for me pushed them beyond this world could ever have. It showed me that love is pain, sacrifce, and hardship, not only that but it is beautiful and it’s life. Something that no one can take or change. Love meant more than a kiss or a hug, it’s everything in between. I love you mom and dad. Thank you for showing me what love is. I’ll see you soon.

Patient Zero

Angie Zheng '26

In a world where the lines between reality and virtuality blurred, I found myself questioning the very essence of existence. As I grew older, I slowly realized the world before wasn't a utopia devoid of the very things that once defned humanity, it wasn't this alien. I remember asking my mother as a careless little girl, "What is death? What is love?"

With a gentle smile, she explained, "Death was a disease from ancient times, incurable and fnal. It's said that in humanity's early days, everyone succumbed to this eternal sleep, and faced an endless dark wall, never to awaken."

Her words sparked a curiosity within me. "Why do we look so alike?" I asked.

She softly pinched my cheek, "Because the world demands fairness, my dear."

But deep down, I harbored a secret; I felt distinct from my peers, a persistent force entwined around my left rib, taking root.

As I delved deeper into our history, I understood that our world had undergone numerous transformations and scarifcations to achieve today's utopia. When the constraints of mortality were shattered millions of years ago, death became a relic, wars were mere myths, and diseases like cancer could be easily vanquished. Yet, fate had a different plan for me. I now became “Patient Zero”, I was chosen by a new contagion, and the doctor said the chance it could cause death is 100%.

Trapped in a small hospital room, I watched the fawless world on the virtual screen, losing count of the days.

Memories that don't belong to me affux into me every day, they came from their injectors. Promises of release upon recovery were empty, as improvement never came.

Perhaps their intent was never to cure me, given the disease's inevitable fatality, but to use me as a test subject for eradicating the disease.

The piece of memory that plays endlessly in my head is that, each day, I obeyed to swallow the candy-liked pills as the doctor instructed me to open my mouth, and then I would button my throat till I got to throw the pills up after his departure. I feel like all of those people are wishing bad on me.

My past got all blurry, my identity, even my name, faded into oblivion, but I was certain of one thing - my health. Alone in this sterile environment with no one to rely on, I knew I could only count on myself to get out of here.

The doctor's cold smile, eerily identical to my mother's, never wavered. The entire world shared this serene expression. I’m the only one who’s flled with fear. He asked me: “Why do you repeatedly marred your face?” I retorted with disdain, responded with aversion as I fddled with the infusion tube, “Because I don’t want the same face as all you people on me.”

However, despite my protests, he calmly noted my behavior, “Please treat yourself better, you've got to recognize the engineered perfection of our faces, it is a legacy of our ancestors' calculations”, he was flled with ease, “We have got the perfect ratio based on aesthetic, every organ is just perfectly right, all due to our great genetic engineering. No matter how many times you try to ruin it, eventually it will recover back to how it should be.”

Unbeknownst to most, the fact that all the people in this world have the exact same face, this uniformity was an aberration. I whispered to the doctor, “Can't you see? The elephant in my room has grown up so much”, hinting at the glaringly obvious

issue.

In the next moment, as the intravenous drip's blood reversed course, as if it was a red line tightened around his neck from behind, rendering him lifeless. Even ten minutes later, as his pupils ceased to refect, the doctor maintained a smile, attempting to calm me, as though the victim were not he but me.

I knew that he would soon rise again, but I had enough time to escape this place using his ID card.

A multitude of holographic cameras fxed their gaze upon me as I opened the door. I should have known that all along, they had been on the other side of the one-way mirror, observing the actions of Patient Zero. The doctors was waiting for me behind the door, the glimpse of hope I felt seemed simply like a artifcial offering.

At that moment, a hand gently patting my shoulder from behind, the voice said: "I'm sorry, but the stimulative therapy has also failed. However, rest assured, the patient's treatment process is strictly confdential; without your consent, we are not authorized to pass it on to the outside world. We empathize your agony."

It was the doctor, and even he was playing his part with me. The entire world, everyone genuinely wished for my recovery, except for me.

Why--when you clearly knew the truth, that I was never sick in the frst place, the sickness lay within all of you. I crumbled in an attempt to rouse them with the scalpel.

The doctor watched the red pomegranate rolling from his neck and spoke with resignation, "This is your symptom, proving

ominously threatening to society these days.”

“Does this so-called fairness hold true in a world without death”, my cries echoed fruitlessly: “is this truly equitable?”

He responded, questioning if a return to primary society's nuclear warfare and bias based on appearance was desired, “You only witness the sacrifces of this world. Throughout history, human civilization has sacrifced the few for the happiness of the many. Our utopia has reduced that minority to one--you. Materialist dialectics emphasize the instability of all things; the death of antiquated notions heralds the birth of new ideas. Our treatment aims to blend your happiness with the greater good. Society cannot be reshaped by the few--only you”, he sighed, “Or perhaps, as Patient Zero, do you possess a superior societal construct to reduce the cost of utopia down to zero from one?”

“Sorry, actually, every individual worldwide holds regret towards you—”

I remained silent, considering they might be correct. Those unwilling to make sacrifces for absolute equity can never achieve to get anything.

This wasn't my frst try hoaxing them, after twenty failed escape pretending I was cured attempts. As my eyes dulled before the doctor, I questioned why seeing the fallen leaves affected my emotions, what is wrong with me, and how long I still had to live.

The doctor answered placidly, detailing the chronic dopamine, endorphin, and noradrenaline imbalances boosting my volatility and sensitivity. I was actually extremely clear-minded: “Strange, wasn't the the chance it could cause death is 100%”

He extracted the tube of crimson injection once more, and I knew its purpose.

In our current society, no individual will be abandoned, but this is the patient's voluntary decision. Upon my signature, the transformation would unfold.

The doctor showed a rare mask of sorrow. Deception was unheard of in this era, except for me. His empathy was genuine, without deceit or oppression. Medical care, free though it may be remind me of imprisonment. He disclosed that every avenue had been explored, although the intransigence of this disease made an unconquerable challenge. The injection could shatter my immortal genetic structure, making me get another terminal illness, thereby concluding this endless hell.

That affiction's name was death. The injection, eternal sleep.

What happened later? I've lost track of how many years I've spent in this hospital room; day or night, awake or asleep, holds no distinction anymore. Beneath my left rib, the seed that once took root has now grown into an enormous tumor, pulsing stubbornly, as though ready to burst forth.

Ultimately, I chose to compromise.

Beneath translucent, pallid skin, the veins seemed to pulse relentlessly. Watching the scarlet liquid within the injector slowly enter my wrist, an odd recollection of my childhood inquiries to my mother ran within me. Suddenly, unknown tears traced down my cheeks, and lingered at the corners of my mouth, seeping into my long-weathered heart.

Mother? What is death? And what about love?

At that moment, she chose not to address what love truly was. Was it because both of us are in vitro babies, never truly

experienced maternal love? How long had it been since I last saw her? She's the one who brought me here to this world. To everyone now, love is nothing more than a dreadful disease, as my mother described death to me.

So, I asked the doctor who injected me, “what exactly is love?”

“Love? It was a disease from ancient times, incurable and fnal. It's said that in humanity's early days, everyone succumbed to this terminal condition. Love consisting of dopamine, endorphins, and aberrant adrenaline levels. Although love was benefcial in the ancient society development, but to the current utopia, it proves disadvantageous. The black swan refusing sustenance and dying of a broken heart holds no good for the long-term sustainability of the population. Extinct millennia ago, it has vanished.”

These words were so familiar, what was I expecting?

Drowsiness crept up my spine gradually; I gazed listlessly as my skin slowly wrinkled, teeth loosened, hair whitened. But I had no fear, I slowly shut my eyes, trying to sense the emotions of those from ages past—they be sorrowful or joyful—embracing the cycle of life and death. They could love, despite each being afficted, living shortly but authentically. In my fnal moments, I smiled, for I witnessed that endless dark wall; great and sober, infnite, tenderly enveloping me. I once read “The beauty of a fower lies in its once-withered state; the essence of rebirth in death, as only when you draw close to death can you comprehend the true meaning of life.”

In my contemplation, individuals continually tread towards mortality from birth, which makes love irreplaceable, as it's through the loss that is bond to happen that we truly learn to cherish.

Before closing my eyes for the last time, I vaguely discerned another name being struck off the doctor's list. Then, I realized that this contagious disease is called love; I wasn't the frst patient, nor would I be the last. In fact, we are all potential Patient Zeros; once afficted, our mortality rate inevitably reaches 100%.

Like everyone else, eventually, we all succumb like me, unable to ft into this perfect utopia, instead going for euthanasia.

As I blend with the dark wall, I shall give away everything, at the same time gaining a new beginning.

We are Patient Zero, but have never truly been afficted. Simply because I once existed, once born as a human.

However, at last, I still never fgured out how doctors cheat their patients in this world with no lies.

Goodbye Nora

Jimena Cachon ‘26

It was day zero. Abundant heaviness discouraged me from waking up. My eyes were at war with the blur. My ears were quick tuning into my surroundings. “Good Morning, Nora '' warmth broke the silence. My sight won the battle, and revealed two fgures at the feet of the king size bed I found myself laying in.

“I... I’m”

“No need to rush child” The human to the left interrupted my confused stutter. She was the warmth to that cold and empty room.

“BA03 will explain everything there is to know. Don’t feel afraid”

And I remained peaceful on the bed, curled up between two big pillows. She wrapped her skinny arm around the robot to her right. Why did she call like that? BA03? Robots had been authorized citizens for years now. Names and all! Serenely she walked out of the room, she had class. And a big old smile that scrunched her early wrinkles followed her out. Wait. That couldn’t be right. Had she used the door handle? Slow anxiety ran increasingly through my body now. All this confusion started to take the stage that was set up for answers.

A

It was a cold Sunday morning between the cement walls of the orphanage. I always woke up before Nora. I unstuck my head from the old pillow, meeting with the frosted window right on top of my bunk bed. Nora and I were royalty there. We had always been. When we were younger we used to pretend to be Peter Pan, leaders of the lost children. That movie had been our favorite since we were little, we even had it downloaded onto our chips. It was based on three kids forced to grow up to soon into their families factory, they worked every day with the robots and didn’t interact much with the rest of children. Then one day, a little boy robot took them into a world to be

innocent kids like they had always dreamed of. We had been there the longest for some time now. Our windows faced each other. Every morning routine was the same. Wake up, set off the alarms, take all the boys to the great hall and wait for Nora to do the same with the girls. But, had that curly thing beat me to the morning recollect? As I peeped through my window she wasn’t in bed. She must really need that money. She was saving up for an update.

BAO3 was an old model, like the ones I update and fx. “BAO3” I sat upright on the bed. “What’s your name?” Curiosity bursted out of me. It tends to do that, I can’t retain it. “Oh little one you humor me. Mrs. Mac already introduced me.”

“But that can’t be your name.” He seems so calm despite my loud irritated tone. “Then... I guess I don’t have one.”

“Milo it is then.” Patience was never my strong suit either. “That would be nice” he replied with ice between his gears. He seemed so insensitive for a robot. If I believed in an afterlife, heaven or what not. This would’ve defnitely been it. The sheets and pillows were white, Milo was fully coated in white, the walls that seemed so distant to me were white. Right across the cloud I was sitting on was a huge window, and just like a canvas after a couple of rough meets with the paintbrush, splashes of green and pink and orange and yellow depicted the houses outside. The sky seemed so blue, clouds were afraid to even go near. The room didn’t feel so cold anymore. Still the past was a black hole, scary but distant, so I focused on the moon, the right now, how light my bare feet felt on the beige carpeted foor as I stood up, how my mind couldn’t latch on to anything to worry about. The moon was nice. But the black hole kept pulling me in. Why can’t I seem to remember anything before this?

A

I put on my work rags, those old overalls, light blue but so

stained by the grease of the workshop it was seemingly navy. And the red shirt, although today I wanted to wear a black one. The update of the chip enabled the color change of clothes. I set all of the alarms on the rest of us to go off, as Peter Pan I had to take care of my boys. All their chips went off and in 10 minutes we were all in the great hall, like every Sunday. The recollect. Working everyday updating and fxing damage robots actually paid off a good load. It was gruesome, yes, but it was the only thing that could get us out of there. The girls were unusually late. I knew instantly that something was off because Mrs. Oak had to go to their room and drag them down. Oh boy was Nora going to be in trouble. You never want to upset Mrs. Oak. She was the head of the orphanage and the workshop, kept everything in order. She had traditional methodology for everything. Turning our chips off was defnitely the worse “modern era” method she used as punishment. That devil bot would torture us into perfection. 10 minutes went by and the sleepy heads were marching in a straight line right through the big hologram doors that led into the hall . Where was Nora?

N

“Nora” I snapped back to reality. I'm sitting on the ledge of the glass door to heaven that occupied the whole wall across from the bed , the barrier to what seemed like my wildest dreams. Milo carefully walked over and sat between the space my feet and the end of the window left. I was at peace. The air smelled fresh, my peachy skin appreciated the affection of the sun. My hazel eyes were hesitant at frst, but adjusted eventually and allowed my face to take in all the UV. Like a sunfower. I could chase that sun for endless days.

“You used to be in the reform orphanage.” He broke my peace. But I didn’t know what he was referring to. “A terrible accident occurred on your way back from your get away. It was all so fast. The connection portal failed and the fre devoured everything rapidly. Many that were with you didn’t survive.” All that surrounded me was suddenly so dull, I

thought while he was speaking. “Mrs. Mac was a scientist at the scene and saw the hope there still was for you. She brought you home. You're safe now.” He concluded, but by the intonation I could tell there was still more to follow up. I tried to activate the videos of my memory through my chip, but for some reason it was hopeless.

“Your chip got removed, it was in danger of exploding in your brain due to the impact,” he continued, and the pitch was again so cold it made me shiver. Everything went grey. Sorrow was now flling the black hole I was so afraid of, but that clearance that covered everything up was simply feeding a growing beast. Behind that cover was rage ready to break through everything, infuencing my disappointment, and desperation. It was overwhelming. I laid back on the cloud, pulled the thin sheet up to my neck, and I was pushed onto the right side of the bed. Sadness occupied the rest. I closed my eyes. Pushing out a gentle teardrop.

“ I’ll be here.” He was still talking.

“I’m going to help you through this Nora.”

Milo hadn’t left after dropping that bomb and now the damage was also his problem to deal with. “You can learn to be a real human. Like the ones that walked the earth before the microchips. Like I learnt how to be a real robot”.

And for the frst time Milo showed emotion, that last part was echoed lightly with melancholy. A

Twelve hours had fown past since I had last seen Nora, what’s concerning is that I hadn’t realized she was missing until the last two. I didn’t care about how upset Mrs. Oak was with her, or the way she had told me off in her offce . The whole time I was trying to recall what could’ve happen. She wouldn’t just leave, she always talked about escaping but she would’ve left me behind, she could’ve. So I sat against the cold cement wall, leaning against the bunk and thought. She had fnished her shift early on Saturday, when that happened she would head to the park next to the factory. I saw her walk out with

her signature red boots, those black leggings she liked so much, and my old puffer which I gave to her last Christmas. What kept my hopes from drying out was that she hadn’t said goodbye. See, we never say goodbye, because saying goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting. It was our golden rule, never say goodbye. I realized then that a couple months ago we learnt how to enable chip connection. This, in theory, meant that if I were to be wherever she had been I would be able to see what she had been doing. Mrs. Oak used it all the time to remark our mistakes in the workshop, she would rewind over and over. I had to use my electric scooter to get to the park because there had been an accident with the connection portal earlier that morning. N

I was in this state between sleeping or just laying with my eyes closed for a couple of hours. Time got to me and I realized I couldn’t latch off from reality if it was the only thing I had to hold on to. I stood up from the bed slowly, Milo wasn’t around, I walked over to the door, it wasn’t a hologram. So, should I use the round thing that stuck out? Was it a doorknob? I don’t even know where I learnt that or how I learnt to use it. But I did. I walked outside. Still bear feat. And the grass pressed gently against my feet, it was cold but soothing. There seemed to be no temperature, it was perfect. If I’d still had my chip, I would’ve thought this to be some type of simulation, but it was simply so real. Great trees surrounded me, dressed with bright green leaves, I found myself in a park where no sound was to be heard, no air was contaminated, nothing was conditioning my freedom. And as I strolled through, I found these gorgeous red boots at the roots of one of these trees, this one was slightly taller than the rest. Maybe this meant that there were more “modern age” humans like I was now. And whomever was wearing these had some great taste, we would get along nicely. I sat next to them for a little bit. Wondered how my new life was going to be like.

AAs I reached the park, my head still told me it was a dumb idea, it told me she had probably just left, my heart on the other hand didn’t give up not even the slightest bit of hope. And I concentrated, I closed my eyes, activated the connection, and opened them wishing I saw those red boots somewhere. Scrolled back to yesterday a little before the shift had fnished. The park was so empty it hurt, but then someone walked right through me, my heart was happy, it had to be her. It wasn’t. I walked a little and my eyes couldn’t believe that all of a sudden, they would be so happy to see that pair of red boots. It was Nora sitting by the roots of a tree, the tree was slightly taller than the rest. I walked over carefully, she was playing some type of song, I guessed it was one of those light chill ones she liked so much. I sat next to her hologram, and despite how close I was I still felt so distant. “She didn’t say goodbye” I kept repeating to myself. N

It was lonely at frst, very lonely. Ten minutes went by, and although it sounded weird, I could feel something warm and familiar, a presence that was there. I wasn’t alone. It wasn’t like the wind had just blown at me differently, there was no wind. I could feel something that wasn’t a stranger to me, something that I think knew me. Maybe past me? Maybe this was an afterlife? It just sat next to me.

AI watched how calm she was, like a gentle fower, so harmless, but so threatened, by the most unexpected things. Anything could happen to her there, she was alone, and I couldn’t do anything to protect her, even if I desperately wanted to. The park was quiet , and then an instant zoom boomed my ear. Nora didn’t react, she was too focused on her music. I stood up and turned around, Nora right in front of me and a black van disrupting the background of the perfect picture. It didn’t ft there. I watched as a tall and skinny very professional woman hopped off the van, carrying a needle, flled with

blue liquid. My muscles contract involuntarily as a form of protection, I was so scared of what was coming next. I wanted answers to where Nora was, but I didn’t think these would be the answers, somewhere deep in me I was ready to accept that she had left, not that she had been taken. And my fear boiled into anger as I was just a simple espectador with no ability to be a hero in this movie. The tall woman handed the syringe to a white robot that was now walking towards the tree Nora was calmly still leaning on. I recognized the bot, Nora had fxed him earlier that morning. She told me that it had a weird request, it wanted to be downgraded. Well, he didn’t quite seem to really want it, someone was forcing him to. She told me how odd the whole thing was. But nothing made sense, I was trying to put together a complex puzzle that only had a couple pieces left. As the blue liquid was injected into Nora’s neck, she faded away. And just like something that had fallen out his pocket, the robot picked her up and put her in the back of the van. “Property of the Government Experimentation Center '' read the side of the van. One last zoom and they were gone. Still, she hadn’t said goodbye.

Nonfction

Random vs. Pattern

Max Li '26

Everyday, we experience events that are either part of a pattern or random. An example of a pattern is the four seasons, winter will always come after fall, never after summer. Unlike patterns, random events are like fipping a coin, no one knows if it’s going to be heads or tails. Understanding the difference between what is a pattern and what is random can help us analyze data and observations we make in our daily life.

Patterns are defned by Cambridge Dictionary as a, “Particular way in which something is done, organized, or happens”. In simpler words, patterns are the normal structure for an event. If a family always orders pizza on Fridays for dinner, that can be described as a pattern. Ordering pizza for that family is normal, it’s a structure they follow every Friday for dinner. On the other hand, Cambridge defnes random as, “Happening, done, or chosen by chance rather than according to a plan”. Randomness cannot be predicted, it’s directed by chances and fate rather than structure. Flipping a coin is a common example of randomness, no one can predict whether it will be heads or tails, it’s just a matter of chance. Going back, if the family that always orders pizza on Fridays instead opts to eat Chinese for no reason, that is a

case of randomness.

Using our understanding of randomness and patterns, we can begin applying this to our real world situations. Take for example, analyzing a company’s stock. If a company exhibits a growing stock for a long time span, but suddenly begins to drop, the buyer is faced with a problem, should he sell the stock or continue to hold on? Understanding whether the drop was caused by random external factors or a growing problem is crucial when investing during a company’s hardships. By applying what we know about randomness and patterns, we can mitigate risk and adapt to our ever changing world.

In conclusion, patterns and randomness are everywhere in our life whether that be at the dinner table or on the stock market. Those that understand patterns follow structures and randomness is caused by chance will be better in analyzing their situation and adapting and identifying change.

La Mariposa Común

Michelle Chavero '24

“Eres una mariposa, que crece entre todo lo malo y bueno del mundo” my mother always said to me before entering my frst grade class. The translation is “You are a butterfy that grows in all the bad and good of the world.” As a little girl, I didn't understand this phrase or the meaning behind it, I merely just thought it was another thing my mom would say to embarrass me since it came out of nowhere.

Growing up with immigrant parents was a challenge. My older brother had to step in and raise me (we have a twelve year age difference). He was so young, starting high school and having to take care of me everyday. Both of my parents work two jobs, they have had since I was born in order to make ends meet. Even though my mom was so busy she never forgot to say that I'm a butterfy whenever she got a chance. Throughout the years my mother spiced up the saying by adding in different phrases to make it longer. Some examples are “eres mujer fuerte,” “echale ganas,” “eres una nina única,” and my personal favorite “ no le dejas a nadie que te tire”

I like to think she started this tradition with me after I got very sick and was hospitalized. To make sure I know I will continue to fourish no matter what. It ft the timeline, a few months after this she started saying it. Or maybe it was because I started getting bullied to the point it was out of hand. Whatever the reason was at that time it continued for years. Less frequent but it was already embedded in my head so I started reciting it on my own. Whenever I felt alone and sad, due to people, school or work, I would repeat it to myself in the mirror until my cold body was flled with warmth from my mother’s love and nostalgic feeling. One random day I thought to myself, where does the saying come from? Was it just random? Did my mom hear this from somewhere? I thought of asking my mom while she was making my favorite dish. Pozole is a Mexican dish which is red

due to the chilies, and contains honey and beef. It originated in Aztec culture and was prepared during festivals to honor their God Xipe. My family does a similar thing as my mom only prepares it on special occasions but this day was just a regular Saturday. She was pouring me a hot bowl of pozole, the steam fogging up both of our glasses when I went for it,” el dicho que siempre dice cuando era mas chica, de donde viene?” my mother put her head down for a second, exhaling loudly, she looked at me with watery eyes but not in a sad way many would imagine but more in a relieved manner, thanking me with her body image and eyes. “ me lo dijo mi mama, tu abuela. Es un dicho lindo verdad?” she said with a shaky voice. My Grandmother? I never met her personally. I just remember one instance where I talked to her when I was very young, she passed away during that time as well. One summer not too long ago, my mom sent me to Mexico to see her family for the very frst time. On that visit I saw where my mom grew up and photos of everyone in her family. In one of those moments while looking at printed out pictures I spotted an off-white napkin with pink embroidered lace on the edges. As I took it out from its grave. Buried between photos and napkins I noticed its lettering. “ eres una mariposa, que crece entre todo lo...” it was unfnished but you can tell by the faded pencil marking it was the saying. The saying my mother engraved in my head since I was little. I asked my aunt who gave me all these articles, she said my grandmother always loved telling her and the rest of my aunts this phrase, it was their tradition. My aunt didn't forget to mention that it was also the last thing my grandmother said to my mom before passing away which explains why my mother gets so sentimental. I have never felt so close to my grandmother then at that moment, and proud that mom continued the tradition.

UC Application

Colum Slattery '24

What would you say is your greatest talent or skill? How have you developed and demonstrated that talent over time?

Last year I drove into a tree. Even though there was not much damage to the car (or tree), I was still stressed. My heart beat faster and my breath got heavier and my eyes started hurting, and you would never have been able to tell any of that by looking at me. I kept my composure and used my energy to think of the next best steps. After picking up the pieces of the car and talking to my parents, I was able to move through that situation with no more than a hole in my car.

Keeping my composure and keeping my head clear, even in stressful situations, is my greatest strength. I can stay focused on diffcult tests, stay calm when someone is annoying me, and think logically during high pressure moments. But I was not born with this skill. I used to overthink tests, blow up when I was annoyed, and become irrational under pressure. My mom has been teaching me how to deal with stress my whole life, but the development of my composure truly started when I was seven and accidentally stabbed an EpiPen into my thumb. I immediately freaked out and demanded to go to the hospital in the middle of the night. My parents drove around the city while I freaked out in the back seat. We arrived at a hospital and I eventually calmed down. I refected over some hospital food and decided that I should have done more in that situation.

I started to take in my mom’s advice. I refocused whenever I started stressing during tests. I took breaths whenever I started feeling angry. I thought about what I could do under pressure rather than freak out. This was not a fast process, but over

time I have been able to improve my composure a signifcant amount. I can stay calm during hard AP tests and not panic when in diffcult driving conditions, and because of this, I think my composure is my greatest skill.

RRR

Monologue Miles Witte '27

It was a cool spring morning at the–now closed–Bay Club in downtown San Francisco. I was sooooo proud of my teammates. Against all odds, we had performed well throughout the season, dominating teams left and right, before knocking out even more teams in the Regional Playoffs, further redeeming last year's early round exit. As I sat in the car reminiscing about our success, my mind wandered to today’s focus, the Sectional Playoffs. Teams from all over California were competing for the 1st place fnish, and there was no way my team, the Firebolts, were coming in second.

As I took the incredibly slow elevator to the top of the building, where all the tennis courts were, I wondered what kind of competition we would face. Afterall, ONLY the cream of the crop made it this far in the playoffs. Anyway, I stepped out of the elevator and walked over to where my teammates were warming up. The coach, who also happened to be my best friend’s father, was drawing up plays on his clipboard. First, we were playing a team from Scotts Valley. I don’t exactly remember who I played against, but I remember I won. With the culmination of points won, my team made it to the Finals. This was it. The big one, for all the marbles. We ended up matching up against a team called the “Lagunitas”. I was excited to play against them for the title. Yet little did I know, this auspicious day would quickly become a depressing one.

The only match I played was with Ethan against two of their members. As the match began, a problem soon arose. I ended up serving frst. I served. Smack. I hit it right near the line, but still a foot inside the court. “Out!” said the Lagunitas player. A wave of dismay washed over me. I felt like that ball was in but what could I do? It was the opponent's call. My second serve went right in the middle of the court. “Out!” said the

Lagunitas player. “That was in!” yelled Ethan. Although we won more games, we didn’t win the maximum points possible because we ran out of time. Shaking off the experience, I checked in with my teammates. Apparently, they ran into the same issue, poor line calls, resulting in our team’s overall loss. Dejected, we walked out of the club, never to return again. As I predicted, we didn’t come in second, we came in third.

RRR

“So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.”

2 Corinthians 4:16

"The Grail" is a publication proudly produced by the students of the Literary Magazine club at Archbishop Riordan High School San Francisco, CA