Illuminate Issue I

Table of Contents Editor's Note

2

The Wild Within by Ana Sofia Renowitzky

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The Universe by Neta Sara Shahar and Mya Farial Mahedi (NSMM)

5

The Program by Adelaide Roberts

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The Jaywalker by Celine Yuan

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Survival of the Fittest by Grace Jiang

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Seconds by Martina Gao

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Rushing to History Class by Hanwen Zhang

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Once Upon an Arithmetic Game by Queeny Li

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Lotus Shackles by Emma Wang

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Le Mistral by Situ Li

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E=mc² by Mya Farial Mahedi

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Brittle and Fragile by Karina F

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A Lunar Eclipse by Gloria Lin

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2055 by Rachel Rothstein

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Too Timid to Try by Khaliya Rajan

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The Truth of Me by Danica Chung

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Silence by Terion Tang Luke

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My Dream by Karina F

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in the dark by Megan Zhao

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Broken Promises by Noelle McFerran

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Endless Blue by Khaliya Rajan

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Fish by Karina F

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About the Authors

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About the Team

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Editor's Note Dear readers, Time has flown since my team and I had our first meeting to begin planning this magazine; it is hard to believe the first issue is being published already. I have reviewed so many incredible pieces of prose, poetry, and photography and I am in awe at the abundance of talent I have been so fortunate to witness and for my team and I to publish. Each piece in this magazine goes beyond the surface filled with nuances, symbolism, and most importantly, heart. These pieces might make you laugh or cry, but will definitely make you reflect on the world we live in and the people around us.

To my team, Danika, Situ, Samar, Rachel, and Noelle, thank you for going above and beyond in each of your respective roles and for supporting me in mine.

To all the submitters, thank you for your incredible contributions to Issue I of Illuminate Magazine and for allowing us to publish your pieces.

To you, the readers, thank you for taking the time to read Issue I of Illuminate Magazine. We hope you enjoy it!

Happy Reading!

Khaliya Rajan, Editor-In-Chief

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The Wild Within by Ana Sofia Renowitzky The sun peaks over the edge of the forest, cresting over the frosted tips of the deep woodlands surrounding, its light dappling the forest floor with intricate patterns. The morning air is thick with earthy, herbal scents. The wind is crisp, like biting into a tart apple, refreshing yet cold. In the near distance, the soft lull of the rushing river hums just past the tree line.

In the center of this wild serenity stood a small wooden cabin, its timeworn walls softened by the embrace of the forest. The clearing itself was a contrast of beauty and danger, each emerald blade both sharp enough to kill and yet soft as a rose petal.

Naomi, a reclusive writer, adventures through the forest, having left the city seeking solitude and inspiration. A neat ruby red bow ties her hair back, her ponytail sleek and flawless, every strand in place with a quiet, obsessive precision, a mask of order.

Reaching the beautiful clearing, the scene before her feels alive, every hum resonating deep within her soul. Each rustle in the underbrush, each whispering wind, grates against the careful order she clings to. Naomi’s jaw tightens. She wants to break free of the city’s grind, but the wildness here feels… untamed, beyond her grasp.

Taking a hesitant step into the clearing, Naomi feels the pull of the forest’s wildness, its unpredictability. She adjusts the neat bow in her hair, nimble fingers trembling just slightly as she tries to smooth the stray strands that have slipped free. The clearing before her—untamed, unshaped by human hands—mocks her desire for precision.

As she inhales, the cold air rushes past her lips and settles inside her chest, sharp and alive. Steeling her nerves, she shoulders her pack, making her way through the unruly grass surrounding the cabin. The earth beneath her boots is soft, damp with morning dew, and the smell of pine and moss clings to the air like a secret. A squirrel’s chitter echoes through the branches, broken only by the distant hum of the river.

Eventually, she gently settles herself down on the porch. She flips open her notebook, feeling the weight of the pen in her hand. The midday sunlight carries itself down to her, bringing light to the edges of her empty pages. As the ink begins to flow, it's as if the forest itself is guiding her hand. The words, wild and untamed, seem to spill out of

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her as though they had been waiting to escape. The wind caught speed, sending the tall grass around her rippling, and she could almost hear the voices of the forest: gentle, yet insistent, urging her to write faster, to keep up with their pace, to go go go!

Then, everything stops. The wind rattles the windows one last time, Naomi’s pen standing frozen. The silence that follows feels deeper and louder than any quiet she has ever known. The air, once brisk and bracing, now seems heavy. It presses in on her, dense and thick, like the moment before a storm breaks, where the world hangs in a delicate balance between noise and nothing. It’s an unsettling silence—a void that seems to stretch on forever.

It was as if the forest had collectively held its breath, waiting for something, anything, to break the spell. The sound of the river softens and the rustling of leaves ceases. In this profound quiet, Naomi finally begins to grasp something; this stillness is not a void, but a space for her to fill, a reminder that even in quiet, there is potential. In the midst of the silence, Naomi discovers her next words.

As she returns to her writing, the words dance with the rhythm of the forest, flowing onto the page as strongly as the river now. The letters curve and sway like the grass dancing with the wind, sashaying down the page, step by step.

Halfway down a page, though, she slows, sensing a nearby presence watching over her. She looks around curiously, catching the gaze of an inquisitive owl perched upon a nearby pine, watching. Its fiery red and gold coat glints in the dappled light, embodying the wildness around her. As the owl's amber eyes locked with hers, she could sense something unexpected: an odd sense of belonging. Naomi’s lips curved into a quiet smile, her chest blooming with the kind of inspiration that only the wild can stir.

The forest and its creatures were no longer just her backdrop and scenery; they were part of her story. She returns to her scribbling furiously, weaving the owl into her narrative, capturing the spirit of the clearing.

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The Universe by Neta Sara Shahar and Mya Farial Mahedi (NSMM) Note: This is not an existing idea. Mya and Neta came up with it.

In the past few weeks we have realized that time isn’t real, that space isn’t real, and that math isn’t real (yay!), but hold on, we’ll explain. The universe makes up everything we know, and it contains things like matter, shaping the world into what it is. Dark energy is a push force that travels at a speed faster than light, expanding the universe at an accelerating pace. Time and space is a theory humanity created to keep track of stuff like daily activities or what year we’re in. The theory of relativity was something created to show how space and time are alike. There has to be something beyond the universe, right? If the universe is expanding, then where is that extra universe coming from? In this essay, we will tell you all about these concepts.

Okay, to start off this essay, we have to clarify something. Think about it, light is better than dark, right? Wrong. Humanity thinks of light and dark as opposites, but they are completely different concepts.

Dark is thought to be the absence of light, but dark is natural. One of the few natural sources of light is stars. On the other hand, light is just something we add to dark to make the world brighter. Since light is stronger, it covers up the layer of darkness, making the world we have today.

Now to the fascinating topic of dark energy. Dark energy is a force pushing from inside the universe and making it expand. Meanwhile, the universe is acting like an elastic band. Have you heard of the Big Bang Theory? That was because the universe collapsed in on itself. When the universe has expanded so much it can’t expand any more, the universe collapses in on itself at a speed so fast it makes a bang (it's also important to note the universe is expanding from all sides). When the universe collapses, where does the dark energy go? It keeps moving forward at the crazy speed of 426,882 miles per second, of course. Think of dark energy as a ghost that can travel through the wall of the universe collapsing, and still travel at such an amazing speed! But where does it go after that?

After the big bang happens, a new layer of dark energy forms for this new universe.

While this is happening, the dark energy from the previous universe continues traveling.

The universe that was just born, has some boundaries which depend on the new layer of

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dark energy. Between the new layer and the previous layer there is another universe that the recently created universe expands into, but as the old dark energy keeps moving its boundaries expand too, making this cycle infinite and adding the feature that every time one universe is added two are. Soon the next universe will be born, and the cycle will continue forever, which brings us to our next point: time, space, and the overall theory of relativity isn't real.

Time is not real because there was no start of time and there will be no end. Space is not real because there was no start of space and there will be no end. These made up concepts were created to help us understand the world. But now that society is advanced enough, we don't need these imaginary concepts anymore. Also, at the beginning of this we stated math isn't real, this is true because time and space make up the only math needed in life. Before you say money is math, money is just something humans made up to keep track of trades, but that’s a topic for another time.

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The Program by Adelaide Roberts She blinks slowly, painfully, the only indicator that she is still alive. She curls up on a street corner, looking hollow and empty, a shell of who she once was. She doesn’t have anybody or anything, and nobody wants or needs her, yet, she is the clearest thinker in the whole city, except maybe for the Program. People look down on her with utmost disgust as they pass her by, walking into the buildings where they spend all their time, doing anything and everything that the Program tells them to. They don’t know what happened, but the small voice in their headpiece whispers “enemy…” as they pass her, and that is enough evidence for them not to trust her. This is another clever design of the Program: when someone betrays the Program, everyone realizes it purely because they are told. They don’t care what happened to her because they very rarely think of anyone but themselves, but they know she is evil, they know she did something wrong because the headpiece says so, and the headpiece is always right. Then again, doesn’t the Program tell them everything? The Program never lies—and they know this because they are told so, every hour of every day of every year since the Program took over.

She stares at the headpiece on the ground, the one that was once attached to her skull before she tore it off. She tore it off because she realized who the Program was. She tore it off because she couldn’t stand the voice in her head, trying to hypnotize her and seduce her. She tore it off because she knew that if she didn’t, she would be tortured for the rest of her life, her mind and body slowly deteriorating until she would inevitably die.

She is the only one who realizes, and she is the only one who doesn’t have a headpiece on. Every person in the city, even the ones working for the program, wears this headpiece, and every single one of them doesn't know that she took it off, they don’t know that they can take it off. Of course, they can take it off, it was extraordinarily easy for this girl to do so… at least physically it was. If anybody was to freely wonder why she was a shell, it was because she didn’t have any mental strength left. She used it all purely to fight the thoughts in her headpiece. It isn’t hard to resist at first, at least for the strong-willed, but the Program can sense that you’re fighting them, so they make it harder, and harder, and harder to fight until some people fall to the floor and never wake up. The girl knew this, because she had realized that even if they managed to take it off, the pure shock of seeing their deteriorating society for what it was would kill them. They

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would become something horrifying, something out of a nightmare. They would spend their days screaming in agony, wishing they were dead, as if they were addicts deprived of their alcohol. She is not like that. She is still alive. But she cannot move, speak, or do anything for herself, because her mind, quite honestly, is all but non-functioning.

She is not surprised that nobody else took it off, because none of them have the mental strength to do it, to do anything but listen to the voice in their mind. The whole city is filled with fractured and broken thoughts, everyone’s lives are just themselves, stuck in their own heads. After all, that’s what the Program is. Taking advantage of the sheer vulnerability that is their citizens’ minds. The Program knows that this is the case —that is the design. They did not erase memories—no, they are not powerful enough to do that. They changed their memories because making the switch between good and evil is easier than some might think. It is easier than forgetting, anyway. The Program tried to make them forget once, but of course, the memories came back and they tried to revolt, as citizens always do. The Program hid inside the rundown capitol building from the time before, and worked through the coup until they found a perfect solution: change their peoples’ minds…by force. Their broken memories are forever intertwined with evil reality, their minds shattered by the evil plot of the Program. On the street, the girl’s eyes well up with tears, and she wants to shout from the mountain tops what the Program really is, how evil and power-hungry they are, but she can’t. She doesn’t. She stays in her corner, while people walk around her, listening to the voices in their headpieces that are always whispering, as if they are real human thoughts, forever saying, “enemy…enemy…”

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The Jaywalker by Celine Yuan Inspired by Ray Bradbury’s “The Pedestrian” and “Harrison Bergerson” by Kurt Vonnegut.

I spend my days waiting for the nights, the lone escapee in a sea of caged birds.

Nothing delights me as much as stepping outside and into the warm glow of my porch light.

Standing still, I face the meandering road outside my house, and taste the sweet, smooth air, hearing the metallic click of the door locking behind me. I could choose to go left or right, yet whichever I end up choosing will not make a difference; The view, and possibly the whole town, is the same, uniform backdrop from all directions and angles.

There is no more need for disorganization or personality.

Tonight I choose to go left. I would be alone, of course, in the temperatureregulated night. There is no more need for jackets, scarves, or gloves.

On either side of the winding road in front of me are flat, concrete sidewalks, caged off from the rest of the road by a ten-foot tall fence made of industrial-strength metal bars. I run my fingers along them as I pass. They were installed years ago, to protect us from non-existent road accidents that vanished under the watchful gaze of our technology.

We’ve found a new, improved way to keep pedestrians safe: to autotomize all cars, so that they are all part of the same, orderly network in which no mistakes are ever made to harm a human being. I look down, and up again. There is nothing left to see other than the endless, snaking road and the occasional streetlamp that bathes the path with a warm, artificial glow. There is no more need for traffic lights, highway barriers, or even road guidelines.

Despite the safety of the wire fences, I choose to walk on the road.

I walk clean and free of the technological handcuffs of our society- barefoot, to feel the pavement grounding me to my senses. I do not know how much longer my feet will be organic—made of skin, flesh, blood and bone—rarer than ever in our man-made, metal reality. Lamplights follow me like searchlights, illuminating my line of sight.

Over the years, we have succumbed to the endless stream of digital enticement and technological advancement that allegedly make life effortless, so that we can spend more time doing what we all love to do most; yet, as I make my way down the smooth

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pavement, staring at the plastic, fluorescent moon, I am always alone. There is no more need for dark, late night walks.

We, as a community, have become obsessed with efficiency and technological evolution. We’ve created our own fake reality and nature. Craning my neck, I can see the sprawling expanse of black sky go on forever in every direction. Even the true moon, the lone light shining in the now-empty void of the fake sky, has been wiped from existence and replaced with a new one that can shine brighter and warmer. No one remembers what happened to the stars that once glittered and winked from the endless heavens, like diamonds. I turn my attention back down to the street.

Twin houses along the street sit quietly sheltering their people, silently trapping them inside with their never ending screens, tools, and ease, protected from the unexplored depths of the sky. There is no more need for fresh air, solitude, or escape.

Ever so often, I will see curious faces peering at me through the windows of the identical buildings. Little girls and boys, wide-eyed and wondering what the strange man outside is doing. Disapproving and narrow-eyed grandmothers and grandfathers who have accepted the new, mechanical way of life. Judging eyes of my peers, who think of me as inefficient, useless, and crazy. My heart beats faster like a bass drum, blood rushing in my ears. These weak, complacent sheep have allowed themselves to be herded into the slaughterhouse.

Sometimes I shout at them; to no avail, as the soundproof, insulated walls protect them from any profanity or insults I can hurl. They just keep watching, eyes locked on my figure until I make eye contact, which then prompts them to make uncomfortable faces and slam down their shutter blinds. My words do nothing but bounce off the cold, soulless concrete walls, fading away to indistinct murmurs and then nothing at all. There is no more need for opinions and debate.

Eventually, I hear the familiar hum of a vehicle behind me. I whirl around, although I already know it’s the unmanned police car that patrols the neighborhood every night, searching for non-existent crime. Every week or so, it finds me on my evening walk, and demands to take me to a soulless station in which I am questioned, detained for the night, and told to just accept the technology, to embrace the presence of automation in my life. There is no more need to struggle, to suffer, to learn.

I know I cannot fight the robotic police car. If I don’t comply, it will activate its harmless-looking, teeny little pea shooter and with nothing but a muffled pop, I’d be

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dead with no one left to mourn my body. The police car’s aim is beyond human comparison; it never misses. This is how they eliminate all crime– by abandoning the concept of second-chances. I exhale sharply in frustration. Today I will have to be the complacent sheep. There is no more need for resistance, for rebellion, for revolution.

Time that could once chew through natural material like wet tissue paper now cannot make even the slightest dent on the metal jungle we live in today. Sitting in the back of the police car, just the mere thought of the fake, colonizing nature of our modern world makes me want to throw up.

Forever I yearn for the time before we swallowed our own freedom, the time before we tied ourselves to the inescapable pull of the digital luxury of technology. I lust for love, joy, anguish, anger, and despair. I crave pain and the taste of fresh blood. I ache for the human interaction which I have been deprived of for so long, and which I so desperately need. There is no more need for human nature.

My expression hardens. Be as it may, I will never martyr my identity for this all-consuming lifestyle. I will never fall for our fake smiles and perception. I will never be fooled by our euphemisms. Again I will walk, and again I will be caught and detained and questioned. Again they will tell me that fake grass is always greener. Again I will be released back to my neighborhood, and again the cycle will repeat. There is no more need for spontaneity; routine trumps all.

Forever will I work to disobey until I once again drink the glow of the true moon and diamond stars. Forever I will parade around the streets. Forever I will disregard the sidewalk and take the road.

Forever I will let the rest of then call me by my new name: The Jaywalker.

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Survival of the Fittest by Grace Jiang Content Warning: This short story contains mentions of death, sabotage, and suffering Like a bird in a cage, her wings had been clipped. She didn’t know why they had brought her here. Thin metal rods marred the walls, barring her escape. As if she would ever try to escape. She had seen what happened to those who had. Sparks of rebellion, inevitably extinguished by a flood.

She had counted the deaths, scratched them into the blindingly bright wall.

It gave her satisfaction, seeing the little marks that scarred the otherwise flawless room.

Loud footsteps shook the earth as guards approached her room.

She was shoved into a room overflowing with people. Wild, animalistic eyes focused solely on a woman, standing above the crowd. With the bright innocent eyes of a baby bird, she carried herself with elegance. The woman opened her mouth, and the crowd stilled. *** I lie in bed, reminiscing. I’ve lost count of how many people have been killed already. It was pretty obvious that it wouldn’t matter either way. *** The last time I felt sunshine on my face was a balmy night in the middle of August.

The wind weaved like a graceful dancer across the overgrown grass. My hands had felt tender after a long day of washing clothes.

It had been peaceful.

But then they came. Ruthlessly crushing the grass under them and knocking down our door, whisking us away from our lives. *** A drumming of footsteps, like rain, made its way into my room.

“Ruth, I think it’s nearly time for dinner.” A forlorn voice snapped me out of my reverie. It was my ashen-faced brother, leaning on the doorframe for support.

I followed him wordlessly, walking through the opulent glass corridors that framed this facility.

The mess hall was completely empty, save for a young boy hunched over in his seat.

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He sat there, almost like an injured bird, broken and crushed with no hope of flying again.

I collected my meal, poking at its dry contents. Even though I missed the taste of home, my memories have been steeped in poison by how my mother reacted when they had come for us. *** My mother offered me to them, desperately begging them to spare my brother. I never forgot the glee painted on my mother’s face at the prospect of me finally disappearing. *** As time went on, it became clear that we were the only ones left.

I had thought there were more people who were smart enough to wait things out instead of taking flight with reckless abandon.

It was oddly quiet now. No buzzing of electricity, red blinking lights, and a striking absence of soldiers.

Somehow, I could tell that they were waiting for something. My arms prickled as anticipation permeated the air. *** When I returned to my room, a glossy burgundy package held together by satin waited on my bed.

I cautiously opened it, scrutinizing its contents. It contained two glass vials filled with an opaque liquid.

They had specifically told us that there would be no interference whatsoever. I dismissed the notion of someone else slipping it in almost immediately. It had to be them.

What would I possibly do with two vials of poison? *** A torrent of thoughts whirled through my head. What if the only way out of this isolating facility is to be the last one alive?

If it were anyone else, they would kill the others too, wouldn’t they? *** I slipped through the hallways, melting into the shadows.

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The vials had been filled with a lethal poison. Adrenaline poured into my veins as I registered what I had just done.

The walls were jarringly silent. Was this the end of my passage to freedom?

Their deaths, it hadn’t all been for nothing.As I approached the exit, I heard a low murmur of voices. I froze, but it was too late. Silence blanketed the hallway, until the only thing I could hear was my own heartbeat, erratically thrumming in my ears.

“Ah, she’s here,” a clear voice rang out.

“Don’t just stand there, come in!” Boisterous laughter rang across the room.

No use hiding anymore, I thought as I stepped into the room. I was greeted by blindingly bright lights, and then a cacophony of voices. It was the leaders of our accursed country, the very people instrumental in the deaths of millions.

They all spoke as one, voices chiming in my head like cathedral bells.

“You’ve proven yourself worthy of us by killing the other innocent survivors. You'll never know another day of hunger or pain. Join us, and help us build a new generation.”

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Seconds by Martina Gao Sometimes, we are not aware of the gifts we have until it’s too late.

My parents sent me to live with my grandmother in her house, with vibrant red walls glowing like embers under the afternoon sun, far from the clamorous city they had moved to for work. As a child, Nainai’s home was my universe. Its warmth taught me life’s essentials: folding dumplings, threading needles, and savouring the bitterness of jasmine tea. Beneath the sprawling cherry blossom, her laughter and crescent-shaped eyes turned every hide-and-seek game into a memory etched in my soul.

Years slipped by before I returned to the village as a university graduate, taking a gap year to reacquaint myself before embarking on a whirlwind career. My feet met the uneven stones of the alley as I stepped out of the car. The village stood unchanged, a stark contrast to the buildings abroad. My heart raced with each turn that brought Nainai’s house closer into view. The red-painted walls had faded, and the once-grand cherry blossom now stood fragile, its petals scarce.

I stepped through the gate and saw Nainai sewing in her bamboo chair, as she did years ago when recounting Chinese legends to me. Now, silver strands wove through her black hair, like moonlight threading a dark river, and a pair of glasses perched on her nose when sewing up-close.

“Nainai?” I called softly, the name catching in my throat. She stood up gingerly, her eyes brightening with recognition.

“Yanxi!” She called out my Chinese name which I hadn’t heard since childhood.

“It’s Nina now, Nainai,” I corrected her with a quick smile.

I couldn’t wait to share my experiences abroad with her—the new me, wearing ripped-up shorts with a spaghetti-strap tank top—but I quickly caught Nainai’s eyebrows furrowing. Nevertheless, she led me to her tea room and dusted out the porcelain tea set, the lotus flower engravings as delicate as I remembered. She poured the tea with familiar care, but I found myself distracted, my eyes darting to my phone as I described the last decade of my life. Nainai’s lips tightened as I stuttered through my broken Mandarin.

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Weeks later, on the morning of my 21st birthday, sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting light upon the intricate Chinese paper cut-outs taped on the windows.

As I stepped out of my room, the rich aroma of ginger chicken broth wrapped me in a warm embrace. Nainai stood at the table, carefully aligning bowls of noodles on the table and placing chopsticks on their rims. Besides each bowl was a steaming cup of jasmine tea. I hadn’t expected Nainai to cling to this birthday tradition given her age.

“Nainai, I appreciate it, but I have to go, my friends are celebrating with me today,” I said, checking my watch.

Grabbing my purse, I turned towards the front door, but the swing of the bag brushed a teacup. The piercing crack echoed through the room as it fell and shattered on the ground.

Nainai knelt down, her trembling hands reaching out to pick up the pieces. Her eyes filled with tears as she collected the fragments in her palm. “This cup belonged to your great-grandmother,” she murmured, her voice fragile, like the porcelain itself. I apologized and tried to help, but she shook her head and turned away.

“Yanxi, you’ve changed.”

“Change is good, Nainai. Out with the old, in with the new. I’ll buy you a new and better tea set.” She slowly shuffled toward her room and closed the door, leaving me alone with the remaining pieces on the floor. I hurriedly gathered them and headed out.

In the weeks that followed, Nainai was eventually confined to her bed. She took her last breath one morning, and the emptiness drowned me.

One day, while I was cleaning the courtyard, my neighbour shared how Nainai often brushed away chest pains. Later, I sorted through her belongings and found an old notebook tucked beneath a small embroidered pillow in her room. Secured with a fraying string, its wrinkled pages were stained yellow. Inside were an inscription and a letter in her elegant Chinese calligraphy, with “Yanxi” filling the page.

She wrote about the day she had named me, her hopes of me growing radiant and resilient, embodying happiness and love.

Tears blurred my vision. I realized how I had shattered not just a teacup that day, but the connection to my childhood and heritage—and with it, Nainai.

As I prepared for my first day at work after returning to the U.S., my eyes lingered on the bold letters of “Yanxi Nina Li” on my new driver’s license. Next to it, the carefully

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wrapped porcelain pieces sat in a container—broken yet whole, each fragment holding a memory we shared, reminding me of the moments with her that I can never get back.

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Rushing to History Class by Hanwen Zhang This is a story about riding the waves of impulsiveness, and regret; also walking through an abandoned school, meditative showers, and adolescence. But first, we start with walking through an abandoned school.

It is my junior year and I am on the phone with a friend, ambling along the weed-ridden track of Meyerholz Elementary, once again rambling about the boy I have fallen for. The usual back and forth occurs. I complain about my insurmountable woes— the burden of unrequited love. My friend scoffs and questions why I have feelings in the first place. I want to explain, but my throat is full— (I hoard memories of him, treasures to be cradled and adored at a later date. The warmth of his hands against mine, little bundles of fire. The hugs we share, firm assurance of existence. Times on the bleachers where we are alone: my heart pounding, the scent of his conditioner wafting into my nose, intoxicating me, ambrosia from a heaven below. Of late, I’ve gotten to the point that my favorite pastime is to just lie in bed and recall. I feel warm when I do, the memories dripping like liquid daylight into my veins. For just a brief moment, I pretend he likes me back.)

(Then I remember that it cannot be, for the simple reason that I am a man and he is too. I am simply misinterpreting his intentions. Even a blank stare is a loving glance, a tap on the shoulder an expression of intimacy: I dig for gold in heaps of cold stone. He is simply physical with others, in the way that so many people are, and in a way that I have never and still can’t understand—how can he touch people so casually?)

I cannot explain how I feel to my friend, for what I feel is much too intimate to be dispensed with another human being. I keep my feelings close to my heart; I keep them pure and true. I reverse the topic: I say that I’m getting better, truly, that I’m thinking less about him, that I’ve started to focus on me, myself, that I don’t need the validation of another person to feel whole, that I deserve better, and that the walk that I’m taking right now is a form of self-care—he interrupts and tells me to just get on with it. I ask what he means. He says: confess.

I am stirred by the audacity of his statement. Little brat who has barely gone through puberty—do you even know what love is? Confessing isn’t that easy; you’ve probably never felt attraction to another human being; you don’t understand—but stop.

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I am just making excuses for myself. Deep down, I find myself nodding in agreement. Confessing would be a release from uncertainty: I would no longer have to fight the inner war of whether he liked me or not (though the answer is already obvious). I would be free. I ramble on for a while longer with my friend before hanging up, and, at home, when I undress in preparation to shower, I find that my resolve has solidified. I can and will confess: I am not such a coward as to fear rejection.

But the hard part: keeping close to that resolve. I am clear-headed now, but I know I will be cowardly the following morning. I cannot trust myself, so I will create a situation where I will have no choice but to confess. It will be done at the end of lunch; I know where his sixth period is. I will arrive early to stand at the exact spot where he usually passes and wait for him; I will not think of it as a baring of my soul; I will simply wiggle my lips, up and down and sideways to form the three words and then it will be over. My body will not be my own—it will be a puppet obeying commands from some stranger of the previous night.

I step into the shower and am giddy with laughter. It is a lift and release, a freeing of this great burden that has nested itself in every word I have uttered these past few weeks.

I can only imagine him saying no, but I briefly consider the possibility that he likes me back. Warmth flowers—I imagine a future where we are together—it is wonderful—but that is the most marginal of outcomes. I tell myself to be rational, to expect nothing.

Water pounds against my head. But even as I scheme with the intent to fail—even as I engage in self-sabotage to preserve my sense of self—I am buoyed by a strange lightness.

This month-and-a-half-long headache will finally be over, because I will be taking control—I will be seizing the moment. Rather than letting my feelings persist like a dying cockroach, I will lead them to a swift and merciful resolution by sinking myself into the ultimate dagger: rejection.

———— “I have something I need to tell you.”

“Oh, leave it for later, we need to get to class.”

He starts rushing ahead as students file into classrooms around us.

“No, wait—listen. I…” I told myself I wouldn’t hesitate at all, that I would say it in the first instant and be done with it. I hate myself for this weakness.

“I…”

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He tilts his head and leans toward me, recognizing that I am about to say something important. I love him for this small kindness.

“Yeah?”

“I… I like you.”

A long pause ensues.

“I’m sorry. I don’t feel the same way about you.”

He hugs me for a moment.

———— It is not the rejection, but this small gesture that almost brings tears to my eyes. It is done in acknowledgement, and I love him more than ever because of it. Simultaneously, a small part of me withers: it reminds me of all the warmth I cannot have. I wave goodbye, we part ways, and I rush to history class. The bell has rung—I am desperately late—my heart can’t stop throbbing. I am smiling and shaking in dull shock at what I have just done, the ease of it, the way I can pretend I am not currently pounding my feet against the concrete if I just close my eyes, that it is yesterday and I am still in the shower— him, blissfully unaware that I love him; me, calm because I know that the end is near, and because the most that humans can wish from this world is not eternity, but the agency to decide where and how they’ll die.

———— A queer adolescent is prodded into existence by a desire for love and the aching knowledge that, because of sheer probability, their feelings will likely never be reciprocated. Every day they live with the fear that, somehow, their experience has been compromised by their identity—that they will never experience intimacy or romance the same way that other people do. A queer adolescent is buffeted into being by the burden of rejection in every venture they pursue. I look upon my friends queasily, frightened by the prospect of falling in love with them, trying to stamp out attraction the moment it appears. I learn to have no expectations at all because a fall cannot possibly shatter my bones if I have never flown in the first place. I learn failure, awkwardness, and self-hate.

Confessing did not have the result that I hoped it would incur. Love—persistent tardigrade!—continued to burn heartily in my throat, and wore at me for eight months before it finally met its rightful end. It really did not make a difference whether I knew he liked me or not: I suffered regardless. I question if confessing really was the right decision to make. I question the awkwardness that characterized our interactions after:

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the strained smiles, my nervous laughter. I wonder if I should have said nothing at all.

I despise myself for grabbing my chance that day I rushed to history class. I despise the fallout: the ungainly manner with which I conducted myself and the grievous ache in the months that followed. And yet I cannot bring myself to say that I regretted loving, even if that love was lost. It has become a jewel embedded in my heart, a definitive marker of my adolescence.

I have been dealt a peculiar hand and must play under peculiar conditions, but I will never stop reaching for something more. I don’t know what to do, but I know that there is nothing that I can do except to keep doing. I intend to rage, rage against the state of my affairs: so I keep my eyes peeled, hardened and cynical, but willing to soften at the slightest opportunity that meanders by.

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Once Upon an Arithmetic Game by Queeny Li Two deep, chocolate-glossy eyes intensified their gaze upon the featherlight-projected blue screen. The same gaze intensified on the downloading circle spinning round and round and grew in anticipation of the blocky text “Welcome to Digi-verse, Please choose your desired planet” pop-up. Losing themselves in a fantasy world of make-believe is what Mr and Mrs. Grey desired the most. For one hour? One evening? No, not even one week could not satisfy their growing addiction and craving for the digital world. But this was what they wanted. Four distinct, dainty globes sat carefully placed on the dusty coffee table, long forgotten along with the leaf years, the lively years, and the wise years. Listening. Camouflaging as if wanting to be overlooked. Taking in the millions of more blinded families by the second, all corrupted by The Safety Police who overtook The Government. Behind the globes sat a singular ribbon of distinction in mathematics. It was perhaps the last handheld item owned by the family, now just a daunting, ruthless relic.

Six-year-old Eloise had once peeped into a similar room, lurking cautiously around the living room sofa, hopping from one safe mat to the next, carefully avoiding the loosened floorboards below. “Left, right, right, left, stop, turn, heat the foil bun, eat the foil bun, turn, pause, left, left, right.” She had always used the same pattern to make herself dinner while her parents sat hunched over their stacks of government official papers, her mother’s bone-thin bruised arm inches away from Mr. Grey’s swollen knuckles. A silent tension had always echoed loudly against those walls, only to be accompanied by the tap-tap-tap of the pen on top of files and folders.

Once a young prodigy, Eloise should have known best to avoid false compromises, except now at fourteen, she too spawned right into their trap. Yet today she simply squatted silently, staring blankly through the screen. Mere hours ago, her parents’ avatars started flashing, their debts piling up over their heads by the second—probably from gambling games, until they suddenly vanished into thin air. That had been the first time in years Eloise peeled off the sticky headset and as the brisk air pricked her face, she sensed thickness and metallic flavours swirling around her, teasing her, warning her of what might become of her if she too failed her online debts.

Ashamed it had taken the brisk dismissal of suicide after her father’s murder to

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have shaken her psyche, Eloise now glimpsed the truth beyond the screens—the broken within the endless pixels and circuits, and the constant nauseating escape into the picture-perfect fantasy planets. Millions interact in the Digi-verse, yet tonight, she feels carved and hollowed from the inside. Stolen of her heart, her mind.

The darkness of her room coiled around Eloise, the thickness of the air revealing the crushing weight of her solitude, silencing the world beyond the portentous glow of her screen, leaving only a faint whirring buzz.

Of all possible arithmetic calculations, Eloise dragged her body away from the darkest lie in her life and, defying all algorithms, reached for a thick woven fabric, looped it around herself, and then paused. Her pace quickened, her pulse raced, eyes searching for the last pairs of vigilant eyes watching her from her coffee table. She contemplated smashing them into pieces, arousing their fury but controlled herself.

The air outside would bite and snip at her skin, toxify her even from what she remembered, but she needed to see. “To know is to live the truth,” she murmured.

Slowly, she made her way to the edge of the barrier between virtual comfort and harsh reality. Her hand hovered over the rigid, bumpy compartment in the wall.

A mechanical, melodic voice challenged from behind her. “Citizen Eloise Grey, unauthorized movement detected. Return to your station immediately. Don’t forget, our value of safety always comes first.” The Safety Police’s tone froze her for a moment. Her tile walls hummed a gentle melody, dancing yellow, then pink, then blue. She glanced back at the screen, its artificial glow beckoning her to return. The lock clicked as the door creaked open…

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Lotus Shackles by Emma Wang 1266 Lin’an, Southern Song China “I’ll become an extraordinary warrior someday,” I declared.

“You can’t. Girls become mothers and wives, boys fight,” my neighbour, Jianguo, scoffed.

“That’s dumb. Besides, I’d be a better soldier than you.”

“Oh yeah? Prove it!” Jianguo leapt off the roof, and I tried to follow him, only to trip on my dress and land face-first in the dirt.

When I looked up, my governess, Ms.Wang hovered over me: dress trimmed, hair flawless, and golden lotus feet at precisely three inches.

Her icy gaze locked with mine.

"Why are you on the ground, Zhao Pandi?* Can’t you be more tame, like your sister?”

I fled before she could lecture me about composure, my laughter drowning out her sigh. ~~~ The smell of Niang’s herbal medicine that gurgled over the fire crawled up my nostrils as I neared the kitchen. Wherever Niang** went, the bitter, earthy aroma followed. "...bind her foot tomorrow,"*** Niang said as I hid by the door.

"Did you forget how Laidi died?" Zhaodi, my older sister, stood.

"What happened to Laidi...won't happen to Pandi."

"She’s seven. You’ll ruin her life like you ruined mine! Will you never stop until you bear a son?" ~~~ Early next morning, I followed the foot-binding lady into the storage room with the door creaking behind me; Niang slunk away, unable to meet my questioning eyes.

Bone-piercing wind wailed and fought its way through a crack in the wooden wall; a dusty, broken doll with a crooked smile stared at me; spiderwebs swayed above my head, waiting to fall and ensnare me.

1 The names of Pandi, Zhaodi, Laidi, Sidi, and Niandi all literally mean something along the lines of “attracting a brother” or “thinking of a brother”. These names were given to daughters by parents who desperately wanted a son. Today, some people in China still have these names.

2 Mother 3 The act of foot binding to obtain golden lotus feet was invented in the Song dynasty. The act itself involves breaking the bones of a young girl’s feet (mostly around age five or six) to create a pair of feet at three inches. Its purpose was to show feminine beauty, especially amongst wealthy families. It restricted women and forced them to stay at home and do chores.

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The lady sat across from me and began.

Her body shook with effort as she folded my toes towards the bottom of my foot.

I kicked. I screamed. I begged.

The pain consumed me, and I succumbed to darkness… ~~~ “...bind her foot tomorrow,” Niang’s words again rang in my ears.

Wait…Was I sent back to the night before?

Bolting into the streets, I had one thought only: escape.

As night fell, I found an abandoned barn and settled down, wondering what would happen tomorrow… ~~~ “...ruin her life!" Zhaodi slammed down her fists.

Again? But why?

I slid away from the door and mindlessly walked around the Siheyuan.* “Ahhhh, Pandi. Come come,” ZengZumu** was burning incense in our temple.

“I see what’s bothering you, little one. You only escape the cycle if you stop our cycle. Bye!” She strolled out contentedly.

ZengZumu was talking nonsense. Again.

I sat on the stairs and sulked.

“JIEEEEE!*** Ms.Wang said we’d get ‘foot-finded’ in a year. Why?” Sidi and Niandi, my twin younger sisters, ran up to me teary-eyed.

“Unfortunately, no woman in our family has ever esca—” Was this what ZengZumu meant? Saving my sisters? Ending our cycle?

There was only one way to find out, but I needed help. ~~~ “Get in!” I urged Zhaodi when the twins and I were settled in the carriage she had arranged.

“Pandi, I’m only a burden with my bound feet. You have to go,” she nodded at the coachman and waved.

“What? We have to stick together! NO!” 1 A traditional Chinese styled compound where a family lived in (typically a rich one) 2 Great-Grandmother 3 Jie means big sister

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~~~ The moon hid behind a foggy veil as we arrived at the Mongol border.

I was thanking the coachman when he pulled me into a hug. He stuffed an envelope into my hand, then disappeared into the night, leaving a familiar scent behind.

Herbal medicine.

“NIANG!” I yelled after the quickly fading shadow. She stopped for a fraction of a second and left without a word.

I quickly opened the letter: I always knew you were bound to do exceptional things. I am a coward, but you are accomplishing something I’ve only dreamed of doing. I can only take you this far, my Pandi. Never look back.

Tears blurred my vision, yet Niang’s despairing smile and distorted feet only grew

more distinct in my memories.

The three of us faced the border that promised both uncertainties and opportunities for a better future.

And I will make a change.

1276 Lin’an, Mongol Empire The place I used to call home now lay in ruins, annihilated under my command. The flag of the Great Khan surged against the wind like a female salmon battling her way upstream.

“Your mother and Zhaodi were beaten to death by your father because they helped you escape.”

The news had reached me before we attacked; it hadn’t sunk in until now. I wanted to join them in death, but I had to live on. For Laidi. For Niang. For Zhaodi.

For the girls I just liberated from a shackled life.

The young women who had just pledged loyalty to the Khan looked fearful, yet hopeful.

“No more lotus feet. Forget about raising children. Life is in your own hands now, girls!”

Taking one final glance at my past, the last bit of Pandi faded inside me. I am General Mandakh now.

And I have made a change.

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Le Mistral by Situ Li Provence, when I am asleep. When my eyes have closed and my mind has gone, casting off cast irons and tangibility, in all senses of the word. My imaginings adopt a theoretical, dreamlike quality I can never uncover even in my velveteen dreams.

My conceptualization of what we were down in Provence grasps at climbing ivy across the base of my neck, into my mouth, down my throat, and I regurgitate your coaxing dulcet tones, but they come up wrong. Sweet, putrescent molasses.

The crooked chimney and decrepit shingles on our cottage roof, cocooned in rustling lavender, prod in all their obtrusiveness into something soft. The pain is sharper than I remember of our laconic afternoons.

Like nudging at a loose molar, when you were still somebody’s son, the viscous flow and briny aftertaste of sanguine rivulets. They taste like the ocean, where we would go swimming under white limelight.

They flow like twin rivers down a tongue you honed to knifepoint severity until you would shed the tension from your shoulders when I came calling; like a second skin. Like the worn leather coat you hung on tenterhooks inside our closet when you came home.

When it started to get cold: you held my lighter to the cenacle between your parted lips, and I could see the thick, waxen glare on your front teeth like two white moons.

You talked for a while, and I savoured your lisp, possessing boyish certitude, as you sounded off on stories we knew nothing about. Until obsidian-smeared digits traced our fingerprints across casement windows.

From words, you had smithed a pair of hands around two shoulders, my neck, nodding, lowered in obeisance and total devotion.

What you said, I can never recall. The lull of your voice wanes, a crescent moon.

Your hands quivered, you clutched your coat like an injured fledgling and looked to the ground.

“I think we are the same.”

You say I am like lace, and I ask you what you mean by that, but I already know. I feel it when your hands make their tentative way to my face again, and the hurt in the room is pervasive. You touch my upper lip, and your face is limned in candlelight, and you have grown teeth and gone mean, like there is half of you that will always belong to

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the black moments—those which strangers should never see. Slung over slender green branches like your coat in our closet, like deerskin drying on the rack. I am rent apart from the curses nestled in the dips of your tongue, seared from wax dripping off the wick, rebuffed onto treacherous cliffs. I am beautiful, but the Wind of Provence is vicious and cruel. I am delicate, like these soft limestone walls, a facsimile of the rugged escarpment below.

I say you are a changeling. You touch me and your skin is abrasive against mine, but the act is gentle and kind anyway. You say you are anything but.

I think you are scared, like a feral dog tugging at a leash. I think, in the late, obsidian hours, the rope is around your neck and not mine. I think your weeping is an object of my desire, laced with poorly repressed malice and doomed to a cruel indecision, raging like twin currents. You split yourself apart like crosshairs, hurtling then reverting upward above cerulean rage, Le Mistral. Neatly defined by your anger, untamed and savage by nature.

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E=mc² by Mya Farial Mahedi The concept of dark energy has been a topic of interest in the outer space world. It is a form of energy that is thought to be responsible for the accelerating expansion of the universe. However, some have questioned whether dark energy applies to the famous equation E=mc². In this essay, we will explore the relationship between dark energy and E=mc², and argue that dark energy does not apply to this equation.

E=mc², an equation by Albert Einstein, is a principle of physics, math, and science that states that energy (E) is equal to mass (m) multiplied by the speed of light (c) squared. This equation shows that mass and energy are interchangeable, and that a small amount of mass can be converted into a large amount of energy, and vice versa.

The equation has been widely used in nuclear physics, astrophysics, and particle physics to describe various phenomena, from nuclear reactions to the behavior of subatomic particles.

Dark energy, on the other hand, is a hypothetical form of energy that is thought to be responsible for the accelerating expansion of the universe. It is a mysterious component that is not directly observable, but its presence can be inferred by its gravitational effects on the universe. Dark energy is thought to make up about 68% of the universe's total energy density, while ordinary matter and dark matter make up only about 32%.

The key difference between dark energy and the energy described by E=mc² is that dark energy is not a form of energy that can be converted into mass or vice versa. Dark energy is a type of negative pressure that drives the acceleration of the universe's expansion. In contrast, the energy described by E=mc² is a form of potential energy that can be converted into kinetic energy or other forms of energy.

Another important distinction is that E=mc² describes the energy of particles and objects within the universe, whereas dark energy is a property of the universe as a whole. The equation E=mc² does not take into account the large-scale structure of the universe, including the expansion of space itself. Dark energy, on the other hand, is a property of the universe's expansion, and is not related to the energy of individual particles or objects.

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Some sources, including NASA, have suggested that dark energy does apply to E=mc². However, we disagree with this assessment. The principles of relativity that govern the behavior of ordinary matter and energy do not apply to dark energy, and its behavior cannot be described by the equation E=mc². Furthermore, dark energy is thought to propagate faster than the speed of light, which would violate the fundamental principles of relativity. According to special relativity, nothing can move faster than the speed of light in a vacuum. However, dark energy seems to operate outside these constraints, making it difficult to understand and describe using our current understanding of physics.

The implications of dark energy's superluminal propagation are still not fully understood, and are the subject of ongoing research in cosmology and theoretical physics. However, it is clear that dark energy does not fit into our current understanding of the universe, and requires a new framework for understanding its behavior.

In conclusion, dark energy does not apply to E=mc². The two concepts operate on different scales, with E=mc² describing the energy of individual particles and objects, and dark energy describing the energy of the universe as a whole. Additionally, dark energy's superluminal propagation and negative pressure properties make it fundamentally different from the energy described by E=mc². While some sources may suggest that dark energy does apply to E=mc², we believe that the evidence suggests otherwise.

Bibliography Gohd, Chelsea. (2024) “What is Dark Energy? Inside our accelerating, expanding Universe.” NASA Science. https://science.nasa.gov/universe/the-universe-is-expanding-faster-these-days-and-dark-energy-is-responsible-so-what-i s-dark-energy/ “Falcon 9.” SpaceX. https://www.spacex.com/vehicles/falcon-9/

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Brittle and Fragile by Karina F The world fractured in an instant, a blur of colours and sounds, each moment snapping like brittle glass. The body jerked violently, helpless, thrown into chaos. Time slowed, suspended, as life—so fragile—hung by a thin thread. The deafening roar filled the ears, drowning out everything, until sudden, suffocating stillness swallowed all.

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A Lunar Eclipse by Gloria Lin Content Warning: this piece contains mentions of abuse Five years before Everything felt so tiring.

I stared out the window at the cloudy night and crescent moon as I tapped the wooden table with my pen, pondering the English essay in front of me. I had always hated English. Words just didn’t come naturally to me. “Stop slacking, Luna,” Mom snapped from the couch, her whisky swirling lazily in its glass. “Why didn’t you finish this at school? You’re always so lazy. Becky won a debate tournament at nine. You’re already eleven.” Her tired voice cut through my thoughts, a bitter echo of the caring person I remembered. “Ugh, just wipe the table and clean the floor after.” I nodded. Replying would only make it worse.

Dragging the mop across the floor, the sting of her words lingered. Mom wasn’t always like this. I remember the soft smile she’d give after reading me stories, the affectionate twinkle in her eyes. Now, frustration captivates her every movement. Some nights, I would see her alone at the table, fingers running over the edge of her sleeve as she was smoothing out the wrinkles, worrying over bank debts and Dad’s absence. He was always out drinking, and didn’t care enough to spend time with us. His stale cologne and dusty coat reeking of cigarettes were my only memories of him.

Beep, whirl, click.

Dad appeared and stumbled into their bedroom, trailing a heavy stench of beer that clung to the living room air. The sudden slam of a door reverberated across the hallway, followed by an angry shout and fabric tearing. I dropped the mop and sprinted to their bedroom, flinging the door open.

The house thundered with each yell, the walls trembling under their weighted voices. Mom was screaming as she pushed Dad against the drawer, family pictures crashing to the floor. Glass shards littered the ground, my reflection staring back at me —raven-haired and big brown eyes—but this time, I felt empowered, instead of constrained.

“Stop it!” I cried as I threw myself in between them. The coldness in Dad’s eyes, swollen with wine, remained implacable. His fist caught me in the stomach, knocking the air out of my lungs. I clutched my stomach in agony, pain radiating through my body.

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“Luna, call the police!” Mom’s voice cracked as she clenched her teeth in pain, a flush of red fading into the black lump of her eye.

“Mom I can’t -” “Go!” She yelled, pushing me gently but firmly.

“You bitch,” Dad snarled as he pulled Mom’s hair, luscious hazelnut locks ripping free as he slapped her again and again. “Don’t meddle in my business again,” he shouted as blood trickled down his chin. Blood painted her skin into a bruising portrait. Mom was limp on the floor, a stream of ruby seeping out of her smashed nose, droplets of tears littering the scarred area.

I stumbled into the kitchen, my hands trembling as I dialed.

“110, what's your emergency?”

“H-hello? P-please c-come quick... my parents are p-punching each other.”

The operator’s voice was a soothing balm to the searing memory of their yells.

I whispered my address, glancing at the hallway. Dad’s towering figure loomed, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he staggered closer.

I tripped, slamming hard on the granite floor. “Get away from her, you bastard!”

Mom’s voice pierced through, fierce and desperate. He stopped, his gaze slicing through me before he turned and went back to their bedroom.

I curled into a ball, holding myself tightly as I whispered, “The police are coming, the police are coming.”

They do come, eventually. As the police handcuffed my dad and took him away, I could still hear his drunken shouts fading out the window. Mom went with them too, her tear-streaked face wan under the flashing red and blue lights.

Mom came back late and slept beside me. It felt weird; she never did this. Though this time, she hugged me tightly, as if the world would end tomorrow. The warmth felt too dependent and immature, as though she needed me more than I needed her. The hollowness in my heart had forced a border in my emotions. I slipped out of bed and wandered into the living room, curling up on the couch as darkness lulled me to sleep.

Now We’ve come so far since that day. Moving to Canada saved us, though the scars linger. Mom smiles more now, her laughter lighter, freer. I love writing—the way it lets me confide without judgement, how it values me. I look up from my desk at the clear sky. The clouds, fluffy and dewy, drape over the full moon. I feel complete for the first time, finally surrounded by the happiness and freedom I’ve longed for since that night five years ago.

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2055 by Rachel Rothstein Content Warning: this piece contains mentions of sexual assault “Not Atlantic Slave Trade, Murray. Atlantic Worker Trade.”

“Ah, yes,” George sighed, lowered his head in frustration, and retyped out the heading.

“It's just a correction, Murray.” Roberts glared sharply into George's eyes. "Don't you want to change their minds?"

This was an average Monday for George Murray; his last 20 years were a sea of uneventful workdays, of which none he could recount any overly prominent detail. At 46, he was now the managing editor for the Facility of the Correction of History, based in his hometown of Seattle. They rewrote school textbooks, commissioned by the Republic of America. His latest task: renaming headings. The words were so casually direct, glimmering with the sinister sheen of reinvention. This job, to George, felt like wielding an axe; so much potential for destruction clutched in his own two hands. James Roberts, the editor-in-chief, was a hard-headed army veteran, and standing in Roberts’ way was like standing in front of an oncoming train. For that reason, George kept his head down, and, every day, unbeknownst to him, he believed the textbook headings a little more.

Born in 2009, George was only a teen during the Second American Revolution. He watched from the sideline as his country transformed into a new empire, amending the Amendments and dissolving the Declaration. He cheered the government on as they deported anybody who betrayed the Republic, believing opposing opinions to be stains on the nation he called home. Who could blame him? It was all he knew.

Finally, when 5:00 p.m. hit, he departed, slumping into the front seat of his matte-black Toyota and making the trip home 7 miles through endless evergreen-lined freeway.

As he entered the house, he saw Jasper, his thirteen-year-old son, seated on the floor three feet from the TV. With a controller in hand, Jasper was deeply invested in an overstimulating video game George couldn’t comprehend.

“Hey, Jasper.”

Jasper grunted, not even turning around. George barricaded himself between

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Jasper and the TV and glared into his son’s eyes, irritated. “Where’s your sister?”

“Over there.” He motions to the back door. “Something’s wrong. She won’t talk to me.”

“Stay here, Jas.” George headed to the back door.

Lacey was sitting on the windowsill with her back turned and her head in her hands. With every step forward, her soft, adolescent sobs were more audible—despair fighting to escape. He approached her from behind, placing his hands gently on her shoulders, and her back straightened, but she didn’t turn around.

“Lace, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What happened?” George asked again, this time more direct.

She doesn’t waver. “I- I messed up. Please just leave me alone.”

“Please, Lacey. What is it?”

She takes a deep breath. "Remember that Halloween party at Jake’s house? He was like, coming on to me and he wouldn’t stop. It was scary. I tried to leave, but I was so drunk, I didn’t know how. Then he took me somewhere else-” She couldn't even choke out her next sentence. She buried her head in her hands again. “I woke up the next day and couldn’t even remember it, and I kinda blocked it out for a few weeks, but all of a sudden, I started getting super nauseous. All the time. And headaches. Oh my God, they were awful. And all the pain and everything from that night, it all came back. I didn’t even want any of this to happen, but I guess…” She swallows, having trouble breathing.

“I guess I’ll have to live with the consequences.”

George sharply inhaled. His eyes opened wide.

Oh my God, she's pregnant.

Lacey wept again, her face stained with guilt.

George squeezed his eyes shut. What would they do about her school? About Jasper?

But his panic was interrupted with instinct. He moved to the couch, embracing Lacey, and she cried onto his shoulder.

“Lace, I-I don't understand. What were you wearing?”

She lifted her head, no longer shaking. “Well, we dressed up as cops, like in short skirts and all. I wasn’t on board with everything, but I didn’t-” “Lacey, you know you shouldn’t be-”

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“Oh my God, Dad! I can't believe you!” Lacey’s mouth gaped open, but George’s eyes were cold.

“Dad. You know how I’m… What you said. ‘Smart and studious?’ Well, this is going to ruin my life. Now I can't go to college, or become a writer, or any of that. I’m going to spend the next eighteen years raising a CHILD with that, that-” She widened her eyes, searching for the right word.

George knew the word. Rapist. Lacey would never have known it, having been born after the Republic decriminalized rape. The word dissolved into obsoletion, and George, who had spent the last 20 years working at the Facility, had played a considerable part in aiding that process. His eyes swelled as he recalled erasing words with his own hands, words that would never be spoken again. His entire world stared back at him: every action, principle, and belief awoke from the dust and dormancy of the hazy past. He could feel the world turning inside his head; it was harshly awakening, like the glaring lights in the emergency room.

But his feelings could be dealt with later. The urgent matter was his daughter.

Suddenly, a spark arose from the chaos, and he pulled Lacey in by her shoulders.

“Lacey. There’s this thing you can do… across the border. Women used to be able to do it when I was young.”

“Oh, is it that thing from, like, the 1900s—exportion or whatever—” “Sh!” He interrupts. “Don’t talk about it. I could…” He was now the one with his head in his hands. “I could lose everything.”

But now he was staring into his daughter’s warm, longing brown eyes, which had always been so full of ambition, and he couldn’t refuse. He couldn’t bear to see her falter. Could he risk everything?

“Go pack your suitcase. We’re driving to Vancouver.”

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POETRY

ILLUMINATE MAGAZINE

ISSUE I

/ MARCH '25

Too Timid to Try by Khaliya Rajan One year gone Where I should have said yes But instead said no, Too scared to take a risk In case I failed.

I forgot the sun shines Only could see the dark clouds Rolling in the sky like the waves in the ocean; I can’t tell if they’re saying hi.

Trying to find where I belong Am I a star or just space dust?

Am I a crab or just a shell?

Am I a leader or just part of the herd?

Then I feel an overdue regret In every bone inside my body Telling me I failed At trying.

So I hope to change my ways, Conquer my fear and join the leaders Join the crabs and the stars Maybe they started like this too.

I lost my first chance.

But maybe the new year, Will bring a second one.

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ILLUMINATE MAGAZINE

ISSUE I

/ MARCH '25

The Truth of Me by Danica Chung I’m oblivious, naive, That’s what they all believe.

I’m incapable of being mad, I never feel sad.

I won’t judge, And I never fudge The truth.

I never feel pain, I never complain, I never risk disdain.

I’ll never cry, I don’t lie, I’m endlessly shy, I keep quiet and don’t ask why.

I never yell, I stay in my shell, Got a secret, I’ll never tell, They can control me like I’m under a spell.

I don’t mind if it’s me, they ignore, Their opinions matter more, They deserve to take the floor, I believed that too, before.

I shouldn’t be so kind That speaking my mind Is so far behind

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ILLUMINATE MAGAZINE

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/ MARCH '25

In my thoughts, That I forget how to do it, And it falls into a pit, Of “I can’t”.

Because, truth is, I lash out, I shout.

I’ll encounter a tough decision, and take the wrong route I’ll say what I want, I’ll change how “sorry” is My only response.

Because it’s not.

There’s also “no” And “I think” And “My opinion” And “I feel” And “Listen to me.”

I’ll make them see, That there’s more to me, Than ten thousand sorrys, And a guarantee That I’ll agree.

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ILLUMINATE MAGAZINE

ISSUE I

/ MARCH '25

Silence by Terion Tang Luke In a noisy room filled with silence, I see people deep in conversation Lips moving, hands emphasizing, the buzzing fluorescent lights above, Nothing but muffled sounds reach my ears Adjusting my devices, click click click Silence, a cloud of confusion In a world of black and white All the pieces line up ready to fight Each move, a message that I understand A fearless pawn steps forward to e4 I sit at the edge of my chair, silence, deafening silence Just the pounding of my heart, as I watch my opponent’s black Knight jump to c6 The room is an intense movie but the volume is turned off The storyline escalates but I miss the important plot I watch the board closely, analyzing every piece There goes my Queen striking with purpose, full of might It lands on h5 ready to ignite Each piece has a story to tell, still, I feel like one is missing The world is like a symphony, but all I hear is just a hum Laughter feels like a storm cloud, just like a forgotten scene It is like flipping through a bunch of words; like a book that cannot be fully read I want to join, but I feel like a puppet that is just unable to escape In this deafness, I struggle, the silence I soon learn The clicking of pieces has become my only sound I watch the Bishop glide to c4 slyly waiting for its moment I hear nothing but silence I hear nothing but silence I watch my brave Knight gallop over pieces, devouring the Queen The laughter around me fades into gray, leaving an impact on me Every move is planned, but it feels so risky and daunting I feel the pieces call for me, my heart tightens as it draws near the end So with a final word, I declare my fate, Checkmate

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ILLUMINATE MAGAZINE

ISSUE I

/ MARCH '25

My Dream by Karina F I remember the first time I held the blade—it wasn’t just metal, it was magic made.

Weightless, sharp, it belonged to me, an extension of who I was meant to be. I carved lines in the air like a painter’s dream, each point earned made my spirit beam. I was born for this, my rhythm, my art, steel on steel played the beat of my heart. I was fast— oh, you should have seen, the flash of my blade, the calm, so serene. Feet whispering soft, like ghosts on the ground, lightning quick, my opponents were bound. The coaches, they whispered, she’s next in line, a name at the top, a future divine. I didn’t just fence, I soared through the skies, while fear filled the hearts and I met in their eyes. And then— snap. Not from a fall, no dramatic scene, but from pushing too hard, a relentless machine. I felt it ache, the scream in my knee, but I silenced it—train harder, it’s me. I ignored the warnings, the begging pain, “Just a little bit more… I’ll be fine again.” The body I broke could no longer obey, and the price of ambition was too much to pay. The doctors said, quit, like a fate signed in stone, like they didn’t know fencing was part of my bones. I laughed as I fought to hold back the pain, “You don’t understand—it’s the blood in my veins.” Deep in my chest, I knew it was war, to fight with a body that was mine no more. I came back once, mask hiding my face, wrapped fingers around my weapon of grace, but my legs shook where they once had flown, and the strikes I gave were no longer my own. Hesitation screamed where confidence had reigned, and I lost to someone I once would have tamed. Do you know how it feels to mourn who you were? To see pity from faces once drawn to confer? To hear, what happened? from people who knew, and to ask yourself that exact question too? Worse still—to stand on the strip, face to face, with someone you know you should have erased. To feel the sting as they claim the last point, while your body breaks down at every joint. To hear the applause that should have been yours, but you’re left with the truth that silently roars: You’re not the same, coming from whispers under their breath, while you feel like a shadow, mourning a death. I used to be lightning, a storm on the ground, but now I am echoes, a forgotten sound. How do you fight when your mind holds the blade, when belief in yourself is beginning to fade? They say, it’s a sport, as if it’s a game, but to me, it was life, it carried my name. The rush, the roar, the crowd’s silent cries—for a moment, I owned their gasping sighs. Now I see her—that girl, so alive, moving like thunder, with her fire, her

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ILLUMINATE MAGAZINE

ISSUE I

/ MARCH '25

drive. I reach for her hand, I call out her name, but she’s gone, she’s vanished, she won’t be the same. Because I let her go, when my knee screamed enough, when belief wasn’t sharp, when the love turned rough. And maybe that’s it, the part that still burns, the question that lingers, the lesson unlearned: If I had stopped, if I’d listened to pain, would I be whole, would I still remain? I love you, my fencing, my heart, my art, but loving you now just tears me apart. Yet here I stand, through the ache and the strain, still pulling myself to that strip through the pain. The doctors, the whispers, they all say to quit, but they don’t know the fire that refuses to sit. Because I can’t stop—even as I break, even as my body bends, even as I ache. I’ll power through with the blade in my hand because no one but me can truly understand. Yes, it’s heartbreaking, soul-crushing, unfair—to see those I could beat now unaware that I was once someone they feared to fight, now I lose to them, and I lose to the night. Fencing—my love—is stitched into my soul, even broken, even battered, it still makes me whole. Maybe they’ll never see what it means, but I’ll keep fighting, chasing the dream.

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ILLUMINATE MAGAZINE

ISSUE I

/ MARCH '25

in the dark by Megan Zhao silence and darkness beating my heart echoing off the walls, back to me declaring my life blown away, in the wind white petals of thorns and poison i wear by the heart never wither i sing to the songbird golden beak and silver feathers, caged in diamonds yet, from my soul melodies of flesh and blood which i know it heard without heart but mine music flows down to the world from heavens above no stairs i listen i feel moonlight and starlight i chase it my shadow follows eluded, i rest as it illuminates the night but not the world

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ILLUMINATE MAGAZINE

ISSUE I

/ MARCH '25

Broken Promises by Noelle McFerran The sunset disappeared no longer fogging the sky as a film of broken promises of dawn cracked into shards of night each fading through clouds some colossal tear slowly dripping down the stars as it disintegrates only to return rising through each geometric grid accepted as habitable by the destroyers of habitats reaching further and further into the sky to try and fill the holes left by omniscience through thirst for knowledge that can never be quenched leaving the throats of society dry as they orate their screeching opinions like lightning bolts that cannot reach the geometric grids but can somehow crack more than the dawn and overturn even the deeply harmonious beats of the cosmos with destruction like a flock of broken promises

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PHOTOGRAPHY

ILLUMINATE MAGAZINE

ISSUE I

/ MARCH '25

Endless Blue by Khaliya Rajan

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ILLUMINATE MAGAZINE

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/ MARCH '25

Fish by Karina F “This picture shows the view from the bay in front of my Hong Kong apartment. The man, sitting in the photo, has been a symbol of my childhood. He always sits on that rock, waiting on something, with patience.”

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About The Authors ANA SOFIA RENOWITZKY Ana Sofia is a 10th-grade student at York House with a passion for writing and storytelling. Ever since childhood, she has been fascinated by the power of words to create new worlds and explore complex emotions. Her love for writing began with a fondness for reading science fiction and fantasy novels, which inspired her to start crafting her own stories.

NETA SARA SHAHAR and MYA FARIAL MAHEDI (NSMM) Mya and Neta have been friends for two years. They both enjoy reading and writing. They both also love spending time with their friends and family.

ADELAIDE ROBERTS Adelaide Roberts is a writer, specializing particularly in forms of poetry and short stories, which usually fall into the genre of dystopia and science fiction. She wrote this piece as a challenge to society and she hopes it makes all its readers consider the impact of individuality within societal control.

CELINE YUAN Celine is a grade 9 student at York House School in Vancouver. Born in 2010 in Shanghai, China, she spent her early years in her hometown before moving to Victoria at 4 years old. Later, she moved to Vancouver in 2022, and has been enjoying the sights of the city ever since.

GRACE JIANG Born in Shanghai, China, Grace has always had a passion for reading and writing fiction.

MARTINA GAO Martina Gao finds inspiration for her writing in experiences that shape her daily life. Whether it’s through reflecting on personal experiences, or drawing from her love of dance and music, Martina’s stories aim to explore the beauty of the world as she sees it.

HANWEN ZHANG Hanwen Zhang is an aspiring poet from San Jose, California. He has never been published before.

QUEENY LI Queeny is a passionate writer and dancer who loves writing creative short stories and reading classic novels!

She is also a competitive ballet dancer who enjoys competing at international level competitions.

EMMA WANG Emma is a grade 10 student who loves to read and write. She loves eating spicy Asian food and playing frisbee with her dog. She is really excited to submit her work to Illuminate Magazine.

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SITU LI Situ Li is a sixteen-year-old writer from Vancouver, B.C. She has a soft spot for all forms of writing, from analytical to prose poems. She believes in writing as a lens to unravel the dualities and contradictions of the world around her.

KARINA F Karina F is currently a 9th grade student with a passion for writing. She finds her muse in listening to artists such as Billie Eilish and SZA. Her muse also comes from past experiences and stories from family and peers.

GLORIA LIN Gloria Lin is a grade 10 student writer from Vancouver, BC. She loves playing sports and is a very active learner.

RACHEL ROTHSTEIN Rachel is a 16-year-old student and writer from Vancouver, B.C. Through her writing, she aims to reflect the deep-rooted conflicts of the world through close-up accounts of everyday life. She mostly focuses on short stories and free verse poetry, and is an avid reader and guitarist.

KHALIYA RAJAN Khaliya Rajan is a grade 12 student who resides in Vancouver, Canada. She is an accomplished writer whose work has been published in Pluvia, ink, the featured column of The Greyhound Journal, and multiple anthologies. Additionally, she received the Amazon Canada / The Walrus Youth Short Story Award in 2024. Khaliya is also the Editor-In-Chief of Illuminate Magazine and a writer, prose editor, and graphic designer for Horizon Magazine DANICA CHUNG Danica Chung is a 13 year old who has wanted to be a writer since she was very little. She lives in Vancouver, Canada with her mom, her dad, her sister, her brother, and her dog.

TERION TANG LUKE Terion Tang Luke is a 14 year old girl who attends York House School and is a member of the Deaf and Hard of Hearing community. She is a competitive dancer who participates in solo and group numbers and has won medals and adjudicator special awards. She enjoys ballet, lyrical, jazz, hip-hop, and musical theatre. Also, she is involved in charitable community events, competitions, and performances for cello, flute, choir, chess, ASL and baking. Terion pushes her boundaries and loves to learn new things. She would like to inspire others to explore something new.

MEGAN ZHAO Megan Zhao is a grade 9 student from York House School, and lives in Richmond. When she's not dozing off, her mind's usually somewhere out of Earth. She spends most of her time indoors with her cat, Dusty.

NOELLE MCFERRAN Noelle McFerran is a student at York House School who loves poetry and realistic fiction overzealously.

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About The Team DANIKA LIU President Danika is an 11th grade student residing in British Columbia, Canada. She is an avid writer, feeler, and explorer. Her purpose is to adventure the unknown and undiscovered. When she is not leading projects or dabbling in poetry, she can be found being out and about.

SITU LI Vice President Situ is a sixteen-year-old writer from Vancouver, BC, whose work is featured in local and international anthologies. For her, writing is an avenue for self-expression and engaging with the world's dualities and contradictions. Aside from writing, she loves reading, deep talks with loved ones, volunteering, doing sport, and spending time in nature.

SAMAR McCLURE Vice President Samar is a 10th Grade student at York House School. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. She loves to spend time writing, watching movies, playing the guitar and the violin, and spending time with friends and family.

KHALIYA RAJAN Editor-In-Chief Khaliya is a grade 12 student residing in Vancouver, Canada. She is an accomplished writer whose work has been published in Pluvia, ink, the featured column of The Greyhound Journal, and multiple anthologies. Additionally, she received the Amazon Canada / The Walrus Youth Short Story Award in 2024. Khaliya is also a writer, prose editor, and graphic designer for Horizon Magazine.

RACHEL ROTHSTEIN Creative Director Rachel is a 16-year-old student and writer from Vancouver, B.C. She believes in writing as the bridge that connects us all to the beauty of the human condition. When she’s not writing, you can probably find her exploring Vancouver’s scenery, playing guitar, or getting lost in the world of fiction.

NOELLE McFERRAN Creative Director Noelle is a 14 year old wishful poet who loves poetry and realistic fiction overzealously. When she’s not writing, reading, or swimming through pools of schoolwork, she can almost always be found outdoors or with her brother and sister. Her work is primarily free verse, but she dabbles in other forms of poetry as well.

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