2020 | Tabula Rasa

I V L I T E R A R Y

A R T S

P I N E W O O D

S C H O O L ’ S

26 8 0 0 W. Fre m o n t Ro a d L o s A l t o s H i l l s , C A , 94 0 22 ( 6 5 0 ) 2 0 9 - 3 01 0 tabularasa@pinewood.edu www.pinewood.edu

L I T E R A R Y

A R T S

M A G A Z I N E

E D I T O R ’S

N O T E

Welcome to the 2020 issue of Tabula Rasa. We invite you to experience the creative writing and artwork of students across grades 7-12 on Pinewood Upper Campus, whose work spans families, continents, and time, and we feel honored to be able to present this to the Pinewood community during a time when more connection is needed than ever.

Discover how a dog loses its way and then finds home, how a society struggles to survive without the spark of literature, and how a seemingly insignificant cosmetic product has proved its influence on American culture over the decades.

Reading, writing, and drawing have always made us feel joyful and excited, and we hope to bring those same positive emotions to you as you read our magazine. We hope to carve out a home for past memories to continue living on.

Despite the trying times, we hope this magazine can provide an escape from the turbulence of reality. This year marks the culmination of our three years as Tabula Rasa editors. Thank you so much to all who have submitted over the past years, and we are so grateful for the writing and art that you have shared with us. Though we are sad to leave, we are excited to pass the torch onto our future editors, and we know that this magazine will be in more than capable hands.

For the last time, this is Chui, Reilly, and Sarah signing off, and presenting, without further ado, Tabula Rasa. We hope you enjoy!

– Sarah Feng, Reilly Brady, Katherine Chui 2017-20 Editors

TA B L E

O F

C O N T E N T S

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W O R D T H I E F , F l o r e n c i a Ro d r i g u ez S t e u b e

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O N E S E N T E N C E S T O RY , M a g n o l i a Le m m o n

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WE ARE STILL WHO WE ARE, BUT WE ARE NOT US, Eva Liu 7 SUMMER AFTERNOON, Michelle Chen

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J O S E P H B A N KS , Pr i t hi S r i n i v a s a n 9 NO EYE, NO LIFE, Michelle Chen

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C AC T U S GA R D E N , Ka t he r i n e H a n 11 B E H I N D M Y E Y E S , O l i v i a P a g e

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A P O RT R A I T O F D U S K , S a ra h Fe n g 12 A P O R T R A I T O F D U S K , K a t h e r i n e C h u i

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LISTENER, Eva Liu 15 E X H A U S T I O N , E l l a A s p i n a l l 17 S A N G R E G O R I O , K a t h e r i n e C h u i

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A L E T T E R T O M Y G R A N D M A ’S H O U S E , E l l a A s p i n a l l 19 P I N K V A L E N T I N E , M i c h e l l e C h e n

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MY E AS T C OAS T H AV E N , M i n a O ka m o t o 21 C H R I S T M A S , J a m e s C h a n g

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HOME, Samantha Hsiung 22 THE OTHER SIDE, Michelle Chen

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A M N E S I AC , S a m Ka v i c h 25 LO O K I N G G L ASS , E l l a As p i n a l l 27 LEMON SUN, Reilly Brady 27 PLANTING ROOTS, Nicole Maneatis

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P R O D U C T I O N N O T E S , S a ra h Fe n g 2 8 P R O D U C T I O N N O T E S , S a ra h Fe n g

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S T R A W B E R R I E S F O R MY LOV E , F l o r e n c i a Ro d r i g u ez S t e u b e 31 B R I D G E T O T E R I B I T H I A , G a b r i e l l a I p

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R O M A N H O L I D AY , S a r a h Fe n g 3 2 PA P E R L I V I N G R O O M , Ka t h e r i n e C h u i 3 5 PA P E R K I T C H E N , Ka t h e r i n e C h u i 37 PA P E R C I T Y , Ka t h e r i n e C h u i 3 8 A RT C L ASS , Ka t he r i n e C hu i 41 M U S I C R O O M , K a t h e r i n e C h u i

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G R A N D M A ’S L E G S F I N A L LY A T R E S T , E v a L i u 44 WATER LILLIES, Drew Ness

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CIGARE T TE, Samantha Hsiung 46 ADDICTION, Cindy Lin

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ALPHABE T, Carter Brady 4 9 O N E S U M M E R DA N C E , A l e x Ro e s c h

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THE MOOSE THAT CAP TURED MY HEART, Prithi Srinivasan 51 O R A N G I N A 2 . 0 , G a b r i e l l a I p 52 J E L LYS C A P E S , Ka t h e r i n e C h u i 53 BREAKING THE GLASS CEILING, Reilly Brady

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DEAR LIPSTICK, Natasha Moretti 55 EYES, Skylar Chui

56 THE REIGN OF A TYRANT, Cindy Lin 56 THE CALM AFTER THE STORM, Cindy Lin

5 8 F R O M T H E P E R S P E C T I V E O F A G I R L ’ S B A T H R O O M M I R R O R , Mina Okamoto 5 9 S C U L P T , C o u r t n e y Yo u n g

6 0 A H O M E S P L I T , M i c a e l a Ro d r i g u ez S t e u b e 60 SOURCES OF ANXIE T Y, Olivia Page 63 MINDSCAPES, Olivia Page 6 4 C LO U D E D M E M O RY , O l i v i a Pa g e 66 LOSING STRUC TURE, Olivia Page 69 PROCESS DESIGN, Olivia Page

70 T H E B I R T H D AY PA R T Y , S o p h i a Ya o 72 W E D D I N G S I N G E R , C o u r t n e y Yo u n g 72 D I S T R A C T E D , C o u r t n e y Yo u n g

74 T H E C A N D Y S T O R E , M a k e n a M a t u l a 74 S T E A L I N G S A N T A ’ S S L E I G H , J a m e s C h a n g

75 L O S T A N D F O U N D I N S PA I N , S a m K i n g 76 I N K P R I N T , C i n d y L i n 79 CASTLE, Cindy Lin

COMPETITIONS 8 0 E N D O F A S T O RY C OM P E T I T I O N 82 F I R S T P L AC E | L u l u D i f f e n b a u g h 82 R U N N E R - U P | Av e r y W i l s o n 8 3 H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N S | Nate George, Sally King, Vincent Chen, C o u r t n e y Yo u n g , Ro s a l i e We s s e l s , M a k e n n a Wo l c o t t , Ty l e r R i c h e s , N a t a s h a Ku m a r a s w a m i , M e g a n C h o u , M i a G u s t a v s o n , S a r a h Fe n g , S k y l a r C h u i

86 NUMBERS COMPETITION 86 FIRST PLACE | 0:00 Prithi Srinivasan 87 R U N N E R - U P | F E E D I N G F R E N Z Y Lo g a n Th o m p s o n 88 HONORABLE MENTION | COUNTING DOWN Reilly Brady 8 9 H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N | 10 S E C O N D S G a r r e t t S a b l i c h 8 9 S W I N G I N G T I M E R e i l l y B r a d y

W O R D

T H I E F

By Florencia Rodriguez Steube

They say I’m a thief. They say I’m dangerous, that I’m a criminal and need to be arrested as soon as possible. But I don’t think I’m breaking any laws.

At least, I don’t think I’m breaking any reasonable laws. The only thing I have ever stolen is hope, and I always gave it away as soon as I stole it.

It’s really the government that’s dangerous. They stole the words from the people years ago, along with the music, the art, and anything that might offer them happiness, or even just relief from the constant monotone of life here, even if just for a moment.

Luckily, there are people like me. I only steal words, words of hope. Others steal music, a simple melody from long ago, or art, even if they are just a

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child’s scribbles. Some of those in the Department of Environmental Control, who make sure to regulate every single aspect of life until it is completely neutral in every way, are a part of our network.

Deep in the shadows, words are whispered in an ear, a tune is quietly whistled, a slip of paper is handed over. Like this, they pass from person to person, from life to life. I find people who need to hear these words, and I pass around slivers of hope.

Nothing is ever charged: happiness should belong to everyone; we are not the government. It is not much, but every day, we reach more people. It is a beginning, not a forever, but a quiet promise of change. But for now, we must rely on whispers of happiness, ghosts that must one day come alive and dance again.

T R A C K S K A T H E R I N E C H U I

3

O N E

S E N T E N C E

S T O RY

By Magnolia Lemmon

Back and forth, up and down, a vagrant wanderer journeyed the desolate Mexican streets with his head hung low between his slumped shoulders, so that at first sight he appeared half his real size, which was slender and skeletal to begin with because his weak bones had been deprived of

C R O S S I N G K A T H E R I N E

4

C H U I

any meat, making his ears look even bigger in comparison as they flopped wearily alongside his solemn eyes, which were a much duller and darker brown than their usual gleaming hazel that had shone brightly in the days when he had been loved, but those days were gone, far far away, lost in the sea of faded and tattered streets, yet he continued to trot over gravel, dirt, and broken glass in the faint hope that somewhere among the rubble he would find his family, but the chances seemed slimmer and slimmer as the day evaporated into history, as if it hadn’t happened in the first place, and the light got dimmer and dimmer, as the sad sun sank into the horizon without a selfless thought of how it might be affecting the traveler, but he journeyed on, even as the rain began to trickle from melancholy clouds onto his dark and tarnished coat which had one day, not too long ago, glimmered white, but there was no way to go other than forward and further into the barrios, but soon a starless night, only lit by the dull red moon, turned into another day, which didn’t unravel too differently than the one before it; only this time, instead of hope, he trotted out of necessity: a result of the small gashes and tears that covered his paws so evenly that one couldn’t tell if his skin was red or white, but it didn’t matter anyway because there was no one there to care; as he wandered he could feel his heart hopelessly pounding, sputtering, and begging to stop, but he wouldn’t let it, because, despite the slim chance of salvation, he was determined to dissuade death from conquering his body for as long as he could fight it, so he went on through the labyrinth without taking notice of the crumbling walls and engulfing sun, until, something changed; his back suddenly was shaded by lush green trees, and his paws stood on soft, supple grass and beyond the bright aromatic flowers and dark moist dirt was a girl in a white dress, her hair gently dancing in the breeze, her face smooth and bright, her eyes yearning, and her hands beckoning him to come to her, to come home.

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W E

A R E W E

W E

S T I L L

A R E ,

A R E

W H O

B U T

N O T

U S

By Eva Liu

The opening of the window leaves a gap allowing me to peek outside to spiral into a bubble of nostalgia to reminisce about the warmth of past unity to cherish what we forgot to capture and frame.

Outside the window, everything seems unchanged The sky remains the protector ensuring the birds still chirp in perfect unison The evening breeze tenderly brushes my ears whispering, Not too late…

I hope so.

Every past clink of champagne glasses tarnished because of the invisible collisions of scorching words syllables and consonants spitting out disgust and dismay bitter swallowing in our dry throats as we mercilessly bury the last shred of happiness our hearts shattering into more pieces after those words slip into the cracks of our souls silent exchanges among watery eyes who watched our last meal together.

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A black crow’s caw interrupts my thoughts & the tweet of the birds

S U M M E R A F T E R N O O N M I C H E L L E C H E N

So I shut the window and the dining room becomes too quiet Dinner tonight is With eight less chopsticks With four less chairs With one less word—cheers!

I calculate— Minutes for the teardrops to run out Hours for the bitterness in our throats to fade Months for the broken hearts to be glued back together Years for the champagne glasses to tinkle once more But words cannot be unspoken.

I open the window again and the breeze whispers the same words, Not too late…

Meanwhile Inside our separate rooms Inside our empty hearts We miss the love from our family Yet we wait for someone else to apologize first Stubbornly Desperately Silently We pray For us to be us again

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J O S E P H

B A N K S

By Prithi Srinivasan My grip tightened as I clutched the sturdy mahogany edge before me. I had to take a couple deep breaths to steady myself, but I was unable to escape the rank odor that permeated the basement air. I forced myself to look down into his face. He once lay peacefully, wearing the ghost of a smile. Once the maggots came, he was completely unrecognizable. His skin was pale, mottled with purple bruises, pulling away from the bones beneath. The collar of his suit was pulled back slightly, revealing even paler skin beneath, and his crisp white shirt was covered with a deep brown-red stain that stretched across the left side of his body.

I looked away, feeling bile rise in my throat, and turned my attention back to his face. It had begun to come apart around a deep line etched from his hairline to his left eyebrow. Something small and white wriggled across his forehead. Oh, how miserable. I traced my fingers across his cheek, closing my eyes at the picture of decay before me.

In death, the man was calm. Calmer than I had ever seen him. The faint scent of smoke and whiskey had begun to vanish with the maggots. His unrelenting fists had finally relaxed, and his knuckle bones were poking through the soft skin above. I looked to his feet, his clean black shoes scuffed at the tips.

It was general consensus he tripped that day. A fatal accident—unfortunate, but unavoidable. Oh, but it was perfectly avoidable. If I had chosen to withdraw my hand at the last minute…but there’s no use dwelling on the past. I hated him for making me do it, but I had to. He had come stumbling across the pavement, mind clouded by whiskey. As he passed me, I stepped forward and thrust my hand into the small of his back. His entire body pitched forward and fell unhindered onto the pavement. I seamlessly melted into the rest of the bystanders. He began to pull himself up, resting his entire weight on his fists. “Sir! Sir!” The distressed shouts began almost immediately. I schooled my expression into one of concern and stepped forward, pushing through the clamoring pedestrians with a gloved hand. Allow me to help you, I said smoothly, wrapping my hand around his forearm. He reached up instinctively, but as he caught sight of me, his eyes hardened. You. He recognized me. He recognized the same glove that had handed him his drink every night for the past few months. The same eyes that had watched his every move in the dusky lighting of the bar. I hauled him to his feet. He’s going to be fine, I said warmly to the many curious onlookers.

He struggled to free himself from my grasp. Now, Mr. Banks, it’s quite all right, I told him, smiling graciously at the crowd. I reached carefully inside my coat, retrieving something, bone-colored and ornate, from the inner pocket. Then I stretched my hand outwards, wrapping it around his waist and squeezing tightly. I always did like a spectacle. In one sharp move, I flipped the blade open and rested the tip in the space between his fourth and fifth rib. He breathed out a sigh, but then his eyes widened in realization. I smiled widely back at him. The further we walked, the further the

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N O

E Y E ,

N O

L I F E

M I C H E L L E

C H E N

blade dug in. The spot of blood had begun to spread further across his side. It was a much brighter shade of red then. Not the deep brown-red stain it is now. The blade sunk deeper into his side. As we approached my door, he collapsed. I half expected him to get back up, to turn his fists against me. But when he hit the ground and his eyes closed, he finally looked at peace. A peace that lingered like disease over his dying body.

Every time I find myself on the street, I can’t help but imagine how things would have been if I had remained in the shadows instead of approaching him. But I couldn’t help it with him. I really never seem to be able to help it.

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C A C T U S

G A R D E N

By Katherine Han

I saw you one day, In the cactus garden.

Your body thrown across A white marble slab, An olive branch fallen from your once Tightly gripped fingers.

And the cacti stood there, Tall and unmoved.

While you collapsed, Like your body was a hollow Shell.

You let your emotions break down Your flimsy walls.

And the cacti kept them out With their impenetrable Armor of thorns.

I saw you one day, Crying in the cactus garden.

B E H I N D M Y E Y E S > O L I V I A P A G E

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11

A P O R T R A I T O F D U S K A

V I D E O

S A R A H

P R O J E C T

F E N G

K A T H E R I N E

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&

C H U I

B Y

This light is nothing but luminous, shuttering and unshuttering. In Mother’s unraveling, the night becomes a frame for this abstract art, where her hand unpaints the window’s dusk, soft and sudsy.

While Mother, looking in, watches our muted, smoky portraits shift, she blurs out of focus. The blinds bow, as dim and fibrous as wings, a wild, innocent struggle against gravity.

Outside, our steps are magnified. Our shadows elongate in the fluid mosaic of twitching, shaded leaves. We sublimate in this slender forest, where neighbor’s plants form intercrossing light-rails racing away from points of contact.

The sky thaws, its belly babbling with the matchsticks of leathery palm trees.

Hear the muted blinker fade and the rustle of blue fever collapse into our backdrop. We drift under traffic lights rusted with decades, squeeze by monoliths of trees drooping, concave with centuries of memory.

Delirious, headlights swerve over the swan-necked field, where cicadas puzzle over the spatter of gold against jeweled leaves. They know the night better than us, swimming through it in their engineered wings, watching us marvel anew at the sear of our touch on nature.

Each green-yellow window floating to the foreground frames geometric shelves and empty cashiers’ stations. Shiny slabs of fish and bright candies defrosting into mellowed, watery lime.

We sink through dark curtains. A lidless searchlight illuminates an abandoned barn’s door. We glance away, unable to meet its eyes.

A cuckoo bird chirps; faint green flows; cars whisk somberly past in a predetermined procession. Black stations loom out of the fog, cradling hushed, empty benches.

Red, corrugated, a train clouds the skyline, melting and unmelting.

Its mouth swills the air into static, while we rediscover the rhythms of walking––reeling, reborn in the wind, the way it is impossible for us to rest in a body locked into motion.

SEE FULL SHORT FILM

BIT.LY/PORTRAITOFDUSK

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LISTENER

By Eva Liu

I listen to her whining the whole night So I don’t miss the moment When she calls for me again: “Daddy” I sit there silently by the cradle Afraid that my thoughts disturb her sleep I listen to the thump of her knees against the floor and simultaneously my heart pinches So I close my ears and my mouth since she needs to learn how to walk by herself Because I can’t promise I can always stand behind her when she falls I listen to her crayons streak across the paper Examining each mark of my favorite artist I save all her doodles in a drawer Since I can’t decide which one to frame Maybe the family portrait she draws for us I listen to her giggles and screams As I play the game “Balloon” with her Lifting her up to the sky to see her eyes smile Maybe she will never know my arms get sore I hope she will never fly away like a balloon I listen to the shift of the elevator So I can hand her her favorite Hello Kitty slippers As her tiny peachy hand reaches for the doorbell She jumps over the threshold in her silver sandals She never notices that I put her shoes on the shelf I listen to the blinking of her eyelashes So I can carry her to her bedroom

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Put her favorite teddy bear in her arms Kiss her goodnight, pull up her blanket And tiptoe out of the room till she is in sweet dreams I listen to her fingers dance on the six strings How I wish to be the only one to hear her play She sings a song for me that night I don’t want my little girl to worry So I shut my eyes with tears and turn away I listen to her coughs and sneezes So I can pour a glass of water And hand her a tissue before anyone else I drive her to the hospital, honking at cars in my way

E X H A U S T I O N E L L A A S P I N A L L

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And attempt to remember the doctor’s every word.

I listen to the swing of her ponytail as I silently watch her shadow fade away She doesn’t pause, turn around, and say bye Even though a part of me desperately begged her to So I wait again, at the school gate, and listen If everyone treats her right on the first day of school I listen to her heart flying away As her feet grow out of silver sandals So I hold my breath and look for a trace A clue of where she is going And how I can find her She is rebellious now, but still adorable I listen to her pen scribbling illegible numbers I hope she still admires me Since I can’t be her math tutor anymore So I cut a watermelon into pieces And put it on her desk I listen to the howling of the wind So I rise from my cozy bed And close the window in her room There I saw the untouched watermelon I listen to her sighs before finals So I climb up the stairs and knock on her door I wait for her to rant but instead She is indifferent, and tells me To please stop bothering her I listen to her blowing the candle on her sixteenth birthday cake I worry if she is still my little girl I know I have to let go I can’t follow her around

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I listen to her indignant tapping Of the keyboard, her nails Click and clack to send the text I wonder if everything is okay But I doubt that she will tell me the truth I listen to her quiet cries After our fight, she misunderstands me Since I normally don’t lecture her And for the first time I stop listening And everything goes so wrong I listen to her say yes to the proposal To a man that isn’t as handsome as I am I guess he loves her to death But no one will love her more than I do I lose her as she swore an oath in that white dress I listen to her painful yet joyful screams When she gives birth to another baby girl Whose eyes look exactly like mine I smile at the baby girl but before picking her up I sit by my little girl and squeeze her sweaty hand I listen to her phone call to my wife She hasn’t called in two months I know she must have been busy with the baby She asks my wife about diapers and pre-school And I remember her baby’s eyes That look exactly like mine I listen to her gentle whispers “Mom, how’s Dad?” My wife says I miss my little girl And I wait for her response – “I know, I know he’s listening to me.”

S AN

G R EG O R I O

KAT HERINE

C HUI

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A LET TER TO MY G R A N D M A’S H O U S E

By Ella Aspinall

Dear the apartment in the air-conditioned building, I remember walking up your sandstone steps.

The ones with beams that would creak below And the ancient elevator that would take too long The humidity, thick in the air.

I raced up those steps countless times.

Each one leading to your third floor Anticipating my grandparents with open arms.

You smelled like Earl Grey and rain.

You smelled of comfort and tranquility.

And I loved you.

How I loved those starched cotton sheets.

Those mornings with cereal and hot chocolate.

My younger brother staring at the TV with only three channels.

Its static pulsing through the air as he tried to change them.

You held my grandfather and grandmother safely.

Giving them a home for their grandchildren to visit.

For them to fall in love with you.

Slowly, A space became empty You saw him leave a gaping hole

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And yet you watched Silently.

You watched her lead the ants with sugar cubes Because she believed it was good luck And you watched him fall Because it was his time to go You felt too wide.

And I understood when I came back that summer.

To see a space Left on my Grandma Lovebug’s bed I clutched the sheets And wondered where he went.

Years pass, And I am still in love with those cereal and hot chocolate mornings.

I am still in love with the stash of polvorón in the kitchen cupboards.

And I am still in love With the memories you gave me In that apartment On the third floor Up the sandstone steps with the creaking metal beams And the ancient elevator that took too long.

Sincerely, Ella

PI N K

VA L EN T I N E

M IC HELLE

C HEN

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MY EAST COAST HAVEN

By Mina Okamoto

My grandparents’ woodland house in the tranquil forests of Connecticut is where I find solace. There is serenity in the quiet, still mornings and the cerulean morning skies accented by subtle golden rays of sun. To me, daybreak in the peaceful swaths of New England is a sacred snapshot in time. The few hours of silence and aloneness every dawn is an Eden-esque paradise. I cherish these moments by lounging in a pillowy, throne-like armchair and reading. Through the cool glass panes of the windows, I can see elysian, rolling emerald hills in the backyard adorned with towering trees and wildflowers. Deer often grace the fields with their presence, dancing through the shrubs in an endearingly carefree, childlike manner. On occasion, lumbering, lazy bears plod through the greensward while the sun casts a bronze sheen on their majestic, ebony pelts. Proud turkeys strut through the tall grasses in families, with their heads held high, flourishing and boasting the plumes of feathers down their backs.

In the summer, the dulcet hum of my grandfather’s John Deere tractor traversing the meadows of the estate fills my ears. During the winter, I can hear the crunch of snow being pushed from the alabaster, cloaked grassland by his tractor. Peridot evergreen fir trees stand in stark juxtaposition with the pallid snow of December and perfume the glacial air with their sharp, tangy aroma. Warbling, chirping birds that congregate around the bird feeders sparkle like gems that embellish the limbs of the broadleaved trees of June. The air of the fields is laced with the sweet, clean fragrance of the new grass reaching up from the confines of the soil.

Although a cool, crisp breeze sweeps through the backyard, my grandparents’ house is warm and inviting. Inside, the tantalizing bitter hazel scent of coffee wafts through the atmosphere of the kitchen, counteracted by the heavenly scent of freshly baked, crispy Belgian waffles doused with maple syrup. On Sundays, I wake up to the cracking sound of my grandfather dropping eggs into a hot pan filled with butter. Their savory, enticing smell rises up to greet me. I spend my

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C HR I STM AS

JAM E S

CHANG

summer afternoons running through the backyards of the house, and the winter afternoons are occupied by sledding through smooth, icy snow. Though the summer months are filled with the cold, sugary flavors of ice cream, rich, milky, steaming hot chocolate is the taste that symbolizes the holidays.

During Christmas, cookies of all kinds — Mexican snowballs, jam thumbprints, chocolate chip, snickerdoodles — and a myriad of other treats line numerous decorative plates. The Christmas tree is trimmed with silvery ribbons and festooned with glittering baubles, ornaments, and tiny ballerinas that seem to be in motion. All of the ornaments have a story of where they came from and how they came to sit upon the tree. The decorated tree is a beacon of light in the dark of night.

In the evening, stars pattern the indigo canvas of the Connecticut night like sporadic splotches of paint scattered by a painter’s brush made from the clouds. The old, creaking wood of my grandparents’ house is ingrained with the memories that I’ve made there and the scents of idyllic familiarity that can only be described as home.

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HOME

By Samantha Hsiung

He stands next to the building.

Black bags sagging down to his cheeks, Chalky hair wilting to the core.

Wearing shoes tattered to the sole And someone else’s threadbare shirt.

They saunter by, Dressed with heavy fragrances And polished shoes.

Chins up, Smirks across their lips, Thinking they’re better Than the dregs of society.

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TH E

And so they don’t give.

His penny box is Untouched.

Barren inside, Except for the intricate cobwebs Coated in sheets of dust.

Days and weeks, Nowhere else to go So he still stands next to the building, The place he calls home.

O TH ER

SI DE

MICHEL L E

CHEN

AMNESIAC

By Sam Kavich

It doesn’t feel like waking up.

She does not slip from a dream nor jolt from a nightmare.

Not even the fuzzy, dull sensation of waking from a dreamless sleep makes itself known.

One second, the girl is aware of nothing. The next, the floodgates are thrown open and the universe pours in, pooling in her senses. She’s drowning before she even opens her eyes.

“Renn!” A voice—light and male, pierces through the rush like a hand thrusting out of water. The world lurches when he speaks, disorienting the girl further as a female voice replies: “I have her, watch the road!”

Hands clamp down on the girl’s shoulders—has she been thrashing?

“Hey, hey! You’re safe, do you hear me? Open your eyes if you can hear my voice.”

Before the words register, the girl’s fist collides with soft flesh and the female voice grunts.

Her eyes open.

The world is unbelievably bright.

“Renn, you alright?” The male voice asks.

The owner of the female voice kneeling before her (presumably Renn) rubs her face. A bruise is blooming like a blush along her cheekbone. She opens her mouth to reply to the boy, but when her eyes lock with the girl’s, his question goes ignored.

“You’re awake.” She shifts forward, and the girl falls back on her elbows, startled. Renn’s eyes soften. “It’s okay, we’re safe.” She holds her palms out to the girl to show she isn’t a threat.

The girl’s eyes dart around their surroundings. They’re in the back of a caravan wagon—trunks and crates are stacked on either side of the mat she was laid out on, obscuring the view of the road. A colorful beaded curtain that separates the driver’s seat from the back is currently pulled to the side, and through it she can see the back of a man’s head.

She speaks around her heart in her throat, refocusing on Renn, or trying. Every bump of the wagon sends a jolt up her spine. She clears

23

her throat. “Who are you?” Her voice is surprisingly clear, making her wonder how long she’d been out.

Renn reaches forward and presses the back of her warm hand against the girl’s forehead, frowning like a worried mother (though she couldn’t have been older than twenty). “You’re burning up. How do you feel?”

“Who are you?” The girl asks again, sitting up. Her bones crack in protest after sleeping on the hard mat.

Renn’s hand falls away, and she shakes her head. “Right, I’m sorry.

I’m Renn, and that’s Arthur driving.” She jerks her chin towards the driver’s seat, where Arthur glances back with a little two-fingered wave.

“Hey.” The gesture is unsettlingly casual. She gives Renn a hard stare, prompting the bashful girl forward.

“Sorry, sorry—I guess this is weird for all of us.” Renn laughs sweetly, like little bells. “We picked you up a while back on the main road, remember? You stopped our wagon? Gave us a scare, you were screaming. You told us your name, and that you needed to get to the city—” “And then you passed out,” Arthur butts in from the front. “It was… dramatic. We thought somebody must be chasing you—” “So we brought you onboard.” Renn finishes quickly. She blushes for real. “Hope you don’t mind. We couldn’t just leave you there, you looked awful…”

“My name…” The girl squeezes her eyes shut against Renn’s pitying gaze, trying to remember anything from before… but it was like cupping water in her hands and watching it run through her fingers.

She can only recall a handful of fragments: a child’s laughter, a field of wildflowers, a printing press, but none of the pieces fit to give her any clue of where she came from… who she was.

The mat’s fabric gives away beneath her digging fingernails with a rip as she opens her eyes. The air is frozen in her lungs. “My name…” she murmurs over and over again, like it will make her remember. “My name, my name, my name, my name—” “Morgan,” Arthur says. Her gaze whips to the front. His tone has taken on a hint of the concern that Renn’s eyes are swimming in.

“That’s what you said your name was.”

24

Hearing her name on the stranger’s lips sends a jolt up her spine.

“Stop…” she croaks.

“Sweetie—” Renn starts.

“Stop the wagon!”

At Morgan’s cry, the wagon unexpectedly comes to a halt. They’re both staring at her, like it’s the first time they’re realizing the consequences of bringing a complete stranger onto their wagon.

She stands suddenly and their eyes widen in unison. Arthur actually puts his hands up. “Look, if you’re some sort of con artist, we have nothing of value besides the wagon itself—” “Artie—” Renn hisses warningly, but the suspicion in her voice when she speaks to Morgan is crystal clear. “He’s right. We have nothing… If that’s what you’re here for. But I don’t think it is.”

Morgan’s chest heaves. Renn’s head tilts slightly, her brow furrowing.

“You really don’t remember who you are?”

Morgan shakes her head. She was the only one standing, but she felt like a cornered animal.

“You didn’t hit your head when you fell,” Arthur says, frowning. His puzzled expression is almost comical. “We caught you before you hit

LOO K I NG

GL ASS

E LLA

ASPINAL L

25

the ground.”

“You should sit down…” Renn suggests, but Morgan only takes a step back.

“How do I know you two didn’t do something to me?” She demands. “You could have made that story up.” As she says it, the more sense it makes. She lifts her chin.

Renn and Arthur share a glance, and Morgan turns, ready to push open the wagon doors and jump.

“Wait!”

Morgan isn’t sure why she stops. Maybe it’s because she wants a definite answer. She turns back around slowly.

Renn looks lost, getting to her feet. She’s a whole head shorter than Morgan. “Look. I don’t know how to prove to you that you can trust us. But I can tell you that there’s nothing out there but desert for miles.

Even if we give you water to travel alone on foot, the heat will make you sick within the hour. We’re traveling to the city to set up shop. We can give you a ride, and once we get there we can split paths and you’ll never have to see our faces again.”

For the first time, Morgan looks through the sliver of window and sees Renn’s not lying. The land is barren, with nothing but hills of yellow sand stretching towards the horizon. She clenches her jaw. “Fine.”

Morgan sits back down on the wagon floor, as far away from the other two as possible.

Renn eyes the seat up front with Arthur, but remains in the back with Morgan anyway. The warmth she had when Morgan woke up has melted off her. Morgan keeps her eyes down. Neither Renn nor Arthur appear deceitful, or like they’ve harmed her or want to; they seem as confused as she is, but she doesn’t know them. She doesn’t know anything—the only thing she’s sure of is the decision she’s making now, to not feel guilty for keeping her distance from these strangers, no matter how keen they are to help her.

Arthur starts humming a cheerful tune to fill the uncomfortable silence, and a chill runs down Morgan’s spine when she realizes she’s heard it before.

The wagon rumbles on.

26

L EM ON

S UN

R E I LLY

P L A N TI N G

BR ADY

R O O TS

N I COL E

MANEATIS

27

PRODUCTION NOTES

By Sarah Feng

P RO DUC TI O N

28

N O TES

S A RA H

FENG

Because who could cleave to one body when so many are soluble to the touch? Place the birdcage by the sill, erect dead reefs into white dogs, stun the men warming their hands in the streets with the deadbolt of the light.

Stage, set. Lurch toward apartment windows, wink at the acidic skateboards scraping by without their riders. Nearly crash.

Ever seen a bicycle wheel get punched through?

I have—& all the strings pucker out at the edges, a mouth tipped with razors in self-defense.

All these backdrops fade flat without the light of a camera lens. What I mean to say is the first time your father leaves, you’ll see Mother sleep in a tub of hot, alkaline milk, while the overturned urinal and the spokes of the wheel spin slowly over the sink.

Creep to the doorway and hear her, whale-boned & whiplashed, tears suckling the corrosive suds. Help her rise from the pouring steam and drive to the fields of her youth. The scene will shift: waxwings, screaming red. Grandmother, where is?

You think you have asked this before.

Here I stumble into frame: lips twinned to still-developing screen on downstage, I walk large enough to crush the buried buds of microphones, the grass shining sun-white with poppies that bare their teeth at us.

Is everyone the same type of kind?

The field raises its hackles.

Does your hand feel like a moth when I brush it?

Look. In the distance, a water tower and a blank road sign.

As furnished and articulate as a movie set. Lovely, how lovely, touch your hair here & here & here.

I have heard this somewhere—before the night markets, the velveteen palaces, the plastic birds lying bruised and dozing in cages, before the tickets to America, before the nights we spent enameling this reflection in my eye, my mother danced on a fire escape limned by black fire, and you glowed bright with the silhouette of a camera.

What I mean to say is I wish we could film ourselves and watch the tape play again & again & again. gold key recipient • scholastic art & writing awards • forthcoming in the Offing

29

S T R A W B E R R I E S M Y L O V E

F O R

By Florencia Rodriguez Steube

Strawberries for my love Sweet red fruit Why bitter when the day begins And sweet at its end Remember the sting When the stars ignite, So the ache hurts less in the morning.

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B R ID G E

TO

TERA BITHIA

GABR I EL L A

I P

31

R O M A N B y

32

PAPER

H O L I D A Y

S a r a h

L IVING

F e n g

ROOM

KAT HERI N E

CHUI

Here, girls don’t die.

Instead, they rise swiftly to burning cities, where swooning swans sail into moats filled with floating trout bellies and glistening oil. These girls dance with steps that hardly step, waltzing slowly, their cherry seersucker blouses rippling on the clotheslines.

Wanting to touch their best friends. Wanting to touch. That desire rashed with black bees, remembrances of the station splashed with ice in the winter.

Curtains.

Then a white net closes over the sky, and static emerges from every speck of space, pouring out in feather-white sludge. Pain sears through the cup of my kneecap and swarms over the nuts of my spine.

When my eyes jerk open, sweat dried in tendrils down my neck, my fingers twitching in the shape of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” on the table, I see the crooked painting on the opposite wall. It’s an old knockoff of Van Gogh’s Starry Night, the cheap swirls of chalk reduced to powdery black detritus by time. Then I glance around: I’m spread-eagled on a sagging green couch, my palms flat on a table cluttered with overturned books and transparent bags of potato chips. My takeout order nods at me, askew on the springs of its metal box.

After turning off my alarm, I peel open my wristport, slide back the flinty mesh, and dig out the empty battery with the edges of my nails.

The valve that connects it to my bloodstream sparks, a flish-flash of energy popping in a ribbon of noise. When I hold the battery up to the light, the last drops of limestone-silver liquid swish in the glass capsule.

I tuck it away in my jacket pocket.

Clair de Lune. I haven’t played that in a long time. Years ago, it was ingrained in my muscles like nothing else, an instinct second only to sleep.

Sometimes, when I go under to the Vitruvius, my physical body starts doing things that I don’t expect. Last week I found myself sitting at the little electronic piano with my hands splayed over the gummy keys, clammed to the sharps and flats. Unmoving. I woke up like that, a fever shivering through me into the silent beast of the instrument. * On the morning train, Father’s glasses are smashed into his face, and for days, he is unfeeling of pain he cannot see. One week, then two––

33

he limps through the menageries of passing streets, holding searchlights to parse movement from sound.

This the girls think of, seeing dolphins leap in ironed cages.

Curtains.

The static shudders through the scene in torrents of seagull-corpse white. I open my eyes, stare at Starry Night, watch the yolk-bright moons palpitate under the canvas’s see-through tarp. This time, my hands are quiet. I sit up. Wipe my mouth.

The day that Father smashed his glasses in the train station, Mother and I watched him enter the doorway with one long, puckered cut splitting his proud, high forehead. He set his briefcase down and poured himself a tall glass of exquisitely malted milk. Then he drank.

Bower scurried around his ankles in possessive circles, beady black eyes viciously daring Mother and me to approach. While I distracted our dog with halfhearted chew-toy throws in the backyard, Mother gauzed Father’s forehead and took his shirt to the dry-cleaner’s. Later, at the dinner table, he told us he couldn’t feel the cut. It was bandaged, but we could see splotches of red on the white cotton. There were orchids standing in the center of the table, drooped over at the stem, like wrists, corseted in skinny glass vases, and long thick rolls of fabric everywhere we stepped: the Persian rug on the floor, the Italian leather sofa Mother ordered last year. Apples lay bruised and heavy on a glass plate.

The next day, June and I found a pane of dead flowers behind her house. Hidden underneath the shock of chemical-yellow daffodils that bathed her backyard, we discovered a flat bed of scrunched orange buds, like a heat-fried reef of clementine peels. They were rotting. I remembered the coin of red on Father’s skin and backed away slowly, June scrambling to follow.

I haven’t thought of Father since–– I don’t know. I hold my left wrist with my fingers until it stops trembling and throw down half of a Xanax. Outside, a bomb lands––not a bomb, but a mountain beginning to collapse in the distance. * As I’m driving to work, I pass by a cathedral, its grey, wrinkled spires darkening to the hollow black of a gargoyle’s throat. Milky faces float

34

PAPE R

K ITC HEN

KATHERINE

CHUI

to the windows, throwing back the desert’s light from behind ironlocked doors and triple-barred eyeholes. I catch a peek through the open door. Inside is a feast grander than I have ever seen, piled high with rich platters of gravy and turkey, with parents dressed in lace and resined jewelry, their silvery laughs floating high above the heat and the babble of children’s bells.

The sounds hit me in wispy white breaths, vibrating above the shimmering waves of humidity that coat the melting asphalt. Then I realize: this is the cathedral that I went to every Sunday morning as a child, proud and safe in my blue crinoline dress, the one time of the week I would never see June Liu. But I would always think of her, buried in the pews and the mothy smell of old books, kicking my shoes away as the pastor spoke, wanting to scream into the empty buttressed ceilings of the eyeless church. They must be having a service right now, offering the children wicker baskets of round pears and honeycombed sprigs of grapes, clean as a rope of milk spilled into a metal bowl.

35

I stop at a red light and glance back. The shadows have shifted.

I have never seen that cathedral before.

It must be the Vitruvius: it’s penetrating my conscious, sending ripples of obsession down the hallways of my mind. * At lunchtime, the curtains are drawn, and my coworkers appear under weak, watery stage-lights, separating wedges of glistening avian hearts on the chopping board. Not bird’s organs, but margarine, though just as satiny and clean. As if preparing for a family dinner, my coworkers lance through the butter, bread, tomatoes, and lettuce with bony, clicking knives.

While the paralegals study their whiteboards, scribbling on the diagram of the latest product we are defending, the new interns stare through the full-length windows at the scenery of the parched crater outside, where Lake Proserpine once was.

Our new shipment of RespiraQuil inserts arrived from corporate last week, and the interns are still struggling with the thorny sensation of the calcified net in their throats, coughing lightly every few minutes, and still marveling at the purling stripes of air conditioning that hover in fluted blue bands against the shivering heat.

Lucy, our secretary, hands me a crinkled paper bag, colored mossy by the light and labeled with a hasty POPPY. This is my daily Care Pack, and inside I find a plastic bottle of water, two half-melted Snickers, and a single page of the New York Times, with a Post-it note reading, Team bonding! Find the

36

PAPE R

CIT Y

KATHERINE

CHUI

37

ART

C L ASS

KATHERINE

CHUI

person with the other half of your story.

When Lucy turns to boil tea, her black ponytail falls in a twist. The sheathed column of her spine flares and falls until it dips under her blouse.

When I look up, the curtains pulse red as the back of a gelatinous eye. I heave to the bathroom, vomit a coppery pelt into the toilet. At the sink, I thrust my hands under the stream and scrape at the cracked, marbled rash, some parasite seersuckering my skin in scarlet stripes.

When I return, dizzied from the raw rush of water, someone taps me on the shoulder and asks what I’m doing. I look down. My fingers are playing “Clair de Lune.” * “Break in five,” calls our boss. We rustle to our seats from our loitering by the coffee bar and plug in our Vitruvius nodes, one coin-shaped patch tucked into either side of our mouths. Staring at my nickel-colored nodes in my palm, I discard them back in their plastic box and drop them into my backpack.

I watch everyone go under. My coworkers first re-charge the manmade vein which runs through our bodies, gently nudging AA-packs into their wristports until they hear soft click-pops of the batteries

38

settling into sockets. Sandra from accounting, who is diabetic, slips a star-shaped blue pill into the bottom of her gums before she begins.

As my coworkers slump back in their chairs, their expressions slowly relax into summering, static bliss, but some chemical oscillation shocks their faces into brief quivers every minute, like a Roman statue awakening out of its slumber for just a fleeting, profound moment. They’ll see different scenes in their mindrooms––the area of the brain that the Vitruvius projects its moving film on, extracting actors and scenes from our amygdalas––but their faces will hum and shudder in synchronization.

Then I fumble my Vitruvius out of my bag and plug myself in, leaning back in my chair.

Vision crystallizes. Dark lobes rise, breaking the smooth seal of water. As if punctured by bullets, they self-chisel in jerky, sagging motions to match the shapes of buildings, growing dense and crowberry-black like trees. A drawbridge forms. Turrets rise.

The girls are dancing slowly through the streets in petticoated pairs, their pale foreheads lopped with shiny coils of hair. Taxis purr through the cobbled streets, ferrying them to the gate of a zoo.

Curtains.

In the whaled chamber of the gabled house, Father’s searchlight pierces the room. June and the girl drop their cigarettes and stiffen under the gaseous, pulverized dust. Father’s feet scuffle along the floor with a regular two-four beat, knocking into a blouse, the color of mouths––June’s. He brings the leather-bound edition of the New Testament and splays it with a bullet-crippled hand. He pushes in the baby grand piano, an ivory-toothed animal gurgling low, melancholy notes from the crevasse of its muscled backside. June, with her large, foreigner’s eyes and spidery Oriental limbs, sits forward like a pupil in a classroom. Poised for recital, she plays Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.”

Curtains.

June and the girl flee down the stairs. Amongst the other girls at the zoo, they pass through corridors of taxidermy, where stuffed bats, black rams, and monkeys are lined up in plastic jungles. Finally, the caged dolphins leap in synchronized formations, diving through the manmade, ammonia sea.

39

What are animals, if not perfect Vitruvian figures to fill the wingspan of a dream?

Someone says this. The heads of all the girls turn. Their eyes meet mine.

Curtains.

Mercury-grey debris rolls over my vision in a heavy fog, and I wake, a high-pitched throb needling through my right ear.

Those gazes––the actors are not supposed to do that, to look at the audience, to connect obverse-reverse, to whet their bodies into coiled predators. Wide-eyed steeples. Before, they were only distanced soldiers, parading across my mind, just blurs of time and color, always have been, since the first time I went under, but this time I felt the seconds trudge forward, heard the images beat thickly on heavy wings, sensed the forceful tick-tick of a prairie rodent alert in the dark, glowing under iridescent leaves.

I spit the nodes out into my hand, steam curling off in ash-grey filaments. They twinkle innocently, like a pair of closed lids.

The seat next to mine is empty. When I find the window where my cubicle-mate is crouched and see the throng of people gathered at the foot of our building, a chalky thunder rattles through the floor and deepens into a throaty groan. The crater of Lake Proserpine––desiccated and sunken, bullfinch-red, nearly a hundred meters in diameter––is caving into the ground. Most of my coworkers, who returned from their break to type at their computers, gather around us the ledge.

Surreally, we witness the earth separate into wobbling slabs, two pieces in the center sliding into the cavernous darkness with a sigh of dust.

We shed our binders and printouts to rush down the elevator, pouring out from the building’s entrance, watching the little houses that line the crater’s outer edge topple in slow-motion, like plastic Monopoly figurines being swept to the ground by a bitter toddler.

The crowd of people surrounds us, clutching teddy-bears and overflowing suitcases.

“What’s happening?” whispers Lucy, the secretary, still groggy like the rest of us. She covers her mouth daintily while she spits her Vitruvius nodes into her other hand, wiping them gingerly with a silk kerchief.

40

MUS IC

RO OM

KATHERINE

CHUI

“The Proserpinian Valley is sinking,” one woman spits, shouldering to the front to face us, wrapped in a ratty blanket, her forearms marred by pinpricks. “There’s a sinkhole underneath. Our scientists have known for weeks, but you don’t even know about your own backyard. Those were our homes. Did you know that?”

At our blank expressions, she curls her lip. “No sympathy for us or the city. We’ve been asking for donations for the conservation effort for months. Now look what you’ve done. Look at the Cerberean Mountains. Look at the orangewood forest.”

41

I back away, heading towards the office. Our building looks stable enough, and already I’m wracked with the nervy, chlorate-cold desire to return to my Vitruvius and sink deeper into its malfunctioning seams.

“Leave, if you want,” the woman yells. I stop. It’s directed at me.

“Go back to your fancy ventilation machines. Go back to your dreamy mind-props. Some of us can’t pay for that. We live like dogs out here.”

When I turn, I become acutely aware of a sensation like a wool balloon being punctured. The crimson carcasses of burnt trees sway crisply in the horizon, charred wood flaking off like bits of fat from a fish. The mountain ranges are disfigured with third-degree burns, a reactive, sparking rubble oozing over the remnants of the beheaded summit.

“See,” the woman says, with a grim, set jaw. I must appear horrified at the sight, because she’s talking to me. I struggle to avert my eyes from her arms, spattered with citrus-colored Rorschach smudges.

Suntear, a disease I’m vaccinated for in Corporate Headquarters across town each week. “So obsessed with your little lives, you can’t even look up at everything burning to the ground.”

The Cerberean Mountains and the orangewood forest twinkle in mirages of disintegrating antiquity. I did see them. I did.

“Do us a favor,” she continues. “Glance up from your screens once in a while. Might be hard to imagine, but there are people who can’t afford to leave Earth. We’re trying to preserve this planet for as long as we can, just until we die.”

Leaving Earth. That’s where Father and Mother have gone. Their tickets said Plato. I don’t know if they’ve arrived.

The last time I saw them, we spoke from across rooms, June’s Debussy limping around our toes in pooled, chemical residue. I left that night, our house of glass unspooling into a summer’s blood.“Making the Vitruvius right as the climate starts to kill, marketing it as some ‘medicine for the mind,’” a man hollers, stepping up next to the woman to gesticulate with a nicked cane. Under his baggy shirt hides a young boy in holed overalls, nose blistered with a hive of pumpkin’s-skin. “All you did was speed up the deaths of people whose bodies were dying in the heat.”

There is nothing we can say to this. Someone protests we’re only the legal representation, we don’t make the hardware, it’s not our––and he’s cut off.

42

He cuts himself off, seeing the crowd begin to converge on us.

I shrink backwards. Their teeth opening, they step forward. Their eyes fix on me as if I am a person. They fix me into being. I want to back away from the rot, from the bruise that blooms behind the white cloth.

I wish I could say these were actors. I wish I could say Curtains. american voices nominee • national silver medal • regional gold key • scholastic art and writing awards

PAPE R

CIT Y

P T.

2

KATHERINE

CHUI

43

WATE R

44

LILL IES

D REW

NESS

G R A N D M A ’S F I N A L LY A T

L E G S R E S T

By Eva Liu

Sprinting, her legs moved rapidly in a bloody rhythm She did not dare to stop among the corpses Since all she could hear were clashes Of bullets against innocent bones Running away from her dark childhood From responsibilities of being the oldest sibling Incapable of catching up to her younger brother Who ran into roaring water, drowning helplessly A mile away, she stared at her skinny legs That refused to cooperate With her arms swinging, mind racing, heart burning Jogging behind me on the pebble path with her fists clenched Her stick-like legs moved as fast as she could I suddenly stopped at a cotton candy stand, looked back at her Begging her to give me money, my hands clasped in prayer She smiled, but I saw her legs shaking with exhaustion Walking next to me, her back hunched Her withered legs screaming at stairs and hills My legs have shrunk, she said, apologizing Because we were late for the movie Now, though This time it is my turn to smile This time it is my turn to wait This time her legs are finally at rest

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A D D IC T IO N CI N DY L I N

C I G A R E T T E

By Samantha Hsiung

Trembling fingers Clinging on to His sense of humanity.

Smoke twirling from his mouth Undulating gently in the air.

It’s a pixie stick, He tells me.

His cracked lips caressing it As he feeds himself more fumes.

They sift out, Their dark bodies crawling across the sky— And that’s pixie dust, He smiles.

But then why is he falling Instead of flying?

Why are his wings Crumpling into ashes?

Where are the fairies who will save him?

He sinks further and further down until I can’t see him anymore.

47

A L P H A B E T

By Carter Brady

A short time ago, I sat on my couch trying to think of what to write.

But try as I might, nothing Came to mind.

Despite my best efforts, Everything I thought of produced Failed results, or Gave me a few sentences of inspiration before I Hit writer’s block.

I searched through some ideas and Just when I was ready to give up, Knowing I had nothing to submit to the magazine, the Last idea I came across caught My eye.

Not the most difficult of prompts, but definitely One that would be fun to attempt.

Pulling up a fresh document and Quickly marking out twenty-six Rows to fill, each Starting with a different letter of The alphabet.

Unfortunately, this poem has no deep inner meaning or Volume of information, but it Was certainly X-tra fun to write.

Yeah, that last one was a reach, but I’m Zooming through these letters, and this poem’s complete.

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O NE

SU MMER DA N C E AL EX R OES CH

49

T H E M O O S E T H A T C A P T U R E D M Y H E A R T

By Prithi Srinivasan

About twelve years ago, in the winter of 2008, my mother went to Canada. Almost as soon as she left, she returned bearing a gift: a small moose wearing a red shirt. Moosie and I were inseparable for the next eight years. I brought him on every family vacation, clutching the small creature fiercely as I passed through security checkpoints and hotel rooms. Whenever anyone asked about him, I would proudly answer that he was from Toronto. I would explain that the maple leaf on his chest was the Canadian flag because “lots of mooses live in Canada.” And he would look up at me, his eyes shining with adoration, as I clutched his soft paw between my hands. That little moose has been through everything with me. Twelve years and four house moves later, I always find him by my side, a friendly moose in a changing world.

Moose were something of a fixation of mine as a child. I immersed myself in books such as Looking for a Moose by Phyllis Root. It described the exhilarating tale of five young children who embark on a quest to finally see a moose. When I was given the coffee-brown stuffed animal, I was proud and gleeful. I, like the curious children of Root’s imagination, had finally seen a “long-leggy, dinner-diving, branchy-antler, bulgy-nose moose.” In fact, I was in possession of such a beast! Maybe his legs weren’t very long, and he had yet to display his aquatic talents, but he was mine, and that was enough. Looking into his warm brown eyes, I knew I had found a lifelong friend: someone who would never leave my side. I wouldn’t dare leave him unattended unless I knew he would be safe.

Now a veteran of his kind, Moosie has evolved from a picture of vigor and spirit to that of age and fatigue. His brilliant crystalline eyes are now dull and scratched with age. The fleece antlers, once smooth and soft, are pilled and rough from hundreds of

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ORAN GINA

2.0

GABRIE L L A

I P

perilous tumbles through the belly of the dryer. Moosie’s deep brown fur hangs limply from his sagging limbs, shedding itself in pea-sized clumps. Worn and weary, the moose reminisces on his youthful days, dreaming of thick fur and shining eyes.

No doubt he remembers the beginning, sitting wearily in a crowded Canadian gift shop among hundreds, even thousands of moose that all looked the same. It was among these unvarying herds that my mother found him, a peculiar little moose I would soon call my own. He was sitting alone, several inches away from his compatriots. No one wanted him. His nose was too big, his eyes were too shiny. But when I held him for the first time, I knew.

He was perfect. As I look at him now, I see the moose he was twelve years ago. His deep red fleece pullover against the cocoa fur evokes memories of fall, of us sitting at the kitchen counter, drinking warm tea. His shirt and snout are still lightly splattered with “winter spice blend,” the scent of cinnamon and clove lingering in his fur. His eyes glimmer with the excitement of his youth.

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I can almost hear his booming laughter, remarkably loud for such a soft-spoken moose. Seeing this youthful moose before me, I want to go back. I want to return to our meaningless mumblings about the weather and our snide insults directed at the other stuffed animals. But I am not the same person I was twelve years ago. I must content myself with having Moosie here, with being able to look at him.

I look and I look and I long for the past. I can almost pretend we are back at the kitchen counter with scalding mugs of bitter tea. But, eventually, the illusion has to fade. And with the illusion, Moosie’s youth melts away day by day, never to return.

J ELLYSC A PES K AT HERI N E CHUI

52

B RE A KING THE GL ASS R E ILLY BRADY

C EILIN G

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D E A R

L I P S T I C K

By Natasha Moretti

Dear lipstick, Some people may think of you as a frivolous thing, A thing best left blotted on tissues or in the hands of shallow women, But Beneath your waxy skin are crimson veins that run thick with stories, See, you have been worn both by queens and by those who have bowed before their thrones Stained the lips of suffragettes with your symbol of silent power Showed nurses in war that the color red was not just reserved for the blood on their fingertips Soothed scraped knees with your carmine kisses, left your lingering taste of love on someone’s cheek And when the concentration camps were freed, allies placed you into the shaking hands of women lucky enough to be able to breathe, swiped onto their naked mouths, Your cherry paint hiding the pain behind their withered smiles, offering a promise of normalcy, A promise that everything broken could be mended, made pretty You have been passed down for generations, grandmother to mother to daughter before we ever met, Before you fell That morning Into my mother’s palms As I leaned against bathroom tiles, wide-eyed, braids shining Watching her face glow with your soft, brick-red smile That morning That I pleaded and pleaded and pleaded for you Until I felt your heaviness between my fingers as she whispered you were only for special occasions, I grinned, believing That the clown mouth I had smothered onto my lips was beautiful

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But soon I swallowed someone else’s story, Thought that beauty was squeezing into a cookie cutter, Convinced myself that I had become ugly, that clown mouth of my childhood now tainted Every day I needed you, not just on special occasions, Until I could no longer slip outside without your perfect, scarlet seal But See, I’m older now, no longer need the tainted lie, No longer tied to your black tube, Reach for you only as it pleases me, For a wash of color, For solidarity For a memory of the little girl with butterfly braids, xoxoxo, Natasha Moretti

EYES BY SKYLAR CHUI

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T H E

R E I G N O F T Y R A N T

A

By Cindy Lin

A few words escaped the quivering, ruby lips of the livid empress.

Her icy eyes smoldered with a blue flame as she pointed a quavering, pale finger, jabbing the opposing man in the chest. Two bright splotches appeared on her cheeks.

“You have just declared war,” she proclaimed, sentencing her empire, Alfarata, to five years of blood, anguish and death.

Several years dragged by, and the fighting persisted with no cease. A rotund man, a new and inexperienced inspector, garmented with the military uniform, marched out into a decimated village. He nervously adjusted his hat, asking, “Is this the place?” He got the affirmative and walked on. The stench of iron and rot permeated the area, sickly sweet, nauseating the man. Clotted blood, mud, and filth mired his shoes. He walked on, leaving deep footprints that the scarlet water soon filled. He stopped at the first body, a young man barely fifteen lying face down, grime covering his uniform, blood and sweat sticking his hair into ragged spikes.

Unused to the sights of war, the man gulped, his eyes bulging slightly trying to fight the sorrow entrapping and suffocating his heart. He gave the soldier a tiny nudge and let a strangled cry escape from between his chattering teeth. The boy’s eyes were glazed, life seeping out of them, leaving behind empty, meaningless, voids. His mouth was agape though slightly curled at the edges as if mocking the cruelty he had finally escaped. The officer shuddered, goosebumps rising on his skin. Remorse choked his throat and sucked his soul out until he felt as if he too, was nothing but a void, standing in the middle of the raging humanity, or rather inhumanity. It was so tragic, so wrong, this young boy who had been coerced to fight a meaningless war, then slaughtered. Thinking this, he felt a breeze begin to blow. Neither warm nor cool, usual during the summer, but a frosty one, the kind that rattled in the depths of caves undiscovered, carrying despair and demise. The howls and wails of the dead were carried in the wind, growing louder as the wind became a gale.

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The ground was littered with dead. The shrieks of the devils that chased the souls with no repose now rang out as well. The wails grew louder as if beseeching heaven to save them, while being dragged down once again by the withered hands of purgatory. The officer shuddered and took one last look at the body, but the horror that he saw froze him.

“Impossible!” he cried. The boy was crying, with those dead eyes, which had by now obtained a light, lit like a lantern by the fires of some hell. They were no normal tears. As the dead eyes wept blood tears, black as tar, the mouth curled into a smile of mirth. Demonic cackling, unable to be pronounced by the human tongue drizzled from his mouth, his pupils quivered in an unending, feverish dance. The officer staggered back, only to trip against another corpse, one of a little girl, still clinging to a rag doll as if asleep. Distracted, he turned back only to see that the corpse was dragging itself towards him. The terror he felt was inexpressible, and he couldn’t even force a scream. It stopped, and lifting one quavering finger, pointed it at the officer, he smiled. Droplets, like a ruby necklace appeared upon the officer’s neck before spurting out in a torrent.

He gurgled out a sentence, “Why? I haven’t done anything to you!”

The officer flung his hands up to his throat, feeling the burning pain creep up into his nose and mouth, drowning him, struggling fruitlessly to keep his life from gushing out, as a dark haze threatened. The last thing he saw as he fell was the young man, now standing up, wounds healed, looking at him. The officer was dead before he hit the ground.

T H E

C A L M

A F T E R

T H E

S T O R M

BY

CINDY

LIN

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F R O M T H E P E R S P E C T I V E O F A G I R L ’S B A T H R O O M M I R R O R

By Mina Okamoto

It is too often that I am greeted with frowns while idle hands run over imperfections. I see fingers caressing the baby fat of healthily plump cheeks, desiring that they were replaced by chiseled cheekbones, with sunken eyes to emphasize their emaciation. Spindly, slender fingers pinch the tiny rolls of fat that nobody else can see around their owners’ midsection, wishing them away. Sometimes I wonder if what they see is distorted, for I see no fat where mounds of it heap onto stomachs in the perspective of the viewer. Though I know it is not in physical reality where the fat lives, but merely in the sickened, augmented imagination. I’ve seen too many lovingly packaged homemade lunches thrown into the trash secretively, while wild eyes flash around the room, hoping that nobody sees. I’ve heard the gurgling gags as lunches careen into the white ceramic toilet bowls, while brains calculate the calories they lose in every ounce.

I feel the soft powder of makeup slathered onto faces as it drifts, carried by shallow breaths onto me. Serums, pencils, powders, and lotions are rubbed onto faces in vain hopes to hide blemishes and add the darkened shadows to sculpt the protruding cheekbones so coveted and celebrated by society. Pink powder is dusted onto cheeks to mimic the delicate feminine blush of modest pride that people so value for its docility and passivity. Red paste is run over lips to give a seductively flirty cherry colored sheen.

I see glistening tears leave trails of sparkling silver as they roll down off of chins and splash into tiny diamond puddles on the cold floor. Cool, pure water droplets splatter against me and trickle down, leaving tear stains like the ones that palms rubbing at swollen, red faces try to wash away with the baptismal water. It is too often that I see shaking hands and hear the gasping breath of somebody drowning on dry land, throats constricting, coated with the thickness of fear.

The tears are a relief from social pressure, for their reflections that

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they can never seem to make quite perfect. Though they do not say it aloud, I can see it in their desperate eyes, “not pretty enough,” “not perfect,” “not good enough,” the deadly spiral staircase that their minds descend.

It is too often that I see searching eyes, hoping their reflections become the plastic barbie doll that society says it must be.

SCULP T COURTNEY YOUNG

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A

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PAGE

S P L I T

By Micaela Rodriguez Steube

You don’t know you’re beautiful! Oh Oh! That’s what makes you beauti—.

My iPod went silent. I kicked my feet down. Slowly, the world flipped around. The rug was no longer on the ceiling, the lights no longer on the floor. My dad stood by the glass side table. His finger hovered above the ‘play’ button.

“Chicas, vengan. Vamos a tener una reunión familiar,” he called through the apartment. Girls, come. We’re having a family meeting.

My sisters raced to the living room. Carolina, the oldest of the three of us, was eleven years old; she ran in, followed by Flo, at six years old, the baby of the house. Carolina’s sequined skirt shone in the light

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coming from the picture living room window. Little stars danced on the floor around her wherever she went. Behind her, Flo glided in on her RipStik. Through her eyes shone that little glimmer only six-yearolds have. That little glimmer says, “I have not seen harm in the world.

My biggest worry is which animal I’m choosing for my next Build-ABear.” Her back foot wiggled back and forth, back and forth, just the way I taught her, propelling her forward through the hallway and into the big open room. She stopped by falling onto the couch. They were giggling. Flo had just come up with one of her famous quotes. “I have a talent of being creepy with my voice,” she told Carolina. They must have been playing with Flo’s stuffed animals. She always gave them their own voices.

“Vamos chicas, siéntense aca,” He told us. Come on girls, sit here.

I sat down between them. Carolina to my left, Flo to the right. My parents sat on the ottoman, facing us. I could still see the indentation of my feet on the couch where I had been practicing falling from a handstand into a bridge—that is, training for my Olympic debut. I settled into the couch and brought my feet up. I’ve never been the kind to sit normally.

I guess I had known something was up. Nobody’s ever just stopped my music like that. Yeah, it led people yelling over it and me not hearing them screaming to me from across the apartment. But honestly, we were all used to that. After all, yelling is a given in a Latin household.

My parents immigrated to the US from Argentina in 2000, and though my sisters and I never lived there, they ingrained that culture through making our home like Little Buenos Aires. We ate empanadas, and Spanish was our first language. Colorful language and louder voices were a given here. It didn’t necessarily mean anger––to us it meant more emotion. We yelled and shouted and screamed at each other, but nobody ever stopped me in my tracks mid handstand. I hadn’t thought much of it though. I was nine years old; it’s not like I expected to understand everything.

“Mami y Papi se van a separar, pero eso no significa que las vamos a querer menos,” he said. Mommy and Daddy are separating, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to love you any less.

I looked left and right. Flo’s face showed acceptance. There was no inkling of worry or sadness. I’m not so sure she knew what it meant. I

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mean, a six year old in my mind could barely understand how to put together Lego sets, let alone that our parents were separating. She looked serious, but only because that’s how she imagined she should feel according to how others felt. Her eyes didn’t understand. The glimmer that had shone through them on the Ripstik hadn’t left. There was no inner tragedy to mourn. She nodded in the minimal understanding she could reach.

“Papi se va a mudar a un departamentito cerca de acá por unas semanas,” my mom added. Daddy is going to move to a small apartment close by for some weeks.

Flo’s eyes changed. She was curious about this new apartment.

Could she buy more Legos and keep them there? Would there be room to Ripstik?

I noticed my parents’ gazes shift towards Carolina. My eyes followed. Drops of water ran down her cheeks. They looked like professional skiers winding down a steep run with ease. Back and forth they curved all the way down, only to be caught by a rosy-bordered chasm right above her chin. Why was she crying? I wanted to comfort her, give her a hug. I wanted to explain to her that he would be coming back after a few short weeks.

He was going to move back in. My parents told us he would be moving to a different apartment for a few weeks. He was coming back.

However, I took Carolina’s word for it. Apparently, there was something to be upset about. Maybe she was worried about missing him during that time. There was a sense of dejection in the air.

I tried to follow in Carolina’s footsteps. My tear ducts were like an old tube of toothpaste. I twisted the tube back and forth, pinched the end of it and slid my fingers towards the opening, did anything I could to get the last drop. I contorted my face every which way trying to produce some form of water or sign of upsetness. I wanted to be the mature older sister to Flo, the one who understood why we were all upset and crying. My eyes started watering just a little. It was better than nothing.

My parents went to hug Carolina. They told her everything would be all right. They told her that nothing would change in their relationship with her. Why didn’t she understand? He was going to come back.

I was stuck in the middle. Obviously, there was going to be a big

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change. Change can be upsetting for everyone. I was sad to leave the Rainforest Cafe when we moved to Hong Kong, but I adjusted. I was sad to leave my old gym in San Mateo when we moved as well, but I adjusted. That’s what my parents had always taught me. Yet, why were they not adjusting to this? And this was even temporary! It wasn’t like my parents would get divorced. My mom promised me that years ago.

She promised me they would never get divorced.

I remember reading about that word in our house on Sun Blossom Lane in Redwood Shores. That’s where we lived ever since I was born.

It’s a little community in northern California near Palo Alto. We had moved to Hong Kong three years ago, in 2009. Oh how I missed that house with my pink room and my bed pushed right up against the corner, how I missed the yellow room next door where Carolina slept, and she, Flo, and I would take turns jumping off her bed onto her trundle. Our staircase was carpeted. It went three steps up only to turn ninety degrees and follow our pale yellow plaster wall up to the second floor. The railing was clean white wood. Right on that third step was a square-shaped space of carpet. It was the perfect size for reading.

On that square of carpet, I first read about the word ‘divorce.’ To me, it was just letters. I was ready to move on with my book without understanding the word. If I inquired about every single word, how was I supposed to get through a page? But, as I was about to go on,

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I saw my mom walking past through the living room. She was on her way to the coat closet or the garage to do mom things I would understand less than my new vocabulary word. Just as she walked by, I called her over.

“Mommy? What does divorce mean?”

“A divorce is what happens when two people who are married decide to not be married anymore because they’re not in love.” She answered directly and completely. My parents were never ones to hide things from us. They knew we’d always find out one way or another. I have been finding out my birthday presents every year since I turned six years old.

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“Are you and Daddy gonna get divorced?”

“No, Mitu, I love Daddy very much,” she responded.

There it was. There was the promise. It wasn’t a divorce. They promised me there wouldn’t be a divorce. I was sticking to that. Obviously, my mom remembered the promise, too. Yet, she, Daddy, and Carolina were still crying. I didn’t get it.

Nevertheless, they were upset. I tried to be upset with them. I went through all the motions of being upset: the sad face, the teary eyes, the looking down at the ground in despair. I guess the actions made me feel a little sad. I still didn’t get what all the fuss was about. He was going to come back. It was a promise.

Flo asked if she could get back on her Ripstik. She didn’t have much trouble comprehending and moving on from the situation. To her, the Build-A-Bear animal was still the biggest issue. There was no worry about my dad not coming back. Maybe she didn’t understand he would be leaving in the first place. Maybe she didn’t understand what “separation” was. Maybe she hadn’t been paying attention during the conversation at all. After all, her stuffed animals were waiting for her to come back and give them more voices. Regardless, whatever she thought just happened didn’t faze her. She was back on her board and heading to her room. Her back leg swiveled back and forth just the way I taught her.

My mom and dad released Carolina from their huddle of tears. I sat back on the sofa, my legs up. I kind of wanted to get back to gymnastics and One Direction. I knew if I voiced that there would be trouble, so I, as my mom taught me, “picked my battles,” and sat still for a couple more minutes.

That fall, I started fourth grade with Mr. Lincoln and Ms. Deb at Hong Kong Academy. I was excited to have Mr. Lincoln. He was from Massachusetts. He was the only teacher I knew at my school without an English or Australian accent. Being one of two American kids in my class, it made me excited to hear something familiar.

“Okay class, for our first day, we want to get to know you,” Mr. Lincoln announced at the front of the classroom. “Ms. Deb and I want to know about what you all did this summer. Let’s all take some time to write about our favorite summer memories.”

I immediately knew what I would write about: that very day my

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music was paused mid-handstand. I thought I had been beginning to understand it a little more. My dad would be living outside our apartment from now on. His apartment was in the residential complex of a hotel. It still all seemed temporary, but at least it registered that he had his own apartment. That made a little sense at least. I wrote about having two households. I remembered going to my sister’s room months before all of it to escape my parents setting up the DVD player in the living room. Our old one had just given out, and going on without Barbie movies was not an option, so they had to get a new one, fast. It had

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been fine at first. They both knelt by the TV: one read the manual, the other had their hands on the new device. But soon, that strategy wasn’t working. I hadn’t thought much of the yells at first (Latin household, remember), but when I listened closer it made me nervous. I had been doing homework at the kitchen counter but listened into the living room when I heard it start. This wasn’t just yelling: it was a fight, and a real one. It wasn’t a silly argument. I didn’t understand how to react, so I acted like I never saw anything. I gathered my pencils and put them in my Converse-shaped pencil case and held it and my notebook tightly

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against my chest as I walked past them to Carolina’s room. I never told them about it. I didn’t mention it in that first writing assignment. I just drew on the memory of the imperfect household. I suppose it made me feel better. It meant I wouldn’t have to hear any more DVD players be set up. It made me believe that two happy houses were better than a miserable one. That’s what I wrote. Two happy houses are better than a miserable one. I recounted the conversation that day. Yet, I still didn’t fully understand it. It was never sad for me to begin with. It was making others sad, I understood that, but I never felt it myself. At least Mr. Lincoln enjoyed my story.

Fast forward again to December of that year. We were in Argentina for winter break. My family had been invited to a friend’s house for the afternoon, and since my parents were now traveling in separate cars, my dad volunteered to pick up some wine as a thank you gift. I always loved to give him company, so I rode along. Though I was bored out of my mind at the bodega, I was happy to keep him company. We got back in the car and went to our friend’s house.

When we pulled up, I realized this wasn’t just a two-family get together, and there were many more cars than expected. We had to park across the street. My dad pulled into a spot next to a giant tree. Its roots had grown so large that it had begun to lift the ground around it. The soft hum of the engine gave out to silence. I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to open the door, but my dad’s voice sounded to my left.

“Un segundo Mitu, quiero hablarte de algo.” One second Mitu, I want to talk to you about something.

“Estuve saliendo con algunas mujeres. Recién rompí con una chica espanola. Salimos por tres meses, pero no me gusto tanto.” My dad had been dating other women. He had been dating other women for all these months. He hadn’t told any of us. He had just broken up with a woman from Spain that he had been seeing for three months. After accompanying him everywhere he went for ten years, he didn’t tell me he was dating other women.

It all hit me.

He wasn’t coming back. My promise was broken. I felt the sadness.

My home was split.

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D ESI GN

OLI VI A

PAG E

N O T E S F R O M A R T I S T O L I V I A PA G E In this series of artworks, I explore the depiction of divorce through color, geometry, form, and abstraction. My goal is to create a two or three dimensional representation of my thoughts and imagination as it pertains to divorce. I draw on my personal experience and use my emotions, perspective, and opinion to create each artwork. Each work involves aspects of my personal life, like certain colors I associate with the various houses I have lived in, and I used them to depict the complex visual representation of divorce. The chaos, heartbreak, confusion, and competition are ironically best reflected in the simplest form of shape, line, and color.

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T H E B I RT H DAY PA RT Y B y S o p h i a Ya o

In the style of Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven” Once upon an evening merry, I was dining, lone but cheery, Over many a divine and delicious dish of expensive berries— While I suppered, mutely eating, suddenly I heard a squeaking, Of a couple in their thirties, unmistakably married, “Just more customers,” I uttered, “unmistakably married— Only this, no other inquiry.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in cozy November; And the minuscule cozy cafe smelled like sweet cream and rich roux.

Quietly they sat in a booth;—plainly dinner they did choose From the menu surcease of hunger—hunger for concealed truthFor the sad and shameful truth that the couple sees right throughNameless here through and through.

And the silken, soft, comfortable rustling of each velvet curtain Showed me - behold to me a man with a self-satisfied face; And across, a woman that was pretty, but fadingly so ’Tis some couple eating at this cafe at this sunset phase— Some married people eating at this cafe at this sunset phase;— This it is, no other case.

Presently the air grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Dear,” said she, the good wife, “I have something in the other room.”

And she called the waiter excitedly, and the waiter then left quietly, And so faintly I heard tapping, tapping in the kitchen room, And I grasped tonight was special—an Occasion to be doomed;— Doomed Occasion that will bloom.

Deep into the kitchen peering, long I sat there pondering, thinking, Thinking, wondering why it was an Occasion for tonight; And I realized without delay, that tonight was his birthday, And that the good wife had planned a small surprise for him tonight This I realized, and I sat there anticipating the night— Merely this, all seemed quite right

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Out into the cafe coming, a small cake with candle burning, The birthday cake was tiny but glossy with one pink candle.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is just enough to satisfy him; Let me see, then, what seems quite odd, and could turn into scandal— Let me see beyond the surface what could turn into scandal— Let’s see if the pair can handle!”

Presently head waiter entered; hesitating then no longer, He set the small cake down, in front of the husband and started Singing “Happy Birthday to You,” and quite grandly they were singing, And so grandly the piano played, and violin string strung, That I was so sure he was glad—then I noticed something wrong;— Something there and something wrong.

And the good wife looked so hopeful, I became quite joyful, And her plain and pleased decorum seemed to make the cafe glow, “Though the pair seems fair and content, quite,” I thought, “something seems quite off,” Strangely quiet and calm the husband is, his reaction slow Tell me why I almost thought poison was in the little pink loaf!

And the cafe ceased to glow.

Much I marvelled the ungainly scene to hear applause so wanely, Though the people clapping wanely – little relevancy bore; For I could not help realizing that for some reason something Was wrong though the people clapped helpfully the husband bore A look of plainness upon his face, staring at the front door, With the expression of total bore.

But the husband, sitting silent in his cushioned booth, never spoke Not one word, as if his mouth was zipped up tight with a zipper.

Nothing at all did he utter—not a single word he muttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered “It’s clear he isn’t chipper— On the morrow he will scold her, as a husband does as per.”

His face like the grim reaper.

Startled at the embarrassment shown so suddenly by the man, “Doubtless,” said I, “He wouldn’t scold his good wife in the cafe.”

But he was indignant at his poor little wife sitting there

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And showed his embarrassment openly, displeasement displayed— Till the people of the cafe ceased applauding, turning grey And the poor wife turned away.

And one person would truly be thinking, “Oh, now, don’t be like that!”

But he was like that and all could see clearly, and we felt bad; So, inside the cozy cafe, we betook ourselves to slinkling Away unto away, thinking what grudge this angered husband had— What this cruel, embarrassed, tempered, mute, and so angered husband had Meant in being so so bad.

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no thought I was expressing Then the little pink cake was set down and the orchestra played grandly; The little violin-and-piano duo playing grandly And then they ceased to play and the band stopped singing and left quietly,

W EDDING SINGE R COURT NEY YO UNG

D I STR AC TED CO U RT N E Y YOUN G

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But the couple sat there quietly with the pink cake sitting mutely, The husband clearly angry!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by the husband whose red face displaced the entire cafe.

“Cruel,” I thought, “the husband is to the kind wife who prepared this, Cruel—cruel and so selfish!’” And he said with completely no delay, Something, oh something cruel and curt under his breath with no delay.

I still wonder till this day.

“Cruel man!” thought I, “thing of evil!—to be cruel, when the good kind wife— Whether Heaven sent, or whether Heaven tossed upon our world, Has been so kind to surprise you, yet you mistreat her this bad way— And I couldn’t look at the wife—tell me truly, I implore— Do you - do you feel pity for her? Tell me—tell me, I implore!”

I looked down forevermore.

And so I sat there quite sad!—ashamed still, for the poor wife!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this woman to stop crying if, within the distant future, The husband leaves because he is cruel, and I looked down at the floor— Looked away from the poor good wife and I looked down at the floor.

Lifting my head nevermore.

I kept my head down for awhile, scared to lift my head, in case The good wife still was crying and the husband still was scolding.

And so I left my head down lowered so that I wouldn’t see her.

But when I lifted my head, the wife was still softly crying, Under the gay big brim of her best hat, she was softly crying.

The husband, unsmiling.

And then I left, left quietly, left silently, left wordlessly Away from the sad wife and the rude husband’s argument; Away from the warm but awkward cafe that is darkened from the scene, And the lamp-light streaming o’er me in the streets seem to say to me, Is what I witnessed what I thought of, or was it something different?

And it haunts me till this day!

And hand her a tissue before anyone else I drive her to the hospital, honking at cars in my way.

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By Makena Matula

Colors swirl like paint Pretty pink and baby blue Sweet, sweet colors explode Layers like toppings on a sunday Cotton balls, puffy and soft Marshmallows being pulled apart, whispy and free An some whipped cream, light and airy Sweet scent like bubblegum and taffy and ice cream I have walked into a candy store The best candy store The sky

S T EA L I N G

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S ANTA’S

SL EI GH

JA ME S

C H ANG

LO S T A N D F O U N D I N S PA I N

By Sam King

I dedicate this arduous journey to my mom who took me to Spain, encouraged me to walk and persevere, and forgave me for my mistake. I dedicate this to my dad and sister for loving me. I dedicate this to my friends for supporting me and staying with me through challenging times. I dedicate this to my teachers for believing in me and for giving me a second chance. Most importantly, I dedicate this to myself for persevering and for forgiving myself.

It was day eighteen, June 23, 2018. My mom and I were stuck on top of what we later called “Shale Mountain,” composed of sharp, pointy rocks and mismarked paths. “Only seven more days. Only seven more days,” I repeated in my head, tears flowing down my face. I was done. I was tired. I felt like I should just give up. For the past eighteen days, my mom and I had been trekking across Spain on a 260-mile pilgrimage called the Camino de Santiago dedicated to the Catholic Apostle Saint James. From France, over the Pyrenees Mountains, across Spain over to Santiago de Compostela where the shrine of Saint James is housed in a cathedral, my mom and I walked with our own feet, packs on our backs, and goal in our heads: accomplish this physically demanding religious route.

On the mountain, I remembered my primary purpose for being here: forgiving myself for the mistake that I had made a few months back as a freshman.

In March, I got in serious trouble at school. I considered this month to be the hardest of my life; being confronted by the principal, vice-principal, and student council administrator of my school flooded me with guilt, anxiety, stress, and sadness. My hell started during my literature class after lunch when my teacher received a phone call from the office, asking for me to go to the office.

I knew it; I knew why I was being sent. A few days earlier, some friends and I vaped in the school bathrooms; someone must have turned us in. All of a sudden, I started shaking, and I began to clench my fists; my nails dug into my palms, leaving scars. “Why Sam? Why did you have to do this?” I berated myself. Disappointed faces confronted me as I entered the office grudgingly.

Slowly like a sloth, I walked over to the principal’s office, knowing that this was going to be a rough afternoon. His door was ajar, and I saw three big chairs behind a desk facing one small chair where I would sit and receive my consequences and shame. When confronted, I confessed. I told the truth.

After a couple of hours of questioning and waiting, the principal presented my punishment to me. Despite understanding that a punishment was fair for the offense I had committed, I felt heartbroken. Never in my life would I have

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thought that I would be in serious trouble at school. I had perfect grades and perfect attendance, but now my life was over. Every part of me ached with fear and despair. At that moment, I was certain that I would never be able to rebound from my mistake.

I was wrong. Here on top of “Shale Mountain,” I knew my goal: to finish this journey and start a new chapter in my life. After a fall and a good cry, I wiped off my tears, dusted off small rocks, and continued to trail down the mountain. Despite the 350-meter descent, my body kept trailing step by careful step. Outshining the gray, sharp shale rocks below our feet, beautiful scenery of lush flowers and fields surrounded me. This adventure really was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

My mom and I reached day twenty: the 200-mile marker. With only sixty more miles to go, we quickly trudged through this mentally taxing and physically challenging fourteen-mile eight-hour walk. “Only five more days,” I thought as my blister-covered feet numbly walked up and down the rolling hills. The day was bright and sunny. Wildflowers decorated our path, along with the tall pine trees and burgeoning bushes. The hills felt endless like waves of an ocean. The sun scorched my skin; it did not bother me. I had hoped for a glowing complexion for when I returned home. The beauty of the day sparked a hope within me like a match lighting fire.

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Throughout the afternoon, my mom and I passed people as we usually did because of our quick pace. Earlier, we had zoomed by an old man, dressed in a flannel jacket and hiking pants, who later caught up to us when we were taking a short break. His deep Russian accent and broken English, almost incomprehensible to us, caught my mom and me off guard. “You two walk as fast as Lamborghinis,” teased the Russian man. At first, we could not understand the joke, but after an exchange of confused glances, he more clearly said, “Lamborghinis like the car.” Uncomfortably, my mom and I laughed, but we knew it was true: we did walk very fast.

After walking the previous fourteen-mile day, my mom and I hit our final major section of our Camino: sixty miles, 100 kilometers, five more days of walking. Even though this day was our “rest day,” we still had to walk a tiring six miles. It was not much, but the pattern of walking for hours each day irritated me. I thought a lot, mainly about my purpose. Over time, I was coming to terms with my mistake, and the more and more I thought about it, the easier it was to forgive myself and move on from my past.

Day twenty-two, we walked in my favorite kind of weather: overcast, cloudy, and even rainy. Everything was damp from the night’s rainfall. Dark clouds filled the sky, and a heavy breeze blew through my hair. I felt the puddles soak through my shoes, but I did not care. Ironically, this gloomy weather made me cheerful. I am not a sunshine person; the sun darkens my mood. It drains the energy out of me like a vacuum sucking up dust from the floor. For the final three days of walking, we were going to have to walk a lot, and this day was no exception. The towering, dark pine trees surrounding us defined our path: walk straight. Sometimes I broke out in a run, for running made finishing faster and my goal closer in sight. Over rocks and tree roots, my feet skimmed the ground. The lines of trees rushed past me and the air pushed against my face, but despite the tiredness, I kept running. Determined to reach the hotel, I left my mom, who always took the scenic route, behind in the dust.

Almost six hours later, we arrived to the area where our hotel was said to be located, except it was nowhere to be found. We walked forward and backward on the path, checking to see if we had missed it, but we still could not find it.

Then, I noticed a farmhouse door, but I doubted that it was our hotel. Surprisingly, it was. Behind the door was a rural restored Galacian farmhouse, our lodging for the night. I loved it. It was in the middle of nowhere. There were four rooms each decorated with interior rock walls, heavy tapestries, and dark red velvet pillows. Outside of our room, there was a stone courtyard shaded by market umbrellas. I never wanted to leave. This 900-year-old inn made me feel comforted by its isolation from towns, hidden in the depths of the forest we had earlier walked through. Who would have thought that a rustic farmhouse could bring me peace, strength, and comfort, allowing me to finish the next three tough days?

With every new hill, my muscles screamed at me, my knees buckled, and my

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soul ached. That did not deter us. We had two more days left, and we remained focused on our goal. The blistering sun scorched our bodies, and our blisters only got bigger, but we continued to walk. This time my mom melted down.

The pain in her body started to crush her spirits and strength. Tears trickled down her face like a light rainstorm. Though I felt bad for my mom, I was secretly relieved that it was not me who had a hard time coping. Despite our struggles, we continued to walk.

BOOM! POW! Fireworks rocketed up, illuminating the afternoon sky. I had never seen fireworks midday; however, they brightened up the near end to my physical and spiritual journey. With twenty-four days of walking done, we only had one more day, twelve miles, four hours left. My heart raced for I knew that the finish line was in sight.

Knowing my mom was still distraught, I comforted her with a drink that I had bought in our rustic inn. Her face spread a smile as she gulped down the refreshing drink instantly. The drink had brought my mom a little joy which made me happy for the time being.

Most nights I cried myself to sleep. This month affected me deeply. Walking every day for at least six hours nonstop impacted me in a way I never knew possible. It was mentally and physically draining. It took every ounce of my soul to wake up every morning to walk. I spent a lot of time in my head thinking about everything: my reputation, my friends, my family, my homesickness, and the remaining distance to walk. All in all, nonstop walking and reflecting on my life not only made me exhausted but also made me strong.

My last day finally came, day twenty-five. For the first time on this trip, I jumped out of bed quickly, excited for the twelve last miles ahead. Instead of my mopey complaining, I engaged more enthusiastically with my mom and my surroundings. I felt the cold, damp air blow against my face. I saw my footprints decorate the mud. I heard the birds chirp joyfully for I thought they were celebrating the end of my journey. I smelled my achievement and success as I grew closer and closer to the finish line. Everything appeared, felt, and sounded different compared to the other days. On day twenty-five, I was happy. I bounced up and down along the path, urging my mom to walk faster.

Four hours later, my mom and I stood under the towering cathedral in Santiago de Compostela. We had made it. Tears flowed from my eyes like a rainstorm. I was done. In a month, I had walked across Northern Spain, 260 miles; I was finally proud of myself. I had not believed in myself along the way, but now standing at the finish line, I knew that I was stronger than I thought I was.

I collapsed, for my body ached with both physical and mental pain. Lying in the courtyard of the cathedral looking up at the bright, blue sky, I sighed with relief. The fact that I had endured this adventure made me perceive my life differently. I knew that I could survive through any challenge in my life, including forgiving myself for the past couple of months. This day was the start of my second chance, my new beginning.

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CAS T L E

CI NDY

L IN

I learned a lot about myself, walking on the Camino de Santiago. Despite complaining constantly, I learned to appreciate everything - my community, my friends, my family, my opportunities, my mistakes. I began to realize that I can accomplish anything I set my mind to do. First and foremost, I wanted to create a new reputation, and to do so, I needed to push through just as I had done walking in Spain. No matter how hard achieving my goal would be, I knew that I could do it one step at a time.

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C O M P E T I T I O N S Each year, Tabula Rasa challenges writers with various competitions that explore creativity and ingenuity in writing. Even when given the same prompt, each competition submission is individually unique and expressive. This year, we proposed two competitions that explored creative concepts and originality in writing.

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1 1

WRITE THE LAST 1-4 SENTENCES OF A STORY.

“Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending,” writer Henry Wadsworth Longfellow once said. The ending of stories can be heartwarming and beautiful, but they can also be sad or terrifying, or even twist the significance of the entire narrative. Be bold and creative!

2 2

INCORPORATE NUMBERS INTO A STORY, POEM, OR OTHER CREATIVE PIECE.

Our world runs on numbers: whether we’re glancing at a clock, collecting lottery tickets, or calculating tips at a restaurant, numbers fill the realm of reality and fantasy. The numbers should be a focus of your story: they can be a structure, a subject, or a method of organization for your writing.

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“END OF A STORY” COMPETITION FIRST PLACE She sat, staring straight forward. Her back rigid and lips pursed, she reminisced over the days when she was able to laugh and move freely.

Her breath quivered and she closed her eyes. With a whoosh and a hush, she fell forward limply and gave in to her mind’s enduring battle.

– Lulu Diffenbaugh

RUNNER-UP I walked all the way to the end of the bridge and stared out over the shimmering water for what might be my last time ever; I tried to recall everything that had happened that summer. I remembered the feeling of the warm, cozy campfire on my face and the goosebumps that appeared on my arms when I dove into the freezing lake. I stopped when I noticed my eyes had started to tear up. This summer hadn’t gone exactly as I had planned, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

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– Avery Wilson

The mountain of water rose over my head. Silence enveloped me.

Then the crash of the wave, first the sound and then the wall of water, hit me. The world darkened and became peaceful. All I heard were muffled screams as I sank.

– Nate George

It was quiet, calm, peaceful almost, just like it was before. But now, the deed was done, the graves were filled. Vengeance was mine with little cost but one to me. Now it will stop, that suffocating weight in my chest, crushing the life out of my heart.

– Sally King

I zoomed away from the expanding mass of flames behind me, my heart pounding for the fate I had barely escaped. I zoomed away from my lifelong home, my family, the blue planet I had sworn to protect.

That prophet must’ve felt like such a fool, picking a coward like me to protect us. Now, I was fleeing while my failure surrounded me like the darkness of space.

– Vincent Chen

It was hot. The dry heat had created a thin layer of sweat on her brow bone. She pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose as she leisurely walked away. She spit on the hot pavement in the parking lot of the motel as the building behind her burst open with flame.

– Courtney Young

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After all that I had gone through, my journey was far from over. Standing with one foot on the boat and the other on shore, I looked back one last time, seeing the lights of my familiar city in the darkness. I took a deep breath, breathing in the air one last time, and pushed the boat away from the shore, into the wild blue sea.

– Rosalie Wessels

His heart pounded in his head as he looked across the crowd, the rushing sound of his own blood deafening as he kneeled on the high platform looking out across the sea of people. They roared to see blood spill across the pavement; they roared to see his blood coat the stone ground; he would find no sympathy in them. He turned to his left to face his executioner and then did something that surprised them both: he smiled coldly and then placed his head upon the block.

– Makenna Wolcott

The moonbeams flickered across my face while the blood began to dry. I gazed across the valley where my town lay peacefully. No one will be safe, not anymore.

– Tyler Riches

And I stood in front of the place I had so long looked for. I stared in, each creaky, broken step a battle to climb, each hanging spider web a maze to the door. I noted no welcome mat outside; not even a pattern in the dust to indicate there ever was one. So, I turned around, walking away, telling myself that if I was not welcome here, I wasn’t welcome anywhere.

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– Natasha Kumaraswami

For a split second, on the other side of the busy street, I thought I saw Emily, with her blood-coat and her bright yellow boots. She was smiling back like she used to before it all happened. Her eyes were still innocent, still untouched by the tragedy that occurred.

– Megan Chou

Kira cried, harder than she’d ever cried before. Her limp, shaking body drained everything from her, every single feeling she’d ever had, every memory of sadness and every memory of joy. The tears washed her away until she felt as if there was nothing left. From that moment on, she knew, deep in her soul, that it was over.

– Mia Gustavson

My breath suspended in my chest, I stood, paralyzed, watching the eggshell-white tarp over the sea slide away by the wind. The keys suctioned limply to my hand, regret poured through me. Instead of a sea there was simply a vast, limitless vat of sand, filled with hourglasses containing severed limbs. I looked back at the painting in my hand. Looked back at the scene. With trembling fingers, I struck the match, closed my eyes, and hurled it as far as I could.

– Sarah Feng

The soft gleaming glow was so close, yet I couldn’t quite reach what I desired so badly; minutes felt like hours, trying to reach what I couldn’t grasp. I slowly, carefully moved my hand towards it as the warm glowing light reflected off my pale cool hands. Centimeters away, my hand was so close to touching the rutilant glimmer. As my hand went in, the world went black.

– Skylar Chui

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“NUMBERS” COMPETITION FIRST PLACE 0 : 0 0

By Prithi Srinivasan

There was no turning back. He roughly slammed the door against its frame. With heavy, ruddy fingers, he punched in the fateful numbers. Six. Zero. From behind the door he could hear an almost frightened hiss, but he turned away. Fifty-Five. The man turned back to the door. The hissing was growing even more insistent, somehow straining above the mechanized whirring. Fifty. It was getting closer and closer.

His mind filled with an almost primal craze as the hissing and whirring continued. Forty-Five. He found himself pacing, gnawing his fingers in anticipation. His hands roamed for whatever he could reach, anything to distract him. Forty. It wouldn’t move any faster. He rushed out of the room, hoping, praying, that it would be over. Thirty. He had made it to the final stretch. Running back in, he seated himself directly across from the blinking digits. Twenty. A grin overtook his face. Ten. The hissing was subsiding, as if whatever had been causing it was sputtering, dying.

Five. His fingers itched to reach for the handle once more. Four. To see what he had done. Three. The whirring continued inexorably. Two. He peered through the glass of the door. One. It had worked. Zero. The telltale beep sounded through the room on repeat. He finally opened the door. Reaching in, he surveyed his work, pulling his soup out of the microwave.

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RUNNER-UP F E E D I N G

F R E N Z Y

By Logan Thompson

Around the fifth month, The smallest in the Sea, Round the African Cape, In search of serenity.

Millions of sardines, Each 10 inches or less, Four and a half miles long, Band together to prevent death.

Thousands of birds, Gannets are most, Are the first to go hunting, On the fish near the coast.

Hundreds of sharks, Whalers, Spinners, and Blacktips too, Chase the millions of fish, With Zambezi’s swimming through.

Dozens of dolphins, Hunt the fish as a group, Separating from the bottom, Coming up to scoop.

One massive Bryde’s Whale, Comes up from the depths, Ending the biomass, Before its next breath.

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C O U N T I N G

D O W N

By Reilly Brady

Five. Five blinks. Waiting. The ice clinking in the glass, too clean, unsettling.

Five fingers, five minutes, five seconds. How long had it been? Five buzzes on the phone: five messages. Just a glance, then phone back down. Head down.

Four. Arm, arm, leg, leg. Squeezing hand and hand, tapping foot and foot.

Almost standing up four times, but always staying seated, four limbs, foot and foot on the ground, hand squeezing hand. Four children, across, reading books, eerily silent. Four rows of chairs. Four chairs in a row. The ice clinked again, breaking the loud silence.

Three. Getting closer. Don’t like this number. Unlucky. Three, six, nine, twelve on the clock. Three pens in the jar. Somewhere, someone sniffs. A cough. Three coughs. Three fake plants in the room, shining, immobile. No wind to move the plastic leaves. No more threes.

Two. Too close, or too long? Waiting, waiting. Is waiting better than the answer? Distraction: magazine, page two. Buy a watch, on sale! Two hands on the clock on the face of the watch, two hands on the clock hanging on the wall.

Two eyes, two ears, two hands, two feet, two arms, two legs. Two people sitting to the right. A man and a woman, also silent. Two buzzes from the phone, which stays down on the table. Four legs on the table – no, twos, not fours. Too many numbers. The clock, tik tok, too loud. Head hurts.

One. What’s after this? One too many seconds goes by. One mouth, one nose, one head. One million thoughts. Phone buzzes once. Focus. One table in the center of the room, mostly empty. One smell of dry alcohol, hand sanitizer, piercing the throat. One throat. One cough, clearing the throat. Head down.

Back up. One person is approaching.

Zero. Zero seconds left. Stand up. Zero distinct thoughts in a racing mind.

Time to listen.

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10

S E C O N D S

By Garrett Sablich

10 seconds left in the game, we are up by one 9 yards from shooting range, they are nearing the penalty area 8 attackers pushing up the field, this is their last chance to tie the game 7 defenders trying to block, crosses or through balls 6 yards from goal, they have broken through the defense 5 open players, why aren’t they marked 4 corners the ball could go, and I have to defend them all 3 seconds left, the pressure is on 2 decisions to make, stay on the line rush the ball, not enough time to think 1 shot, the ball moves faster than a bullet, reflexes kick in 0 on the clock, we have won.

SW I N GI NG

TI M E

RE ILLY

BRADY

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BIOGRAPHIES James Chang (7): James is a seventh grader and likes comics. He is very happy to be selected for Tabula Rasa.

Mia Gustavson (7): Mia is a seventh grader at Pinewood. She enjoys reading and creative writing and is working on the start of a novel right now! She especially loves writing poems, and sometimes even putting them to music. Outside of that, she loves nature and being outdoors, and is especially excited by animals of all sorts.

Avery Wilson (7): Avery is a seventh grader who is delighted to be featured in this year’s Tabula Rasa. Writing has always been a passion of hers, and she is very excited to finally share some of her work! Besides writing, she loves spending time with her friends, caring for her pets, and participating in every Pinewood sport she can.

Gabriella Ip (8): Gabriella is a current eighth grader who is excited to be in this year’s Tabula Rasa. She has been starting and admiring art since third grade and never gets tired of it. She uses art as a coping mechanism and a creative outlet since pictures often say more than words. Most of the time she focuses on using acrylics, watercolor, and occasionally charcoal. Besides art, she enjoys playing volleyball and playing the piano for fun.

Makena Matula (8): Makena is an eighth grader and is honored to be part of Tabula Rasa. She loves to create and experiment with art in all forms and believes that creativity and self expression should be celebrated. She is excited to take art independent study next year. In her free time, you can find her playing guitar, listening to music, drawing on her walls, and writing about anything and everything.

Mina Okamoto (8): Mina is an eighth grader who is pleased to be in Tabula Rasa. Some of her hobbies are guitar, reading, and creative writing. She believes in the importance of expressing and unpacking social

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issues through her writing. She enjoys using writing as an exploration and expression of self.

Florencia Rodriguez Steube (8): Flo, a current eighth grader, is super excited to share her work in Tabula Rasa this year. She loves creating art in all of its shapes and forms, but, as next year’s editor of the In-Depth section of The Perennial, she is partial to the unique experience of writing, especially fiction and poetry. Aside from that, her various wacky interests range from playing Dungeons and Dragons to learning about mycology, the study of mushrooms.

Sophia Yao (8): Sophia is an eight grader who is thrilled to be included in Tabula Rasa this year. She has been writing stories and poems since elementary school and is so excited to finally share one. She also enjoys playing volleyball, spending time with her friends, and reading to her sister.

Ella Aspinall (9): Ella is a freshman who is honored to have been featured in this year’s edtion of Tabula Rasa. She has always been passionate about the intricacies of writing and how beautiful the process and outcome can be. She loves creating art, especially in the genre of realism, and enjoys creating portraits of her friends to express her appreciation for them. In addition, she spends her time playing guitar, sketching in her notebook, and watching niche YouTube videos about survival in Indonesia.

Vincent Chen (9): Vincent is a freshman who is confused about being featured in Tabula Rasa. He isn’t sure how he won and doesn’t know what to write for his biography. If he had more time to think about what to write, he would probably say that he likes math problems, or something else that’s equally stereotypically nerdy.

Skylar Chui (9): Skylar is a freshman who is super excited to be a part of Tabula Rasa this year. She loves drawing with all media and writing small stories. At Pinewood, Skylar is on the basketball team, volleyball team, and swim team.

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Samantha Hsiung (9): Samantha is a freshman who is ecstatic to be a part of Tabula Rasa this year. She loves writing and uses it to express herself, especially through the form of poetry. She also writes for The Perennial, which she hopes to continue doing all throughout high school.

Aside from writing, she also enjoy reading, playing the piano, and fencing (the sport).

Sally King (9): Sally is a freshman who is shocked to be honored in this magazine! She loves to write but hates to share it. Sally enjoys playing tennis and was disappointed when the lacrosse team did not survive the recruiting season. Sally is related to Sam King even though they are not similar in any way.

Natasha Moretti (9): Natasha is a freshman who is honored to be a part of Tabula Rasa this year. When she isn’t creative writing, she can be found reading a good book, socializing with her friends, dancing, figure skating, or researching a topic that she’s interested in such as human rights issues.

Rosalie Wessels (9): Rosalie is a freshman who is very honored and frankly a bit surprised to be in Tabula Rasa this year. She loves to go windsurfing at the lake and enjoys programming. At Pinewood, she is a part of tech club and plays basketball and tennis.

Michelle Chen (10): Michelle is a sophomore who loves to see the world. She likes to capture memories with a favorable palate and a touristy picture. Despite having drawn for over 10 years, she puts in great effort and time to start a new piece. In her free time, she enjoys playing volleyball, listening to throwback music, and reading murder mysteries.

Lulu Diffenbaugh (10): Lulu is a current sophomore who is thrilled to be a part of Tabula Rasa this year. She loves to read mysteries, journal about her day, and edit her friends’ papers. At Pinewood, she loves to participate in visual arts through her art classes and Pinewood’s school newspaper, The Perennial. In her free time, she loves to hang out with her cat and ride her bike.

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Magnolia Lemmon (10): Magnolia is a tenth grader who loves to eat cookies and hang out with her dog. She is so grateful to be a part of Tabula Rasa this year. At school she is involved with the performing arts, and can be heard singing in the halls or dancing to and from her classes.

Nicole Maneatis (10): Nicole is a sophomore who is grateful to be in Tabula Rasa for a second year. She owns way too many geckos, and if they could talk they would say she is often out of the house while running track, playing tennis, or staring up at the sky, thousands of light years away, wishing she was there. She additionally enjoys painting, researching astronomy, skiing, reading, and designing in her free time.

Prithi Srinivasan (10): Prithi, a sophomore, is very excited to be a part of Tabula Rasa this year. She loves reading, writing, crafting extremely long sentences, and being placed on some kind of watchlist due to the concerning topics she researches when she writes (see: Types of Knives).

She is currently a copy editor for The Perennial and will be the Opinion editor next year. When she is not hovering over her laptop into the late hours of the night, she can be found reading ingredient labels on every food product that enters her house to check whether it is vegan or not.

Sam Kavich (11): Sam is a junior who is overjoyed and honored to have a story in this year’s Tabula Rasa. Creative writing is her biggest passion; she also loves reading (especially fantasy and sci-fi), video editing for The Perennial, history and theatre. Recently, she’s also enjoyed learning how to play the ukelele and knit. She writes because writing allows her to create her own worlds and stories where anything is possible.

Sam King (11): Sam, a junior, is thrilled to be apart of Tabula Rasa this year. This is her first time being published in a literary magazine, and she hopes you all enjoy her piece. Other than writing about her adventures, she loves to film and edit them into videos and post them for the world to see. At Pinewood, Sam is also involved in varsity soccer, ASB, journalism, and theater.

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Eva Liu (11): Eva is a junior who is honored to be in Tabula Rasa this year. She looks forward to working as an editor in Tabula Rasa next year and also as the Co-Editor-In-Chief for The Perennial. She is undoubtedly a political junkie, especially when it comes to international relations. In her free time, she can be found writing poetry on her patio in the middle of the night and playing tennis.

Drew Ness (11): Drew is a junior at Pinewood who plays school and club volleyball. She is passionate about art and will be pursuing it in college and beyond.

Alexandra Roesch (11): Alex is a junior this year and excited to be in Tabula Rasa for the first time. When she isn’t creating art, she can be found playing tennis, writing short poems and stories, or performing in the theatre productions at Pinewood. She also enjoys sailing in the summers on the East Coast and lounging on the beach with a good book.

She loves to draw because it acts as a type of meditation and helps her clear her mind when life takes over.

Micaela Rodriguez Steube (11): Micaela, a junior, is delighted to be a part of Tabula Rasa this year. She has a curious mind that pushes to explore all subjects available to her, her favorite being chemistry. Though she’s a fervent science nerd, Micaela also has a love for writing and literature. Micaela will also be the podcast producer for The Perennial next year. In her spare time, Micaela can be found playing with her dogs or tutoring her younger cousins.

Carter Brady (12): Carter is a senior who is honored to be a part of Tabula Rasa this year. He loves running, playing soccer, and watching movies. Carter has been the news section editor for The Perennial for the last three years and will attend Johns Hopkins University to study neuroscience and psychology in the fall.

Megan Chou (12): Megan is a senior who is very excited to be a part of Tabula Rasa this year. She is very passionate about golf and will be continuing her golf career at SMU for the next four years.

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Katherine Han (12): Katherine is a senior who is excited to be part of Tabula Rasa this year! She loves making videos in her free time, and watching a lot of Netflix—currently she is re-watching Avatar the Last Airbender which is arguably the best childhood TV show in existence.

Katherine is also a part of The Perennial as the Media Director and the PAWS club on campus. Katherine is super excited to be studying communications at the University of Southern California next school year.

Fight on!

Natasha Kumaraswami (12): Natasha is a senior who is very excited to be a part of Tabula Rasa this year. She is President of Pinewood Service Learning and Editor-in-Chief of Pinewood’s yearbook. When she isn’t planning events or designing pages, you can find her breaking traffic laws, losing at Monopoly with her family, and chasing her teething puppy around the house for her shoes. She plans to study Chemistry at Duke University in the fall. Go Devils!

Courtney Young (12): Courtney is a senior at Pinewood. She expresses her creativity through many mediums such as the visual and performing arts. She got to explore the connections between these two creative outlets through her AP Art sustained investigation where she asked the question “How does an actor get into character?” Courtney would love to continue pursuing art when she goes to UCLA this fall.

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S TA F F B I O S STUDENT EDITORS

Katherine Chui ‘20 Chui is a senior who loves art of all forms. When not working with her amazing co-editors for Tabula Rasa, you can find her running the creative department of The Perennial, constructing everything from mini paper houses to a backyard photography pool, and spending time with her doggo. Chui plans on studying Mathematics and Visual Arts at Rice next fall!

Reilly Brady ‘20 Reilly is a senior who has been a part of Tabula Rasa’s editorial team for the past three years. Whether she is creating activist posters, practicing hand lettering, crafting a short story, or writing a journalistic opinion piece, Reilly loves expressing creativity through many forms of art and writing. In addition, Reilly is currently the editorial editor for The Perennial, Pinewood’s student newspaper. Apart from writing and art, Reilly also enjoys participating in a cappella and student council. While she is sad to leave Tabula Rasa behind as she graduates, she is excited to attend Washington University in St. Louis in the fall and bring with her all she has learned from her experiences as an editor.

Sarah Feng ‘20 Sarah loves reading in the rain, hiking amongst flowers, and eating dark chocolate. She is the Co-Editor-in-Chief of The Perennial and loves being a part of Creative Writing and Book Clubs. A Foyle Young Poet, Scholastic Gold Medalist, and Teen Vogue Underwriting Scholar, her favorite authors and musicians include Atwood, Vuong, Steinbeck, Ravel, and Prokofiev. Her favorite food is the roasted tangerine, crisped on the bottom to black ash by a firepit, divided amongst a cluster of cousins, and then eaten slowly under the moonlight. She plans to study English and History at Yale in the fall.

FA C U LT Y A D V I S O R S

Sabrina Strand & David Wells

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A B O U T TA B U L A R A S A Tabula Rasa, established in 2016, is an annual, award-winning publication showcasing literature and art by students of Pinewood School. In 2018 and 2019, the magazine received rankings of Excellent and Superior from the National Council of Teachers of English, as well as a First and Second Place award from the American Scholastic Press Association. Tabula Rasa accepts prose, poetry, cross-genre, and art 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 Sabrina Strand and David Wells and edited by a small group of high schoolers who love the literary and visual arts. Any questions or comments regarding the publicationmay be directed to tabularasa@pinewood.edu.

The magazine’s next submission period will open February 2021. Students may submit through an online portal that will become available at that time.

Thank you for reading the 2020 edition of Tabula Rasa. We hope you enjoyed your stay.

– Katherine Chui, Reilly Brady, Sarah Feng 2017-2020 Editors EDITORS EMERITUS

2016-17 Priya Sundaresan ’17 Zarin Mohsenin ’17

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