FEBRUARY 2025
SOUNDINGS
saratoga high arts and literary magazine
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 2025 online winter edition of the Soundings Literary and Arts Magazine, an independent, student-run publication of Saratoga High School.
“Soundings” is a nautical term, referring to the measurement of depth in a body of water. As the title of our school’s decades-old literary and arts magazine, Soundings refers to the depths that featured student works reach and the waves they make throughout the creative world.
We are so proud to be a medium of creative expression for Saratoga students, especially in a STEM-focused school dominated by high academic pressures. In both submitting to and reading the magazine, we invite students, staff, parents, and any other curious minds to take a moment’s break from the outside world and enjoy themselves in the creativity, emotion, and resilience within each and every piece. We hope that everyone can find a voice within these pages.
Soundings is a major effort by our amazing staff of editors, layout artists, and outreach coordinators, and it wouldn’t be possible without the dedication and hard work they’ve put into the last several months. And of course, thank you to every wonderful writer, artist, and reader for bringing the vibrance to Soundings for another year, and for continuing to support our work. We’d also like to give special thanks to our adviser, Ms. Amy Keys, for her strong support and direction.
Sincerely,
Anika Kapasi, Annette Li, and Isabelle Wang Editors-in-Chief
Editors-in-Chief: Anika Kapasi (12), Annette Li (12), Isabelle Wang (12)
Literary Editors: Florence Hu (11), Diya Kapoor (12), Jessica Li (11), Florence Wei (11), Ruiyan Zhu (11)
Art Editors: Claire Kwon (10), Amy Pan (12)
Layout Editors: Amelia Chang (11), Florence Hu (11), Jane Lee (11), Melanie Lee (12), Amy Luo (12)
Outreach Coordinators: Clara Choi (10), Nicole Hao (11), Charlotte Hu (11), Jane Lee (11)
Staff: Navya Chawla (11), Navya Rao (11), Celina Ren (11)
Advisor: Amy Keys
Looking Back (Willis Chung) • Goldfish (Florence Wei) • descending flight in san jose (Kat Aldrete)
The Never-Ending Cycle of Art (Kiana Saadieh) • Hometown (Amy Pan) • Friends (Sean Tsai)
Breaking the Barrier (Sophia Tsives)
Breaking the Barrier (Sophia Tsives) • Immigration (Amy Pan)
what they (don’t) see (Aiden Chen) • SHS Nighthawks (Richard Li) • When I give you my heart (Diya Iyer)
Painted Headlines (Amy Miao)
How to be an Empath (Tanuj Siripurapu) • Rainy Day (Sean Tsai)
How to be an Empath (Tanuj Siripurapu) • Sending Light (Amy Pan)
Bleeding (Anika Kalia) • Untitled (Celina Ren)
Light Bulbs (Joanne Zhang) • SF if gavin newsom didn’t exist (Neel Reddy)
Cover: Collisions (Celina Ren)
Looking Back
Goldfish
Florence Wei (11)
I remember the day you picked me up from the carnival.
“Feeder fish,” they called me, a worthless prize to be won by those willing to pay. Under the blaring red lights, you rose above me like an angel and lifted me in the air from my dripping plastic bag. You twirled me in angles, surveyed me from above and below, giggled and scooped me into a luxurious glass bowl. I remember your dad’s words. “I’ll eat it,” he said, hand on his chin as if he were
amused.
You didn’t sleep a wink that night, slid me under the bed whenever footsteps approached. When he finally gave up, you celebrated with me, reached into my bowl and stroked the back of my fin with the tip of your thumb. Even though we were a wall apart, I remember your love.
Though it’s only been a year, I have since become worn and old.
The bowl that contains water you haven’t changed for months leaves me gasping through poison, and I can barely catch the specks of sustenance
descending flight in san jose Kat Aldrete (12)
i fly past the stevens creek reservoir in less than a minute the mountains i survey would take months to walk across on my two legs alone inside a dust bunny-sized car there’s a man commuting home and ready to see his daughter in a house the size of a freshwater pearl there is a family who loves each other in a way i understand, and which i only understand because i know nothing about it, or how it works that is how fast the airplanes really move that is how the hands of a beautiful, omnipotent girl i’ll never know carved the ridges of the hills into the earth like a child knee-deep in beach sand, crashing waves against her ankles the grains catching under her fingernails creating her microscopic empire
that drop only once every other week or never at all.
My paper-thin white scales, once sunbeam-orange and puffyplump, have drifted to the bottom, where I hang in silence. I struggle to remember the glow in your eyes, full of wonder through the glass, the ghost of a smile, as the angel in you stared down at me with curiosity, the tingle of your finger, as you stroked me once, twice, and the feeling of love, when you picked me up that day.
Willis Chung (11)
The Never-Ending Cycle of Art
Kiana Saadieh (11)
The sun kisses the sky with her soft lips, painting the honey-gold hue across her endless canvas, while her gaze begins to rest as her canvas blurs into the night blue shade, the freckles of shining white appear brightly guiding the story of the past
To guide the ones in the present, reminding you that she is always there, that she is appears as just a shadow of her true self, she strokes her brush softer than a soul to paint the crystal ice water with her face, she sees herself changing yet still the same as before, As her ideas are considered both new and old, Her tears of sorrow drip down the canvas, Tainting heavily onto the piece,
she’s ashamed and wishes not to be seen as the hideous gray creature of the sky, covers the beauty of her face in her canvas, until her sister wakes from her satisfying slumber, but the same cycle continues in an endless dance of change
Hometown
Amy Pan (12)
Friends
Sean Tsai (10)
Sophia Tsives (11)
Wai Guo Ren. They were pointing fingers and laughing at me. Clenching my mom’s hand, we walked through a dark hallway with doors lining every side. The stench of chlorine was sickening. Our footsteps echoed against the cold, tiled floor. The echoes followed us, growing louder and more insistent with each step, reverberating through the corridor until we reached the door to the pool deck. It was an Olympic-sized pool, with bleachers stretching on forever. At least, that’s how it felt to my 7-year-old self.
The air was bitter, still reeking of chlorine. It was dark, almost like each light of the zigzag pattern on the ceiling was broken and flickering. Across the pool, coaches aggressively corrected some girls who were a little bigger than me. My grip on my mom’s hand grew clammy as we approached the coaches, feeling the weight of countless eyes on us. Heads from the bleachers above turned in unison, their gazes fixed on us like synchronized dolls.
The conversation between my mom and the coach was a distant murmur. Preoccupied, I stared blankly at my reflection in the clear glass pool. Through the muffled voices, the phrase “Wai Guo Ren” kept piercing through, repeated over and over.
Later, I asked her what it meant. She answered solemnly, “I don’t know, sweetie. But what I do know is that they are not laughing at you; they are laughing with you.” With?
Later, we learned that the word was Mandarin for “Foreigner.”
As months passed, the foggy air of Shanghai, China, started to clear up. Three times a week, I walked through the same hallway of echoing footsteps to reach the same pool, the same coaches, and the same girls. Would I call them teammates? To me, they were “Wai Guo Ren.” They thought I was different but I saw them as
different.
My whole life before the age of 7 revolved around two languages: Russian, my mother tongue, and English, which I learned in school. Chinese was never in the picture. These girls, my “teammates,” felt like strangers. And what do parents teach kids about strangers? Isolate yourself from them. So that’s what I did.
For the first few months, living in a city of skyscrapers compared to a small town in the Bay Area was a drastic change for me. I had no friends at school, and synchro practice felt even lonelier. The language barrier was a brick wall with no peeping holes.
Until one foggy day at the pool deck, when a girl named Yoyo timidly approached me. She was just a little taller than I was, with long, black, silky hair. She wore a black and pink swimsuit, which was the same brand most of the other girls wore.
“Hi. Sophia, right? My name is Yoyo.”
Was she speaking to me? And was it in English?
“Hi, Yoyo. You can speak English?” I asked hesitantly.
“Yeah, I am learning it in school right now.” Her accent was barely noticeable.
Instantly, I sighed with relief. Why hadn’t she approached me before? However, I’m thankful she did or otherwise the four years living in China would have gone by painfully slow.
Yoyo taught me everything I had to know: the Chinese terms the coaches would use when they screamed at us in the pool or what the other girls whispered about behind our backs. Months went by, and I considered her my teammate and, eventually, a friend. She was my translator, my guide, and, over time, my confidante.
The light spring bloom had started to settle into the city streets. Towards the end of practice, my tiny body was shivering from the frigid ice-cold pool; my lips were purple, and the goosebumps on my skin sprang up
like raindrops hitting the surface of a still pond, sudden and countless in the pool’s icy surface.
To my surprise, the coaches announced we could get out early. I hadn’t caught the memo as to why everyone was getting out of the pool. Thankfully, Yoyo leaned in and whispered, “We are celebrating one of the girls’ birthdays right now, so we can get out of the pool right now.” I wrapped myself in my towel, feeling the warmth slowly seep back into my chilled skin. Lips still blue, I made my way to the table where all the girls were gathering. At the center of the table was a circular chocolate cake decorated in fondant blues. They proceeded to light the candles, then chorused, “Zhu Ni Sheng Ri Kuai Le...” their voices rang out in unison. Happy Birthday to You...
I joined in. It was the first time I had ever sung Happy Birthday in Chinese. In the present moment, it was just me, the quiet glass pool, and a table full of girls. The cheerful tune, though foreign, vibrated through my head, stretching a smile onto my face. I felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the towel wrapped around me. It was a warmth that came from the inside, from the realization that at that moment, I was part of something.
I was no longer just the foreigner at the edge of the pool. I was an extra voice that added to the muttering melody. I felt like I belonged.
As I stood by the table with my teammates who had once seemed so distant, I realized that no matter where we were from or who the “foreigner” was, things connected us all which went beyond words or nationality. We could come together, not as strangers but as people who shared the same experiences, joys, and celebrations. In that realization, I found peace. I found belonging.
When I returned to America four years later, I brought with me not just a love for synchronized swimming
but a deeper understanding of the world and the people in it. The bonds I formed in Shanghai taught me that people are not just what they appear
to be. That beneath the surface, we all had layers waiting to be understood, and we all connected in some way. I continued to pursue synchronized
swimming, always remembering the connections I made as Wai Guo Ren, a foreigner who found her place.
Immigration
Amy Pan (12)
what they (don’t) see
Aiden Chen (12)
saratoga high – so elite so dedicated to ourselves we will be so successful we never give love and so much can be said about the passion the sleep the discipline and the smiles we fake day in and day out we will never get back time
the time we spend we waste all of it studying on useless activities on extracurriculars we will never get it back
it yields incredible results on paper or a screen we look so good we look so good and they talk about us what they say about us defines us
they say we’re the best they say we’re smart and yet we can’t scramble an egg we never rest or wash our own clothes because we’re too damn busy we want to be people to be successful
in the eyes of our parents
When I give you my heart Diya Iyer (12)
if I placed your heart in my Purse would you rob me of my clothes Too?
i stroll through the mall wincing at the superficial Models shopping for a way to eradicate your Hostility
can you truly enjoy a pie if you only like the Crust?
crossing my mind without Waiting for the Signal you Force every car to Halt for you
so you may Stomp back and forth Across the street the street that leads into the Freeway of my mind
claiming ownership of me, Feeding your vanity you compliment me, praise my Radiant smile
Yet it is you entrapped in a forest unable to feel the sunlight of my genuine happiness
I finally solved the maze
The maze you built around your true intentions
To find a Sephora at the end
Now I’m the idiot with a face slathered with paint meant to appeal to You
When you give me your heart
i Know I have to watch out waiting for the day you decide to take it Back leaving me with less than I started with don’t Freeze when I’m gone leaving me with less than I start-
SHS Nighthawks
Richard Li (12)
Painted Headlines
Amy Miao (11)
How to be an Empath
Tanuj Siripurapu (12)
“Oh my god, I just completely bombed that test. My parents are going to kill me”
Aw, I’m sorry. I understand. But you know it’s really not a big deal, right? Life goes on.
“No, you don’t understand, this is going to ruin everything!”
Oh no, really, it’s not a big deal, I think everything will be fine.
“Quick, wake up! Your father is in the hospital. He was out on a bike ride and collapsed.”
Failure, Rejection, Disappointment. To be an empath is to bond over a shared experience. To overcome an issue that both of you, through some benign but common experience, can relate to and solve as a unit. To offer support for someone going through something that you had to suffer alone because you, more than anyone, know no one else should have to bear such suffering alone.
ECMO. Extra Corporeal Membrane Oxygenation. A life support mechanism used when the heart and lungs, the epicenter of the entire human body, decide they have pumped one too many drops of blood and oxygen and give up. It provides the necessary elements for human life as if they are still there, alive and well, breathing normally beside you. As if. You tenderly hold your mother, who no one can empathize with, How can one lose a partner of decades in the blink of an eye?
War, famine, disease. To be an empath is to attempt to comprehend the horrors of people who only exist in the daily evening news broadcast or the depressing statistic you read every morning with your coffee. Maybe to be an empath is to tsk or yell or maybe even shed a tear at the suffering aliens on the screen before you switch it off and continue about your day?
Or not. As an ocean separates you
from the squalor, only the eyes that look you up and down in the mirror judge you.
Prayer. The soft rise and fall of the stomach of a sleeping parent would generally be comforting if it wasn’t accompanied by the jarring beep of an ECG monitor. The artificial breath that you try and pretend is real, but deep down you know is driven by a machine. The faint smell of putrid bodily fluids attempting to hang in the air before they are immediately
knocked off by the pungent sterile fumes of chemical-grade sanitizing alcohol. “There is nothing we can do but wait.” You hope that somewhere, a distant being of unimaginable power has empathy.
Law and order. Empathy straddles the fine line between legally dubious and morally necessary. True empathy supersedes the law and the social contract. A true empath puts themselves in the shoes of a migrant worker in a Third World country, with
Rainy Day
Sean Tsai (10)
worker in a Third World country, with a young family depending on him for survival, who makes less than three dollars a day, who turns to crossing the border illegally; if he were to wait for the excruciatingly long visa process his family would surely starve. A true empath does not frown upon a family man who breaks his promise with Uncle Sam to keep one he made to his wife.
Brain death. The complete and irreversible stopping of all brain functions. A brain that was active, intelligent, and brilliant not 24 hours earlier ceases to think another thought. The doctors pull back the nests of tubes and machines that kept him alive, revealing a man at peace in an eternal nap. There is no empathy. How can you empathize with a creature that no longer breathes?
Frustration. True empathy is feeling for your mother, who won’t let you out of the house without access to your location and who doesn’t want you to drive when droplets rain from the sky any faster than the rhythm of a slow waltz. She does not mean to inconvenience you; she just cannot subdue her protective motherly instincts, which are only worsened by her tragic loss. A true empath will suck it up and return before curfew and pick up every call in an effort to ease her suffering as much as possible. I am not a true empath.
Grief. A crowd of colleagues, friends, distant relatives, fills the gloomy hall. Fixed below your wailing mother, who curses and begs and cries for him to come back, he lies in eternal rest. Dressed in a pink dress shirt and treated with enough chemicals to keep the body humanoid for long enough to be viewed, you reach for a stone-cold, rigid hand. One by one, solemnly lined up, they approach you offering condolences. “Are you doing OK?”, they sympathetically inquire as if the answer isn’t made plainly obvious by your wailing mother, whose whimpers are interrupted by shrieks that
Sending Light
pierce the hall. They are just trying to be empathetic. Maybe it’s the thought that counts.
Perseverance. To be an empath is to understand it is not the end of the world. Life will go on. The memories fade, you forget the chords of their voice and the smell that wafts in as they enter a room. True empathy extends to yourself as well and does not punish you for simply moving on. You deserve it. A true empath extends the same hand of support to themselves as far as they do to others.
Self-empathy loosens the knot that tightens around your chest and restricts your breath.
Selflessness. To be an empath is to put aside obstacles you have dealt with
for years when someone complains about the most mundane and mild annoyance. If they were to experience what you have been through, live their life in your shoes, their complaints would be rendered so inconsequential, it would retreat into the deepest recesses of their conscience, never to be granted a passing thought. To them, it is important. To them, it is all they know.
“Oh my god, I just completely bombed that test. My parents are going to kill me”
Oh. That’s terrible. It is a big deal. Let me help you.
Amy Pan (12)
Bleeding
Anika Kalia (9)
If I could take scissors, And cut o what I didn’t like, (What would be left?)
Standing in the mirror, I try and I try, (She deserves nothing less) They tell me I should be grateful, Then spill a snide remark, They compliment me in front of others,
And taunt me in the dark, They ‘fix up’ all my ‘pieces,’ Then hammer out a hole, You can’t tell me this is a free country, When I don’t own my soul, When broken hearts and twisted dreams,
Swirl in puddles, Breaking seams, When soft ribbons, And velvet sleeves, Seem to bleed with my screams, When I’m wrapped in warm words, But tears are pouring through the sheets.
When I’m held at the heart, And then they crush me with deceit—
They say I’m their pride and joy, But hold their expectations up so high,
I reach, I climb up hills, They run, they hunt, they kill, I try, I try, I try, (She’s stupid when she cries.)
But when broken hearts and twisted dreams,
Engulf you whole, Encage your gleam, It’s not always how it seems, (You have to hurt, to know to bleed) But at least that blood, Can make a girl, Who’s here to say they haven’t won. At least that girl, Who knows her worth,
Can make a team that’s just begun. At least that team is in a time, Where others aren’t left alone,
At least we know that when we cry, We have a world to let us know:
At least we have the arms to write, At least we have the legs to run, At least we have the hips to climb, (and reach the stars they call too high),
Untitled
Celina Ren
(11)
At least we have the skin to feel, At least we have the lungs to breath,
At least we have the height to help, At least we have the blood to bleed.
(If you could take scissors, and cut o what you didn’t like, Would there be anything left?...)
Light bulbs
Joanne Zhang (11)
Looking too long burns your eyes out of their sockets.
Remembering guts you with soft fingers and a scalpel.
I cannot promise otherwise; it will cut through shipwrecks of the mind from time to time.
Every coiled-spring cell in your body will be inundated with brightness, potent, dizzying light, the past in needles.
Too much to bear, but for any solace at all, so too will they fall like rain. Die and sink.
You will fish up new fragments— still glowing, light bulbs in sunshine. bigger, but if not just as small as all of us
SF if gavin newsom didn’t exist
Neel Reddy (12)