OPUS 2018/19

Dear Reader, The OPUS has always held a treasured place in my heart; partly, because it celebrates a dazzlingly rare phenomenon at St. George’s School. Amongst a seemingly never-ending cycle of schoolwork and extracurricular engagements, the OPUS represents a brief reprieve – one of reflection. It is the product of each individual contributor, sitting down, lying still, and concentrating their precious time towards an exploration of the self. Throughout high school I have often wondered, what makes me different from any other student – or for that matter any machine taught to process knowledge and perform tasks? I find my answer in creativity. Through the process of creation, we learn to arrange our nethermost thoughts and most abstract emotions into tangible expressions. It is these expressions that produce a modest, yet uncompromising, statement: this is me, this is what I believe in. This exclusively human capacity, the ability to express individuality, artistry and identity, colours our world (both figuratively and literally) in a million different hues – yet it all begins with one single statement. This year, our OPUS team set out to curate and gather these individual statements from every corner of our school to compose a singular, unified, brilliant mosaic, emblazoned by the vibrant diversity of our St. George’s community. It is in the pursuit of this vision that this will be the first OPUS to include teacher submissions. Through this decision, we hope to celebrate the invaluable contributions of our teachers towards cultivating our student body’s creative spirit, and to enrich our mosaic with the incredible talents of our staff and faculty – an aspect of our teachers that we, as students, often never discover. Within this book, I hope you stumble upon a piece that resonates with you, or leaves you awe-struck, shocked, puzzled, but most importantly, inspired and emboldened to compose your own statement. Creativity takes courage. Be bold, speak your truth!

Sincerely, Justin Del Negro & David Ni Editors in Chief

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____________ A. Sun ____________ W. Li ____________ A. Haji ____________ E. Chan ____________ D. Burns ____________ J. Jiang ____________ B. Zhang ____________ S. Finan ____________ F. Luo ____________ F. Anderson ____________ Mr. Hillis ____________ M. Bolton ____________ Mr. Kyba ____________ H. Qin ____________ M. Kieffer

51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

____________ C. Ma ____________ J. Chu ____________ D. Kwan ____________ A. Choi ____________ T. Curyer ____________ N. Yu ____________ E. Chuk ____________ Dr. Hughes ____________ D. Ni

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

____________ J. Chen ____________ J. Luo ____________ A. Choi ____________ O. Ma ____________ G. Xin ____________ J. Liu ____________ M. Kieffer ____________ W. Black ____________ J. Chu ____________ W. Li ____________ G. Huang ____________ S. Long ____________ S. Sagar ____________ Mr. Morris ____________ M. McDermid

36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

____________ Mr. Sayers ____________ D. Ni ____________ P. Zhang ____________ M. Fetterly ____________ N. Lacroix ____________ P. Zhang ____________ S. Chen ____________ E. Wu ____________ B. Good ____________ A. Soltan ____________ M. Kieffer ____________ Mr. O’Connor ____________ E. Chuk ____________ N. Yu ____________ R. Wu

TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Photography David Ni

The House on alberny Aaron Sun There was something wrong with the house on Alberny Street. Sure, the house was old. The floorboards creaked. the lights wouldn’t always work, and the plumbing system was in desperate need of repair. But, beyond the physical attributes of the house, something else lurked within the shadowy confines of the building. It was something so horrible that most people would turn away at the mention of it.

Jacob sat cross-legged on his bed, fiddling with something in his hand. It was a small button, the kind that you pin on clothing.

To Jacob, this was much more than just a pin. A small pattern lay behind a clear plastic backing, and it symbolised something far greater than he expected.

It was a rainbow. Striped in colors of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet, it glimmered with pride enough to make anyone smile; but, to Jacob, it only worked to confuse him. He looked up from the button and to the opposite side of his room, where a crucifix was hanging on the wall. His parents had put it there for him, and now it sat looming over his head, making it hard for him to breathe.

He looked once more at the button and felt an overwhelming urge to get up and get it done with. What’s the worst they can do?

He thought to himself. It’s not like they’re going to… kick you out or anything. Sure, it might be hard for them to understand, but it’s better to let them know before it’s too late.

With this thought, Jacob attached the pin to his shirt and strode out of his room, his steps filled with a forced sense of confidence. In reality, he was terrified of what they might say. The sheer thought of it filled him with fear, enough to make him want to collapse on the floor just so that he wouldn’t walk any further. But he kept going, and kept repeating to himself, Jesus loves everyone, so they should do the same.

He sat his parents down at the dinner table, trying to keep his hands from shaking. His mom chatted happily to his dad about the newest updates regarding her sister’s baby, and he smiled thoughtfully whilst nodding in acknowledgement.

“So, Jacob. What’s this thing you wanted to tell

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us about?” he said, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. Jacob opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He swallowed thickly, his hands shaking so bad he had to hide them underneath the table.

“I-I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and I… feel like you should know,” he managed, trying to keep his voice level.

His mom’s face was plastered with concern.

“Jacob, honey, are you feeling alright? Your skin is flushed and you sound like you’re about to throw up,” she said.

He shook his head and continued, “I just wanted to let you know that I’m still your son, no matter what.”

His parents glanced at each other, confused. “Just spit it out, won’t ya?” his dad said.

Jacob nodded. “Mom… dad… I think that this pin I’m wearing actually means something to me... about me.”

Their eyes dropped from his face to his chest, and in the moment it took for them to realize what the pattern meant, they turned to each other, eyes wide with horror.

“Jacob- are you saying that y-you identify with those… queers?” his mom managed with difficulty, spitting the final word as if it were an insult.

His dad stood up, the chair fell to the floor with a loud clatter, and echoed around the deathly silent room. “Don’t you dare,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t you even think about going there.” He continued, “People like that- like youare condemned to hell!”

Jacob stood up. His hands stopped shaking, and he could finally breathe. He walked to the door, put on his coat, and turned around. His parents hadn’t even made the slightest motion of stopping him.

“One page of the Bible isn’t worth a life,” he said.

“Get out.”

From that day on, Jacob never returned.

But there was still something wrong with the house on Alberny street. Something so horrible that most people would turn away at the mention of it.

But it wasn’t Jacob.

It never was.

Photography William Li

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The Old City Armaan Haji Perched high above the cerulean blue sea Sits a great old city unexplored by thee.

A long-drawn hike, starting at the shoreline Takes you up into the 7th Heaven.

Where merchants rush, from the edge of the ocean Transporting their seafood, clothing, and inventory.

Where tourists flock to see the great sea, And locals stay tucked away like turtles in a shell.

Ceramics Ezra Chan

Tall, great walls, nearly 2,000 meters long Protect the city and its inhabitants from it all.

Inside these walls, you will find great cuisine Full of scallops, shrimp, oysters, muscles and much more.

As children rush down narrow alleyways, And old vendors sit stationary at their stalls, And tourists snap photos and admire the scenery; There is a quiet sanctuary tucked away, quite serene.

Hidden in a nook that’s tucked away in a crevice, Sits an old cranky woman who has little patience.

But if you go at the right time, she might feel festive, And she may give you a little bit of her special clam chowder.

Oh, how so splendid!

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Nature Jerry Jiang

Painting Declan Burns

I hear the birds sing gentle melodies.

Talking to each other about what they see, What they hear, The gossip, Who were the hairless walking creatures going towards that grey rectangle?

Why have they built these rock structures here?

I smell the tree’s gentle perfume, Like a salesman, Trying to entice animals.

To stay with it, To chat with it.

To give it company.

I touch the clothes that the trees, the rocks, and the plants wear, To protect themselves, To show off their looks, The different textures create a whole new collage of experience.

The cool earthy moss goes perfectly with the hard cold rocks, The plastic-like plant leaves contrasts with the dry bark.

I see the city of trees, The long brown ancient poles, Towering over me, Vastly superior to me, I am a smudge in this empire, This civilization of harmony.

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Spot Under The Tree Bill Zhang Have you ever had that tree?

Just close enough to hear the cars woosh past, Far enough for the gentle breeze to wander by, Shiny green leaves thick enough to block the violently blinding sunlight, But scattered enough for those thin beams of rays to dapple your waning shadow.

Have you ever had that spot?

Where you think without thinking, Where you listen without listening, Where you close your eyes, And still see everything so vividly, Like bats in dark caves, Like owls on silent nights.

Have you ever had that spot under that tree?

That you just had to take a moment and sit, And even if it’s your first time sitting there, You know it so well already.

You sit there like a statue displaying a goofy smile, Remembering: The unique and continuing melodies from each white and black key of the piano The soothing touch of a basketball released from the tips of your finger, Arching its way through the net as the clock ticks to zero, Yearning for That traditional thick bowl of soup carefully crafted by your grandpa,

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Those minutes sitting on the top of a sandy hill silently with those you love, And a chance to watch the blood orange sun rise from the clouds with vitality.

Maybe it’s your buzzing phone, Or the smell of food from the burger shop across the street, That makes you snap out of your mind palace, The whimsical smile fades, Because no matter how real the past feels, It’s not coming back.

Soon, you forget that there was once this spot under the tree, That provided inspiration, That gave a little more meaning to life, Before you throw that away, Hold on to that happiness, that pain, that regret, Seal it into an envelope of poetry, Just as I did.

Photography Sean Finan

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The Waiting Game Frank Luo

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One afternoon, a tall man clad in a sharp pinstriped suit strode to face Dustin. He pondered for a moment, his hand stroking his stubbed chin, before offering a thick, warm gloved hand to Dustin, and hauling him up. The man brought Dustin to a gargantuan house, and left him in a room with piercing fluorescent lights converging on his face.

A small boy returned, his young face perfectly smooth, no crevasses or lines in sight. He held a hose in his hand and leaned it on Dustin’s arm, turning it on, happily filling Dustin with water.

It wasn’t long before the boy’s youthful hands reached into Dustin’s stomach, filling him with sand peppered with lush green plants. Then came the fish. Bright shades of indigo, scarlet, white, orange, gold streaked around, exploring.

Dustin looked down and saw the glittering utopia laid before his eyes. His chest, previously scarred with dehydration and sunken with starvation--now fostering the green carpet of vegetation. His gaze, illuminated brilliant bodies of colour. And his two arms, held this small paradise together.

Dustin grew to love the boy. Every morning, he waited for the boy’s bumbling footsteps that preceded his visit, and every afternoon, the boy would sprinkle food in Dustin and watch in reverie, captivated by the rainbows that were the fish.

As time passed, the footsteps grew heavier and came earlier in the morning. The hands which reached into Dustin were much larger, rough and calloused. The gentle caressing touch of the boy was replaced with deft and surgical movements. Dustin underwent many upgrades. Complete teardowns and rebuilds of the landscape. Exotic livestock with fins that flickered and flashed and flared in every colour.

Dustin didn’t recognize himself anymore, but he loved the change.

This makeover came at a cost, though. The boy, now an adolescent, didn’t spend hours admiring Dustin. He soon stopped visiting in the afternoon, and Dustin saw him for two fleeting moments every day. Once, at the crack of dawn to turn on the light, and once, at night, when food was dropped in, and the light was switched off. After the automatic feeders and light switches were installed, his visits came once a day.

Once a weekend. Once a month. Once every four months.

Perched atop a dusty mahogany stand, Dustin waited.

Filled to the brim with vibrancy. Colour. Beauty, so empty of life.

ceramics Finn Anderson

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To win the Race Mr. Hillis A young man sits in the rain, determined to carry on in a

race he cannot win driven by the reminisce of

Pandora’s box.

One step leads to another as,

the pain constantly reminds him of the why’s instead of the why not’s.

To give in is easy, to fight on courageous.

Photography Miles Bolton

As a young child’s tears drive

a father to defend, he carries the will of the hopeless Society heralds the valiant,

on his shoulders like a but what of those who enter the fray, contemporary Atlas.

without chance of victory?

While winners wave through windows of glass, heroes smile throughout time.

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Ceramics Mr. Kyba

Plateau Haowen Qin (Excerpt from La Fin de ce Monde) What misery is this, when the true North waits for its snow.

Finally it arrives, appearing from rain, amorphous and slow.

On the field wide and wild, Where the Khans rode with shield, Grains of dust and grains of snow Marched faster in the blow Of west winter wind And sandstones fling.

Raging storm forms a brutal front, Cold-blooded arrows not blunt.

Chaos as wide as the border, Flesh an passionate frozen like water.

Pressure higher than the beacon towers, Would surely crush the Great Wall in hours.

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BitterSweet James Chen Dear friend, You’ve always asked me why I love dark chocolate.

So here you are.

I wish you’ll understand.

First Is white chocolate.

It’s sweet – and sweet Nothing more.

You see it, and you crave it: Heartbeats, expectations, smiles Put it in your mouth, Feel it slide along your tongue And exclaim, “Ah!” And the white chocolate melts And is gone.

You feel empty, For that’s what white chocolate is: Sweet, only sweet, only empty.

Painting Matthew Kieffer

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same.

Third Is dark chocolate.

It’s sweet – but less so It’s bitter, more so And bitterness, my friend, is – It’s weathered, It’s battered; It’s desolate, It’s despairing.

Bitterness is shattered sweetness, That when regrouped, Is too broken to mingle.

I like dark chocolate, but Not for its lack of sweetness, Not for its plentiful bitterness.

I love dark chocolate, for – For my search through the Painfully upsetting bitterness For my search of the, The sweetness, My friend!

Second Is milk chocolate.

It’s sweet, sure – And you crave it, Ah – bittersweet, bittersweet.

Like you do for white chocolate There’s the word – the word.

But it’s not empty.

Never just sweet, Milk chocolate has – Never just bitter; Has character, For how do you understand sweetHas texture; ness You love not just for sweetness, If you’ve never known bitterness?

But just as much for everything else.

There is only one white chocolate – It is what it is, But milk chocolate never stays the

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Love’s Guiding Light Jay Luo How I savour the warm gaze of thy eye, How, pray tell, shall I repay thy largess?

A lighthouse, cutting through the charcoal sky, A guiding glow, holding me in darkness.

Mine carrack torn asunder in the sea, The bleak, cruel night and its menacing jaw.

The beacon of hope granting life to me, Bringing me out of its treacherous claw.

I knoweth that one day I shall be free, Oh, away from that warm solace of thine.

But no wave can engulf my love for thee, And no lightning can rip thy soul from mine.

As long as mine journey continues on, Mine love for thee will shine forever on.

Digital Art Ace Choi

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Meaning Gary Xin Where to start? pitter patter

His eraser was a stump by now; the shavings cluttered his desk. Breathe in--a grayish swirl-- breathe out--they scattered, tumbling over the precipice to rest among the dust-ridden floor. pitter patter

There had to be something, right? Something to write about. Fingers traced over the light depressions. Some still filled with shards of graphite uncaught by the vinyl. Perhaps there was some meaning here? Some insightful message about the futility of whitewashing the world of its sins, about the leftovers that will always exist? But his attention wandered again. pitter patter

There was meaning everywhere, wasn’t there? Where had the great intellectuals of the past found theirs? Had they, upon seeing a dignified beggar, a miserable prince, a fallen apple, a wounded coyote, had the floodgates of heaven opened there and then. Had it filled their brains with ecstasy, with the leftovers of the fruit of knowledge, the fruit of sin? He was not so lucky. Crumbs, crumbs, not even; dust, perhaps, was his limit. But even still, there must be-pitter patter --the damned rain! The damned rain! Fragments of thought so carefully brought together were instantly smashed apart by that relentless pounding. He could deal with moans pitched high and low, banging headboards so dutifully transmitted by the paper thin walls, but this. Oh! is there no mercy in the universe? There must be.

But who was he to demand a resource so valuable and scarce? Who was he, who could offer only platitudes to a world so sick of them, to hold his head up high and holler for the attention of some greater power? pitter patter Enough. He lifted his pencil, tilted his head back ever-so-slightly, and inhaled.

Photography Oliver Ma

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pitter patter Where to start?

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Lighthouse Joey Liu My brother, true and faithful guiding light, Like a lighthouse beam to a well-worn mast.

You are always there, in joy or in plight, Under weather stormy or overcast.

Although my ship is always changing course Your presence ne’er departs, through all dismay, And with each wayward turn you still endorse— Your beacon never fails to light the way.

Despite support from your unfailing quay My sailing days are finite, this is known, And as I venture out upon the sea I know that I will never be alone.

Yet now the darkest tempests call to me— I know my time has come; I must go free.

Painting Matthew Kieffer

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Poet’s Feud Johnathan Chu Light breaks on the linen sheets, in her room beneath the attic.

Dishevelled curtains toss and parry their dances on the oak wood table, like an outmatched tango of waltzes.

She lifts with two hands, The cold leather cover a stroke of silence before The incessant scratching of pen On waxed paper.

It twirls and gyrates like the gleeful atheist, with audacity, she takes her bow.

Unravelling her great burden, wishing her luck I begin praying silently knowing the cargo she carries is heavy.

Pausing amidst commotion she starts her journey.

Pen in hand her heart pumps ink tingling dew on sunset-bathed grass.

Beginning anew her clandestine meeting between the dusted yellowed silver scratched paper and her heart’s surging ink.

But now she pauses, To nod and wordlessly acknowledge my presence vacillating within her vowels A beating drum beneath her words.

Suddenly stillness shears sound I clench my jaw shut.

Until the gears start churning a dull pulse turning She recognizes That I sputter on with her.

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Painting William Chapman-Black

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Everest Is My Love for Thee George Huang Thy snowy skin, though delicate and pure, Appears to me as though an iv’ry dove; By foothold of the mountain’s firm secure, Thou shalt be shielded by my ardent love.

The mountain range that runs forevermore, Whose peaks preserve a fount of sanctity When vicious waves crash into shallow shore; Protected is thy graceful chastity.

Yet the volcanic ash my love erupts Cloud not thy purity nor leave its char; Not even mortal cornices of Nuptse Shall dare to hurt thee nor impart a scar.

Above the stratosphere my love for thee; Above the clouds, thou art my destiny.

Photography William Li

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Ode to the Rivers Steven Long

Eternity is in mine heart, though doused, For Jove gave unto you a paragon.

Thine resting love by her now hath been roused; Thus torrid flames burn like the Phlegethon.

For memory of this makes dark my soul, As I am absent from Apollo’s light.

Now nothing could release me of this woe, Except for dark Lethe’s expunging might.

And with thine noble heart engaged by her, Cruel Juno’s wrath could not to mine equate.

My scorn cannot a single lapse confer, It flows in that abyssal Styx, my hate.

Alas, no god could end this agony: The cold Underworld’s ceaseless symphony.

Painting Srish Sagar

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BLUE Mr. Morris

The fog has moved in quickly, as it seems to on nights like these. The old, wooden footbridge over the river is his favorite spot to sit when he doesn’t wish to be anywhere else. To his left is everything that pisses him off. But to his right lies the unknown. Surely there must be something in the unknown, or there wouldn’t be a bridge in the first place, would there?

But nothing is ever really for sure in this world.

He muses over the sound his body might make upon contact with the water. There’s an empty beer bottle just out of reach, and he stretches for it. The bottle is dry but sticky in his palm. He takes a curious whiff before putting it to

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his mouth in the hope there might still be something salvageable at the bottom.

Nothing.

He tosses the bottle out toward the murky water, but a tugboat’s fog horn interrupts the splash.

What a waste.

Mom and Dad were both home tonight, unusual in the way two leaders of warring nations might spend a cordial evening together.

Their arguing had driven him out of the house, and where else would he think to go but here? To the wooden bridge.

There’s a shuffling off to his right.

Not as far away as the unknown; no more than ten yards away. The fog tries its best to obscure the figure, though he can make out someone standing atop the guard rail.

He doesn’t react at all as this unknown person jumps, but listens closely for the sound the body makes as it hits the water.

It’s a lovely crash; a beautiful splash. It’s perfect.

And then, without thinking, he jumps; plummeting into the fog himself.

Who knows? Maybe someone can still be saved tonight?

Photography Matthew McDermid

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Ceremony of Innocence Mr. Sayers S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.

Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

The caramel-coloured sand stood in stark contrast to the almost cloudless, cobalt sky. High amongst the few wispish clouds, a falcon, now just a tiny speck, soared in an ever-widening gyre. The falconer on the ground whistled to call the animal back to earth. On any other day, the bird would have beaten its wings swiftly two or three times and then abruptly changed its trajectory. But it was clear, almost instantly, that the bird was not interested in returning to earth.

It continued to float effortlessly on the thermals rising from the desert floor. The falconer whistled again; there was no response from the bird. The muscles in the falconer’s neck contracted and his hands closed into tight balls of sinew and bone; even his whistle took on a more jarring pitch. He placed a hand above his eyes in the hopes that he might see more clearly what, if anything, had caught the bird’s attention.

Adam watched all of this from a distance. He sat on a small mound of dirt surrounded by an endless sea of sand, broken only by the occasional tufts of dry, brown grass and the towering sand dunes. The falconer in his long white robe stood out against the distant, weather-worn mountains. Perhaps, Adam thought sardonically, the bird had been

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enticed to the firmament by the promise of something more alluring than the small scrap of meat the falconer now placed on the thick leather pad that sat atop his forearm. Adam continued to watch with a slight smirk on his face as the falconer became increasing agitated by his inability to call the bird back to his outstretched arm. Adam dropped his gaze to the sand upon which he sat, he felt ashamed about the pleasure he took in watching other people suffer. He knew he should not enjoy the falconer’s frustration, but he did.

Slowly, he raised his eyes and looked around furtively to ensure nobody else was nearby watching him. He listened as the falconer made another desperate plea to the bird that was by now almost out of sight. Convinced that the falcon would not return, Adam lifted himself up from his seated position and began walking back toward the massive, stone walls surrounding the city, mildly chastising himself for rejoicing in the falconer’s agitation.

He turned to take one last look at the exasperated man not knowing that in three days, the falconer would be taken to a pit, buried chest deep in sand and stoned to death.

Painting David Ni

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The Schlafwandler Peter Zhang

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The winter of ’42 was particularly cold. The streets were unkept nowadays, and Vinzenz floated through the snow one evening along Hoffmannstraße wondering when the icy flakes would stop falling like frozen bombs from the universe – his umbrella a desperate shield against such onslaught from the heavens.

“Heil, Herr Mannendorf.” Hello, sir. Vinzenz looked down to see a young boy, perhaps not yet ten, trying his very best to look poor and pitiable.

“Heil,” he said, his arm automatically lifting in a salute. “For you, what can I do, Kris?”

“My mother is sick,” he paused and pouted as an afterthought, “and she… she needs medicine or she thinks she’ll die. Money for it, I mean.” There was much trembling and distressing.

Vinzenz beamed down. “I’m sorry to hear that, Kristoff, but I there I cannot help you. Perhaps Frau Fischer could assist you with this. Gute Nacht. Oh, and your mother, I said hello, tell her. Heil Hitler.”

Walk away, walk away before they can react. That was how rejection worked. Through the snow, the slush for which he was thankful of having good solid boots, Vinzenz slid away from the boy. In the encroaching darkness behind him he heard the lost little child whisper a heil Hitler into the cold air. The man passed three more people on his little sortie, said what needed to be said, raised his right arm towards the invisible north star and grinned and smiled and noted their perfect teeth.

As Vinzenz turned the corner onto Falstaffweg and drifted home to number 218, the bombs fell harder all the while, slowly piling white on the thin fabric above his head.

He could feel the weight of all that frozen on his back, a gentle pressure that spurred him homeward. A wailing began somewhere in the city. It was sharp and melodious, and Vinzenz felt a certain lulling in the sound. Vaguely he could see neighbours scurrying out of their homes towards Frau Fischer’s. His arm lifted automatically in a salute.

“Heil Hitler,” he said to all of them and no one in particular.

Through the black iron gate, the splash of it pulling shut and the clang of stepping through puddles along the steps to the door. The lights were never on when he got home. Umbrella in the umbrella bin, shake off the snow, coat

on coat hanger, scarf on scarf hanger… no, on the coat hanger as well, stamp out the dry feet and take off the wet boots. He was sure at this point that the pleasant droning noise was coming from the attic. There was a letter on the kitchen table, unopened.

He looked through it then, and when he was satisfied he set it down and floated up the stairs to retire.

The letter had not been a letter, and it had not been sealed. The man realised this in his sleep as the bomb came soaring out of the sky and the words burned themselves onto his eyes, “sorgfältig durchlesen; es kann Ihr Leben retten.” Read carefully. This could save your life. Perhaps the man wishes he had been sleepwalking, had walked out of the house, back along Hoffmannstraße, out of Berlin. Away from the snow. Or perhaps sleeping through it all, blissfully ignorant, was a blessing.

Ceramics Matthew Fetterly

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Painting Nolan Lacroix

meaning of life Peter Zhang

“What is the meaning of life?” asked Mr. Sherwood as he wrote the question on the whiteboard. “What do we value, what do we treasure, that makes us want to go on living?”

Quiet whispers of ‘42’ floated through the room.

“Besides,” Sherwood added with a grin, “What Douglas Adams says.”

Maisie raised a hand: “Maybe family, friends, like, building relationships?”

“Yeah, for sure. What else?”

“Doing the right things, fixing problems,” Arthur suggested. hrome-extension://nlkncpkkdoccmpiclbokaimcnedabhhm/gallery.html “Okay, but that raises the question of what it means for something to be right. We’ll get back to that. Anyone else?”

Adela ventured, “To not be forgotten.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“As in, we want to do stuff, before we die. Maybe the meaning of life is just that we leave our sort of mark, I guess-” She was cut off by loud bangs coming from the hallway.

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1/1

Almost everyone realised what was happening. Of course it was happening to them, isn’t that what they called Murphy’s law? The door was hastily locked, with Maisie and a few others piling their tables around the door before retreating away from the entrance. Mr. Sherwood had ducked behind his desk and was pressing his phone to his ear.

“Yes, okay, I understand.” Still on the call, he peered over his desk to look at the doorway and found a face, perfectly framed by the little window in the door. You could almost see little red horns sprouting from the forehead. But even the devil wasn’t so cruel to kill children. What about God?

God? Did God exist? Sherwood didn’t think so, caught between some blend of hysterical prayer and a slew of the foul language he denounced on a daily basis. Such blasphemy would be silenced soon enough. The next minute was what you and I would call… well, what would we call it? Horrifying? Words never do justice, and anyway, it didn’t really matter what you called it. There were two big problems in the lives of those present. The first was the door, a faulty lock doing little to stop the carnage. The other problem was the man’s gun, hurling horrible, cruel metal first towards Sherwood’s desk and then painstakingly slowly around the room. Anything that moved, the gun spluttered and spat at them. How easy it was to take a life! Or twenty! In another world, the man could have been in a bank, or a hospital, or any number of places. But it was just more wrong here. These children hadn’t left their mark yet.

Some blood had splattered onto the board, the spotless white still bearing the all-encompassing question. Bad luck, they would call it.

Horrible. “Thoughts and prayers,” and of course no change. Empty, bleeding promises. Anything was possible, if you just believed. ‘We are strong,’ they said. Maisie stood with Arthur in the delicate rain and watched the adults speak. ‘Mental health’, they heard phrases like that thrown around, how – good God – the devil should not have had access to a gun. They shook their heads in unison as the shield of bureaucracy blocked out the sun in some sick eclipse of common sense. They saw Adela stand at the podium and choke up on words – at least she wasn’t choking on bullets – saw her stammer, the sweat on her brow. Seeing was about the only thing they could do now. And a lot of talking. The dead girl and the dead boy walked to their graves, saw flowers placed around the little slabs of rock.

We would never forget them, we promised, even as the flowers wilted and rotted, even as two weeks later, four hundred miles away, the devil or God – it didn’t matter at this point – took away more children. We visited Sherwood, offered our thoughts and prayers, and he asked us again, “Not to be forgotten, huh? Bullshit. What is the meaning of life?”

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Isolation Sam Chen

I think too many thoughts before I say The words revealing deepest inner thoughts.

My mind goes wild darting like fleeing prey While all my thoughts become a bunch of knots.

My words spill out as if without control Stares lock on me as if I’ve lost my mind.

They view my thoughts as something that’s not whole Upon my musings they mark me maligned.

And mocking me expressing their reproach Excluding me from their society They drive me far as if I were a roach, And I am left to feel anxiety.

I find much greater happiness within My own reality without their din.

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Painting Eric Wu

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Dolor and Despair Alexander Soltan

The door slams shut with an ominous thud. I shiver as I enter the dank darkness of the deepest dungeon. The prison guard gives me a stern nod as I enter into the depths of hell. The room is a cacophony of noise. I hear the scraping of metal on metal. The fan roars in the background like a lion, trying desperately to blow back the endless waves of heat permeating the chamber. The room is a disgusting mess of smells. The pungent scent of rubber and the smell of others’ exertion tingles my nostrils. I am distracted from my disgust by the disconcerting grunts of the inmates’ exertion. I immediately notice the different groups of people within this chamber.

First, the fitness boys, wearing the prison issued black shorts and grey t-shirt. They do their silly body weight exercises, and are barked at by the strict drill sergeant. The drill sergeant’s face promotes fear as she rains down punishment on the students. Those who do not meet the standards of the her fitness will certainly face her wrath. There are the casuals, the small timers merely serving a short sentence; I see one on the leg press, lazily pumping a measly weight while eating a bag of chips. I shudder as another small timer starts up a treadmill, the scraping of his shoes against the rubber akin to nails running down a chalkboard.

Finally, I see the ones who actually want to be here. These psychopaths, the athletes, and the gym rats. They

are gigantic men, who make the fitness people seem like mere babes fresh out of their mother’s womb. These men wear tank tops that show off their bulging muscles and have headphones in, their heads bobbing to the music pouring into their head. They are in the forbidden part of the dungeon: the free weights zone. Normal inmates never venture near the dangers of this area but these hardened men face the challenge with relish. They grunt with exertion, as they lift the bar high above their head, a look of pure agony twisting their features. They triumphantly lower it down, the bar squawking in protest as it is laid back on the rack. As they finish their last repetition with the devilishly heavy weight, they sigh and pull out the cell phone that they illicitly snuck in.

They then pound over to the scale, their footsteps sounding like Photography boulders as they David Ni at their reach it, gasping with excitement newly gained weight.

Now, there’s me, a sickly thin boy, first setting foot into such a place. I stare down at my Band of Brothers T-shirt, a middle ground between the athletes, the fitness boys and the small timers. No sweat coats me, and I do not yet possess an aroma akin to a backside of a baboon.

As I step into the chamber, I feel apprehensive, not yet knowing which group I will truly belong to in the future.

I crack my knuckles in preparation. This gym, despite its many flaws, is a place I can get used to.

Photography Ben Good

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A Nature Bath Matthew Kieffer Within the forest ringed by trees I hear a song, one of the leaves, Composed by wind that moves the pine, Its beauty stood the test of time.

Despite the noise, a silence sweet Allows for thought, unlike concrete.

The sun mosaic shining bright Begins to cleanse the city blight.

A smell so green, I must confess, That air so pure relieves my stress, That endless nature washed on me Restores my burnt-out heart with glee.

A Nature bath, one acres deep, That’s old as time, and clean like sheets, Is swiftly drained with lethal glance To screen endearing: one so cheap.

So Nature can’t best city streets, But I’ll succumb to Nature’s trance.

Painting Mr. O’Connor

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47

Ceramics Ethan Chuk An Acorn Nick Yu

An acorn Falls not far from a tree A squirrel scurries by Picks up the acorn and scrambles off The acorn is one of many huddled In the squirrel’s grasp, tightly held in its chest Synonymous to all the other acorns that The diligent squirrel had collected, amassed, bundled In preparation for winter, harsh times, the unpredictable The acorn, sheltered and secure, Is discontent.

It struggles and frees itself from the clasp Of the well-meaning squirrel.

Inadvertently the acorn breaks free Falls down, down, down Its shell smashes Opens to show A seedling.

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Photography Chris Ma

River Flows in You Ronald Wu

The everlasting flow of endless rill, Cherubic is thy jagged, murky smile.

Shall I accompany your churning swill, Then blessed shall I float thy perpetual miles.

When we were juvenile we sang and cheered, But older, arduous our glee and rue.

My dear, now, do retain thy sweetened tear, For love and life may never co-ensue.

For many splendid morning paints thee blissed, Sweet as rose, thou reach for his hands in vain, With pine in mist and the sun rinse dew-kissed.

Every petal of thee withered in pain.

For how kaleidoscopic this world be, But my love, scheduled, from heart deep to thee.

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51

Wall of Fertility Johnathan Chu There is a wall where The bodies lay.

Strewn across the Lane of moulding bricks And slicked back cement.

Their nails caked with ash and dirt faces washing pale by rainfall.

The gleam was gone from their eyes as the soil had seeped between their heart-shaped wrinkles and settled between their Stillbirth hearts.

Where the wall Is you could hear, The perpetual screaming An incessant wailing broken Between cropped fronds of grass. You could Hear the sloshing Of a mother’s wet hair As her tears rinsed The soil from her son’s Wan face.

Hoping that her tears Could utter some assurance Of passion and love.

Where the wall is the light Was snuffed out Between the infants lazy Eyes, their thumbs still stuck between their lips; suckling.

Where the wall is the sun Rose to an ensemble of Crying voices and hammering fists The rousing of infertility Amongst a fertile field.

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Photography Darren Kwan

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Waiting Tom Curyer

What am I doing?

I’m waiting for happiness.

I’m waiting for that one thing that will be worth all this sadness.

I’m waiting for that spark.

I know it’s coming.

It’s going to blow me out of the park And will be worth all the hurting.

The spark will turn into a flame.

It will make me so happy.

More than any fame or any type of money.

The worst part is I know who I’m waiting for.

Knowing how long it will take makes me sore, so sore I might break.

But I’m waiting, Because I have the most powerful motivation.

Bigger than anything That stops all motion.

It’s so amazing As beautiful as a white dove.

As it’s why I’m fine waiting, Because I’m waiting for love.

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Digital Art Ace Choi

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The Injustice of the Rohingya Nick Yu From far and wide To the narrow ahead Forced out of their homes, Thousands of feet Dragged along dirt roads, Searching for a doorway to liberty, Droplets trace a path On their grunt cheeks, The heat and humidity Slither down their amber skin.

After hundreds of miles, Finding a way out of the dark forest, where the white dragon exhales its vicious breath.

They reach the only path Out of this land Only to meet violent waves Striking the rocks.

They hide their fear under the cloth that wraps their dead.

Pondering on the puny, perilous craft, Children, women and the elderly, Fill the air with their cries Of misery, sobs of despair,

Of freedom that eludes them.

Haunted by the endless, painful nightmares, they lament the loss of their fealty, identity, dignity.

They rejoice the sight of Land, hope, and recovery.

The hatred and hopelessness The persecuted, evicted-The hunted.

Evicted from their homes because of their beliefs.

Praying for the innocent corpses The loved ones left in their beds, Murdered by Buddhists With sharpened spears.

Ceramics Ethan Chuk

Memories will forever pierce their lives And curse generations.

An abhorrence that will never fade away.

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An Excerpt from “Dead in Tangier” Dr. Hughes

Captain Equi paused before descending into the crypt beneath the strange mausoleum, which resembled a Gothic bandstand. Six half-buried steps led to an open boilerplate door, a broken antique padlock on the bottom step. A putrid reek emanated from the crypt through the door. Not old decay, but worse–fresh burnt flesh. It stirred memories of the ghastly battlefield stench after the battle of Caporetto, of Equi’s worst days in the Great War.

Nausea swelled through the captain, jangling his nerves and turning him light-headed. Equi resolve to set aside the shadows of memory, ignore his unsettled stomach, and get on with his job. The stench forced him to clamp a handkerchief to his mouth. Beside him, Commissioner Joubert did the same. Improbably, they heard whistling from the doorway. Joubert stooped and went in first. Before entering, Equi turned and gulped what air he could, hoping to breathe as little as possible in the abominable hole. He had been warned about the state of the corpse. As Equi started to step inside, Joubert plunged out of the doorway and up the steps, where he promptly buckled and vomited.

Equi braced, reluctant to enter the penumbra of the crypt. There was light enough for him to gather an impression of empty space, broken up by brick pillars and rounded arches. Though he had to duck beneath the door, he could stand upright inside. The greasy stench of flesh nearly drove him out. He concentrated on observation, focusing on details to keep himself from reacting to the whole scene. When all was said and done, a crime scene was a crime scene.

Dr. Agulla, blithely whistling, stood by a camera on a tripod. Three electric box torches were on the ground. Their beams

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Painting David Ni intersected on the corpse, a wretched thing trussed in copper wire on the crypt floor. Under banded seams of wire were seared flesh, cloth strips, and one perfectly naked sole of a small foot.

While staring at the foot, Equi realised Dr. Agulla was whistling “When I Return to Your Side.”

Taking the handkerchief from his mouth Equi said, “You must be a veteran of serious horrors, Agulla. I’m impressed.”

Dr. Agulla stopped and sighed.

“Only a madman would not be horrified by this, but we have a job here, Equi. Now, I’m going to roll her over. I think her face

survived.”

“Agulla, what’s been done to–her?”

“My observations are of course not conclusive. There’s a petrol tin and two pails,” Agulla said, not a sign in his voice or manner that he was struggling to stay in control. “They wrapped her in the wire and jammed a stone in her mouth.

Perhaps they used wire so her bonds didn’t burn in the heat. They poured petrol on her and ignited it. The ground near the body is damp. They must have doused her now and again to put on the flames. There are no

matches, so I think they used a lighter. Now, I’m going to turn her over. Prepare yourself.”

Agulla was getting on his knees next to the body.

Equi could not allow Agulla to do this on his own – no matter how hardened a physician might be to death. This was not death; this was an abomination.

“I’ll help you.” Equi stuffed his handkerchief into a pocket, leaned in, and helped Agulla turn over the body. Joubert, back in the crypt, though appearing no less revolted, looked on.

Flies sprang off the corpse as they rolled it.

It was more than Equi could stand.

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OPUS [Mosaic / 2018-2019]

Executive TEAM Sponsor Teacher: Mr. Elliott & Ms. Gin Editors in Chief: David Ni & Justin Del Negro

Leadership Team Visual Arts Directors: Matthew Kieffer & Miles Bolton Literary Directors: William Tiwana & Peter Zhang Layout Director: William Tsai & Chris Li Marketing Director: Jerry Xu

Selections Team Literary Team: Sam Chen, Alexander Soltan, Jay Luo, Calvin Gully, Tony Li, Jackie Dong, Steven Long, Kevin Li, Aaron Sun, Samuel Cheong, Ronald Wu, Chris Yu, Gary Xin

Visual Arts Team: Joey Siy, Declan Burns, Fernando Chang, Chris Ma, Darren Kwan, Sean Hong, Johnston Liu, Alan Fu, Ethan Shao, Alex Shojania, Mark Mauritz