Page 1

Photos by Carolyn Nguyen

TABLE OF CONTENTS 5 9

TO BE OR NOT TO BE...WHEN ‘NOT-COOL’ IS COOL

Hipsters: they’re everywhere. How to spot one/what to do. Even Doc Senior couldn’t come up with this gold.

HAIKUS: THE IDEA THAT TWITTER RIPPED OFF Prior to Twitter 5-7-5 were the first Character limits.

Ashley Hong shows WINK How to become much much more Concise with those Tweets.

19 20

Hess vs. Johnson: Who will emerge victorious? It’s a battle of the redheads. Also, flip here to see the lovechild of a Transformers dude and a llama.

what should you do before the world ends? Take our bucket list quiz to see what you should be doing instead of loading up on supplies! #youwon’tregretit The Grapevine Poet Tree Art A La Carte Fiction Addiction View From the West Rat’s Nest

4 8 10 14 18 20

FEATURED ARTIST: KARINA WAI Junior Karina Wai shows off her ability with pastel coloring the natural and the modern.

25


volume one

wink through the years

(2007-2008)

volume two (2008-2009)

volume three

(2009-2010)

volume four (2010-2011)

volume five (2011-2012)


James Duncan Wayne Grimm

wink contributors and staff

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Ask Dr. Senior

Have a question? Email Dr. Senior at usourbro?@winkguru.com.

Dr. Senior is a twelfth-year senior at Westview High School. Recently taking up Gangnam-Styledancing as a hobby, he plans on majoring in the area of Independent Study. Until then, he will continue his position as Supreme Dictator of the Hacky Sack Society. Dear Insecure Sophomore, Isn’t it obvious? You have a choice between doing what you think is right and doing what your friends think is is “cool”. Succumb to peer pressure! Your personal opinion, doesn’t matter to anyone, and of course the right thing to do is what most people are doing. Your friends should be back with you in no time. Dear Nervous, A few years?! Listen, this relationship is obviously a lost cause. Forget the girl, and to distract yourself from the crushing reality of your sucky life, take up some new hobbies such as knitting sweaters for sloths or watering your grandmother’s rutabagas.

Dear Irritated, You COULD politely ask this person to stop or perhaps talk to your teacher about a new seating arrangement, but where would be the excitement in that? I suggest that next time he shoots a spitball at you, you screech like a dying cat or start playing an invisible cello. And when he tries to talk to you, just stare at him. No smiling. No blinking. The. Whole. Class. Hopefully he’ll get the message after he has a nervous breakdown. 4


the grapevine can be found by examining their Tumblr blog, if they have one, which Well, my dear friends, it may be if they really are a hipster, they probtough, but it is surely not impossible. Imagine this. ably do. Does their blog include reWe can, and we must, pay more atYou’re sitting peacefully in Star- tention to this rising problem in not blogged photos of scantily clad skinbucks, sipping your peppermint mo- only our high school, but our na- ny girls, photographs of braided hair, and quite often, quotes regarding cha and relishing the sweet taste tion. the topic of being “forever young”? of winter on your tongue. A few The first step is precaution. Do If so, you may have a hipster on your people relax nearby, chatting quietly you have any friends who claim to hands. One symptom, however, can with some acquaintances or sifting be emotionally deep and unique sum up the rest: claiming or trying through the cartoons in a weekly from the rest of our fickle society? very hard to be a “non-conformist”. newspaper, sharing a smile between Keep a close eye on them. We all This is an incredibly serious issue. themselves now and again. know those people who enjoy blam- Once someone is on the track of atSuddenly, someone lets ing media for their insecurities tempting to be a “non-conformist”, out a piercing scream. and taking beautiful, artistic t h e y may go any You turn your head, black-and-white pictures of length to but nothing seems to lawn chairs. These people prove this be the problem… unare extremely vulnerable to others – til you catch a glimpse to the sickly disease of hipeven by lisof a horrific scene. A steritis. Also among those tening to a tall figure in a colorprone to this illness are kids band with ful plaid shirt and dark, who have an obsession with the name tightly fit jeans strolls being seen as “weird” to others of Neutral in through the door, or who claim they’re trying to Milk Hotel. shoulders slouched. stay away from “mainstream” ClassifyThick-rimmed websites like FaceBook ing the sympblack glasses and Twitter (even toms leads resembling though they own an to a small but those given active account on very significant to vieweach of them.) If you discovery: the ers of a 3D encounter anyone intensity of the movie lie undergoing these now-diagnosed delicatedangerously hipstercase of hipsteritis. ly on his ish progressions, You may be dealing nose. Terror strikes your heart as his proceed to the next step – for these with a level one mainly mainstream blue Vans tap across the clean tile are the biggest signs of an emerging hipster- someone who occasionally floor, and all you want to do is reach hipster. likes to brag about their exquisitely out and pull that beanie off his head. After confirming that someone different music taste and sense of Slowly, steadily he reaches the gaping you know may indeed be eligible to style- or you could be handling a cashier and orders a tall espresso, be diagnosed with hipsteritis, begin level five, incurable summer-blooded then proceeds to smile smugly and by labeling their symptoms. A very hipster with dip dyed hair and sixpull out a polished iPhone to obsimple way to identify a hipster is ty-five pairs of Vans. Either way, you serve what his next stop will be. to ask a person what kind of music need, and I repeat, need, to stay away Hipsters. Invading our school. In- they listen to- any answer indicates from a hipster such as this to avoid vading our land. absence of hipsteritis, except, “Oh, catching this highly contagious disWhat kind of actions can we take you’ve probably never heard of it.” ease. to ensure the safety of Westview Another obvious sign of a hipster

HIPSTERITIS!

High School regarding hipsters?

5


%PVMKLX 7S ]SY´ZI GSR½VQIH XLEX someone you know and care for is a hipster. Now what to do? Well, for starters… burn any dreamcatchers they happen to have hanging around their room. This will prohibit the hipster gods from reaching their evil minions, and is a way to slowly, rid these poor hipsters of their miserable condition.Throw away any clothing items MQTVMRXIH[MXLTMGXYVIWSJGVYGM½\IW they may own, and discreetly hide any NEVWSJ2YXIPPEP]MRKEVSYRHXLILSYWI 8S FI WEJI HIPIXI ER] WIP½IW JVSQ their cameras and destroy all strangesounding music from their iPod. In fact, take away their Apple electronic immediately if they have one, which they will if they are indeed hipster. If they ever try to braid their hair in a complicated fashion, promptly slap them until they promise never to do

it again. Buy them an entire wardrobe from Abercrombie & Fitch and drown them in Hollister perfume. Alternatively, you can supply them with twenty pairs of baggy sweatpants and plenty of plain-colored T-shirts. And most importantly, absolutely remove any pairs of Vans they may own. Do all these conversions on a school night so they won’t have any time to shop for new clothes or recover their lost accessories. Last but not least, annihilate any outlets they may access Tumblr through. Whether this is through deactivating internet connection or a demolition of their computer, it must be done.

becoming a vital part of high school life for responsible, school-involved teenagers. So what are you going to do? Are you going to watch your world fall prey to the hipsters, or are you going to do something about it? The choice is yours.

Well, now you know how to manage LMTWXIVW ER][LIVI )PMQMREXMRK IEGL is long and tedious, but together, we can do it. Hipster control is quickly

meg schenktHBVSJLIBNCBUMBtNJDIFMMFOFMMJTtSJUBQBOFPHJtDISJTUJOFOHVZFO

The End- It’s Coming This Time, We Promise ;IPPJSPOWMX´W½REPP]LIVIXLIPEWX year of our lives and the end of our world as we know it. Get ready to WE]]SYV½REPKSSHF]IWWEZSVXLIPEWX FMXIWSJ]SYVJEZSVMXI¾EZSVWERHFIPlow across the street to your elderly neighbor that, despite what you said earlier, it actually was you that ran over her ugly chihuahua last Christmas, and yes, it was on purpose. What’s that you ask? How aren’t [I WYVI XLEX XLMW MWR´X NYWX ERSXLIV hoax meant to terrify people and make money off of movies so cleverly named 2012? First of all, you can tell that a doomsday prophecy is false if 1.) it’s based on some silly coincidence like planets aligning, or 2.) those that proclaim the end on that date don’t acknowledge the possibility that they could be wrong. Therefore, the prediction of a rapidly approaching Armageddon in 2012 is obviously correct. (IGIQFIVWX[EW½VWXHMW-

covered to be the end of world after the initial prediction of the doomsday date-May 2003- proved to be quite, er, an ordinary day. As many credible scientists and astrologists h ave con-

umm, factual evidence that this supTSWIH TPERIX MW ETTVSEGLMRK )EVXL the entire NASA team wholeheartedly agrees that this claim is true.” one researcher at NASA revealed. “First of all, I mean, the Mayan calendar is ending. Some say, ‘Oh, well, XLIMV GEPIRHEV MW NYWX E PSRKGSYRX period that will start over again’, but that doesn’t make any sense! Do our calendars end and start over again? Wait, uhhh...” Unfortunately, this researcher seemed unable to answer further questions and scrambled away to “go take a bathroom break”. However, we believe everyone can agree that his testimony provided a smart slap in the face to whoever may have doubted the end.

firmed, the planet Nibiru, discovered by XLI7YQIVMERW[MPPGSPPMHI[MXL)EVXL So build your bunkers, ladies and when the ancient Mayan calendar gents, and hold on tight, because this ends with the winter solstice this time (for real), we’re in for a bumpy December. “Although we have no, ride.

6


Past this page, most of the material is student-submitted.

Student Submissions

Photography by Carolyn Nguyen

Art by Alexandria Pak

7


“Thirteen Ways of Looking at Fire” By Chi-Nhan Vo

I Tears of burning wax Fleeing from the candle’s head A feeble orange beacon in the dark II Slowly curling around the wood Glowing black chips left in the core To ignite another marshmallow

VIII Knowledge, progress, civilization Prometheus’ stolen gift A spark igniting the blaze Of humanity’s first steps forward

III What’s this fire in my head That burns my cheeks red Whenever you look at me?

IX A hissing flame held back Lapping at the iron pot Exciting the water above

IV Roaring like a proud lion Roaring in indiscriminate consumption Painting the sky above dark blood red As another tree topples To the wildfire’s mad hunger

X A precipice of gray stone Hanging over a molten pit below That mocks the boy As he walks out on stage

VI Outstretched arms, callused, worn To the gentle flow Melting away the pain with the snow VII Sweating a river with a mighty yell Reaching further into the hellish furnace As deafening crashes of metal on metal Hammer out the molten core Of a ring 8

XII Shining down, a ball of flame That happily brightens The green grass For the playing children XIII A pool of liquid white The flame finally let rest A black night of peace

KFOOJGFSYJFtsusmita padala tvalerie wang

V One stroke, two, three Finally, a spark Hurry, hurry, crawling down the match A spark to light the birthday cake

XI Indifferent stares crowding Around the pages of history A silent scream As a generation turns to ash


Haikus

Black Berries

by Ashley Hong

by Meg Schenk

Here is good advice: Live well; it’s the best revenge. Please, become stronger.

My mother tells me to be patient. “Wait,” she says softly. “Until the green and red ones have ripened. Wait, and by the end of summer they will be ready.” I close my eyes, a faint summer breeze playing on my cheeks, and I imagine bundles of them, those tart berries growing plump and black, glinting in the sun. And I tell her I’ll wait. But I don’t. I pluck them swiftly, bowed and wary like a thief, concealed by my dark alley of brambles and thorns.

She asked for the truth. “I’m sorry, I choose zero. ” Heartwrenching relief.

Trapped

by Meg Schenk

City lights drown out those of the stars. Television noise kills the chirping of crickets. Instead of tangles of leafy green branches hang webs of telephone wires; A net that imprisons me in these towers of brick. The music has made us deaf, The colors misted over our eyes and made us blind. Tendrils of smog seep into the cool air. They swirl within our lungs, invisible as they are inhaled with each whisper of breath. Slowly, we are suffocated, suffocated, suffocated.

Untitled

by Ashley Hong

The next three pages were blank – No text, no page numbers, no headings. The page before had ended with a period. Alas, she had reached the end of another novel. So satisfying, yet so bittersweet. Wishing to dwell on the conclusion, yet also wishing to experience it all over again. What a dilemma.

9


Art a la

Carte

Above: Elizabeth Townsend Below: Chandra Marlow

10


Above, from left to right: Elizabeth Townsend, Carolyn Nguyen

Left: Elizabeth Townsend

Right: Sunnia Ye

11


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editor: ariana davis

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Above: Chandra Marlow

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"CPWF DMPDLXJTFGSPNMFGUUPSJHIU$IBOESB.BSMPX $BSPMZO/HVZFO  Jessica Wiercx #FMPX DMPDLXJTFGSPNMFGUUPSJHIU&MJ[BCFUI5PXOTFOE $IMPF.BFOH  Carolyn Nguyen

13


A

Fiction Addiction

llison Wood stared out her bedroom window. Rain pounded the glass, distorting her vision and blurring the street below. She sighed and leaned her head against the cold pane. She was at home sick, and was not allowed to leave her room. Her nanny, Miss Ermentrude Petunia, was terrified of germs and had insisted that Allison stay in her room for the past three days. She even received her meals through a flap in the door. Her father was away on business and she had no mother, so no one knew of her quarantine. Never, in her whole life, had she been so utterly consumed by boredom. But on this particular rainy day, Miss Ermentrude Petunia forgot to lock the bedroom door. Allison couldn’t believe her luck. Slowly, carefully, she pushed the door open. The hinges released a loud, treacherous creak. Allison froze, holding her breath. Luckily, the radio was on downstairs, drowning out the noise. Miss Ermentrude Petunia always listened to police scanners in the afternoon; she was always terrified someone would try to rob the house. Allison tiptoed down the hall and up the stairs to the attic. One of the windows opened out to a giant oak tree, perfect for sneaking out of the house. Years of crazy nannies had helped her discover many creative routes of escape. She had one leg out of the window before something in the corner of the room caught her eye. A giant mirror stood there, six feet tall and menacing; it seemed to encompass half of the room, now that she had noticed it. It had a frame of solid, black oak that was covered in various illegible inscriptions and tiny, leering cherubs. Allison pulled her leg back inside and went to examine the mirror more closely. She looked into the glass. Her reflection stared back. She was about to turn away when her reflection disappeared. In its place stood another girl, tiny and covered from head to toe in dirt and grime. Allison blinked rapidly and shook her head, trying to convince herself that she was only seeing things. When she cautiously glanced back at the mirror, her reflection had returned; the girl was gone. Allison turned and fled. The next morning, as Miss Ermentrude Petunia passed her breakfast through the flap in the door, Allsion asked, “Do you believe in magic?” Miss Ermentrude Petunia shook her head frantically. “There’s no such thing as magic,” she replied. “Don’t ask such questions!” All day the only thing on Allison’s mind was the mirror. Curiosity plagued her until she could bear it no longer. But the door was

The Mirror Jemma Giberson locked today, trapping her inside. As she sat and ate her lunch, an idea came to her. Examining the flap in the door on hands and knees, she found that it was just big enough to squeeze through. After a few harrowing moments of nearly getting stuck twice, Allison burst through to the other side and bolted up the stairs. The mirror was right where she had left it. Cautiously, she forced herself to look into the glass. It was only her reflection, again. Allison sighed. Of course she had just been imagining things, she thought. Chalk it up to cabin fever. Just as she turned around, she heard a tapping coming from behind her. She turned slowly on the spot to see that her reflection had once again vanished and the strange girl had returned. She was knocking on the glass with her knuckles. It took everything Allison had not to scream. The girl only continued tapping. Allison took a tentative step toward the mirror. “What are you?” she whispered. The girl shrugged her shoulders. “Can you speak?” Allison asked. The girl opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She looked up at Allison, her eyes pleading. She held up her hands and Allison noticed, for the first time, the thick shackles around both of her wrists. “Who did that to you?” The girl shook her head vigorously, seemingly fearful of whoever – or whatever – was holding her captive. “Help me,” she mouthed. “What can I do?” Allison asked. The girl held up her hand, pressed it against the glass and motioned for Allison to do the same. The moment their hands overlapped, Allison’s world went dark. When she woke up, Allison was disoriented. She was lying on the floor, facing the mirror. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, trying to remember what had happened. It was then that she realized she was on the wrong side of the mirror. Her wrists were bound by massive metal shackles. She was in a room that resembled her own attic, but on this side of the mirror things were decidedly different. The floorboards were moldy and rotten. Instead of her family’s discarded and forgotten junk, she was surrounded by other children, all of whom were chained as she was. She could see her own attic on the other side of the mirror, but the strange girl was standing in it. “What did you do to me?” Allison screamed. The girl merely smiled and walked out of sight.

Tracy Sokalski | Chi-Nhan Vo | Uma Ilavarasan | Anusha Sanka | Janani Srikanth | Hudson Zhi

14


music Chi-Nhan Vo

L

ocke glanced down to find himself tapping his fingers against the cold stone he was perched on. It was a simple rhythm, one, two, three-and-four, one of many that he’d caught himself trying absentmindedly over the years. He strained his ears to catch even the slightest noise, but heard none, as expected. Unsure of why he’d expected anything different, he chided himself and told his fingers to stop. Unlike the old men and women who sat around in the dark lamenting in monotone, Locke had never really understood what the world government had taken away eighteen years ago. They’d tried to explain though, every opportunity they got. Always reminding him how special he was, how his mother had given her life to sing him an illegal lullaby moments before the music barrier was activated. Of course he didn’t remember, but the song was something he’d always failed to recreate despite his efforts. A few more moments of the perpetual silence hung in the crisp morning air, broken as the ground-door before Locke opened up and let Remi out. Her simple gray skirt fluttered behind her in the soft breeze, and she shivered as she climbed up next to Locke. “Here, give me your scarf,” she said. Without waiting for a reply, she reached around Locke’s neck for the faded and tattered cloth to wrap tightly around her skinny legs. Together they watched the sun peek out shyly beyond the distant ruins of the old city, climbing up over the horizon as it slowly gained confidence. “Want to dance?” Remi asked abruptly. She kept her eyes fixed on the barren brown expanse before them. Locke raised an eyebrow as he turned to her. She still stared absently at the sun. “What?” he finally said. “Dance. Do you want to?” she repeated, now smiling at him. Locke was used to Remi saying strange things, but was no less confused. “What’s gotten into you now?” he asked. Instead of a reply, she took his hand in hers and hopped off, pulling him down to the open dirt. Remi’s hands were small, soft against his calluses, and radiated a disproportionate warmth that was amplified in the morning chill. “It’s your birthday today, I think,” she said as she stepped in place. “I wanted to do something new together, since there’s nothing to give you.” She took a tentative pair of steps; Locke tried matching her

“Dance.

Do you want to?”

15

movements and stepped on her toes. After a colorful expletive and hasty apology, he at least managed to move back and forth with her. Unsure of how to follow, he stepped backward and forward again, and again. “Alright then,” he said. “But I can’t see why you chose a musical activity, of all things. How’s this work, exactly?” “I dunno,” she replied, looking to the wet earth underfoot as they tried to transform their awkward steps into a fluid pattern. “Just close your eyes and feel it. That’s what all the grandparents say.” Locke closed his eyes tightly and concentrated, but all he felt was her foot under his own again. “Sorry,” he repeated, letting go of Remi’s hands and scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Looks like I’m really bad at this.” She rolled her eyes and took his hands emphatically. “Of course you’re bad at this, we both are. We’re doing it wrong, after all. Did you think this was supposed to be done silently?” She poked him in the forehead. “Fair enough,” he said, repositioning himself. “One more time, then.” She smiled. “There we go. Now do it right.”

talonswarm Hudson Zhi

B

eneath the sands of the high desert, deep within the caverns, the queen slept. She dreamt of the surreal and unknown. The ancient ones above gave her no rest – they forced a vision on her, tormenting her with images of the future, the myths of prophecy. She wished only for peace for her children, but they scurried about, agitated by the visions they shared with her. She saw little, but felt much more. Sorrow. Heart-wrenching pain. Betrayal of her family, of the most intimate connections of her life. She felt fear and distrust, disappointment and desperation. She felt the flaws of those who flew above. It was torture. The queen despised the ancients, but held no power to stop them. Her body writhed in agony, plagued by the nightmare. Suddenly, lucidly, she witnessed a strange sight: three hawks, red of head and tail, soaring through the dusts and shimmering sands of the desert. The first was a threatening creature of stringy muscles and flexing talons, eager to split the ranks of her enemies and spill their blood across the thirsty earth.The second was a runt: small and feeble, battered by harsh winds, scarred by hunger and beaten down by her own kind. The third… The queen knew not what to think of her. She was regal, calm, sure in flight as the great gyrfalcons of the


north – yet, a sad twinkle within her golden irises revealed her weakness. Young, destined for greatness, she flew with the burdens of her entire race upon her slender wings, threatening to crush her into sand. For a fleeting moment, they soared in unison, before a highpitched scream wrenched them out of the queen’s mind. With that, the ancients left her, releasing her back to the hive. She awoke to the buzzing of her children, all of them, millions upon millions. One child clambered up her swollen body, antennae sweeping about cautiously. They exchanged brief communication, before the child flew off, her wings churning rapidly as she zoomed out of the cavern. She weaved her way among the clusters and combs. Through dark corridors and around corners, past pools and moist, dripping rivulets of cold water, she flew toward the surface. A light loomed in the hole above, growing and filling the child’s glittering round eyes. A sharp current bumped her over the lip of the entrance, and she alighted atop the sands, bracing herself with six hooked legs. She faced the light, tilted her head, and settled her wings on her yellow back. A ray shot across the land, past the mountains, dunes, and cliffs, as the fiery sun reached up from the horizon. It was dawn – a new day for the swarms.

bursting with life undiscovered. And the girl would smile and dimples would appear and her eyes would shine like little suns. Her long fingers were weathered from years of work but her touch was light and soft. Her hair felt like feathers, her lips like velvet. Her freckles made constellations across her skin that were infinitely more beautiful than the ones across the sky. Two more weeks disappeared in a flash of bright eyes and interlaced fingers. They sat on fences and ate apples and talked about everything and nothing. Time didn’t exist. “Stay with me,â€? she whispered one night, hands drifting over the traveler’s back. A month had passed. The run-down old farmhouse slowly became home. Freckles were mapped like the heavens, each with a name in his mind. They were small and brown but he saw all the fantastic colors of nebulas from galaxies far away, painting dramatic vistas across young, tan skin. But after a month he was beginning to feel it. The invisible rope, tugging and tugging and screaming at him, Go, you’ve spent too much time here already. “I’ve spent too long here,â€? he whispers into a freckled neck one night. The girl is upset. She runs outside in the dark night and crouches down and cries, dirty hands pressed to dimmed eyes. Her beautiful tears fall freely, the stars twinkling in their depths as if held captive by liqÉŹBUXBTBMSJHIU TPNFIPX uid crystal. The traveler realizes that he must choose. The stars here, in her eyes, or the stars in the skies beyond that still await him. So the traveler packs his bags, and straps on his belt, and descends the steps from the old farmhouse he had begun calling home. He holds out a worn hand and a long-fingered, freckled hand finds its way between his fingers. The girl with the universe in her eyes and the constellations on her skin smiles. “Are you sure? You want to go with me‌ Forever?â€? he asks. “Yes. Forever.â€?

forever Tracy Sokalski

"MPOFXBTBMSJHIU

He never stayed in one place for long. It was always just him and some new planet, some new town, some new bare expanse of grass and trees. Alone. Even a week felt too long to stay. An invisible rope had permanently wrapped itself around his waist, pulling him ever onward. There was no stopping it. In his travels he had worn so many guises, taken on so many names, that he had forgotten his own long ago. That was alright, somehow. Alone was alright. Until she came along. Just a scrawny farm girl in an unnamed town on an unnamed planet that squatted in a grove of trees, half forgotten in the annals of time. He stayed with that girl two weeks.They talked and talked, and the girl, barely eighteen, became caught in high tales of pirates and airships and vast unexplored wilderness

16


can leaves fall upwards? Anonymous

T

he red leaves were scattered on the ground, and yellow ones danced down from the sky. Latching free from their treebranch homes, they came to rest lightly on the ground, gathering around her feet. It was autumn again. “Catch me if you can!” she called out, her young voice echoing down the hill to where he stood. She took a generous gulp of crisp air and kicked off into the distance. The leaves fled with each frantic step. A mess of brown curls blew in the wind as the girl continued down the hill towards the forest. A scarlet scarf flowed in an arc, mixing with her ringlets as she glanced behind, exposing her cheeks, rosy from the biting cold, and a red nose that stung. Large and expressive brown eyes caught the bright sun, smiling independently of her faded-freckled face. Her thick lips were the color of apples in the fall, or the leaves on the ground at the top of the hill. They stayed slightly ajar, until they burst into a smile. She turned her head back to the path and ran, crinkles appearing at the corners of her mouth. Scraped knees, warm apple cider. Crackling fires and soft hay. Those were the days before the storms and the hatred. Before the hurt and the joy, before leaves rotted away and the rains turned to forgotten grey mist that blocked out the sun. These are the autumns before we grow up. If only the leaves could retrace their steps, and return to their homes on dying tree branches.

This is War anonymous

“T

his is war, kid. You just have to deal with it. You know that, right?” All he could see of the General was a wide, muscular back, clothed in a rich black silk that clearly bore the symbol of his organization. The deep voice was quiet, almost inaudible above the faint humming of hidden machinery and the omnipresent rumbling of distant war. He felt himself nodding; it felt like he was only an observer to the world, with no control over his actions. He was high, very high. Everything faded in and out with intermittent swirls of color. “I do, sir.” “Then why did you disobey me?”

17

“I did not, sir.” “Oh, really. Then, explain this to me.” The General removed one hand from his pocket and held up a small, rectangular rod. He clicked a button and the room dimmed, save for a glowing panel set into the wall that displayed the truth of his insubordination to the world. There he was, standing grinning over the corpse of a slain colleague, brandishing the weapon of murder. “Who is that, Hadley? Tell me who that is.” “That’s me, sir.” He felt no panic. Only a sort of vague indifference. He was too high to care. The General turned to him at last, and his lined face seemed thin and weary against the backdrop of the glowing monitor behind him. “What the hell were you doing, Hadley?” Hadley smiled, and it was serene, because he was so high that at last, everything was right in the world. “I don’t know, sir.” It was the best answer he could give. It was the truth. The General’s eyes narrowed. He took a step toward Hadley and peered at his face. “Are you high, Hadley?” He remained silent. “Damn it, Hadley. Tell me!” “Tell you what, sir?” “Don’t play games with me. Are you high, Hadley?” He felt his dry lips curve into a smile. “High as the stars, sir.”


Q: What would you want

Q: If you lived in a black and white world,

your last meal to be?

what one thing would you make color?

“Anti-death serum.”

“Myself.”

-- Annelise Peake, junior

-- Pavi Rao, freshman

“My crush.”

-- Anonymous

“Zebras! Oh wait...” -- Hudson Zhi, senior

“Eyes.”

-- Madeleine Smith, freshman

Q: What would the offspring of Opti-

Q: If you had a robot butler that

mus Prime and a llama look like?

Sabrina Dang, freshman Joshua Kam, sophomore

could only perform one action, what would it do?

“Get me a girlfriend.”

-- Anonymous, freshman

“Do my college apps.” -- Carolyn Nguyen, senior

“They would do everything for me, because it is a privilege to serve me.” -- Anonymous

18


WJOJUIBHBEJSBKVtFJMFFOHVPtdanielle fangtemily huangtshirley liu

Q: What is your favorite pickup line?

Q: How much wood would a

wood chuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

“Please go out with me.”

“[It’d] Chuck Norris.”

-- Daniel Kim

“Are you from Oklahoma? Because you’re OK.”

-- Sarah McDougald, freshman

-- Eileen Guo, junior

Q: If you could pick any celebrity to be your

Q: What is the worst thing you’ve ever

maid for a day, who would it be and why?

tasted?

“Morgan Freeman, because he could narrate my life for a day.” -- Lexi Kerr, freshman

“A tablespoon of cinnamon.” --Hanna Evans, sophomore Q: Who would win in a ginger

Johnson: 64%

battle, Mr. Johnson or Ms. Hess?

Hess: 36% Q: If you were president, what would your first order of business be?

“Make Tom Felton my personal secretary.” --Eileen Guo, junior

“Make this hellhole an anarchy.” --Anonymous

carolyn nguyentthomas sautnertjulianne seogtyuan zhang 19


21


GUESS THE THEME

Presented by the Bucket List: If you got: - Mostly a’s: You are an adventurous soul who has chosen to live life to its fullest. Way to wake up and carpe diem*!

Surely, you’ve seen these before. . . 1.

- Mostly b’s: Ah, you party animal, you! Go live in a jungle and eat bananas with the monkeys! - Mostly c’s: We fear for your parent’s lives! Although, considering you were about to die in the given situations, it’s only natural for a self-respecting teenager to act upon their inner devil.

2.

- Mostly d’s: As a nonchalant being, you tend not to care much for your surroundings. A rock, really? Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…… - Mostly a mix: You have surpassed the normal level of insanity for today’s generation of wild creatures. Go live on Mars! *Carpe diem... Seize the day! 1) Mario 2) Spongebob

22


Need a little extra help in your life? Consult one of our advertisements!

‘If you think that the Satis atmosphere

Satis House Gossip

seems a tad off this year, you’re not alone.

Volume 21, Edition 3

by Jaymee Tsiah

‘As the decline of existing transportation infrastructure during the Generation of 2013 progresses, the scarcity of sandwich condiments has taken a toll for the worse. Martín Martinez, resorting to drastic measures, has initiated his “final fling” plan of action, embarking on an indefinite nosoy-sauce campaign, committing himself to a life without high-sodium condiments.

Ship of Theseus- A Drought of Mustard “Who the Kikoman do you think you are to deny that this is an emergency...” he commented. “Let the fast begin!” And so, with misplaced enthusiasm, big 23


names such as “Lorenzo Reyes” and “DeShawn Michaels”have proven the mistaken consumer faith in well advertised brand names. Consumerist expert Nozomi Beech: “You’re paying more for the brand name, than the actual quality and reliability that you’re looking for in a high end product. Dried jalapeños? None to be seen. Picked cherries?...yum”

cutlery?” Dry, dusty, dirt-crusted, silverware, Elias. Bad move. A close friend of the Hermit Miser, Jay Zhou echoed the sentiment. “好可怜啊!” ‘The search for umami brought us inevitably to Chirag Gupta, part-time fish sauce middleman hoping to strike it rich. When asked of his opinion of the Great Drought enveloping Satis, the “man” broke down. “I’m sorry, gosh! I know I’m not good enough, but ¡chinga tu madre!, man. Not like they’ll be shipped in overnight!”

‘Further displaced was Alejandro Guevara, Satis Senior. “There’s no automated ketchup conveyor belt in development?” ‘No- I’m afraid there isn’t. There hasn’t been any talk of one, and there probably won’t be any serious discussion of such a thing in the near future.

‘Ángel laughs at the developing situations. “I feel you bro. But Martín does have more mouths to feed than me, after all. THE MEEK SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH (Matthew 5:5)”

‘Strucken especially hard by this disaster, is Elias Darussalam Ndebele-Fukushima, the ‘Obi-Wan al-Assad immediately expressed preppy Bane of Gangbuk. “Aisha-hime... his agreement.’ may I examine your sandwich preparation

24


WINK Volume 6 Issue 1  

School magazine- WHS

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