2023 | Tabula Rasa

VOL VII | 2023

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

TABULA RASA

[ f ro n t c o v e r ] C I T Y O F N E O N A N D R A I N | E m m a H w a n g ’ 24 | g o u a c he o n w a t e r c o l o r p a p e r

TABULA RASA Vo l . V I I | 2 023 | P i n e w o o d S c ho o l | Lo s A l t o s H i l l s , CA

Editor-in-Chie f S a m a n t ha H s i u n g Ar t Dire c tor Emma Hwang Assistant Editors Es ha J o s h i M a ke n a M a t u l a Violet Negrette J o s e p h i n e Tu S o p h i a Ya o Publicit y Editor Ra c he l Fa r h o u d i Web Editor Ka t h l e e n X i e Advisors H o l l y Co t y D a v i d We l l s

A N OT E F R O M T H E A R T I ST, E M M A H WA N G ’ 24 , A B O U T T H E F R O N T C OV E R Whe n I ’m o n t he s t r e e t s o f S e o u l a t n i g ht , I f e e l a s i f I ’m i n a d r e a m . The c ha o t i c b u t r hy t hm i c s o u n d s a n d s i g ht s o f t he c i t y r e s e m b l e t ha t o f a l i v i n g b e i n g . The hy p n o t i c a l l y e n d l e s s ro a d s a n d m o s a i c s o f l i t s i g n s b e c ko n o n e f o r w a r d . Ev e n a s I l i v e i n a d i f f e r e n t c o u n t r y, a p a r t o f m y s o u l w i l l a l w a y s b e w a n d e r i n g d o w n t he s t r e e t s o f S e o u l , b e w i t c he d by i t s r e s t l e s s n e s s a n d b e a u t y. I c r e a t e d t h i s p a i n t i n g a s a s a f e ha v e n f o r t ha t p a r t o f m e , t o c a l l m y s o u l b a c k ho m e a f t e r i t ha s w a l ke d ev e r y l a n e .

Vo l . V I I P i n e w o o d S c ho o l ’s L i t e ra r y A r t s M a g az i n e 2 6 8 0 0 W. Fr e m o n t Ro a d , Lo s A l t o s H i l l s , CA 9 4 022 ( 6 5 0 ) - 2 0 9 - 3 010 t a b u l a ra s a s u b m i s s i o n s @ p i n e w o o d . e d u p w t a b u l a ra s a . o rg M a y 2 023

TABLE OF CONTENTS 2 T H E S PAC E I N T H E PA S T, V i o l e t N e g re t t e ’ 2 5 3 C O M E T S H OW E R , J a m e s C h a n g ’ 2 5

4 P I E C E S O F MY H E A R T, A n n a b e l l e Ea t o n ’ 2 5 5 F R U I T DA N I S H, E m m a H w a n g ’ 24 5 K ., B r i d g e t Re e s ’ 24

6 TA N K M A N B E F O R E E X E C U T I O N, S a m a n t h a H s i u n g ’ 23 8 A B S I N T H E A N D P I P E D R E A M S, J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5 10 “A M I L L I O N D R E A M S” J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5 17 G O L D E N G I R L , C h r i s t i n a Ta n a s e ’ 2 5 16 B L O O M I N G VO I C E , E m m a H w a n g ’ 24

18 N U M B E R O N E - N I N E T Y- E I G H T Ra c h e l A ro n s o n ’ 2 7 24 T H I R D M A N S Y N D RO M E , J a ko b K l e i m a n ’ 24 2 5 L OV E R O F T H E S U N, A e ro n L o ’ 23

26 AT T H E B O T T O M O F T H E C L I F F, Ra g h a v Ra m g o p a l ’ 24 26 B E AC H, E m m a H w a n g ’ 24

28 H A R D T I M E S, V i n c e n t C h e n ’ 23 3 5 T H E S C E N T O F N I G H T, Ro b e r t C u i ’ 23 3 4 D O S E T E N TAC L E S D O E , S k y l a r C h u i ’ 23

3 6 A M I D D R E A M S A N D R E A L I T Y, Ka t h l e e n X i e ’ 2 5 3 6 C O L O R F U L B L O B S, E m m a H w a n g ’ 24

3 8 R E F U G E E S, E m m a H w a n g ’ 24 3 8 N E V E R S K I P L E G DAY, A e ro n L o ’ 23

41 T O M O R ROW, S o p h i a Ya o ’ 24 40 TREE, James Chang ’25

42 T H E C U RV E D ROA D, E m m a H w a n g ’ 24 4 3 D U S K A N D D I R T PAT H S, M a ke n a M a t u l a ’ 24 4 4 H I K E S W I T H M O M , Ka r i n a A ro n s o n ’ 24

4 6 S P E E D, C o l i n Te r n u s ’ 24 4 7 S H O U T O U T M S . P R E S T Y, S k y l a r C h u i ’ 23 4 8 C A L I F O R N I A W E AT H E R B E L I K E , S k y l a r C h u i ’ 23

4 8 M AG M A M O U T H, L a ra Pa r i k h ’ 26 51 S A N F R A N C I S C O, J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5 51 F R I E N D S H I P, M a ke n a M a t u l a ’ 24

5 4 A S O L D I E R , B U R N I N G F O U R O L D S, S a m a n t h a H s i u n g ’ 23 5 7 B L A Z I N ’ I T, A e ro n L o ’ 23

58 T H E V I E W F RO M T H E T O P, E l l i s M a t u l a ’ 2 7 59 O S P R E Y, M a ke n a M a t u l a ’ 24 59 S N OW Y E G R E T, M a ke n a M a t u l a ’ 24

6 0 A F R A I D, E s h a J o s h i ’ 26 61 N O I R , J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 2 5

62 T H E M I D S U M M E R S N OW S T O R M , S o p h i a Ya o ’ 24 62 H I L L S I D E B L O O M , Ka r i n a A ro n s o n ’ 24 6 4 T H E B E E S, Ka r i n a A ro n s o n ’ 24 6 6 F O R E S T F L O O R , Ka r i n a A ro n s o n ’ 24

6 9 W H AT I F E E L A S I S I T AT O P A C L O U D, M i c h a e l S h t ro m ’ 2 5 6 8 D U S K OV E R N AT E WA B AY, M a ke n a M a t u l a ’ 24 6 9 T I D E G O I N G O U T, M a ke n a M a t u l a ’ 24

70 I ’ l l R U N, M i a G u s t a v s o n ’ 2 5 72 R A I N, V i o l e t N e g re t t e ’ 2 5 72 WAT E R , S k y l a r C h u i ’ 23

73 M I N E , E s h a J o s h i ’ 26 74 WO N D E R L A N D, R y e K i a n p o u r ’ 23 74 L U C I F E R , M O R N I N G S U N, A e ro n L o ’ 23

76 N O F L OW E R I S S A F E , Ra c h e l A ro n s o n ’ 2 7 7 7 G R I E F, Ra c h e l F a r h o u d i ’ 23 7 7 L AKE, James Chang ’25

78 W E L C O M E T O T H E ( K E L P) J U N G L E , M a ke n a M a t u l a ’ 24 78 S WA R M , M a ke n a M a t u l a ’ 24 8 0 W H Y H E L L O T H E R E , M a ke n a M a t u l a ’ 24 82 B AC KG RO U N D N O I S E , M a ke n a M a t u l a ’ 24

8 4 T I M E I S M E LT I N G AWAY, Ka t h l e e n X i e ’ 2 5 8 5 S E C R E T GA R D E N, E m m a H w a n g ’ 24 8 5 S W E AT, S k y l a r C h u i ’ 23

87 S P R I N G T I M E , S o p h i a C h e n g ’ 24 8 6 T U L I P F I E L D, E m m a H w a n g ’ 24

8 8 AT O P T H E I S L A N D, Ka r i n a A ro n s o n ’ 24 9 0 T WO S I D E S O F T H E S A M E C O I N, Ra c h e l F a r h o u d i ’ 23 91 C L O U DY B AY, J a m e s C h a n g ’ 2 5

9 2 T H E N AT U R E A RC H I V E S 98 COMPETITIONS 10 6 C O N T R I B U T O R B I O S 10 9 S TA F F B I O S

E D I T O R ’S N O T E It’s been a year, but we’ve finally done it. Welcome to the 2023 edition of Tabula Rasa. This year, we focused on the “experimental”—on redefining the conventional boundaries of art and innovation. This newfound purpose is fully represented by this year’s magazine, which, along with poetry, photography, prose, and art, also includes translations, song lyrics, and other cross-genre submissions like no other before. We opened ourselves up to the daring, to the bold, to the freakishly weird.

Whether it be the sweet, tender melody of “Hard Times,” the poetic cadence of “The Midsummer Snowstorm,” or the flourescent colors of “Blooming Voice,” I hope you will love these pieces as much as I do.

Many of this year’s submissions were centered around nature, inspiring us to create a section dedicated to nature photography, called “The Nature Archives.” While these photographs may portray the world in a beautiful, glistening light, I am reminded also of the griefs, the tragedies, the cycles of violence that we’ve experienced this past year. But through it all, we’ve been able to persevere—and I’d like to think that these pieces serve as the perfect encapsulation of our resilience throughout the good and bad, the successes and failures.

As a senior, I will be graduating soon and leaving the editorial staff. I would like to express my gratitude to you, the readers and contributors, for your continual support, as well as to Ms. Coty and Mr. Wells, the advisors, for making this literary arts magazine possible. In a couple of years, I know that I will look back on these pieces with fondness and warmth, and I hope that you will, too.

On behalf of the editorial staff, it is my honor to present to you this year’s edition of Tabula Rasa.

Samantha Hsiung ’23 Editor-in-Chief

T H E S PA C E I N T H E PA S T Violet Negrette ’25

Amidst a growing thought in the dark, A feeling of hope lies deep within.

My fingers reach out and ignite a spark, The circle of dust begins to thin.

I watch the space as it grows near.

My eyes, once clouded, start to see The foggy breath grow crystal clear, In the empty space in front of me.

The space between the dark and light, Surrounds a life in a veil of thought.

The past hides still behind the night, The future lies awake to be sought My mind falls to a close at last.

The thoughts that were once swept away Have found a peace inside the past And look forward to a place to stay.

The darkness remembered what was broken As the light illuminated the dormant mind.

I see now what could not have been spoken With the space that would have kept me blind.

2 | TA B U L A R A S A

C O M E T S H O W E R | J a m e s C h a n g ’ 25 | w a t e rc o l o r

3

PIECES OF MY HEART Annabelle Eaton ’25

I’ll cut it up And serve it on platters With photographs and memories And I’ll give it away On late nights and car rides Short trips and the ringing of a school bell And tear by tear Piece by piece I’ll lose it For long nights or long weeks or long years And over missed phone calls and forgotten replies For those who have robbed me In their hands it might wither and harden and rot Sometimes it will crumble And I’ll miss it Until there is a cavity Where there should be something But it’s not Until I reach inside And I pull out another piece —another piece of my heart

4 | TA B U L A R A S A

F R U I T DA N I S H | E m m a H w a n g ’ 24 | a c r y l i c o n w a t e rc o l o r p a p e r

K . | B r i d g e t Re e s ’ 24 | o i l o n c a n v a s

5

TANK MAN BEFORE EXECUTION Samantha Hsiung ’23 On June 5, 1989—a day after the Chinese government violently fired on citizens protesting in Tiananmen Square—a Chinese man stood in front a column of military tanks leaving Tiananmen Square. He became a symbol of hope and courage in the face of authoritarianism and was nicknamed “Tank Man.” His identity remains unknown.

I dreamed about the sky yesterday, Ma. The rainwater softening my tongue.

Clouds shifting in the wind like curtains. Ma, I cannot see the sky from my cellar. Just blood from my past inmates, carved into the ceiling like breath. There’s so much negative space in this room, Ma. I am left with nothing but distilled memory. Remember: the fireflies feeding on your silk dress. The flag unraveling into a body of gunshot wounds—as red as fortune.

Ma, I haven’t had a meal in days.

These nights, I gather the dust with my hands. I siphon the sweat of our people & stuff it into my belly, like hunger. As if absence can hold anything.

Last night, they asked me what I wanted for my last meal. I wished for jasmine tea & petals from the lotus tree. They laughed in my face. Told me that this is what I’d eat instead: dead flies & bruises. Ma, do you remember the hyacinths from the pond? They lived for four days in spring before fading into the water’s abyss & you cried. I imagine them resurfacing as shadows of your face. Do you still look the same, Ma? Have you slept, Ma? These days, the only face I remember is Mao’s—his portrait with a 50s haircut, reveling in time.

Ma. Ma, listen to me. A week ago, I was wearing trousers & a white tee shirt, kissing my daughter goodbye as I left for work at noon. Briefcase in one hand, a bag of takeout in the other.

There were bodies scattered across the floor, Ma, like feathers of a sparrow. A field of tanks prepared to harvest the summer’s offspring.

I stood at the intersection of the crosswalk, barricading the first tank like a stone corpse. Ma, I climbed up the tank & opened the turret like a coffin. Inside: a boy, around fourteen. A boy, burdened by this country & all its sins.

A boy.

So I yelled at him to take me, my body, my life.

Please, Ma. Don’t come & find me.

Let it be me who is killed—not that boy, not my daughter, not the hyacinths.

Let it be me who disintegrates into vapor, into silt, into a buried memory.

Tonight, Ma, I’ll sleep with a fresh bullet in my chest.

My body— ruptured.

6 | TA B U L A R A S A

我昨天梦见天空 ，妈。雨水酥软 我的舌头。云像窗帘一样， 随风 而行。妈，我从地窖看不到天 空。只有血从我过去的 囚犯，像呼吸 一样雕刻在墙里。这个房间里有太多的负空间 ，妈。只剩下离去的记忆。记得吗：萤火虫以你的絲裙子为食。国旗拆散 成 枪伤的尸体，想幸运一样的红。 妈，我好几天都没吃饭 了。这些夜晚，我双手收 灰，汲取我们人民的汗水。我把它塞进我的肚 子里，像欲望一样。缺席无法容纳 任何事物。 昨晚，他们问我最 后一顿饭想吃什么。我求了莲花树的花瓣和 茉莉花茶。他们笑。 告诉我我自能吃死苍蝇和瘀伤。妈，你还记得池塘里的 风信子 吗？他們活了 四天，然后消失 在水的深渊中。你 哭了。我想像它们会重新出现在 你脸上的阴影中。你看起来 还一样吗，妈？你睡了吗 ，妈？这些天来，我唯一记得的就 是毛泽东的脸—他留着 50 多岁的发型，陶醉于时光。 妈。 妈，听我 说话。一周前，我穿着裤子和白色 T 恤，中午去上 班时亲吻我的 女儿。一只手拿着公文包，另一只手拿着一袋外 卖。妈，我看到了尸体散落 在地上，就像麻雀的羽毛。准备收 获夏季后代的坦克场。妈，我一定是 傻了。我站在人行横道 的十字路口，像一具石 尸一样挡住了第一辆坦克。妈，我爬上 坦克，像棺材一样打开 炮塔。里面：一个男孩，大约十四岁。 一个男孩，背负着这个国 及其所有的罪恶。 一 個男孩。 所以我对他大喊大叫，叫他带走我，我 的身体，我的生命。 求你了，妈。不要来找我。别让他们杀 那个男孩，我的 女儿，那些 风信子。让他们杀我。 让我化为水汽，化为淤泥，化为 埋藏的记忆。 今 晚，妈，在我胸部中：一顆新鮮的子彈。 我的身体—

破裂。 This piece has been previously published by Frontier Poetry.

7

ABSINTHE AND PIPEDREAMS Josephine Tu ’25 Would it be fair

that to exist is to extend one’s arms in a swirling fog tinged green with absinthe cloudy and volatile? to claw at air pulling out mist by the fistful with nothing to hold onto but the merely vaporized cascading hail crystal orbs of frozen rain cut fresh wounds of blood and of pain— punctured through sheer tissue to my heart.

8 | TA B U L A R A S A

to suggest

to reach out towards that intoxicating glow of pipedreams? but to exist means unwinding an infinite spool and tasting the dew of sweet tears grasping for dear life thread of every possibility that rematerialized in ribbons. One can bask in it, the sunlight’s iridescence encapsulated in droplets. Every day’s dawn that tasted of bitter agony— they are no longer constant lacerations but a stained glass kaleidoscope

9

“A M I L L I O N D R E A M S ” F RO M T H E G R E AT E ST S H O WMA N arranged by Josephine Tu ’25 original music by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul

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10 | TA B U L A R A S A

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11

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12 | TA B U L A R A S A



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13

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14 | TA B U L A R A S A



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N OT E S F R O M

THE AUTHOR I first wrote this arrangement during the 2020-21 quarantine school year, as the final project for my online composing class. I wanted to add some elements that weren’t in the original song since I thought writing an arrangement that was “too similar” to the original would make me a fraud, so I added pizzicato accompaniment for a sense of playfulness and texture. In the original, the vocals, orchestra, and added percussion culminate into a duet, so I made up for my lack of these assets with moving eighth notes, sustained chords, and gradually increasing dynamics.

When revising my arrangement again this year, my first thought after listening to the machine -generated audio was that I had mistranslated the original song somehow, turning the accompaniment messy and chaotic. My second thought was that I should have chosen a better song; the melody of “A Million Dreams” is repetitive, the lyrics somewhat childish, the story arc filled with overused movie tropes.

But I suppose the song makes sense, looking back, for the angsty teen I was at the time that I first arranged it. Nihilistic, cynical, but wishing for a happy ending anyway. At its core, “A Million Dreams” tells a message about a passionate guy hoping for a future of endless possibility. It describes a sentiment most artists can relate to: a desire to be a part of something bigger and to leave an impact on the world.

My arrangement was an interpretation of this message that reflected how I felt in eighth grade, wanting so badly to matter to a world that didn’t seem to care, to be known and seen and understood by strangers who only saw my face as computer pixels. With the music theory knowledge I had since gained, I cleaned up some weird notes and added a section but was otherwise proud of my eighth-grade creation.

Although my arrangement wasn’t entirely true to the original score, it was, in a way, true to how I felt as a person. And I hope the arrangement rings true for you, too.

Josephine Tu ’25

scan the QR code to listen

15

B LO O M I N G VO I C E | E m m a H w a n g ’ 24 | d i g i t a l a r t

16 | TA B U L A R A S A

GOLDEN GIRL C h r i s t i n a Ta n a s e ’ 2 5

Her golden skin burnt and red.

Sand and salt stuck between her teeth and toes.

Her hair tangled in endless knots but she doesn’t care To brush them out.

She is beautiful But she doesn’t know that yet So the moon whispers it to her in her sleep and she Dreams of the stars.

But she does not realize those stars are within her And not simply the vastness that the moon settles in.

Her golden skin and tangled hair and her frail body in its Entirety is not enough to be contained into a single star But a whole galaxy.

Her lips curl into a soft grin and she thinks, How beautiful are they!

The stars that glitter relentlessly and dance in the night sky.

Take them, The moon says.

They are yours to keep.

And so she collects the stars in her pockets and fills Them until they are bound by a single strand.

They shine through the cloth and she glows radiantly.

I am shining!

She exclaims, joy painted across her face.

How beautiful am I! And she dances in the night sky.

17

NUMBER ONE-NINE T Y-EIGHT Rachel Aronson ’27

Her name was Greta, but Mr. Green Boots called her #198—the number printed on her orange leg tag.

She lived—with others—in a blue smidgeon of a house, planted right in the middle of a circular grass patch; the baby blue paint was peeling—and since the wood hut hadn’t been cleaned in over two months, the smell wafting by was strong enough to curdle milk. Across from the house lay a tin water trough that was nailed to the ground. It was fall, so leaves the colors of crimson and gold piled high under naked trees while weedy undergrowth lined the nearby fence. The thin, metal wires were the only boundary between her home and the forbidden Unknown. Greta knew not to touch the fence or she’d get burned and disappear like Little Buddy had. But Little Buddy had never been the sharpest tool in the shed anyways.

Every now and then, Greta would see Mr. Green Boots scoop up one of her friends and vanish into the distant shed out back. Mr. Green Boots always came out, but her friends never did.

Mr. Green Boots was a kind fellow; he gave out tiny handfuls of seed and would often pet Greta. He had funny little chin whiskers too—purposeful, Greta learned, since she knew not everyone had face hairs—and always wore his big green rubber boots.

18 | TA B U L A R A S A

Winter was coming, so Mr. Green Boots made sure to feed Greta lots. More than the other chickens, in fact. During last year’s winter, Ruthie had been Mr. Green Boots’ favorite. Then Ruthie left the farm for a better, more comfortable life as a pet because she was getting older and couldn’t produce as many eggs.

Greta was a plump, feathery little hen. She grew up loved and surrounded by friends; they were constantly changing, renewing, cycling—like a revolving door.

Mr. Green Boots would use Greta’s eggs—she would lay smooth, perfect little eggs, and he would reach his hand inside the coop and steal them away. It was a game— to be the one Mr. Green Boots picked the most eggs from. In fact, Greta was his best egg layer yet, at least, until recently.

Her eggs were no longer as big, nor shiny, and tiny fractures began to form on the rough shells.

One chilly day, near the side of the coop, Greta was scratching for seeds in the dirt when she spotted a hole in the wired fence.

The hole in question was roughly the size of a large chicken and was hidden by the yellowing weeds. Funny. Greta knew of past escape attempts made by Edith, the crazy old hen, but she knew Edith had never seen real progress before Mr. Green Boots had removed her from the coop. Greta hadn’t seen Edith in a while.

Greta peered past the hole, into the Unknown. What was it like there? It was a boring life in the coop, day after day, constantly: eat, sleep, repeat. Maybe Edith was onto something—something new, something exciting, something that would distract from the mind-numbing, repetitive cycle Greta found herself looped in.

Maybe the Unknown could be different.

Greta inched towards the gap, tentative and antsy. She poked her head through

19

the opening, her body following soon after. Her stomach churned, and her heartbeat rose—the unsteady pounding made it hard to think properly.

No one saw Greta as she quietly slipped out of the fenced enclosure, careful not to step on any brittle leaves.

Greta bobbled on into the forest—step after step— and into the vast Unknown.

The Unknown was not like how the elder chickens told it. There were no bloody monsters tucked away in dark caves, no piercing screams, no nothing. It was a regular forest. Regular trees and regular birds and regular rocks. And yet,

20 | TA B U L A R A S A

Greta felt uneasy as she traipsed through, deeper and deeper into the woods.

Dusk was coming—and a slow darkness enveloped the forest, suffocating and weighted like molasses.

A warm, yellow light poked through the trees, casting stark shadows on the ground. Greta perked up.

A house—wait, no.

A shed.

Mr. Green Boots’ shed.

Greta waddled towards the buttery light and hopped on a crate near the illuminated window. She peered in and saw. . .

Bodies.

Dead chickens hung by their iron-clad ankles, eyes rolled back and skin plucked bare. Greta scrambled back from the window, mind racing. Mr. Green Boots did this. He killed them. Her friends. Twisted their sweet, innocent feathery necks and strung them out like clothes on laundry day.

No wonder someone went missing every season. No wonder Edith tried to escape—she knew, somehow.

Greta stumbled at the edge of the wooden box, flapping her wings to regain balance. She steeled her nerves as she looked back through the window.

Mr. Green Boots’ back was turned to Greta as she watched. He was cleaning, unbothered by the corpses hanging on his walls—in fact, he was whistling cheerily as he washed his bloodied knives.

21

Greta knew that she could never return to the coop, lest this be her fate. Butchered and eaten.

She hopped from her perch and fled into the forest.

It was dark in the woods. And silent. Unnervingly so.

Greta found a small nook under a gnarled tree and curled up in a ball, trying to lose the day’s horrific events in a numb sleep. When she woke, sunlight poured through the tree’s branches, illuminating the leaves scattered on the ground, and the forest no longer felt as ominous and scary as it did before. But winter was coming, and if she was to live there—in the woods—finding food and water came first.

Greta wandered between the trees and rocks for what felt like hours. She found a small pool of water, but it was only enough to last a couple weeks at best. And when Greta found food, it was too hard to eat—as she was no longer being hand fed and cared for by Mr. Green Boots.

Weeks later, starving and thirsty, Greta was a mere husk of the self she had been when she first set out into the Unknown. Hunger pains were a new constant, only disappearing in cold sleep—but even then she dreamed of food.

Greta wondered, what if, what if, she had stayed in the coop?

Dead, sure, but content—with a belly full of seeds and sweet water, surrounded by friends.

Friends. . . Ruthie, Edith, even Little Buddy, and so many more. . . .

If only. . . .

Greta lay down. . . and didn’t get back up.

Winter came by—with its harsh snow and bitter cold—blanketing the forest in fluffy white.

Snow crunched as Mr. Green Boots hiked to the frozen pond in the woods, ice bucket in hand, when he tripped on something solid.

22 | TA B U L A R A S A

He looked down. Saw an orange leg tag numbered #198.

Mr. Green Boots crouched in the snow, his gloved hands carefully digging around the frozen lump.

“Oh. That’s where you went, #198.”

He got up and dusted off his hands, shrugging.

Mr. Green Boots continued on his trek to the icy lake, eager for water to boil for his chicken noodle soup.

By early spring, the snow melted and trees replaced their fallen leaves. Young flowers poked their budding heads through soft, wispy grass and reached for the sun.

Greta’s body defrosted and was eaten by a fox.

23

THIRD MAN SYNDROME Jakob Kleiman ’24

Antarctic scientists, polar explorers and free climbers all know Him But none better than I Weirdly enough, they only see Him in darkness and despair They see Him when lost in blizzards or scaling glaciers with broken legs They see Him in the space between life and death For them, He led the way to shelter And talked them through impossible climbs For others, they find Him at a golden dome in Canaan Or at the foot of Sinai In a bush that was engulfed in flames, but never burnt They saw Him in the black plumes of smoke from Sodom or Gomorrah They saw Him in the portable tents of congregation For them, He is the King of the universe And chose them as His people For others, He walked out of the flames that spread West Or in the minds of Versailles They saw Him frown in showers speckled across Poland and France They saw Him collect the dirty abandoned shoes, weeping for what did burn For them, He was their cause of death And their savior For me, He isn’t any type of king Not even a person like I I see Him in the bread I break and the wine I spill I see Him in pink sunsets and in wry smiles For me, He is the blessings that surround me everyday And I will always listen for His voice, my Third Man.

24 | TA B U L A R A S A

LOV E R O F T H E S U N | A e ro n L o ’ 23 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

25

AT THE BOT TOM OF THE CLIFF Raghav Ramgopal ’24

Dear Patti, On this lazy Sunday we sit on the sandy seashore of Moss Beach, California as succulents cling to the rugged cliff towering behind us. The same rugged cliff that separates us from the rest of the world. The one that felt as if it were transporting us to the pits of Hell while we climbed down its infinite number of unstable wooden stairs. The one that no one ventures beyond—that no one dares to challenge.

No one except us.

Today, the sea violently churns with rage as if trying to escape itself—hide from itself. It headbutts into dark green, moss-covered rocks with a sonorous clang that is far stronger than the peaceful hums it usually sings. But the sound is beautiful. It is like a new melody in my ears. I have never heard anything like this.

Water sprays everywhere. Droplets spray the sky. Droplets spray the sand.

I feel the droplets slowly coating my face. I close my eyes and the icy liquid meanders through my pores, sending shivers down my spine—vertebrae by vertebrae.

You reach out your hand and I feel a plush towel transmit warmth into my veins.

You run your thumb up and down my right sideburn. I just grew it—this sign of maturity. Aren’t you proud? Your boy is turning into a man.

26 | TA B U L A R A S A

B E AC H | E m m a H w a n g ’ 24 | d i g i t a l a r t

But, sometimes, I just want to travel into the backyard of our modest, one-story house on Eleanor Avenue. I want to dive down to the bottom of the twelve-foot pool and pluck newly-bloomed roses from the garden out front. I slowly feel my head tilt up—my chin pointing to the sky. The sky is a deep, rich gray—a shade I have never experienced before. It is almost an inviting sort of gray. If you look past its ominous facade that darkens the world, it invites you to explore a galaxy far away from here. A galaxy that is of your own design. I feel myself enter a trance and, suddenly, the dry, dead grass of Shoup Park pokes through the arches of my bare feet. The hot June sun lights my cheeks red with the energy of childhood. Adobe Creek is finally full. It has been years since I have heard the sound of water gushing down the narrow stream with such haste. As I sprint to cool myself off in the fresh water, I feel two hands grab me under my shoulders and lift me up off the ground to fly high above the world. I look down to see you smiling joyously. I squeal with excitement as I soar above everyone else. You and I can rule the world. Then, it all vanishes. Gone like that.

Within an instant, I am transported back to the sandy seashore of Moss Beach, staring at a blank, gray sky. I turn to hug you. As I extend my arms, you vanish. Particle by particle, you disappear and float off into the wind like the sand you were sitting on. A whirlwind of sticks, twigs, leaves, and succulents vigorously circles your remains before you are all gone—before you have flown into the deep, gray sky and into the violently churning sea—leaving me alone again, with no one and nothing. Where have you gone, Patti? I miss you dearly.

Love, Raghav *Patti is the South Indian way to say “grandma.”

27

HARD TIMES Vinc ent Chen ’2 3

28 | TA B U L A R A S A

= 125 3

3

3

3

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3

3

3

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3

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30 | TA B U L A R A S A

3

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33

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32 | TA B U L A R A S A

rit.

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N OT E S F R O M

THE AUTHOR It’s hard to write about hard times, to find fitting words for parents fighting, friendships bending, and relationships breaking. This melody encompasses how I felt during a stressful time, how I simply went through the motions of day to day life, and how I always hoped for a light at the end of the tunnel.

Vincent Chen ’23

scan the QR code to listen

33

D O S E T E N TAC L E S D O E | S k y l a r C h u i ’ 23 | m i x e d m e d i u m s ( c o l o re d p e n c i l , g o u a c h e , p a p e r )

34 | TA B U L A R A S A

THE SCENT OF NIGHT Robert Cui ’23

Crisp and electric like soda pop Starbound dreams of Neverland The soundtrack of my life Cycles into the bat’s palace Under the moon’s cataract The scent of night fills my nose Dampened sweetness of California strawberry Whistles and screeches chime The harmony to my midnight solo High octaves waking the dead An impassioned daring to the sleep

35

AMID DREAMS AND REALITY Kathleen Xie ’25

her young and bright eyes once shone idyllic dreams captured her heart she’d be whisked away by the laughing wind space—she could hold in her palm this blank canvas anticipating shapes and swirls and she believed it wholly but when the tadpoles transformed into frogs simplicity shattered. as the color of her life exposed delusions of grandeur. walls, facades masked on every face, the vows of fairness and oh, she felt her body weightless and floating into a sphere of deceit. so she befriended the stars, a comforting reminder of the world she grew up around she said faintly—tell me, was it all an illusion that we were told to try grasping? well, the sky was waiting for her to navigate through the maze of fabrications and verity and traverse across fields of adversities only then can she revisit laughing with the wind not completely the same but with a ful so she op and climbs th

36 | TA B U L A R A S A

C O LO R F U L B LO B S E m m a H w a n g ’ 24 digital art

with glimmering hope, her face smiled with bliss as her tiny legs ran her across emerald hills she knew it—Earth was a beautiful wonderful thing to journey through, this Earth is magical, they said. when the saplings grew to mighty oaks eventually a new light cast upon her. days bled into a palette of vermillion red, the dwindling dreams and crumbling reach for indefinite perfection, broken promises of childhood sifting through a foggy sieve lies. they didn’t tell her. they didn’t tell her about the complexity among the chasms in the mountains hope is still there but how can she continue this whole time? was happiness a costume? but it’s only sunrise and golden rays lit her eyes and the trees were beckoning her only if she embraces the ambiguities and perplexities only if she continues to seek truth in the present can she run harmoniously across the hills again never completely the same ler perception ens her hands e rope of reality

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REFUGEES Emma Hwang ’24

Refugees, all of us.

Hunched on the floor with their treasures reviving from the dead from the magic in the outlets, Cured by some invaluable sorcery that turns tame to feral and back again.

Packed in so tightly like the sardines rotting in their warming refrigerators, Infiltrating personal space faster than they can connect with their addictions.

Countless graves of dead outlets, their headstones marked with masking tape announcing their decease Myriads of pitiful but blistering words falling from tongues: “I’m using that charger” And way too many Refugees Like rats clawing at each other’s eyes for food, Hooked to electricity like dictators drunk on power.

Doomed without connection, Not to others But to a pipeline to fill the holes in their hearts, To seal their pain with media, work, memes, productivity.

Rats, all of us, electricity-starved zombies All of us, refugees.

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N E V E R S K I P L E G DAY | A e ro n L o ’ 23 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

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T R E E | J a m e s C h a n g ’ 25 | w a t e rc o l o r

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TOMORROW S o p h i a Ya o ’ 2 4

the air is soft as silk this morning when i breathe in, i can feel it slip down my throat, into my toes, the open sky drips down around me, warm and sluggish like wistful songs, sweet berries, purring cats on the porch, their little bellies rising and falling as you sip bitter coffee, breathe in, breathe out to the tick tick tick of the dusty clock on the mantel, next to the rusty glass flowers, and suddenly you have lived all your life, your hair is thin and your bones are weak and the sky is colder now, time has run out and all that is left is the quiet tick tick tick, the cats, old and tired, at your feet. but i turn and it is warm, the sunshine hits me, bright and blinding the flowers are still fresh, petals stretching outwards, and i am still young enough to relish in the goodness of the world, i have the time to fall in love, to give out thank you notes, to collect flowers, to move to Boston, to see my family, to watch the daylight fade over the hills, night after night after night, but for now, i will rest. i will not remember this day, or this day, or this day but i will remember the midsummer air, the blurry memories, fading into each other as time passes us by and by and by.

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THE CURVED ROAD Emma Hwang ’24

I felt the world around me collapsing. The white walls of the hospital room tightly suffocated my trembling self with the smell of sanitizer and despair. I pinched myself, thinking, “Oh my god, this is just a dream.” By the hundredth pinch, reality drowned me in an ocean of hopelessness. I silently screamed for a breath, for a moment’s reprieve, to wake up from this nightmare that I refused to accept. But the longer I waited to wake up, the more I realized I never would. The world that I knew just a minute ago slipped through my fingers like raindrops, and I never saw it again.

My life descended into a blur, as if someone had been moving the camera too quickly and only caught the hazy lines of my memories. When I returned to school the next day, everything was normal. Nothing had changed. How could everyone be walking to class and gossiping and buying snacks at the vending machine when I wasn’t the same person anymore? An enormous burden now imprisoned me in a cage, leeching onto my spine and twisting it like a corkscrew. And alongside my spine twisted my identity into something mortifying: a victim of scoliosis.

Every time I thought about my new label, my heart burned with embarrassment and froze with guilt. Is this my fault? I began to wonder. What did I do wrong? Am I a bad person? The more I thought about these possibilities, the more I wandered deeper and deeper into a wilderness taunting me with questions. I was lost, alone, and without a light to guide me. My hands were chained and my feet fettered. There was nothing I could do to console myself about the impending doom of surgery.

But then the light broke through as if some divine being parted my curtains of despondency as a single ray of hope spilled into my life: a non-surgical physical therapy treatment.

With the introduction of yet another variable in the scoliosis equation that was my life, I threw myself into my physical therapy as if I had sky-dived into a hurricane. Only this storm was not just painful emotionally—it was physically grueling, too. I pushed myself to my limits, then went a thousand times past them. I swallowed my pain until I could not see any possibility of surviving it—and went beyond. From morning through late afternoon, for three weeks, I gritted my teeth and plowed through the searing pain and the flaming hurt. I was wishing with all my heart that I could be in school instead of missing classes to attend physical therapy. I sweated. I cried. Often, I found myself struggling to breathe through the

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D U S K A N D D I RT PAT H S | M a k e n a M a t u l a ’ 24 | p h o t o g ra p h y

pain, collapsed and exhausted, melting onto the floor and in incredible pain.

I was hurled into a world where pain was the norm. A doctor would say to me, “Emma, this is called ‘The Chair.’” (The name, in hindsight, gives the implication of a torture device, which is not unfitting to describe the physical pain it was capable of triggering.) “So, Emma, it is a mechanism in which you sit down on this cushion, like a chair, flatten your back against it, there you go, like a chair, and go ahead and rest your arms on these armrests, just like a chair.” Only this chair had about three belts and five pads that required strapping and cranking and locking into position to not only untwist my spinal curve on my right but also mirror the curve on my left side. When examining the photos of myself in The Chair, one would speculate that to twist my body as much as it was being pushed, I must have had no spine. Only a spineless human snake would be able to fit in this position.

But no, this Chair is indeed for the benefit of your spine. Oh, and it’s 7 feet tall and weighs over 200 pounds, and you need to be secured here for twenty-one minutes at a time, each minute seemingly longer than the last, twice a day, for about two years. You know, just like a chair!

And that was only one of the four types of therapies that entailed my daily routine. As exhausting as it was, I simply had to keep going. I somehow fought through it and stood on my two feet again. It didn’t matter how many times I got knocked down; I got up and kept going. I was stronger than I ever thought possible.

After my three weeks of hell concluded, I was finally free to return to school.

My classmates raised eyebrows at my sudden reappearance, as if I had resurrected myself from the dead. Upon seeing this apparition of my past self, who was now strapped to a wheelchair, they saw me as a completely new being. My personality had dampened. The creative, sunny, cheerful girl, who would make the downhearted laugh, who would give handmade cards on birthdays, who would draw her friends’ favorite cartoon characters for them, vanished like a warm breath in the cold winter air. I acquainted myself with misery and I sacrificed the time for making and giving gifts to make time for physical therapy. The girl that I had been was reduced to nothing more than an unfortunate patient who could benefit from a dose of pity and a helping hand to push the poor thing’s wheelchair.

But I had no time for pity. I had no time to salvage the broken remains of my reputation. I needed to get better. But how? I was juggling a plethora of tasks: schoolwork, high school applications, the school musical (which I considered quitting, which would break my heart as I had finally been cast as a lead), and on top of that, daily, three hours of at-home physical therapy. The cherry on top? My back brace, stiff as iron and restrictive beyond imagination, was to be worn at all times.

With my objective in hand, I reworked my work ethic to meet my demands. I

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H I K E S W I T H M O M | Ka r i n a A ro n s o n ’ 24 | p h o t o g ra p h y

mastered the art of working around the clock and sacrificing art and homework to focus on my health. But most of all, I learned how to grit my teeth and endure the daily struggle. I developed a regimented routine to save every minute for my therapy. I was tremendously dedicated to getting better. I had no other option.

So often we focus on our accomplishments as a single moment in time. We win a championship. We score first place in a spelling bee. But how often are we faced with the task of achieving beyond our best daily? And for several years? It requires an unimaginably bottomless supply of effort. It would be impossible for me to accurately articulate how strenuous the therapies were, especially for a child.

But as demanding as it was, I chose to remain optimistic, praying that my efforts would bloom into something positive.

Finally, three months later, my judgment day came. I nervously twirled my fingers around the hem of my shirt as I waited for the doctor to give the results of my MRI. The wait was worth it. The curve on my spine went from 54 degrees, within the surgical range, to 35, below the range. I was no longer in danger of surgery. I was free, like a bird that had been released from its cage. The toil and tears had all been worth it. I felt the warm glow of my personality returning, radiating stronger until I found the girl I once was.

My journey did not end there. From then even until now, I still complete my daily physical therapy and wear my back brace. Though my doctors have loosened my schedule, I still endure the endless struggle that comes with being a scoliosis patient. Now, I bear my title proudly upon my chest, ready to spread my wings and take flight in a world that I know I can make for myself.

But as I began to close this chapter of my life, I was reminded that many others are just beginning their stories. One night, a close friend of mine whom I have known since preschool texted me that something had happened and her family needed my help: her younger sister, twelve years old at the time, was diagnosed with scoliosis. As soon as my eyes met the words on my screen, I was taken back to that asphyxiating white hospital room with the smell of sanitizer and despair—and loneliness, too. I had known no one who was in the same situation as me. There was no one I could turn to for advice or emotional support. I was trapped in a cage where everyone could see me, yet I could see no one. The recollection of the memory hit me like a wave taking me under. The pain was still vivid in my mind. I couldn’t let that happen to my friend’s sister.

I texted my friend for another thirty minutes, offering her all the information she needed to know about scoliosis while also embracing her and her family with as much compassion and empathy as I had in my heart. We decided that I would meet them in person so that I, a scoliosis veteran, could talk to and encourage her sister.

When I met with her sister, I could see so much of her in my thirteen-year-old self. She was like any other girl, but a shadow of fear and doubt shaded her eyes. My 44 | TA B U L A R A S A

heart broke because I knew her pain. But at the same time, I knew I needed to plant the seed of resilience in her mind to guide her with physical therapy. I explained to her that therapy might be the most intensely challenging hurdle of her life, but I promised that it was all going to be worth it. I let her touch my back brace and with my words painted all of the colors and patterns she could pick for her brace.

A swirly cotton-candy pink? Rainbow butterflies? Her eyes brightened with her imagination.

From the beginning, I recognized my crucial role in helping her achieve good health because I was the only one who could comprehend the emotions stabbing her. I could hear the voices of doubt in her head and could see the nightmare she faced. Being the only person to truly understand her, I committed to helping her conquer fear by breaking the boundaries that scoliosis trapped us in and embracing her when she needed me most. Our worst fates intertwined like ribbons into a bow, bringing the best and most beautiful qualities out of both of us.

Now that she has straightened out her spine, I see how much progress she has made. My heart swells with pride and joy when I think about how far she has come. We have come to recognize our unique friendship: how I am a role model for her, yet she continues to pleasantly surprise me with her swift progress. How my diagnosis of scoliosis and my struggle through therapy was truly a divine stroke of luck because I was able to come to her aid and be her light in the storm when she had none. She inspires me to be my greatest self so I may one day have more opportunities to support others and bring beaming smiles to their faces. She has taught me that any effort, big or small, can be that single ray of hope that someone may desperately need.

Whenever I retrieve that faded memory from the back of my mind, when I felt my heart sink to the floor in that dreaded white hospital room, when I felt my spine twisted by The Chair, when I felt stinging eyes boring into my back brace, I no longer slump with despair. I stand up with dignity, as straight as I desire, carry myself as tall as a giant, and fly as far as my wings can soar.

This piece won an honorable mention in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards.

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SPEED C o l i n Te r n u s ’ 2 4

And the back end stepped out. The back end of a car. The back end of my car.

My car that was traveling eighty God-forsaken miles an hour around a turn. But not just any turn, the most dangerous turn on the entire track: the infamous Sonoma turn ten. My car that just got loose on the most dangerous turn on the entire track at eighty miles an hour. My car. With me in it. I am now half a second away from wrecking my car, decimating my confidence, and making myself the fool of the autosport community.

But to understand how we got here, we have to go back. Way back. Back to my childhood, back to the days where wonder and magic and intrigue still filled the world. My love for automobiles was apparent in my childhood (my parents like to say that my first word was “car”), and I would spend hours upon hours racing little matchbox cars around on the couch, their little ungreased wheels making a cute little squeaking sound as they barreled through imaginary turns, their old bitter-tasting paint chipping away as they jostled for position. I can still smell their metallic scent today, a bitter but warm smell of days long past. They left tracks on the couch, little grooves where their tires disrupted the grain, creating little skid marks and in some cases mapping out boundaries for the tracks. Those matchbox cars likely have more miles on them than most cars on the road, their paperclip-like axles still holding strong to this day. I used to play with them till my knees were marked with the pattern of the carpet they rested on, a bumpy and red texture.

Yet to get the full context we need to go even further back. Back to before I was born, to my father and his brother, and their amateur Spec Miata racing careers.

Spec Miata is a fascinating racing division. A large sum of drivers cram themselves into these tiny automobiles, these tiny Mazdas, and compete with reckless abandon to gain that revered first place. This was the world that my father and his brother dove into. At this point, they had steady jobs and a disposable income, so they decided to buy into Spec Miata. It really wasn’t much of a purchase, with the most expensive part of the process being buying a hard top for the car (which initially came with a convertible soft top that was not suited for racing), and paying for a driving school in order to obtain the necessary licenses and knowledge for racing.

The start of a Spec Miata race is something one has to observe in person. There are about thirty cars or so all running within feet of each other, their small engines making the most monstrous sound you’ve ever heard, and their tires squealing and 46 | TA B U L A R A S A

S H O U T O U T M S . P R E S T Y | S k y l a r C h u i ’ 23 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

crying out as the drivers violently warm them up by rapidly accelerating and slowing.

Let’s take a moment to appreciate the sound a Spec Miata makes. It’s this raspy sound, closer to a bumblebee than any other car engine, but it holds this power over you. It’s this growl, this menacing powerful growl that lets you know it means business. Most Spec Miatas have muffler deletes or modifications (the muffler being the part of your exhaust system that quiets the sound down), meaning they are extremely loud. That raspy growl of power is projected all over the track, a sign of the fight to come and the grittiness of these cars.

The drivers stay in a tight one-two one-two formation till the green flag drops (the green flag is used as a signal to start racing, and when I say “It drops” I mean the person holding it by the front straight shakes it) and the Miatas are off. They race, jostling and fighting for position up till the first turn, the titans battling over glory and reputation, and then it’s a mad dash to slow down in order to complete the turn. The sound of squealing tires, screaming engines, and banging metal saturate the air, and the beautiful smell of burning rubber and gasoline permeates through everything. By the time the dust and smoke settle at turn one, chances are more likely than not that you’re gonna see a driver stuck in the dirt or smashed into a wall or slowly putting their way back to the pitlane to attempt to salvage their ravaged car.

This is the world that my father and his brother competed in, the cutthroat 47

C A L I F O R N I A W E AT H E R B E L I K E | S k y l a r C h u i ’ 23 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

M AG M A M O U T H | L a ra Pa r i k h ’ 26 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

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monstrous world of these small regulation Japanese cars. They competed in local races on local tracks and did pretty well for themselves, and they learned the values of hard work and determination. They did almost everything for their cars: setting them up, maintenance issues, suspension tuning, creating a makeshift cooling rig (a cooler that was strapped down in the back of the car with a tube running to the driver in order to pump cooler air into the cockpit for longer endurance races).

Spec Miata racing was a bonding experience, and it brought the family closer together over this common interest of strapping oneself into a metal box and going as fast as possible.

My father was still competing in Spec Miata two years after I was born, and he and his brother had collected two cars that they now ran in races (one being a gray Miata that we still drive on the track today and the other being a red Miata that… well, you’ll see). Both his racing career and having the two Miatas were soon to change.

It started like any other race weekend: bolt on a new set of tires, refuel the car, do any necessary tech inspections, and go go go! He placed well in qualifying (every race starts with qualifying, a time period where drivers compete to set the fastest lap and that lap time is then used to determine the order they start in), being able to secure P6 (sixth place) as his starting position for the race. Everything seemed business as usual during the warmup lap (race tires and brakes need to be warmed up in order to perform well, so a formation lap under a safety car is used to get all the cars up to temperature), and my father was lined up on the right side of the grid (they line up in a grid formation, so it is called a grid), meaning he would be on the outside of turn one. He completed his warmup lap and the safety car got out of the way. They were ready. These titans in their tiny cars, ready to do the battle of steel and rubber. Engines floored and gasoline poured as the green flag dropped, as they stampeded their way to turn one. My father was on the outside of the turn as the frantic braking began, trying to make a move on the car on the inside. That is, until the car on the inside wasn’t on the inside anymore, and had now lost control and bumped into my father, sending him slightly up the hill into the rough dirt. This wouldn’t have been a problem, except for the slight ditch that lay in front of his tires. His front tire dug in, and every driver’s worst fear occurred. The car flipped.

And this wasn’t a measly flip. No. This was a cartwheel, a dance, a roll. End over end over end over end he went, dirt flying into the car and the sound of screaming metal surrounding him. Over and over and over, the ground rising to the sky and the sky falling to the ground. Over and over and over and over until he stopped.

And as the dust settled and the smoke cleared out, he was the car that faced the turn one curse. He was a victim of the titans.

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Despite all his flips, and the fact that he went off the track at sixty miles an hour, he escaped the crash with only a sprained leg. The same can’t be said for the car, which was quickly sent to what I can only assume to be a scrapyard, as it was more blop of sharp metal than car. My father, seeing the luck in his crash, then decided to stop entering into Spec Miata races, his family obviously being more important than the drive for pride (he continued to do track days, however).

All this to say that racing and driving has been part of my family and my life for as long as I have lived. I breathe gasoline, cry wiper fluid, and bleed transmission fluid. For as long as I can remember, Sunday mornings have been times to sit down and watch F1, and sometimes Nascar and Indycar. I always dreamed of being up there with them, fighting for position and flying around the track. And then, when the chance came to drive on an actual track in an actual car, I was almost too afraid to take it.

“You wanna come drive at Sonoma next weekend?” my dad asked with a smile from the kitchen, a question receiving a resounding “YES!” from me. This would be my chance to experience that thrill of speed. That drug of acceleration. That joy of strapping yourself into a box and going as fast as possible around a tight track.

But what if I mess up? What if I’m slow? What if I crash?

These were the thoughts that filled my head, thoughts of failure and dismay, thoughts of disappointment and letdown. What if I’m slow? This day at Sonoma quickly became a nightmare, a seemingly life-altering event that would sink me down into the darkest depths of shame, not good enough to keep up with my family.

Every time Sonoma was mentioned I felt sick to my stomach. I feigned a face of excitement, but dreaded the day as it quickly approached.

And then the day came. We packed up our tools, our gloves, and our helmets and headed out the door at a nice 5:00 AM. The cool air was refreshing, but it in addition to my fear sent shivers down my body that shook me to my core. What if I’m slow? We loaded up our stuff into our respective cars, and took off. It was a two hour long journey, at one point going through San Francisco and across the Golden Gate Bridge. The beautiful California fog blanketed everything, creating a soothing atmosphere that did nothing to calm my nerves. I watched as the time ticked, ticked, ticked away on the dashboard. What if I’m slow? And as the distance to the track decreased, my fears skyrocketed. The black interior of the car seemed to be reaching for me, suffocating me. I was trapped in this void of self doubt, this bubble of fear and expectation. My whole life had been leading to this moment.

WHAT IF I’M SLOW? The seatbelt felt tighter and tighter, the wheel of the car closer and closer, the temperature seemed to rapidly increase.

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S A N F R A N C I S C O | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

F R I E N D S H I P | M a k e n a M a t u l a ’ 24 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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Then we reached the track, and I got out of my car. The sound of engines filled the air, and the smell of fresh rubber and gasoline wafted to my nose. Supercars drove by on my right, stock cars on my left. The sound was deafening. Shooom Shoooom Shoooooom, cars raced by on the track, trailing dust and rubber. WHAT IF I’M SLOW? I retreat back into my car after signing in, and wait in petrified silence for my group’s session to be called.

“Group C, please report to the pitlane. I repeat: Group C, please report to the pitlane.”

The announcement is made. It is my time. I push the clutch in, start the engine, and shift into first. My engine whimpers as I set off through the paddock to get to the grid. WHAT IF I’M SLOW? I pull up behind a Supra and wait for the inevitable. The car is no longer a car. It’s a trash compactor. The walls have fully closed in, the seat belt as tight as it could go. My legs shake in fear as I grip the steering wheel and hold on for dear life. The Supra revved its engine and took off, leaving a small chunk of rubber on the hood of my car. I watched as it flew away and waited for my turn to take off, trying to manifest the flag bearer not to drop the flag.

The flag fell. The green impending fear-striking titan-commanding flag fell, and my life flashed before my eyes. Years of racing matchbox cars on the couch, my fathers racing, yelling “Gwo ungle pweter” into the mic during one of his races, getting my license, it all appeared before my eyes. This was my dream, and suddenly I felt a flash of anger for letting something as stupid as expectation take the joy of that dream away from me. So what if I’m not fast? I’m gonna have fun. I dropped the clutch and slammed the accelerator, my front wheel drive civic squealing off the line. The wind rushed in from my open windows (NASA requires you to have your windows down), filling my helmet with the cool smooth air. As my car accelerated over the turn one hill, the sun hit my vision and my whole world was alight and alive with color and life.

And I had fun. After a couple of warm up laps the car felt amazing, I was able to put my full faith into my trusty Civic, my noble steed whose hands I was placing my life in. His little engine roared as I powered out of turns (granted a much smaller roar than the Miatas because the Civic still has to be street legal), and his all weather tires squealed a pain-ridden squeal, being put through more than they were ever supposed to be. Little chunks of rubber spit out from behind my car, and the turbo spooled as I shredded through the corners. My confidence began to grow. I’ll go a little faster here, break a little later there, and change up my line here.

And best of all, I was getting quicker, beating out the other people in my group. I felt good. I felt great! I was in control of a car going ninety miles per hour around

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a tight, wall-surrounded track. Nothing could stop me! I’m on top of the world!

And then the back end stepped out. The back end of my car. On the most dangerous turn. Traveling eighty miles per hour. I had come in a little hot, and the track was a little oily from a whole day of titans trampling over it. The perfect storm. Time slowed down, I watched a chunk of rubber fly in through the left window and out the right. My tires let out a dying scream, accompanied by a small scream of my own. I was toast, done, a failure. I could see it all now, my car sliding into the wall, the front end crumpling like paper. The whole track would be shut down as they lugged my crumpled car off the circuit, debris and rubber falling off of it all the while. This is the worst moment of my life.

But it wasn’t. Instinct took over: I turned into the slide, shifting the momentum of the car away from the back and towards the front. I then corrected the snap oversteer, and with tires squealing, pulled out of an inevitable crash. My heart rate lowered, it was over. It took me an entire lap to comprehend everything that had just happened. I was screwed, but I wasn’t? I had just made the biggest mistake of my life yet I was completely unscathed. How? Racing for me has been more than just a sport. It’s been a lesson in hard work, a lesson in confidence, a lesson in life. That’s what I learned during that fateful track day: I am capable of more than I think if I just work hard enough at it. I cannot allow myself to sike out of important events. I faced my fear head on, driving eighty miles an hour at it, and had come out on top. I took an out of control car heading for impending destruction, and brought it back on track. I did that. I, under my own power and control, took a metal machine and drove it as hard as I could. That sense of accomplishment has never left me, and it probably never will. Racing is life. It’s getting knocked down and standing back up, ready for another punch. It’s going eighty miles per hour through a sixty miles per hour turn, knowing full well that you could mess up and total your car, but having the confidence in yourself to pull it off. It’s having trust in your car and your own mechanic skills, the only thing between you and a spectacular car failure. It’s drive. It’s passion. It’s love. It’s life. The joy of strapping yourself into a metal box and going as fast as you possibly can is quite possibly one of the most life-changing things that can happen to you.

Without it I never would have learned self-confidence and belief, never learned the importance of hard work and determination, and I would never have known that you never, ever, under any circumstances, want to be on the outside of turn one at Sonoma.

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A SOLDIER, BURNING FOUR OLDS Samantha Hsiung ’2 3

“Four Olds” was a term coined by Chairman Mao, referring to Old Ideas, Old Culture, Old Habits, and Old Customs that resembled pre-communist China. During the Cultural Revolution, Mao and his Red Guards aimed to eradicate all Four Olds, often by intruding into the homes of Chinese citizens and burning their belongings to ash. “火” is the Chinese character for fire, and words with capitalized letters are examples of what was considered a “Four Old.”

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火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火 & I am a soldier, 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 & 火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火 LANGUAGE 火火火火火火火 my prey. 火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火 the distance between us a 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 whisper. 火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火 on the field, I learn weapons, a 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 CURRENCY 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火of death: how to domesticate bodies, 火火 火火火火火火 fuse flesh into stone. 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火 I forget 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火HISTORY, 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火 forget 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 memory. 火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火 unlearning 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 CAPITALISM, 火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 I forge an economy of violence. 火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火 daybreak & 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 I shoot a 火火火火火火 DOG 火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火 in the head, hammer it 火火火火火火火火火火 into steel. my eyes like 火火火 火火 PEARLS, 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火I worship what I cannot see. 火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火 I cannibalize red, 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火 liquidate 火火火火火火火火火火 火 火火火DESIRE, 火火火火火 retract all forms of 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火 火火火火火火 LOVE. 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 in the darkness, I become 火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火 a catalog of death 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火 & 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火 denial 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火 & 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火 destruction. 火火火火火火火火火火火 & when I return to my 火火火火火火

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火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火 FAMILY, 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 I am not a 火火火火火火火火 火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火 SON, 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 but a foreigner. my 火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火 MOTHER 火火火火火火 -land: the flag around my neck. 火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 hanging, 火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火 like a scar, 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 a permanency. 火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火火 This piece was the winner of the 2023 Reed Magazine Emerging Voices Contest.

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B L A Z I N ’ I T | A e ro n L o ’ 23 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

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THE VIEW FROM THE TOP Ellis Matula ’27

Climbing up the snow-covered slopes of Mount Alyeska in Alaska, I experienced an explosion of sights and sounds of invigoration. I still remember the feeling of the tiny droplets splashing down on my upper lip, their cadenced beat dissolving into an irritating tickle as they trickle down my face. The cold biting air turns my nose into that annoying leaking faucet that keeps you awake at night—drip, drip, drip. My tissue supply had dwindled around 1000 feet and now my gloves, relegated to nose wiping duty, look like they are covered in a semi-frozen oil slick.

Although I am disgusted by it, I have ceased to care. At first I hated this sensation, but now I embrace it. My nostrils feel like they are being power-washed, and the grunge of my accumulated twelve years is now being expelled. I return my attention to the crunch of my boots on the snow. My rubbery legs give me the stride of a toddler, wobbling and falling with each step into the dense snow. I watch the snow swallow my boots and resist my efforts to retrieve them. I fight with each step to lift the cinder blocks out of their frigid prison. I hear the scrunch of my family’s footsteps behind me, breaking first through the icy top crust and then finishing each footstep with a plunk. It is comforting knowing they are here with me. As I look around, I see a light mist of white powder creating the appearance of a snow globe.

Snow-topped trees dot the landscape below us. An occasional hawk streaks across the sky, declaring its presence like it owns the mountain. We pass a barren tree with its roots spreading like a virus. It is surrounded by rocks, dotting the landscape like pepperoni on a pizza. I struggle to plow up the mountain against the howling wind. It clearly wants to keep me from the summit. My cheeks burn from the slap of the bitterly cold wind. The biting feeling is strangely invigorating, and I can see the summit in view, obscured by a delicate haze of snow like a face peeking out from behind a sheer curtain. Whistles hum across the sky as the rush of air forces its way through the crevices of nearby tree branches, creating a symphony with the rhythmic beating of my deep panting breaths. I suck in the thin air as deeply as I can, still feeling that I can never get enough of the much-needed oxygen. When we finally make it to the summit, I am exhausted, elated, and empowered. I take in the view of my conquest. As I stand tall on the apex of the mountain, I realize it is all downhill from here.

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O S P R E Y | M a k e n a M a t u l a ’ 24 | p h o t o g ra p h y

S N O W Y E G R E T | M a k e n a M a t u l a ’ 24 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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AFRAID Esha Joshi ’26

It starts with the hot muggy air shrinking down on your skin and dripping off in a trail of salt, and then the rough hem of your denim shorts against your sticky legs, and then the comforting weight of your backpack looped over your tired shoulders until you hit the corner of the road and the twinkling lights morph into something darker with music blaring out of time with your heartbeat but maybe you should have known with the speed of its drums that the adrenaline should have been coursing through your entire body but you didn’t and you were lucky this time; there is safety in numbers in bumping up against their swaying loose pants and sand-crusted slippers in flitting your eyes carefully around the crowded narrow sidewalk; there is safety in numbers but not in the blatant truth bleeding out in the color of your skin and the bags you carried and the way you looked around, not in the wordless confession that this is not your place, not your country, not your home, that you are young and alone and vulnerable and pushing through with a desperate, cracking veneer of confidence even with the unease rising up the back of your throat in burning bile, so you walk and you look around and you try to forget because what your body knows your mind doesn’t realize and what your heart knows your brain can’t fathom maybe it’s the sheltered part of you used to strolling along wide, well-lit streets at night with no one around and your phone blinking on and off in your pocket maybe it’s the part of you that doesn’t know how to be afraid when the only reason you’ve been given is the voices of other women echoing faintly at you until they combine and scream into your head but you are not afraid until the plastic cup of alcohol in his hands and the drunken laughter, you are not afraid until he leans closer with a sordid smile and his eyes trail the four of you clumping even closer together and then you are a little afraid as you gallop down the uneven sidewalk as quickly as you can go nervous laughter bursting out of your mouth until he tosses you a crude invitation that you could ignore if not for his dusty hands bracing on the edge of his chair and his face that is blurring like watercolor in your mind coming ever closer and the swift patter of your feet these shoes were not built for running but you never worried about that before you were never afraid until you reach the end of the street with all the storefronts dark and desolate and deserted and you are determined to walk back with your head held high and all of you moving tightly as one unit folding in to protect the others but the raucous laughter can’t blend with the soft hum of the wind and the leering gaze burns into your skin but you fight your way out of the thick stale air and the whis60 | TA B U L A R A S A

N O I R | J o s e p h i n e Tu ’ 25 | p h o t o g ra p h y

tles until you can breathe again, and you listen to “it’s not that bad” and “oh not a big deal” echoing from every direction until at the end all you have to show for it is the slowly subsiding banging of your heart but even that fades and maybe nothing ever happened in the end; but you do have something left and it burrows in your heart as deep as it can go, because finally now you know what it is to be afraid.

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THE MIDSUMMER SNOWSTORM Sophia Yao ’24

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The changing of the leaves with the cycle of the seasons has always been a marvel of nature that sparks intrigue and awe in my mind. The way tender green leaves brighten, wither and sprout with the natural clock of Mother Earth is fascinating, and also comforting in a way. It’s a gentle reminder of the flow of life: that there will always be a withering, an ending, a dying. That after every balmy summer there’s a gloomy autumn. That each soft, healthy petal on the flower will eventually darken, harden, and crack. And no matter how much you long to bask a moment longer in the lovely midsummer warmth, the shadows will begin to lengthen on the sidewalks and nature’s whispering clock will tick noiselessly and the winter cold will inch up your sleeves without warning. Then, there is nothing to do but wait out the blistering chill until the soft spring rains begin to fall.

My sister was a spring baby. She was born in April, during that time when the heavy showers begin to fade away and the sun glows bright and golden in the afternoons. I was four at the time, and thrilled to have a little sister. Finally, I would have someone to play dress up with, someone to act out my other dolls, and someone to take my side when mom was angry at me. This fantasy consumed my daily life.

I spent hours planning lists of activities to do once she came home: hair braiding, coloring, playing hide and seek, etc. Clearly, I had forgotten that babies couldn’t run or braid hair, but none of that mattered to me. At the ripe age of four, the arrival of my sister seemed like what I had been waiting for my whole life and nothing was going to ruin it.

On the first warm night of that year, my mom’s water broke. For me, the experience was a slow-motion blur of panic, ambulance wails and flashing red and blue lights while I stood frozen in the corner. At that age, all I understood was that something was definitely wrong; later, I would realize that my sister had come unexpectedly early. When my mom, dad, and grandma rushed to the hospital, I was left at home with my grandpa. Shock quickly gave way to worry, as I feared that something was wrong with my sister. Naively, I wondered if she disliked me and didn’t want to see me. Was that it? All night, I tossed and turned, anticipating the morning light.

The next day, my dad came home and told me that everything went well, and if I wanted, he could bring me to the hospital to see my sister. I was so overcome with relief and exuberance that I broke into tears on the spot. I painstakingly chose my finest stuffed animals and storybooks to present to my sister, who was named Annabelle. And when I saw her for the first time, a tiny twitching body swaddled in downey hospital blankets, I couldn’t help my eyes from glistening and my heart from thumping nervously. I held her for the first time, with the utmost care and adoration, as the fresh spring winds wafted in through the windows and the tulips

H I L LS I D E B LO O M | Ka r i n a A ro n s o n ’ 24 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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grinned brightly from clay pots on the bedside table. She blinked in confusion, turned her head this way and that, and burst into tears. She was perfect.

Annabelle comes home a few weeks later, and everything is suddenly brighter.

She is just a squishy, squirming little bundle of life with no worry, and the simplicity of the vivid life, and energy radiating off of her tiny swaddle of blankets pervades every room of the house. I spent every minute I could by her side, just watching her sleep or blink or cry. I couldn’t dress her up or play dolls with her just yet, but it didn’t matter to me. Even as the air warmed and the summer humidity began filtering through the windows, I didn’t even think of playing outside. Even as the charming sun beckoned and the neighborhood kids screamed in the sprinklers, I was planted firmly by Annabelle’s crib, watching her little eyelids flutter as she dreamed. My sister never cried at night; in fact, she was a strangely composed baby and my mom was constantly envied for it.

We never saw the signs.

A few months later, on a hot midsummer night, my mom went to check on Annabelle in the middle of the night. All was silent, per usual. Out of a pure whim, my mother bends over to hold Annabelle. As she does, her ear passes Annabelle’s chest, and it’s hollow and silent. So silent. In a rapid flurry, calls are made and the ambulance is booked and clothes are packed sloppily into dirty gym bags. My mom is sobbing and frantic while my dad is mechanically moving in stiff, controlled motions. And just like that spring evening a few months ago, I am frozen in place, watching the commotion with trepidation.

The seasons are supposed to move in a cyclical, consistent pattern. The circle of time is perpetual and dependable. Yet, in the middle of summer, it seemed like a blizzard of snow had rushed into my home, blanketing it with that humming, uncertain silence that lingers after a heavy snowstorm. This storm had truly shaken the shingles off the house and displaced each brick on the wall, leaving me feeling empty and vulnerable, confused and staggering. This was the first time I saw my dad, a man I’d previously thought invincible, with such visceral, panicked fear on his face. This was the first time I saw my mom cry, although it would be far from the last. This was the first time the house I considered home was completely noiseless, the first time I climbed into bed alone, the first time I realized no one had the answers to my questions. The rug had been pulled from underneath my feet, and the world had wobbled on its axis.

At the time, I never really knew what was happening. All I understood was that I would have to stay in daycare until sundown, and that my parents couldn’t show up to my piano concerts or ballet performances, that hospital pudding would become a regular meal, and that Annabelle was in danger. Real, real danger. The

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type of danger that made my mom shake with racking sobs every night, the type of danger that kept my dad at the hospital at all times, the type of danger that my grandparents would whisper on the phone about to their relatives in China.

In short, my sister was experiencing kidney failure. Due to genetic malfunctions, her kidneys were defective from birth and unable to filter waste from her body. Because we discovered this so late, the waste had been building up in her blood, slowing down nerve and brain functions, weakening her immune system and pushing her into Death’s gentle arms. As soon as she entered the hospital, we filed a kidney transplant request. Somehow, in a complete miracle, we received a kidney within a few days, matched through blood and tissue typing, and Annabelle was cleared to undergo her life-changing transplant surgery. This included three to four hours under general anesthesia, an incision on her lower abdomen, and a kidney connection to her bladder and blood vessels. The kidney began working almost automatically. And so, as the first leaves fell from the tree branches, my sister was wheeled out of the Operating Room.

The realization of the normalcy of death to a four-year-old girl is a brutal slap in the face, a painful derealization of what I thought I knew about life. Most importantly, it involved my sister. The person I had been waiting for my whole life, the vibrant, golden spring baby, full of effervescence and hope. It was impossible to picture her dead: her soft little body buried under crumbly soil and soggy copper leaves. She was just here, just a few months ago, in my arms, blinking her long eyelashes and squirming in her snuggly blankets and yet, when I finally visited her after her surgery, there she was, hooked up to tubes and IVs and drips and pumped full of medication and steroids and fluids, more machine than girl, smaller than I ever remembered, frail and delicate like wisps of dandelion, like she could float away at any second. It felt so cruel and wrong and brutal that I couldn’t even look at her through my tearful eyes. I truly believe that on that gray autumn afternoon, I felt what it was like to look Death right in the eyes.

A few months later, in school, I learned about the seasonal cycle: how leaves grow and flourish and wither and die, how the seasons bloom and shine and falter and freeze, how the cycle circles around and around and around. This reminded me of my sister’s surgery and of my newfound knowledge of human mortality.

Somehow, the idea of the changing of the seasons filled me with hope. It’s true that time does not stop or wait for humans. Leaves get sick and brown and crack, flowers wither and droop and crumble, trees moan and groan and collapse. During times like these, it may seem hopeless to even look forward to the future. It may seem fruitless to even imagine a gleaming summer day when the bitter frost bites at your skin. On those fateful days after Annabelle’s surgery, that’s exactly what it

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felt like: hopeless and dark like the sun would never appear again. And yet, right on schedule, by next spring, the flowers and leaves will be thriving and vibrant, swaying amongst the birds and the bees in nature’s grand symphony. And in the midst of all that noise, a little girl is dancing through a field of daisies, holding her giggling baby sister in her arms.

Annabelle had a successful surgery and is now a healthy, thriving, sassy twelve year old. She got the tubes removed, one by one, over the course of a decade. Her last tube, in her stomach, was removed this summer; this was a huge deal because it meant she could swim and go into the ocean without fear of contamination. She now lives a somewhat normal life, attending art classes and pool parties and basketball practices alongside her daily doses of immunosuppressant medicines and monthly clinic visits and weekly steroid shots. And I was never able to play dolls with her or hide and seek, but I can still braid her hair and pick petty fights over who gets to wear which shirt. Fortunately, my adoration and love for her do not prevent us from having frivolous sisterly arguments, which leave my mom exasperated.

But it’s still better to see her exasperated than to see her crying.

It’s still strange and terrifying to think about the surgery and the night she was rushed to the hospital, and somehow the memories have blurred as the years have passed. The fact that I am forgetting some of the most crucial moments of my childhood is proof that time is still churning ever forward. Time does not wait for us, and it never will. Fall will inevitably circle back around, and with it, the unforgiving winter. Kidney transplants are fickle and can expire without warning.

Her immune system can reject the kidney at any time and it would just immediately stop working. We never really know what to expect. But we take it day by day, knowing that the promise of a warm spring breeze is just around the corner.

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F O R E S T F LO O R | Ka r i n a A ro n s o n ’ 24 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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D U S K O V E R N AT E WA B AY | M a k e n a M a t u l a ’ 24 | p h o t o g ra p h y

T I D E G O I N G O U T | M a k e n a M a t u l a ’ 24 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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WHAT I FEEL AS I SIT ATOP A CLOUD Michael Shtrom ’25

As I sit atop a cloud, I feel a river of indescribable emotions Washing over me Most prominent among them Unease I have awoken from every dream before Why shouldn’t I now?

It seems impossible that The embrace of the sun and The strength of the mist Can hold me for too long I feel the nervous thoughts Brewing in me Wondering when it will all fail When will the millions of pounds of Water in the heaven Around me Fall to the earth and kill me I sit here and I wonder When will the water wash away the

warmth?

When will it rain into the river And carry me away?

I wish I could sit and enjoy The paradise The endless swathes of Vibrant colors That form the abyss above me Eternal paranoia Is a greater hell than any Of which I can conceive I know I mustn’t Succumb to it I know I mustn’t Submit to it

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I’LL RUN Mia Gustavson ’25

C Dm Dried fruit, dried pens F C Colorless marks on the page C Dm Poetry in the moment Bb F Restless with age Dm C Couldn’t find it in me G F I swear I tried Dm C Didn’t climb the mountain G F Tried to find another side C Can’t escape myself but Dm I’ll run anyway F I’ll run anyway C I’ll run anyway Dm Till my dying day C You know that I’ll run anyway G I’ll run anyway F I’ll run C Dm Crispy petals smash to powder under my shoes Bb C Wilted in the sun C Dm

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Cloud cartoons instead of daily news Bb W F Gently coming undone Dm C Couldn’t find it in me G F I swear I tried Dm C Didn’t climb the mountain G F But I found another side C Dm Fight or flight controls me F C No time for shoes but I’m outside C Dm Shed my costume in the woods Bb F So I can properly hide C Can’t escape myself but Dm I’ll run anyway F I’ll run anyway C I’ll run anyway Dm Till my dying day C You know that I’ll run anyway G I’ll run anyway F I’ll run

N OT E S F R O M

THE AUTHOR These lyrics embody the hopeless feeling of knowing myself yet not being able to control my instincts. It is about fight, flight, and freeze, and how, once it kicks in, there is nothing I can do to stop it. Since I was little, I have run away, figuratively and literally, to escape anxious situations. Sometimes it feels like I’m trying to break free of my own mind. Though the lyrics, especially in the verses, are somewhat cryptic, they tell the story of my thought process after I leave a situation that had made me panic. I feel restless as I focus on little details, distract myself, and hide, all the while feeling guilty and cursing myself for losing the battle yet again. The chorus is repetitive because anxiety feels repetitive, endlessly chasing me in circles, winning time and time again.

Mia Gustavson ’25

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WAT E R | S k y l a r C h u i ’ 23 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

RAIN Violet Negrette ’25

My eyes fall heavy with exhaustion And sleep pulls gently from above I feel closer now to that feeling of peace The tapping at my windowsill Continues through the delicate night A gentle patter on the rooftop Brings me back to earth I settle back into reality And listen to the gentle hum Of drops falling down from high above That let my mind settle

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MINE Esha Joshi ’26

my body is not made of soft sticky clay to be stretched and shaped and smoothed until it dries in the shape you crave for it to be remade in the image of perfection and my skin is not a canvas to be painted over with fine-tipped brushes until each minute detail bends to what you want it to be and my mind is not a dull precious stone to be chiseled and broken and cut until it’s sparkling diamond finally worth something to you and my heart is not a slate you can cover with dusty chalk writing over the fingernail scratches of memories that refuse to be forgotten and beliefs of gritty deformed cement that formed too quickly in the panic to keep any part of me as my own to protect against the crumble of weathering and of scalding pressure shoving d o w n on the unique texture and changing terrain of my identity to achieve some kind of permanent conformity that I will never be able to contort myself to fit, not even if you keep unraveling the fabric of reality and weaving together an unrecognizable tapestry, not even if you claim none of this was ever mine.

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WONDERLAND Rye Kianpour ’23

When the pain becomes too great, The breaking of the shore will call For the turbulent fall into mist The dewy ground hides a cliff, Just like Calypso’s mountainous guard— The sheer drop won’t be enough to shock morrow, Yellow yelping yarrow—you won’t stop hearing them, Not in the deep dim dirt, down with tears and tea Madness meanders in the meowing magnolias, all sly stripes and silver strikes Watching the wilting love of life. Silly and senseless, Salacious and serious, slippery and sorrowful The very behind, the very upwards is theirs The yarrow is yours, the morrow is ours, The sorrow is the sea’s, sold and sour so soon Wait with wandering wonders—always here and always there Always yours and never fair, ever lost and seldom languid.

Do be late.

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LU C I F E R , M O R N I N G S U N | A e ro n L o ’ 23 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

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NO FLOWER IS SAFE Rachel Aronson ’27

Tap, Tap, Tap, Grass and mud roll off heavily in fat drops, pooling under the slippery green garden boots the old lady left sitting on the porch.

Tap, Tap, Tap, Grandchildren with their snot-covered faces and yellow sticker smiles smush their doughy hands against crystal-fogged window panes, careful to not yank on the drapes.

Eight eyes track the mean, gray old cat, stalking in the backyard.

Tap, Tap, Tap, Green little buds wrap themselves tightly in their soft cream-colored blankets, fearful of the peppering rains.

Tap, Tap, Tap, Grandma’s sour cat pads slowly past fresh dirt and smooth pebbles and sponge moss and rose bushes and lavender twirls.

He stops and stares at the young flowers, dew drops plink-plunking off pearly petals, and opens his maw, wide and red and hollow, and engulfs the ivory blossoms whole.

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L A K E | J a m e s C h a n g ’ 25 | w a t e rc o l o r

GRIEF R a c h e l Fa r h o u d i ’ 2 3

Shattered, my glass did not make a sound.

Well, I did not bear witness, so who can be sure?

The cause and effect do not reflect what I have come to know.

Nevertheless, glass wreaths my feet.

Reflective shards, like a disco ball.

Though this doesn’t feel like a juvenile dance party.

I sink and telltale bubbles float to the surface.

I am paper thin, paper pale.

I collect within elbow deep crevices.

Split seconds bring change.

Blink back the tears and fall back to grieve.

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WELCOME TO THE (KELP) JUNGLE Makena Matula ’24

Each step I took was like moving a semi truck as I waddled slowly and awkwardly down to shore. I guess there’s no graceful way to move when you have a massive 35-pound metal cylinder that feels like a silo strapped to your back, 25 extra pounds of weights in the pockets of your BCD, 8 millimeters of thick, dense neoprene hugging every inch of your body, and gloves so thick that you can barely bend your now sausage-like fingers. With each step I had to balance myself so as to not be pulled backwards by the comically large and heavy air tank on my back.

The last thing I wanted was to embarrass myself on my first open water dive of my SCUBA certification. No way was I going to succumb to the weight of the fat demon on my back and tip over and fall stiffly backwards in front of everyone, like a tree cut down coming rigidly crashing to the ground.

As I slowly and painfully shuffled down, last minute thoughts rushed through my mind like race cars on a track. Is my air on? Does my BCD have any holes in it?

Wait, did I remember to check the manual BCD inflation? Let’s hope I did. I can’t believe dive instructors have the audacity to tell us that Scuba Diving is one of the safest water sports right and then a few minutes later explain how if you ascend too quickly, nitrogen bubbles will build up in your tissue and then you will be in excruciating pain, get severely ill, and then die, or, if you don’t exhale while ascending, the air in your lungs could expand and your lungs could burst.

But that doesn’t happen often... right?

I stood at the edge of the water, small waves grabbing at my feet, urging me to continue on. I had no choice, my dive buddy was already waist deep. So, in a wave of confidence, I inflated my BCD and continued on in. Once I was in deep enough, I sat back and let the water hold up the weight of my being. Suddenly, the millions of pounds on me felt like nothing.

“Ahhh…. sweet relief,” I sighed as I put on my fins and mask. I thought to myself, “I don’t know what everyone was talking about. The water’s not that cold.”

Well… I spoke too soon. The frigid oceanic liquid started to seep into my boots and gloves and it dripped slowly and painfully down my neck and down my chest.

It was like the prank your friends would pull on you when you were young: sticking an ice cube down the back of your shirt, and laughing as you squirmed and writhed in pain. My muscles tensed up as the ice-water slowly filled my wetsuit,

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and I cringed at the uncomfortable sensation.

My group started swimming out, and reluctantly, I followed, trying to not allow my facial muscles to contort in pain and attempting to maintain a stoic complexion so as to not clue the others in on my weakness to the cold. Saying we were swimming is definitely an over-glorification of what we were doing. It was more like floating on our backs kicking like beetles who can’t right themselves, since it was next to impossible to swim gracefully with all the thick gear on and various tubes protruding from places. I started to notice, to my content, that the biting cold water in my wetsuit had started to soften and warm up. Thank God. I guess wetsuits work after all. I would have appreciated that earlier though.

“All right, time to descend. I’ll see y’all down there,” my dive instructor said as she gave the sign to descend: a thumbs down.

I popped my regulator, my life support, the blessed thing keeping me from horrible death by drowning, into my mouth and took a deep breath of artificial air, sounding like Darth Vader as I did so.

Releasing the air in my BDC, I sank down, the water line rising first over my mouth, then my nose, then my eyebrows, until finally my full head was under water. The icy waters washed over my bare cheeks and kissed my lips, and the cold shock that I first felt when entering the frigid water reappeared.

Halfway down, I noticed that others were descending faster than me. Huh. I exhaled deeper and let more air out, but I wasn’t sinking any further. I kicked trying to swim down, yet some opposite force of gravity wasn’t allowing me to reach the floor. All this gear and I’m still not heavy enough??? The dive master noticed me struggling in the middle of the water column and looked at me confused. She signaled at me again to descend. No crap, lady. What does it look like I’m trying to do? With various waving of arms and pointing, I try to signal to her that I literally cannot descend. She swims up to me and yanks me down, and I grab and hold onto the rope laid down on the ground for dear life as my body tries to float up.

“God, this is so embarrassing,” I thought to myself.

The dive master then went down the line testing each of our skills. Then she got to me. She asked me to demonstrate that I can take off my mask, put it back on, and clear it of water. Now I had to let go of the line, the only thing keeping me from shooting to the surface. Oh God. This isn’t going to go well. I released my grip from the rope and started the skill. Immediately I felt my body rising and I could no longer feel the floor. The invisible force was once again pulling me up to the surface. I felt the dive master grab onto my leg to keep me down. It was like a tug of war—I was being pulled up and down simultaneously, all without my mask on, unable to see, the sharp, cold, salty water trying to seep into my eyes, flailing my arms, panicking, unable to tell where I was, what was up or down, and terrified. I SWA R M | M a k e n a M a t u l a ’ 24 | p h o t o g ra p h y

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felt the grip from below slip, and before I knew it, I felt air again. I was at the surface.

I was panicking as I bobbed at the surface while being thrown back and forth by the waves. My stomach started to feel unsettled. Oh no. Now is a good time to mention one fact about me: I get sea sick very easily. That unsettling feeling grew into nausea and spread throughout my whole body. Suddenly, the dive instructor appeared at the surface and asked me what happened. I told her that I didn’t have enough weight and couldn’t sink, and she gave me some extra weights that she had on her. The sickness grew.

We descended again together. Thankfully the descent went a lot smoother, and I actually had enough weight to stay down, yet now I had another problem: I felt incredibly ill, and the strong current underwater pushing me side to side just made it worse.

I don’t know how I managed to complete the skills. My stomach was churning and writhing inside of me and I felt dizzy and so incredibly ill and my internal fluids were being violently sloshed back and forth and my vision was fuzzy and started to be obscured by black splotches that were appearing in it and I couldn’t tell up from down, nor did I care and all I wanted, all that my brain could elicit from the congestion of nausea and sludge of the motion-sickness was one phrase: “Please let this end.” The sickness blurred the passage of time, but some time later we trudged out of the waves and onto dry sand, the tremendous weight of the equipment falling back onto my shoulders, crushing me under its weight.

I came clamoring dizzily back to my dad as fast as I could with the millions of pounds attached to me feeling nauseated and deathly ill. My extremities were cold and my body didn’t feel like mine and I couldn’t think straight.

“How was it?” my dad inquired.

I quivered and forced words out.

“I I ca- I don-” I fell down onto the bench.

“I’m so sick… gonna pass out…can’t continue … I can’t do any more dives.”

“Here, why don’t you eat something and drink some water and then if you still feel sick we can go home,” I remember him telling me.

All of his words sounded like mush to my nauseous brain. He gave me a granola bar and a water bottle. My trembling hand brought the bar to my mouth. My eyes saw the bar, and my brain said, “No way.” I gagged at the thought of something entering my stomach. “No more. Please. No more,” my body said. Please. I can’t. I feel so sick. My stomach churned. My legs shook. PleaseA hand rested on my shoulder.

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it.”

“I know you don’t want to eat, but at least take a few nibbles. Your body needs

I forced myself to take a few weak and small bites, each one so incredibly painful, and a few small sips of water. I sat in silence and sickness as the crashing waves sounded faintly and mutedly in the background. The thick cloud of nausea started to thin out slightly. As the illness dissipated slowly, I could finally feel my body again. I regained some consciousness and my thoughts became more intelligible.

My eyesight re-calibrated. I began to notice the water droplets falling from strands of my hair, the gravelly sand under my feet, and the sound of the crashing waves became more clear.

“Ok, everyone, we’re going to head back out,” the dive instructor called out.

“Do you want to go home?” my dad asked concernedly.

“No. I’ll do it. I’ll continue.” I muttered determinedly.

Was I crazy? I mean, I almost passed out a few minutes ago and I was just feeling the sickest I had ever felt before. And now I was saying that I would strap a massive metal cylinder back on my back, go back out there in the dangerously cold water, put myself in a situation where I could drown or get decompression sickness and die. Maybe I was, but I didn’t spend hours reading, learning, doing training, and drive all the way out here just to quit and not get certified.

“Are you sure Makena? It’s ok if-” I was up and gone. Time for round two: exploring the kelp forest.

Now how does one begin to describe heaven? The one in the divine waters below, the one that I entered as I deflated my BCD and sank slowly down, lower and lower with each exhale. Towering kelp, gentle giants, slowly and delicately swaying back and forth as the currents lead them in the ritualistic dance of the ocean. Their fronds waved at me, greeting me, as if saying, “Hello beautiful soul. I see you have come to our home to seek shelter, to heal from the above world that has torn you.

All are welcomed into the forest with open arms.”

I felt the comforting hug of the waters, its chill making me feel alive as ever.

The thick coolness slowed my nervous system and calmed my breathing, any memory from the world above fading away in the mist and fog of cool water. Clouds of fish roamed about, changing direction at a whim and going wherever they pleased.

There’s a comforting slowness to the kelp forest. There’s no rush or demand or deadline, no scramble, no expectations of the world above. A serene quiet permeates the underwater jungle, the only sounds being the bubbles we were blowing and the occasional quiet snap or tap from some organism—maybe a crab pinching its claws or a fish pecking at something or a clam snapping shut. The sun pierced through the surface and reached its rays down into the water in an attempt to feel

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the sandy floor for itself.

In the shade and safety of the kelp, I began to explore this world that I had not previously known. Weaving between the towers of kelp, I notice the inhabitants of this community: the thin arms of Brittle Stars protruding from the gaps in the rocks, the crabs scurrying along the floor and climbing up the stocks of kelp. The little fishies taking shelter in the kelp fronds, the anemones holding fast to their rocks, the Sea Stars slowly meandering along the ground in search of food, Bryozoans and Sponges encrusting almost every available surface. I was filled with the most innocent, pure, and magical wonder and joy seeing this entire world that I hadn’t known existed.

As time passed and our air ran low, our dive master signaled to us that it was time to ascend. Sad that my time here had come to an end for now, I scanned the beautiful surroundings one last time and ascended, watching the forest below disappear slowly.

“Until we meet again.”

As humans, we tend to navigate the Earth like we own the place, taking whatever we need. Yet, in the kelp forest, there was this overwhelming feeling of being a visitor in someone else’s home and of needing to treat it with the utmost respect and care. This experience was one that made me decide to dedicate my life to the ocean, to understanding and protecting it. I also realized my dedication, courage, tenacity, and willpower in those moments. I was feeling so horrendous, so sick, so discouraged and awful. I was on the verge of giving up, yet I didn’t. Despite everything that was happening, everything I was feeling, I decided to continue because I was so determined to get certified, so determined to prove myself, so determined to say that I didn’t quit. I’m so glad I didn’t give up, because if I did, I wouldn’t have had the life-changing experience that I had.

Often, as I’m sitting in class, listening to the clock’s hands tick, my thoughts begin to wander and I dream of the kelp forest. I long for the embrace of her waters. I think of all the little creatures. I wonder what they’re doing right now? And every so often, when I get the chance, I am reunited with her, and I get to experience the pure joy all over again.

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T I M E I S M E LT I N G A W AY. . .

Kathleen Xie ’25

It’s too late.

The silver border of the clock has faded into a weathered gray Dripping over a branch disheveled Letting the weight of gravity and truth drag its round edges Down.

Nothing can bring it back.

It melts in the midst of vivid yellow hues A wash of calmness that never was.

Her tight grasp on the faded border is losing grip Her fingers have reluctantly unfolded Her heart in a thousand pieces.

The clock was once aligned with her But like all good things, It is coming to its end, Dripping and melting from solid to liquid From stable to slippery The ticks have gone by It will never come back.

And she’s left staring at a lonely cedar-colored branch, Eyes brimming with aches of regret.

The wasted minutes cascade down her face As she mourns the loss of time The risks she never took The words she never said The arguments she’d left unamended.

Even through her drenched state She knows all too well that It’s Too Late.

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S E C R E T GA R D E N | E m m a H w a n g ’ 24 | g o u a c h e o n w a t e rc o l o r p a p e r

SW E AT | S k y l a r C h u i ’ 23 | a c r y l i c o n c a n v a s

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T U L I P F I E L D | E m m a H w a n g ’ 24 | g o u a c h e o n w a t e rc o l o r p a p e r

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SPRINGTIME Sophia Cheng ’24

It’s funny because I don’t write poetry and I’m not a poet and yet here I am, sitting on a bench and watching the birds sing and hearing the clovers rustle contentedly.

Picture this: I am listening to a sad song that sounds like springtime. I’m allergic to pollen but right now it looks like golden flecks of rain twinkling in the sunlight.

It’s funny, really, because there’s nothing profound left to say about springtime and new beginnings but the poets keep trying like dandelions grasping stubbornly, hopefully, into the sun.

Maybe I am a poet, and maybe pollen isn’t so bad.

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AT O P T H E I S L A N D Ka r i n a A ro n s o n ’ 24 pottery

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N OT E S F R O M

THE ARTIST Inspired by a bowl from The Metropolitan Museum of Art gift shop, I threw this bowl that features a little island with a house on a pottery wheel. When soup is placed in the bowl, the house atop the hill in the middle will become a small island. I made this for my friend who is a soup enthusiast.

After multiple failed attempts at this form, I was able to shape the hill in the middle of the bowl. Once the clay dried, I trimmed the bowl, removing excess clay. Before placing the bowl in the kiln for its first firing, I sculpted a small house and attached it to the hill in the middle. Once pottery has gone through a kiln for the first time, the clay shrinks slightly, losing its malleability. After firing, I dipped the bowl in a dark blue glaze.

Although I ended up giving this bowl away, creating it forced me to focus my technical throwing skills like how much pressure I applied to the walls of the bowl when shaping it or the steadiness of my hands as I “pulled” the walls, moving clay from the base towards the top of the bowl to create the height.

Karina Aronson ’24

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TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN R a c h e l Fa r h o u d i ’ 2 3

She wakes up to the feeling of soft gray sheets rubbing against her leg.

She breathes in slowly, the kind of breath that pushes against the frame and spirals down.

Grasping the bedding with her fingers, she hoists herself up into consciousness.

Her feet find the bedroom floor and her toes sink into the carpet.

It is like testing a cake to see if it’s ready, just the application of slight pressure.

Finally she commits to the day and stretches out.

She peels away the blinds and sunlight streams in.

Warmth and light fill the room, illuminating a perfect life.

She opens her drawers to an array of neatly folded shirts.

She reaches her hand in to create an acceptable ensemble for the day.

She samples colors and styles like she’s strategizing to create the strongest team.

She has options, so she picks the best.

The mirror reflects her handy work: hair combed back, a warm jacket for the windy day, a minty fresh smile.

A picturesque Silicon Valley girl, too privileged to understand any different reality.

Now the spotlight shifts, a hole is punctured in the bubble.

We travel outside, circling around skyscrapers, whirring down highways.

Our new subject contrasts that girl, he represents a darker underbelly.

He woke up in a throbbing pain.

An uneven ground had scratched up his sides, leaving behind wounds that will soon crust over.

The tell tale sign of life is absent despite his open eyes.

Two empty craters have taken their place, windows into a broken soul.

His stomach churns around itself, a body devoid of nourishment.

The moribund figure lays lifeless against the walls of a tent.

His breath is shallow.

He sucks in just enough air to avoid a slippery wheeze and an attack of coughs.

Dozens of camps line the road like colorful boxes.

People stalk along the curb, begging for an inch of compassion from some passerby.

A haze covers the crowd.

Groups rush by, averting their eyes to avoid choking on the fog of harsh truth.

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C LO U DY B AY | J a m e s C h a n g ’ 25 | w a t e rc o l o r

Unfair thoughts spin into a web: “Better them than me.” and “They probably deserved it.”

The truth remains tucked away, squished under an unwillingness to care.

The man on display was cheated by society.

The chemical wiring in his brain has frayed and sparked out.

He has changed yet remained the same, a cause and consequence scenario.

His mind was never the perceived normal, so he turns to quick fixes that bring extreme highs and unbearable lows.

This village of tents is a disguise.

Camouflaged is a breeding ground for mental illness.

Society rejected this tribe and they are forced to look inward, yet the mind provides no solace.

Within demons haunt.

Cracked, calloused hands try to push the thoughts out.

Performative mania to spectators outside.

He lives in agony. He knows nothing of peace of mind.

He shuts his eyes again, hoping for death this time.

Nobody cares, nobody ever has.

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THE NATURE ARCHIVES a c o m p i lati o n o f natu re p h o to g ra p hy f ro m o u r c o ntri b u to r s

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LO O K U P | E m m a H w a n g ’ 24

IN THE FOREST Ka r i n a A ro n s o n ’ 24

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I V Y WA L L | E m m a H w a n g ’ 24

L I T T L E J E W E L | M a k e n a M a t u l a ’ 25

C U R I O U S I T Y | D a v i n Te r n u s ’ 28

R E D W O O D R I N G | E m m a H w a n g ’ 24

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T H E B E E S P T . 3 | E m m a H w a n g ’ 24

DAY T I M E M O O N | Ka r i n a A ro n s o n ’ 24

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S TA R S T R U C K E m m a H w a n g ’ 24

H O N E Y B E E | E m m a H w a n g ’ 24

RESURRECTION R o s e X u ’ 25

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PA L M T R E E | E m m a H w a n g ’ 24

LO O K I N G A H E A D D a v i n Te r n u s ’ 28

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C O M P COMP E T I T ETIT II O N S ONS Each year, Tabula Rasa challenges the Pinewood community to a couple of competitions that allow students to explore their talents. This year, in addition to our typical two writing prompts, we included a prompt for art and photography submissions.

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1

Write a haibun.

Japanese poet Matsui Bashō was famous for writing The Narrow Road of the Interior—a poetry collection about his travel journeys that heavily popularized the “haibun.” The haibun is a form of poetry that combines a prose poem and a haiku, and the haiku normally connects to the prose poem in a way that illuminates the meaning of the work as a whole—either by complementing or starkly juxtaposing the prose poem. Write a haibun inspired by what you saw while on a journey from one place to another.

2

Write a one-sentence story of at least 150 words.

Time and time again, writers have broken conventional literary bounds regarding sentence length. Gabriel García Márquez’s “The Last Voyage of the Ghost Ship,” for example, is a one-sentence short story written in a stream-of-consciousness style that is more than 2,000 words. Write a one-sentence story of at least 150 words on any topic of your choosing.

3 3

Create a triptych.

A triptych is a piece of artwork made up of three or more panels that often tells a narrative, creates a sequence, or shows different perspectives/elements of one subject matter. If you’re an artist, draw a triptych of a subject/object/thing of your choosing. If you’re a photographer, photograph three separate photos of any subject/object/thing that, when placed alongside each other, form a triptych.

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HAIBUN

COMPETITION 1st PLACE A Tra i n R i d e O ve r Th e C o u ntr y | R ish i Ch e n ’ 2 7

As the train accelerates and the hours turn to seconds the world is transported with me. From the breakneck asylum that I cherish and love to the carefully-planned secret that laid above. In the sound asleep hollow a tree blooms, a rare commemoration of the time that once was. Leaning against the plush blue, prying eyes spy only the purest, muddiest of lives. But the foreign eyed stranger lying in the empty plain soon makes my acquaintance and tells me of an era that fought to survive against the people that sustained it. Of livelihoods spent alone yet together in spirit, unbroken and undeveloped. Of green. Of blurs. Of a world untouched by the sword-ridden skylines, portable and affordable. Where only the patient survive to understand the glory underneath the tilled soil, as neat as the corrugated-metal that lays beneath our home. I can see the feelings obscured by dirt and the sound of bees, the chemical byproducts dozing off behind the nonexistent weeds, the radio silence and the plastic, chipped souls. In the sky that chose to float rather than hang, clouds pull back their effervescent advance. I’m breathing now, adding weight to the anvil hanging precariously over the edge. But the stranger soon leaves, and the gray friend returns. The track returns to the wheels and the words return to my mouth. But I almost forget to look down to see the green in my shoes.

And it never leaves A faithful aide at my feet The city will weep As the stars retreat Into the abyss at last The final compass But the world is large Large enough for the city And green memories

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RUNNER-UP Th e Jo u rn e y Fro m He r to Me | Prisha Mo ha p atra ’ 25

Her smile, a cloudy glass stained in the color red. She often looked within, unsure of the phony facade she projected. She was not me. Everyone could see her truths except her. Her elegant petals soon blossomed and her silent gaze reflected off the sun and back into her own dark brown eyes. She woke up from the trance that held her back. She embarked on the trek to find herself. Gasping for air in the ocean full of tribulations. She was unable to keep up. She is not me. my smile, it lies not although hiding what’s inside, shows the journey’s plot

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ONE-SENTENCE STORY

COMPETITION 1st PLACE B e au ti f u l | A n na b e l l e E ato n ’ 25

Make me beautiful, make me beautiful, she said softly to the fairy godmother on the dark Sony television, pixelated discs of blue, gray, pink swirling across the screen and a pumpkin carriage rolls into focus across the pixels that seem to swallow the wide world that now seems so small in comparison to the big, bright characters on the screen—so much more real—vibrant vivid lives lived taxing my eyes against the screen, and they are so much much better because Cinderella can have a carriage and a prince and a ball, fantasy gold speckled across the walls, she is so so so much better and look at her beauty such golden flaxseed hair cultivated across the the painting of pixels that glints on her eyes and she is so enamored with it beyond anything she’s seen and those sunny day eyes—so blue like the ocean is calm after a long storm and the ship is finally safe, no harm done, until the water is flat and the sun makes rainbows across the froth of the ocean—my eyes are blue too, but mine are not so kind—like the ugly stepsisters, and I can’t really sing either, not as if my voice were the air and my heart had wings that could lift me to fairyland, but I will try, and I will croak and choke on the chords and the chorus that does not make a melody, make me beautiful, make me beautiful, if not in art, then in sound, because I can’t really see myself in a perfect princess picture that pulls my hair into a bubbling bouquet of curls and string and swishes, tantalizing seduction on her lips that are dripping with the candy, the sweet sugar of the soul, the rush of their sour tingling lemon drop sound smoking the air, smacking her lips together, and the song rings out, she appears, riding on the crimson of the ocean, she wears a fierce grey battle ballgown and is swept away by the magical night—that is until the clock strikes midnight—she is now wearing a different kind of dress, but not like mine painted with fake glitter and crowned as a clown—she looks as if she is in rags, but she is draped with the soft cellar door sheets of a ghost, and she is more beautiful than pixels on an elevated screen, she is as the woodland animals flock to her side —more graceful and much more graceful than me, so if she is so much more good, so much kinder, so much better, but no more than pixels dancing in convoluted turns across HDMI-3, then what am I, am I just nothing at all?

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RUNNER-UP Ho m e | Ma r l e y T h o rns o n ’ 25

Dust fairies floated through the heavy air, glowing golden in the midday light, sending a message of magic, to remind us of a time long gone, a time of opening these rusting windows, of breathing in the scent of magic, so i gently push the worn flaps open once again, getting used to a motion of something so familiar to me, now i listen to its excited shrieks pitched loud and high with joy, as if it’s letting the world know that it’s still valiantly creaking, with the the rush of cold wind coming through the window, i reminisce of the many times these gates open and shut, revealing a drop of magic so heavy and slow, dripping like warm honey, the sweetness is an addiction, it’s an emotion i crave so desperately to escape a world where every time i blink it shifts away, but on this day of mourning i can bask in old magic letting my bones relax, my skin sag, my eyelids flutter shut, the relief i feel to sit in quiet overwhelms me to tears and they drip down my rosy cheeks leaving tracks for everyone to see, so i lick the saltiness and savor the taste, it feels like release, a cleanse of the world outside this burrow, and the tears leave me feeling so light that i know i could walk on pink and purple clouds at dreamy dusk, floating away in happiness because this forgotten place is a magical home where i can feel the fairies kissing my forehead, tickling my skin, holding me in their warmth, i finally feel loved.

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T R I P T YC H

COMPETITION 1st PLACE L i g ht Bu l b s | Em ma Hwa n g ’ 24

NOTES FROM THE ARTIST If everyone lived in a lightbulb, then each person’s lightbulb would be unique. Perhaps one would keep their light on, and others off; some may like water landscapes, but others snowy mountains. Regardless, we are all connected, and someone else’s light will always be penetrating our own lives. I drew this digitally on Procreate and experimented with warm and cool color contrast and various brush textures.

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RUNNER-UP L i fe as a F ish | Ni k i Ta ra dash ’ 2 3

NOTES FROM THE ARTIST My triptych is about the life of a fish. I was inspired by a past experience in Japan where I went to Tsukiji Market in Tokyo. The first image is an orange fish in an ocean; I used Photoshop and digitally collaged different paintings to create the shape of the fish. The second image is a fish market where orange salmon are displayed for sale.

The piece is a paper collage put into Photoshop for some touchups and the background. The last piece is abstract line art of sushi and is the last part of the fish’s timeline. I created this piece in Procreate and played with many different color combinations. In the end, I went with keeping the lines orange to keep the fish color cohesive.

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CONTRIBUTOR BIOS Karina Aronson ’24 Karina Aronson, a junior, is thrilled to be featured in Tabula Rasa. When she’s not throwing pottery or dragging her friends on hikes to take nature photos, you can find her reading, eating dim sum and pho with friends, or baking a frankly concerning amount of pies.

Rachel Aronson ’27 Rachel Aronson, an eighth grader, is an artist and creative writer. When Rachel’s not draw ing, you can find her playing soccer, watching Studio Ghibli movies (her favorite is The Se cret World of Arriety), and reading Webtoons.

James Chang ’25 James is a sophomore. He enjoys drawing stuf f. :) Vincent Chen ’23 Vincent Chen, a senior, is ecstatic to have his works featured in this issue of Tabula Rasa.

Instead of writing this biography, he’d rather be composing music, gardening, watching One Piece, or just finding new ways to procrastinate in general.

Rishi Chen ’27 Rishi Chen is an eighth grader who loves writing poetry as a hobby. He is proud to make it into the magazine and is excited to see the finished product. He also enjoys music and climbing.

Sophia Cheng ’24 Sophia Cheng, a junior, is thrilled to have her work published in Tabula Rasa for the third time. When she’s not writing journalism or personal essays, you can find her reading nonfiction, taking exorbitantly long walks, or listening to music.

Skylar Chui ’23 Skylar Chui is a senior artist who is thrilled to have her art featured in Tabula Rasa for the third (probably? She has a bad memory) time. In her free time, one can find Skylar playing basketball, doodling in her notes, or scrolling through Pinterest.

Rober t Cui ’23 Robert is a senior writer who is over the moon about being featured in Tabula Rasa for the first time. During the day, Robert likes to gaze at nature and ponder about human existence.

At night, he dons a cape of darkenss and a mask of vengeance and and fights crime (spiders) in Gotham’s (his suburban abode’s) shadows.

Annabelle Eaton ’25 Annabelle Eaton is a sophomore who loves to combine her love of storytelling, language, and art in her writing. When she is not at school, she loves to play volleyball and hang out with friends.

Mia Gustavson ’25 Sophomore Mia Gustavson loves theater, songwriting on her ukulele with her cats and rabbit, reading, and baking. She hopes you enjoy her lyrics!

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Rye Kianpour ’23 Rye Kianpour is a senior at Pinewood who is a poet. In their free time, they enjoy theater, reading, and painting. They hope you enjoy their work.

Jakob Kleiman ’24 Jakob, a junior, is Jewish and loves sandwiches. He plays football and likes science.

Aeron Lo ’23 Aeron Lo, a senior and artist, is excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa one last time. She likes doodling, daydreaming, and making bad choices.

Ellis Matula ’27 Ellis is an eighth grader who was born at a very young age and aspires to be a grown up when he is older.

Prisha Mohapatra ’25 Prisha Mohapatra, a sophomore, has always used writing as an outlet. She is so excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa for the third year in a row! Whether it’s songs, poems, The Perennial articles, or short stories, she finds that writing is her way to relax. She hopes you enjoy her work in this year’s Tabula Rasa!

Lara Parikh ’26 Lara Parikh is a freshman who recently started submitting poetry and artwork for Tabula Rasa. Lara also enjoys playing tennis, reading, experimenting with dif ferent cuisines, and writing for The Perennial. She is thrilled to have her work published in Tabula Rasa for the first time!

Raghav Ramgopal ’24 Raghav Ramgopal is a junior who enjoys politics and music. Raghav sings in his free time, but does not have a favorite song—it changes based on his mood. On Upper Campus you can find Raghav serving on the Students for Sustainable Change Leadership Team, serving as the News Co-Editor for The Perennial, and being part of the Pinewood Model U.N. Club.

Bridget Rees ’24 Bridget is a junior who likes to draw cute and creepy things. When she’s not playing RPGs or rhythm games, she’s probably coding precious (and adorable!) robots, singing much too loudly, or walking around clumsily in absurd platform boots to appear a normal height.

Michael Shtrom ’25 Michael is a sophomore who is incredibly honored to have his work featured in the Tabula Rasa. In his free time, Michael enjoys music, writing, and graphic design.

Christina Tanase ’25 Christina is a sophomore at Pinewood who loves to turn her passion for writing into poetry.

When she is not writing for Tabula Rasa, she enjoys writing for The Perennial, playing basketball, and spending time with friends and family. Christina is so excited to have her work published for a second time in Tabula Rasa! (contributor bios continued on the next page)

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Niki Taradash ’23 Niki, a senior and artist, is excited to have her art featured in Tabula Rasa. She is often found in the art studio working with various art mediums, such as charcoal and acrylic paint.

With a passion for art, Niki will continue working on branching out her skills through graphic design.

Colin Ternus ’24 Colin, a junior, is passionate about photography, music, and 3D art. He enjoys auto racing, building things, and guitar in his free time. He’s thrilled to have his work published in Tabula Rasa.

Davin Ternus ’28 Davin is a seventh grader that is both surprised and ecstatic about having their work featured in Tabula Rasa.

Marley Thornson ’25 Marley Thornson is a sophomore who loves expressing her thoughts in poetry form. She is very happy to be able to have her work featured in Tabula Rasa. Outside of writing, Marley enjoys playing tennis, listening to music, and spacing out.

Rose Xu ’25 Rose is a sophomore who started photography this school year. After joining Pinewood’s journalism team as a photographer, she became interested in taking photos during her free time and discovering new techniques to further improve her abilities.

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STAFF BIOS Editor -in-Chief, Samantha Hsiung ’23 Sam Hsiung is a senior, and she is happy that her work will be featured in Tabula Rasa one last time. In her free time, she enjoys writing, reading, fencing, playing the piano, and sleeping. She hopes you enjoy this year’s magazine, which she almost pulled an all-nighter to finish.

Ar t Director, Emma Hwang ’24 Emma, a junior and new Tabula Rasa editor, is so excited to have her work featured in Tabula Rasa! A lover of humanities, she enjoys experimenting with writing and the visual arts. When she isn’t painting or writing, you can find her reading or baking for friends.

Assistant Editor, Makena Matula ’24 Makena is a junior and a second-year assistant editor for Tabula Rasa. They enjoy all types of nature activities and photographing organisms on their adventures. They hope you enjoy their photography and writing in this year’s issue.

Assistant Editor, Sophia Yao ’24 Sophia, a junior and Tabula Rasa editor, is excited to have her writing published in Tabula Rasa for the third year in a row. Apart from writing, Sophia enjoys spending time with friends, painting, and listening to music.

Assistant Editor, Violet Negret te ’25 Violet Negrette is a sophomore who loves to play soccer, read books, and write in her free time.

Assistant Editor, Josephine Tu ’25 Josephine is thrilled to be a part of Tabula Rasa again in her sophomore year. In addition to being passionate about writing, music, and photography, she also loves sleeping, overcomplicating life, and laughing with her friends until she can’t breathe.

Assistant Editor, Esha Joshi ’26 Esha Joshi, a freshman and first-time assistant editor, is excited to have her work featured in Tabula Rasa again. While writing is her reason for existence, she also loves crocheting, listening to music, and eating various kinds of fruit.

Publicity Editor, Rachel Farhoudi ’23 Rachel, a senior and Tabula Rasa editor, is thrilled to have her writing published in Tabula Rasa for the second year in a row. In her free time, Rachel loves to go on walks, play soccer and tennis, hang out with friends, and go to concerts/music festivals.

Web Editor, Kathleen Xie ’25 Kathleen, a sophomore and a second-year Tabula Rasa editor, has always been passionate about writing and photography. She is thrilled to have her work featured in this year’s issue and hopes you enjoy it!

Advisors, Holly Coty & David Wells

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

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

The magazine’s next submission period will open in February 2024. Students may submit through an online portal that will become available at that time. Students may also submit pieces to our quarterly themes, which will become available starting in September 2023.

Thank you for reading the 2023 edition of Tabula Rasa.

– Samantha Hsiung ’23, Rachel Farhoudi ’23, Emma Hwang ’24, Makena Matula ’24, Sophia Yao ’24, Violet Negrette ’25, Josephine Tu ’25, Kathleen Xie ’25, Esha Joshi ’26

EDITORS EMERITI 2021-22 Prithi Srinivasan ’22, Emily Takara ’22 2020-21 Eva Liu ’21, Micaela Rodriguez Steube ’21, Prithi Srinivasan ’22 2017-20 Sarah Feng ’20, Reilly Brady ’20, Katherine Chui ’20 2016-17 Priya Sundaresan ’17, Zarin Mohsenin ’17

COLOPHON Tabula Rasa is set in EB Garamond, Futura PT, and Acumin Variable Concept typeface.

The magazine was produced on Adobe InDesign and printed by Folger Graphics, and the pages were designed by Samantha Hsiung ’23, Rachel Farhoudi ’23, Emma Hwang ’24, Makena Matula ’24, Sophia Yao ’24, Violet Negrette ’25, Josephine Tu ’25, Kathleen Xie ’25, and Esha Joshi ’26.

C O P Y R I G H T © 20 23 P I N E W O O D S C H O O L