TASIS Literary Magazine - Spring 2021

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Introducing the TASIS Literary Magazine e TASIS Literary Magazine is a student-led publication whose aim is to upli the uni ue, creative voices of TASIS students, and to share the beauty and complexity of those voices with our community. Lea ng through these pages, we see stories that move, unearth, and inspire. It is thanks to the talent, dedication, and creative spirit of our student contributors that these stories were born, and that this project was made possible. It is a huge joy to share the Spring 2021 issue of the TASIS Literary Magazine with you. ank you to each and every contributor and to each and every reader. — Alexia Dochnal, Editor

Contributing Writers, in alphabetical order Alejandra Cova

Lev Pischanskyi

Isabella Díaz-Ayala

Jade Rabbit

Alexia Dochnal

Luca Radici

Ari Kalashnikova

Zayeem Rahman

Mikael Koppinen

So a Rosso

Ivan Kozhuhar

Dana Salem

Francisco Suarez Gallo

Gabriela M. Serrano

Giorgia Meregalli, translating the

Najedah Tamer

work of Guido Guinizzelli

Rie Tomita

Charly Hall

Artiom Turcan

Maxim Minkov

Alua Tursynkulova

Alexa Morales

Jane Wilson

Casper Mottale Zhamilya Mussaibekova Sophie Ogilvie

anos Ziogas Two Anonymous contributors

Table of Contents I. Poetry II. Themed Collections III. Short Stories

Alejandra Cova Relleno de Vida El relleno es a veces dulce, salado, o simplemente capas para ocupar el vacío. Y a todos les gustan la comida cocinada completamente sin ninguna parte cruda o faltando sabor Entonces ué es una arepa sin su relleno? ¿ ué es una tarta, una empanadilla, o hasta una enchilada sin su relleno? Será ue son fusiones de masas con huecos por dentro O algo tan insípido como los ingredientes mismos. Hay una tendencia de llenar la comida con más comida Es en verdad para el sabor o para complacer a los ue lo prueban? Dulce, salado, o la eliminación del vacante Todo es igual Todo se depende a la cuestión de a ué punto es su ciente y a ué punto te pasaste.

Alejandra Cova Filling of Life Translation of Relleno de Vida

e stu ng is sometimes sweet, salty, or simply layers to occupy the vacancy. Everyone likes a completely cooked meal without any raw parts or lack of avor So what is an arepa without its lling? What is a pie, a dumpling, or even an enchilada without its lling? ey must be fusions of dough with holes within. Or something so tasteless like the ingredients themselves. ere’s a tendency to stu food with more food Is it truly for its taste or to please the ones who taste it? Sweet, salty, or the elimination of vacancy Everything is the same Everything depends on the uestion of at what point it is su cient and at what point you have lled too much.

Alejandra Cova Where? ough my steps are xed on the oor the canoe tilts from side to side With the breeze pulling back my hair e destination seems far to bear My eyes stare back at me With their sparkling, green surround Nothing could be seen below Except the ripples of its ow Echoed sounds pervade from behind I turn, just to turn around what’s behind mirrors what’s ahead An empty long route of dread

Alejandra Cova Prepared Smooth is the crimson balm pressed upon your lips Dangling earrings tinkle with every stride Baby hairs stick out in frizz e hair dyer’s whir and hum mu es your ears e thrusting your feet into those slim towering heels A discomfort when you feel the prickle of the se uin And the smudging and smearing when the night is all over Did your e ort achieve your wanted vanity?


Notes to Sel , Nov. 2020 Alexia Dochnal

Is there a clear-cut, all-encompassing de nition? Dialogue, understanding, exchange, sacri ce, exasperation? Warmth? Embracing the bizarre and the illogical—because becoming and being, because thinking, feeling, grey skies tinted with streaks of pinkish orange, poems, palpable silences cannot be reduced to reason? 09.11.20 ere is no place on earth, no instance in which your past fades into the sky like columns on an open balustrade; no way for all you dislike about yourself to suddenly wash away; no single moment in which you inadvertently receive that for which you hope, unless you actively take steps to approach that hope. A moral aspiration precludes sel shness and precludes evil, but does not preclude confusion, stru le, or frustration. e goal is to use the beauty nested in the subjective to approach the beauty that is the objective. Choice, reception, and response are subjective forms of processing the objective and the immutable. And art. Art is forever alive. Art unites. It emerges in the moments when you need it most, comes in sculpted words adorned with the subtle markings of a needle-sharp chisel. 16.11.20 Sometimes it just feels like a scented mass of senseless truth(s?) and unnamed beats of the heart, melded together into an enormous web of real, a web that we so badly want to believe is perfect and under control-led. But there is no way to take true control, for though we choose action and reaction, these are manipulated by all we love, by all we fear, and by all we long for.

30.11.20 Sancti ed is not spotless, scrubbed down, or pristine, dripping with greenish soapy suds. Sancti ed is heavy, oozing with rich acrylics and sticky, sweet-smelling, golden oils. Dense with thick, so pain, so so you can warm it with your ngers like red clay to be glazed, or chop it with a cool dull blade. To render holy, to hallow and to consecrate, is not to rationalize the irrational or explain the inexplicable. It is to love that which we do not, cannot, will never understand, to love the unending process of approaching the intelligible through the hazy. Hand me tasks, tedious ones, to stop my mind from wandering to the most remote, most morbid underbelly of raw, unadulterated moment. Pile meaningless worry onto meaningless worry. I know they are worth nothing, but maybe enough nothings can displace the something, or at least lay down beside it so it doesn’t feel alone. To love the holy is to love the real. We are woven & unwoven worlds of emotion, experience, and of stories, told and untold. We drink the sweet and sancti ed air of truth. Love the real and worship it. Once we grasp and ennoble it, we stand before the good and wise judge as he paints us, barefaced and unafraid.*

* "good and wise judge"—phrase from Plato's Republic

I am the tale I tell.

Tales We Tell Alexia Dochnal

Who am I, then, when caressing the unspeakable, barring raw truth into a purged, crystalline wintry world. Vigilant, hovering guardian to the round glass eyes of two times two is four, dirtied by the smudges of small and clammy hands, until glass eyes shatter with the songbird's ancient cry. To tell is to live. How do we tell? To tell is to love. Kiss the creamy golden smooth blank page, breathe the heavy air of burning candles, artifacts and frescoes, togetherness. Search for the single so warm glow that separates down from up and right from wrong on a slow and stu y Friday, 8 o'clock. Today, we dive into the esh and marrow. We place hands on hands and heads on chests and speak of the man with the blue guitar, immortal.* We inhale beautiful words through ears and souls. We bear witness to the restless reverie of dancing minds and limbs. We are the tales we tell. Who are we, then, when succumbing to a festering silent substitute for charred scraps of paper, for the pursuit of hurt and truth. * "the man with the blue guitar"—phrase from The Man with the Blue Gui ar,

poem by Wallace Stevens, 1937

Io voglio del ver la mia donna laudare Guido Guinizzelli Io voglio del ver la mia donna laudare ed asembrarli la rosa e lo giglio: più che stella dïana splende e pare, e ciò ch’è lassù bello a lei somiglio. Verde river’ a lei rasembro e l’âre, tutti color di or’, giano e vermiglio, oro ed azzurro e ricche gioi per dare: medesmo Amor per lei ra na meglio. Passa per via adorna, e sì gentile ch’abassa orgoglio a cui dona salute, e fa ’l de nostra fé se non la crede; e no·lle pò apressare om che sia vile; ancor ve dirò c’ha ma ior vertute: null’ om pò mal pensar n che la vede.

I want to praise my woman Guido Guinizzelli Translation by Giorgia Meregalli

I want to praise my woman And compare her to roses and lilies: Brighter than the morning star she shines and seems, And what is beautiful in the sky resembles her. To her I compare the green lands and the air, All the colors of owers, yellow and vermilion, Gold and sky-blue, and rich jewellery to give, Even Love, through her, becomes more perfect. She paces on the street so graceful and so noble, at with her sole greeting she lowers any man’s pride And renders him to our faith if he doesn’t yet believe, And no man vile of heart may approach her; I will tell you she possesses even greater virtue: No man can ponder evil at her sight.

Charly Hall

How can someone simply cease to exist And disappear o the face of this Earth? Once an author of their own life, Now no longer able to write it. eir story will slowly fade, As the stories of others continue on, As they now are stuck in a wold in constant collapse, As they are lost in the past. But their existence on this earth Impacted this world just enough For the people who loved them To put them in their stories. Uncle Drew, I will keep saying your name. With the hope that your joyful, beautiful presence, Can last forever.

Author's note e following three poems are from the illustrated poetry book I’m currently working on. If anyone is interested in purchasing a copy, please email arily.k639@gmail.com or text on +41763051899, it only costs 12chf and will help me gather money for my post-graduation apprenticeship.

september in the city. Ari Kalashnikova here comes a new humid morning emerges from the putrid gas tanks of scurrying cars the streetlights stand sleepy it’s barely dawning and fresh-fallen leaves bounce in an unrehearsed farse. for whom is this concert? how costly the tickets? what grandee could a ord to assemble the sky? the stars that unfold with every night’s waltz skirt for her majesty, they are merely trinkets which dawn a er dawn she lets uietly die. no sleep this september my gaze dri s over the valley that now dons a glum veil of fog it seeks to conceal the joy I remember that uaint paradise town bringing to me - breathe the peace in the air ... somewhere a lady feeds pigeons, and in a desolate courtyard, howls a dog.

anything but flames Ari Kalashnikova these trains these skies days planes down yellow bus stop signs it rains one day i hate the cozy rut another, the setting bitterly evokes how you tore me apart these roads their lanes the periwinkle dust i internalized in my gaze.

Six feet to Mars Ari Kalashnikova droplets to streams, like stinging nettles trickling down my throat singing a poisoned apple’s deathly a cappella, blood in a song (they could turn me Snow White or Cinderella) splendid as sirens that conspired to sink a boat. surrender and oat. the air’s solidifying, clawing nihility like a cage a hapless gulp; damned rage; ying but ironically not soaring upwards but down, until it grows hot, and like a crocodile in a moat to break my fall will be a door. what lies behind it i do not know but it’s uite ominous, falsely divine like thick fumes stu ng up a coal mine the cosmos falls; dark and it glows all around, like eeting lost stars for whom it don’t cost much at all to light up your road just another six feet to Mars.

Ari's original illustrations

By Jade Rabbit

At the start of the night I only hoped my baby's work Would not be too much for her to deal with, But as dinner nears more and more I could not help but think about her lips. Still when my mother broke the news at my dreams might not come true My breath began to hurry up As the emptiness was half lled with a nervous laugh. We rambled on and on About how late it was for her to tell me this Both in the day and a er looking at futures for so long. But all we could do is hug and stay still. My heavy sad breathing and her trembling voice Would have scarred the night in my memory Had my baby's messages not reached me. At the start of the night I knew I would be up for a while But who would have thought that a er all the anxiety My baby and I endured separately I would be going to bed, my face covered in tears and a smile. Your magic touch is fading in my memory Cause it's something you have to be there to feel But I will never let it fade away completely Baby tell me How you'd kiss me sweetly Feel my back and hold me Cause you're my one and only And when I see you I'm going to Take another good look at your face Try to remember this place And I know at I will Fail

Because I will never get enough Of your eyes Your smile And your grace Where our lips meet is my favourite place Hugs are coming your way Where we oat is my favourite space You and me staying in during the rain e butter ies in my stomach can cause A tornado in my overused heart, Paradoxically like a long pause From a long drive in your beautiful car; How can I not fall in love with those eyes? Your look is only matched by that sweet smile. Could I forget your golden hair so nice? If I forget how your voice charms me while I realize that I’ll never forget: ‘Till the stars turn cold and forevermore, I know that I will never get Enough of you as I fall a lil’ more. Regardless of what happens I’ll be here As lover or friend, I’ll love you my dear.

Miss Affection Zayeem Rahman I wake up in bed, alone. Her side stays empty, creasy, and cold. I promised to take her to Rome. We’d bathe in a tub of melted gold. I long for her heart on mine. Her warm embrace, clenching my soul. But Time ages blood to wine, Reminding us that we have no control. A lifetime ago, e Lady in Red, e man with the exploding chest. Rhythmic touches confess feelings, unsaid. Him stru ling to dance, Her mildly impressed. I’ll hold on to the memories, e ones we made o’er centuries.

ARCHETYPES So a Rosso e continuous archetypes rough and out Allow hope however, still nothingness Prevails In the mind Of the beholder however, on the strike Of the clock A sudden Shatter deepens our uest for Archetypes Forevermore.

Today Dana Salem Today I saw my father, My dead father to be exact, My heart was twittering when I saw him, I felt my feet move on my own, I stared him in the eye saying whatever my mouth could muster, But I was stopped by two strangers, When I uestioned my mother, she called me delusional, Today I thought about Lauren, I smelled her jacket remembering every part of her, Her smile, Her hair, e kiss, I thought this was true love, But we were stopped by a man, When I uestioned him, he called her crazy. Today I discovered that my world isn't real at my life was a hoax, at my journey was planned, at my life was beyond my control, When I uestioned everybody, they were in denial.

Today I wanted to go to Fiji, I remembered the pure excitement I felt, e want and taste for a new journey was unbearable, But I was stopped, No matter what I did, No matter if I drove through the burning re, Someone will always try to stop me, Someone will always try to keep me in this fraud world, When I uestioned my wife, she le me. Today I escaped, I faced the sea sailing towards reality, No amount of waves and wind could detain me from freedom, ey are all going to have to kill me if they want to stop me, I arrived at my destination, I followed the fake sandy pathway, I walked up the stairs as I was brought in front of a door, I was about to open when the person who compelled me in this world spoke to me for the rst time, He explained I was nothing but entertainment, He thought he knew what I wanted, But he never had a camera in my head, When he uestioned me, I opened the door and gave my last goodbyes, I knew that today is the day I'm nally free.

Life A er Death Najedah Tamer Come with me brother Come with me But I was not ready My eyelids getting heavy My consciousness, so weary Oh brother, Father is that you? Is that you Father? You who made mommy weep For you, I spent countless hours thinking Because I couldn’t bring myself to fall asleep My eyelids getting heavy My consciousness more weary ese memories that echo all around the walls of my head All coming back to me Some unsettling, some gentle and kind some better le unsaid, some le behind Yellow! Blue! Red! Green! was life always as vivid as it now seems? My eyelids getting heavy My consciousness, so weary With every breath, one could be my last And now white To grey To black Time has got me losing track

Black To grey To white Is this- is this the light? So many words le unwritten A box with a lock that will never be found If only I was sure that when I’d leave you’d be safe and sound My saddened eyes, to eyes that know My eyelids getting heavy My consciousness more weary Good bye, good bye the black cat Najedah Tamer Have you ever looked eye to eye with the black cat Pet it, as if let out a so purr? “Oh dear, no! Fear the black cat For if it crosses your path you’ll be doomed!” But why, “Is it really as unlucky as you say?” Or do your superstitions blind you? “Don’t you know the story You must stay away!” “

ey say it’s mean and it’s bad! ey say it’s like charcoal...or the dead of night!”

But, what’s your story with the black cat For that is why you fear it, right?

tick tock now at the ticking clock, I stare I listen for the dreadfully peaceful sound tick tock every second a ower withers and two seeds are planted mountains part the ground shudders and uakes and with stars the sky is lit and with the wind the grand trees dance someone’s heart is declining yet at exactly this moment a new heart is being formed tick tock a reminder that what we have is slight, short and limited a tragically reassuring noise a reminder that what we have is slight, short and beautiful tick!- tock¡ a juxtaposition; a paradox a melodic screech

tick tock Najedah Tamer

longing eyes Najedah Tamer i can't help but gaze into your eyes they put stars to shame i feel myself drowning bundled in a thousand puzzled thoughts you've trapped me yet i can't help but wander a breathtaking maze

poems anonymous Arrogance.


I divide my defenses between the demons that devour me the storm surrounds me and you are there with your arrogance your sel shness maneuvering the winds And tighten the noose on my mind You make me choke you make me kick You make me hurt.

Divido le mie difese tra i demoni che mi divorano e la tempesta che mi circonda e tu sei lì con la ti arroganza il tuo egoismo manovri i venti e stringi il cappio alla mia mente mi fai so ocare mi fai scalciare mi fai male.

Your disregard As you trample on my dignity ignoring my fragility you talk to me of altruism while I swallow your cynicism, you leave me no freedom to touch happiness. my metamorphosis hides in the shadow of your ego you let me stru le in my pain calibrating your a ection so as to delude me of your love.

il tuo menefreghismo mentre calpesti la mia dignità ignorando la mia fragilità. mi parli di altruismo mentre ingoio il tuo cinismo(egoismo), non mi lasci libertà di toccare la felicità. la mia metamorfosi si nasconde nell’ombra del tuo ego e lasci che mi dimeni nel mio dolore calibrando il tuo calore così da illudermi del tuo amore.

“sgrunt” I drown in the search for instant identi cation the lacerating desire to belong to oneself. I dig through the archives of my intelligence to nd the clumsy documentation of my hopes. e embarrassing possession of a second-hand door opener, which I use to make room for my self-esteem. Listen to the experience that survives the centuries and savor its imminence. e voluptuous pretense of ignoring the inexplicable is the conse uence of a demagogic succession of wandering constellations: pretentious sovereigns of arbitrariness (opinion). I postpone the analysis of the explicable to boredom, my indefatigable companion, which drags me into the surrealisation of these thoughts. Inanimate motives that buzz for days, stinging rational existence.

“sgrunt” A ogo nella ricerca dell’identi cazione istantanea il desiderio lacerante di appartenenza a se stessi. Scavo negli archivi della mia intelligenza per trovare la maldestra documentazione delle mie speranze. L’imbarazzante possesso di un apriporta di seconda mano, che uso per fare spazio alla mia autostima. Ascoltate l’esperienza che sopravvive nei secoli ed assaporatene l’imminenza. La voluttuosa pretesa di ignorare l’inesplicabile è la conseguenza di un demagogico susseguirsi di costellazioni erranti, pretenziose sovrane dell’arbitrio(opinione). Rimando l’analisi dell’esplicabile alla noia, mia compagna instancabile, che mi trascina nella surrealizzazione di uesti pensieri. Inanimati motivi che ronzano per giorni, pungendo l'esistenza razionale.

Heaven I devour the meal that lls me the gladdening dance of sounds I feel the darkness surrounding me and I decide to lose myself in it in the deepest well of truth I tear my clothes o the mask of lies. I discover in the silence a reassuring melody that opens my body to the unexplored darkness I feel the light touch of the earth strong is that one of the air, I admire nonchalantly the shocking naturalness of the impossible, an unsolvable enigma.

Paradiso divoro il pasto che mi riempie l’allietante danza dei suoni sento il buoio circondarmi e decido di perdermici dentro nel più profondo pozzo della verità strappo i vestiti la maschera della menzogna e scopro nel silenzio una rassicurante melodia che apre il mio corpo al buio inesplorato sento le ero il tatto della terra forte uello dell’aria ammiro disinvolta la sconvolgente naturalezza dell'impossibile un enigma irrisolvibile

e Beast e roots of my ngers are sinking, the hope of my touch. e colors of your perfume rush in and the wind sucks the seed of my heart and hisses the beast, that looks at my despair the tiger that revels in my pain but in the dark she lives with the sole company Of the ghosts of her victims.

La Bestia a ondan le radici delle mie dita la speranza del mio tatto accorrono i colori del tuo profumo e il vento risucchia il seme del mio cuore e sibila la bestia che guarda la mia disperazione la tigre che gode nel mio dolore ma al buio lei vive con la sola compagnia del fantasma delle sue vittime.



I mend in pain the pleasure the beauty and the strength. e springtime of emotions. Shallow is happiness , apathetic, fake, frugal. Idolized by those who meander in eternal unrealization, unaware sinners of the chained destiny that momentary happiness is. Fleeting instants that make up their limited and overestimated existences. What is happiness a er all, depriving us of pain, of what makes us strong, deep, intelligent, human beings. No, happiness is sacri ce, it's cuts, it's emotions, disappointments, passions, happiness is life full of a thousand shades and scents. Happiness is pain (because pain makes us complete).

rammendo nel dolore il piacere la bellezza e la forza. La primavera delle emozioni super ciale è la felicità apatica fasulla frugale. Idolatrata da chi serpe ia nell’irrealizzazione eterna peccatori inconsapevoli dell’incatenate destino della felicità momentanea. Istanti fu enti che compongono le loro limitate e sovrastimete estistenze. Che cos'è infondo la felicità, privarci del dolore, di ciò che ci rende forti, profondi, intelligenti, esseri umani. No, La felicità è sacri cio sono tagli sono emozioni delusioni passioni la felicità è vita piena delle mille sfumature e profumi. la felicità è dolore, (perché il dolore ci rende completi)



We look for in others, moments of light-heartedness in which the deep loneliness that we carry around appears to us for a few seconds a vague memory, hoping for the permanence of that illusory feeling of completeness. e abstinence from the cap that closes the hole that devours us, leads us to constantly idealize moments that are fake, but that we need to complete the image of happiness that we have imagined and then imposed on ourselves for years. Immovable unreality anchored to our unhappiness, as the eternal proof of the unrealization to which we are destined. Surrounding yourself with family and friends as proof of your ability to complete a common need, to be full enough to complete the emptiness of those around you.

Cerchiamo negli altri, attimi di spensieratezza in cui la profonda solitudine che ci portiamo a spasso ci appare per ualche secondo un vago ricordo, sperando nella permanenza di uel l'illusoria sensazione di completezza. L’astinenza dal tappo che chiude il buco che ci divora ci porta costantemente ad idealizzare momenti fasulli ma di cui abbiamo bisogno per completare l’immagine di felicità che ci siamo immaginati e poi imposti per anni. Immobile irrealtà ancorata alla nostra infelicità, come eterna prova dell'irrealizzazione a cui siamo destinati. Circondarsi della famiglia e degli amici come prova della capacità di completare una necessità comune, di essere abbastanza pieno da poter completare il vuoto di chi ti circonda.



e frozen footprint Of the swa ering hero of those who do not remember Of those who sway in the light of those who think they remember.

L’impronta gelata Dello spavaldo eroe di chi non ricorda Di chi onde ia alla luce di chi crede di ricordare Il fervore Di chi è coinvolto nelle profondità Mi è caro perciò, il silenzio Di chi ricorda e nell’immobilità reagisce Del disegno del destino, Della presunzione delle gesta di chi dimentica di aver dimenticato.

e fervor Of who is involved in the depths erefore, is dear to me the silence Of who remembers and in the immobility reacts Of the design of destiny, Of the presumption of the deeds Of those who forgot to have forgotten.

the experience of the fatuous embodies the fabric of time immobilizes astonishment at the sight of the bottom. an adrenaline rush that resonates in my ravine. then i realize that i am on top of an immobile spectacle.

l’esperienza del fatuo incarna il tessuto del tempo immobilizza lo stupore alla vista del fondo. una botta di adrenalina che risuona nel mio burrone. poi mi rendo conto che sono in cima a uno spettacolo immobile

perfect illusion of beauty. metaphor of the explicable in the marvelousness of the inexplicable. I stru le in an attempt not to see. But I miss the spectacle of sight

perfetta illusione del bello. metafora dell’esplicabile nella meravigliosità dell’inesplicabile. Mi dimeno nel tentativo di non vedere. Ma mi perdo lo spettacolo della vista

e price of ying is the wings themselves. ey brought Icarus to touch the light. unconscious of redemption.

Il prezzo per volare sono le ali stesse. Portarono Icaro a toccare la luce. inconsapevolmente del riscatto.

And so the price for ying is the anchor that leads you to sink. the malaise

E così il prezzo per volare è il l’ancora che ti porta ad a ondare. il malessere

the thought

il pensiero

Made sharp by its cuts e blade of the traveling thought. It cuts the threads of ultraconsciousness at make you master of its wings Of the horse in fury Of the wearing river that is life

Resa tagliente dai suoi tagli La lama del pensiero via iatore Taglia i li dell’ultracoscienza che ti rende padrone delle sue ali Del cavallo in furia del ume logorante che è la vita

Yellow Light Anonymous As I sit in class I realize Some of us can't wait to leave this town Others just want this boring chemistry class to be over All the same…. most of us just want to know who we are, But none of us are thinking of the present moment All of us are between the past and the future, the red or green light is soul journey which we go through alone Where everything must be decided and no doubts can be found Can be so dreadful and lonesome, one does not know what to do But what if for one moment one single moment in time we could pause, stay yellow, stop life for a few minutes, few hours, few days to ponder. When do we think of now? When do we think of now?

A collection of poems by 11th-grade IB Literature students Inspired by Carol Ann Du y's e World's Wife

e New Generation Isabella Díaz-Ayala Gender e uality dates back to the beginning of time, as men believe they are destined for power and leadership. Women have striked and fought, seemingly winning by being given more freedom. Rallies of women, sweating and screaming to prove the importance of their rights; an amendment passed. It seemed as though everything would change. But still, we continue to be pushed down. e timeless tale told of wife cleaning, cooking, caring, while husband sits back and observes. Change is needed. Change can happen. Change will happen. e era is new, and change is happening all around us. Movements are occurring le n’ right. Race. Health. Gender. is is where we are making a di erence. Ignorance will always surround us, but that is what motivates Gen Z, us, to ght, and trans gure the minds of those closed to e uality.

Mary Alexa Morales I thought I was dreaming when I saw him sitting next to me. He was holding my hand tightly, just like the old times. en I turned to see his beautiful and freshly shaved face. His eyes were still the same. Golden. Glimmering. Shining. Sparkling. I could see the clear formed lines at the side of his eyes, and on the corners of his mouth as well. Although I did not know how he got those ones. He rarely even smiled. At least at me. Seeing him again a er twenty ve years was like seeing a ghost. He had not changed at all, and I felt like no time had passed and we were still young. But him sitting beside me...it just did not seem real. I could not believe it. He was there. With me. A er all these years, he had nally showed up. From there we started to talk about what each of us had been doing during the time that had passed without seeing each other. We talked for what felt like eternity, and for the rst time I felt like I was in no pain at all. He always had that e ect on me, making me forget about what was going on around me. What happened next was a sudden punch in my gut that brought me back to reality. His phone started to ring. It was her. Her. at same woman that had betrayed my trust. at slippery slut that had broken up my marriage. My family.

I told him I was starting to get dizzy from the painkillers. e truth is that I really just wanted him gone. Gone. Forever. e way it had always been even when we were together. A few moments later he le uietly, still talking on the phone. is time though, I closed my eyes. I did not want to see how he le . Again. e entire day was like a ship in the middle of the sea. Empty. No sound at all. In the night, however, I cried that same sea.

Author's Note

Alexa Morales

A year and a half ago, my grandmother had to go into surgery to get a tumor removed. Her condition got complicated, and we thought we were going to lose her. Nonetheless, she made huge progress a er my grandfather went to visit her in the hospital. ey got divorced many years ago, and we never got to spend time all together because he started a new family. So the fact that he actually went to visit her surprised us all. However, we never really knew what they talked about, my grandmother says that she does not remember. e important thing was that she actually got better a er seeing him that day. I suppose that what she needed was closure. e theme of my work is heartbreak. e motifs are pain, resentment, detachment, but also a little bit of hopefulness. I included short and clipped sentences. I made use of metaphors, comparisons, and alliteration. In some parts I also included one-word phrases to emphasize the speaker’s emotions. I named the monologue Mary, which is my grandmother’s name (María in Spanish).

Tu ankhamon Casper Mottale

I felt like a living corpse, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, I could hear and I could feel. I felt their hands touching me, eir silent voices whispering loudly And their crying prayers sobbing in the light. I felt their claws scraping me Inside and out It didn’t hurt, it was a relief I felt a so and harsh touch A dressing around me, I couldn’t feel anymore. I felt the cold eyes Piercing me with warmth, Staring intently. I couldn't hear them anymore, But I heard the welcoming howl Hold me down in darkness.

Author's note

Casper Mottale

Carol Ann Du y wrote poems based on famous biblical, mythological and historical gures, transforming them into women and narrating the poems from the perspective of a woman. I very much admire mythology, especially Greek mythology, but in order to not be repetitive and obvious, I chose to go with Egyptian mythology and history. As Du y was an openly gay poet and some of her poems contained LGBT related content, my non-binary self decided to go with a genderneutral approach. Even though Tutankhamun was a male Pharaoh, in this poem I tried to not use masculine terms or pronouns, even the embalmers do not have a speci c gender. e theme of the poem is death and the passage to another realm. In Egyptian mythology, the deity Anubis was considered the god of death: He had a wolf-like head and face and a humanoid body. Referring to the passage from life to death, the embalmers rapidly transform into the god Anubis, as their “hands” become “claws” and “the prayers” become a “howl”. e oxymorons and antithesis highlight the contrast between life and death, that are always accompanied by each other. Moreover there are six stanzas each containing three verses because the numbers three and six were considered sacred numbers by the Egyptians.

Morning Commute Zayeem Rahman I rushed in the ocean of working men. e current of briefcases dra ed me toward my destination. It was vibrant, loud, and I vibrated with the asphalt below my leather shoes. Crosswalk. Stop. Red light. I peeked my silver wristwatch and waited in agony. 8:57. Damn i , I’m gonna be late. e light turned green and our shiver proceeded to speed away in opposite directions. A er a few crossed paths, I continued moving next to familiar faces. ere was Gary from marketing and Sandro from nance. e three of us uickly slithered to the o ce, but for some unknown reason, they turned right instead of going straight on 17th Street! In fact, every man, car, and dog in front of my eyes poured right. Behind me as well, I was all alone. e once roaring hotspot for tra c could service a yoga session within seconds. I looked at my wrist again. 9:05. e sound of a distant crash grasped my attention. is is not part of my morning routine. I thought twice before heading away from the o ce. I followed the noise to a roundabout, the cars were parked o to the side and pedestrians crowded around the center. It seemed like the whole city was there. Shouting, singing, and chanting lled the arena. I shouldered my way through and discerned several moving gures, though I couldn’t see much. Instead, the acoustics of bodies projected the image for me. e restrained screaming of ten women in the middle of the patched grass made me dizzy. ey were tied to individual free-standing boards of wood, three feet apart. Standing in front of them were ve men, in the most luxurious suits you could imagine, each with their own black leather whip. eir strikes erupted in nasty bone-cracking snaps, elevating the victims’ painful cries.

I opened my throat to yell, but I couldn’t let go of a single word. My vision still blurred. How can all these people watch torture? I zoomed through the circling audience, but I was bombarded with sti arms. “Get out of my way! I need to help those people!” My urgency was met with confusion. To them, I spoke with the tongue of a trout. “Are you not in line?” Everyone went mute and turned their heads, as if time depended on my answer. I fell to the ground, Almost fainted when they crept as all I could see, Were the others sharing the same face as me.

Author's note

Zayeem Rahman

I was inspired by Carol Ann Du y’s work in e World’s Wife as the poet presents a collection of poems elevating the importance of the disregarded female perspective and utilizing poetic literary devices to convey meaning and emotion. In my poem, the speaker is a man witnessing ten women being tortured in front of an all male audience, with desperation to help them. Being a man, who advocates for social e uality, approaching e World’s Wife, I value Du y providing insight to female stru le in a patriarchal world. My setting for “Morning Commute” illustrates the patriarchy with a busy/working city ooded with an ocean of men. e daily act of walking to work, met with a huge public display of violence, emphasizes the desensitized systemic corruption found in everyday life. Furthermore, I incorporated a nautical or oceanic conceit throughout the poem which can be interpreted as the borderless ow of male dominance, in working life. I also leveraged the progression of certain aspects developed in the poem. is includes the transition of the speaker from passive to determined and active, means of communication, (from thought, double-thought, to exclamatory) and company (with a crowd, colleagues, alone, alone apart from a crowd). Another form of displaying my inspiration includes the literary devices I chose to apply in my writing. For example, I applied assonance at the ends of ‘shouting, singing, chanting’ as they all have di erent emotional connotations, but posing them together provides an overwhelming mood and groups the terms together as noise. Also, the last two lines of my poem rhyme, but are not their own separated rhyming couplet, because I want to draw attention to the nal twist and have it apparent that their faces were shared with the speaker the entire time. e poem is written in past tense for its entirety to portray the speaker as a future entity looking back on his experience and still being shaken. Just as Carol Ann Du y, there are aspects of my writing that are open to interpretation. For instance, the ‘agony’ felt by the speaker on a minor tardiness in contrast to the physical su ering presented in the secondhalf of the poem, can portray the privilege in small and large picture mentalities or the misunderstanding from the ignorance of the unimaginable. I also found inspiration in my line breaks and transitions. I based my idea for the transition to the second stanza with a ‘green light’, from Du y’s strong transitions that incorporate time with a symbolic change. Such as her ‘snapping a twig’ in “Mrs. Midas”.

A collection of sonnets by TASIS seniors. Love Me Tender, Love Me Long by Francisco Suarez Gallo Your magic ways can melt me like ice on A hand against a blow dryer, and my Brain sings: “Love me tender, love me long.” I fall for you as my heart starts to cry. You slow me down and make me smile, in turn I try to make you mine, and give you all My love as I kiss you and feel the burn; So gentle and warm I fondly recall. However, when I see you in my dreams I vividly feel you so close to me; A feeling which is stronger than it seems Once I get to meet you—so heavenly. I will love you for as long as I live, And to you all of me I’ll always give. Your Eyes by Mikael Koppinen And looking into your eyes, I see you And myself, my re ection, dimly cast, And now I realize the years that are passed Now at the speed of light between us two, We’re stuck in this galaxy, me and you, We’re cast in the heat of the Big Bang’s blast. Tonight, in our eyes, our embrace, the vast Universe is stru ling to puzzle through. en, I realize our love has come so far, It pulses, pushes toward, a new frontier, Expanding into darkness, pushing past, Our past, our future twinkles like a star, New planets, stars, whole galaxies--and there, With a gasp and a shudder, I collapsed.

Mariia’s Song by Ivan Kozhuhar You heard the song, a song that brought you there, And there you watched me as I played the game, I caught your glance, that fondness in the air, Your face so ne, that’s how you lit the ame. I could not sleep, my mind was full of thoughts, My heart was not at peace as I was scared, Inside the head my brain was tied in knots, It is so hard, perhaps I’m not prepared? I start to think, it’s fate that brought us here, And seeing you waltz alone is uite unfair, You must be mine, this fact I cannot bear, I should act now or drown in my despair. To her my thoughts I nally confess, Will you be mine? Her answer was a yes. Inspired by Shakespeare's My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like Unanswered by Maxim Minkov I o en think to myself that your love Is far beyond my feeble mortal reach; I know, like most, that no amount of speech, Nor favors, nor tricks, nor gi s from above Will bring the passion I’m o dreaming of, Nor pierce into your soul, but I beseech You, let me rest upon the vaulted beach From which many fools like me have been shoved. Yet I do trust your leaden heart to hold, Its bars unbroken, vast, and ercely long. It locks away your love from me, I know, But still I must stay ever brash and bold, For though I sing the same old weary song, I hope, at length, to someday make you glow.

e Sun:

Sonnet N.1395839503454 by Lev Pischanskyi Oh, the need for September sleep is dire, Shutting down on the walk to English class; And I’m surrounded by a dying re, Walking up the stairs I cannot surpass. You would have to hold my eyes open If I want to wake up at rst light-I would re uire Heaven’s gates be broken, For me to give up on my calming night. Night or day; I will always think of you, Upon my pillow, desk, wall, or chair; No place I would not shutter my eyes' view, e dull of math class I just cannot bear. Although in summer when you’re abundant, You would nd I go to bed reluctant. e Remedy of a Broken Heart by Luca Radici Here I am, picking up pieces of my heart, Scattered all over the oor of our house. God damn the distance that broke us apart, When only you, I could see as my spouse. ere are you, posting pictures of you and him, Deep inside you know, you wish he was me. And I wish you saw, my sight that is now dim As well as the pain of seeing you with he. However, my dear, it’s time to let you be, And chance to nally set myself loose From this caged-in feeling you brought me, And to others, I will be introduced. Within my mind, you will forever remain, But what I feel is that I broke a chain.

Sonnet 1 by Gabriela M. Serrano I close my eyes facing a sea of blue, Waves crash in perfect harmony with me; I hope this view will lead me back to you, I nd myself as happy as can be. Seagulls laugh, as pretty seashells glisten, I spot the lighthouse lantern miles away, I grab a shell, shut my eyes, and listeninking of why you said you could not stay. e sand buries my feet, the sky is clear; To me, this paradise is mine to roam, I stop and wonder if you would be here, Right by my side, making this place our home. en I remember why we parted ways, And that I am a sucker for clichés. Moonlight by Rie Tomita So long since losing love of mine that day, Recall when moon had grown so big and bright— When moon is full you stare at me and say, “My dear, the moon looks beautiful tonight.” When smile bright up your face and world would shine, My heart would beat with bit of pain above; I thought you'd always be here and be mine, You le me a er teaching what is love. Since then my soul was lost and le behind, My tears are dried, my heart’s been down so long; For me, the sun was you and now I'm blind, e world without you feels like something’s wrong Like ocean without moonlight on the waves; e moon's true light was just the love you gave.

EGO by Artiom Turcan Let me compare thee to a pretender: You are so sly, dishonest, keen and plain Cut through my mind so deeply, a blender y implant da odil into my brain. How do I love you? Let me count the ways. None else in sight has such lust for power inking of your mean freedom lls my days, Your voice leads me to a gilded tower. My ego, who wants me to achieve might, Create the life of my own plan and ow, Invading my mind day and through the night, Always dreaming ‘bout the most prideful goal. Yet still you bring me to sin so severe, And I must learn to keep my heart sincere. Shakespeare's Grave by Alua Tursynkulova I’ve kept my head so busy all day long… Now what’s this task—I have to write a sonnet! Let’s see, the theme of love will just go wrong, And in the theme of God there’s just no pro t. If I can’t write a plain verse in my language, No way my try in English is successful… My brain cannot contain such silly ba age! is passing evening shall be very stressful. I bet that Shakespeare’s rolling in his co n, And Spencer checked my name in Dante’s circle; Petrarch will visit psych ward very o en, Oh God, this is worse than my rst rehearsal. Yet my brain got these thoughts to keep a’ owin, So I wrote a poem on how I wrote a poem.

My Teachers’ Voice Is Just Like a Veery by

anos Ziogas

My teacher’s voice is like a sweet bird’s song; His ask is purple as a violet; His head so shiny it looks like a gong; He emails when larks are not awake yet. I have seen proud lions, magni cent and muscled, But my teacher’s mighty posture beats them all; And even all heavenly bodies gathered Compared to teacher's greatness seem small. I love my life, but still I uite well know at nothing in it can compare to class; I grant that my life is in fact uite slow; But still I claim his talent shatters glass. And though I try, I still cannot compare— For I am doomed to su er in despair.

Zhamilya Mussaibekova A briefcase lled with layers of cold, gold bars stood on the college counselor’s desk. “Please, Mrs. Kim, I beg you.” e wife of the bi est South Korean tech tycoon, Cho Jung-jin, was at the counselor’s feet, whimpering in hysterics. Cho’s usual volubility was now but a series of uncouth sounds. Even the simplest phrase seemed completely inscrutable. “I do not want your money. Nor do I need your money.” A cold no. Seo Jung-jin’s daughter is not going to Harvard. Amidst the sni es, Cho stood, hurriedly packing up her vintage Birkin—a gi from Yaso Jung-jin, her mother-in-law—in a vain attempt to regain composure. e zipper wouldn’t budge, and she chipped her nail in the process. Her stilettos click-clacked to the exit nearly twisting her ankle. She pushed the door open without awaiting the doorman. Extremely unladylike. What will they say? Sanity was sacri ced to looming rumours, terrorizing Cho Jungjin’s senses. Echoes of ruthless rumours deafened her ears, hallucinations of rejection letters rendered her eyes sightless, and she stood hanging onto the declivity her life had now become. In the empty immensity of her luxurious car, she sat in mournful and senseless delusion. Delusion t for nothing but a placid stare. “Home Ma’am?” Whatever. She remains in silence, and they drive on. Back to the manor. e chau eur opens the door of the Phantom, and Cho stumbles out, silky hair tangled and impeccable dress creased. She stands spectrally in the moonlight, accompanied by the sounds of the decked-out courtyard that o ers little warmth. For the rst time, the immensity of her living grounds was a menace. Every bush, tree, ower, and

branch swayed lightly in the breeze, scolding her for her failed mission. She leaned on the front door, half coming in, half e aced within the dim light consumed by the brooding gloom of the ominous sky. A speck of light crept through her daughter’s vinyl blinds and illuminated her glare, sharp and vacant with a white icker in the depths of the orbs. Young Da-hye understood instantly. She turned o the lights and retired for the night, without nishing her homework. Cho and Seo Jung-jin sit down by the big, birch table that was built for many but used by few. Cho sends the copious amounts of Da-hye’s SAT books on the oor in one swi elbow thrust. Her cheeks burn with a wrathful blush. “It’s not like they’re of any use now anyway.” Seo li s his head up from the newspaper, bewildered. His glance falls as heavy and trenchant as an ax. “Song Kim wouldn’t take her, Harvard isn’t happening,” Cho concludes in a trembling voice. “Princeton and Yale are perfectly ade uate options, too.” Seo glues his eyes, remarkably cold, back onto the newspaper. e stock market was plummeting! Should he li uidate his investments? e very mention of other schools made Cho miserable and sick, and a metallic taste rose in her mouth. Her gaze was xated on her husband’s gun collection, and her hand was itching. Cho’s phone buzzes. A noti cation from Kim Tae-hee. “Ladies, I’m pleased to announce Min-Jun Tae-hee is o cially Harvard class of 2024!”

A little girl in a big world Sophie Ogilvie e slender silhouette in the puddle reminded her of the su ocating melancholy of the previous day. Two deep-set spheres stared back at her, red from tears and fatigue. Assailing the air, a bird ew by and chanted a sonorous lullaby, which sounded similar to the anthem of her nightmares; meanwhile, closing her eyes, she imagined herself running away from captivity. Fluttering in the sky, a siren screeched out, howling like a predator scouting a victim. She was unable to understand who she actually was and felt caged like an animal being abused, with the inability to speak the same language. Glancing back at the puddle, she revealed the purity in which the puddle mirrored her re ection. As she gazed, she inhaled and exhaled, yelling, “I’m just a child.” Drowning her eyes away from her re ection, she noticed an old man walking by, who suddenly started staring at her. e man asked, “why are you yelling, beautiful girl?”. Un uestionably, the girl had no intention in replying to a man who couldn't get his eyes o her. is situation was certainly appointed as disagreeable; as she began walking, the man began following her and telling her what to do. e man asked “why are you ignoring me, I’m just trying to help, as I see you're a bit upset.” She turned around, telling him that she would appreciate it if she could be le alone. e man continued to look at her, and then suddenly le . As the girl felt relieved, she walked away and advanced towards a gang of older boys, who began screaming vulgar names at her. Once again, she ignored it and continued walking. However, this time an drunken thirty-year-old fellow came up to her and invited her over to his humble abode. e little girl suddenly refused, but noticed that she was being approached again by the gang of juveniles. She panicked and had no one or nothing to bring her to safety. e truth was, she was just a thirteen-year-old, who realized the truths of society as a young lady. In this moment, she recalled the sensation in which she

was unable to take any measures of her position, however. is time it was her gender and her age against men; she felt as if she were caged up like an animal. e men surrounded her. As she screamed and screeched for help, a couple walked by and didn’t even utter a single word. e neighborhood observation patrol car started driving up the street; as soon as the gang noticed, they scrammed away as fast as they could. Once again, she was le alone and continued walking back home. As soon as she arrived home, she slammed the front door and ran straight to her room, terrorized by what had happened. As her parents called her for dinner, she went down and sat there, all gobbled up in her own little bubble. When she nished eating, she headed straight to her room, glaring at the mirror, noticing she was no longer that little girl she used to be.

e Outhouse Boy Jane Wilson

Whack. e sound of the wooden whip against the pale and mottled skin of a terri ed child. e re and pain took my breath away, I couldn’t even cry. I felt that I could get sick, but how could I? I was starved. We were told not to cry. e punishment for that was a long night in the urine stenched outhouse. Summer was my favourite time of year. If we were lucky, a nice farmer might come to the workhouse and take a few strong lads to save the turf . “Does he keep his back bent? Does he give backchat?”, is what the farmer’s would ask. “Give him a wallop if there’s any trouble”, is what the Brother would always reply. Bastards. Freedom. Sitting on the back of a David Brown tractor was a novelty. e sight of barrel-top caravans and pie-balled horses tied at the side of the road sparked memories of Mammy and Daddy and the way we used to be. I could still taste the salty bacon and warm spuds covered in butter that Mammy used to make for the tea. e musty smell of tobacco from the farmer’s clothes reminded me of Daddy, who always had a pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. Memories like these ran through my mind and upset me. e wind blew pieces of turf dust and straw into my eyes. I was lucky, because that meant no one could see me cry. e Blaze. It was Palm Sunday and I was on my way home from Mass with the neighbors. e group of us were hitting each other with twigs of palm that the priest had given us. As we approached the boreen that led to the trailer park, I was confused when I smelt smoke. I knew it wasn't bon re season. We turned the corner to nd my caravan engulfed in a ball of re. e new rose patterned curtains that Mammy had bought to dress the windows were up in ames.

I screamed for Mammy and Daddy. And I screamed again. I was hysterical when I understood Mammy and Daddy weren't going to answer. e Verdic . e police and remen were called to the trailer park. I listened as they decided what to do with me. “Should we take the young lad to the industrial home then?”, one of them asked. “Yea yea, sure he’ll be grand there. Jesus, you can never trust this type. Bloody travellers”. “Well they’re a feckin odd breed of people… ” I was brought to the industrial home at the age of seven and wasn’t released until I turned eighteen. “You’ll be alright now, so long as you're a good boy”. at’s what a Brother told me. Laughter. I’ve long le Ireland since. Today, my children sit, xated on the lines of scars that cover my legs and back and laugh at my permanent limp, the result of a bone that never healed. ey call me a robot in their amusing American accents. I sit with them and listen, absorbing their laughter and telling them how blessed they are.