Teen Ink magazine - August 2022

August 2022

Follow us on Social Media

By teens, for teens

Finding Your Identity in the New School Year PLUS Stories of Summer Travel and

Poetry & Photography Contest Winners!

GET INVOLVED Contests

Advisory Boards

Take part in a new contest every month! Cash prizes and magazine recognition!

Shape the future of Teen Ink, and let your voices be heard. For teachers AND students!

Advanced Reader Copy Program Receive FREE copies of newly released books. All you need to do is write a review on our site!

AD Here Social media

We share your work!

Instagram: @teen.ink TikTok: @teenink Twitter: @teenink

Newsletters Sign up to receive our newsletters!

Hear about new opportunities straight from the editors!

CONTENTS

August 2022 Volume 37 | Issue 1

ON THE COVER

6 ARTWORK BY HANNAH DEITRICK, FLOWER MOUND, TX

5

34

52

Contests & Call for Submissions

Gun Control: A Time for Change It Could Have Been Me “Flexistential” Crisis

Visits of Despair Soft, Wet Places A Very Important Message Out of My Hands

Teen Ink News

6

Identity: Back to School Sounds Good …

Forgiving the Unforgivable The Lacking Sibling

12

Memoirs Graduate Breaths & Waves The Battle Field of a Tag Game

22

Travel: Stories of Summer How Travel Affects My Mental Health Emerald Isle

30

Health Wrestling With My Health A Blur

Points of View

38

Fiction

Book Reviews

60

Vicious A Very Large Expanse of Sea A Woman of Independent Means

Haiku, Sonnets, Free Verse & More!

Contest Winners, page 64!

42

Movie Reviews “Tick, Tick … Boom!”

“Invasion of the Body Snatchers”

44

Music Reviews “Man on the Moon: The End of Day” “Stanger in the Alps” “Kauai”

48

Video Game Reviews “Warhammer 40,000: Space Marine” “Among Us” “Red Dead Redemption II”

Poetry

Art Galleries

Photography, watercolors, charcoal, oil paintings, & more Contest Winners, page 26!

22

Letter from the

Editor A New School Year Dear Teen Ink Readers, Welcome back to another school year! To help you get back into the fall semester mindset, we’ve brought you stories about reinventing yourself and finding a new identity to fit into. But if you’re not quite yet ready to get back to those early mornings, we’ve also included some stories from teens who have had particularly exciting travel experiences this year.

You might be reading this before your first steps into high school, or you might already be in the throes of applying for college. Either way, we all know that jittery, anxious feeling when you’re facing the unknown.

Remember to take time to breathe and look at the big picture! We hope that when you read this issue of Teen Ink magazine, you feel less alone!

As always, if you have any comments, questions, or concerns, feel free to reach out to our editors at editor@teenink.com.

Enjoy this issue!

Sincerely,

The Teen Ink Team

4

Submit

Click Here to Submit Your Work

Your

Work

Enter our Contests!

Cover Art Contest Submit your photo or artwork for a chance to appear on the cover of Teen Ink magazine! All art submissions are eligble.

Winners receive a $25 Amazon Gift Card!

Click Here to Enter!

We Also Need:

• Stories About Making a Difference through Community Service, Volunteering, or Acts of Kindness

• Stories About Visiting Colleges or the College Submission Process

• TV & Movie Reviews • Music Reviews • Frightening Fiction for Halloween!

5

IDENTITY PHOTO BY TAIT TAVOLACCI, GALENA, MD

SOUNDS GOOD… ARTICLE BY ALICE LIU, SIMSBURY, CT

6

IDENTITY I.

often refer to as cultural shock.

It is November 2019 in Farmington, Connecticut, and I am at the library with Eliza. I am on a Zoom call, discussing the next stage of my research project with my professor.

A passing elderly lady smiled and said, “How are you?” I was terrified. I couldn’t believe I was already being targeted by a predator on my very first day in the States. Pretending not to have heard her, I stared straight ahead and walked briskly past, pulling out my phone to call my father’s friend in Boston (the only person I knew in the States).

Having grown up in a city notorious for its crowds, I was wary of strangers, and the idea of speaking with one was unfathomable. It wasn’t until a couple of months later, after

From across the table, Eliza observes my meeting with a raised eyebrow, a smirk, and frequent, failed attempts to suppress laughter. It is a meeting that demands seriousness, yet Eliza, who is not even prone to laughing when watching “The Office,” is teetering on the verge of hysterics. Perhaps she has an unorthodox sense of humor? Perhaps I am speaking with a strange accent? Perhaps I sound unintelligible?

of emulation because all the girls around me idolized the Hadid sisters. At the same time, I was becoming increasingly angry at myself for my complete submission to high school conventions and my lack of audacity to embrace individuality.

Everything about life in America stood in stark contrast to the life I knew in China. I saw students in my high school “what’s up” each other in passing, dump ice into their glasses in the dining hall, and hang posters of supermodels in their dorms.

The first time I heard the phrase “what’s up” directed at me, I was walking to my Spanish class. Struggling to comprehend its meaning, I found myself attempting to conceal my lack of comprehension.

Unfortunately, the lopsided smile I hastily put on to dilute the awkwardness of the situation only amplified it. This embarrassing incident was seared indelibly upon my memory. Afterward, every time I walked to Spanish class, I was reminded of my failure to respond, and I flinched. I wished ardently that I would never embarrass myself again. But my hope never solidified.

I WAS BECOMING INCREASINGLY ANGRY AT MYSELF FOR MY COMPLETE SUBMISSION TO HIGH SCHOOL CONVENTIONS

“That’s what I have for today. Why don’t you fix your analysis, and let’s plan to meet again tomorrow at the same time.” The meeting approaches its end.

“Sounds good.”

Eliza, no longer able to contain her amusement, bursts out laughing the moment I remove my AirPods.

“Do you realize how many times you said ‘sounds good’ during that 30-minute meeting?”

The phrase rolled off my tongue so effortlessly that I didn’t realize I was saying it until Eliza pointed it out.

“I couldn’t hear what he was saying because you had your AirPods in. All I could hear was you saying ‘sounds good’ every 20 seconds.

“But isn’t that what people in America say to show agreement?”

November 2019 was my third month in America. Having left Beijing, where I had lived for 14 years, life across the ocean proved to be radically different. The moment I exited the JFK airport in September, I immediately experienced what historians in postcolonial discourse

I had become more familiar with American culture, that I finally realized the friendly nature of the lady’s overture and felt regret for my unwarranted reaction.

Little did 14-year-old me know, America would stun me in many ways beyond its affinity for the ubiquitous exchange of “how are you?”

II. November 2019. Two months into my first year in America, I became acutely aware of the impact my new environment was having on my thinking and behavior. It was as if America had entered my consciousness and was remaking it.

The Romance of the Three Kingdoms and Wolf Totem sank to the rear of the bottom shelf of my bookcase, supplanted by framed photographs of Kendall Jenner and Bella Hadid. I would never have admitted that I wanted to replicate the lifestyle of supermodels (the embarrassment!), but there I was, wearing myself thin with the effort

Three days later, I had my first family-style lunch. Family-style lunch is a tradition at my school. Each student is randomly assigned to a table with six other students and one faculty member. After we sat down, the faculty member offered to pour water for everyone. There were two options: iced and room temperature. But I was only accustomed to drinking hot water.

“Is there hot water?” I asked.

A pause.

“Do you mean room temperature water?” The faculty member looked surprised.

“No, hot water.”

7

IDENTITY “Like boiling water?”

My table looked at me in intrigue.

In front of each of them was what appeared to me a cup full of ice.

I gave up, “It’s OK.” “Would you like to ask the dining hall staff for hot water?”

“No, it’s OK.”

to mask my lack of comprehension.

Over my first year in America, I came to realize the full potential of the phrase. It can be used anywhere, anytime, and with anyone. It has just the right amount of friendliness and informality appropriate for any occasion.

I was proud of my almost flawless

This incident was embarrassing on two levels. First, I had distinguished myself by making the odd request for hot water. I hadn’t even explained why I wanted hot water out of fear that doing so would embarrass me more. Second, my responses teetered on the edge of being rude. I hadn’t said please, and I hadn’t thanked the faculty member when he had tried to help. My presentation of myself suggested a lack of education and consideration for others.

Moments in which I felt embarrassingly distinguished recurred. My American peers all decorated their walls with posters of supermodels, Vogue covers, beach pictures with friends, and framed pictures of major cities of fashion. In stark contrast, the walls in my room were bare.

“This is just sad, Alice.” I knew my friends were joking. But they were right that my room looked different.

The feeling of rootlessness was etched into my muscles like the soreness that sets in after intense exercise. I hid my slippers, my hot water bottle, everything about me that was distinctly Chinese. I didn’t want to leave incriminating evidence around, revealing my difference. I began to emulate their lifestyle, their enthusiasm for the Hadid sisters, their passion for sports, their love for “The Office” and “Friends.”

I began to emulate their speech.

“Sounds good” was the first phrase I adopted. It’s the perfect phrase to throw out to replace the awkward nods or “OK” that I used frequently 8

PHOTO BY NEHA VINOD, SHARJAH, UAE emulation of the people around me.

III. December 2020. During my sophomore year, I realized that I was not alone in my concerns about “fitting in.” During almost every campus tour I gave to prospective international families, the young student always posed similar questions: “Are the people here nice? Do you find friends here?” Apprehension was written all over their faces, in the tightening of their brows and the compression of their lips. I saw my freshman self in them, yearning for acceptance. Yes, I wanted to tell them, it is possible to feel integrated into the community, but you will certainly encounter bumps along the way.

I walked into the bathroom one afternoon. It was May 2020, and freshman year was approaching its end. While drying my hands with a

paper towel, I caught a glimpse of a figure in the mirror. At first sight, I didn’t recognize her. A face peered back at me. Fatigue was etched into her features, in the dullness of her eyes and the dryness of her lips. Little by little, my efforts at emulation had morphed me into the portrait of Dorian Gray.

I had copied their lifestyle because I thought that doing so would allow me to fit in, which would in turn yield external validation and make me happy. I craved external validation, because I had never received it. Throughout elementary school, my teachers called me r*tarded.

At 14, teetering on the verge of adolescence, the dangerous phase of life characterized by insecurities, I yearned for external validation, which I equated with acceptance, with “fitting in,” with being “one of them.” Ironically, my attempt to fit in exhausted me. The mounting gossip associated with my name burdened me as much as the labels my elementary school teachers levied on me. Staring at my utterly exhausted face in the mirror, it suddenly occurred to me that my effort to “fit in” was pointless. Sure, I had many friends, but almost all of them came at the cost of a false image of myself. Ultimately, obscuring myself did not enable me to truly fit in or be happy. Perhaps I needed to stop burdening myself with emulating other people. Perhaps there is value in the clichéd admonishment “be yourself.” Perhaps I could just be me.

A couple of months after being me, I still found myself relying on “sounds good” for its usefulness and versatility. But I was also making progress. I finally saw my life with estranged eyes, and suddenly my past struck me as wildly colorful and exotic. What had once seemed to be the most intolerable portrayal of my difference was now transformed into a rich and empowering history.

IDENTITY

forgving the unforgivable ARTICLE BY HANTONG LI, WELLESLEY, MA

ARTWORK BY POULOMI BASU, KOLKATA, INDIA When I was a sophomore, I joined the girls’ tennis team. A freshman who transferred in from Great Britain also joined the tennis team.

She sounded so eloquent with her British accent. But my new teammate was quickly targeted by some of our peers, who began mocking her accent. As the snide comments were just within her earshot, she felt anxious, insecure, and alone.

Refusing to accept this indefensible behavior, I approached the new girl and introduced myself, complimenting her accent and befriending her in the process. Looking back, this interaction, though somewhat innocuous, stemmed from the deep-seeded guilt that I carried from a past situation. Previously, I was not brave enough to stand up against the status quo and hurt the feelings of an innocent girl.

the hallways at school each morning with her thick but jovial southern accent, and we quickly became best friends. But, unbeknownst to me, it would be short-lived. I became involved in the drama club at the start of eighth grade, joining my clique. This group’s leader (or “alpha”) was the classic mean girl.

She was prim, proper, and utterly vicious, and Catherine, with her stereotypical accent, fit neatly in her crosshairs. I stood by and watched a campaign of cruel mimicking and backstabbing gossip unfold at Catherine’s expense. I combined my misguided desperation to be included with the fear of being excluded for defending her. So, I went along with this social torment.

I never made fun of her myself, but I stood by, listening to the jokes yet not doing anything to stop it.

I met Catherine in the seventh grade. I barely survived my first year in the United States after moving from China, and she was the one person who made me feel accepted and welcome. She greeted me in

I still saw Catherine from time to time in the remainder of eighth grade. She would still greet and wave at me in the hallways, her enthusiasm not waning, seemingly unaware of my involvement in

the clique. Catherine forgave me.

However, I could not forgive myself.

Deeply immersed in the shame of “betraying” my friend, I could not bear seeing Catherine giving me another chance. I would still respond to her greetings, but I refused to be the first one to talk to her again.

My choices permanently destroyed my relationship with Catherine, and even worse, I had to live with myself.

I wish I could go back in time with the courage I needed to defend my friend, but I can’t. I can, however, pledge to never give in to such fear again, regardless of the opinions of others. Of course, we will continually face fear in our lives, especially during times of uncertainty. But this is when we need to dig somewhere deep within ourselves and find the courage to take that risk, to stand up for who we are and what we believe in. To discover our voice and forgive — even if we are forgiving only ourselves.

“I learned that courage wasn’t the absence of fear, but the triumph over it.” – Nelson Mandela 9

IDENTITY ARTWORK BY NATALIE CULLEN, AUSTIN, TX

THE LACKING SIBLING ARTICLE BY CATELYN AIENA, ARGYLE, TX

10

10

IDENTITY It was my freshman year of high school, and my older brother and I were starting at a new school. My brother was going into a grade where people had already established their groups. But despite his nerves, I knew he would do fantastic. Being the only sibling I have, my brother was always my ride or die.

The first real best friend I had. And as older siblings tend to do, he always protected me from just about everything. Our first year was tough, but we slowly found our way.

My brother soon became a star favorite among, not just his grade, but the whole high school. With his charisma, talent, and humor, it was no surprise that people instantly wanted to be his friend. And I was proud to call him my brother. Even though I did not make friends as easily as he did, I never thought of being jealous, so it didn’t bother me.

It didn’t bother me, until the comparisons started. Where my brother was chill and easygoing, I took a little more work. I was an independent, assertive, and opinionated 14-year-old. I loved to debate and have intellectual conversations, and many of the adults called me an “old soul.”

In simpler terms, I was not fun or entertaining. At least, that’s how I was described by other people in my grade. Around halfway through my freshman year, other kids would start coming up to me and asking about my brother.

“What kind of things does he like?”

“What can he really do?”

“Can you do them too, since you’re his sister?”

I would never know how to respond to these questions, or why they were being asked of me. And when I would try to answer that I could not be like my brother, another student would happily respond for me.

“No. She is nothing like her brother. He’s less uptight and way more fun.”

At first they were just comments, simple questions that I could brush to the side and never think of again. But for months it continued, on and on and on. Kids I had never met began to talk about me and how I was the “lesser sibling.”

“The lacking sibling.”

I began to curl into myself because I was lost as to what to do. Do I stay myself or become

more like my brother? Do I become who they want me to be?

Slowly, jealousy grew for my own flesh and blood. I never thought I would be jealous of anybody. In fact, I never really cared enough to have that emotion. But life threw a curveball. Fighting this envy was more painful than what I assumed would be a knife to the chest.

It felt like I no longer had a sibling. I was alone.

But I learned quickly how wrong I was. As I sat inside the dark shell that I had created, my brother began to hear the rumors spreading.

And he deeply disagreed.

DO I STAY MYSELF OR BECOME MORE LIKE MY BROTHER? DO I BECOME WHO THEY WANT ME TO BE? Every day my brother would start to be more loving and caring to me. Driving me to school.

Coming to see me during lunch to make sure I was doing okay. Doing his best to hide the rumors with his truth.

My jealousy for him began to dissipate, because I learned that it didn’t matter what other people thought about me. He was my best friend and my own personal protector.

There was no point in me being jealous. After all, I was the favorite person of the coolest student at school.

Though being jealous was not a highlight, I do not regret this moment in my life. It taught me that family is a strong bond. Not so easily broken. Because of this, I believe that me and my brother would not be the same without this test.

But that is the way of life. Sometimes you have to travel through the dark night to find the things that make your sunshine.

After my brother graduated and I changed schools, I never was plagued with jealousy again. And as for those students, well my brother let them know exactly what he thought about me. Long story short, they never got to be friends with my awesome older brother.

11

MEMOIRS

Graduate

ARTICLE BY ALYSSA KUZARA, WENTZVILLE, MO

ARTWORK BY AMARI TALLURI-BOYE, ADDISON, IL

12

12

MEMOIRS

I’ve come to the realization that in less than three weeks, I will be done with high school forever.

It will all just be one big memory to look back on. It came with both the good and the bad; but somehow, I think I’m going to miss the bad parts, too. In about three months, I am going to have to say goodbye to all the friends that have been with me the last four years. Hopefully goodbye won’t be forever though, however, some of us will go our separate ways. This chapter of our lives is now coming to an end.

No more high school sports games.

Dressing up and going all out for the themes. Everyone packed tightly onto the bleachers full of school spirit. Us cheering so loudly for our team and collectively “jeering” at the other team, to the point where our throats began to hurt. The band playing so hard and the drummer going at it. Running to the victory bell, racing other students to get a good spot. Going out after a win and celebrating at Texas Roadhouse or Buffalo Wild Wings, jamming about 20 kids into the restaurant, looking like idiots still in our beach or construction wear. (We didn’t care, though.) Spending the rest of the night driving around with way too many people in the car while blaring music.

No more high school dances.

Getting ready with all your friends, doing each other’s hair and make up. Wearing your dress and wishing nobody else has one like yours.

Going out with your group and taking pictures, everyone’s parents gathered around telling you to look at their camera. Taking your heels off not even halfway through because you can barely walk any

longer. Heading to your dinner reservations, walking in and everyone asking you what the occasion is. Eating delicious food and being bloated right before the actual dance. Going to the dance and hoping the DJ will be playing good music. That one song comes on and everyone starts singing at the top of their lungs and jumping. A pit forms and all of a sudden people are in the middle doing the worm, and then next there’s people crowd surfing.

After the dance, going to parties and not wanting the night of fun to end.

No more track meets. Sometimes getting dismissed from class early, and changing in the locker rooms into your uniform. Loading the bus with blocks and pole vault poles.

On the bus ride there, just zoning in and preparing. Arriving at the other school, unloading the bus and setting the tent up. Waiting for your race to be called over the speakers.

Checking in at the bullpen and grabbing your stickers. Sitting there anxiously for your heat to run. Finally it’s your turn getting into the blocks, your favorite teammate behind you holding them. The adrenaline rushing through your body for that gun to go off. Eventually, after what feels like forever, it finally does. You put all your effort into running as fast as you can. In a relay hoping handoffs go smoothly. After, going back and forth across the field cheering on every single other event that you aren’t a part of, as if you are running with them. Maybe someone’s mom will make you the best turkey sandwich you have had in your whole life, only if you’re lucky enough.

No more favorite classes. Looking forward to the one or two hours a

day that makes the whole school day worth it. Seeing your favorite people that really make the class environment a better place. Plus, your favorite teacher makes school more fun.

No more least favorite classes. You and everyone else dread it together.

Everyone gives each other looks, hating it in silence. At least you aren’t the only one. The hour seems to drag on forever. The teacher that has the most boring voice, and can never take anything the short way.

No more high school drama. Being in everyone’s business and everyone in yours.

Did you hear they got back together? No, I’m pretty sure they are still broken up. I heard that she cheated on him. Did you see the fight video from C lunch? It was totally crazy.

The one kid got knocked to the ground. Apparently it took four teachers to break it up.

No more high school clubs. Staying after school with people that had the same interests as you. Trying to make the school a better place or competing in events to go to a national competition. Running meetings after school once a month to get important information across to the entire club.

It’s sad to think that it is all coming to a quick end. In three months, I couldn’t tell you much about what my life is going to look like. Four years ago, for the most part, I had an idea of what would happen. But now it is all unknown. I don’t like to think about it too much, but a new chapter is beginning for all of us. I wish everyone well and the best of luck.

13

MEMOIRS

BREATHS &WAVES ARTICLE BY JACOB ROTHWEIL, TEMPE, AZ

PHOTO BY LAUREN KIM, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 14

14

MEMOIRS My grandma, or Nana, taught me how to meditate when I was eight years old.

She lived right next to my elementary school, and I would often walk to her house after school. She would help me with homework, make me food — which was usually cornbread and chili — and teach me how to meditate.

After my stomach was full from her deliciously sweet cornbread, we would sit together on cozy circular cushions with our legs folded. She would always gently repeat, “In through the nose and out through the mouth. Count 10 breaths.”

At first, I never enjoyed doing these breathing exercises with her, and would often complain about wanting to watch “Phineas and Ferb” or play checkers together instead. Her valiant efforts to get me to sit still and relax were vastly unsuccessful, but she would always somehow coax me back into trying again. I never took what she was trying to teach me very seriously, and would usually begin rocking back and forth or causing some other sort of disturbance — until one day. That day, I trudged over to her house, forcefully threw my backpack down, and sulked my way to her couch — where I slouched into a ball of resentment.

“I hate my teacher!” I shouted in response to my grandma asking if everything was OK. My day had been horrible, so when my Nana brought up the idea of trying to meditate, I was not a fan.

Eventually, I sat down, legs crossed on the welcoming cushion, and with my back straight as an arrow, I gently closed my eyes.

When we both fell quiet I couldn’t hear a sound, except for my grandma’s old alarm clock — tick tick tick.

As I internalized every soft breath

that passed through my body to the gentle ticking in my ears, my ringing thoughts of my awful day disappeared and my mind became empty. When I opened my

I FINALLY UNDERSTOOD HOW MUCH POWER I CAN HOLD WHEN I AM IN CONTROL OF MY OWN MIND

eyes, I was in a completely different headspace and felt recharged.

At that moment I finally understood how much power I can hold when I am in control of my own mind.

Mental health is one of the most overlooked aspects of human existence, and it is also one of the most important ones. Suicide affects families all across the world daily, and the suicide rates for young people are climbing every year. Anxiety and stress are becoming increasingly common among high schoolers all around the country. Even more so, it affects individuals of all ages, races, and ethnicities across the world. To find peace, humans must discover activities that produce relaxation or meditation.

My friend Noah’s dad first taught me how to surf when I was 10 years old. I went out on a board that was nearly twice the size of my body and in my old ripped wetsuit from the winter before. That first day, I couldn’t catch a single wave on my own, let alone stand up. Noah’s dad would help out by pushing me into

waves, where I would frantically paddle and eventually make an unsuccessful attempt at standing up. As I fell and splashed into the freezing cold water time and time again like a crash test dummy, I felt hopeless and never wanted to pick up a surfboard again.

Not until months later did I actually feel confident out in the water and began to revel in the beauty of it.

Surfing throughout high school turned into a form of meditation for me, and showed me that any activity that rests and concentrates the mind can be someone’s personal meditation.

From an outside point of view, surfing may seem to be the furthest thing from meditation.

To most people, the concept of meditation connotes sitting still, as opposed to engaging in an action — especially one as dangerous as surfing. Whether it’s an irrational fear of sharks, or a rational fear of rip currents, many think of surfing as a terrifying endeavor instead of a calming one. It is true that surfing has its alarming moments.

One time I tumbled off a wave, directly falling onto a sharp reef, and ended up with a huge blood-red gash on my leg. Another time, I was held under for nearly a minute, as set after set of angry waves crashed above me. The scariest thing that ever happened to me while surfing occurred when I quickly learned to never cut off a local old-timer in the water. I still remember him whipping his head of knotted gray dreadlocks around and violently screaming at me, “Get outta the water if you’re gonna pull that sh*t.”

I quickly made it past these beginning challenges, and became aware of the beauty that occurred while I was out on the water waiting for waves. My favorite time of the day to go was in the morning before school. I would wake up at 15

MEMOIRS the crack of dawn and hop into the freezing cold water before it got busy with the everyday crowds. In the morning, there was never any wind, making the water glassy and calm like an untouched pond.

I FELT HOPELESS AND NEVER WANTED TO PICK UP A SURFBOARD AGAIN As I sat out in the middle of the ocean, practically alone, I felt as though I was on another planet.

Waiting for waves bobbing up and down, my mind would go still. Sometimes I would lay on my back and look up, just enjoying the sounds of nothing except a wave rolling by every now and again. It

PHOTO BY MICHAEL GEE, ATHENS, PA

16

didn’t matter if I had a biology test that day, or was stressed about applying for colleges. When I was out in the water, my mind was focused solely on the waves. I went out on the water most days before school and every time afterward, no matter how tired my arms were from paddling, my mind felt completely rested. While this may be viewed from the outside as being completely different from the mediation I conducted with my grandma in elementary school, the mental process is the exact same.

Now I live in Arizona. I was able to go surfing over winter break; but I don’t have the luxury of living five minutes away from the beach, and being able to go surfing everyday is a mere fantasy for me. Luckily, I am able to experience this same mental stress alleviation with other activities. Recently, the three main activities that reset my mental clock and put my day on the right track are running, lifting weights, and playing basketball. I try to fit the time in everyday to do one of these three activities; and in doing so, I

receive the same mental meditative state that I did in high school while surfing. Even if my quads are burning from a sweaty sprint, or if my arms feel as if they are going to fall off from a ferocious lift, I always have a new grip on the day afterwards and my consciousness is rested.

While I truly believe that finding an activity that calms the mind is the key to mental strength and positivity, this may not look the same for everyone. My passions are largely physical ones. Surfing, working out, and playing basketball all are very physical activities that keep the body engaged as well as the mind.

It is up to each and every one of us to find out what hobby or enterprise naturally calms our own psyche.

Discovering the powerful tool of meditation from my grandma at such a young age gave me the ability to utilize it throughout my other activities and passions in life, and truly see the positive impact that it has.

AD Here

MEMOIRS

The

Battle Field of a Tag Game ARTICLE BY SENIE LUMA, BOSTON, MA

ARTWORK BY JIMIN LEE, BRENTWOOD, TN

18

18

MEMOIRS As if running in a school uniform wasn’t hard enough, mixed with the agonizing Haiti heat it was like the Devil himself had paid us a visit to make it way worse. As soon as the bell rang for recess, everyone in class knew what was going to happen. There was a portion of the class that always ran to a food stand to get food, and then there was us. We were the ones who risked our lunches to play the infamous game of tag. The moment we stepped foot outside the classroom, we were all on a battlefield and it was every man and woman for themselves.

The courtyard was sort of a long, squareshaped yard with classrooms surrounding it.

There wasn’t much to the yard beside one water fountain at the end where kids would run to cool off. As for the ground, it was entirely concrete, so falls did get extreme at times.

Everyone would gather around the water fountain, and once the tagger was chosen, the game was really about to begin. I was always the tiniest kid, but make no mistake, I was also one of the fastest. I remember tiny ol’ me getting ready to run as the game was about to start, and it’s still one of the best memories I can remember. Considering the yard wasn’t too big, there was always this tension in the air where you could just tell everyone was trying to find the best location to run to.

As the tagger counts to 30, everyone scatters around the courtyard, running for their lives.

The sound of each countdown number was almost as obnoxious as an alarm ringing at six in the morning. The feeling of pure adrenaline when the tagger says that the last number always rushed through my body faster than anything I knew.

used hyphens. For example if your name was Daïna, when we yell out your name, it would be Da-Da-ï-ï-na-na, and everyone playing the game would say it together out loud. It sounded like an entire choir harmonizing.

When the game got really intense and people started getting caught, that’s when I felt true terror. As I dodged everything and everyone around me, I could hear the screams of the others getting caught. The shrieks of my friends sounded like banshees in a scary movie, and they warned me that at any moment, I could be next. The thing about the game is that it is extremely fun, but the level of stress you feel when you’re trying not to get caught is absolutely terrifying.

One of the scariest and most stressful situations was when you were one of the last few people still standing. When there’s still a lot of people left in the game, it’s more likely that there won’t be too much attention on you; but when there aren’t many people left, the chances are way higher that they’ll come after you. There was always this tight feeling in your chest after running so much, and that’s when you knew your time was coming to an end because there wasn’t much else you could do.

You were all worn out.

After everyone got caught, the fun didn’t stop.

Everyone gathered together trying to catch their breaths because it felt like we had all run the race of our lives.

As the bell rang for us to go back to class, everyone was still talking about the game. Either talking about how we got caught, how we fell while running, how tired we were, or anything else. The conversations usually continued in class until the professor was ready to teach, but it was overall pure happiness at that moment.

AS I DODGED EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE AROUND ME, I COULD HEAR THE SCREAMS OF THE OTHERS GETTING CAUGHT.

There were many reasons the game brought me happiness, one of which was the fact that I was with some of my closest friends playing a game that became a tradition for us. Playing with everyone made everything else in the world go away. It didn’t matter that we’d have to go back to class after playing, it didn’t matter that we had homework. Nothing mattered because we were all lost in the moment playing a game we loved. I remember the sound of everyone yelling and repeating the name of the tagger as we all ran. We didn’t simply scream the tagger’s name. We didn’t do it normally, we

From a very young age, I grew up believing that if you didn’t have a lot or you weren’t as fortunate as others, then there are certain things you aren’t capable of feeling. For me, one specific feeling that I learned you could always feel even if you don’t have much, was happiness or fun. Every day playing that game with all of my friends brought me joy I know I’ll forever remember in my life.

19

ART GALLERY

1

3 20

CREDITS 1 PHOTO BY MARIAN DE SILVA, SRI LANKA 2 PHOTO BY EMMA BELL, MANSFIELD, TX 3 ARTWORK BY JIMIN LEE, BRENTWOOD, TN 4 ARTWORK BY IRIS CHO, GREAT NECK, NY

2

4 21

SUMMER TRAVEL

How

TRAVEL

Affects My

MENTAL HEALTH

BY BRIDGETTE LEUNG, REDWOOD CITY, CA

ARTWORK BY MADDIE GUYTON, HOUSTON, TX

22

SUMMER TRAVEL

Writing to you guys from Prague, I finally get to travel after three months! This trip has been quite rough, and our travel skills seem less polished, but I have been having such a good time. Finally, I get to travel again, which has always been my way of pausing and improving my mental health, so I thought I would touch on that topic today!

Traveling has significantly benefited me from a mental perspective. I find myself way happier and less stressed when I’m on the road, despite running across the airport to make the connection!

Perspective Traveling absolutely helps people put their privilege into perspective.

During my time in developing areas in countries such as Thailand, Kenya, and Guatemala, I’ve had the wonderful opportunity of being able to serve the community by volunteering at after-school programs for malnourished kids, farms run by local villagers, and schools in need of funding. These experiences brought me perspective on the lives of everyone living in these rural landscapes. I saw firsthand the hunger experienced by the kids that ran around the school, and I saw the drying rivers that families walk miles to collect water from.

I’ve learned a great appreciation for the easy access to clean water and healthy produce that I have in the Bay Area. Knowing that some kids are worrying about their next meal has helped shift my mindset when I feel like my world is going to end over trivial matters, which helps with the frustration when my WiFi is slow. Seeing the struggles some people deal with daily has helped me realize that there are more significant problems in the world than your friends not replying to your messages.

More time outside!

Being in a foreign country motivates me to get out of bed each morning, get some sunshine, and take in the fresh air, which greatly affects my mood and well-being! I think it helps to fight off the urge to be lazy and stagnant. I’m always excited to see and learn every aspect of the culture and better understand the people. It’s refreshing to have a change of pace, as each city has a different lifestyle and culture, and it’s eye-opening to learn how people live, from making fire out of elephant dung to having chocolate sprinkles on toast as a breakfast staple.

but I realize how I easily fall into a sedentary lifestyle when I’m home.

While each day at home is less packed and busy, I still find myself just as tired as if I were traveling to five countries in five weeks, plus a bit unhappy. Being at home can be just as tiring and maybe even a bit miserable from my experience. The pandemic is an excellent example of how being stagnant at home has affected mental health. There have been countless studies on the incline in depression since 2020, and I think being idle and repetitive plays a massive part in that. Traveling has been a great way to help me make the most of every day.

TRAVELING HELPS TO FIGHT OFF THE URGE TO BE LAZY AND STAGNANT. I’M ALWAYS EXCITED TO SEE AND LEARN EVERY ASPECT OF THE CULTURE Missing family/friends When I’m traveling, it’s usually just me, my mom, and the occasional tour group for the afternoon. My dad doesn’t travel with us often.

Still, I get to text and call him and my friends pretty regularly, which helps when I’m feeling FOMO. On the flip side, while I miss my family and friends when I’m traveling, I spend less time overthinking every aspect of my friend’s texts or actions, and overall, I worry less!

Less stagnant When I’m on the road, I realize how I’ve become stagnant at home.

When I’m traveling, I thrive and make the most of every day with a purpose. It’s a fantastic feeling,

Well, I’ll be traveling back home soon, which is always a bittersweet moment as I cannot wait to see my family and friends, but I’ll also miss the castles and desserts and cobblestoned roads of Prague. Traveling is definitely a huge privilege, and it’s not as accessible to a lot of people, but you can still make the most of each day at home. I think it takes a bit more intention, but you can set challenges like finding a new restaurant each weekend, taking time at a park before the sunsets, or even hunting down a weird, unique ice cream flavor.

23

SUMMER TRAVEL

the emerald isle ARTICLE BY COOPER BROLL, TRUCKEE, CA

ARTWORK BY VIVIEN WONG, SCARSDALE, NY

24 24

SUMMER TRAVEL

IRELAND WAS THE OPPOSITE [OF WHAT I WAS USED TO], WITH EXPANSES OF SOFT, GREEN ROLLING HILLS AND ROADS THAT FELT LIKE MAGICAL PORTALS SHROUDED IN FOLIAGE LEADING ME TO THE NEXT INCREDIBLE VIEW

I was finally there — the place I had dreamt of visiting since I was a child. A child who had seen photos of the rolling green hills, sheer cliffs dropping into the sea, and ancient castles.

Ireland has always been a place of wonder for me. I loved how different the landscape was from where I live. I was used to big, craggy mountains blanketed in snow, with sharp, rocky edges. Ireland was the opposite, with expanses of soft green rolling hills, and roads that felt like magical portals shrouded in foliage leading me to the next incredible view.

We flew into Cork, a city in south Ireland. It felt small and empty, but on the contrary, it is the second-largest city in Ireland. Our first drive was to our hotel a few hours away in the town of Kenmare. We spent that time listening to sea shanties with all the windows down, appreciating the beauty surrounding us, and laughing at driving on the opposite side of the road.

Our first destination was the Sheen Falls Lodge, overlooking the Kenmare River, a long bay that was directly connected to the ocean.

The smell of salt and the ocean filled the air as we got out of our car and took in the view.

We stood, marvelling at the scene, only a few feet above sea level, trying to memorize every detail. It was and is the most spectacular place I have ever seen. Never did I think how

badly this beauty could be mangled by the ferocious claws of climate change.

Most of our time in Ireland was spent driving along much too narrow roads with speed limits so high and disproportionate to the roads that we always went at least half as fast as the signs recommended. Only a few of the locals, who had driven those roads hundreds of times, would dare to hurtle along them at the recommended 100 kilometers per hour.

Almost every town we drove through was on the water, with shops and houses overlooking the ocean, only feet above the sea level, if that.

The entire time we were there, it did not rain once, and Ireland is known for rain. It reminded me that the effects of climate change exist even here, in this far-off magical land.

Future droughts would destroy much of the beauty, changing the beautiful green hills and foliage into dead brown scars of climate change. Sea level is rising and could rise anywhere from a foot to eight feet by 2100.

Most of Ireland is on the ocean, so a dramatic increase in sea level would destroy much of this magical place that I grew to love.

Days later, as I got on the plane to leave, I turned and took a final look at the expanses of green rolling hills, and only hoped that if I returned, the beauty would be the same.

25

PHOTOGRAPHY CONTEST

CREDITS 1 PHOTO BY HALLEIGH BAKER, BURNS, OR 2 PHOTO BY BROOKE MACNEILLE, GILBERT, AZ 3 PHOTO BY AMBER YU, TRENTON, NJ

“Teens in the Wild”

We asked you to post your best nature photos to your Instagram page and tag us (@teen.ink). Here are some of our favorite pics!

est Cont r! e Winn

26

1

PHOTOGRAPHY CONTEST

2

3 27

PHOTOGRAPHY CONTEST

4

5

28

PHOTOGRAPHY CONTEST CREDITS 4 PHOTO BY KAITLYN STULTZ, SPRINGFIELD, OH 5 PHOTO BY KOLSON OWSLEY, SELLERSBURG, IN 6 PHOTO BY HANNAH KANG, LEXINGTON, KY

6 29

HEALTH

wrestling with my health ARTICLE BY ANONYMOUS, RI

Sports were always a big part of my life in high school, as they are for millions of others.

High school sports should be something you enjoy doing and should not demand so much out of you, physically and mentally. My experience with wrestling throughout middle and high school was the complete opposite of enjoyable and demanded everything out of me — largely due to weight cutting. Weight cutting is the act of trying to lose weight at a fast rate to make a certain weight class. Weight cutting is a big part of a large number of combat sports. High school wrestling needs strict rules regarding weight cutting to protect young athletes because of the unhealthy tactics used to lose weight in a short period.

My worst experience with cutting weight in wrestling took place in my sophomore year. I remember coming into practice on a Saturday morning after going to a party. I hopped on the scale, and my coach lost it — 210 pounds.

“How the f*** are you gonna make 195 for next Saturday?” my coach asked. “You really are a f****** idiot."

PHOTO BY JOSH HOEHNE/ UNSPLASH.COM 30

HEALTH

I felt sick to my stomach, not knowing if I was going to wrestle. I knew that I had to starve myself for the rest of the week if I wanted to wrestle in that tournament. That whole week I ate two meals per day. In the morning I would eat a single oatmeal packet, and for dinner, I had four tiny pieces of pork. I was consuming around 600 calories a day that week, while going to two-hour wrestling practices, where I would lose around two pounds.

My stomach growled all day, I was tired all the time, and I had no motivation to do anything. When the day of the tournament came, I weighed in at 193, meaning I had lost 17 pounds. I remember looking really pale and sick that day. It is not healthy for anyone to lose 17 pounds in one week; this just damages your body, and the weight is just going to come back right away. By losing all this weight at once, you are not losing just fat; you are burning through your muscle. For people between the ages of 14 and 18, it is especially unhealthy to do this because their bodies are still growing.

Weight cutting promotes eating disorders, and tactics used by wrestlers to cut weight mirror eating disorders.

Known symptoms of eating disorders include purposefully not eating, overexercising, throwing up after eating, and feeling guilty after eating. I have seen every single symptom of an eating disorder on my wrestling team.

morning or go to our local gym after practice. Sometimes I would run stairs during lunch to achieve a certain weight. I would come back to class with my clothes soaked in sweat. People would always question where I was or why I would run during lunch because it was so absurd to them. No other high school sport demands this type of physical abuse.

Nothing is worse than the guilt I felt after eating, knowing I had to lose weight for wrestling. I always felt so bad for treating myself to a little dessert or eating something high in carbs. I still have the same feeling about treating myself to a dessert or something unhealthy, because I associate it with gaining weight. I know that I should not think this way, but I cannot help it. It is sad to think that this stems from a high school sport — one that I no longer compete in. Sports should help with your health, and not make you feel bad for eating something unhealthy every now and then.

High school wrestlers remind me of prisoners. If you heard the long conversations we used to have in our locker room about food we wished we could eat, you would think it was a prisoner talking about the first meal they would eat when they get out. We used to talk about how excited we were for the season to be over, so our life could go back to normal. Our whole life was consumed by wrestling because we had to think twice before eating or drinking.

These conversations only happened between my teammates and me who had to watch or cut weight during the whole season. The wrestlers who did not have to cut weight always seemed to be happy and not mind the tough practices. Cutting weight ruined the sport for many of my teammates and me.

SPORTS SHOULD HELP WITH YOUR HEALTH, AND NOT MAKE YOU FEEL BAD FOR EATING SOMETHING UNHEALTHY EVERY NOW AND THEN

Purposefully not eating is one of the most common.

When you walked into the high school cafeteria, it was super easy to spot the wrestlers. Sixty percent of the wrestling team were not eating lunch because they had to make a certain weight and knew that if they were heavy, our coach would get angry and make us run more. Sometimes, I went 24 hours without eating in order to make the weight, and I know some of my teammates had gone even longer. Not eating will also make you tired, because food gives you energy.

When I was weight cutting, I would always get the “Are you okay?” or “You look tired” comments from random people. I was so tired and exhausted because nothing was fueling my body, which affected everything in my life. My grades would always drop during wrestling season because of how demanding wrestling was, which also caused me to always be tired. This never happened during my tennis or soccer season. My relationships with others would also fade in the winter too; I had no real desire to hang with my friends if I could just sleep instead.

It was like when wrestling season started, I would ghost and turn into a whole new person.

Overexercising was super common too. We would practice for two and a half hours, five days a week. Almost all of us had to get an additional workout in because we felt it was necessary. Most of us would go for a run in the

People who see no real issue in weight cutting say, “It’s just part of the sport.” The problem is that it should not be part of the sport if it's not going to do you any good down the road. The best outcome for any high school wrestler is to get some type of scholarship for wrestling.

In reality, most people do not go on to wrestle in college; I have only seen one of my teammates go on and wrestle in college, meaning that the other 50 people I wrestled with never did anything else with the sport. For all the wrestlers who did not go on to wrestle in college, we hurt our own bodies and sacrificed so much in high school.

If there were strict rules regarding weight cutting, then everyone would be on the same playing field and no one would have to starve themselves or take part in the other unhealthy practices involved in weight cutting. Wrestling allowed me to meet some cool people and have some good memories, but the guilt I feel every time I eat something unhealthy is not justified.

31

PHOTO BY LAVANYA GUPTA, MUMBAI, INDIA

HEALTH

ARTICLE BY MADELINE MCDANIEL, SCOTTSDALE, AZ

My eyelids opened softly.

My pupils carefully adjusted to the natural light that the window let in above my bed.

I lifted my head from the plush pillow beneath me and immediately noticed the once-faded humming of a cooling machine positioned on the floor beside my bed. My focus shifted to its plastic, fluid-filled tubes interweaving the solid plastic base.

My eyes followed a particular tube that traced its way up to my bedding and connected to a cushion that encased my elevated left foot. The intervals of the icy fluid flowing into the cushion caused it to swell and tightly wrap itself around my foot as if to embrace it, and then would return to its lifeless state. I bent down to the large solid base of the buzzing machine and flipped the switch. At that moment, the constant rush of fluid traveling throughout the intertwining veins, the monotonous murmur, and the pulsating cushion at the base of my lower extremity ceased to exist; it now remained indefinitely in its once-temporary, lifeless state.

This machine cohabited my room for over a month and reminded me of my new reality.

32

Not bearing any weight on my left foot after my surgery forced every day to repeat itself. I would wake up and proceed to listen to the minutes tick by from the comfort of my mattress until the day yawned into dusk. Recovery is relatively simple, in theory; however, I navigated through one of the most complex periods of my life in complete and utter darkness.

results of another patient who went through a similar situation and noted that their foot made a full recovery after the first procedure. I felt the glimmer of hope in my eyes slowly start to diminish. He concluded the appointment by introducing the research he had done for the next procedure. In hopes of finally eliminating this malady, he selected all of the varied techniques possible.

I went into my ultimate procedure with mediocre expectations, not due to pessimism, but because I had endured three surgeries in the past year tackling this infirmity on my heel, the latest one taking place a little over two weeks prior. At the commencement of that year, my eyes were wide open, ready to take on that first procedure. My intuition told me that everything would proceed smoothly.

“Why me? What have I done?” I pondered, desperately seeking an answer. I could see the tunnel’s light slip further and further away. I wondered if I could even recognize faith’s soft brilliance after all of this trouble.

I remember going to a post-op appointment and discussing my foot’s status with the podiatrist.

“Maddy, you’re embarrassing me as a podiatrist! It was embarrassing to have to perform this surgery on your foot twice, but now a third time?”

The doctor teased me as he studied the incision at the center of my heel.

I sat in silent disbelief. He shared the

The third procedure went accordingly, and that light began to ease its way back into my peripheral, giving me strength.

Shortly thereafter, the fourth and final procedure took place. By then, the initial steps of recovery were routine for me. My mother unwrapped the tight bandage from my foot. Our jaws hit the floor. We could not take our eyes off it — the monstrosity. A nickel-sized crater exposing deep dermis tissue sat at the center of my pale heel; yellow fluid oozing from it. The area of sickly skin under the bandage wrinkled as if suffocated

HEALTH from the mysterious bodily fluid that seeped from the pit, while dried blood stained the surrounding sections brown and the other layers closer to the cavity blue and red.

With my experience thus far, I knew how my heel should look right after an operation: a circle of cauterized tissue resting on the surface of my fresh, pink skin. But this result was unbeknownst to me.

My mother’s reaction did not help.

She tried to mask her bewilderment, but alas, I knew instantly and, whether we wanted to admit it, something was wrong.

Thundering clouds of doubt billowed over my vision, thickening with each day I spent lying on my bed, and every appointment with different specialists providing their varying professional opinions of which steps to take to heal my foot. Still, no one could give me the answer I longed for: Why? The fog engulfed me. I wanted to wave a white flag and inform everyone that I would no longer deal with the stress of this atrocity, this plague. Although it seemed ideal, I knew that I could not resort to that option. Did I go through months of anguish just to give up restoring my decayed heel because the uncertainty disappointed me? How pathetic. Quitting never aligned with my morals. My conscience witnessed the hopelessness and reminded the rest of my being that even the mere possibility of a full recovery should suffice and propel me forward in this journey. I staggered on.

I was a sophomore in high school with only one month left of classes.

I persevered because of finals, even though I could not walk. The reward of basking in the sweet freedom of summer motivated me. For the next month, I carried on as usual except with a foot encased by a bulky plastic boot, propped up on a bright blue metal scooter with a plush white cushion. Of course, as a self-conscious teenager, I sensed that this new vehicle subjected me to utter humiliation. However, I soon noticed its perks when I habitually left my classes five minutes early and

rode on the elevator. While rolling around brought its benefits, the question of how long this lifestyle would last lingered.

Per the request of a reconstructive plastic surgeon, I got an MRI. An urgent skin graft was the following step in the stranger’s plan. These two steps were only a few days apart.

The day before the scheduled operation, my mother’s colleagues advised her and me to get one last opinion from this other surgeon.

Emergency visits exhausted my frail sight of hope, yet I strung along.

What did he just say? Did I hear that correctly?

“I don’t need my scooter?” I clarified.

“No. You can throw that thing away,” he responded with a chuckle.

How could he be so nonchalant about this groundbreaking discovery? This vehicle guided me through the blur. But now, I discovered that I did not need it to do so? For how long?

“And, you shouldn’t get that skin graft tomorrow; you’ll completely mess up the feeling in your foot,” he

RECOVERY IS RELATIVELY SIMPLE, IN THEORY; HOWEVER, I NAVIGATED THROUGH ONE OF THE MOST COMPLEX PERIODS OF MY LIFE IN COMPLETE AND UTTER DARKNESS We entered the waiting room of his office. The atmosphere was peculiar to the others — welcoming. Plaques, awards, and magazines recognizing his performance decorated the walls; their flashy, gaudy colors enticed me to read them. They all mentioned a similar headline, crediting his work since the ’90s.

A medical assistant brought us to an exam room and provided us with the usual introductory questionnaire.

She left and about 10 minutes later the surgeon walked in and introduced himself. He surveyed the cratering wound on my sole, and we gave him the rundown of the chaos, with hand motions and excessive details. I watched his head nod with an intent ear, yet his expression ceased to change as the story went on. After the performance, he turned his attention to my scooter in the corner.

“You don’t need that thing,” he proclaimed.

interrupted my overflowing stream of thoughts. “You would basically have the foot of a diabetic.”

His quick analysis rejuvenated my sight, my optimism. I could not explain why, but my intuition pleaded for me to trust him. We canceled the operation as he recommended and followed his orders of maintenance for my botched foot. It consisted of meticulous cleaning, iodine staining, and patience. His instructions led to a surprisingly rapid recovery with the end product of a healed sole.

I always appreciate reflecting on this period of my life because it demonstrates moments that left me feeling lost and feeble, reasonably so, but I never allowed myself to cave into the pressures of those moments. When I peered at my heel and saw the flat surface of scar tissue, relief and pride overcame me. Persevering not only regenerated my foot, but also my optimism’s luster.

33

POINTS OF VIEW

GUN CONTROL A Time for Chang ARTICLE BY MANAV YARLAGADDA, IRVING, TX

ARTWORK BY RANA EZELDIN, CAIRO, EGYPT 34

34

ge

POINTS OF VIEW

May 24th was just another day for the children at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas. The school year was almost finished and summer was just around the corner. But, what started as a bright and sunny day ended as a gloomy nightmare.

An 18-year-old shooter maliciously entered the school and killed 19 students and two teachers in a tragic display of gun violence.

Unfortunately, gun control has been one of the most controversial topics in America during the 21st century, leading to several political debates over the continuity of firearms. Year after year, gun crime rates drastically increase and the debate continues to rage on. Yet, the dilemma of gun control still hasn’t been solved. While there has recently finally been some action in Congress to address gun control, it is not clear whether this action will have promising results. As the debate intensifies, people are left to pick between two divided sides, one supporting the removal of firearms altogether and the other supporting the continued sale and use of firearms. However, this article will not be focused on these two sides. Rather, this article will focus on several proven solutions that America could implement consistently. Several of these solutions have been outlined by various countries in their journey to address gun violence.

Before we discuss possible solutions to gun violence in America, it is important to understand why removing all firearms is not viable. Even though outlawing all firearms is very enticing and justified, especially with the outbreak of recent gun violence, it is just not feasible. Guns are commonly found

and used throughout America, making it very hard to completely outlaw all guns.

If America was to prohibit all firearms, a new black market for trading illegal guns would most likely arise. This could have pronounced effects on the economy.

Nevertheless, this is not an excuse for America to sit still and not address the issue of gun violence. It is time for action and change.

One of the strictest when it comes to gun control, Japan has drastically dropped its gun crime rate to virtually zero. According to Statista, in 2021, Japan only had 10 total incidents related to the firing of firearms.

Compared to the United States, Japan is miles ahead when it comes to gun control

OUTLAWING FIREARMS IS ENTICING, ESPECIALLY WITH THE OUTBREAK OF RECENT GUN VIOLENCE, BUT IT IS JUST NOT FEASIBLE because of its disciplined approach. To possess a gun, Japanese citizens must participate in a written exam, shooting exam, mental health evaluation, drug test, background test, and character references from family and friends. On top of all this, gun licenses must be renewed every three years. This arduous process keeps the Japanese people safe from gun violence and could be a model for possible U.S. gun control solutions.

35

POINTS OF VIEW

Could Have Been Me Starting school in 2009.

274 school shootings And one could have been me.

I could have been the face on the screen A picture trapped in time a future unseen.

1,536 people killed A Dreamer, a doer, a world changer All taken away by one common stranger It could have been me Taken away It could have been my parents Begging me to stay Children Whose stories are now closed But I make sure their stories Never go untold.

BY EMMA REIDY, LOUISVILLE, KY

36

Another possible example the United States could look upon is one of its closest allies, the United Kingdom. According to World Population Review, the firearm-related death per 100 people in Great Britain, in 2022, is the ninth lowest, at 0.23. To achieve this remarkable phenomenon, the United Kingdom enacts a tough, but fair, firearm certificate process. According to Max Fisher of The New York Times, to obtain a firearm certificate in the UK, the citizen must have a valid reason (not including self-defense), undergo background checks, and must have two character references.

Because of their strong relationship, it should be highly encouraged for the United States to learn from the United Kingdom’s gun control process and generate a possible solution.

The last example of strict gun control mentioned in this article is Australia. Australia is often characterized by having one of the most straightforward responses to gun control, a response America could use.

According to Zack Beauchamp of Vox, from 1996 to 1997, under a government buyback program, Australia collected 650,000 privately owned firearms. In addition to the buyback program, Australia’s NFA (National Firearms Agreement) heavily

restricted gun ownership, required permits, banned automatic and semi-automatic rifles, etc. In a 2011 study by David Hemenway and Mary Vriniotis of Harvard University, the firearm homicide rate decreased by 42 percent in Australia, seven years after the buyback program.

Clearly proven, Australia’s direct approach could heavily benefit America and quickly decrease gun violence.

In the end, whether it’s background checks, character references, buyback programs, written/shooting exams, or mental health evaluations, America has a plethora of options and combinations of gun laws to choose from. Even after reading this article, some people may continue to argue that implementing strict gun control laws is unreasonable as it is the mentally unstable people who are at fault, not the firearms. However, this statement is wrong because firearms provide a method for mentally unstable people to express violence. If guns were strictly regulated, these instances of violence would be severely reduced. Ultimately, innocent lives are lost to gun violence each year. It is time for justice to be given to grieving families. It is time to implement new gun control laws and protect the American people.

ARTWORK BY BROOKE NOVINGER, COLUMBIA, MO

POINTS OF OF VIEW VIEW POINTS

"Flexistential" ARTWORK BY YEONY JUNG, DUBAI MARINA, UAE I didn’t think twice when my mother handed me a new pair of Air Force 1s with the Christian Dior Oblique monogram printed on them. She has impeccable fashion sense and an eye for trends, so I put them snugly on my feet and went to school as normal.

As soon as I stepped on campus, however, something changed. Like enchanted talismans, the shoes drew people toward me, their eyes filled with awe. “Are those Dior and Nike collaboration shoes? How did you get them? I heard that they are impossible to find!” One boy asked me in astonishment. At first, I enjoyed this feeling; it was the first time I felt popular at school.

However, as the day went on I realized that the attention I was receiving was not because of my character as a person, but due to the expensive nature of my shoes.

Flexing — or the act of flaunting luxury items — has been around for ages. However, in recent years it has become common for luxury brands such as Gucci, Chanel, and Balenciaga to target younger teenagers, from advertising thousand-dollar “skateboard shoes” to outrageously overpriced tracksuits and backpacks.

Upon first seeing influencers such as Kylie Jenner and Gabi DeMartino post these items, teens responded with enthusiasm, giving greater rise to the now ubiquitous “flex” culture that permeates our schools and social media feeds.

At first glance, this culture could be reduced to simply showing off. However, the problem lies in the psycho-

Crisis

ARTICLE BY EVA CHOI, HIGHTSTOWN, NJ

logical impact that flexing has on teenagers. One’s teenage years are highly impressionable, as we are generally preoccupied with the urge to fit in with our peers. The added pressure and expense of keeping up with the latest luxury items not only excludes those from less privileged backgrounds, but also instills the wrong values — namely, superficiality and judgment.

Instead of centering our friendships on the content of one’s character, we focus instead on one another’s outward appearance and social clout. In the short-term, this affects a teenager’s confidence. In the long-term, it could lead to severely dysfunctional relationships and a lack of personal fulfillment.

When I returned home that day, I politely handed the shoes back to my mom. It wasn’t her fault that the shoes she’d bought had such a high resale value, and she was in near disbelief when I told her so. “I had no idea they were so rare!” She said, putting them back into the shoebox. “But are you sure you don’t want to keep them?”

The temptation gleamed back at me from the Pandora’s Box on our table. Why not? The shoes seemed to say. Put us on! But sticking to my principles, I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. “The Oblique monogram is nice,” I said. “But honestly, they’re not the right fit. I’ll wear them when I’m older and surrounded by people who will see me for who I am as a person and not for what I’m wearing,” I continued, and my mom nodded in agreement as well. And with that, I had gotten over my “Flexistential” crisis.

37

BOOK REVIEWS

BOOK REVIEWS

PARANORMAL/FANTASY

38

again, I felt obligated to give it a try.

Maybe it’d even surprise me with some ominous elements? Well, as it turned out, I didn’t abandon my dreams because Vicious was delightfully what the title implies.

At Lockland University, Victor Vale was working on a thesis for his required science course. The task was rudimentary to Victor, whose intellectual supremacy allowed him to complete such things with ease. Being a pre-med student, it was also easy to pick his thesis based on his interests.

Adrenal inducers. A safe, straightforward topic for Victor. Well, compared to Victor’s best friend Eli’s topic, anything would be.

Vicious

by V.E. Schwab

REVIEW BY KYRA VOJVODICH, PEWAUKEE, WI In my search for my next read, all I was certain of was that I wanted something disturbing.

The main question I wrestled with was what type of disturbing. A splatterpunk horror? A psychological thriller? A somber commentary on society? Unfortunately, finding a book that could hold my atten-

EOs. ExtraOrdinaries. What circumstances could create a being that functions on a superior level to other humans?

Purely hypothetical, of course.

However, when Victor notes Eli’s passion for the thesis, he needs to involve himself, needs to understand what drives Eli, and needs to feel connected to him. This need leads Victor to pose the question that would lead to his ruin: what if the thesis wasn’t hypothetical?

Vicious masters the art of playing with its reader’s patience. The book starts ominously in the time of “last night” where the reader is introduced to a 10-year post-college Victor with no context as to how he

SCHWAB SUCCESSFULLY CREATES TENSION BETWEEN THE READER AND THE PAGES OF THE BOOK, COMPELLING THEM TO READ ON WITH THE URGENT PURPOSE OF UNCOVERING MORE DETAILS ABOUT THE PAST tion and befit a 16-year-old was a difficult task. So, begrudgingly abandoning my dream of being scared by a piece of literature, I looked into more tame options.

I had been aware of Vicious for months and had always been intrigued by the premise. So, when I stumbled upon it

ended up where he is. In no time at all, the reader is transported back to Lockland University, where a college-aged Victor gives a glimpse into the events leading up to his current situation. By alternating the timeline with each chapter, V.E. Schwab successfully creates tension between the reader and the pages of the book, compelling them to read on with the urgent

BOOK REVIEWS purpose of uncovering more details about the past.

The book is not only captivating in the way it’s structured, but also in the composition of the characters.

The third-person omniscient narration provides access to characters’ thoughts and feelings. Victor, the main focus of the narrator’s omniscient powers, is presented in a way that allows the reader to question his morality. If there’s anything that adds the unease I yearned for to a story, it’s when you don’t trust the character you’re meant to sympathize most with. Schwab creates this distrust tastefully, initially portraying the thoughts of past Victor that seem just a little abnormal, and using that to build up to his character’s inevitable development.

builds a comprehension of characters that causes the reader to reluctantly sympathize.

Vicious quickly became one of my favorite reads of this year, and it’s easy to say I’d recommend it to anyone who hunts for a book you can’t seem to put down. You’ll find a fast-paced plot with intriguing characters you can’t help but like — albeit probably shouldn’t — and a gritty, fictional world that’s reminiscent of a classic superhero comic universe.

YA REALISTIC FICTION

love measured in units as large as oceans, and accepting change in a fast-paced teenage life. Naturally, I adored this novel. I’ve always found resonance in reading coming-of-age books about overcoming ethnic barriers. I am left with a sense of hope

I AM LEFT WITH A SENSE OF HOPE AND WELL-BEING WHEN PEOPLE OF COLOR, ESPECIALLY TEENAGERS, FIND THEIR PLACE — EVEN IF IT’S JUST IN A BOOK. and well-being when people of color, especially teenagers, eventually find their place — even if it’s just in a book. Throughout the novel, protagonist Shirin faces challenges about her ethnicity, the way she dresses, looks, and her personality. Yet, as the plot progresses, the reader watches Shirin grow and become integrated within her community without

Despite many other powerful components, the crowning achievement of Vicious is its way of making the reader question what is good and evil. Even through the unease her writing instills, Schwab somehow managed to get me to sympathize with questionable characters.

Once again, the omniscient narrator added merit to the impact of the story, allowing the reader to see things from many points of view. This element made it virtually impossible to say whether a character was strictly good or bad. With their perspective to consider, I often found myself understanding their motives. In this way, Vicious had all I wanted in a book, making me question my own values and morals because of my sympathies with the characters.

REVIEW BY JIANING ZHOU, SHANGHAI, CHINA

Altogether, Vicious is a tale that captures its readers with its suspense. Through the use of excellent setting and character building, Schwab conveys an undertone of superiority in her characters that plays smoothly into the extraordinary elements. Her descriptive passages create a visceral portrayal of physical sensations for the reader, which, along with the narration,

When I first read the title of this book, A Very Large Expanse of Sea, written by Tahereh Mafi, amusingly, I assumed it would be about global warming or an environmental tragedy. Yet, as I read, I was surprised at the coming-of-age story about a Muslim teen. To put it in overly simplified fragments that don’t justify its immaculacy, it was a concoction of reasonless hatred, bold and unforgiving individuality,

changing who she truly is.

A Very Large Expanse of Sea

by Tahereh Mafi

As a teenager growing up attending an international school, people around me assumed that every student was accepted regardless of their skin color. My parents, grandparents, and friends believe that school is a delightful place because students of different backgrounds will eventually learn to get along.

But, unfortunately, that’s only partially true. The other half of the unexpected truth is that the dominant race can sometimes be discriminated against in their native “home,” having been uncovered and exploited centuries ago by British colonizers when they captured native Americans’ homes and shot them in their own territory. Though significantly less prominent and extreme, the inherent discrimination prevails today. It is conveyed seamlessly in Tahereh Mafi’s coming-of-age novel, A Very Large Expanse of Sea. 39

BOOK REVIEWS I felt a connection with Shirin from page four — we share non-conventional and seemingly unpronounceable names. Tahereh Mafi perfectly illustrates exotic names’ awkwardness, “’Now — forgive me if I’m saying this incorrectly — but is it — Sharon?’ He looked up and looked me directly in the eye. I said, ‘It’s Shirin.’ Students turned to look at me again. ‘Ah.’ My teacher, Mr. Webber, didn’t try to pronounce my name again. ‘Welcome.’”

Mafi did not directly say that Shirin was uncomfortable with how the teacher questioned her name.

Instead, she chooses to show us through the actions of the other students in the room, and how they took the opportunity to scrutinize the uniqueness of Shirin’s appearance. It was apparent throughout the novel how Mafi described not only students but also teachers as, perhaps unintentionally, discriminatory toward students of color. We sometimes ignore this issue in our daily lives, as we assume that bullying occurs only between students. The truth is, sometimes adults can do equal harm — if not more.

ARTWORK BY AKHILA MUSHINI, NORTH ATTLEBOROUGH, MA

40

On the other hand, Mafi gives a more explicit example of discrimination from students on campus on page 132, where she writes, “someone, very suddenly, threw a half-eaten cinnamon roll at my face.”

Furthermore, when a peer took a picture of Shirin without her headscarf on without her permission, “Whoever did this had wanted only to unmask me without my permission, to humiliate me by intentionally undermining a decision I’d made to keep some parts of me for just myself. They’d wanted to take away the power I thought I had over my own body” (Mafi 135).

view relationships and their entire childhood and upbringing. For Ocean, Shirin’s picture-perfect boyfriend, “He spent the next few years trying to keep his mom from crying all the time and that, eventually, they switched roles; one day he’d become the responsible one while she sort of collapsed inward and lost track of everyone but herself.” Mafi indicates the overwhelming and unfair responsibilities that Ocean had to face and how he managed to overcome those challenges — by confronting his mother, standing by his decision to date Shirin, and thriving as a stu-

THE READER WATCHES SHIRIN GROW AND BECOME INTEGRATED WITHIN HER COMMUNITY WITHOUT CHANGING WHO SHE TRULY IS These disrespectful and inconsiderate actions bear the heavy weight of arbitrary discrimination and hatred against foreign people or things, xenophobia.

Furthermore, Mafi addresses the theme of parental relationships and how one’s parents’ relationship status may influence the way they

dent and athlete despite them.

Mafi continues to inspect teenage life when she writes about the ever-changing and unpredictability of school, friends, and love. “In the end, the thing that broke us apart wasn’t all the hatred. It wasn’t the racists or the a**holes. I was moving again.” I’ve lived in the same city and attended the same school with

BOOK REVIEWS relatively the same people for the past eight years. The mere thought of moving scares me, yet sometimes it seems that change is a vital and unavoidable part of life. So, despite challenges and unforeseeable changes in the next four years, somehow, we manage to learn, adapt, and enjoy the life we live.

And somehow, that is enough for the time being.

HISTORICAL FICTION

life is spattered with tragedy, it is also filled with joy and self-discovery.

The book is written entirely in letters from the perspective of Bess, this leaves us to infer the words and actions of the character between the time of the letters. This unique style of writing gives us a look into Bess’ deepest thoughts and feelings.

Throughout the book, Bess is a strong feminist, sometimes without even knowing it. She is years ahead of her time with her ideas of what a woman can and can’t do. Her progressive views of marriage were refreshing and surprising for a book set in a time when women had very little say in these things — “Why are women so afraid they are risking the affection of their husbands by asserting their independence” (Forsythe Hailey 55). The first hint of this motif

extreme tragedy I could feel her sadness — “Injustice makes villains of us all, and I am afraid I am going to lose more than my husband before I find enough charity in my heart to forgive those whose only sin is that they are still alive” (Forsythe Hailey 171). When reading the letters, I felt as if I was in each of the character’s shoes, and I imagined how I would feel if I had received this letter. This is a testament to the transformative atmosphere Forsythe Hailey creates through her writing.

One aspect of the book that had me wondering is Bess’ wealth — she was born into money and was wealthy throughout the book. If Bess had not had these resources, would she have had the same realizations, or would her personal growth have been stunted by her financial situation?

SHE IS YEARS AHEAD OF HER TIME WITH HER IDEAS OF WHAT A WOMAN CAN AND CAN’T DO

A Women of Independent Means

by Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey

REVIEW BY ANONYMOUS, PORTLAND, OR A Woman of Independent Means

by Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey is set in the early 1900s and follows the extraordinary life of Elizabeth “Bess” Steed. The book starts with Bess as a young girl and spans to her as a great-grandmother. We follow Bess through what life is like as a woman, wife, and mother; we go through her life and all the trials and tribulations that life throws at her. Though her

is the title of the book. A Woman of Independent Means gives us a characteristic of Bess before we even meet her. She is independent and can not only take care of herself, but also provide for herself and her family; she is free from the restraints of her husband. Her feminist ideas continue throughout her life, as she encourages women to drive and becomes a partner in her husband’s business. She passes these ideas down to her daughter when she cautions her about what man she marries.

My absolute favorite part of the book is the phenomenal portrayal of the human experience and human emotion. Forsythe Hailey’s ability to make you relate to Bess’ emotions is unlike anything I have ever read. I highlighted so many quotes that captured the human experience with frightening accuracy. When Bess is facing

Bess does willingly admit “I am determined to give my children all the advantages of wealth and position if only to prove how meaningless they are” (Forsythe Hailey 89). Would Bess feel this way if she did not have access to the resources that she did? Class and status had so much to do with how you were seen in society at that time, especially if you were a woman. It is an aspect of the book that I would have liked to see explored a little more.

Overall, A Woman of Independent Means by Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey kept me turning the pages with the simple story of Bess’ life. The simplicity and realness is this book’s best strength. I would highly recommend reading this book and taking the time to learn a new perspective.

41

MOVIE REVIEWS

MOVIE REVIEWS

42

DRAMA/BIOGRAPHY

A BROADWAY SHOW, A MOVIE, AND A BIOGRAPHICAL DOCUMENTARY ALL AT THE SAME TIME side jobs to pay rent, questioning their career constantly, living in battered apartments … the list goes on. Andrew Garfield plays Jonathan Larson in the film, and he perfectly encapsulates the feelings of the protagonist — dreading the future, frustrated with failure, wondering if he made the right choices, and desperately trying to balance work with his social life. His performance, while dramatic, is authentic and thrilling.

Tick, Tick... Boom!

REVIEW BY SIDNEY HEBERLEIN, HARTLAND, WI I have never been a huge fan of biographies, especially those about people who did things that don’t interest me, such as writing books or composing musicals. I am much more interested in math and science than the arts. So, when I sat down to watch “Tick, Tick… Boom!,” a film about the life of famous Broadway musical writer Jonathan Larson, I was not expecting to relate to the story or any of the characters, or even to like it much at all. Nonetheless, I gave it a chance due to praise from my friends.

The movie begins with a sentimental song about growing older and feeling like you are running out of time. The kind of song that makes you question your own life, leaving you thinking for days. Immediately, I was shocked. Was I really relating to an actor, of all people?

Although it may be difficult to follow at times, the overall story is captivating and emotional. “Tick, Tick… Boom!” puts you in the shoes of struggling actors — working

The downside to this amazing film is that, at one point, the main character can be unlikeable due to his actions. In a biography-type film that wants you to root for the protagonist, this may be problematic.

While this may deter some from finishing the film, it is deeply realistic, which makes it even more relatable. During my first watch of the movie, I was upset at the main character, and couldn’t understand the reason behind his actions and thoughts.

However, once I really put myself in his shoes, I began to comprehend his struggles and even sympathized with him.

The best part of the movie is the music.

Even my friends who hated the story and characters admit that the music is top-tier.

Though some songs are fast-paced and uplifting, while others are slow and sentimental, they all beautifully tell the stories of real-life experiences — such as anxiously moving into a new place or longingly reflecting on your past, taking you on a roller coaster through the full spectrum of emotions. They will have you humming them for weeks after listening.

Even if you don’t like musicals, the film gives you the experience of a Broadway show, a movie, and a biographical documentary all at the same time. There really is something for everyone to like. I was pleasantly surprised that I enjoyed every minute of the film. “Tick, Tick… Boom!” is a captivating and relatable movie. I would recommend it to anyone.

MOVIE REVIEWS SCI-FI/HORROR

Invasion of the Body Snatchers REVIEW BY EVAN FALLS, BRISTOW, VA Don Siegel’s 1956 film, “Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” is a classic motion picture that most people are likely familiar with, even if they haven’t officially seen it before. The story is simple enough, yet has stood the test of time through a plethora of references in modern television and popular culture. Particularly in American society, it is often cited as a cautionary allegory for an abrasive takeover of the United States by an alien and malignant ideology (ostensibly Communism). Though it was concocted in a tumultuous period in American history (The Red Scare), and it certainly works as an anti-Communist propaganda piece, the film’s overarching themes are conveyed broadly. They express a universally appreciated message absent in any political subtext: autonomy and individualism are the most valuable and endangered human rights.

In the film, a county doctor, Miles Bennell, returns from a trip to find that the townsfolk he has known his entire life are no longer what they seem. The movie starts with the occasional, seemingly unsubstantiated, and excessively paranoid, rumor that a certain relative is “not themselves.” Then, the story intensifies with the discovery of a body replica of one of the living residents. As Miles descends further down the rabbit hole — discovering another duplicate body, and then the very alien seeds from which they propagate — he finds that a foreign enemy within their midst is multiplying, nobody is who they seem, and his small town is no longer a safe haven.

Miles’ downward spiral as he excavates the horrifying truth hidden in the familiar nooks and crannies of his hometown is excellently heightened by the rapid pacing. The film never feels dull or overly slow, and the frequency in which events occur compliments the intended tone beautifully. Moreover, the use of voice-over narration provides a greater sense of intimacy, as if we’re right alongside Miles while he navigates this hostile takeover.

A FOREIGN ENEMY WITHIN THEIR MIDST IS MULTIPLYING, NOBODY IS WHO THEY SEEM These automatons — or “pod people” — masquerade as the townsfolk and pursue Miles and Becky in a mindless herd, which hammers in this theme of animalistic, mass-consonance perfectly. I also adore the scene near the end in which Miles escapes the pod-people, only to herald his cautionary messages to dismissive drivers on the freeway. This is perhaps an indictment of the subset of emotionally bankrupt, unaware Americans who pay such an impending threat no heed, showing themselves

to already be pod people in a sense.

Considering the brief 80-minute runtime, I think the film did an excellent job establishing the characteristics of a few townsfolk early on; abruptly subverting our initial conception of those characters later, in order to eerily convey their transition into inhuman pod-people. For example, the beginning of the film shows an expressive and outspoken young boy who fears his own mother is an imposter, and thus displays a tremulous disposition. In the film’s second act, the boy is shown in Miles’ office and is strangely cured of such concerns — displaying a demeanor that is uncomfortably altered from his prior one. Should it have gone the “It’s a Wonderful Life” route — spending an exorbitant amount of time building up the local, natural dynamic of the protagonist with his surroundings — then I think that the conflict may have been further punctuated and proved more impactful. But again, it did remarkably well in that regard given its short runtime.

My main gripe with the film would be that some of the dialogue felt unnecessary, preachy, and overtly on-thenose. Additionally, the explanation as to how the duplicates take host of the authentic human form seems to fall flat nearing the conclusion. Aside from that, there’s not a whole lot that I can duly give this film heck for.

As someone who loves Don Siegel’s most renowned work, “Dirty Harry,” I am thoroughly impressed to find that “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”( which came out 15 years prior) lusters with the same magic touch that initially won my admiration for his directorial capabilities. It’s a hallmark of classic American cinema and old Hollywood, it delivers powerful themes that remain relevant to this day, and it is a must-watch for all movie-goers — especially enjoyers of the horror genre.

43

MUSIC REVIEWS

MUSIC REVIEWS

ALTERNATIVE HIP-HOP

44

Man on the Moon: The End of the Day

by Kid Cudi

REVIEW BY ELLA HARDTKELAUGHLIN, SUSSEX, WI I wasn’t expecting much from Kid Cudi’s first album, as music from artists tends to get better the more they create. To my utter surprise “Man on the Moon: The End of the Day (2009),” has to be my favorite pop-rap album ever created.

The album is an emotional rollercoaster that goes from drowning in depression, found in “Day ‘n’ Night,” to finding the

of his head. The album shows us his life, his hopes, and his dreams all in one. For example, songs on the album, like “Pursuit of Happiness (Nightmare),” allow us to see his fears. While it may not seem like these songs are the definition of vulnerability, putting yourself out to the world through music allows listeners to hear your backstory and grow to understand you beyond the surface, which is exactly what Kid Cudi does.

He doesn’t only express his emotions woven throughout the lyrics of his songs, he has real talks, almost like little memoirs before or after a few of his songs. These are not included in every song, but in about four or five throughout the track. The little 30-second memoirs of his life tell a quick summary of a story that relates to the song.

This adds to the depth of the meaning within the album and gives it a more personal experience. The listener has yet another thing to take away from the album in relation to their lives.

Not only is the story of the songs touching, but throughout all the songs you don’t only hear them through a speaker or your earbuds, you feel them from within. The music from the album seems to get that itch in your brain that you can’t quite reach, or that feeling you get in your heart when you know something is good. The songs have a great rhythm and lyrics that will have you nodding your head along. Saying these songs are “catchy” is an understate-

SAYING THESE SONGS ARE “CATCHY” IS AN UNDERSTATEMENT, YOU WILL WANT TO HAVE THESE SONGS PLAYING ON REPEAT courage to overcome mental illnesses, which can be heard in “Heart Of A Lion.”

The album is incredibly relatable; the listener is able to connect themselves to the music and know that in this world they don’t have to be alone.

The extent of the album’s ability to draw the listener in doesn’t just stop there. From the first track to the last, you can truly understand the story of Kid Cudi. You can feel his emotions and almost see inside

ment — you will want to have these songs playing on repeat throughout your day.

If you are like me and enjoy the thrill of music and a heartfelt story to go along with it, then “Man on the Moon: The End of the Day” is for you. The story inspires people to know they aren’t alone in their journey through life, all we have to do is go “Up Up & Away.”

MUSIC REVIEWS INDIE ROCK

Stranger in the Alps

by Phoebe Bridgers

REVIEW BY EMILY BRELAND, CANNON FALLS, MN In September of 2021, I saw Phoebe Bridgers in person for the first time.

So of course when she walked on stage I just stood there in shock for a while, as any crazy fangirl would.

But when it eventually stopped feeling so surreal to me, I had the best night of my life. My favorite songs she’s created are from her album “Stranger in the Alps.” So, I am going to be reviewing my top five songs from this album.

“Motion Sickness” is the second track on the album and Phoebe’s most popular song ever released.

“Motion Sickness” is about emotional exhaustion from holding onto hatred toward someone she used to love. The line “I hate you for what

song. I feel that the immediate kick of emotion when the song starts is what has gotten people so hooked on this song. Phoebe continues to do this throughout the rest of her music, and it makes it nearly impossible to stop listening.

The next song on the album is “Funeral.” The song starts with Phoebe introducing the sad fact that she is singing at a funeral the next day. Then, the song takes a turn toward how sad she has been her entire life; but it all leads back to her feeling guilty about being sorry for herself when someone else’s kid is dead. Carrying on with the theme of guilt, she feels sorry for all the bad habits she has that make it as if she’s taking her life for granted.

“Funeral” is an incredible song confronting conflict and confusion with oneself. A lot of this song seems hopeless, which I feel resonates with a lot of teenagers in the modern age.

“Killer” is easily my favorite song on the album because of how many beautifully morbid layers it has to it.

It expresses a fear of being a “killer,” or at least a metaphorical one; and not only that but the fear of scaring the person they love away because of it. Overall, it’s a love song with strong elements of life and death, which adds mortality to it that makes it even more heart-wrenching. There are two versions of this song, the first is on the “Killer” EP, and the second is on “Stranger in the Alps.” The most noticeable difference is that one is guitar and the other is piano. I’ve never been

I FEEL AS IF I COULD WRITE ABOUT THIS SONG FOREVER, BUT IN CONCLUSION, I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS SONG AND CONSIDER IT LIFE-CHANGING you did, but I miss you like a little kid” is easily one of the most heartbreaking lines of the entire album, and it’s the opening line to this

able to decide which one I like better because they are both equally amazing. I feel as if I could write about this song forever, but in

conclusion, I love everything about this song and consider it life-changing.

“Georgia” is another song that was originally on the “Killer” EP. She wrote this song when she was only 16 years old, which only makes it that much more impressive. Georgia is the name of the mother of the boy she was in love with at the time.

A HEARTBREAKING ALBUM THAT DIVES INTO MENTAL ILLNESS IN YOUNG PEOPLE AND THE DARK MOMENTS OF BECOMING AN ADULT The entire song is written to her in the second person. It’s obvious that the boy cares about his mother a lot, and Phoebe wants to be accepted by her. In one of the lines in “Georgia,” she says, “if I fix you, will you hate me?” I interpret this as Phoebe wanting to change Georgia to be more accepting of her or the people she cares about in context with the rest of the song. When I was at her concert, she wasn’t originally supposed to play this song but the crowd convinced her.

The last and longest song on the album is “You Missed My Heart.” It’s about an attempted murder in the rage and jealousy of losing someone she loved. Now, Phoebe didn’t try to kill anyone, so writing this song was probably a way of coping with losing and missing this person. The words “you missed my heart” are said repeatedly, and most times mockingly throughout the song by multiple characters in the story it tells. “You Missed My Heart” is mostly about confronting a lost love 45

MUSIC REVIEWS that was missed to the point of insanity. It has such a longing element of nostalgia in multiple parts of the song, which only adds to how incredibly sad it is.

“Stranger in the Alps” is a heartbreaking album that dives into mental illness in young people and dark moments throughout the becoming of an adult. Every song on this album means a lot to me, even the ones that didn’t make my top five. So, I recommend this album to anyone teenage or older. Even my mom listens to Phoebe Bridgers, and she also went to her concert with me. I wish I had known about Phoebe Bridgers earlier, so I’m telling you about her now, so you won’t miss out more than you already have.

R&B/HIP-HOP

Kauai

by Childish Gambino

REVIEW BY BEN FISCHER, WYCKOFF, NJ “Kauai” is Childish Gambino’s seventh mixtape and second EP. Following the release of “Because the Internet,” Gambino decided to release a shorter album with a much lighter feel to it.

The album is made up of seven songs 46

and includes features from Jaden Smith, Christian Rich, and Steve Glover. “Kauai” shows off Gambino’s versatility as he barely raps throughout the album, but he also maintains the storyline he created through his previous albums.

The album starts off with the track “Sober.” This song sets the tone for the rest of the album. It is very

LOVE, NOSTALGIA, AND RELIANCE ON OTHERS upbeat and uptempo, but it has an underlying message of love and addiction. Gambino repeats the line, “And now that it’s over, I’ll never be sober — I couldn’t believe, but now I’m so high.” Gambino is inferring that he needs drugs to be happy because his relationship is now over.

In the music video, Gambino circles around the girl at a restaurant, and she doesn’t seem to notice him.

Most likely, he is hallucinating and he is not with the girl at all.

The song symbolizes this craziness with a loud beat drop. The song becomes chaotic with bass, drums, and chanting all playing at the same time. The track then begins to calm down, and a woman begins to sing. In the video, the girl starts to notice Gambino and she smiles.

This moment is short though, as she leaves the store right after. Gambino finally sits down and begins to think to himself. The song begins to fade away and the mood becomes happy again. Gambino has finally come to the realization that his life isn’t so bad, and that he can try to get his girl back. “Sober” is the most played song on the album and rightfully so. It is very catchy and has a deeper meaning than many people might think.

The second track is titled “Pop

Thieves (Make It Feel Good).” The song starts with birds chirping and waves crashing, setting the “island” theme for the album. Gambino sings about his love for a girl. He talks about always wanting to be with her, and that he needs her love all the time. Unlike the previous song, Gambino does not need drugs to be high, he sings ​​“You make me feel so high, oh no.” Now that he is in love again, he does not need drugs to make him happy. The beat of the song contains bongos, maracas, and synths giving it a “tribal” feel.

The song then transitions to the sound of waves crashing and bongos in the background. Jaden Smith begins to talk and reminisces about the times he had with this girl. He talks about sleeping on the beach and writing poems about her.

He finishes his monologue by talking about how he misses her and needs to see her again. This outro ends the song perfectly. Jaden Smith talks about love, nostalgia, and reliance on others.

The next track is called “Retro (Rough).” This is a remix of Gambino’s song “Love Is Crazy,” from his 2008 mixtape “Sick Boi.” This is the only track where Gambino truly raps, and it contains some very memorable lyrics including, “Royalty, I’m the boss, we ain’t gotta work” and “This is World War Three, I’m the new Jay-Z I ain’t write sh*t down, I’ma steal that crown.” This song does not add to the storyline, but it adds to the album as a whole. It fits into the nostalgia theme because it gives listeners a throwback to one of his older songs and it is a very happy “summertime” song.

In “The Palisades,” Gambino talks about having a simpler life and enjoying the little things. He sings about how he wants to spend his days at the beach, and how he loves his girlfriend’s smile. He raps, “Now why can’t every day be like this.”

With all the complicated experienc-

MUSIC REVIEWS es that Gambino has suffered so far, he is finally at peace and wants this day to last forever. The instrumental contains a repeating guitar riff and some snapping. Once again, the song gives you a feeling of peacefulness and warmth. Gambino sings, “Love don’t really happen.” Gambino’s frustration with love continues, just as he thought he found the perfect girl, she leaves and he contemplates if love is even real.

“Poke” features Childish Gambino and his younger brother, Steve Glover. The beat has shakers and a ukulele that go along with the album’s style. Gambino sings about his memories of the summer, and how they never leave his mind. He mentions not taking things seriously and going with the flow. He sings “I ain’t tryna catch no feels,” alluding to a relationship with a girl. Steve Glover continues rapping about this same girl. He describes her and talks about what they did over the summer. He raps, “Never serious so I make everything a joke.” Just like his brother, Glover takes things simply and doesn’t worry too much. They regret their decision at the end of

the song as they talk about how they actually liked the girl. This song shows the progression of Gambino throughout the album. He tries to be simple and not start a relationship with a girl, but he ends up going back to his old habits and gets his heart broken.

Jaden Smith returns on the track, “Late Night in Kauai.” The bongos also make a return, and Jaden begins another detailed speech. He vividly describes his night on the beach with the girl. The detail that Smith gives shows how important this night was to him and the impact it had. He keeps mentioning how he “doesn’t want this night to end.” Gambino interrupts Smith and repeats the phrase “We are becoming god.” This mysterious message is referencing how Jaden can control his own fate and should make decisions himself. The outro to the song features rapper Fam, who has a series of questions. Most importantly he asks, “Do you really like that sh*t you like? — Or you like the way they gave it to you?” He questions the idea of popularity and what things should really be impor-

tant. This song is not one to listen to, but it still portrays themes of love, religion, and importance.

The album finishes off with the song “V. 3005 - Beach Picnic Edition.” This is a remix of his hit song “3005.” This version is quite different from the original, as Glover’s voice is higher pitched and the beat only contains snares and synths. The lyric, “No matter what you say or what you do — When I’m alone, I’d rather be with you” is repeated throughout the song. This lyric relates to Glover’s feelings for the girl that he’s been talking about this whole time. This song is a perfect ending to the album because it ties together the ideas of nostalgic love and keeping life simple.

If you’re looking for an album to play in the summer, then “Kauai” is the album for you. It represents feelings of warmth and happiness. Childish Gambino maintains a storyline that has deep themes of love and passion. It truly makes you feel like you’re on the Hawaiian island of Kauai.

ARTWORK BY JADEN S., PA.

47

VIDEO GAME REVIEWS

VIDEO GAME REVIEWS

48

ACTION

IN THE GRIM DARKNESS OF THE 41ST MILLENNIUM, THERE IS ONLY WAR. A TIME WHEN PEACE, HAPPINESS, AND PROSPERITY HAVE BEEN REPLACED WITH WAR, DEATH, AND DESTRUCTION

Warhammer 40,000: Space Marine

later). The Space Marines were made as humanity’s champions against the forces of Chaos and the Xenos races. A particularly large and powerful race of Xenos are the Orks. A band of war-happy, half-mushroom people whose hobbies include waging war on anything that moves, shouting, and using the primary strategy of “I’m gonna throw so many men at you that you will drown in their blood as you kill them.”

Hear me out. Life is stressful — it can make you angry, overworked, and tired. And it’s healthy for that anger to be released. You could even release that anger by smacking around a bunch of insane half-mushroom people, while in power armor with a weapon that’s a cross between a chainsaw and a sword. If any of that seems the tiniest bit entertaining to you, I highly recommend “Warhammer 40,000: Space Marine” as an optimal choice for stress relief.

The Ork Warboss Grimskull has decided to invade the imperial forge world, housing massive, walking death machines called Titans. The Imperium doesn’t exactly want to deal with the Orks, especially if they have an army of death robots on their side, so the Imperial Guard and Space Marines are sent to stop them. You play as Captain Titus of the Space Marines to kick a**, take names, and stop the Orks from gaining control of the Titans by any means necessary. You are accompanied by Leandros, a by-the-books, fresh-out-of-training Marine, and Sidonus, Titus’ close friend and veteran Space Marine. After arriving on the planet, you meet Grimskull on his “Kill Krooza,” destroy it, and proceed to kill even more Orks as you make your way to the Titans.

In the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, there is only war. A time when peace, happiness, and prosperity have been replaced with war, death, and destruction. Not necessarily in that order, but definitely in mass quantities. Mankind is now a bunch of genocidal, xenophobic zealots who worship the corpse of the Holy Emperor (the guy who united humanity together and created the space marines before his untimely death at the hands of the forces of Chaos — but we’ll get to them

The story is pretty bare throughout the game, but that isn’t really the main focus of it. The main focus is destroying Orks, and the game nails it perfectly. You start with only a wimpy bolt pistol and a combat knife, but you slowly gain more powerful weapons as you progress, such as the bolt rifle, plasma gun, and chainsword. Jetpacks also become available, but only in certain missions. You have four weapon slots: primary, pistol, heavy weapon, and melee.

You can only carry one weapon for each

REVIEW BY HENRY STOREY, LETHBRIDGE, ALBERTA, CANADA Let me start off this review with one simple question: Do you like hitting things?

VIDEO GAME REVIEWS category, so finding the loadout that works for you is very important.

It can be hard with so many options, but I’ve found a lot of success in the default bolt rifle you get in the beginning. The shooting is pretty good, but melee is where it really shines. You have three options for a melee weapon: the chainsword, power ax, and thunder hammer.

Hitting scores of Orks with all of these weapons is extremely satisfying. Damaging an Ork enough puts them in a stunned state, where you can initiate a cinematic, instant-kill attack that restores a ton of health.

and red of the Orks — but I still find it annoying.

Although it becomes a bit of a chore near the end, the majority of the game is great. I recommend this game to people who enjoy a good power fantasy game with $30 on hand — just not to anyone hoping for a stunning narrative.

SURVIVAL

You have two health bars: an armor bar that can recharge, and a health bar that only refills through kills.

You also have an ultimate ability that you charge by killing Orks.

After enough of them are dead, you can activate it for an instant armor recharge and jacked melee damage. Where the game lacks in story, it totally makes up for it in Ork-slaughtering action.

The final stretch of the game is where it gets boring. With the tankiest enemies now spawning, the game’s flaws become more noticeable without the testosterone-supplying feeling of cleaving through Orks like a chainsword through butter. It becomes a boring slog of awkwardly hiding as you wait for the armor meter to recharge, popping out to shoot a bit, but then your armor getting shredded, then rinse and repeat.

It’s at this point I’d like to talk about the game’s colors. While this is a personal preference of mine, the game is… really, really brown. And with the unskippable dialogue bits that pop up here and there, apart from a few exceptions, I found my eyes beginning to feel weird from staring at such a colorless, bland world. I guess that’s supposed to be the point, showing the state of decay the massive city is in, and to highlight the deep blue of the Marines and the green

graphics, good-humored tone, and capacity for strengthening interpersonal bonds.

“Among Us” focuses foremost on comedy. You’re given colorful accessory options to express yourself, encouraging you to wear something as silly as a cheese hat while taking refuge in anonymity.

Every character action is bouncy and fluid; the simple, unassuming style keeps a light mood in a game of deceit. The imposter has no graphic design, and the death scenes lack drama. Whether it’s being shot while reaching for your cheese hat, or sticking a thumbsup, “Terminator”-style, when you’re outed, defeat is never taken seriously because it lacks the drama one feels when they’ve lost in real life. You will realize there’s laughter to be found everywhere — even in quarantine.

Crucially, socializing in the game gave normalcy during the pandemic. With the stakes lowered, you will laugh with your friends as

Among Us

REVIEW BY EMMY MIRALIEVA, GERMANTOWN, MD Video games are often viewed as unproductive, childish, and as obstacles to a person’s physical and social well-being. However, InnerSloth’s “Among Us” (2018) proves that video games bring benefits in lieu of harm. The game is about nine astronauts trying to detect an imposter among their ranks, and it reached popularity during the COVID-19 pandemic because of its virtual opportunity for human interaction. It’s worth your time because of its colorful

COMRADERY THRIVES, AND WE FORGET WE’RE FIGHTING AGAINST HARD TIMES they deceive, poke fingers, and kick out group members. You learn more about your friends’ mentalities by their playstyle in either role, and you use your increased understanding to bond better with them. This comradery extends to even politicians — including U.S. Reps.

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Ilhan Omar. Reporter Joshua Rivera noted that as they played and laughed with their friends, “they looked like completely normal people.” In the game, comradery thrives, animosity rescinds, and we forget we’re fighting against hard times.

49

VIDEO GAME REVIEWS “Among Us” should be played — especially during the reign of COVID-19 — for its comedic and cartoonish aesthetic, and the opportunity it brings to get to know and play with your friends.

The game uses its simplicity to implore you to cooperate with your peers to win, while simultaneously making you enjoy every minute you have with them. “Among Us” reminds us that above all, defeats are temporary, but family and comradery are forever. In times of chaos and despair, it’s imperative you hang on to the people you care about; that you find ways to get around the pandemic without negatively impacting someone’s health — even if an online game is your only option.

ACTION

a sort of Wild West “Grand Theft Auto.” But the world I was thrown into was much more than a game where going around on killing sprees is fun.

I DON’T KNOW IF I’LL EVER PLAY A GAME AGAIN THAT WILL MAKE ME SO EMOTIONALLY ATTACHED TO A CHARACTER AND TO THE WORLD Don’t get me wrong — evading the law and seeing how many kills you can get without dying is super fun.

But the “Red Dead” world almost feels too real to not get lost in it.

The graphics and landscapes in the game are so immersive.

When my parents saw me playing the game, they initially thought it was a movie. The graphics are so real. The game is genuinely beautiful. I sometimes walk around in the game and just admire the landscape, cities, and how the people interact. I feel like the creators of the game made a perfect 1899 America.

The world feels so lived in. There are so many different cultures across the map, and the game depicts all of them so beautifully. There is just so much depth to everything on the map.

Red Dead Redemption II

REVIEW BY MAC WRECKE, HARTLAND, WI When I first played “Red Dead Redemption 2,” I was expecting

50

For example, the big city has extremely nice areas, and it also has slums. In the richer areas, your character is treated like a dirty low-life. In the poorer areas, people ask for money and for help. There is a city based in the Deep South, where racial prejudices are prevalent, where people of color are the only ones working in the fields. The game is so accurate to how America

was during these times that it’s scary. While traveling across the map on horseback, everything feels real. The landscapes are dotted with settlements, and there’s evidence of past wars and the westward migration of civilization. There are also some of the most beautiful locations that you will ever see in a game; sprawling prairies and fields, snowy and rocky mountains, and hazardous deserts devoid of life apart from a few small towns.

There are even swamps filled with crocodiles. There is something for everyone in this game.

The factor that makes the game such a pleasure to play is the protagonist, Arthur Morgan. This is the character that we are introduced to right away, and the character we make moral decisions for throughout the story. I grew so attached to this character throughout the almost 50 hours it takes to complete. When the main story finally ended, I genuinely felt sadness. It’s almost as if the game knew this and began playing a sorrowful tune that just went perfectly with how I felt.

The game felt so real, and seeing a character who has problems like a real person, but tries their hardest to right all the wrongs they’ve done in the past, is super sad.

This is truly the best video game I’ve ever played, and I don’t know if I’ll ever play a game again that will make me so emotionally attached to a character and to the world. I played the game again the other day and it was just as good as I remembered it. The game comes at the standard price of $60 and has a wide range of difficulties. If you’re a casual player or a hardcore gamer, this game will fit your needs.

ART GALLERY

CREDITS 1 ARTWORK BY TEVIN LEE, INCHEON, KOREA

1 51

FICTION

VISITS OF

52

Despair

FICTION

STORY BY ANONYMOUS, GILBERT, AZ ARTWORK BY GRETTEL TORRES-SANTIAGO, NEWARK, DE

I didn’t think I would ever understand it, the way he used to linger in my life. He was a traveler, having been and seen many parts of the Earth; but for some odd reason, he took a liking to me. I mean, why else would he have spent the majority of his time in my presence? Very rarely would he overstay his welcome.

Then again, he liked to claim he was never welcome in the first place. No matter what, his visits were always short-lived as he would disappear almost as soon as he arrived. Now, I wonder why he ever visited me in the first place.

The first time we met, I was only eight years old.

Despite being 37 now, I still had a clear memory of that day. Of course, there was the off chance that he had visited me before that point, but being so young, I would have never noticed. He was also very skilled at hiding in the background; so how I managed to discover his existence, I’d never be able to say. I’m sure he might have a reason, but it wouldn’t diminish the way we had come to know each other.

When I first met him, he stood in the corner of my room, a tall silhouette with comforting gray dots for eyes and long, lanky arms that hung loosely at his sides. Anyone who might have seen him would have thought he was a monster who had chosen to haunt me, but in my years of knowing him, I had never been afraid.

My face twisted with confusion as the faint line of his smile grew wider and more opaque.

“Can I at least know your name?”

“Maybe next time, little dove.”

Our conversation was then cut off as my parents rushed into my room, trying to soothe tears that had already subsided. I watched as he waved goodbye and faded into the light, his presence no longer darkening the corner of my room.

The next time he visited, it was far too soon. I was only 10 this time and still resided in the same room. My legs swung as I sat on the edge of my bed, tears falling on my lap as I thought about the people I labeled as my friends. I had yet to learn that true friends wouldn’t talk about me behind my back and was upset about it all.

“Hello again,” he called from the same corner in my room. I glanced at him, my red and puffy eyes meeting his own. I frowned at the smile he wore and drew my knees to my chest.

“You’re crying, little dove,” the shadow pointed out, and I waved him away with my hand, turning my body in the opposite direction.

“Go away,” I muttered under my breath, but he didn’t listen. Instead, his eyes shined and his smile turned into a grin.

As soon as I locked eyes with him, he smiled at me. Or so “I’m afraid I won’t be doing HE STOOD IN THE CORNER OF MY I had thought at the time, that for a long time, little ROOM, A TALL SILHOUETTE WITH watching as a faint curved line dove,” he answered, “Besides, COMFORTING GRAY DOTS FOR appeared where I assumed his didn’t you want to know who mouth would have been. Tears EYES AND LONG, LANKY ARMS I am?” were rolling down my cheeks THAT HUNG LOOSELY AT HIS SIDES Despite his reminder, it still as I searched helplessly for my took a lot of effort for me to favorite toy. The little rabbit get a clear answer.

Once he relented, I learned that had gotten lost in the depths of my toy pile, and my his name was Despair, or at least, that was the name brain was yet to develop rational thinking. he was most often called. He added that he chose “Don’t cry,” he murmured with a voice that was deep the name for himself after someone had suggested and soothing to my ears. “Crying makes me stronger. it, and it was one that he quite liked. After that, he This is only my first visit, you know.” brushed away the topic and said a quick goodbye, as my mother came into the room with two mugs of hot “Is it your last?” I asked, avoiding his gaze as I sat crosschocolate and a plate of cookies to ease the ache in legged on the floor and used my sleeve as a tissue for my chest. my runny nose. His eyes seemed to shine at my words.

“No, I don’t think it will be.”

While I didn’t like to admit it, Despair had a knack for being right. As time went on, he never faded, his visits 53

FICTION

soon becoming more and more frequent until he appeared almost every day at any chance he had. Whether it was an inconvenience or a life-changing event, he was there.

“I have a friend that will guide him to his next adventure, little dove.” The words had my tears spilling over the edge of my eyes, but Despair continued. “He will be well taken care of.”

“Why are you always here?!” I shouted at him one afternoon while sitting on the couch after a particularly long and upsetting workday.

I was 18 and living on my own, a new kitten cradled in my lap to keep me company.

“And me?” I asked hopelessly. “Who will be there to take care of me now that he’s gone?”

“I’m here because it is not my time to leave, little dove,” he said in his same deep voice.

Somehow, it hadn’t changed.

“Well, it’s not like I ever asked you to show up!”

His gray dots for eyes shined again, then he grinned. Only, this was the first time I had seen it so bright and clear.

“I eventually visit everyone, little dove,” Despair replied. “For now, I am visiting you, and I will continue to visit because you need the company.

You are the reason I am here, and you are the reason I stay. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Silence filled the room as I gathered my courage to speak. “So when will you leave?”

“That’s why I’m here,” he eventually said, cradling my cat in a gentle hold, “But when you have let go of this moment, I will have to take my leave.”

“What?” I blurted, the shock evident on my face. The smile he gave this time was the most gentle I had ever seen it, and my words were dying in my throat.

ANYONE WHO MIGHT HAVE SEEN HIM WOULD HAVE THOUGHT HE WAS A MONSTER WHO HAD CHOSEN TO HAUNT ME, BUT IN MY YEARS OF KNOWING HIM, I HAD NEVER BEEN AFRAID

“I will only leave when you no longer have need of me, little dove,” Despair said with a laugh. His eyes shined again before he continued to talk. “I’m afraid that won’t be for a long time.”

Yet again, he was right, and eventually, he had become my best friend. It was a strange thing to say, but he had. Years passed since we had that encounter, but Despair didn’t leave. I grew attached to him, thinking that he never would, but he did. I was 29 years old when he announced his departure. Despair sat next to me on the couch, a cold yet comforting hand on my shoulder as my cat sat in my lap, my arms around him. My kitten had since grown into an adult since I first adopted him, as all animals do, and he kept me company over the years. It was only fair that I did the same as he started to pass away.

54

For once, Despair didn’t know how to respond, watching as I smoothed down my cat’s fur.

With my permission, he scooped the feline into his arms from my lap before standing up.

“I’m afraid I overstayed my welcome with you, but never fear little dove. I won’t disappear for good just yet, and I plan to visit sometime again.”

With a grin and another shine of his eyes, I watched as he faded into the light again, my companion fading with him. When Despair returned, I had already begun the process of moving forward, just like he had told me to. He lingered in my life as he always did, but he stopped being as involved as he once was. Soon, he had left without me realizing it. What used to be days of banter was now nothing but silence. The corners of my room were no longer dark with his presence.

He disappeared one day, and I hadn’t seen him since.

Some days, I’m left to wonder if he ever really existed. Occasionally though, within the silence, I can hear his voice — almost in a whisper — letting me know he’s still out there.

Despair still visits those who let him in, forever confined to the corners of people’s rooms or the backgrounds of their lives. He’ll visit me again one day, just as he promised me; but when he does, I’ll greet him like the old friend that he is to me.

soft,

wet places STORY BY SARAH YEE, SACRAMENTO, CA

The cry was sharp and short.

“Mommy!”

Fleeting footsteps in the dark hallway.

A girl stands at the door, a sliver of white and gold that seems to bleed into the night.

Beneath her bared white knuckles — her fingers trace soft terry cloth — run against raised little bristles of fur that don’t stand up like her hair in the night.

She presses the stuffed bunny’s soft ears against her own, she didn’t want to conduct the cacophony that was the world.

A world where families pulled by politics can’t face each other at the dinner table. People can’t civilly debate without violence.

A world where shattered glass, venomous words, and both black and blue bodies have surged.

People can’t find common ground without a scapegoat.

A world where even children are subjected to standards as superficial, as they are impossible.

People can’t see themselves

without filters.

A world where a mask meant to cover the orifices of the face, something to conceal now reveals.

People can’t separate science from fiction.

Cries, chaos, weapons, war.

She tightened her embrace.

Too much.

“Too much,” the girl whispers.

“Turn it off, Mommy.”

With a quivering paw and a whitening hand, the girl and bunny plunge into the darkness as they grope for the remote — to tie together the tendrils of an already unraveling society they don’t want to see. In the darkness, screaming silhouettes manifest. A dissonance of voices intensifies. They reach with fervid fingers in the damp darkness, through the soft, wet crevices for a human heart.

Can you see us? Hear us? Feel us?

A man scared and scarred on the subway, a young girl tormented by the mirror, a little boy who gurgled in his last breath, and an elderly couple who parted in death over the screen. Millions writhe.

They don’t have the privilege of switching a screen off. This is — was — their lives.

FICTION

ARTWORK BY ABBIE BARROWS, JUPITER, FL

The softness is of their cries, lost in translation and in sheer size. The wetness, a torrent of tears that pounds on the pavement outside.

They demand answers.

Recognition. Representation.

The TV still murmurs to the hum of society.

The girl’s tears fall steadfast and soft against the bunny’s head, settling in the soft, wet places beneath the creature’s eyes and ears.

“Mommy, how can I make it stop,” she asks.

The cries ebb. Ears raise. Fingers that once aggressed, caress.

“I want them to see and to hear me.”

A pink paw raises a timid hand. Do you really want to do this?

“Mommy, we need each other more than we thought,” she whispers. “The world needs us too.” The TV finally flickers silently.

With two hands and two paws, the girl steps into the world, cradling the TV and the little bunny in her arms. Her footsteps spread, solidifying in number and strength across the world.

55

FICTION

a very import When the pigeon started to speak, she figured it was time to finally get some sleep.

She’d been in the process of cutting herself some bangs — as one does at two in the morning — when out of the corner of her eye, a rather chubby pigeon landed on her window sill. It had started to make such horrible noises — like it was trying to hack up a hairball — doubled over, and positively choked on nothing at all.

Startled, she fumbled her scissors, cutting off a large chunk of hair in the process, and ran to her window in an animal-lover panic. The poor feathered thing was looking like it was attempting to bark up its lungs.

Hands shaking, she rushed to pull open her window, but the darn thing was stuck again! She gritted her teeth and wrenched with all her might, tugging the window open and toppling into the opposite wall in the process.

She blinked in surprise, the bird had ceased its coughing and was staring right at her! The rotund creature stood up on its surprisingly spindly legs, gave one last wheeze, and cleared its throat rather rudely. Wait, cleared its throat?

“Got an important message for a...”, it paused for a moment, “a silly, pimply

ARTWORK BY GUO ZIXIN, SHANGHAI, CHINA

56

FICTION

tant message STORY BY VIVIANA ALFARO, HUGHSON, CA

girl?” It peered at her through beady eyes, “Must be you, huh?”

She screamed and slammed the window shut.

“It was a joke! A joke! Now just hold on a moment!,” the pigeon croaked in slightly muffled indignation, “I’ve got a very important message for you!”

She screamed again, covering her eyes in fright.

“Excuse me? No manners at all, this one, should never have become a postal pigeon,” it clucked to itself before rapping bossily on the window with a feathery wing.

“Open up! I got a message!”

at the now shivering pigeon. Taking pity on the cold, if irritable bird, she tugged the window open once again. She watched as the pigeon fluttered through her window and hovered in the air a few feet away, eventually settling on the top of the mirror she was using to cut her new bangs with.

Settling smoothly on the mirror edge it fluffed its feathers, huffing in exasperation. “Took you long enough,” it said, scowling at her through beady eyes.

“Sorry,” she said shakily, “I haven’t ever met a talking bird before.”

The pigeon stamped its small clawed foot on the window sill, squawking from the other side.

“I’ve flown a long way, and you’re just going to ignore me?

How rude!”

“Yeah, well you should know better.

I’ve had a hard enough day,” it rasped irritably. “Right, right your message.” The pigeon straightened up proudly. “It’s a very, very important, and significant, and crucial message.”

She peered shakily through her fingers at it.

Her eyes widened — what could it be?

“Hey! I’m talking to you! Also, it’s cold out here — could you let me in? Maybe get me some hot tea?

My throat hurts a bit, d’you think this is easy?”

“Now, I know this may come as a shock, but I just had to deliver this message and it is…,” it paused dramatically. “...It is that you should…,” pausing again even more dramatically. “...Never, ever, try to cut your bangs at home, and honestly your hair is positively one of the worst

She took her trembling hands away from her face and stared unsteadily

things I have ever witnessed, and believe me I have seen a lot, it’s not easy being a postal pigeon.”

She was on the edge of her seat, waiting for the very, very important message the irritable bird had to tell her.

“I’ll say it again — never, ever cut your bangs at home. They always look horrible. You hear me?” the bird said extremely seriously. Then it continued. “Okay. That’s the very important message. Now, when are you going to bring me that hot tea?”

She threw the bird out of her window and went back to cutting her bangs.

57

FICTION

out of my hands

STORY BY ANONYMOUS, CINCINNATI, OH

The final minute of the championship game ticks down, and the other team is coming toward the goal I was standing in. On a breakaway, Number Eight kicks the ball with an overwhelming force — too hard to catch. I put my hands up to deflect the ball as my wrist snaps back in agonizing pain.

I know myself to overreact, so I dismiss it as a sprained wrist or another minor injury. I go to pick up the successfully deflected ball, and as I begin to propel the ball forward over my head to clear it from the goal box, the ball drops to the ground, causing a splash in the muddy water below. I collapse to the cold and wet ground, with tears streaming down my face. A buzz sounds throughout the stadium, giving me the all-clear to go over to the benches. Painfully recoiling myself from the ground, I get up to walk over and shake hands with the other team. To my relief, my coach pulls me aside as my teammates come up with shocked looks on their faces. Eventually, I hear rumbling and squeaking as the medical golf cart shows up to whisk me away to the medical tents. The sole thought going through my mind, and distracting me from the pain, is that basketball season starts the following week.

Shaking myself out of that thought, I refocus myself

58

on my surroundings. Sitting in a rigid blue chair across from my potential basketball coach, with goosebumps spread across my skin from the cool air in the Commons. Our deep blue-gray eyes seem to be in a staring contest, as we are holding uncomfortable eye contact. Rotating the paper in front of him to face me, he points out all the skill areas they are looking for. Although I cannot read most of his scribbled handwriting, I notice the dribbling category with an “8/20” scrawled in black pen. The shooting, passing, and defensive sections are not much better. I walked out of the building feeling deflated after being informed that I did not make the “A-Team,” whilst I did make the “B-Team.” It was very disappointing, for I had made the “A-Team” years prior. Even though he tried to soften the blow by saying to try again next year so he could properly assess my skills with my dominant hand, it frustrated me that an injury caused me to not make the team.

The season went on and so did I. Using my left hand at every practice and game was aggravating, to say the least. Although I must say, I felt that I was improving with my non-dominant skills. Around four weeks into the season, my team was having a scrimmage against the “A-Team.” I unwrapped a section from the giant roll of bubble wrap my father had purchased and wrapped it around my bulky cast — popping a few bubbles along the way. After doing so, my cast was securely

FICTION ARTWORK BY OLEKSII S./UNSPLASH. COM wrapped so it wouldn’t hurt anybody if they were to collide into it.

Snow laces the ground as I start walking toward the daunting steel doors into the elementary school.

Walking through the dimly lit hallways that always seemed to have a yellow tint to them, my eyes passed over the team I longed to be on, then settled where my team was sitting on the small set of stairs. Joining my team, we discuss the game and what our strategies will be. My coach states, “Make sure to force them to their off-hand while defending to make it easier to steal the ball.” I think to myself how it’d be easy for the other team to do that against me, but in a reverse type of way — force me to my right, so I have to dribble with my left hand in front of them.

Soon enough, shoes are squeaking against the freshly cleaned hardwood during the second quarter. Sitting on the bench for the first quarter was frequent. Almost as if I had called it, my unusable right hand was a massive hindrance during the game — forcing me to dribble right while being left-handed. At one point, I have the ball at the top of the key with Lily guarding me. I try to swerve around her to the left, as the paint is sparse. Only a second after I tried this move, she stole the ball from me — going down to make a layup.

I had gotten a few good assists but no points — as I was not a post, and in no way could shoot left-handed from outside of the paint. Losing the game by a hefty 35 points diminished our team’s morale; but, it also urged me to become better at my left hand, so even in my current state, I could be an asset to the team.

I worked hard in and out of practice — working on dribbling and shooting with my left hand, in the gym and in my driveway. During the end of the season, I was no longer in my cast but in a brace, and I had significantly progressed with my left hand. After my wrist was healed and I was in the basketball off-season, I continued to work with my left hand, as well as derusting my right hand.

It was my favorite time of year, yet this time around, my nerves were at an all-time high. My hands shook as I walked into the dusty gym that crushed my dreams the prior year. We start doing 1v1’s around the gym on six different baskets. I am paired up against Lily — she made the team last year. My mind remembers when I faced off against her in last year’s scrimmage. I start with the ball in my right hand and approach her,

IT WAS MY FAVORITE TIME OF YEAR, YET THIS TIME AROUND, MY NERVES WERE AT AN ALL-TIME HIGH making a swift movement to cross the ball over to my left hand. One dribble, two dribbles … I get past her and the ball falls effortlessly through the net! This moment, although simple, is of huge significance to me and truly shows my improvement.

The rest of the try-outs go similarly, and my heart quickens at the thought of the interviews. My interview was tense, at least to me, as he turned the skill evaluation paper toward me. My clammy hands grip the side of the chair underneath me — the next few moments feel like an eternity. My eyes scan the document and to my relief, I see: Dribbling: 19/20 Shooting: 17/20 Defense: 20/20 Passing: 18/20 “Congratulations on making the team Louisa, I’m looking forward to our year together,” my coach states.

I left the school feeling the exact opposite of the year prior — ecstatic.

A few months later, the season is coming to a close.

I continued to progress as a basketball player, along with my non-dominant skills. My team won the endof-year tournament with my contribution. When I take a step back and analyze this experience, I recognize that it made me work to become a better basketball player; and if I didn’t have that obstacle, I wouldn’t have learned the process of perseverance. Keeping a positive attitude in mind during this was important; if I didn’t have one, I could’ve just given up and decided that one moment would end my basketball career. Plus, now I know that if an obstacle arises and I put all my effort into it, I can overcome it and use it to my advantage if I look on the bright side.

59

POETRY

POETS’ CORNER Halves

A Thorn of Hope

Downtown

Wheat fields stained maroon don’t glow.

Skies full of dark, unnatural shapes Disrupt the sun and clouds’ flow.

Once a clear blue, now to be ripped From the hands of its cherished settlers.

The top half shredded with flags of destruction.

There’s an ink-stained world of illusions spreading from tear to shining tear.And I raise my flags of hands to the sky and sing for the individual I am.

One tree is not another. Root, leaf, bark, fruit, petal.

I am an orchard. All is here.

And the birds all black with strange ashes stay on the light-torn rose that raises its tasseled face from field to sky in a thorn of hope.

I ran into someone with a yellow umbrella today And the bright simplicity of it struck me That even though the sky was grey This artificial sun could still Bring a smile to my face And like a blossom creeping out of the ground That my day could be Infinitesimally better Just because of A Yellow Umbrella.

If it is true that I gave it its time, & if it is true that the city is ripe now, then I will ripen along with it, hatch into the dancing limbs of a human form, neon, carbon, red rooms, banquet halls, matchsticks, Cosmopolitans, honey mustard sauce on an unfinished Japadog, here to live the high life, & to try a Bloody Mary. If it is true this metropolis, this sprawling republic has a pulse, it dims somewhere between 12 and 12:15 into a mutter, & joins the stoners in falling asleep when life becomes more boring than dreams. City lights the windows to a spaceship. City sound the ruffling of a drag queen’s gown. For the disco ball may not reflect the people beneath our finery, but we do not care. Let me in, I your devotee, I your garish impersonator, & let me head downtown to feel life wasting away in my bare hands though it is just one night.

BY ANONYMOUS, EVERETT, WA

BY BELLA ZHOU, VANCOUVER, BC, CANADA

How is the moon to see the plains not dead?

Bitter air in heated skies swarm around each stalk, And what was once expansive now red.

How does wheat grow in cradled un-nature And expand into wastelands of war?

The bottom half shredded with flags of death.

BY OWEN SANTONOCITO, OAKLAND, MI

generational one way or another every woman ends up grieving the woman her mother wanted to be.

BY COURTNEY KIM, FORT LEE, NJ 60

PHOTO BY EMMA BELL, MANSFIELD, TX

BY LYDIA QUATTROCHI, SOMONAUK, IL

The Yellow Umbrella

POETRY my beautiful individuality When I found the way I liked to be They said no, and excluded me They said I should conform They said I should fit in Be their way They said what they liked I should like They said what they wore I should wear They said what they believed I should believe They said …

They said …

They said …

They said so many things, that just weren’t true But gradually, I felt them remaking me These harsh opinions, these angry raw truths These people, these words, this world a noose It wipes out my beautiful individuality Until I silence. I shut down my voice.

I shut down my joy, my me, my choice But I, I have learned the harshest lesson of all The world Does not care if I conform The world Does not care Because it remembers my beautiful individuality It remembers the person that I used to be The person it didn’t want me to be The person I always needed to be The person it took Away from me.

BY NOELLE MARTIN, CRAMERTON, NC

Jealousy

Umber Skin

I’m jealous of painters — jealous of how with one color they can express something it takes me lines of rhymes and poems and prose to even begin to express I’m jealous of painters.

Hideous and peculiar Or unique and pretty?

I’m not sure what I think of it.

The distinct umber covers my identity, Like how my eyes are curtains to cover my emotions.

It connects me back to my Indian roots.

To the pride my grandmother carries for our culture.

How she proudly wears her bright red sari Embossed with intricate gold designs.

But in America, the umber pulls my mouth shut.

At night, it merges with the darkness Bringing me refuge in a blatantly careless society.

The American beauty standard vastly excluding.

Endlessly browsing stores Only to find one foundation shade, of course, mismatching.

Picking up a box of crayons, To find the shade “skin color” But it’s not my skin color.

Being the only person of color In the midst of a large crowd.

The distinct umber.

Beautiful. Meaningful. But a handful.

I’m jealous of sketchers — jealous of how they move their hand and make something come into the world that’s never been seen when it takes me pages to conjure an image of something that’s always been.

I’m jealous of sketchers.

I’m jealous of artists — jealous of the way their work always seems to be understood by their audience but no one can relate to mine.

When the hell did relatable become what my poetry was about?

I’m jealous of artists..

BY MACK HIGH, FORT WAYNE, IN

Precious Time Intangible and tangible Is time.

Can’t see, Can’t hear, but Can feel.

Flies like the sparrow, distant, Yet close.

We are enveloped In time.

Out of nature it is While science can’t explain.

It flies without stop And forever takes its tolls.

Cram it we may, Though we always fail, Time is always On the go.

BY PRATISHTHA PRAVEEN, PLYMOUTH, MN

PHOTO BY MARIAN DE SILVA GAMPAHA, SRI LANKA

Precious time.

BY BILL WANG, SHANGHAI, CHINA

61 11

POETRY

PHOTO BY LAUREN PANTZER NEW YORK, NY

Reclamation

Night Roads

A 1929 Remington typewriter, in a home of mind’s decline.

It weighs a hundred pounds, with a bell that sounds, When you reach the end of a line.

8 P.M. the Earth droops its heavy eyelids; only a slimmer of light remains.

Our laughter waltzes freely through the open windows, as we glide along through the gentle night, tires licking the slick city roads, fingers combing the crisp autumn breeze.

A senile poet sat, and pressed upon a key.

A sonnet of joy and clacking ink For he finally remembered Marie.

BY PARKER NEWMAN, RUSTON, LA

In the Night I curled into myself like saffron smoke.

The fog of sleep clouded my mind.

My arms hugged my stomach.

The pain was a hazy dream away.

BY ED BRADLEY, LOUISVILLE, KY

62

9 P.M. the Earth rocks in its cradle, asleep; the slimmer of light has begun fading.

Somewhere in time, I have lost you.

The wheels travel silently, rounding the bend of the convenience store.

The scent of sizzling sausages seeps into the emptiness that you once made so full.

10 P.M. the Earth comes to a stop, motionless; the slimmer of light is long gone.

But I don’t care because I finally found YOU. Above, thousands of dangling stars

reach down to caress our fluttering hearts.

And together we drive toward our final destination, some brave new world over the horizon..

BY YICHEN LI, NANAIMO, BC, CANADA

Parallel You and I are like the sky and the ground, we see each other but we can never meet.

Like the sun and the moon we are far apart, only appearing when one disappears.

We keep our hearts in parallel dimensions where even love can’t get to.

Like stars, you give the sea beauty your glow shimmers in the dark you are a spot everyone can find and my heart can tell we are parallel lines and our hearts can never meet..

BY JULIETTE GHANEM, PLYMOUTH, MA

POETRY Excerebation

Untitled

At last … they Shoved a hook up my skull, and I watched my cerebellum Seep out of my nostrils.

Here, then, I stand.

Ahead of me, a long road.

A road of all that is good.

A road of all that is bad.

A road of everything and nothing

I’d spent, too many days with lumps of pink pulp pressed against the parietal, nerves strangled by sleep-deprivation, a mind too shaken and sloshed for science.

I’d been dangling for too long upside down from tree limbs and monkey bars, Blood rushing and bruised, I was a headbanging, Sugar-surging circus clown who lobotomized my way through Life just to find out this is what Einstein got wrong and the Egyptians got right.

I’d rather be mummified than mutilated, rather my heart reside in Canopic jars than my brain be mounted on museum walls, and measured on microscope slides, Because I cannot fulfill these Formaldehyde fantasies.

Here, then, is the path.

The winding stones stretch into the beyond.

Stretching through bright fields of memories.

Stretching through the murky undergrowth of the future.

Stretching through then and now.

Here then, lay the cairns.

The weather-beaten signs stand.

They stand, bearing heartfelt messages.

They stand, engraved with incomprehensible sigils.

They stand, meaning everything and nothing.

Here then, I walk.

I set my foot down, and begin to step.

Step through the undergrowth Step through the clouds.

Step through the highs and lows, until one day, I will see the brightest darkness.

BY ANONYMOUS, MD

I Never Read the Backs of Books I never read the backs of books Because no synopsis ever tells you how The book will make you feel They never foreshadow The extravagant laughter in your esophagus How you become drunk on the characters’ humor The way you involuntary sprint in place as they admit their love for each other How you catch yourself grinning like a fool The way you blush in their forbidden kiss How your heart (enlaced in shame) becomes lighter The way the character whispers in your ear, “you’ll be alright, kid.”

How your eyes fill with pools The way you fall in love with life again How these 300 or so, liberate you From all the pain and rejection in your reality They always fail to tell you So I never read the backs of books

BY ANDREW ACEVEDO, BEAVERTON, OR

I’d rather my eyes be Squished on a citrus reamer for all the Light they’re worth, a juice to be sprinkled with the Zest of grated bones, drizzled over my bandaged body, so I’ll be smiling in the Sarcophagus, with lingering echoes in my chest This is all I’ll take to the afterlife.

You can keep the rest.

BY LAUREN SMITH, SAN ANTONIO, TX

PHOTO BY ELLA SNYDER, WINTER SPRINGS, FL 63

POETRY

POETRY CONTEST “It’s Time to Rhyme!” paper burns/tears/ folds too easy paper kids in our make-believe paper town: still dreaming as our city burned down we were made of i love you’s that weren’t made to last; our origami hearts left torn all too fast we folded our airplanes and parted our ways, turned the next page from our melancholic days.

BY ROBYN DAVIES, WEBSTER GROVES, MO

Torn Apart a destructive gloom displaying its plume funneling across the land playing its raucous band narrow path of escape the behind left to reshape hope is a crushed grape stormy sea in sky in conquest all comply howling rabid wind distinguishes no friend.

BY WILLIAM CHEN, WINFIELD, WV 64

Girl on the Roof Girl on the roof, Waiting for proof, Of something greater, That infamous creator.

A twinkle in the sky, Some celestial reply — She begs the night for a sign, Sees ordinary, hopes for divine, Asks the moon what’s taking so long, And unclasps cold hands, wondering if she’s been praying wrong.

BY ELISE GIMPERT, PEACHTREE CITY, GA

POETRY ARTWORK BY EVY MANSAT-GROS, GREENVILLE, SC

Cont e Winn st er!

A Plea

The Power of Words Our mouths tasted metallic As we struggled to chew the bolded italics That lay scattered on this page: An inescapable cage.

Our hands were clasped tightly As we thought concisely About this moment, This atonement.

I thought of our past, And realized that this was our final act.

BY ALEXANDRA SCOTT, NEW HOPE, PA

A Summer’s Warm Dream When birds flutter into trees Honey dripping from hives of bees I brush my fingertips against a stream Noticing a magical summer’s warm dream And when the wind begins to fade I sit beneath a tree’s cool shade Feeling the sun’s comforting gleam I lose myself to a warm summer’s dream.

BY HALEY S., WHEELING, IL

The warm, golden sun kissing my cheeks The sky full of milky, sapphire streaks Scorching, brown sugar sand burning my feet Salty, coconut air smelling kind of sweet Icy cool waters pierce my skin My sister yelling to “just jump in” Baby bubbles ticking my face Like a different planet, an underwater space A parade of tropical multi-color fish To stay down here would be my only wish Out of breath but still so much to see Lungs relived yet my heart still yearns to explore the sea But now something has happened drastic My favorite place is throwing up plastic I’m begging you to listen; I’m not being sarcastic Air that was like biting into an apple, so crisp Is now oily and sizzling with toxins within Voices that fought still linger in the breeze As our entire planet dies from this disease Trash bags dance atop the water Ocean, will you stay alive to meet my daughter?

BY GRACE HALLER, VERO BEACH, FL

65

CREDITS

ART GALLERY

1 ARTWORK BY HYEJIN YEO, TROY, NY 2 ARTWORK BY BROOKE NOVINGER, COLUMBIA, MO 3 ARTWORK BY RUOHAN HUANG, SAMMAMISH, WA

1

66

2

3

CONTRIBUTORS THANK YOU! Identity

Movie Reviews

Alice Liu, 6 Hantong Li, 9 Catelyn Aiena, 10

Aidan Baughman, 42 Evan Falls, 43

Memoirs Alyssa Kuzara, 12 Jacob Rothweil, 14 Senie Luma, 18

Mac Wrecke, 50

Bill Wang, 61 Pratishtha Praveen, 61 Parker Newman, 62 Ed Bradley, 62 Yichen Li, 62 Juliette Ghanem, 62 Lauren Smith, 63 Anonymous, 63 Andrew Acevedo, 63 Robyn Davies, 64 William Chen, 64 Elise Gimpert, 64 Alexandra Scott, 65 Haley S., 65 Grace Haller, 65

Fiction

Art Galleries

Music Reviews Ella Hardtke-Laughlin, 44 Emily Breland, 45 Ben Fischer, 46

Summer Travel

Video Game Reviews

Bridgette Leung, 22 Cooper Broll, 24

Remy Bregu, 48 Emmy Miralieva, 49

Health Anonymous, 30 Madeline McDaniel, 32

Points of View Manav Yarlagadda, 34 Emma Reidy, 36 Eva Choi, 37

Book Reviews Kyra Vojvodich, 38 Jianing Zhou, 39 Anonymous, 41

Anonymous, 52 Sarah Yee, 55 Vivian Alfaro, 56 Anonymous, 58

Poetry Owen Santonocito, 60 Courtney Kim, 60 Lydia Quattrochi, 60 Anonymous, 60 Bella Zhou, 60 Noelle Martin, 61 Mack High, 61

Hannah Deitrick, Cover Tait Tavolacci, 8 Poulomi Basu, 9 Natalie Cullen, 10 Amari Talluri-Boye, 12 Lauren Kim, 14 Michael Gee, 16 Jimin Lee, 18 Marian DeSilva, 20 Emma Bell, 20 Jimin Lee, 20 Iris Cho, 21 Maddie Guyton, 22 Vivien Wong, 24

Halleigh Baker, 26 Brooke MacNeille, 27 Amber Yu, 27 Kaitlyn Stultz, 28 Kolson Owsley, 28 Hannah Kang, 29 Lavanya Gupta, 32 Rana Ezeldin, 34 Brooke Novinger, 36 Yeony Jung, 37 Akhila Mushini, 40 Jaden S., 47 Tevin Lee, 51 Grettel Torres-Santiago, 52 Abbie Barrows, 55 Guo Zixin, 56 Emma Bell, 60 Marian DeSilva, 61 Lauren Pantzer, 62 Ella Snyder, 64 Hyejin Yeo, 66 Brooke Novinger, 66 Ruohan Huang, 66 Yeseo Nam, Back Cover

Editorial Staff Managing Editor: Noelle Campbell Consulting Senior Editor: Cindy W. Spertner Associate Editor: Kylie Andrews Consulting Editor: Ashley Nix Head of Strategic Partnerships: Chane Hazelett Production: Katie Olsen

Teen Ink is a bi-monthly journal dedicated to publishing a variety of works by teenagers. Teen Ink Magazine and TeenInk.com are both operating divisions and copyright protected trademarks of StudentBridge, Inc. Teen Ink is not responsible for the content of any advertisement. We have not investigated advertisers and do not necessarily endorse their products or services. Publication of material appearing in Teen Ink is prohibited unless written permission is obtained. Teen Ink is designed using Adobe InDesign.

Follow us on Social Media

ARTWORK BY YESEO NAM, SEOUL, KOREA