2025 | Tabula Rasa

VOL IX | 2025

TABULA RASA

P I N E W O O D ’S AWA R D - W I N N I N G LITERARY ARTS MAGAZINE

[ f ro n t c o v e r ] I S L A N D S | J a m e s C ha n g ’ 25 | d i g i t a l a r t

TABULA RASA Vo l . I X | 2 025 | P i n e w o o d S c ho o l | Lo s A l t o s H i l l s , CA

Editors -in-Chie f J o s e p hi n e Tu Ka t hl e e n X i e Managing Editor Es ha J o s h i Ar tistic Dire c tor J a m e s C ha n g Web & Publicit y Editor Derrick Harris Publicit y Editor Ella Kim Assistant Editor Violet Negrette Advisors D a v i d We l l s H o l l y Co t y

A N OT E F R O M T H E A R T I ST, J A M E S C H A N G ’ 2 5 , A B O U T T H E F R O N T C OV E R Whe n d e s i g n i n g t he c o v e r, I t r i e d t o c o n v ey a s e n s e o f a d v e n t u r e b u t a l s o a f e e l i n g o f c a l m . The c o v e r w a s l a rg e l y i n s p i r e d by t hi n g s I ha v e d ra w n i n t he p a s t , m o s t l y f a n t a s y t hi n g s . Thi s p i e c e w a s a l s o i n s p i r e d he a v i l y b y H a y a o M i y a za ki ’s m o v i e C a s t l e i n t he S ky ( he n c e t he f l y i n g i s l a n d s ) .

Vo l . I X P i n e w o o d S c ho o l ’s L i t e ra r y A r t s M a g az i n e 2 6 8 0 0 W. Fr e m o n t Ro a d , Lo s A l t o s H i l l s , CA 9 4 022 ( 6 5 0 ) - 2 0 9 - 3 010 t a b u l a ra s a s u b m i s s i o n s @ p i n e w o o d . e d u p w t a b u l a ra s a . o rg M a y 2 025

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3 T H E M O N O L I T H | M a r k G o v o r ko v ’3 0 2 T OW E R I N RO C K S | Ka t h l e e n X i e ’ 2 5 4 A N O D E T O T H E U N L U C K Y N U M B E R T H AT R U I N S YO U R L I F E | E l l a K i m ’ 28 5 A P P L E O F MY E Y E | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5 6 N O N S E Q U I T U R | E s h a J o s h i ’ 26 7 S H A D OW S O F S U N S E T | Ka t h l e e n X i e ’ 2 5 8 W H AT I T E L L MY L OV E R I N A M O T E L RO O M | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5 9 P I E RC I N G GA Z E | D a v i n Te r n u s ’ 28 10 D E AT H D R I V E | A n n a b e l l e Ea t o n ’ 2 5 10 D E C AY | G a b b y Ya n g ’ 2 5 13 A F E W M O N T H S S PA N | Za c h a r y C h o i ’ 28 12 N I G H T L I G H T | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 2 5 15 AG N E S & M O N C H E R P I G E O N | Ke l l y A n n e Tu ’ 2 7 15 S A N DY | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5 16 G E E E Z | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5 18 W I N T E R I N S O F I A : A C O L L E C T I O N O F H A I K U S | N o n a B roz e l l ’ 2 7 19 M O O N | S o p h i e S a i b i ’ 2 7 2 0 T H E WO R L D ’S A S TAG E | L u n d S m i t h ’3 0 21 U N I T Y | J e n n i f e r L i ’ 26 2 2 U N M A S K E D | Ka t h l e e n X i e ’ 2 5 23 B O DY A N D S O U L | J e n n i f e r L i ’ 26 24 M I N D | S o p h i a Wa n g ’3 0 24 H I V E M I N D | C a ro l i n e B l o t t e r ’ 2 5 2 7 H OW T O W R I T E A N O P I N I O N A R T I C L E | D e r r i c k H a r r i s ’ 2 7 26 F L OW E R S | Ro s e X u ’ 2 5 29 IMPRESSIONS | Marley Thornson ’25 3 0 M I R RO R | A n n a b e l l e Ea t o n ’ 2 5 31 F ROZ E N | L a ra Pa r i k h ’ 26 33 B U R N O U T | Yo u x i L i n ’ 28 32 I N F R A R E D | S o p h i a L e e ’ 26 3 6 T H E D E A D LY D E T O U R | A a ro n X i e ’ 2 7 3 6 S M O K E D U P | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 2 5 39 F I E L D O F T R E E S | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5 4 0 S O C K E D I N | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 2 5 42 G O O D M O R N I N G | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 2 5

4 4 S P R I N G T I M E | N o n a B roz e l l ’ 2 7 4 5 B L O S S O M I N G | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 2 5 4 6 S E A S O N S | A d e l i n e X i e ’3 0 4 6 S E A S O N S | C a ro l i n e B l o t t e r ’ 2 5 49 T I M E , G O I N G B AC K WA R D S | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5 4 8 S E P I A | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 2 5 5 0 A N E W L E A F | N o x B ra d l e y ’ 28 5 0 C O L O R | J u l i e t A h re n s ’ 2 7 51 L I G H T | J u l i e t A h re n s ’ 2 7 51 D E P T H | J u l i e t A h re n s ’ 2 7 53 L E M O N S | E s h a J o s h i ’ 26 52 P RO M I S E U N D E R " S O L ," O U R O N LY S TA R | E l i z a b e t h L i a n g ’ 2 7 5 5 C A L L A C U RV E | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 2 5 5 6 B E F O R E YO U C A N N A M E I T | S o h a B u d h a n i ‘ 26 5 6 E T H E R E A L | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 2 5 59 T U R B U L E N T WAT E R S | Ti f f a n y A u ’ 2 7 58 I M PAC T | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 2 5 6 0 H OW T O V E T A N E W B O O K | Ka t i e M a i e r ’ 2 7 6 0 A R T I FAC T | G a b b y Ya n g ’ 2 5 62 D E A R F O O T B A L L | N a t h a n i e l Ta y l o r ’ 28 6 3 S A R D I N E S | Ke l l y A n n e Tu ’ 2 7 6 5 ( A N E S S AY & ) S E L F - E R A S U R E ( P O E M) D E D I C AT E D T O YO U | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5 6 4 U N K N OW N P L E A S U R E S | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 2 5 6 7 E RO S I O N | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 2 5 6 8 L I F E ’S A GA M E O F L A BY R I N T H | Ka t h l e e n X i e ’ 2 5 6 9 A L C H E MY | G a b b y Ya n g ’ 2 5 70 L O T # 51 | Tre v o r Ko o ’ 26 70 I DY L L I C DAYS | C l a ra Ea t o n ’ 2 7 72 D E A R FA I L U R E | A n d re w Pa k ’ 28 73 H I S T O R I C A L R E F L E C T I O N | G a b b y Ya n g ’ 2 5 74 I N B E T W E E N | S o p h i e S a i b i ’ 2 7 75 C O N S U M P T I O N | J e n n i f e r L i ’ 26 76 OV E R I T | Ro s e X u ’ 2 5 79 V I B R A N C E | C l a ra Ea t o n ’ 2 7 8 0 A S FA L L S T H E B L E E D I N G S U N | D a v i n Te r n u s ’ 28 8 0 B L E E D I N G S U N | D a v i n Te r n u s ’ 28 82 I N T H E S H A D OW O F V I C T O RY | Za c h a r y C h o i ’ 28 83 I N T H E WAT E R S O F I N D I A | A i d e n Va i d y a ’ 2 7

8 4 D E S E R T | Ti f f a n y A u ’ 2 7 8 4 D U N E I I | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 2 5 8 6 H E A D P H O N E S | E l l a K i m ’ 28 87 G O L D E N H O U R | D e v y n S m i t h ’ 2 7 8 9 M O R N I N G M U S I C | N o n a B roz e l l ’ 2 7 8 8 C O L O R S O F T H E K I T C H E N | C o r i n n e F u n g ’ 28 91 L A R K | Ke l l y A n n e Tu ’ 2 7 9 2 W H I S P E R O F T H E B AY | Ti f f a n y L i ’ 2 9 9 2 S U N S E T O N T H E WAV E S | W i l l H e w l e t t ’ 2 7 94 E P I P H A N Y | M a r k G o v o r ko v ’3 0 95 H A L O E F F E C T | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5 97 B E F O R E A N D A F T E R : B U R N WO U N D | M a x Re e s ’ 26 9 6 W H I T E S T O N E S | D a v i n Te r n u s ’ 28 9 9 L E W I S M AU S O L E U M | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5 10 0 T H E P O R T R A I T GA L L E RY 101 B L I N D E D BY G O L D | G ra c e Yo u n g ’ 2 7 10 2 S T E L L A | Ke l l y A n n e Tu ’ 2 7 10 2 H A R P E R | Ke l l y A n n e Tu ’ 2 7 10 3 S A B R I N A C A R P E N T E R | R i y a S r i v a s t a v a ’ 2 7 10 3 O L I V I A RO D R I G O | R i y a S r i v a s t a v a ’ 2 7 10 4 ATA R A X I A | Ro s e X u ’ 2 5 10 4 M O R N I N G A F T E R | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5 10 4 S U N A N D M O O N | Re k h a S e i b e r ’ 2 7 10 5 C H AO S | Re k h a S e i b e r ’ 2 7 10 5 L E T M E I N ! | A n n a b e l l e Ea t o n ’ 2 5 10 6 C O M P E T I T I O N S 10 8 A S E A O F S TA R S| D e v y n S m i t h ’ 2 7 10 9 T H E F I V E S TAG E S | A n n a D h a l l u i n ’ 2 7 111 W I S P S O N T H E WAY T O C A M E L O T | A n n a b e l l e Ea t o n ’ 2 5 112 I C A L L E D H I M G R A N D PA | Ra f a y B u d h a n i ’3 0 113 D O U B L E - S I D E D G I R L | H a t t i e Ka u f m a n n ’ 2 9 114 F L OW S TAT E | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 2 5 115 S O L A R P OW E R | C a ro l i n e B l o t t e r ’ 2 5 116 GA R D E N | B i l l L o n g ’ 2 5 117 C O N F E T T I | R i y a S r i v a s t a v a ’ 2 7 118 C O N T R I B U T O R B I O S 12 2 S TA F F B I O S

EDITORS’ NOTE Welcome to the 2025 edition of Tabula Rasa. We've arrived, finally, at Volume IX. Nine is an interesting number. It can serve as a six when inverted, but more notably, it stands as the final, largest single digit. And yet, despite being at some sort of culmination in a base-ten world, the Roman numeral IX hints at the next big thing, suggesting that it is also resting at the cusp of something even larger.

This year, our collection of works reflects all the qualities represented by our volume number: duality, cyclicality, transformation, nuance. We weren’t afraid to dive into the intricacies of the human condition, to get ourselves into a mess and forgive ourselves for it, to come out on the other end as better people for it.

In this year’s publication, destruction is alluring (as in “Death Drive” and “Burnout”), time is cruel (“Springtime”), and the people who surround us are as elusive as our own conceptions of ourselves (“Before You Can Name It,” “Mind”). Nevertheless, we persist onward, through the confusion and loss and tired routines. We find that, (as in “Morning Music” and “Before and After: Burn Wounds”) in spite of how we started, everything can begin anew as a blank slate.

We received an unprecedented number of art submissions this year. The particularly large influx of portrait submissions prompted us to create a section titled “The Portrait Gallery” in order to showcase the unique expressiveness of humanity.

We would like to express our deepest gratitude to our fantastic editorial team, as well as to our advisors, Mr. Wells and Ms. Coty, for their help in publicizing calls for submissions and putting together this magazine. Most of all, we would like to extend our greatest thanks to you, the readers and contributors, for making this literary arts magazine possible. This magazine exists for you, because of you.

On behalf of the editorial staff, it is our honor to present to you this year's edition of Tabula Rasa, Vol. IX. Josephine Tu ’25 and Kathleen Xie ’25 Editors-in-Chief

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T O W E R I N R O C KS | Ka t h l e e n X i e ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

2 | TA B U L A R A S A

THE MONOLITH Mark Govorkov '30

Everything stood still.

The night sky was a deep black-blue, no longer tainted by the radiant colors of the setting sun. The stars were only beginning to emerge, but the full moon had already appeared in all its pompous glory. The blades of verdant grass that covered the landscape illuminated in the pale moonlight, stood still, as if petrified, in the peaceful night air.

In the middle of the stillness stood a towering monolith, a strange spectre in the night. It was an incredibly ancient relic, shrouded in mystery and seething with unanswered questions.

Albert waded through the tall blades of grass towards the stone behemoth, disturbing the stillness. His mind was burning with thoughts. He had seen the monolith in his dreams. As he had approached the stone, it had seemed to have some unfathomable significance. It had enveloped him, dragging him towards it.

He had touched the stone, and it had begun to crumble before his eyes, revealing something beyond it, something that he felt he had to see and know.

Now, as Albert stood several yards away from the monolith, the peaceful grass and night sky seemed to turn into a blinding, dizzying whirlwind of questions and answers that crept close, as if to taunt him, and suddenly zipped out of sight. The world was becoming a chaotic storm of indecision. Albert took several more shaky steps towards the haunting relic. He felt on the verge of something that would change his life. Thoughts came into his head in a torrent. His hand reached out carefully, and the tips of his fingers came into contact with the dusty stone. The hysterical whirlwind spun faster and faster, and Albert let out a groan. He was tormented by this mystery that he feared he would never solve. A few specks of dust fell, and Albert became even more tense.

All of a sudden, a breeze picked up, and the grass rustled loudly. Albert looked away from the monolith and took a deep breath. The whirlpool spinning around him stopped. Everything in the real world had remained peaceful and still, yet his mind had been drowning in emotion.

The most fearsome chaos is the chaos that can appear in one’s own mind. Albert thought.

Maybe that was the true secret - and warning - of the monolith.

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AN ODE TO THE UNLUCKY NUMBER THAT RUINS YOUR LIFE Ella Kim ’28

Thirteen sucks out your soul and fills the gaping hollow with burnt honey spoonfed to your carcass by a spirally silver finger triggering the gag reflex as the cold metal pushes down your tongue who fights back for you even as you beg it to stop. the scorching syrup sears your throat scourges your lungs and quickens your heart till hot chamomile trails down your cheeks before you know it because the sweat and oil on your hands from gripping your unwashed hair makes your mind buzz at the empty hurt. i promise your body loves you your pain is natural and one day when the wax stops melting and only smoke is left the airy frosting will coat your tongue and slide gently into your stomach and you’ll realize that the honey had drained slowly in its viscous nature over time only a sticky residue residing and you have finally overcome that stupid number.

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A P P L E O F MY E Y E | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 25 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

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NON SEQUITUR Esha Joshi '26

non sequitur is a fancy word for a very simple thing, a piece of driftwood lingering on the sparkling ocean that you cling to like a lifeline while grasping hands try to drag you to the deep to explore the strange world below, coral twisted up, hollowed out by flitting fish and the long waving arms of kelp, to touch the sand that still sifts through your fingers as if you were on land, to cut your feet on rocks sharpened by centuries of patience, and they tell you you are only afraid of what you don’t know, that if only you dipped beneath the water and inhaled the salt and the sunshine, you would be brave again, and they ask you why you won’t plunge in, why you are afraid of feeling for yourself the cold brush of a weed that will wrap around your ankle pulling you down,

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but you lie back on the driftwood and murmur something about the sky, about the clouds drifting out of view or the damp air settling on your skin or the crimson glow behind your eyelids. because the surface is safe, the surface is familiar, and you don’t want to explain that if you dive into the water you might never emerge again. so you let their words slip out of your fingers, and you paddle back to the shore.

S H A D O W S O F S U N S E T | Ka t h l e e n X i e ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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WHAT I TELL MY LOVER IN A MOTEL ROOM Josephine Tu ’25

there is nothing alluring about this kind of Sadness.

I still do it anyway. I enjoy jumping into the deep end of hallways, poorly lit. see how south they go, y’know. you shouldn’t see me again. I want not to be perceived into galvanized steel. I’m so, so embarrassed for these mangled, flea-bitten dogs, tongues too full for mouths. please remember to heimlich the tears out of me later. cigarette smoke streaming from my eyes. forget about the key fob just turn it manually. I told you this already maybe you just don’t remember. I don’t actually know myself. sometimes I get too tired of lying down, then I just go to sleep. once I cried so hard I started laughing, I knew why but did not know how to stop I became a snake swallowing itself so that when I finally looked to see my body eclipsed in the sun, I stopped thinking and gave up autocannibalism,

is what I say to myself.

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P I E R C I N G GA Z E | D a v i n Te r n u s ’ 28 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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DEATH DRIVE Annabelle Eaton ’25

There is a girl with fen-fire in her eyes, whispers for hair, whistling lunatic wiles Now and again she comes to a rest when a solitary spirit is hers to possess She passes me by in the strangest of faces, in the train window, in worn out, old places She’s huddled in people on the side of streets and hangs thick in the air around the bench on my seat I sit there softly as to not disturb the ground and my feet kick out at the hint of her sound I was told by gone people that the silence is deadly for she can sing louder than a ballad or medley Often in the winter, I hear like a dream music with church bells on the edge of sleep She sings a cold melody by the margins of light and blinks in my vision before she takes flight So then like a fairy she enters my brain and flows down upon me with a silent black rain She sits in my head and I make a small space for her little black thoughts and her cold pale face Slowly, I feel her press on my eyes and she seems with her touch, to close the blue sky She reaches her fingers to the corners of my mind and kills the good things supposed to be mine The trees and the clouds all now look unfamiliar a shroud over my eyes to divide passing figures I’ve walked this path before without seeing a seat and it seems the cold steel now numbs to my feet 10 | TA B U L A R A S A

D E C AY | G a b b y Ya n g ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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N I G H T L I G H T | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

A F E W M O N T H S S PA N Zachary Choi '28

The tall sturdy man danced a brave disco his limbs covered in a fiery fury of yellows, oranges, and sunset reds.

His breadth served many companions, there were the stern and stationary soldiers having just returned, they held their red caps reluctant to indulge in the joyful fervor they lined the periphery of the yard as if one dark green bush– with polka dot red berries vested in hand.

In front of the stern shrubbery were the littles.

They wore dresses or polos of yellows and magentas and their collars, petals on a smile, full bloom.

Most were smaller than the man but held the same respect and worth.

Clawed or winged ones scurried about dressed in furs and feathers of equal vibrance here and there, overflowing boisterously everywhere.

These, his close companions, Together, they filled the yard, birdlike melody and lively rhythm Colorful, alive, and real.

For three months the party lasted, through thick fickle flames– and pinching dryness, still the band continued determined.

Levitating,

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gorged on the fruit of careless but in sync to blaring beats washing over like a warm breeze. floating free on soft cushions of cutting sun– There the man was rooted.

Anchor to the flurry of erratic fluff.

But slowly the cushions lost their plush some fruit began to spoil and the bumping blaring beats faded and faded and faded, gone above the rooftops.

At first the littles, folded and left the yellow petals which once adorned many smiles nowhere to be seen.

Then followed the soldiers, Moving with the searing breeze to city jobs Red caps bobbing out the door.

The large limbed man bade them farewell, and seeing the furred and feathered, ran back in oblivion. an outcrop of bare seating surrounded the yard Grey skeletons, brittle and twisted.

Furred ones dashed To and fro to leftover food packing mouthfuls of salted snacks into deep trench coat pockets.

They skittered out the door.

Bounding or galloping near the ground sporadically– fussing over the thought of a missed belonging.

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AG N E S & M O N C H E R P I G E O N Ke l l y A n n e Tu ’ 27 | c e ra m i c s

S A N DY | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 25 | w a t e rc o l o r

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G E E E Z | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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Now the man sat soberly retired from his once lively limbs the feathered ones sang easing his heart's discontent.

But they were afraid.

The man and the feathered ones– dressed in blues and reds and yellows, in oranges and sunset reds

Stuck out in nude contrast.

Ashamed and embarrassed the man and the feathered traded away fiery outfits for dull silhouettes, the kind at beach sunsets Black, brown, and cold.

Silence, interrupted by the feathered calls Absent of bumping vibrant beats, Absent of cutting cushioning sunlight, Absent of the furred of the petaled of the red capped.

Feathered black ones graze the overgrown yard.

From time to time, haunting the limbs and trunk of a naked body, he stood not by vocation but by his fading mind’s vacation.

Behind his eyes played a bumping blaring vibrant beat, Carried over the rooftops by a cold Cold breeze.

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WINTER IN SOFIA: A COLLEC TION OF HAIKUS Nona Brozell ’27

Windows etched with frost A concrete metropolis This, my snow-covered city.

Children at playgrounds Adults busily shopping Grandparents just smile.

Little flower shop Coins suddenly change owners Tulips in winter.

Cozy apartment Filled to the brim with family Little rooms seem big.

Holiday meal-time Tables laden with dishes Chatter fills the air.

Televisions blare Children crowd to the windows Fireworks blossom.

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M O O N | S o p h i e S a i b i ’ 27 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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T H E W O R L D ’S A S T A G E Lund Smith ’30

Dances. Songs. Dramatic monologues. This is the world of musical theater.

Decisions. Reactions. Consequences. This is the real world.

I enter the world of theater often to escape the complicated decisions and emotions that so often come with reality. It seems easier to imagine oneself as a character in a simple, straightforward world than to confront the troubles of actual existence. The promise of knowing who you are, what will happen, and what decisions you will make draws me in like a moth to a flame. Yet no matter how long my stay is in fantasy, I must always return to the real world.

The real world, where every decision sets one on a brand new path. Where every day, the weather is different. The world where one tries to set every person’s desires on a single plate and balance them all perfectly. The place where no matter how far one’s already sunk, they will surely sink farther. Where nobody knows the whole truth, so they have to make every wrong decision.

That’s why I’m drawn to the straightforward fantasy of the stage. The stage, where I must smile and look like I’m enjoying myself. Where I must work as hard as I can so the hundreds of people judging me view me in a positive light. The place where a million things are happening backstage to make sure the audience only sees the best of us actors during the show. Where we put on a costume and act like who we’re told we are. The stage where the actor must balance the desires of every single person directing you, the audience, and your own opinions and values.

No matter where you go, the real world is always there. There is no escape to the sad truth that we all may be actors. Walking among society, putting on a show for those around us, praying it’ll meet or exceed their expectations. None of us ever know what could possibly be happening backstage.

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U N I T Y | J e n n i f e r L i ’ 26 | a c y l i c o n c a n v a s

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UNMASKED Kathleen Xie ’25

clay cheeks burnt eyes stone smile emptiness, draped over her shoulders cloaking color with absence and drowning thoughts into silence a layer, hiding the beneath where once there was a face parched hair fixed gaze glass breath a stillness on the brink of shatter the weight of the air hanging heavy, like it carried an ocean frozen her body detached, unmoving, unblinking suspended in time, a sculpture *** one drop a splash two arms unraveling from her sides like vines through the fence they break away ruptured, her shell flakes to pieces crumbling into dust, bit by bit the clay, the stone, the glass fall apart

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soft sigh big stretch gold light emerges from within, rich like velvet flowing from a stream she wakes, from the sleep that was her life a gentle flame ignites her eyes a heart expands to fill the sky and there she stands unmasked

B O DY A N D S O U L | J e n n i f e r L i ' 26 | g ra p h i t e

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MIND S o p h i a Wa n g ’ 3 0

the mind is a place wherein we understand ourselves least the pandemonium of contradictory thoughts clarity becomes confusion and doubt dreams and delusion become reality and perceived reality is not real it goes down in a spiral and it begins to feel like gradually going insane

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H I V E M I N D | C a ro l i n e B l o t t e r ’ 25 | w a t e rc o l o r & b l o c k p r i n t

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F LO W E R S | R o s e X u ’ 25 | d i g i t a l a r t

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HOW TO WRITE AN OPINION ARTICLE Derrick Harris ’27

Writing an opinion article is like eating too much cake and throwing up. If you dig hard enough through the vomit mixed with pink frosting and last night's dinner, you may strike gold. However, the gold you uncover will not be pretty or shiny. The gold will be covered in gooey substances and scattered ideas that you must clean in order to let it shine. The cleaning process is not easy, but the results are worth the wait. Naturally, nothing about this process is linear; nobody can throw up in a straight line, can they? Nevertheless, I am not just anyone, I am a writer, I can throw up in a straight line. Typically, I would charge anyone who wants to know my secrets, but today I’m feeling generous. Here is how you do it.

Regurgitate all your thoughts and emotions; leave nothing inside. You cannot write a good opinion article without word hurling aimlessly on a document. Have fun; slip and slide through the vomit. You need to get lost in the wet and soggy sauce because you never know what you will run into. Most of the time I have one main idea that I want to convey; however, I never know how I will express this idea.

For example, last month I wrote an article on my love for Avogadro’s number. I knew that I had to tell a love story, but I had no idea how. Brainstorming for this article took me hours, as not all word puke is equal. You need to trust the process, rub the green creative spew in your eyes, and trust yourself. If you are not drowning in your own imaginative fluids, you are doing it wrong. The green innovative fluids I produced helped me to spice up my article by making it in the form of “Bed Chem” by Sabrina Carpenter which helped me create my lede. The lede is the most important part of the article as it draws the reader in and can make or break your article. In this article I said, “Imagine if Romeo and Juliet, Sabrina Carpenter, Albert Einstein, and Convenience Store Woman had a baby.” I successfully aimed my puke in the toilet and created my own unique narrative.

Look at your pile of puke on the ground, and reimagine it as a giant oil spill.

Your pile of vomit can be compared to a giant oil spill but still convey the same message. Comparing what you have created with something else will help you create your main extended metaphor. If your vomit is only green, you will be uninterested and not care for it. However, if you add some green and red coloring to the vomit it will become much more interesting. If you are still struggling, imagine your article is Rich Baby Daddy without a Sexyy Red and SZA feature, and add

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that crucial extra spice it needs to come alive.

By now, you will have your lede and main extended metaphor. Be proud of what you have coughed up but know there is always more work to be done. Regardless, before you continue, give yourself a break, drink some water, listen to the entire “CTRL” album by SZA, and regenerate your stomach fluids. After your break, reread what you have written and further strengthen your argument. This is where you will throw away unnecessary bits and pieces and add literary devices that support your metaphors and argument. Nonetheless, you do not need too many devices; less is better–is what I would say if I were lying. Your article needs to be filled to the brim with rhetorical devices in order to draw the reader in. Every person is different when it comes to creative aspects, but if you are clear and concise, your execution does not matter.

That's it. Hopefully, you now understand the steps to create your own opinion article. However, the methods to my madness do not extend to everyone. Your constant dry heave may never stop or you might never produce a quality article.

Opinion articles are not for everyone, which is why other article types exist like News and Sports articles. Be that as it may, if you are passionate and abide by my rules, nothing will stop you.

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I M P R E SS I O N S | M a r l e y Th o r n s o n ’ 25 | o i l p a s t e l s

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MIRROR Annabelle Eaton ’25

Behind a bathroom stall this gas station queen checks her lipstick smudged over streaks of mean A man beneath the glass has painter’s eyes and carves her features stone in petrified disguise Mirrored back to her is a face of marble mountains which freeze below wide stained glass windows He paints upon her alabaster skin ruby caves and fields of calla lilies But bubbles boil from those caves And murmurs from the mountains made We all whisper: what does he see? in the portrait of a pretty lady She doesn’t see herself — she sees a pearl polished blindly white in a whirled world The shadow on her face is receding And she wed herself to the mirror’s meaning But then her ears retained from far a tempered rhythmic change in music Her body wrought in stone was breathing as if her heart were actually beating The notes wailed high and long A mother’s cry, a lover’s song

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This woman’s work! A life of glass!

She gasped when she saw it pass What wrinkled skin and lovely creases who shattered man in shards and pieces The plaster rubble spills upon the floor Like cracking eggs before a boil She scrapes it off and from her face Emerges wet hot color bleeding In silver ribbons round her head do writhe the shifty springs of life where she has split mirror and wife And left the painter watershed

F R OZ E N | L a ra P a r i k h ’ 26 | g ra p h i t e

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I N F R A R E D | S o p h i a L e e ’ 26 | d i g i t a l a r t

BURNOUT Yo u x i L i n ' 2 8

light and warmth light blooms across every hidden corner, a once lost feeling leaving my nerves leaving my nerves tingling

burning

embers touching every fiber

casting a glowing glare on the molten edges like the thrill of a roller coaster drop, bottomless bottomless

pit in my stomach air

squeezed out

with the plummet

i yearn for the light light

the softly kindled flame

yearns for its shadow shadow a fire spreading

too hot to cool down

into the blazing aftermath where i can’t

find peace within

the fire spreading too quick to extinguish burned away i can’t pull away from

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the all consuming flame

the all consuming flame

smoke

burns my lungs incinerated desperate to cling onto the sparks of the fire ablaze

the ground beneath me

so free

ashes descend upon the ground so empty

the ache

settled down with the Sun the descending gleam foreshadows another day— foreshadows another day another rise where i hope where i seek again, for the light for the light

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I N F R A R E D | S o p h i a L e e ’ 26 | d i g i t a l a r t

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T H E D E A D LY D E T O U R Aaron Xie ’27

The glow of lights from the house behind him began to fade as he quickened his pace. Leaves crunched loudly underfoot as he progressed. Then came the voice of Leah, the exhausted girl trailing behind him. “Daniel, are you sure this is the way home?”

“Yes, even though it’s a detour, I know the route,” Daniel replied confidently.

Am I though?

Trees loomed around them like sleeping giants, watching their passage through unfamiliar territory. The moon was outlined past the canopy, its rays spilling onto the leaf-covered ground. The silence was only broken by loud crunching and the sound of crickets chirping.

“I’m not sure about this. Maybe we should have taken the normal road?” a timid voice squeaked from behind.

“Mark, I thought we discussed this. This route is quicker, and the party took longer than expected,” Daniel whispered, irritated. However confident he was, the eerie silence still chilled his spine. But at least it reassured him that they were alone.

In truth, he’d only explored the trail a few times—and on those occasions, he hadn’t encountered anything out of the ordinary. Hopefully, this time will be the same. Our town, Rendville, is generally pretty safe anyways.

Suddenly, a screech split the sky, making even Daniel’s blood run cold. The sound of Leah and Mark’s footsteps behind him ceased, and he knew his two companions had frozen in place, petrified. He strained his ears, trying to make out the direction of the screech, but only the sound of the wind rattling branches could be heard.

“Wh...what was that?” Leah voiced the question that all three wanted to ask, her voice a little shaky.

“Come on, let’s find out.”

Without another word, Daniel crept lightly away from the trail and into one of the many bushes lining the path, keeping low and heading towards where he thought the sound had come from. Was that a person? Could they need help?

Leah and Mark, however, were not so eager.

“That sounded like a human’s voice. We should call the police or something.

They’d know what to do.”

In the dim light, Daniel could make out beads of sweat glistening on Leah’s forehead. “Yeah, that’s what we should do,” Mark echoed, his eyes wide with fear.

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S M O K E D U P | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

But by the time Mark finished his sentence, Daniel had forged into the thicket ahead, his shadowy outline disappearing. We can’t stand around doing nothing.

We should check if they need help.

“I don’t think we have a choice except to follow him,” Leah sighed uneasily.

With heads hanging, Mark and Leah trudged onward after their reckless companion, knowing they were straying further and further from home. Daniel stared at the sky, with branches snagged on his large coat. All of a sudden, he heard a rustle from above, and a dark shadow blocked the moonlight. Daniel shifted to get a better view, but by then, the thing was gone, and the moonlight returned.

“Probably a squirrel,” Daniel muttered under his breath, striding away and leaving Mark and Leah behind. I can’t get distracted by forest creatures.

A few paces behind Daniel, Leah leapt backwards with a yelp as a giant creature emerged from one of the nearby bushes. Moonlight caught on the fanged claws, glinting white teeth, and glittering green eyes. Enormous wings protruded from a tiny frame coated in fur.

In an instant, it was gone.

“What was… what was that?!” Mark screamed, crouching under a bush. He held his hands protectively over his head, shaking with fear. The question hung in the air, unanswered.

Another rustle! Leah whipped around.

“No. No. No. I’ve had enough.” Mark began to sneak back towards the way they had come.

“You can’t just leave me here. What about Daniel? And what about that thing?

It had a wingspan of at least ten feet!” Leah fretted.

“You can’t leave me,” she repeated as Mark opened his mouth to reply. A head popped out of one of the bushes in front.

“Are you guys coming?” Daniel asked, annoyed. “Why do you guys look so scared? We’re not even there yet.”

“Are you serious? You mean you didn’t see that thing?!” Leah asked incredulously.

“That was a squirrel. No big deal,” Daniel waved a hand nonchalantly. “We’re wasting time; we need to get moving now, or else we’ll never find the source of that sound.”

“A squirrel? It was a giant furry flying thingy!” This time it was Mark who spoke, his voice shakier than before. “I’m out.”

“You can’t! We have to stick together. Plus, what if that squirrel gets you?”

Leah asked, exchanging a knowing glance with Mark.

“Oh yeah, good point. Wouldn’t want that squirrel getting me,” Mark reluctantly agreed, deciding to travel further into the dark woods.

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“Come on then,” Daniel disappeared back into the bushes.

A wind had picked up while they were talking. The sleeping giants came alive, swaying back and forth slightly in the howling wind. Leaves tore off branches and cascaded down, dotting the forest floor.

Leah abruptly bumped straight into Daniel and leaped back, surprised. He was crouched next to a bush. A parchment lay barely concealed under the branches.

“Check this out, guys! We found a treasure map!” Daniel exclaimed with the eagerness of a child spotting free candy. Did the scream come from someone fighting a monster guarding the treasure?

Leah approached the “treasure map” doubtfully, scanning it quickly. The parchment was dusty, and the black ink was faded. It looked vaguely like a treasure map, but she could make out what looked to be a tunnel system faintly traced on the map.

Upon closer inspection, Leah confirmed it was indeed a map, but she wasn’t so sure about the treasure. A blue circle was marked with the caption: “YOU ARE HERE” labeled above it. The blue circle was surrounded by a forest, and “Rendville” was written at the top left.

Proceeding from the point in blue, tunnels branched out and converged on a red “X” mark. Circles were drawn and labeled at various points along the tunnels, with titles such as “Testing Place” and “Collecting Place.”

She was aware of Mark approaching from behind as she began to process this information. Mark took the parchment, but even Leah could see his hands were shaking.

“What’s ‘Testing Place’ and ‘Collecting Place’? That doesn’t sound like treasure to me,” Mark voiced aloud Leah’s concern.

“The ‘Collecting Place’ is obviously where you’re supposed to collect the treasure. The ‘Testing Place’ is probably where they tested to see if the treasure is real.

Isn’t it obvious?” Daniel affirmed with confidence. Why didn’t they get it?

Even with Leah there, Mark felt alone. Daniel didn’t even seem concerned they were still lost, with no idea how to get home. Mark took a deep breath, but on the inside, his brain was screaming for him to leave while he could. He tried to remember details about the mysterious creature that had flown past them a few minutes ago. That thing was definitely not normal. Its wings were too large. And there’s definitely no treasure. What exactly is Daniel leading us into?

He sighed and tagged along at the back of the group. The worst thing would be getting more lost. The creature would surely get him if he was alone, but if he was hiding or with a group, the chances of him being in danger would be reduced.

Looks like I have to stick around.

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Five minutes later, they came upon a bush with a large mound of dirt piled next to it. Surprisingly, it was Leah this time who investigated deeper by pushing the leaves aside. Then, she recoiled.

Daniel leaned forward eagerly and exclaimed, “It’s a hole! Let’s check it out!”

Without another word, he began shoving bush tendrils aside to get a better view of the hole. Of course! Everyone buries treasure. This must be it!

The moon had disappeared behind clouds, shrouding the forest in a coat of darkness, so Leah couldn’t see much. But she could just make out that the hole was at least a meter in both width and length.

“Wait, be quiet!” Leah snapped at Daniel, who was making loud rustling noises by moving the tendrils. Daniel abruptly stopped, and everyone stood still for a few seconds, not even daring to breathe. Leah could discern shouts and screams echoing up from a long way away, but the voices seemed to float up from the tunnel entrance. Against her better judgment, her curiosity was piqued. But not Mark’s.

“Don’t tell me we have to explore that tunnel! I don’t like tight spaces and those creepy voices. This is as far as I’ll go,” Mark stated firmly. No matter how much Daniel tried, Mark refused to budge.

“Fine,” Daniel relented, “I guess we’ll see you when we exit the tunnel.” As always, Daniel led the way down. Mark ducked nervously under a bush to hide, watching his friends get swallowed up by the ground as they descended.

Soil crowded around Daniel and Leah, and darkness pressed in everywhere.

The tunnel turned into a passageway after about a one meter drop. Luckily, Leah had brought a flashlight in case it was pitch black on the way back from the party; she could only imagine what turmoil they’d be in if not for the extra precaution she had taken.

Dust showered Leah as she landed heavily on a dirt floor. Lanterns hung from the roof of the cave, spreading light across the cave. It was just enough to see clearly, so she put her flashlight back into her bag.

Tracks were set a few feet in front with a few mine carts lazily discarded throughout the cave. Some of the carts had toppled over on their sides, and the tracks were rusty. Was this an abandoned mine?

The object that caught her eye, however, was the scroll that lay next to one of the mine carts. Daniel quickly rushed over and unrolled the crumpled paper. “Yep. It’s the same map,” Daniel confirmed, showing Leah. This map, however, was not as dusty as the first one they found.

“Okay, so why would one person need multiple of the same maps? It’s obvious construction was done here, but—” Her words were cut off by a distant scream. Daniel’s hands turned to stone, and he shuddered. Okay…maybe it’s not treasure.

F I E L D O F T R E E S | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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“Well, clearly it’s not abandoned,” Daniel remarked nervously.

“Well, now I think we should call the police or something,” Leah argued, hoping Daniel still had some sense in him to agree.

“But then we could get into trouble. If this is normal, we’ll be making a big deal about nothing. Come on. We don’t want to keep Mark waiting. Let’s just find out what we can and leave. Calling the police would take too long, and if the person needs help, we can be faster,” Daniel replied apprehensively.

A surprising nod from Leah set them both forwards again, and they came across a lever planted next to the tracks. Daniel hoisted a mine cart onto the track and flicked the lever to see what would happen. The cart sped off deeper into the tunnel and disappeared from view around a bend.

“Let’s take a ride,” Daniel suggested, flashing a devious smile and hopping into one of the carts.

Leah glared at him reproachfully, yet reluctantly stepped into the cart, and Daniel flipped the lever. The cart came alive, and the walls around them began to blur as they picked up speed. The lanterns above whooshed past as they veered around bends. Suddenly, Daniel grabbed Leah and leaped out of the cart.

Leah’s screams were muffled by his hand as they hit the ground. Her head slammed against the dirt, and now it throbbed with pain.

“What was that for?” she glared at him acrimoniously, dusting dirt off her clothes.

Daniel kept his sangfroid and pointed to the opposite wall. Lying against it was a slumped man. The man wore the dusty orange overalls common for a miner.

Lying everywhere around the cave were giant steel cages that had their cage doors ripped off. She hadn’t even noticed them because the cart was moving too fast. The metal bars were as thick as tree trunks, yet some were twisted out of shape.

What could have that much power? Should we really be messing around with creatures that can do this?

The whole area reeked of a pungent odor, and Daniel could see patches of brown fur scattered everywhere, especially inside the cages, but thankfully, nothing moved or attacked.

Examining the miner closer, Leah spotted bite marks marring the man’s face and arms, and blood oozing into a scarlet pool next to him. A nasty gash stretched across his neck, probably the one that had ended his life.

Daniel expected Leah to scream, so he readied his hand to muffle her, but she made no sound. She stood fixed, her eyes glazed with fear. Daniel, however, was fascinated. He hadn’t heard of any squirrels that could leave fatal gashes. Perhaps there is another creature at work. Maybe an owl. Those creatures have sharp claws.

But they can’t bend metal. Could it be a bear? he mused.

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S O C K E D I N | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ' 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

The man was clutching a leather satchel in his left hand, and Leah carefully removed it to examine the contents inside. She found a tablet, along with another one of the maps they had seen earlier.

“What’s with all these maps? Looks like others tried to find the treasure too.

That means we have to be quick if we want to find it first,” Daniel remarked, a competitive gleam in his eye.

“There’s a dead man here! We need to call the police! I’m going to contact them through his tablet,” Leah erupted.

She powered on the tablet, and surprisingly, there was no passcode. Several documents were stored onto the tablet, but they were locked, and Leah couldn’t access them without a fingerprint.

Leah tried the slumped man’s right thumb, but the documents didn’t unlock.

Luckily, as she rotated the thumb to a different angle, the documents opened.

The document was handwritten, and most of the writing was illegible, but Leah could make out the words ‘government,’ ‘mutation,’ and ‘weapon’ by quickly reading everything.

“Why does this say the government? Do you think the government is involved?

If they are involved, then we shouldn’t be investigating, especially if they are making a weapon,” Leah mused aloud.

“You have a point, but still, those voices don’t sound too happy. Clearly they don’t agree with what the government is doing,” Daniel replied, glancing down the tunnel.

“Yeah, but if someone catches us snooping around government business, we could be in a lot of trouble!” Leah worried.

“Then we just won’t get caught,” Daniel said.

Leah doubted their chances of escaping undiscovered were high, but the papers were important.

She looked around, making sure there was nobody around before quickly cramming the tablet in her pocket and examining the cages. They were many meters in width and length and were just as tall. However intimidating they looked, they had taken a beating, as scratches marked the walls and some beams were bent or even broken.

In addition, dark fur lay scattered everywhere inside the caves, littering the cave floor and stuck to the cage bars. Leah called Daniel over, but he was stumped as well, scratching his chin in confusion.

“I suppose we can take some of this fur, but I don’t know if we should go further. I have no idea what these creatures are—” Out of nowhere, a screech froze both of them in their place. Leah whipped around to see something flying at them. Before her mind could register any details 41

or what it was, her head hit the ground, and she winced in pain, trying to stay conscious. Wait, what am I thinking? It doesn’t even hurt that much.

Shouts echoed from somewhere on her left, but the words were blurred. Daniel was lost amid the confusion, but she hoped he was safe.

With renewed energy, she managed to get to her feet and took in her surroundings. Instead of empty space around her, she glimpsed figures running past in workers’ clothes. Screams and shouts of “Help!” rang off the walls. Her relief earlier at seeing no sentient creatures vanished abruptly.

Her gaze focused, and the first thing that caught her eye was the creature only a few meters away from her. It hovered, stretching out abnormally massive fur-coated wings. It looked like a large bat with a body about the size of one of the metal bars. Although it appeared to be similar to her height, the wings made the creature appear many times larger. She guessed the wings were at least a few meters long, with large claws protruding from the ends. The instant she locked eyes with the scary creature, it hissed. The hiss came out as a guttural sound, unlike anything she had heard before. She quickly scrambled backwards and ran, not even checking to see where Daniel was.

Luckily, Daniel was sensible for once and had run before she had. At least a dozen workers were fleeing with Daniel.

Her mind raced, and her head reeled from what she had just seen, propelling her exhausted legs to keep going. That has to be the thing from the forest! But what exactly is it? Is this some sort of governmental experiment that went horribly wrong?

Suddenly, the creature that had been flying on their tail swooped down and nipped one of the workers that was running at the back of the group. Within seconds, the worker was no longer running with them and had collapsed on the ground, unmoving.

The creature seemed to cackle as it stared down remorselessly at the body below.

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G O O D M O R N I N G | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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SPRINGTIME Nona Brozell '27

Springtime! Flowers blossom, their petals pushing through layers of green leaves and proudly announcing their presence to the world. Stalks shoot up from the soil, winding and climbing upwards. They reach for the sun, grasping with their tendrils, forever approaching their destinations. Petals shower the ground and cascade through the wind, a kaleidoscope of color swirling through the sky.

The sun beams down, bathing the world with the light of beauty and rebirth.

A child runs through it all, her feet stamping on the dirt, the grass, everything.

Her shoes leave behind little indentations, tiny impressions of her soul on all that she touches.

In the distance, a cry to come inside rings out, but it cannot touch her, nothing can touch her. *** Springtime. Only withered plants remain. Shells of their former selves, they bring no joy, only sorrow and depression. Yellowed grass invades the previously pristine flower beds. It poisons the soil and sows the seeds for a future filled with weeds. There is no vibrant passion, nothing full of color or life. The sun beats down, incessant and unpleasant, an unwelcome visitor. It paints the landscape in an ashy hue, permeating everything and leaving the land despondent. All that remains is a pathetic reflection of what was.

Yet still, a child runs through it all, trying to make something out of nothing.

Her feet pound against the ground, leaving behind only puffs of dust, no record that she was ever even there. No memory of her importance remains.

In the distance, a woman watches. Though fully grown, she is still a child at her core, and her heart mourns for this young girl, who cannot grow up surrounded by beauty.

But even more so, she is bitter, her heart a thistle that has ceased to bloom, leaving behind nothing but a thorny husk. In her mind, she is forever taunted by wisps of memory, overflowing with vivid snippets of joy. She detests springtime, for it is a cruel reminder of what used to be, of what can never again be.

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B LO SS O M I N G | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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SEASONS Adeline Xie ’ 3 0

tranquil spring arrives dew covered buds will bloom soon conclude winter’s rains summer steps in place incandescent sun frolics delicate winds dance hardworking autumn dresses leaves in bronze, red coats residues of warmth winter visits us new, white carpet covers land crystals fall from sky

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S E AS O N S | C a ro l i n e B l o t t e r ’ 25 | w a t e rc o l o r & b l o c k p r i n t

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S E P I A | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

TIME, GOING BACKWARDS Josephine Tu ’25

I don’t go home after you. I fly to Minneapolis, alone after a bus ride surrounded by people, windows, open fields and open skies rusting. six am and I remember sleep again after forgetting it. last night lies flush against my skin. on your bed, a twin, I save all my dreaming for living. we unfurl as mechanical clocks do. press ourselves into withered forget-me-nots I always thought to be more violet than blue, press ourselves into the air after dusk, when I imagine that we marry under the ten thousand arches of a single tree, weeping as it grasps for the sky. over white-washed fences you paint a reunion where we are both somewhere else at the same time. after ten [thousand] picnics on cut grass, I picture gingham cloth and a whole lifetime of meeting strangers unlike you for the first time only to find a double exposure just the same.

I impress myself on the future as a wax seal, lipstick red. early on I promise you a letter. I have yet to send it. after having left California—golden grass still swishing on sunfaded mountains, awaiting fire.

I pass green, rolling hills on my way to meet you, but this is the image whose flames I still stoke.

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A NEW LEAF N ox B r a d l e y ’ 2 8

In the season where trees shed their hard work in return for the sun’s crisp warm glory I feel my soul shedding its terraced structure, tarps falling away in the wind A new season of me springing upon the world, a faint glow like stars hidden by ever thickening brush surrounding my soul And so I take in that warmth, letting the work fall away, a new perspective coming into view Like a once green tree changing to a yellowed hue of fire and ferocity A season with change clinging to its branches in each rumble of the wind I cling to the fire that’s kept me alive, but like all leaves of change I must fall too.

I must lose myself to grow again And so I shed the fiery leaves that cling to my soul, bare and awaiting the new green growth

C O LO R | J u l i e t A h re n s ’ 27 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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L I G H T | J u l i e t A h re n s ’ 27 | p h o t o g ra p h y

D E P T H | J u l i e t A h re n s ’ 27 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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P R O M I S E U N D E R " S O L , " O U R O N LY S TA R | E l i z a b e t h L i a n g ’ 27 | d i g i t a l a r t

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LEMONS Esha Joshi '26

There was a lemon tree in our backyard. All I knew about it was that it was older than me and its branches weaved around each other like a spiderweb and I couldn’t climb it so I left it alone. Then I learned that a lemon is a fruit, and I thought it might be like an orange, rough skin and glossy film and sweet juice running down the inside of my wrist.

It did have rough skin, and when I had Ma cut it down the middle for me it was colorful and shiny on the inside, and then I bit into it and the juice—sour and tacky—sprayed on the counter when I spit it out. I hated lemons.

I didn’t hate them, not really, but I was four and there were things I loved and things I hated and nothing in between. Ma roasted asparagus in the oven and squeezed some lemon juice over it and it was still sour, but I didn’t hate it then because I was thinking about how it felt to bite into the slightly bitter stalk. We made lemon rice but it was never very lemony and the part I liked best were the boiled peanuts anyway. There were lemon bars, too, but they were mostly just sweet and the only similarity to a lemon was that they were a smooth glossy yellow.

So “I hate lemons” wasn’t the first thing I said to her, or the second, but she must have figured it out somewhere between the first shy hello and the first sleepover giggling under the covers. “I hate lemons too,” she said once, while we were kicking ourselves around on the old tire swing at the park. She said it like a promise, her eyebrows scrunched up in a way that she thought made her look serious.

We liked oranges a lot better. We used to eat them after school, kicking our dangling legs under the table and sliding the wedges into our mouths to make wide, orange smiles. I didn’t mind when the little white fibers got stuck in my teeth because I could lick my fingers and taste the orange and everything was still sweet.

I knew I loved her because I didn’t hate her, because I was happy when we were sitting on that swing with the sun curving down in the sky and the wind whistling to us and us trying to whistle back. She was oranges and sunshine and those puddles you stop and stare at because they’re like a little fragment of the sky that fell down on the pavement.

But sometimes, when we were a little older, I hated her. By then I was old enough to know that I could still love her most of the time, whispering secrets and loudly singing whatever was on the radio and racing her across the front lawn, but also hate her sometimes, when her eyes drifted and she wasn’t looking at me anymore but someone behind me. I was old enough not to complain about the lemon 53

wedges propped on the side of the salad bowl, to just push them away instead. I was old enough to be okay with just sitting under the lemon tree in the backyard and watching the shadows shift around on my hands.

Sometimes, I felt a bit like a kid again, because she still had the same light eyes and glossy hair and I’d go up to her expecting something sweet like an orange and then she’d wince a little like she was the one swallowing a lemon wedge whole, not me. Suddenly I’d remember the old tire swing, which had been picked apart so many times by curious little fingers that it was starting to fall apart, and the thought of her saying that strangely solemn “I hate lemons,” eyebrows scrunched up, didn’t feel so much like a promise anymore.

I didn’t like that asparagus anymore, the one with lemon juice sprinkled all over the top, because I hated lemons and I was starting to realize that you can try to focus on all the different flavors and textures, the pinch of pepper, the stringy skin, but you’ll always come back to that lemon taste somehow.

I thought I hated her because I didn’t love her anymore, but I realized sometime between the erratic little thumps of my heart and the fire burning up my neck that it wasn’t hatred, not really, just a strange new kind of love with an aftertaste I couldn’t place.

It was a little stupid to think of tire swings and oranges and how much I hated lemons when I was crowded into the corner of a dim bar, because I was an adult now and adults don’t wish they could huddle back up under a blanket during those sleepovers. Adults don’t hate lemons so much that they push away a plate with a wedge placed artfully on the edge.

When she came over to me her eyes weren’t drifting anymore. They were large and glassy and light, like the smooth bark of the lemon tree that used to rub off on my fingers, and she was holding a cup with salt spotted along the rim and a little lemon wedge dripping down the outside.

“I hate lemons,” I told her, just so she would remember that we weren’t adults, not really, just kids going through the motions of a game they barely understand.

She smiled and licked her lips. There were little flecks of salt and what I thought was lemon juice because she squinted her eyes for a second after she swallowed. “I know.”

She leaned in a little closer. She smelled like the garden after it rained at the beginning of spring, or maybe I just wished that she did, that we were outside on the damp and fresh grass. Then for the first time in a long time I tasted a lemon again, mixed in with the little dissolving flecks of salt. It was sour and my throat constricted instinctively, but I didn’t think I hated it so I tried it again, just to be sure, and underneath the salty acidity she was warm and very, very soft. I swallowed, once, twice, and it felt sharp in my throat but then I looked at her and she was smiling, that big smile she used to do with an orange slice in her mouth, and I didn’t hate lemons anymore.

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C A L L A C U RV E | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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BEFORE YOU CAN NAME IT Soha Budhani '26

She drifted through the afternoons like the scent of forgotten flowers and something sweet and quiet that once meant more than it does now.

Even the summer heat seemed to slow for her as if July in her presence remembered it had once been autumn.

She wore her intelligence carelessly like a boy’s overcoat thrown across her shoulders too big, too warm, perfect in its indifference to style.

There was no effort in her poise and no vanity in her brilliance.

She was simply what she was and that was enough to unmake a man.

Her questions were soft-spoken but carried weight like falling stars bright, brief and irreversible.

They left marks not on the skin but somewhere deeper in the illusions we carried about ourselves and what we thought was order.

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She laughed sometimes like someone who had just remembered how to.

It came quickly like a sudden wind and disappeared just as fast.

There was an ache in it the sort that doesn’t ask for sympathy only space.

I saw her crouched between bookshop shelves cradling Invisible Man like it was something living.

She didn’t open it, just held it as though the silence between pages was louder than the words.

She looked up and smiled.

Not out of kindness but recognition.

As if she saw through whatever carefully arranged mask I wore and forgave me for it anyway.

The world spins louder each day in gears and screens and sirens in rising oceans and falling truth and yet there are still moments when a girl can sit in a room full of dust and undone stories and remind you that there is something worth holding still.

Even if it slips away before you can name it.

E T H E R E A L | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ' 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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I M PAC T | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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TURBULENT WATERS T i f f a ny A u ’ 2 7

Overwhelming waves pull me under, Lost in the turbulent sea of my mind, Life’s heavy burdens drown me in a flood of fears, Dragging me around in the dark and murky waters, Suffocating me as I gasp for air, Struggling to keep my head afloat.

The vast sea of uncertainty, An endless ocean with no direction, Nothing beyond the distant horizon.

As the surging waves retreat, Calmness washes over my mind like a gentle tide.

Though the relentless storm comes again, I’ve learned to navigate the raging waters of life, Knowing the harsh winds always pass.

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HOW TO VET A NEW BOOK Katie Maier '27

1) Judge it by its cover. Ignore everyone who says otherwise because they don’t understand how important appearances are. A book’s cover, while only a glimpse into its content, reflects the author’s intended audience. If you want an atmospheric read full of dense prose, the book with the cartoon characters in front of a neon backdrop below a quirky impact-font title will not satiate your appetite. Look instead for the one with the nude color palette and the understated fonts. Covers have meaning; figure out what they’re trying to communicate. Not all good books have good covers (when you look at what Stephen King lets crawl onto the front of his books, you’ll know what I mean) and vice versa. But, it's important to consider if you’re the sort of person the author actually wants to read their book. If you think you are, then take a closer look at the integrity of the cover. Is it gold-foiled or embossed or the victim of any other tacky decoration? Is it written in an ostentatious font, one that dresses up a boring title in a distracting costume? Is the title too long or too short or just the right length to be compelling yet puzzling? Consider what these choices reveal about the author’s intentions.

2) Read synopses, even though they’re rather deceptive. If books are like puzzles, then the back cover is a corner piece, so make the most of it. You have to peruse the tagline, synopsis, and author bio in order to really see the full picture. Alone, the synopsis can easily lie to you, feeding you juicy morsels of praise and claiming the book is the next Holy Bible. The best thing you can do is read it, gather the gist of the plot, and use the rest of the back cover to ascertain other features such as the writer’s voice. Just like how you wouldn’t listen to a discordant singer—unless it’s Bob Dylan, maybe—you don’t want to waste your time on an author with a flat voice. If the synopsis shows character, real personality, a unique tone, then the author probably has a lot of passion for the story they’re telling. They have enough passion that their candid self survived the brutal editing process.

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3) Read the first chapter. Dip your toes in the water before you submerge the rest of your body. While reading the first chapter, there’s only one thing you need to pay attention to: how quickly you forget you’re reading. A good book will transport you out of the pages with its captivating story, but, more importantly, it will alleviate the pressure of dedicating yourself to a new project. If you’re reading the first chapter of a book and thinking about how you need to find time to read the second chapter later, or how you need to finish this book before starting that other one on your shelf, or how you don’t understand that allusion and should probably google it, then you’re not really reading the book. Your eyes are just scanning it. A good book will force you to read it.

4) Put the book down. If a book is good, this step will be difficult. But, it is the most necessary one. A good book needs to rock you like a hurricane, whip your hair around your face, and slap you with swirling rubble. You need to feel it if you plan on enjoying it. Until you try to take a break from reading a book, you won’t know for sure how much it’s impacting you. Some books look good on paper; the plot seems exactly like your kind of jam or the characters are cool or something else, but you dread picking it up anyway. That’s because you need to introduce something fresh into your usual reading habits. You might need a quick and fun read, even if you usually like slower stories. In order to find out what’s really going to click with you, the current you, you have to put your book down and see how much you miss it.

5) Consider its educational value. Not everything has to be fun. It’s the disappointing truth that sometimes the boring, dense, sad books are the ones that show us the most valuable new perspectives, so really think about what a book can teach you before you put it back on the shelf for good. People don’t just read Shakespearean plays because they like Shakespeare; they read them because they are the basis of every good story published post-1616. Read works that will change your understanding of the world.

A RT I FAC T | G a b b y Ya n g ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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DEAR FOOTBALL N a t h a n i e l Ta y l o r ’ 2 8

Dear Football, When I put my fingers on your laces I know where I am You are my guide Your laces are my north star When I feel the weight in my hand I know who I am You are the backbone of our team You give us brotherhood When I see you flying through the air I know what I feel You are our hope for victory You carry our dreams When I carry you back home I know why you mean so much to me You are a teacher, revealing life’s lessons You show me the value of teamwork, and the value of me

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C o i f i s h i n Po n d | M e i M i y a h a ra ’ 25 | Wa t e rc o l o r a n d P e n

S A R D I N E S | Ke l l y A n n e Tu ’ 29 | c e ra m i c s

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U N K N O W N P L E AS U R E S M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 25 p h o t o g ra p h y

A N E S S AY & S E L F - E R A S U R E POEM DEDICATED TO YOU Josephine Tu ’25

when i hopped on a call at ten pm last night i was not expecting to have missed you this much. and two hours in, when you ask me do you think i’ve changed, i feel the sudden urge to pretend i don’t enjoy analyzing people so much, in the moment i want instead to say you are still the same as always and so i do. aren’t we both just the same as always. you tell me your lisp, as you like to call it (i don’t think it is one), is worse than usual. i cave in, sure, yeah, but also, i can’t know if it’s just today but something else in your voice is kinda different, though. when i think of your voice, i remember not a lisp but a lilt: a jerky rise and fall of erratic inflections, particular phrases spoken hurriedly, like you were in a rush to cram them past their breaking point into already long sentences just to barely fit them within the margin’s suggestion to stop. it is all still here but smoothed over slightly, more memory than the presence of you. you are on spring break, so you don’t sound like you are high on drugs, you say to me, word for word. i don’t tell you, maybe that is it: when time slows, the manic nihilism can be kept at bay. time is a hell of a drug. dilutes your senses or distills them, dousing gasoline on your delusions as they catch fire either way. it sure worked on me. being out of your orbit for so long, i think, had seemingly anesthetized both the loss of a central body and the pain of not having been one. for a second, we are talking again like we used to, rambling as we work on bigger, grander art projects: my school yearbook, the dress that you will wear to prom. it sure worked on me, we are talking again like we used to until the years wear off and the answer in my head whiplashes back to yes, to of course you've changed, and so have i—two and a half years ago, we did not talk about small things, trivial things, like what do we think about getting into a romantic relationship just for the fun of it? now, the passive non-act of not requiting love seems to be yet another thing we both share. on my laptop screen, i watch your hands stitch together a bodice and imagine the only other pair of hands that will get to hold it, stitched to some guy who has asked you out more than thrice. you do not like him back, you tell me as much, or rather, you do not say yes when i ask if you do. i overlay high school photos onto colored squares, superimpose your situation on various parts of my past. i marvel at the guilt you tell me you do not hold for leading someone on.

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it would be easier for me to say i fall in love too easily, but the truth is that i won’t let myself, not anymore. i am too afraid: that it is only temporary, or that i will fall permanently in too deep, drawn in by gravity until there is nothing left of me anymore—there is only so much left of me already. even my writing feels hollow to me, like it has always been missing something. my ex liked a poem by sean thomas dougherty: because right now there is someone / out there with / a wound in the exact shape / of your words. i forgot to tell her, my words are the wound: an open hole in the exact shape of what i have recently lost, the depth of what it has always lacked. this emptiness in my soul, oh, i’m always afraid of it overtaking me until i remember that it is the only thing that defines the outline of my art, the very outline of me.

SELF -ERASURE DEDICATED TO YOU i was not expecting the moment to still as i cave into a smoothed over memory that can distill the fire in me, anesthetize the loss of a romantic nonact. i imagine the other pair stitched to you. when i ask you to superimpose your self on me, the truth is that i am afraid my writing has always been missing someone to excavate the outline of me.

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E R O S I O N | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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L I F E ’S A G A M E O F L A B Y R I N T H Kathleen Xie ’25

Ready? Let’s play.

You’re the silver marble resting in the safety of the start box, the ground still level, the maze still ahead of you; soon a knob twists and the ground shifts and you’re launched forward by the fall of gravity, moving along the path at an even pace, inching slowly forward, like a raindrop making its way across a window, until there you reach a wall and you’re at rest; just for a moment until the other knob twists to slide you toward another direction away from the wall and you glide on the path, and up ahead you see a hole in the ground but you know instinctively to avoid it and once again the ground tilts so you drift over and go and turn and go and go and land on another wall; this is thrilling you feel, and you see the twists and turns up ahead and you’re eager to keep at the adventure of not knowing where you’ll be and the knob shifts and there you go again there’s another hole on the left you veer close enough to peer into its mysterious daunting abyss but a knock and you’re propelled back on track there’s a choice do you go left or right to get where you want to go — one’s a dead end — left or right you gain speed you gain momentum ground tilts up you slide and another choice wrong pick but that’s no problem you backtrack and move forward with the right track go go avoid the hole and hit another wall look back; a tad dizzy a tad proud many a milestones passed through and what a curved path to get here but many a winds in the maze to go but you’re in it to win it and you pass through the point at which most have already fallen and you keep going left or right left or right and suddenly it seems there’s so many holes now, but you’ve made it so far, and the finish line is so close, but what even is the finish line you wonder, but before you find the answer the ground shifts slightly once more, so you slide down, and glide forward on the path, and — Game over. Play again?

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A LC H E MY | G a b b y Ya n g ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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L O T # 51 Tr e v o r K o o ’ 2 6

“Damn it, " I mutter, looking at the big red banner plastered across my computer screen. “You lost! Sold price: $159.23.” I exhaled sharply, sinking back into my chair, disappointed in myself. I wanted it badly, but the number was always a little steep for me. Still, it felt like the website was mocking me with its obnoxious colors. I click out of the tab and drag myself into the living room, away from my computer. I plop down on the couch and stare at the television, the lights flickering with colors from a baseball game in San Francisco.

“Jung Hoo Lee strikes out from a nasty breaking ball, " says the reporter, as if calling my defeat from the auction.

I sit there in the quiet house, letting my emotions wash over me — the loss in the auction, the emptiness of the house, and the hum of the television screen. It hits me for the first time in a while: I’m pursuing cards I can’t afford, pouring time and energy into the thrill of ownership without any tangible reward. My eyes drift toward the living room bookshelf — filled with binders and top-loaders, stacks of plastic seals and cards. Maybe it’s time to flip the script, I think to myself.

I hurry out the door with a small black bubble mailer full of baseball cards from my first order. I’m excited, alright. I debated throwing it in the mailbox and perking its red flap up, but I chose to drop it off after school.

“What on earth is that in your bag?” Crap, they notice the bubble mailer. What can I even say?

“Uh, just some baseball cards I sold over the weekend,” I say, trying to play it cool, grinning.

“That’s cute. But like…what’s your actual profit? Who cares about revenue?”

What the hell? Can’t I enjoy something for once?

“I'm not sure; they were mostly one to five dollar cards. I don’t think it matters much,” I reply with a nervous chuckle, trying to brush it off. All I get is a dismissive pfft.

Later, I pace around my room, still preoccupied with how they laughed. Why do I even bother with this? Why am I running a business that no one takes seriously? I should go back to buying; at least that part was enjoyable. Ding. Ding.

Ding. My phone buzzes with a notification: “Congratulations, you made the sale! $36.24.” I smile, yet some of me still feels empty, as if the win didn’t mean as much as it should have. I slipped the new package under my bed — they were coming over soon to work on our science project, and I didn’t want to hear it again.

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That night, after they left — jokes still echoing in the hallway — I pulled the package from under my bed. I opened the eBay app to mark it as shipped, but a notification from the buyer stopped me.

“Yeah, most people don't want to collect at all. This is for my son's present (I am Chinese, my wife is Korean, and he was born here in the U.S.). It may not mean anything for others, but it is special for my son.” I stared at the screen. Shit. The card? It was a random Pokémon card, nothing special. But to him, it meant something.

I didn’t respond right away. I just sat there, reading the message repeatedly, the words settling into that space between my chest and throat that I couldn’t even comprehend. This wasn’t just about flipping cards or making ten bucks off shipping. It was about emotional and sentimental value, about connecting with others, about something small making someone feel better for their day.

“Thanks again for your help; it made for the greatest Christmas present for my son.”

And yeah — maybe my friends would never get it.

But this guy did.

A week later, I walked into school with another bubble mailer in my bag. They didn’t ask this time. Maybe they stopped caring, or perhaps I stopped giving them the reaction they sought. At lunch, they talked about a party I hadn’t been invited to. I half-listened, sipping my water, scrolling through my eBay notifications. Another thank-you from a buyer. This one said it made their brother’s birthday.

“My brother has no idea I’m getting this for him. He offhandedly mentioned he wanted it and I was ON IT!” I smiled. Not a loud smile. Just the kind that settles in your chest and stays there for a while. It’s refreshing.

That night, that familiar, obnoxious red banner popped on my screen: “Time left: 30 seconds; Current bid: $143.00.” It was the same card I’d lost the week before, the one that started it all. My cursor hovered anxiously over the bid button. I could probably afford it now, I thought to myself.

But I didn’t click.

Instead, I clicked “Add to Watchlist” and closed the tab. I looked at the ground—three packages to ship tomorrow. The ballgame had changed — and so had I. “Jung Hoo Lee drives a ball deep to left-center field, and it’s gone! A home run sends the Giants to victory!” echoed from the living room through the hallways and into my heart.

I DY L L I C DAYS | C l a ra E a t o n ’ 27 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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DEAR FAILURE A n d r e w Pa k ’ 2 8

Dear Failure, From the moment I first tried to stand up, and fell right back down, you and I have been close ever since.

And to put it quite frankly, you’re the worst.

You leave me with disappointment, a disappointment that shoves me to the ground, my mouth full of dirt, my knees full of cuts, and my heart heavy from the weight of defeat.

But I won’t let you get the best of me.

Each time I fall, I’ll get right back up.

So go ahead, knock me over, kick me while I’m down.

I shall endure until I succeed.

Love, Andy

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H I S T O R I C A L R E F L E C T I O N | G a b b y Ya n g ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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IN BETWEEN Sophie Saibi ’27

“Are you her translator?” the waitress asked my mother, her eyebrows raised in confusion as she spoke in rapid Chinese.

My mother blinked in surprise, a bewildered expression on her face. “No,” she replied, her voice firm and deliberate. “我是他妈 – I am her MO-THER,” emphasizing each word in a way that left no room for misunderstanding.

This summer, on a trip to visit my grandmother in Zhengzhou, China, I began to feel a sense of dissociation from my Chinese identity, partially due to my changing appearance. At a restaurant, the waitress, her hair slicked back in a bun and wearing a red apron, was guiding us to our table when she turned to my mom, mistaking her for my translator. I couldn’t stop laughing—it was absurd to think that my own mother could be mistaken as my helper, although she has always been one of my biggest supporters. The moment lingered like a shadow, forcing me to confront the shifting tides of my identity. But as I reflected on this incident, I realized it actually represented something deeper: the way my physical appearance was beginning to create a silent wedge between my whole self and the Chinese part of me that has felt so familiar all my life. I felt a tinge of sadness while also hardened by the resolve to maintain strong connections with my roots, even while my identity continues to evolve.

Growing up, I’ve always embraced the diverse cultures of my family. My mother is Chinese and grew up in Henan, while my father is from Dijon, France, with roots in Algeria and Lebanon. The dinner table is often adorned with diverse dishes ranging from spicy Chinese Dan Dan noodles to the rich and aromatic Middle Eastern zaatar eggs, warm North African couscous, and decadent French bœuf Bourguignon. Our home is equally alive with a variety of holidays. Each year for Independence Day, my family and I make it a point to bike in the warm summer night to a lake where we watch the bright and brilliant fireworks light up the water's surface and the patriotic fire burning in our eyes and hearts. For Bastille Day, we celebrate the national French holiday by humming the French “Marseillaise” round the clock till my dad is sick of it. On Lunar New Year, my family and I pull out our famous dumpling recipe and wrap – by hand – quite literally hundreds of dumplings to enjoy around the dinner table.

Outside of the comforts of our home, this blend of backgrounds often left me feeling ethnically ambiguous. In my first year of high school, I recall telling a classmate that my grandmother was from an African country, and immediately he 74 | TA B U L A R A S A

C O N S U M P T I O N | J e n n i f e r L i ’ 26 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

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OV E R I T | R o s e X u ’ 25 | d i g i t a l a r t

asked, “So does that mean you can say the n-word?” At first, I was taken aback by the abrupt and offensive question. It was a moment that showed the misunderstandings and misconceptions, many, including myself, often have about ethnicity, race, and identity. To provide context, my paternal grandmother is from North Africa, which is mainly composed of Arabic and Berber people. This region’s history has been shaped by so many civilizations and layers of influence from colonial powers, resulting in a fusion of Arab, Berber, and French culture.

On the flip side, representing so many cultures felt like I had special powers—I could blend in with people of different ethnicities, and connect with others through our shared traditions, upbringing, and foreign languages. My French and Chinese roots made me feel like I belonged to two worlds at once. From kindergarten all the way to middle school, I attended a bilingual school with separate French and Chinese tracks. Although I was in the Chinese track, I was still able to connect with classmates from the French track through my understanding of both languages.

As a matter of fact, I used to act as a “spy” for the Chinese track, where I would translate the childish French phrases and name-calling other kids were saying such as “caca” or “Tu pues!” and toss them back in the Chinese phrases “大便” or “他 很臭!”, reveling in the playful power of words. Being able to translate the taunting phrases and silly remarks made me feel important—like a secret agent.

But nowadays, being trilingual, adding in English has become very confusing.

I often feel torn between my different cultures, and I can’t easily identify with any specific group for fear of not being “enough.” These tensions within me make me feel like an outsider, constantly looking in on others. Of course, it doesn’t help that my olive skin tone, untamed curls, and brown eyes often have people second-guessing my ethnicity. Sometimes, my Chinese peers are surprised to hear me jump into a conversation in Mandarin, completely throwing them off.

Through these experiences, I realized it is much easier to simply belong and refer to one culture. But how could I claim any one identity without forsaking another? I realized I was left with only one option. Perhaps it’s not about being loyal to just one race, country, or identity. After all, human beings are much more complex than that thanks to globalization and technology’s role in forming a more interconnected world. Perhaps the tensions I am experiencing are preparing me for a much larger mission—to bridge my disparate worlds into one unified identity as what I can only call a “global citizen.” My determination to connect with family around the world has challenged me in so many ways. Instead of resisting my diversity or feeling ashamed, I should embrace the multicultural identity that I represent. It is thanks to my familial ties to various parts of the world that my awareness of global events has expanded. Currently, my relatives in Beirut, Lebanon are caught in the

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middle of an increasingly violent conflict between Hezbollah and Israel. It makes events like these feel so much more real and relevant to my life as we look for ways to help them through this ordeal. I hope for every bit of safety and protection to help keep them alive and well. In addition, my growing appreciation for China’s global impact is matched by concern for my grandmother, who was affected by the “zero-COVID” policies, which restricted her mobility in her daily life.

After my trip to Zhengzhou, China, I kept thinking about the encounter at the restaurant, only further motivating me to deepen the bond with my wonderful family. Today, I continue perfecting my Chinese and French, while recently picking up bits and pieces of Arabic to connect more with my roots in Algeria and Lebanon. Instead of viewing myself as existing in the in-between, I realize I can fill a gap–to serve as a much-needed bridge between cultures and spread awareness about the heritages that I represent. Now, when strangers ask where I am from, I proudly share my background with them, hoping it will open their eyes to the vast beauty of multiculturalism that I have the privilege of representing in our world today.

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VIBRANCE C l a ra E a t o n ’ 27 p h o t o g ra p h y

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AS FALLS THE BLEEDING SUN D a v i n Te r n u s ’ 2 8

The end of an era, marked by bloody retreat.

A fading of what was, no care of what will be.

As an unconscious war approaches end And the troops now realize, see clearly their victory; Yet not a soul is cheering as falls the bleeding Sun.

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B L E E D I N G S U N | D a v i n Te r n u s ’ 28 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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I N T H E S H A D O W O F V I C T O RY Zachary Choi ’28

Time winds down, All is quiet, A solitary salute Faintly sounds, the bells of church.

Senses flooded with emptying loss As gear is packed and flashbacks fought, Form unused necklaces of sweat.

And even so, lies mind relaxed His jaws tighten Wishing for the power, To control the past.

From disappointment flows one numbing fact, From fertile numb soil, Grow the desolate numb crack.

High on hollowness he sees No dying courtesy.

No final act.

No church of victory. but cries of anguish haunting back.

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Void of anger, Depleted of rage, Once a prince of potential, Now sees potential’s cage; Isolating sensation, Icing his veins, Shackled to regret, Life does not remain.

Long at last, His heavy heart thaws, Emerge a mixture of fear and confusion At least emotion At last respite.

A heavy sigh amid heavy burden, “Oh Lord, teach me to move, Remind this mortal desperate warden.”

I N T H E WAT E R S O F I N D I A | A i d e n Va i d y a ’ 27 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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DESERT T i f f a ny A u ’ 2 7

The vast expanse of solitude, Filled with isolation.

The sand shifts slowly, Burying our deepest secrets.

The gentle breeze blows again, Whispering the past.

The stillness of the desert, Reflection of our souls.

As we journey through the desert, The soft sand below shifts beneath our steps once again, Covering past trails as fresh ones emerge.

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D U N E I I | M i c h a e l B ra d l e y ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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HEADPHONES Ella Kim ’28

When I first plugged you into my new phone Gently pressing your simple plastic buds into my ears I knew what it felt like to be truly alive.

Watching movies as a kid Their best moments were underscored by transcendental melodies Casting the complex sensations unable to be conveyed by words through waves across the vibrations filling the dark theater A connection only capturable by sound.

I longed for such experiences Bliss beyond what words could capture My gray life incomparable to the vibrance of the movies I had accepted that they were but a fantasy Until I found you.

Cruising through the scenic plains of freeways Walking down empty fields Laying in the plain sheets of my bed A mundane canvas My fingers work to untangle your rubbery white strands Click.

Silence.

Euphoria.

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G O L D E N H O U R | D e v y n S m i t h ’ 27 | p h o t o g ra p h y

The hues of the passing trees blur together Clear, moist air coats my nostrils in a light residue Sinking into the airy comfort of my bed A frame of pure emotion My ears are gilded by your gentle elixir Liquid gold filling the spirals of my brain To cure its greatest ills A melodramatic rosy tint encasing the world around me.

Alive.

Because of you, My life is eternally enchanted.

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C O LO R S O F T H E K I T C H E N | C o r i n n e Fu n g ’ 28 | w a t e rc o l o r

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MORNING MUSIC Nona Brozell ’27

Beep. Beep. Beep. I am gently awoken by my alarm’s protest against the coming of the morning. Through my open bedroom window, I can hear the cacophony of the daily commute. Car horns, bike bells, the shouts of passers-by and the alarmed coos of pigeons. These sounds surround me, forming the morning symphony. A breeze drifts by my building, bringing with it the smell of breakfast: pancakes, butter, fresh fruit, and countless other scents that have all melded into one. A rumble from my stomach reminds me that I, too, am hungry and need to eat something.

These details, the senses of the morning, invigorate me to leave the warm cocoon of my bed and venture into the rest of the apartment. Although the chill of the floor sends a shiver through my body, I press onward, in search of something to eat.

Once I have reached the kitchen, I make quick use of my time, whipping together some eggs, onions, and pepper before plopping them into the pan. As my breakfast cooks, I switch on the television, half-listening to the daily news. The words of the two anchors blend together into a single buzz of background noise, a backing track that pairs perfectly with the symphony of sounds outside my windows. With the T.V. still on, I hurriedly finish preparing and begin eating my omelet and a pear, not thinking much about what I am doing but rather allowing myself to fall into step with the atmosphere of the morning, my daily routine harmonizing with the thousands of others playing out at the same time as mine. For a few minutes, I forget myself and my life. For a few minutes, I become a part of the music — a note that, once played, melds with the countless others to form something so large that it is able to encompass a building, a block, a whole city. But, eventually, my note drifts off, waves of sound dispersing through the air until they are so faint that they can be heard no longer. I have finished my food — my part, for now, is over. I stand from the table, deposit my dishes in the sink, turn off the T.V., and head to the bathroom, ready to start the next section of my daily routine.

Once I have brushed my teeth and showered, I throw on the clothes that I had laid out for myself yesterday and quickly brush through the tangles in my hair.

Once that has been dealt with, I exit my bathroom and head to the entrance of my apartment. Finally, I take one last look around my home to check if there is anything that I have forgotten to get or something that I need to address before leaving for the day. After satisfying myself that everything is in order, I grab my coat and purse from their place by the entrance to my apartment, and I unlock the door and step outside.

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Immediately, I am greeted with the same cacophony that I had heard when I awoke, only with a dramatically increased volume. The sounds of people heading to work in all manner of ways envelop me, and I become one with the music of the morning. As I enter my own car, start my own engine, and head out on my own way, I am mirroring the actions of tens of thousands of others. While my route and my reason for travelling are not the same as the other commuters’, I am still connected with all of them, as we are all setting out on a journey with the same purpose.

As I travel, I pass by all sorts of people, glimpsing little pieces of their lives. A hanging car ornament, a bumper sticker, a face in the window. All of these cars contain the stories of the people that they hold, and, as I drive by, I learn a little about each of my fellow commuters. This is my favorite part of the day, because, as I glide from stoplight to stoplight, past businesses and schools, and through the heart of the city, I am able to gain a bit of insight into the lives of the others that keep this city up and running.

When my trip is finally over and I have arrived at my destination, the local coffee shop, I feel a bit of sadness as I am forced to part with the flow of traffic. The people with whom I formed insignificant and one-sided yet somehow interesting bonds drive on, while I peel away from the group and go about my own way. As I leave my car and the atmosphere of the morning, I am already thinking ahead to the nighttime drive back to my apartment, a time when I will have the chance, once more, to take part in this harmonious drive. Walking up the steps to the coffee shop, I can hear the sounds of the morning beginning to recede into the distance, becoming fainter and fainter until they are barely noticeable, simply a bit of white noise in the background. As I push open the doors of the coffee shop, the quietness of the building pleasantly ushers me in. The doors fall shut behind me, sealing me off from the morning symphony and introducing the beginning of an entirely new composition.

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L A R K | Ke l l y A n n e Tu ’ 27 | d i g i t a l a r t

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W H I S P E R S O F T H E B AY T i f f a ny L i ’ 2 9

Whenever I need a moment of peace or a break from the noise of life, I head to the beach—a small, unassuming strip of rocks and sand hidden along a quiet pathway. To most, it might not seem like much, but to me, it’s a sanctuary. This haven is called San Francisco Bay Front, and although it lacks the vast sandy shores and bustling crowds of people, it’s exactly where I find solace. A mere ten minute walk from my house, it’s a quick escape into a world where time seems to slow down, and the noise of my everyday life fades into the distance. The pathway winds along the beach, but I’m always drawn to the water’s edge, where the real beauty lies. The San Francisco Bay stretches out before me like an endless mirror, reflecting the sky and merging seamlessly with the horizon. It’s hard to believe that it’s just a bay; it feels more like the entire Pacific Ocean, impossibly vast and infinite, a contrast to the small town I live in.

My favorite time to visit is fifteen minutes after sunset, when the sky starts its slow, graceful fade from day to night. As I begin my walk down toward the water, I see the sun sink below the horizon. The sky is ignited with brilliant shades of color—vibrant streaks of fiery red and purple spilling across the sky like watercolors on a painter’s canvas. The clouds drift lazily, painted in soft hues of pink and lavender that melt into the deepening blue of the background, glowing with the dimming

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soft light of the setting sun. The air is cool and crisp, carrying with it the familiar briny scent of the sea. It’s the kind of air that fills your lungs with a refreshing bite, making each breath feel more alive. Overhead, the first stars twinkle faintly, and a tiny sliver of the moon appears, a glowing speck in the fading light. No matter how many times I’ve witnessed this, the beauty of these sunsets never fail to captivate me. The world feels larger and more connected in moments like this, as if time and space stretches while my mind drifts with the waves.

As I approach the shoreline, the soft crunch of pebbles under my feet mixes with the rhythmic lapping of the waves. Occasionally, the tide brings small treasures to shore—odd, forgotten items like a rusted bottle cap, a tarnished ring, or a dented tin of Altoids. Each discovery feels like a glimpse into another life.

I imagine the stories behind these objects, their lives running parallel to mine, connected only by this shoreline. Others must have stood here, watching the sun melt into the sea, or perhaps they’re scattered around the bay, sharing this same view. I see planes flying overhead, their low hum filling the sky, lights flickering like a dying star. I wonder about the passengers inside, invisible to me but so present in their own stories. In these moments, with the cool breeze brushing against my skin and the world closing and expanding around me, I feel both insignificant and infinite. This beach is a place where I can lose myself in the beauty and immensity of this world, yet feel deeply rooted to it at the same time. Every visit reminds me that while I’m just one small existence in a big world, there’s always beauty in the quiet connections we make—to places, to objects, and even to the unseen lives that exist around us.

S U N S E T O N T H E WAV E S | W i l l H e w l e t t ’ 27 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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EPIPHANY Mark Govorkov '30

Dorian sat warming his hands by the fire. A savage, raving wind tore at the naked trees outside. The old woman put a kettle on the stove. It was dark in the small hut, but the crimson light of the setting sun streamed in through the window, illuminating the glimmering, iridescent rooftops of Katmandu far in the distance.

The old woman didn’t speak English, but she had incredible intuition. The conditions in the hut were extremely simplistic - the bare necessities - but Dorian found it to be sufficient, to his own surprise. Dorian had come from another world - beyond the mountains. From a world of responsibility, a world of toil, a world of never-ending change. It was a chaotic, complex, bustling, and sometimes volatile world. But at the same time, this world was the land of plenty, innovation, and progress.

Here, things were so different. The old woman lived in a Himalayan village of several families, sitting snugly in a narrow, rocky, snowy valley that was nevertheless exposed to the merciless elements. All they needed was a warm hut, firewood, and livestock.

It seemed so simple and beautiful, yet so unattainable in the massive world of bureaucracy, commerce, and intrigue. The tiny village was so alien to Dorian - he was used to writing emails, catching trains, and making agreements. Yet the village felt like home, though he had stayed in it for only three days. He was gathering strength and healing his wounds to begin his trek back down to the civilized world.

After his helicopter had crashed onto a glacier, the old woman had shared with Dorian her greatest treasures: her home, her food, and her family.

In our modern world, every individual weaves their thread into the immense, ubiquitous tapestry of knowledge and progress. Each of us, in our own way, can learn to enjoy, appreciate, and be delighted by simple gifts complex lives, and, in this way, find great happiness. It may take three days or a lifetime. So which is more important - chasing after complexity or searching for simplicity? Maybe we should have a healthy dose of both. And then, we can weave into the tapestry not only a thread of knowledge, but also a string of wisdom.

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H A LO E F F E C T | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 25 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

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W H I T E S T O N E S | D a v i n Te r n u s ’ 28 | p h o t o g ra p h y

BEFORE AND AFTER: BURN WOUND Max Rees ’26

The tears in the earth were like a burn wound.

They opened in a blaze of war when the soldiers ran through the village, slashing and tearing the people and houses open. The oozing of life is so clear in my mind.

I remember how the village looked as a child: if you squeezed through the busy market where people yelled and pushed and grabbed, and the smells of stinking dirt roads mingled with the fragrant wafts from street food all at once, you found yourself in the open expanse of countryside. That’s how it felt when I was younger, anyway. When you entered the fields, you dunked your head into a perfectly serene pool, away from all the noise. The sun shone over the rolls of green hills and rows of farmland and you would run until you reached the barn.

I spent my time there with my brother, our summers hiding from the sun’s heat in that abandoned barn and, in winter, sneaking off to try in vain to find warmth. We would climb in the rafters and tag each other, going back and forth from the hay loft to the front and only stopping when the sun went down. Until the war came. When the scab filled up with clear yellow pus, it sealed itself seemingly inside that barn. I keep coming back to it.

The first time it was desperate. An unbearable itching on my skin took me there more than my legs did.

After a few months, I could not walk down those streets or see the people still lying where they were killed in the village. But the magnetism of that location pulled on me, and it seemed in an instant I was in the ruins of the barn. Peaking through the dilapidated roof was that orange-red sky created by a sun being choked out by smoke. It seemed like an admonishing glance from high above to let mortals know what happens when they set themselves on fire.

My mind was spinning with hotness and impatience. It was as though there was something I couldn’t bear to wait for, as though I had walked all this way without water and I came to find an old river completely dry. I couldn’t make sense of that feeling, then. How could I wait for something that’s already happened? What was I even waiting for?

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I wanted to wrap my hands around the disaster and guide it away; I needed to reach my will to the far off rulers who used their people as a tool, like those unwieldy muskets lugged around by boys just old enough to be sent off. They would know they protected their family and village and marketplace and barn with every hasty step they placed over mine. They would know that the guilt found after the stark smell of gunpowder and the hush after the ruins were clear could only be soothed by the idea of their own kind protected and at home. It’s only fair, I decided.

The last time was different. That crawling feeling became more of a silence, with the same ease a hand can run over a callus or an old mark left over on skin.

The village is alive. Not with the same life as before, but plants and animals and people that need a lean-to to sleep under. Moss speckles the cobblestone and foundations and deer and rabbit graze where people used to live. The travelers and permanent wanderers passing through take shelter in old door frames and children’s bedrooms. I guess it’s easier to sleep under a roof that has already been burned away than one that could, at any point, fall in. I had waited and life had returned.

The barn doesn’t have the anger it did before. Among the vines and creatures that reclaimed the building in the wake, a spider moved in and built its home in what remains of the ceiling of the barn. A small and wretched thing, it makes a web. Maybe it’s drawn to intersect the points it has walked on before. It looks like it drives itself crazy up there.

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L E W I S M A U S O L E U M | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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THE PORTRAIT GA L L E RY

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B L I N D E D BY G O L D | G ra c e Yo u n g ’ 27 | d i g i t a l a r t

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HARPER Ke l l y A n n e Tu ' 27 | d i g i t a l a r t

STELLA Ke l l y A n n e Tu ’ 27 | d i g i t a l a r t

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SABRINA CARPENTER R i y a S r i v a s t a v a ’ 27 | p h o t o g ra p h y OLIVIA RODRIGO R i y a S r i v a s t a v a ’ 27 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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ATA R A X I A R o s e X u ’ 25 | d i g i t a l a r t

MORNING AFTER J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 25 | d i g i t a l a r t

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SUN AND MOON Re k h a S e i b e r ’ 27 | d i g i t a l a r t

C H AO S Re k h a S e i b e r ’ 27 | d i g i t a l a r t

LET ME IN! A n n a b e l l e E a t o n ’ 25 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

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C ARLET LETTER LITTLE W O MEN THE HAND M AID'S TALE PRIDE AND P REJUDICE WUTH E RING HEIGHTS THE GREA T GATSBY INVIS I BLE MAN EAS T OF EDEN THE CATCHER I N THE RYE TO KILL A M O CKINGBIRD CRIME AND PU N ISHMENT SENSE AND S ENSIBILITY THE S

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1.

Write a Coming of Age story

From The Catcher in The Rye to Jane Eyre, coming-of-age stories have captivated readers for centuries as they explore the period of growth during childhood and adolescence. Write a coming-of-age piece (poem, short story, personal narrative, creative essay) that explores the universally unique experience of growing up.

2.

Write an Impression of a Character

Whether it’s an intimate observation or a fleeting impression, all literary characters must be introduced in some way or another. In 350 words or less, craft a vivid portrait of a person—real or fictional— captured in a single moment. As a bonus challenge, the portrayal may also subtly reflect something about the narrator.

3.

"Light"

Light is fundamental to nearly everything in our existence. It can create highlights, silhouettes, glows, and reflections. It can add depth, angle, emotion, and meaning. Whether we notice it or not, it completely forms our perception of a space or entity. Through art or photography, capture a distinctive portrayal of light.

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COMING OF AGE

COMPETITION #1 1st PLACE A SE A OF STAR S | Dev yn Smith ’27 I remember a time—quite a long time ago it seems—when the world seemed to move so slow I would lay down on a patch of grass and stare for hours at the cotton candy clouds passing by.

I would then close my eyes, calmly feeling the breeze brushing against my delicate skin— What a beautiful feeling that was.

I remember my dog running away every week, I would have a battered leash in one hand and a piece of bacon in the other While chasing him down the block in my bare feet with my pajamas on I remember feeling so frustrated at his love for the chase He was so stubborn!

Now it makes me laugh as I sort through all of the memories flowing through my mind each memory passes me by, it blows by me and softly kisses me on the cheek.

These memories flow into one another to form a shimmering lake I feel the world may often see me as aloof and distant but they don’t realize that I am lost in this lake I spend my time diving into the sea of blinking stars, clawing for the memories from my past.

I yearn to escape back to my childhood, to just relive one more moment. only time will tell when I look forward to growing old till then I will be diving in the deep, blue sea of stars reminiscing on the moments from my childhood

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2nd PLACE T H E FIV E STAG E S | An n a Dh alluin ’27 Dear Childhood, When did you leave?

How did I not notice you packing your bags?

When did I wake up without you beside me?

How did I not notice that suddenly you weren’t part of my reflection anymore?

They all tried to tell me, That you would leave sooner than I expected, That you would leave sooner than I’d want you to, But I was in denial, However much people told me I would be entering the next phase in life, I wouldn’t listen.

People often say that you are the best yet quickest part of our lives.

You came to me when I didn’t want you, And you left after I asked you to stay.

You left me when I needed you most.

You left me in an angry, swirling pool of darkness, In an unknown place, Full of expectations, facades, and difficulties, With a bitter memory of you in my mind.

Back when all I needed to be popular, Was to be the fastest runner.

Back when no one had a care in the world, Back when everything was simple and straightforward, Back when trends didn’t exist, And what I looked like didn’t matter.

Sometimes, I wish you would come back to me.

Answer to my pleadings, Tell me why you had to leave, 109

Or that we could come to a bargain, Or find a compromise.

Where you could come back, If only for a day, And hour, Anything, Just so I could just see you again, Hold you again, Before you slip through my fingers, And go back to your hiding place, Just like you did the first time you left me.

But I know you can’t And that very thought leaves me, With a wave of depression, Crashing and breaking onto my frail body.

Until it can’t take it anymore, Until the waves start breaking off part of cliffs, That is my body, My mind.

You were a goodbye I was not ready to deliver, A goodbye I wasn’t ready to hear, A door I didn’t want to close, A movie I didn’t want to end, Yet here we are.

I will never fully let you go, Too often I wish I could go back into your loving embrace, Enveloping myself in your comfort.

But I have learned, That I should accept the loss of you, And move on with my life.

Climbing each step into a next phase, With new doors to open, And to close.

Climbing and climbing, Until I reach the top.

And then I'll look at the view, Peering into my life.

And I'll see you again, Anna 110 | TA B U L A R A S A

W I S P S O N T H E WAY T O C A M E LO T | A n n a b e l l e E a t o n ’ 25 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

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IMPRESSION OF A CHARACTER

COMPETITION #2 1st PLACE I CA LLED HIM G RAN DPA | Raf ay Budh ani ’ 3 0 Sitting on a creaking mahogany rocking chair, an old man dozed peacefully, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his shallow breaths. His long, ruffled white hair almost sparkled in the afternoon sunlight as if spun with silver. Every strand of hair was a shelter for white dots of dandruff. His oily face was pocked with tiny scars, and his thick, nearly conjoined black eyebrows cast a shadow over his deep-set eyes. A large forehead revealed years of hard labor under relentless sun, as a sheet of sweat encased his forehead. His pale skin, bronzed from decades of labor carried the hues of wear and time. Wisps of colorless hair sprouted stubbornly from his shriveled ears, like a plant searching for sunlight. A peculiar dark circle surrounded his white nose, which had little specks of dirt here and there. His dry, cracked lips were flecked with crumbs, the last remnants of a half-eaten cracker stubbornly clinging to the corners of his mouth. A faded, checkered blanket draped his hunched frame, the fabric worn smooth with age. Its folds clung tightly to his torso with creases all around the sleeves. Peculiarly, none existed from the waist down. His feet were protected by gleaming brown dress shoes, polished to a mirror-like finish, rested firmly on the chair’s wooden base.

As he stirred from his slumber, his hazel eyes shone in the sun gleaming like amber. His serene expression twisted first into a scowl and then softened into a weary disappointment. Slowly, he craned his stubby neck to examine his surroundings as his joints protested with audible creaks. He reached his hand out.

His fingers brushed the feathery edge of a tall stalk beside him. Wheat. The golden field stretched endlessly in every direction. The slender grains rustled faintly in the breeze, trapping him inside the field with no way out, but the old man thought nothing of it. This was home.

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2nd PLACE DO U BLE- SIDED GIRL | Hat tie Kauf man n ’ 29 She smelled like chocolate covered coconuts. Her hair, brown and curly, hung down past her collarbone, like slinkies rolling down the stairs. She had the cutest button nose, but that’s not what people noticed about her. They noticed her eyes.

Her eyes were a deep Neptune blue. Her eyes were beautiful, especially when she cried, but she didn’t cry very often, and when she did, it was over silly things, like seeing an old man eating alone at a restaurant or when she turned a corner, and was startled by you being there. She looked like 10 pm on a Tuesday. She didn't care about things most people cared about, and cared about things most people didn't.

She didn’t care if all her friends went to a party, and she wasn’t invited, but she cared if anyone even attempted to sip through her straw. She was a very double-sided girl.

Like in science class when a student receives an article to read for homework and they realize it’s double-sided, some kids are thrilled about the extra knowledge, but others would rather do almost anything else than read two more paragraphs about the mitochondria. Just like that, there were some people who knew her ins and outs, thought of her intricate personality like a light hearted maze, and others who hated her, even though they didn’t bother to look past the first page. She despised strawberries, but there were always strawberries in her fridge. She was always doing something, but she was never too busy to ignore anyone. She liked to yell; it made her feel heard, but she knew her powerful voice and domineering attitude could sometimes get the best of her. Some people thought of her as dangerous; I thought of her as my only source of unwavering friendship.

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"LIGHT"

COMPETITION #3 1st PLACE FLOW STATE | Mich ael Bradley ’25 | pho t og ra p hy

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2nd PLACE SO L A R POWER | Carolin e Blot ter ’25 | wa t e rc olor & b loc k p r int

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HONORABLE MENTION GAR DEN | Bi l l L on g ’25 | gouache on wa t e rc olor p a p e r

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HONORABLE MENTION CONFET T I | Riya Sriv as tav a ’27 | phot og ra p hy

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CONTRIBUTOR BIOS Juliet Ahrens ’27 is grateful and so excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa! In her free time, she enjoys playing volleyball, baking, and going to the beach.

Tif fany Au ’27 loves to express herself through her writing. Outside of school, she enjoys hanging out with friends, reading, and traveling.

Caroline Blot ter ’25 is a senior who loves expressing herself through art and music.

She enjoys singing, playing piano, and art, specifically printmaking. She also loves playing soccer, reading, and being outdoors.

Michael Bradley ’25 is a senior who loves expressing himself through photography.

As the president of the photography club, he is excited to share some of his latest visual work with you. When he's not behind the lens, Michael enjoys hanging out with friends, being outdoors, exercising, playing piano, and listening to the (objectively) best music in the world.

Nox Bradley ’28 loves to write poetry in the Notes app on his way home from school. When he is not writing, you will most likely find him listening to music or biking outdoors.

Nona Brozell ’27 enjoys sharing her thoughts through writing, and she is very excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa. Nona also loves reading, crocheting, cooking, and baking.

Rafay Budhani ’30 is honored to be featured in Tabula Rasa. He enjoys reading, writing, and pondering. In his free time, not only does he engage in the literary arts, but he also dabbles in software, astronomy, and theoretical science.

Soha Budhani ’26 is a witty idealist, equal parts well-read and well-watched. Fueled by caf feine and curiosity, she delivers spontaneous soliloquies so impassioned they surprise even her. With a knack for reading people almost as well as she reads books, Soha gravitates toward stories that challenge her to think deeply and uncover the hidden why’s and untold “what really happened’s” of history.

Zachary Choi ’28 enjoys stringing together stanzas of poetry and sentences of emotion. When he’s not putting pen to paper, Zachary loves to laugh with his friends and hone his skills on the fencing strip.

Anna Dhalluin ’27 writes about space politics, international issues, the strange and unsolvable - anything that keeps her thinking. She is drawn to writing one -sitting poems that explore the complexities of life. In her free time, she’s usually tucked away into a book, immersed in music, or watching movies with friends and family.

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Annabelle Eaton ’25 is a senior who loves to create art and writing in her free time.

Outside of that, she loves playing volleyball, hiking, and eating with friends.

Clara Eaton ’27 is a sophomore who enjoys art and photography. Outside of this, she enjoys traveling, spending time with friends, and reading.

Corinne Fung ’28 is a new freshmen at Pinewood, and she feels so honored to have her work displayed in Tabula Rasa. When she’s not expressing herself through art, she can be found singing, going on runs, reading, sipping a warm cup of matcha, or spending time with friends and family.

Mark Govorkov ’30 enjoys creative and expository writing. In his free time, Mark loves to read, play piano, do math, and binge watch 3Blue1Brown. He is honored to be featured in Tabula Rasa.

Will Hewlet t ’27 is a sophomore who enjoys taking photos and has a photo for just about anything you could imagine. While he is in no way close to a good photographer, if you take enough photos, you will take an amazing photo.

Hat tie Kaufmann ’29 is so excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa! She loves hanging out with her friends and 7-11 slushies!

Trevor Koo ’26 likes writing once in a while. Why not try new things every now and then? He likes spending time with friends, even if it’s going to the library. Turns out, baseball cards spark his stories.

Sophia Lee ’26 is a junior who loves any kind of art, digital or physical. She is excited to finally have her art in Tabula Rasa, and she likes collecting keychains and stickers in her free time.

Jennifer Li ’26 has enjoyed creating and viewing art for the past decade. She likes to depict moments of her life from an artistic lens and connect to others through her work.

Tif fany Li ’29 is so excited to be a part of Tabula Rasa! She likes strawberry matcha and hanging out with friends.

Elizabeth Liang ’27 is a sophomore and rising junior who finds joy in making art in her free time, reading and writing poetry, as well as rock climbing. Always eager to try new things, she draws inspiration from both movement and stillness, trying to blend curiosity and creativity into everything she does.

Youxi Lin ’28 is a freshman who writes very occasionally and likes trying out new things (like submitting to Tabula Rasa).

(contributor bios continued on the next page)

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Bill Long ’25 is 17 years old. He thinks painting is for losers who don't know how to draw. His favorite color is somewhere on the rainbow, maybe like blue or red or green or purple or something. He hates vegetables, especially brussels sprouts and celery.

He's a big fan of chicken.

Katie Maier ’27 has spent her whole life writing. She currently serves on The Perennial’s editorial staff and co-leads the Creative Writing Club. In her free time, she fangirls over B-list actors from 80s movies.

Andrew Pak ’28 is a freshman who enjoys writing about interesting topics through a creative lens. When he is not writing, you can find him on the track or football field. He is very honored to be featured in Tabula Rasa.

Lara Parikh ’26 is a junior who loves experimenting with different art forms, and uses them as her means of self-expression. Lara also enjoys playing tennis, reading, cooking, and eating chocolate cake.

Max Rees ’26 is a junior who enjoys writing poetry about nature and other beautiful things. He can most often be found playing the guitar or talking to his friends, and he is so excited for his work to be featured in this edition of Tabula Rasa.

Sophie Saibi ’27 enjoys journaling and writing short stories in 2 AM bursts of inspiration. Outside of writing, she enjoys astronomy, backpacking, and volleyball.

Rekha Seiber ’27 is a sophomore that likes to make art. That’s kind of it.

Devyn Smith ’27 is so excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa! She loves writing poems in her free time and finds writing as a beautiful way to express herself. She enjoys writing poems that bring feelings of peace and hope and provide a sense of strength to deal with the complexities of life. In addition to writing, she enjoys playing tennis, going on runs/walks, playing the piano + ukulele, and eating delicious food.

Lund Smith ’30 enjoys basketball, playing musical instruments, theater and really anything artistic. He's always had a special passion for writing and is thrilled to be featured in Tabula Rasa.

Riya Srivastava ’27 is a sophomore who loves capturing her favorite moments and memories through a camera. She enjoys traveling with her family, going for long walks, and baking creative confections.

Nathaniel Taylor ’28 is proud to be featured in Tabula Rasa. He also enjoys playing football and hanging out with friends.

Davin Ternus ’28 is a freshman who enjoys writing stories as well as photography.

He especially loves writing about proposed futures and what they may hold.

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Marley Thornson ’25 is a senior who spends her free time taking pictures of pretty things, drawing pretty things, writing about pretty things and looking at pretty things. She hopes that you enjoy her work and the many other wonderful writers and artists featured.

Kelly Anne Tu ’27 is honored to be featured in Tabula Rasa. She enjoys watching K-Pop variety shows and ContraPoints video essays at 2x speed.

Aiden Vaidya ’27 is a sophomore who loves photography, and will take photos of sports, nature, and just about anything he finds interesting. He enjoys spending time with friends and listening to the latest rap music.

Sophia Wang ’30 has an obsession with watching movies, reading, writing, and spending a lot of time on YouTube and CapCut. She can be found standing in random places and seemingly contemplating the floor.

Aaron Xie ’27 is a sophomore who has a passion for creative writing and reading. He enjoys playing tennis, hanging out with friends, and listening to music.

Adeline Xie ’30 is fueled by tea and spontaneous motivation. She enjoys writing, except it’s only 10% writing and 90% staring blankly at the wall. In her free time, she likes playing basketball and doing robotics.

Rose Xu ’25 is a senior who recently began her art and photography journey. In her free time, she enjoys staring at the ceiling.

Gabby Yang ’25 is a senior who is passionate about photography. She loves expressing her emotions through her artwork and expanding her creative lens. In her free time, Gabby enjoys traveling, spending time with friends and family, drinking boba, and watching Friends.

Grace Young ’27 is a sophomore who loves boba. Her hobbies include drawing and volleyball.

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STAFF BIOS Editor -in-Chief, Josephine Tu ’25 is honored to be a part of Tabula Rasa for one final year. More often than not, the poems she writes end up being kind of sad, just like the music she listens to, but she assures you that she is ok, or if she isn't at the moment, she will be, eventually. She hopes you enjoy the magazine.

Editor -in-Chief, Kathleen Xie ’25 is a senior who enjoys books, music, nature walks, and good food. She’s excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa her final year and hopes you enjoy this year’s edition of the magazine!

Managing Editor, Esha Joshi ’26 is so excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa!

She loves writing, reading, and fruit. She comes up with her best plots when she’s asleep, like a technicolor raccoon murder mystery or supernatural beings defeated by gummy bears, but the stuff she writes when she’s awake is okay too.

Ar tistic Director, James Chang ’25 is a senior who likes drawing and making video games (and also playing lots of them but that’s besides the point).

Web & Publicity Editor, Derrick Harris ’27 enjoys opinion writing, music, and graphic design. He also enjoys writing extended metaphors and is excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa.

Publicity Editor, Ella Kim ’28 likes to write and watch movies in her free time.

She is excited to be a part of Tabula Rasa this year!

Assistant Editor, Violet Negret te ’25 is a senior who has contributed to Tabula Rasa for the past three years. She is passionate about reading, writing, and playing soccer.

Advisors, David Wells & Holly Coty

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ABOUT TABULA RASA Tabula Rasa, established in 2016, is an annual, award-winning publication showcasing literature and art by students of Pinewood School. Tabula Rasa accepts prose, poetry, art, photography, music, and cross-genre submissions from Upper Campus students, who are in grades 7-12. All types of work are accepted during our submission period; we simply ask for the best, most honest creative work that each student has to offer.

Tabula Rasa is advised by Pinewood English teachers Holly Coty and David Wells and edited by a small group of high school students who love the literary and visual arts. Any questions or comments regarding the publication may be directed to the email address tabularasasubmissions@pinewood. edu. Feel free to also check out our website at pwtabularasa.org and our instagram at @pw.tabularasa.

The magazine’s next submission period will open in February 2026. Students may submit through an online portal that will become available at that time. Students may also submit pieces to our quarterly themes, which will become available starting in September 2025.

Thank you for reading the 2025 edition of Tabula Rasa.

- Josephine Tu ’25, Kathleen Xie ’25, Esha Joshi ’26, James Chang ’25, Derrick Harris ’27, Ella Kim ’28, Violet Negrette ’25

EDITORS EMERITI 2023-24: Emma Hwang ’24, Sophia Yao ’24, Makena Matula ’24 2022-23: Samantha Hsiung ’23, Rachel Farhoudi ’23, Emma Hwang ’24, Makena Matula ’24, Sophia Yao ’24 2021-22: Prithi Srinivasan ’22, Samantha Hsiung ’23, Emily Takara ’22, Makena Matula ’24, Sophia Yao ’24, Anika Nambisan ’24 2020-21: Eva Liu ’21, Prithi Srinivasan ’22, Micaela Rodriguez Steube ’21 2017-20: Reilly Brady ’20, Katherine Chui ’20, Sarah Feng ’20 2016-17: Zarin Mohsenin ’17, Priya Sundaresan ’17

COLOPHON Tabula Rasa is set in EB Garamond, Futura PT, Le Havre Rounded, and Krungthep typeface.

The magazine was produced on Adobe InDesign and printed by Folger Graphics, and the pages were designed by Josephine Tu ’25, Kathleen Xie ’25, Esha Joshi ’26, James Chang ’25, Derrick Harris ’27, Ella Kim ’28, and Violet Negrette ’25.

C O P Y R I G H T © 20 25 P I N E W O O D S C H O O L