Hemline 2024-25 Issue #1 - Reach Beyond

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

04 Editors’ Note 04 Team Photo 05 Truth and Illusion: A Performance About Reaching Beyond Stigmas and Derogatory Beliefs Kylah Gallagher 07 Beyond the World of Black & White Zuleica (Seoeun) Cheon 08 Stress Relievers Sofia DiFilippi 10 Wax And Wane Ashe Hui 12 Growth is Like Cooking Nihari: A Nomad’s Journey to Finding Belonging Manha Hussain 15 Research on Artistic Piece Zuleica (Seoeun) Cheon 16 Reaching Beyond to Save Lives: Bioprinting Isabel Elkins 19 Neurons: The Stars of our Brain Sunny Wang 21 Bravery’s Masquerade Lauren Liu

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

23 The Industrial City Claire Wang 29 Whispers in the Stacks Ashe Nishimura and Maia McKinney 31 Risk of Life Mariska Vandennoort 32 Hearts Collection Claire Wang 33 Lady In White Ashe Hui 35 View Out the Window Ava Bertucci 36 Spice and Sentiment Xixi Song 39 Planetary Nebula Special Events/Promo Team 40 The Power of Purpose: How to Gain Your Sense of Direction when Everything Feels Off-Course Rebekah Alwin 42 Festive Recipe: Brookies The Hemline team 44 Winter Playlist L. Franco Davanzo 3

The Hemline team, 2024-2025 EDITORS’ NOTE

Hello, readers!

Welcome to our first Hemline edition for the 2024-2025 school year! Hemline is a student-led anthology dedicated to sharing and highlighting the creative voices here at SMLS. The theme of this first issue is Reaching Beyond to mirror our school theme for the year. In this anthology, our writers and artists explore the idea of “reaching beyond” physically, socially, and metaphorically.

We want to extend a massive thank you to all the students on our fantastic team, as well as to our incredible teacher leads, Ms. Scarfo and Ms. Vickman! We also want to thank you, our readers, for taking the time to explore this anthology on which we have worked so hard. We hope you enjoy reading this anthology as much as we enjoyed creating and curating it!

- The Hemline Editorial Team

THE TEAM, Fall 2024

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Truth and Illusion: A Performance About Reaching Beyond Stigmas and Derogatory Beliefs

Kylah Gallagher

What is “truth”? What is an “illusion”? How do we define these subjective matters that are continuously fluctuating? These are the questions that make up the very core of the show Truth and Illusion, a show that is “based on the notion that truth and illusion are two powerful forces present in every moment of our lives” (Truth and Illusion).

June Cupido, the fantastic director behind the show, has been a part of the theatre world for over 40 years, and calls herself the “Story Weaver” of Truth and Illusion, which is self-described as “[a] breakthrough performance of perseverance, transcendence and acceptance” (Truth and Illusion). Her work involves coaching individuals through turning their life stories and the challenges they have faced into heartfelt pieces of theatre. In a world overwhelmingly full of prejudice, racism, homophobia, stigma, and people trying to put you down, it can be so difficult to find safe spaces to exist as your true self, and to discuss the parts of you that are affected by the aforementioned struggles of our society. Cupido works tirelessly to create such spaces, and partners with the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health to further the positive impacts of her ingenious work. She believes that “[a]s we uncover our own values and self-esteem, it is important that we are not afraid and that we feel a part of our society” (Truth and Illusion).

On Friday, November 8th, I had the privilege to attend the 2024 Truth and Illusion show, and I would sincerely recommend everyone to follow in my footsteps. The use of music and singing, choral speaking, monologues, staging, and more made the performance a masterclass in creative storytelling that pulls at your heartstrings in an incredibly meaningful way. One struggle that can be faced when telling such deep and personal stories is that the show becomes so heavy to the point where the audience is 5

hesitant to open dialogues about the topics presented. Incredibly, this was not the case with Truth and Illusion, as the use of comedy and the constant switching between stories allowed audience members to digest the show in a way that paved the way for open discussions about the matters at hand, as was evident by the insightful Q&A with the actors and director that followed the performance. What makes the show even more incredible is that most of the actors up on stage are portraying their own stories.

It is one matter to be courageous enough to share one’s story with the world through theatre, but it is another matter entirely to be the one performing. The sheer magnitude of the vulnerability and bravery that takes is nigh-incomprehensible, especially given the often-times traumatic nature of the stories shared, and adds a layer of authenticity to the performance that could not be falsified.

I am endlessly grateful for the the opportunity I had to be able to watch this fantastic work of local theatre, and I sincerely hope that those who read this will take the time to delve further into Cupido’s other works, as only good can come from exposing ourselves to first-hand accounts of the struggles of our modern world.

Works Cited “Truth & Illusion Narratives of Self-Discovery.” Truth and Illusion, JZ Creative Energy Productions, www.truthandillusionworkshop.com/. Accessed 18 Nov. 2024.

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Beyond the World of Black & White

Zuleica (Seoeun) Cheon

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Stress Relievers

Sofia De Filippi

Stress is present in all parts of life: school, work, friendships and social media. Stress will never completely go away; thankfully, there are techniques that can help manage it anywhere and anytime.

1. Breathing This stress reliever is so simple, making it overlooked and significantly underestimated.

Guided breathing and meditation have proven time and time again to slow down a heartbeat and clear the mind to handle any stressful situation in the best way possible.

Meditation and breathing exercises have become so accessible over the past few years that you no longer have to spend money on an overpriced yoga class to find mental peace. You can find everything you need for this stress reliever in a video on YouTube.

One of the most well-known and popular breathing exercises is the 4:6 method.

Breathe in for 4 seconds and out for 6. After doing this for 5-10 minutes, you will have a clear mind and settled nerves.

2. Journaling Sometimes, all the mind needs is to vent. With ten minutes, a pen and paper, just purge yourself of any concerns, nerves, and stress weighing you down. When there's nothing but negativity clogging your mind, it will only increase stress and anxiety. This is why writing your thoughts down lets you get everything on paper, which is better than building it up in your head. This is why list-making is another great strategy; when you think of all the tasks you need to get done in one day, your mind will start building

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stress and anxiety. Prioritizing everything on a list makes the situation much more approachable and easy to accomplish.

3. Social Contact Social contact is another great way to relieve stress. You may think that a crowded environment wouldn't release tension. Still, when you distract yourself with a group of people or an activity you enjoy, you can subconsciously stop worrying and take your mind off of what's bothering you. An example of this is going to the movie theatre with some friends. Watching a movie always directs your attention to what's happening in the film, and it's the perfect escape from reality. Going out with friends also gives your mind a sense of community. When you are stressed, your mind isolates itself from people and only focuses on what's bothering you, making you more closed off to others. Socializing will pull your mind out of the negative isolation and give your mind a reset.

It's important to have stress relievers to relax and calm the mind when stress gets out of hand. These stress techniques can become more personal and modified to fit your needs as you use them and figure out what does and doesn't work. It is important to remind yourself to slow down, be present, and take a break.

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Wax and Wane

Ashe Hui

O’ Moon Lady in the sky, Are my secrets tied in wishful lies?

An Autumn warm in the glow.

Explain it to those who do not know.

“If a girl should stand still, then it will come to you” Muttered, murmured, spoke, “And hide in the comfort of your own shadow.”

O’ Chang’E in the sky, I bow my head, in no disgrace.

Must, sweat covered, mouths agape.

Arrive at said, the winding river.

Melancholic tale, pronounced in shadow.

Play “fate and penance,” sang and bespoken. “月球 (Yuèqiú), inhabitant, may I slumber.”

“Counter, the other, resides in the flames.”

O’ Wife, Goddess of the Moon, 10

Will I shake in anguish and company.

“Everlasting life;” patience in naught, Raise a single hand, the symbol, the peach.

In longevity, “a dragonfly with broken wings” fled.

“Flung from the Earth from my own wantonness!”

“Wyah! Wyah!”, the sky represented was lightened.

“For a woman is yin, a man is yang,” cried O’ Man, unveil your tresses and robes, My wish, secret and clothed.

Your pitiful song rests on the beating depths.

The hands that clamour, reach and to find.

The years hum soundly on the clock’s face, A ticking in the ear, the end of animation.

My lady who rests in the sky, separated.

“My wish is to be found.”

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Growth is Like Cooking Nihari: A Nomad’s Journey to Finding Belonging

Manha Hussain

I am a nomad who has lived in the same house my entire life.

Unlike other newlyweds who spend the month after their wedding on a honeymoon, my parents spent their first month as a married couple packing all of their belongings into moving boxes. These boxes, along with my parents, flew from Aligarh to Toronto 25 years ago, and have never moved back since.

My entire life has been spent in the sandy beige corner house with the oval windows and rosewood door, in a suburb of Toronto. Growing up, I used the walls of the house to block out the noise of the outside world. It was my oasis. My mother would call me a homebody—but I felt far from being one. Physically, I was home. Internally, I struggled to know where I belonged outside the walls of my house.

At school, my Canadian friends constantly asked me if I enjoyed living in Canada more than India—despite reminding them that I had lived in Canada for my entire life, just like them. At family reunions, my Indian relatives spoke in hushed voices about the disservice my parents did by shielding me from their rich Indian culture—despite seeing that my parents took every opportunity to connect me to my heritage. Early in life, I realized that to belong, I had to change who I was to become like those around me. I became nomadic in terms of my personality, moving to a new version of myself around different crowds. My self-worth became based on how accepted I was by others.

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The hours leading up to family gatherings were spent picking the perfect outfit to impress relatives with my connection to my Indian heritage. I had endless options: a copper-coloured lehenga with a simple bodice and a heavily embroidered dupatta (perfect for wedding ceremonies); an emerald green salwar kameez with a gold lattice pattern (disliked by older relatives for its form-fitting design); a blush pink gharara with gold roses stitched into a mesh overlay (worn when meeting my grandma, who handmade it for me); a navy blue velvet kurta and palazzo set (somber enough to be worn to the mosque). Each outfit was finished with beaded nagras and heirloom jewelry that had been in my family for generations.

My family spent the drive to these events singing along to the ‘70s Urdu songs on the radio. My sister would belt out the chorus to “Maine Poochha Chand Se” in her off-pitch, squeaky voice, while my mother quietly hummed along and my father laughed as he waited for his solo performance of “Chaudhvin Ka Chand Ho”—all while I was unusually quiet. For me, the drive was spent practicing the mannerisms and reciting the conversation starters that were part of the persona I would adopt in front of my relatives. The persona of a complaisant Indian girl who only spoke when she was spoken to, could converse without mixing up ‫ ر‬with ‫ڑ‬, and was comfortable with her identity.

This persona was loved by her relatives. Elders appreciated that she was in tune with her heritage but wasn’t too opinionated. Others were in awe of her genuine love for Indian culture. Her parents were congratulated for raising a great daughter.

Making it through hours of rehearsed conversations and squirming in the itchy fabric of my clothes was rewarded with a lavish spread of traditional Indian foods served at the end of each reunion. Family members lined up behind an endless row of dishes, served buffet-style, filling their plates with the aromatic food. Looking down the aisle was like getting a glimpse into paradise. The row always began with pillowy naan slathered in sizzling garlic butter, followed by Bihari kebabs that were perfectly charred on the outside yet possessed a buttery softness on the inside that made them melt in your mouth. Nihari, an intensely spicy and velvety slow-cooked beef broth, was also a staple in the lineup of dishes. Arrays of curries filled the middle of the table, often including palak paneer, a dish consisting of chewy cheese curds covered in a vivid green spinach sauce. Biryani was always placed near the end of the row of food, and its layers of saffron-infused rice, tender chicken covered in a creamy marinade, and subtly sweet sauteed onions could be smelled from the opposite end of the table, taunting us to add a pile of it to our plate. As I made my way across the table of dishes, the joy I felt was not a part of the persona I had carefully crafted, but rather my genuine reaction to 13

the heavenly food. Eager to enjoy my reward, I served myself a spoonful of every dish—except for the pasta at the end of the row.

She did not eat pasta. The pasta at the end of the row was made for the Canadian-born children who could not handle the spice and strong flavours in the Indian food. She could handle the flavours. She could handle the spice. She was a real Indian. She belonged. If she touched the pasta, she would be worthless. I would be worthless.

The other personas I had crafted had a similarly complicated relationship with food.

Lunch meet-ups with Canadian friends were dulled by the bland vegetarian food I ordered, as explaining my religious dietary restrictions on meat would make them see me as an outsider. At school, I was the first to volunteer for food-centric dares, hoping it would earn my friends’ respect. It was easy to ignore the consequences of these dares, such as throwing up after eating a rotten jelly bean or feeling a burning sensation in my stomach for days after eating spoonfuls of wasabi, as long as the dares made me feel more worthy.

My nomadic personality was the result of a constant chase to be accepted by others.

This chase was fueled by my flawed beliefs that belonging was only possible through assimilation and that self-worth should be influenced by others’ opinions.

A few weeks ago, I attended another family gathering. I wore a beaded white kurta and sharara, draped in a vibrant floral dupatta, along with gold jhumkas and light pink nagras. On the drive to the reunion, I sang along to the songs on the radio. When relatives asked about my future plans, I confided in them about my real, raw passions.

Time flew by, until, suddenly, dinner was served. I walked across the table of dishes and filled my plate with the steaming hot food. Mindlessly, once I made it to the end of the lineup, I reached out to serve myself a spoonful of the final dish on the table—but my hand froze. It was the pasta at the end of the row.

I dropped the spoon and turned around.

Even after years of reflecting, a part of me is still the nomad I always have been.

Growth is a slow process, like cooking nihari. The best nihari is slowly braised for hours and needs constant stirring, but the result is a delicious bowl of beef broth. Similarly, growth takes time and constant action. But, the result is one to savour.

Maybe someday, I’ll eat the pasta at the end of the row. For now, I’ll cook my nihari.

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Research on a Famous Art Piece

Zuleica Cheon

Artist: Salvador Dalí Title of Artwork: The Persistence of Memory

The Persistence of Memory was painted in 1931 by a famous surrealist artist named Salvador Dalí. The dream-like environment of this piece stretches the boundaries of time and perception, inviting viewers to reach beyond and imagine realms surpassing conventional reality.

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Reaching Beyond to Save Lives: Bioprinting

Isabel Elkins

In 2023, there were over 3400 people waiting for an organ transplant in Canada alone.

Of those, 216 died waiting. The reason why is simple: a lack of donors. But what if there was a way to execute an organ transplant, skin graft, or bone graft without a donor necessary? That’s the question many researchers exploring bioprinting ask themselves. While the concept of 3D printing organic human tissue may seem like something out of a science fiction movie, biological printing is real and has already proved helpful.

What is 3D Bioprinting, and How Does it Work?

Bioprinting is the creation of complex tissues with the ultimate goal of imitating organ structures. This process uses bioinks, a natural or synthetic polymer that holds the structure together, and living materials, like cells. This practice of imitating natural structures has already shown huge benefits in regenerative and personalised medicine, tissue engineering, and drug development and testing.

The process is just like normal 3D printing, but instead of metal or plastic, bioprinting uses organic materials, which can include stem cells, skin cells, and even bone marrow.

These organic materials are then taken and cultivated until they are ready to use. Next, a researcher will take the bioink and load them into the printer, in a similar fashion to a regular printer, and then start the printing process. The 3D bioprinter follows detailed computer designs and models over the course of many hours, carefully depositing

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layers upon layers of bioink. The end result varies depending on the needs of the patient or researcher, but is typically live tissue or tissue fragments.

The History of Bioprinting While 3D bioprinting is a relatively new process, starting only in the early 2000s, its origins began in 1984, when Charles Hull first invented the 3D printer. Over a decade later, Anthony Atla and his team of researchers at Boston Children's Hospital used 3D bioprinting for the first time ever to create 3D urinary bladders. In 2003, Thomas Boland, a bioengineer at the University of Texas, invented cell-embedded 3D bioprinting, a technology still used today. A year later, Anthony Atla moved his base of operations to Wake Forest Institute for Regenerative Medicine, where he created machines that could print customised scaffolds for human organs. Since then, bioprinting and its applications in the medical field have advanced further than many thought was possible. On June 5, 2013, a patient with late-stage kidney disease successfully underwent a transplant surgery and became the first person ever to receive a bioprinted blood vessel. In even more recent history, the Canadian government invested 5 million CAD in a collaborative project between universities and industry partners to develop bioprinted cardiac tissues, which could save thousands of lives.

Applications of Bioprinting in Real Life Even though the goal of creating human organs for transplant has not been achieved, there is no denying the impact bioprinting has had on the medical world. For example, bone grafts currently use a cement-based polymer mixed with a patient’s bone; bioprinting now allows an artificial bone to be created using material compatible with the patient's body, which significantly lowers the risk of rejection. As well, in cases in which a patient does not have enough skin to perform a proper skin graft, bioprinting technology can cultivate and print skin cells from a patient directly onto their wound, reducing the amounts of unharmed skin tissue needed for the procedure. Bioprinted blood vessels and cartilage have already had successful transplants, and, possibly within the next few years, whole bioprinted organs may follow suit.

Over its relatively short existence, biological 3D printing has advanced to real, applicable solutions. Bioprinting has the ability to save thousands, if not millions, of people and may make organ donors a thing of the past. With so many advancements in such a small amount of time, it's not difficult to imagine a world where transplant waiting lists no longer exist and an organ can be designed, printed, and successfully implanted into a patient within a matter of days. While bioprinting is relatively new, it holds the opportunity for massive advancements.

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Works Cited

Australian Academy of Science. "What Is Bioprinting?" Science.org.au, https://www.science.org.au/curious/people-medicine/bioprinting

Canadian Institute for Health Information. "Organ Transplants in Canada: Donations and Need." CIHI, 31 Dec. 2023, www.cihi.ca/en/organ-transplants-in-canada-donations-and-need#:~:text=As%2 0of%20December%2031%2C%202023%2C%20509%20people%20were%20wai ting%20for,were%20waiting%20for%20a%20transplant.

CELLINK. "Bioprinting Explained Simply." www.cellink.com/blog/bioprinting-explained-simply/.

Pati, D., et al. "Bioprinting of 3D Cellular Structures Using Hydrogels." PubMed

Central, National Library of Medicine, 3 Oct. 2016, www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5043457/.

Scientific American. "First Bioengineered Blood." Scientific American, 12 Dec. 2023, www.scientificamerican.com/article/first-bioengineered-blood/.

UPM Biomedicals. "What Is 3D Bioprinting?" UPM Biomedicals, www.upmbiomedicals.com/solutions/life-science/what-is-3d-bioprinting/#:~:text =3D%20bioprint ing%20is%20a%20technology,engineering%20and%20new%20drug%20develo pment.

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Neurons: The Stars of our Brain

Sunny Wang

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Bravery’s Masquerade

Lauren Liu

Jump off a cliff— That's risk-taking, right?

Over the edge, let the fear consume you.

Let the dread of endless sleep swallow you whole, Until all that's left is devastation.

Feel the wind at the cliff’s edge brush past your face, Blinding your vision, Engulfing your sight.

Silence your thoughts and fall—let all be at peace.

Until the last second, as you plummet to the ground, And your mind erupts back into life, throbbing with regret.

Feel the burning, piercing pain as you are crushed, by you and everything else.

When faced with death, everyone’s a little afraid.

Panic arises, and the lies you fed yourself To muster blind courage crumbles away.

As the muffled howl of the wind grows louder, The ground rushes up to meet you, And you realize— This is not bravery.

This is not risk-taking.

It is pure foolishness.

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Like a fool in a crowd, desperately performing, Blindly taking on risks, Trying to impress the shadows, the voices, the people.

A actor, numbly dancing on a lonely stage, Addressing an empty crowd.

Left alone, you delve into your thoughts, Pondering in a life filled with wonders— Where spring dresses in green, Summer in flowers, autumn in gold, And winter in white.

But you— You wore the skin of someone else, Pretending to be something you’re not.

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The Industrial City

Claire Wang

The infamous traveling circus “The Industrial City” had stationed itself in Brightford a little over three days ago, and was already the talk of the town. I have heard of this circus before. The project was widely written about when it first began. The concept was attractive to people worldwide even back when they were still pitching the idea—a traveling circus, roaming the world on a giant, steam-engine train.

Some call it a mechanical nuisance; the sheer size of the train shrouds the sunlight, casting a giant shadow over the entire town for the whole week of its stay. Farmers and energy workers complained that it hampers their labor efficiency by obscuring the only source of natural solar radiation they had. However, they are in the minority, as most people were simply glad to have something to distract them from their dull, repetitive day jobs.

There is not much to do in Brightford on most days. Our town is a small one, isolated in the shallow valley between two mountains. Nothing ever happens. Everyone is preoccupied with their work. So you can imagine the excitement generated when it was announced that this world-famous locomotive would be stopping in our little village.

I am not usually interested in live shows, let alone the circus; but one cannot blame me for being at least a little drawn to all the publicity, especially when word is being spread that the circus is holding captive a real fallen angel.

‘The Flight of an Angel.’ That’s the name of the performance they were all referring to.

In fact, it is the most popular show on board right now. It was strange, it was 23

mysterious, it felt exotic. Angels were urban legends, so how did this circus even manage to obtain one? Curiosity finally got the best of me.

The tickets were not easy to obtain. There were a total of five shows for the duration of the train’s week stay, and almost all had been sold out within a few hours. Yet somehow, out of sheer luck, I managed to claim myself a front-row seat for their last show.

After all, I am no different from everyone else here. Just a plain man seeking a bit of entertainment; the only medicine known to cure boredom.

I boarded the wagon in my best suit the night of the spectacle. I read one of the posters on the wall, on it was written their slogan: “No one leaves The Industrial City quite the same”. They branded themselves as a circus offering unforgettable performances that might just change your life. I don’t know how much I bought this claim, but it certainly has its poeticism. I’ll give it that.

Immediately after entering the train, an attendant handed me a mask. A “spectator mask”, she called it and instructed me to wear it over my face. It was a simple white half-face mask that covered the eyes and nose. Everyone inside the circus wore a mask.

The entrance was a narrow passageway illuminated by old gaslights. I felt slightly uneasy at first, but then all my worries eased once I reached the first car, replaced by a feeling of amazement. I knew the place was ostentatious, but nothing could have prepared me for the sheer fantastical mechanical world that I would be welcomed into.

The aroma of sweet caramel popcorn and coal filled the air. Rich burgundy velvets suspended from the ceiling, the space warmly brightened by chandeliers and strobe lights, colorful banners hung off the ceiling, and posters covered every mahogany paneled wall. Fast melodies were played on calliopes, mixed with deep notes of a pipe organ, and supporting lines of some string instrument. Entertainers in flamboyant costumes and dancers wearing sparkly burlesque attire twirled around the car, chatting with the spectators. The Industrial City felt like an entirely different dimension.

I lined up with other spectators in front of a tunnel, and we were led to a giant stadium at what I assumed to be the center of the train. The stadium looked equally if not more impressive than the rest of the train. The interior of the tent was weaved from a red silk-like material, letting in just the slightest glow of the pale moonlight. The seats were made of a luxurious fabric, branded with the circus’s logo; a circular gear with spikes 24

that mimicked the Sun. The gold embellishment on the railings supported faces mounted with silver, with expressions that seemed familiar but I could not decipher.

There must be at least five hundred seats in this stadium. I could swear the train did not appear this spacious from the outside. I sat down at my seat, it did not take long for the rest of the spectators to do the same.

Then, the show began.

The Ringmaster announced the first few acts. Do not get me wrong, the performances were great: acrobats flew above the crowds, magicians made doves fly from their top hats, and clowns juggled various objects while riding unicycles. But there was an undeniable atmosphere of tension that was building within the crowd. A kind of anticipation and impatience; like was only the appetizer but everyone was starving for the main course. It did not take a genius to guess what they were all thinking: “When is the angel going to show up?”

When the last few clowns rolled out of the ring, the lights went out. The loud chattering around me turned to excited whispers.

Suddenly, a bright spotlight illuminated the center of the stage. There was a cage. A golden-rimmed, giant bird cage. Inside, a solitary silhouette draped in a black cloak sat, unmoving. Its head was bowed, and it was wearing a blindfold.

The figure started to move. The cloak over his shoulder fell, revealing a grand pair of wings. White feathers, velvety and sleek, sprouting from his back. Just like in the myths.

The crowd around me was gasping and murmuring in awe.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The voice of the ringleader resounded over the intercoms of the stadium “I present to you, the final number this evening, the one you’ve all been waiting for: The Flight of an Angel!”

The angel unfurled its wings to their full span. With a powerful leap, the majestic creature took to the air, only to be pulled back down barely a few feet up. It was chained to the ground, I realized, as I saw the shackles clasped around his ankles.

“Let’s give a round of applause for our dear Angeviel, our one and only angel at the circus!” The ringmaster announced again “Come on! I want to hear your cheers, let’s encourage him to escape the cage!”

An escape act. That’s what it was then.

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The angel got back up, standing with shaky, quivering legs. It was as if he did not know how to distribute his weight evenly. He expanded his wings again for another attempt, feathers falling from beating vigorously against the oppressive force below. He stumbled and fell again.

This would go on for some time, but no one in the crowd seemed to be complaining.

Everyone seemed to be mesmerized by the movements of the angel’s wings. Seeing this mythical creature in person was enough for them to forget everything. To me though, the metallic clanking at each tug made me increasingly uncomfortable… It felt like I was watching an animal trying to break free from captivity.

The angel pulled on the chains, struggling against the unbreakable bonds. He yanked again and again, each tug fueled by desperation, but the metal held firm.

Eventually, though, the chains finally snapped. The momentum sent the angel backward, hitting the bars of the cage.

I winced. Was this supposed to be entertainment? Apparently yes, as people around me reacted with enthusiastic applause. I was disgusted.

It was also then, that the blindfold the angel wore fell. The black fabric landed softly on the ground. Maybe it was just me sitting in the front row, but I caught a glimpse of his eyes. They looked awfully… human-like. Awfully… pained. The rest of the audience did not seem to notice, however. Or perhaps they simply did not care. They were enjoying the show, laughing and whistling.

Ange slumped down against the golden bars of the cage. He appeared exhausted. The shakes around his ankles had bruised the skin around him. I wondered if he was even going to finish the act if it even was an act.

“What is wrong with it?” someone in the crowd asked loudly.

“This isn’t supposed to happen I think… it wasn’t like this yesterday…” whispered another.

“Get up Ange!”

“I didn’t pay all that money just for your angel not to do its trick!”

The crowd burst into complaints, a tempestuous sea of angry masks. Soon, food items were being thrown into the stadium.

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The ringmaster was clearly furious and panicked at this upheaval, and tried to appeal to the masses. “Spectators! Let’s not get agitated so soon! The show is not over yet!”

“We don’t care! Is your angel going to do its thing or not?”

“He will! He will!” the ringleader frantically shouted. Then, as if catching up to his discomposure, forced his voice smooth again “Our dear Ange just finds it too easy… it ennuies him. Say, ladies and gentlemen, what do you think will make this act more exciting?”

The crowd mumbled among themselves, I caught a few words of what they were suggesting.

“Suspend the cage into the air!” “No he can fly, that’s not going to have any risks.”

“Live snakes!” “Throw blades at him!”

I was horrified. How could someone propose something like that? I whipped around to glare at the idiot who shouted that, but everyone looked the same under their white masks.

Then the loudest voice shouted, “No, I know! Fire! Light the cage on fire!”

To my dread, the others joined in. “Fire! Fire! Fire!” they began chanting.

‘Man is the cruelest animal’. I had read this quotation somewhere before, though I cannot remember where. In any case, it never rang truer than at this moment.

“What? Is that fire I hear?” The ringmaster asked. The crowds cheered. “Very well then, let’s make that happen!” he raised his cane to the air, and seemingly out of nowhere, mechanical arms sprang from the sides of the stage, and sprayed the cage with gasoline. The ringmaster dragged the end of his cane across the stage ground, and it lit like a match. He then joined the tip of the cane to the iron bars of the cage, and it quickly caught aflame.

Inside, Ange jerked in surprise. Was this part of the performance? Unfortunately, I was close enough to see his eyes widening in what I assumed to be panic. His reaction made it clear to me that it wasn’t.

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“You know Ange, the gasoline I used is from the Propane Falls of Atlantika, this fire is not going to stop burning until you escape this cage,” he said in an odd tone, halfway between an advertisement and a scare.

Ange bowed his head down, then suddenly unfurled his wings to their full span. He launched up to the top of the cage. The air seems to stir around them as if drawn by an invisible force, the flames on the metal faltering with each wing stroke. Then, he was so fast I could barely track his movements, one moment he was on the ground, and the next, he was a blur of shimmering light flying in patternless directions inside the cage.

Before I could understand what had happened, The sharp sound of the metal being sliced echoed throughout the stadium. The crowds fell silent. I held my breath.

“My name is Angeviel of The Industrial City” The voice was smooth, slightly accented with something foreign I could not quite pin down.

I looked up, and there he was. Ange, wings outstretched, gliding through the air, descending to the ground with effortless elegance. Pieces of burning white feathers were slowly falling all around him. The spotlight spilling over him created almost a sparkling halo of light behind his head. That’s it, the image of an angel like in the myths. He looks magnificent.

He can speak??? That was my first thought.

“I hope you enjoyed my show. Have a good night, everyone” Ange smiled and bowed down gracefully.

The crowd at once, stood up and erupted into cheers and applause.

Maybe I was surprised that he could speak the same language as us, or maybe it was having the heavenly so near, but at this moment, I suddenly wanted nothing more than to run away and hide.

Tonight I experienced the supernatural. I have had the chance to see a creature of urban legends up close, and watch it perform for my “entertainment”.

I do not remember leaving the stadium. It was as if I was still in some sort of trance. As I stepped off the train and removed my mask, I was left with the overwhelming feeling that the inhuman one here tonight was not the angel.

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Whispers in the Stacks

Ashe Nishimura and Maia McKinney

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Risk of Life

Mariska Vandennoort

To stay inside your comfort zone or stay inside the box, like some people say, is a common metaphor that refers to not trying anything new or taking on risk. People constantly will assume that when someone says to “stay inside your comfort zone”, the person in question takes no risks. In reality, no one can stop themselves from taking risks. It is physically impossible. Every single movement made is a risk—opening your eyes in the morning, blinking, even talking. We, as humans, think of risks as big acts that can, at any time, blow up in our faces. Yet, when we look at the bigger picture, we realise that every single action fits under the criteria. Perspective is everything, and risk isn’t as all-consuming as we think.

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Hearts Collection

Claire Wang

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Lady In White

Ashe Hui

“Care for some tea?”

She murmurs and I wring my hands, Heart beating fast, leaping out of my chest.

Never had thought, I’d make it so, so and so long, far.

And ache duly subsided as my eyes met with hers.

I mutter “sorry”.

But just loud enough to hear, as my hand slips on a key that was held in my palm.

I had died twice.

Twice for the woman I loved. And love, I did as I put my lips to her hand at last.

Her face is pale, Her eyes bore into her own hand to, Perform cordial and weathered smiles.

My love is a quiet, Beautiful woman, graceful in nature, As wonderful and prim as a rose flower.

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A rose sports thorns, Digs its way into flesh and skin, Pricks the blood of romance on a lover’s hand.

Again I loved, Loved her so, wore the form of a man, To wed her, and vow for the rest of my life.

And so we pronounced, She had loved me too, and dearly so.

My bride dressed in White would walk the aisle.

That fateful day, In The Eye of The Hound, a, Jealous man had her lay rest in Death.

And Death met her, Her smile forever frozen in the grasps of time, My Lady in White.

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View Out The Window

Ava Bertucci

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Spice and Sentiment

Xixi Song

In a Chinese family like ours, everything tastes better with a kick of spice—unless you’re my brother, who treats chilli like poison. Standing at a height of 5’2” and being well past his baby teeth, my sixth grade brother still reacts to spice like it’s a personal attack.

In most families, a kid’s low spice tolerance wouldn’t have been an issue, but in ours, it was a full-on crisis. Yet, my parents had always been understanding toward his “condition”, as we jokingly call it. Even when our family was at a Sichuan restaurant where every plate brimmed with peppers and red chilli oil, my mom found a way to ask the kitchen for at least one dish that was completely mild, just for him. Amidst the tangy smell of cayenne peppers, the excited chatter of diners, and the dozens of hurried waiters, there sat a mother who desperately wanted her son to leave the restaurant with a full stomach. “Please make sure this chicken is entirely spice-free,” my mom would say as the waitress took our order. “It’s not spicy, right?” she would ask, pointing to the food as it was placed on the table.

To others who didn’t know my brother, they would think that my mom was being overly careful. But they would immediately think otherwise after witnessing one of his “allergic reactions” to spicy food where he would sprint around the restaurant trying to “run off the heat.” After that, he would refuse to take another bite of the food. Something more enraging was when he wouldn’t even take that first bite, saying that the dish wasn’t appetising, that it looked spicy (just because it was red), or that he just wasn’t hungry. As someone who adored spicy food more than anything else, I felt like I was making great sacrifices for his well-being, yet he lacked the sense to be grateful. So, 36

situations like this often ended with me simmering in rage until it exploded in his direction.

To say that I didn’t feel bad the second I stopped screaming would be a total lie. In fact, every time I finished releasing my anger, I would stand there stiffly. Head down, mouth glued shut, no longer mad but drenched by a tsunami of pure guilt. No matter how hard I tried convincing myself that he deserved the scolding, I knew he didn’t—at least not from me. Growing up, I always saw the older sister in traditional Chinese stories painted as this gentle, understanding, and selfless creature who finds joy through sacrifices and laughs through tears. Though my mom refrained from holding her own values over my head, she still couldn’t help but give me a nudge to be more accepting: “We’re a family, and family members should learn to tolerate each other for who they are.” My dad, on the other hand, spoke plainly: “You’re the older sister, but you certainly aren’t acting like one.” This was always the part where I'd ask him what “being an older sister” meant and he’d throw adjectives at me. Then we’d end up arguing, but never really resolving anything. He was the type of person who saw things in black and white, and sometimes, that helped cut through the noise when I got lost in my own emotions. This wasn’t one of those times. As heavy as my guilt was and as hard as it tugged on me, I could never turn into the person described by those stories or my dad. I was both unable to, and unwilling; because every time I tried, it felt like swallowing my own voice.

As this unpleasant experience recurred, I began to search for an explanation. How was it that I could be perfectly polite towards people I disliked but couldn’t control my anger with someone so close to me? How come I couldn’t simply play the role of an amiable sister? The answer eventually came to me. It was a normal kindergarten afternoon at home. Streaks of sunlight streamed through the window and splattered onto the dining room table where my parents and I sat for dinner, with my soon-to-arrive baby brother. My mom scooped herself a bowl of steamed spinach, then turned to face me. To a child who despised all green-leafed vegetables with a burning passion, that pile of spinach looked like a mountain that was impossible to summit.

Imagine my disbelief when she said, “I’ll bet you I can finish this entire bowl within a minute,” and how eagerly I accepted. She promised to get me a new set of markers if I won, and I promised to sleep in my own bedroom that night if she did. At first glance, these conditions seemed to favour me. But I was one of those children who feared monsters at night. For five-year-old me, my mom’s soft snores and even breathing were what kept those creatures away.

I lost the bet and honoured my word. After lying in the dark for what seemed like an eternity, twisting and turning while telling myself that I was the only living thing in the 37

room, I could no longer bear the deafening silence. I slowly crawled out, tiptoed across the hall, and gently knocked on my mom’s door. She wasn’t asleep and asked what was wrong. I described to her, with vivid detail, the way the door handles looked like eyes that followed my every move, the way I heard whispers all around me, and how the darkness swallowed me whole. She listened quietly, and for a moment I thought she wavered. My mom was that lenient, soft-hearted type of parent who loved me too much to force me into an uncomfortable position. But that day, she sent me back to my room, and the rest of the night was spent sitting beside her shut door, a place close enough to hear the faint rumble of her snores. That little girl, feeling abandoned, was distressed, disappointed, and distraught. She didn’t understand that the approaching birth of my baby brother meant there had to be an empty space on my mom’s bed. All she felt was a deep sense of betrayal, like the world had shifted beneath her feet.

As I became old enough to understand what had really happened, the feeling of betrayal morphed into jealousy and lingered. Whenever my parents showed the slightest sign of siding with my brother, my thoughts immediately returned to that night beside my mom’s door, the feeling of helplessness rushing back all at once. Anger was nothing but a defence mechanism. Beneath my rage and fury laid a deeply-rooted sadness, the kind that sprang from the suspicion that my interests had once again been pushed aside for my brother’s sake. That same feeling of jealousy followed me into every meal and never really died down.

This past May, my family gathered at a restaurant to celebrate my seventeenth birthday. It was a Sichuan restaurant, one I’d been dying to try. My parents let me pick all the dishes, and as always, I took forever deciding. I expected to see my brother looking impatient or hear my dad giving suggestions for the order, but everyone waited quietly. I eventually finished. As I reached my arm out to grab the water in front of me, I asked my brother which dish he wanted non-spicy. Before he could say anything, my dad interrupted: “It’s your birthday, so order what you like tonight.” I froze mid-sip, the glass resting on my lips like a word to be spoken. My eyes darted toward the other person who’d usually object. He gave a small shrug, and said without looking up from his video game: “Yeah, just order whatever. I’m not hungry anyway.”

Amidst the tangy smell of cayenne peppers, the excited chatter of diners, and the dozens of waiters hurrying by, my stillness seemed so out of place. There was no forgiveness, no closure, no letting go, just the feeling that birthdays really are magical.

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Planetary Nebula

The Hubble Space Telescope studied two dramatic planetary nebulas, a reflection of how we have reached beyond our universe.

Image credit: NASA, ESA, and J. Kastner (RIT)

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The Power of Purpose: How to Gain Your Sense of Direction when Everything Feels Off-Course

Rebekah Alwin

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” This is a question that we either dread to hear or have been hearing since we first discovered the ability to speak. It is a question that resurfaces in our minds every once and a while, but it’s the moments when we are unsure of how to answer it that leave us in complete silence. What if we’re still not sure of what we want to do with our lives? What if we haven’t found our “calling” yet? Does that make us completely worthless to society? Absolutely not.

It’s completely alright if you are still unsure of where life is going to take you. In fact, that is the whole purpose of life itself. It takes time to figure out what we truly want to do as individuals, and even though it may feel like it’s going nowhere, with time and experience, we will eventually gain an understanding of ourselves and our purpose in this ever-changing world.

However, feeling incompetent due to not having a sense of direction is a thought that does not disappear easily. Society believes the only successful people in life are the ones with clarity in their direction, which is certainly not the case. Therefore, to help eliminate this thought once and for all, here are four tips to help gradually gain your sense of direction when everything feels off-course: 1) Take a Step Back and Reflect: We sometimes feel lost because we are too caught up in the daily grind to focus on 40

where we are and where we want to go. Set aside some alone time to think about life.

Journal, meditate, or simply sit in solitude and think about questions like: -

What are my strengths and weaknesses?

What have I learned from my past experiences?

What do I really want for my future?

2) Set Small, Achievable Goals: Feeling lost can make large ambitions appear overwhelming. Breaking things down into smaller, more manageable tasks makes the journey of self-discovery less daunting.

3) Practise Self-Compassion: When we feel lost, it's easy to be hard on ourselves. However, self-criticism can make things worse and create a barrier to moving forward. Practising self-compassion allows us to approach the situation with patience and kindness, which is essential for making progress.

4) Redefine the Meaning of Success: Society frequently defines success in terms of external accomplishments (money, position, titles), but when feeling off track, such external markers may not provide the fulfilment we need. Take some time to write down what success means to you personally. What would a fulfilling life look like on your own terms? Focusing on our own values, passions, and priorities can help reclaim our direction in terms of personal fulfilment rather than cultural standards.

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Festive Recipe: Brookies

The Hemline Team

Reach beyond, and combine your brownies with cookies! Brookies are the perfect dessert when you can’t choose between these two delicious desserts. They are sweets made with a chocolate chip cookie layer that sits on top of rich, chocolate fudge brownies for an absolutely incredible holiday treat!

Credit: Kim’s Cravings Brownie Layer: ● 1/2 cup unsalted butter, melted ● 3/4 cup granulated sugar ● 1/2 cup light brown sugar ● 3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder ● 2 large eggs ● 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ● 1/4 teaspoon baking powder ● 1/2 cup all-purpose flour Cookie Layer: ● 1/2 cup unsalted butter, melted ● 1/4 cup granulated sugar ● 3/4 cup light brown sugar ● 1 egg ● 1 egg yolk 42

● ● ● ●

1 tablespoon vanilla extract 1/2 teaspoon baking soda 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour 3/4 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips + more to sprinkle over the top before baking

Instructions: 1) Preheat oven to 350°F. Line a 9×13-inch pan with parchment paper; set aside.

Start with brownie layer. In a large bowl, add butter, both sugars, and cocoa powder.

2) Microwave for 1 minute or until butter is melted. Stir mixture together until combined.

3) Mix in eggs and vanilla well. Add baking powder and flour, mixing until fully combined. Pour into prepared baking pan.

4) For cookie layer, in a large bowl, mix melted butter and both sugars together until smooth. Add egg, yolk, and vanilla extract and beat until fully combined.

Add baking soda and flour, mixing until just combined. Gently fold in chocolate chips. Avoid over-mixing.

5) Drop spoonfuls of dough on top of brownie layer, spreading out to fill any gaps, as needed, in an even layer. It doesn't have to be perfectly covered. Sprinkle some chocolate chips over the top for presentation.

6) Bake for 25-30 minutes or until top cookie layer is slightly browned and edges are set. If the cookie dough begins to brown too quickly, place a piece of aluminum foil loosely across the top. Allow to cool for 30 minutes before cutting into bars.

Notes: Use a spoon to fill the measuring cup with flour until the required amount is obtained. Scooping the measuring cup directly into the flour bag will firmly pack flour resulting in too much flour required for the recipe.

Storing: Cover and store leftover Brookies at room temperature for up to 1 week.

These can also be stored in the fridge, if you like to enjoy them cold.

Freezing Instructions: Freeze baked and cooled cookie brownie bars for up to 3 months. Arrange in even layers in a large freezer-safe container between sheets of parchment. Thaw overnight in the refrigerator, then allow to come to room temperature before serving. Warm them up in the microwave for a few seconds if desired.

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Winter Warm Up Playlist

L. Franco Davanzo

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Hemline Club, 2024-2025

Senior Editors: Kylah Gallagher, Xixi Song, Zara Ahmed Assistant Editors: Sofia De Filippi, Claire Wang, Manha Hussain Lead Designers: Sunny Wang, Vivian Zhou Assistant Designers: Emma Hapelt, Tiffany Zha, Sarisha Sahaye, Cynthia Yang Promo and Special Events: Zuleica Cheon, Mariska Vandennoort Meeting Notes Recorders: Maia McKinney and Manha Hussain Club Members: Rebekah Alwin, Ashe Hui, Ashe Nishimura, L. Franco Davanzo, xf Chuai, Lauren Liu, Ava Bertucci, Cynthia Yang, and Isabel Elkins Staff Supervisors: Ms. Vickman and Ms. Scarfo

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