PEAK Autumn Zine 2025

WHIMSY

WHI

PEAK 2025 Autumn Zine

Editors note Dear readers, They could describe everything with one single word, and it's not 'Gnarly' but rather 'Whimsy'. This issue explores the creativity of writers in PEAK. We hope you can experience some of the whimsy, whether you walk through a night market or visit the seaside, listen to a busking cellist or find yourself in the whirlwind of action in a busy city.

Thank you to all our contributing writers and photographers. A special thank you to Aerin Choy for compiling and designing the Zine over the summer.

Everything's gnarly whimsy

Image Credit to Beautiful Jasmine Flower in Cambodian Guardian by Sam Ann Cheam Sea Water forming Seafoams by Brady Knoll Scenic view of seashore by Tomasz Filipek All other graphics or images are from canva.com or https://public.work/

Scar of Age By: Lia Schneider

There is an echo that refuses to return, He runs north until the scent of Christmas ferns, Plants itself into his lungs, A seed embedded in the moist shelter, Between his beating heart, pumping.

Did you know that is what you are, Your heart pumps blood, Your body loves it, You'd be a carcass if you go without it!

There is an echo that refuses to return, He runs east and the blisters form, A sunburn!

The nearest star, she loves to draw, shading in your skin, coloring in freckles, The nearest force, she loves to tug, pulling your heavy skin down to mold the wrinkles.

There is an oracle right down west, You don't know it but you carry her deep in your chest, She strings and laces your hair with gray, Reminding you of age, each and every day.

At last the echo only runs south, Refusing to smile to repossess his wrinkleless mouth, Refusing to speak to smooth out the valley, Returning that face to original-e.

Laterns like memory By: Sophia Rasmussen

You step beneath the arch of red lanterns, their glow spills like melted saffron, painting shadows that dance along cracked pavement worn by millions of forgotten footfalls. The sky, glowing a coral of possibilities, seeps deep into the alleyway while the noctilucent stars gaze like thousands of watchful eyes. The heart to the soul, softly immersing you in and out of reality. The moment you enter, the world shifts beneath you - no longer a phosphorescent city street, but a dazzling maze of sound, scent and color. With your first breath, the world folds within. No longer asphalt and neon.

A pulse takes its place, woven from smoke, color, and sound.

The air is an amalgamation of thick scents of charcoalscorched meats, sweet slow syrup and that unmistakable note of fermented defiance; Chòu dòufu, rising like a forgotten ancestor. Fragments of music hover without melody. Color streams around you. Fabric flutters in doorways. Silks shimmer like liquid flame. Lanterns blink slowly, as if the street itself is waking, guiding your step as it tucks you invitingly into its world.

The breeze is the first to greet you. It runs its fingers up your arms, dances across calves, slips behind your ears. You follow the path of the wind, filled with aromatic fragrances, as it spins freely, as if no one ever taught it to stay still. You follow. The market opens, like a blooming lotus unfolding in slow, sacred silence. It permits you not to walk through it, but to breathe it in.

Lanterns sway like heartbeats suspended above. Crimson orbs, swollen with longing, carrying the weight of every unspoken wish. Beneath them, voices rise and fall - chants, bargains, laughter and grief - threads stitched across generations, echoing somewhere between flesh and spirit.

A woman folds scallion pancakes with spectral fingers, moving as if it were a practiced ritual. Each flip of dough is a turning page in an unwritten prayer book. Nearby, skewers of candied fruits lay restfully, as if they were treasure hoarded by the market itself. The sugar sparkles, perhaps to deny touch, yet still to initiate its sweetness. Bowls of Lǔ ròu fàn steam with the quiet reverence of an offering, the scent twirled upward, thick and comforting. Each grain of rice, soaked in something deeper than flavor, whispers of home and hunger.

No voice calls to you. No name is necessary.

You are already known here. Not by your face, but by the echo of your soul, the version of you that reached the market long before your body ever did. The one woven from soft questions and the longing that hangs in the evening air. Each scent here is sacred. Each bite your mouth takes is a return, a communion. Therefore, when the mango shaved ice melts on your tongue, cool and light, you recall the first snow of a forgotten winter. The black tea warms you from the inside, the liquid cascading down your throat, as if it were older than language itself, steeped in stories untold And then, somewhere beyond the tangled tarps and wires, a bell chimes. Slow. Deep.

A call so loud it seems to crack the sky open, like an old secret finding its voice at last.

You lift your gaze. Above, the night has ripened to a kaleidoscope of indigo hues.

Lanterns burn like pinned constellations.

Floating in the dusk, not to light the path, but to remember it.

You have not simply entered a market.

You have crossed the threshold to an unimaginable living dream.

A shrine built from steam, oil and flame.

A poem, written not in ink, but in scent, sound and soul.

I didn’t want to go but I ended up looking up into a kaleidoscope of design.

Photo by Alston Chang

Soaking up the California blue skies and the different cultures. Do you want to live here?

Photo by Alston Chang

ACID By: Sean Lindsay

A fuzzing noise. I sat up in my bed, jolted awake. My brother James was sitting across from my bed, fiddling with something. “What are you doing with that knife and battery?” I asked groggily, squinting against the brightness coming through the window.

“A science experiment. I’m seeing if acid can really burn my fingers off, or if that’s just a myth,” He answered, watching as his fingernails caught on some faintly blue liquid leaking from the tips of the battery. “It tickles,” then he winced.

“Welp, looks like you’ll find out soon enough,” I replied, stepping off the bed and walking lethargically out of the room, heading for the kitchen. I opened a cabinet and pulled out a suspiciously light box of cereal. I shook it and looked inside, and it was completely empty. “James, you ate all the cereal again!” I shouted angrily. No reply came.

I stomped my way back into the bedroom, the flooring creaking in protest.

Yes, I needed to let him know what was coming for him. His quietude certainly had to reflect his fear, a weakness he had. Weak. Pathetic, even.

He would regret his decisions. I walked straight into the room, mustering all of the strength I could, picking at every source of anger and focusing it to a point. My mind seared and my heart seethed, and…

I stumbled back. A body sat on that chair, torso half dissolved and face melted. An innocent battery lay in the grip of a skeletal hand.

“Welp,” I muttered to myself, “I guess karma got to him first”. Karma certainly went easy on him, though.

If I killed someone for you By: Akeisha Sangal

I can’t think straight in this rain.

It's like Aeolus emptied his pockets of all things lost in the wind, droplets coming down in sheets and torrents, my hair stuck to me like magnets, and it lost its voluminosity that once hung naturally upon it, like tissues in a puddle.

Rainwater weathered the bullet projectile into a fine smattering of powder, finishing my haphazard work of trying to claw the brass out of my sclera. Water and blood mixed with gunpowder running over my lips, copper in my mouth, the nausea rising. This typical discomfort seamlessly multiplied the artillery hammering at me. My hands were shaking, and they felt cold and empty without the smooth body of the revolver underneath my fingertips, the gold finishings catching on my skin—akin to how his touch keeps me sane. But it’s an insult to his identity. To relate and compare him to a gun that has claimed the lives of pathetic national security ‘threats’ which the Agency thought were worth wasting bullets on, and the tool for defeat in countless turns of Russian roulette.

Some New Yorker, like a bowling ball, dressed in a tasteless crimson rain jacket, launched into me.

My body was thrown to the side like the frail bowling pins by their obnoxiousness; I fell into the gutter. My hands flew out to grab whatever flicker of dignity or ribbon of composure. I tried to muster the haughtiest expression that had shielded me before from arrogant politicians and terrorists alike. Still, it was difficult to hide my features, which were humiliated by the gore on my face. This gutter was the alley where he found me after my ten laps of Manhattan when I ungraciously excused myself from his party upon the scrutinising gaze of his father. He found me with a shallow gash struck across my face, and returned to me holding the collars of the jerks who took advantage of my emotional soup and spiked it.

He’s going to find me here again.

Warmth fell on my face, blood seeped out of my eyelids, and I was sitting riddled with nausea, nausea that left me desperately trying not to buckle. The odour of the gutter slapped me and forced another gag, but my legs were already carrying my upper half through the filthy streets of the Upper East Side, sprinting past everything into a blur of grey, breathing heavily enough to summon a hurricane that could rival his.

My work clothes improved my aerodynamics, moulding to me like a third skin. I had no ammunition on me to pull me down. Pedestrian crossings, stairs, and floors flew beneath me; awnings, ceilings, and lights disappeared above.

My left eye turned numb, and the right one was blazing with pain. I was seeing colours scientists hadn’t discovered yet amongst black spots leaping to and fro on the stage of my vision. My hand slipped from the door handle as if it refused to yield to my force, so I stepped back and threw my weight against it. I was thrown into the ochre yellow ambience lights and olive wood flooring paired with cornflower blue wallpaper. The pain exploded behind the nerve endings of my skull. The migraines and hypertension broke my defensive line.

I think I put my back to one of the walls, covering my eyes and sliding down like the sky's weight had finally broken; my glimmers of sanity were now more precious than diamonds. I think I was dry heaving and embarrassingly unaware of him trying to hold me up.

I killed someone.

I killed someone not because they were on the CIA hit list—that was a secondary reason. I killed someone because they had hurt him.

I killed someone because I loved him.

A place of reflection. A place of growth. And an unending appreciation for Kyoto.

Photo by Alston Chang

A birthday and an extremely plesantly textured fish.

Photo by Alston Chang

delicate.

By: Elsa Wu

是一個晴朗的初夏午後。 碧藍的天透明鋥亮，陽光明媚，卻不如盛夏時刺眼炙熱。聒噪蟬 鳴聲自遠處傳來，清爽的微風佛過街道，吹動樹上的枝葉，它們 隨著風搖啊搖，陽光就從葉片隙縫中透過，地上影子也隨著一同 晃動，它再從身旁落地窗照進客廳，溫暖的灑在身上。 妳向著那面窗，背靠著沙發坐墊卻席地而坐，一隻手把玩著 幾顆淡藍色的透明玻璃珠，互相碰撞的珠子發出了清脆的聲響。 喀、喀、喀，是有些惱人的噪音，與放在房間中央那台老舊青色 電風扇發出的吃力聲響不相上下。妳將珠子放下，輕輕用手指將 幾顆彈了出去，一下又轉身為自己一頭黑色頭髮扎辮子。髮絲被 挑起、互相纏繞、交錯又鬆開，直到全都打成一團毛躁雜亂的結 為止才肯罷休。我一直看著妳，看著妳在頭髮打結後無奈於地板 躺下的樣子，看著那隻把玩玻璃珠和髮絲的手、那幾隻纖細蒼白 的手指、被彈出的幾顆珠子⋯⋯它們一路在木質地上滾啊滾，從 妳那頭滾到了房間另一頭，來到我面前，最後抵到了我的腳趾頭 才停下。我靠向那面窗坐，白色的窗簾被電風扇轉過時吹來的風 弄得掀起又盪下，一半的身體緊貼在窗上，本來有些溫暖的觸感 開始變得燙手。在陽光的照射下，單調的珠子被照出了晶瑩剔透 的樣子，裡頭透出那五彩斑斕便反射在一旁的地上。我盯著珠 子，沒有望向妳，也沒有說話。隔開我們的是一張擺滿了白色藥 袋的矮桌，隱約能看見袋子裡頭裝的是大大小小的藥丸與膠囊， 使得房裡總滿是藥物和醫院那刺鼻消毒水的味道。吃藥時間早就 過了，不過桌上的袋子妳倒是一碰也不碰。那隨意的態度像是在 說：沒關係。

房間剩下一片寂靜。我不知道大概過了多久，似乎只是呼 吸之間那麼短，又感覺經過一朝一夕那麼長，空氣和時間是凝 滯的。妳通常會說更多的話，有更多的舉動，但安靜是我們之 間目前唯一的共識。過了那麼久，妳終於開了口。我看著妳支 支吾吾的樣子，一下轉過頭來，在對上我的雙瞳那刻又錯開視 線。於是在經過猶豫、小心翼翼、或許還有那麼一點的掙扎 後，妳丟下一句話。 妳說我們去看海吧。 我說好。 於是一如即往，我駕著車，妳在副座，我們駛於沿海的公 路上朝著那片海灘前進。那裡平時人不多，環境清幽且廣闊。 地上的沙雖粗糙卻很白很乾淨，海水清澈而透明，偶爾掀起一 波波浪潮時，海上就多了破碎的浪花泡沫點綴。妳和我都很喜 歡那裡。 前往海邊的路全是單調的直線，偶爾幾個過彎才令人勉強 保持專心。一切仍然很安靜，任何一點廣播電台的人聲和音樂 都被妳在車剛發動時關掉了。我很想問妳會不會不舒服，有沒 有備著藥，但當我稍稍撇過頭，看見妳早就將車窗拉下，將頭 稍微往一旁靠著，讓海風隨意吹向妳的臉龐和頭髮時，我又什 麼都說不出來了。我想著這會不會是妳最後一次見到海景，最 後一次和我旅行，最後一次隨心所欲。蒼白的臉和淡紫色的雙 唇，顯然不是因為天氣太冷所導致，細緻挺立的五官，好像櫥 窗裡珍藏的娃娃一般。妳仍望著窗外，那海無比蔚藍，天也碧 空萬里，一片雲都見不著。陽光打在海面上反射出一閃一閃的 光，好像那幾顆玻璃珠子一樣。妳常抱怨風將妳那細心整理過 的瀏海給弄亂，只有每當經過海岸時的那陣海風能讓在乎外貌 的妳破例忘記這份心情。妳只是閉上雙眼，偶爾抬頭看看海上 幾艘小船。一旁幾輛車匆匆經過，我轉回來望向前方。車開得 不急不慢，一直到停下，兩人雙雙下了車，一前一後地走向沙 灘後妳才轉頭看向我。妳讓我跟著妳走，還沒等我回答又將頭 轉回前方。可或許妳從未想要得到什麼回答，而我也沒剩下什 麼好說。我知道妳想去哪，妳從來都只去同一個地方。

踏進沙灘的那刻我的步伐逐漸放慢，感受細沙隨著走 動一點一點滲進腳上那雙涼鞋裡。腳趾之間流滿沙子， 一顆顆都重重輾過每一寸皮膚，它們又粗又刺，恨不得 就這樣劃開、刺破表皮再陷進肉裡，每多走一步，細密 的疼痛就加深一點，灼熱感又更烈一些。我邊動了動腳 趾，心想現在看起來肯定有些滑稽。 當正糾結於將鞋裡的沙子甩出來時，就看見已經將兩 隻帆布鞋和白襪隨意丟在沙灘上的你光腳踏進海裡。陽 光照在海面上，反射出一閃一閃的光輝。妳穿著短褲， 任由浪潮拍打在小腿上，黏著的沙粒被海水一次次沖 走，又再一次隨著步伐黏上去。妳轉身面向我，舉起右 手臂揮了兩下示意我過去。我在原地愣了下，片刻後將 腳上的涼鞋隨意甩在一旁，然後朝妳前進，我總感覺妳 離我很遠，太遠了，好像只是這麼走下去的話總有一天 會來不及，會搆不著妳。沒有多加思考，可我的雙腳， 那雙才被沙子刺得難受的腳，正本能地向妳靠近。用走 的太慢了，妳很沒有耐心，等不了慢吞吞的我這麼久， 那我就快點、再快點，趁著妳對我的興趣還未消散的時 候，趁妳還有時間的時候。我衝進海裡，一腳踏碎浪 沫，濺起一陣水花，噴濕了妳的薄襯衫和臉頰，我換來 一聲不滿和一場撥水仗。本只能於玻璃珠上瞧見的光正 閃爍在妳我身上。被潑了一身的我抬頭，見妳第一次笑 了。

這附近人煙罕至。少得稀奇，少得可怕。好像世上僅剩 下妳和我而已。我們如同孩子一般玩耍，單單互相撈起一把 水往對方身上潑去，不斷重複直到一切都濕透，好像忘了世 間的煩亂、緊張。然而此時一切都不重要，因為我眼中只剩 下笑著的妳，忘掉憂慮後僅單純笑著的妳。就這樣玩著，一 直到太陽西落，海洋逐漸被染成一片紅，沙灘上照出一片金 黃，直到妳說夠了我們才走。回頭時，我才發現來時的腳印 已經消失了，一道道風將我們的印記吹散、掩蓋、抹去，誰 都不會發現這片海灘上有誰曾造訪過。 妳說妳現在很瘦，一定很上鏡，於是拿著那台數位相機 讓我幫忙拍幾張照片，到時就能將相片洗出來掛在牆上，這 樣每當看見了這些，我就能想起妳。妳說有了這些，就算我 遇見了更美好的人也不能忘記妳。妳說妳的皮膚變得很白， 不用再擔心什麼顏色的衣服顯黑、顯胖。妳說最近眼睛似乎 顯得很大，臉又變小，不用花費心力化妝。難道我該慶幸妳 最後是開心的嗎？ 好像不怕疼似的，妳光著腳丫一下踏著水一下踩著沙。 手上拎著兩隻鞋子，從左邊跑到右邊，再從遠方跑到我面 前。耳邊沒有人煙喧囂，我們聽著海浪拍打沙灘，聽妳偶爾 說些什麼，看天空幾隻飛鳥於黃昏之中翱翔。一切都很完 美，美好得如同虛幻，像是老天賜予的最後一個禮物。妳的 手指勾著我的，冰冷的觸感令人確實感受到妳的脆弱，我不 敢施力，生怕一不小心就傷了你，於是只得像對待藝術品、 易碎品、玻璃珠一般，小心翼翼的護著。我撇了一眼，現在 妳的五官倒是十分立體，原來這是妳滿意的樣子嗎？

回程路上，夕陽餘暉映於海面，天邊散落幾道晚霞。妳將菸盒 打開遞給我。我揮著手說不抽。我看了妳一眼，收回嘴邊要妳別抽 煙的話。妳默默掏出隻打火機把煙給點上，將煙雲吐出窗外讓晚風 吹散。那是支女煙，點下的瞬間淡淡花香飄滿了車內，又隨著窗外 風消散。化工茉莉香總使人頭昏腦脹，我一向不喜歡這樣的氣味。 妳說這是最後一次。 我說好。 如果這是我最後能給予的。 妳說我一定要替妳來看更多次的海。 我不語，只是看著妳準備點下第二支煙的樣子。

妳的結局終究是那樣的。 妳的生命止步不前，而時間將我越推越遠，離那天 與妳都越來越遠。世界又開始分裂、旋轉，身邊一切都 在變冷、麻木不仁，又逐漸扭曲。 從那一日起我總感覺哪裡少了什麼，那種忘了帶上 東西的不安感，於是每天出門前我總會反覆檢查公事包 中的物品，但手機、錢包、鑰匙，甚至連文件都一個不 漏的全帶上了，然後抱著這種心情還是踏出了家門。一 復一日地吃飯、睡覺、就職⋯往後的生活更是由這些瑣 碎組成。 然後過去了一個、兩個、三個月，又經過幾個黃昏 白晝和春夏秋冬，已經數不清了。期間又經歷了好幾個 初夏，去了好多次海邊。天空仍然碧藍，陽光依舊明 媚，我聽見了夏日的蟬鳴鳥叫，微風吹過綠葉時的沙沙 聲，耳邊卻少了應該要有卻總是缺席的，玻璃彈珠的聲 音，於是偶爾會將它們拿出來把玩。我將那些早該過期 的藥全丟了，從此消毒水的氣味從未出現在家中過。又 染上煙癮後，我總會多點一支散發茉莉香氣的捲煙，頓 時陽台除了我偏好的煙草，更有你喜愛的花香味。我偶 爾仍習慣在早晨泡上兩杯咖啡，發現不對後又將其中一 杯送進冰箱或倒進水槽。終於空出時間洗出了那台相機 裡的照片又買了掛飾，照妳說的將照片一一掛在牆上。 裡頭有踏過浪花的妳，掛著笑容的妳，靜靜望著遠方的 妳，奔向我的妳⋯⋯。

後來某年一場同事聚會時，大家都喝得多了，當然也包括我。其 中有個老頭滿臉通紅，嘴巴滔滔不絕地說著什麼，唸著唸著就談起了初 戀，一邊搖頭晃腦地和旁人勾肩搭背，手裡拿的玻璃杯裡還裝著最後一 口滿是泡沫的啤酒，那動作大得差一點就要將金黃色的液體給同事潑個 滿身。其他人一昧地湊熱惱，問她叫什麼名字？長什麼樣子？他說我記 不得她的名字，也早就忘記她的長相了，那過了好多好多年啊，我只記 得她很好很好。那為什麼分開呢？一聽，那老頭用力將酒杯放在桌上， 說：我壓根不配勒！我算、算什麼？終究抵不過醉意，他沒說完就倒了 下去。那群醉醺醺的傢伙們只是接著一昧感嘆時間、歲月、生活啊，模 糊了記憶的一切，人過了幾年就把過去通通淡忘了，只是醉生夢死活 著。他們見我在一旁安靜的聽也看著無趣，又熱烈地邀請我加入。眼看 話題的主人翁出現換人的趨勢，我趕緊找了藉口離開那間餐館。 夜路寧靜，僅有幾盞路燈和被雲層蓋住的月光朦朧地照亮前方的 路。時間已經晚了，行人寥寥無幾。我一個人帶著滿身的酒氣在人行道 上搖搖晃晃地漫步。感到有些燥熱時就一手鬆開領帶，另一手甩動著公 事包，腦中想著那些同事近乎不省人事卻仍要消愁的模樣，想著他們一 個勁怨天怨地的模樣。

他們說過了幾年就會忘了。 可我覺得不是的。 不是這樣的。 因為妳佔據了我。 無論生命、回憶亦或是愛情。 我記得妳的名字，也記得妳的臉，甚至能在腦中描繪出妳的輪廓， 從眼角、鼻尖、脣瓣，一直到脖子和鎖骨之間，我記得那些溫度與觸 感，與我吻妳的樣子。妳總會閉上雙眼抬著頭，等待我雙唇貼上妳的那 刻，直到我們舌尖交纏、唾液相融，即便頻臨窒息仍向我索求更多那 刻。我記得妳的眼睛，那雙深不可測的墨色眼睛，那雙乍看天真的雙 瞳，裡頭裝滿了我從不敢擁有也未抓住，卻想全都佔為己有的東西，可 它們偶爾閃爍時卻又如此透徹美麗，好像妳喜歡的那些玻璃珠。我記得 那個初夏的午後，妳提出要去看海的那個時候。我記得妳那張笑得燦爛 的臉，哭得狼狽的臉，痛得猙獰的臉。我記得妳從一具溫暖、灼熱、最 後冰冷的軀體變成一塊塊碎裂的骨頭和塵埃。 那又如何呢？ 妳仍在這裡活著。 妳會在我用記憶拼湊起妳的那刻短暫地重生，在我的回憶裡活著。 那份回憶如夢，卻非鏡花水月。我沈迷於那墨色的深海中，瘋狂的 迷戀，所以怎麼可能忘記呢？ 我忘不了妳。 因為我如此愛妳。 妳的皮肉、靈魂，妳任何一滴眼淚、血液、乃至骨髓。

我記得當驟雨落下時，仍神經質一般在雨中與我相擁的妳，雨滴如 絲如縷，潮濕的空氣與黏膩的熱風吹過皮膚時像要把我們緊緊貼在一起 似的。我記得水滴打在地面上的聲音，雨水猛烈敲打著路面，水花四處 飛濺，無數跳動水珠全落在了身上，水滴刺痛如冰冷繡花針，稠密如細 細絲線，刺得發疼的同時緊緊纏繞著什麼。我記得那時站在海中，調皮 像孩子一般朝我撥水的妳，病到極值卻仍執意點燃那支煙的妳。我願 意，願意用盡生命來拯救搖搖欲墜的妳。即使我要頭破血流，即便是飛 蛾逐光。正因為太深刻，使我將自己困在這裡，困在名為妳的深淵裡。 即使我等不到妳、等不了妳，即便如此，我仍甘之如飴。 我愛的是妳我之間痛苦的互相撕扯，是彼此心中那根永生無法拔除 的刺。 可那又如何呢？ 我只能等著。我留在這裡，枯燥乏味的過完平凡的一生，我仍然天 天出門，與不同的人們對話，但都快認不出每個人的聲音和模樣。我明 明存在，一切都很正常，卻又好像不在這裡，可這一切不都是自己造成 的嗎？ 我停滯了很久很久。 不願意前進的只有我。 自私停在你還在那年的是我。 雲層完全遮蓋了月色，路上逐漸泛起潮濕的氣味，也吹起燥熱的黏 風，吹過路邊人家的花叢，揚起了清新的花香味。我認得這種氣味，太 熟悉了，那是夏季的味道，是香煙試圖仿造的氣味，那是茉莉的氣息， 帶有妳的印記。茉莉花香的出現宣告著春日的結束，迎接下個季節的到 來。 夏天，又到了。

是一個晴朗的初夏午後。 陽光依舊明媚，風仍然溫柔。兩人座的沙發上只剩下一人 獨自看著陽光窗外灑進室內。老電風扇已經淘汰了，換成了更 符合現在氣候的空調。還是一樣的蟬鳴，還是熟悉的烈陽，還 是同樣隨風晃動的翠綠葉片。 我低頭看著手中僅存的那顆玻璃珠子，其他的早已被我不 小心弄碎了。它們靜靜躺在手心，反射著晶瑩剔透的光。如同 那天一樣，好像妳的雙瞳一樣。 茉莉花香仍在煙草味裡混著，海仍在遠方，世界繼續轉 動。連同我一起。 那些被光照亮的記憶依舊鮮明，它們靜靜地在心底打轉， 如同藍色玻璃珠一般，不曾黯淡。

The Musician By: Aerin Choy

As the soft spring breeze rushed through the city, it playfully winded through the fruit cartons, tickling the oranges and apples. It petulantly tugged at the hairs of young joggers or at the “Help Wanted” posters that lined every lamppost for a mile but the city seemed deathly silent. The thick and cloying smells of petrol, with an undertone of gutter rot and the artificial gardens of perfumes and soaps hid the disappointing stench of an urban city. Soft shuffling of rubber soles against cracked concrete were a drone to the constant pinging of social media or vibrations in jean pockets, the bees which pollinated our minds with constant information.

Yet underneath the overwhelming sensations the ground occasionally bounced to a pulse.

Pulsing. Pulsing. Pulsing.

Traversing down the damp stairs of the metro stations, past the wrought iron gates or the automatic machines beeping and chattering, something moved. Like an oceanic current navigating the deep aquamarine sea, tugging at fish and loose pieces of seagrass, the whole station seemed to be pulled into the tug of jauntiness and vigour.

There was a rush of cool breeze intermingled with wet metal and rusting pipes, as the train roared into the station, bright eyes illuminating the platform and the musician. Behind the background noise of the bright tinkling of petty cash or the buzz of the overworked lights, a deep soulfulness echoed around the air. Tempting low notes which slid into melodious scales, ached the heart, it was a rare flower in a concrete jungle.

Surrounded by a canopy of metal rebar, glass and pulsating lights and electricity, the curved varnished wood shone like an out of place piece in a puzzle. The soft tips of fingers against the thick and thin wire, tiptoed and glided like a dancer governed by four lines. Delicate wrists swayed to an invisible thread, pulling and tugging the musician’s long limbs in a spider, trance-like manner. Biting down ever so lightly on their lips as their sneakers tap a quick pace into the tiles, their eyebrows arched, eyes narrowed in focus at an invisible score. They were guided by something else entirely. The pulsing, pulsing, pulsing.

Yet the instrument and its master were not the only ones who sensed this undeniable push and shove of the city.

Beyond the music, drawn like iron filings to a magnet a wideeyed boy gazes at them. His small frame seems to be tugged by the winds and the harshness of the bright surroundings causes him to shudder. Their small digits tingle and itch to reach out and touch the wood and their tense squirrelly movements threaten to explode at any time. But their simple request is lost to the tremendous rumble of the train and busy parenting.

Leaving its beady eyes of the train trailing the rest of the station, the pulsing still remains, the string tighter and more purposeful than ever. Somehow the city now feels less quiet, the grittiness of a horse-hair bow on metal strings, the sweet tinkling of shop bells and Candy Crush, a symphony of car honks at the intersection, indistinct humming under breath, a soft breeze of spring tugs at plants like rustling paper or the whoosh as they rush through buildings. The so-called-deathly silent city is actually a musician pulsating, pulsating.

Mother’s day By: Lia Schneider

It is not a fleeting childhood but a drug induced amnesia But memory always loses in a race with time My mother applied the topical anesthesia But the keloid still revienes on mine Materially, I consume Maternally, I hoard Reaping one of my own, all peace and concord An unrequited alliance is what we assume The veranda in my brain, we congregate Woven into each other, our fingers And as you sedate me, hearts pulsate The bitter prejudice you handed me lingers Need gnaws, hunger hurts Is it ever to be healed?

It seems to be evergreen, and thus kept sealed.

The growth and grief she reconverts Rejoice the truth My hand on a bible in the 11th dining booth A manual book, my family heirloom I perforate and lacerate, to embed it in my womb For the next, my labor is not induced There is no more space for you in here My darling angel, she deduced Your mother will be there my dear

WHI