EDITORS IN CHIEF
ANUSKA RUNGTA SREEJONY SENGUPTA
CREATIVE DIRECTOR
CORINNE ANG
DESIGNERS
JUSTINE HO LILY LU
COVER
SAMANTHA LEUNG
C O N T E N T S
FROM THE MUSIC: 01 LETTER 11 EDITORS TAME IMPALA 13 02 POETRY ALBUM RECOMCOMPETITION 15 MENDATIONS WINNERS: PICTURE FULL OF 03 AMEMORIES FASHION 17 UNTITLED 05 Lee Phillips
Min Jun Kim
Sunny Han
06 07
Naomi Tang
UPLOAD A LIFE Eve Messervy
GENERATION OS Zarah Tesfai
CAN’T LIVE 09 WE WITHOUT THE EARTH
Ridhee Gupta
21 POETRY: 23 HAIKU COLLECTION Gabriel Wong
25 THE HILL OF HEBE Sanon Liu
27 PROSE: 28 1955 - 2015 31 RESOLUTIONS 33 CALCUTTA 34 CREATIVE WRITING Kimberly Cheah Anonymous
Sreejony Sengupta
COMPETITION WINNERS:
35 UNTITLED 37 HER COMPANION 39 LIGHTS AND MAGIC 41 PERIODICAL EXISTENCE Anika Cheng
Rebekah Yong Edward Ho
Justin Lee
“Progress is impossible without change and those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.” George Bernard Shaw Change is indispensable; it is one of those few words in our vocabulary that has the ability to define the history of mankind, nature and science. In a sense, it’s more than just a word, it’s a concept- one that allows for progress and one that we immensely value. Whether talking about the ‘change’ in us: our behaviour or beauty, or the ‘change’ in the world: the social and political progress; our conversations always seem to revolve around this concept.With the notion of ‘change’ and progress playing an imperative role in our society, and our daily and academic lives, we chose to explore this multi-dimensional theme from its varying forms and perspectives. With an aim to unify varying perspectives regarding ‘change’ within our own school community, we probed West Island School collating articles, prose, poems and many other forms of linguistic art, that expressed the varying ways through which our world and our community has envisioned and experienced change. Many of the works included in this issue discuss the value of ‘change’ in our society and push us to consider the future implications of this concept. This issue also features stunning poetry and prose submissions from a local poetry competition and an intra-school creative writing competition. Keeping with our theme, we decided to bring about a ‘change’ to the logistics of the Ethos Magazine. For the first time in the history of Ethos, we introduced a intra-school photography competition that aimed to highlight the varying perceptions of beauty, and then collated all of our submissions into an exclusive photography magazine. Drawing inspiration from the vivid colours that paint our world, we collectively decided to add some colour to our before black and white magazine, and included splashes of warm colours that helped add depth to our content. But most importantly, the greatest and most impactful ‘change’ that we decided to implement was to donate any and all profit made from the sale of the Ethos Magazine to the innocents suffering in Syria. Lastly, we would like to extend our thanks to all those who have shared their ideas and talent with us in the form of linguistic artwork. We would like to thank Corinne Ang- our creative director- for her tireless dedication in bringing our ideas to life and making them more beautiful than that imagined. Most importantly, we would like to thank our staff supervisor, Ms Sara Ellison for believing in our team and providing invaluable guidance, constant motivation and unwavering optimism in this process. We hope that our eighth issue provides you as much light and warmth as it does to us. Yours truly, Anuska Rungta and Sreejony Sengupta 1 | ethos
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A Picture Full of Memories MIN JUN KIM
I walk along the sidewalk, Of the noiseless Memory Lane, The embodiment of who I am, The treasure chest of my deepest secrets. My feet patter against the cobble pavement, The sounds echoing throughout the tranquil avenue. I walk, And walk, And walk. Until I step on a picture lying on the ground. I pick it up, and take a look. Icy chills, and bittersweet memories, Flood my body, Numbing me, Bringing tears to my eyes. A face of an old friend, Squinted eyes, And a cheerful smile, One that could lift the weights of exhaustion, And sadness from my shoulders. I can still remember… Running around in a field of grass, Aimlessly running, yet smiles never faltering, Burning with happiness, Brimming with energy, Filled with the purest form of true ecstasy.
I can still remember… Sitting on the scorching floor of a sports track, Commotion and glee spreading like a wildfire, Across the bleachers. He covers me with his cloak, Saving me from the blistering sun. I can still remember… This day was especially cold, The clouds gathered together, Cloaking the sun from our view. He smiled. Again. But something was off. His smile was bittersweet, Sad, As if all his happiness was gone, And he was only smiling for one last time. He walked away. His footsteps, getting softer and softer, Faded into oblivion. Dread seeped into my heart, Knowing that I had lost someone dear to me. I dropped the picture, And I continued to walk. They say a picture speaks a thousand words. But to me, that picture speaks a million memories.
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judged the new iPhone 7 with disdain, mocking the new look and sharing memes about those eccentric-looking AirPods. But isn’t this the same wary feeling our grandparents share about touchscreens and keyboards?
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ometimes we ridicule our grandparents, or even parents, for not understanding how to use the computer or handle a smartphone. We laugh when they refuse to read e-books and insist on sticking to hard copies. “Pen and paper? No thanks,” we smirk. “I’ll stick to my phone.” It’s not just the older generation who reject new technological changes, however. A fair amount of us have 7 | ethos
With technology advancing at such a rapid pace, it’s not inconceivable that there will be extreme developments. Some may make us slightly uncomfortable, but some may turn out to be immensely useful. If nothing else, these updates make for good small talk. On the other hand, maybe we need to go back in time a little. After all, it is the “simple things that count”. Handwriting in your journal can be a ca thartic release of emotions. Reading a classic novel can whisk you away to a different world. And no, typing generic emojis in your Instagram captions and watching
Snapchat stories doesn’t count. There is something so visceral about traditional forms of media which you can’t find in the virtual world. In a few years, we’ll be calling iPhones ‘vintage’ and reminisce about the days when we used computer mice. It might be a good idea to hang on to our pencils and notebooks while we can, before they disappear.
implants. We’ll switch from taxis to Ubers to self-driving cars. We’ll probably tweet about how we much we hate the change just before we climb on the bandwagon. It’s going to happen sometime or another.
Perhaps we’re getting old. The adage “only 90’s kids will remember this” is actually coming true in a new and unexpected way. Then again, most changes are At the same time, isn’t it ironic how we post unexpected, and I can only guess what the next great #throwbackthursdays using technology? We talk invention will be. Soon, the saying will change to about #YOLO and living in the moment, but it kind “only 00’s kids will remember this”. We’ll feel ancient. of defeats the purpose when the #behindthescenes And we’ll strap into our shiny teleportation devices, is really just us choosing which one out of the 394 grumbling about how we would rather take the bus. ies to post. The next thing you know, we’re sharing quotes about how we wish we lived in a simpler time. But hey, at least now there’s an avocado emoji. We’ll graduate from laptops to virtual reality goggles to brain microchip ethos | 8
WE CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT THE EARTH
Ridhee Gupta
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for five years. Seismic blasting involves blasting sonic waves into the water every ten seconds, which can be very dangerous for aboriginal communities and the wildlife in that region. The sea life depends on sound inside the water. This sonic blasting is going to disorient them and have effects on their health. In light of this, they are going to migrate, thus leaving the aboBut, let’s stop for a second and talk about the conse- riginal community in splits. quences of these changes. Today, there is industry, and there is mass production. Capitalism is at it’s However, there is a solution to this. Sustainable dehighest and companies have their way in the market. velopment is the way forward, but accepting that this Something that is most affected by these changes is is needed is the first step. Renewable energy might the environment. It is very clear that the earth’s tem- not be as efficient as our energy sources right now, peratures should be decreasing if natural processes but renewable energy is what will eventually help us. were being followed. However, we see sudden in- Using solar, wind, and hydro energy in a combinacreases in the temperatures and phenomena we have tion across the world will give effective results while never experienced during human civilization before. not harming the environment. Something as simple NASA reports the half-year of 2016 has broken many as switching off the light or the air conditioner when records. The record for smallest amount of Arctic sea leaving a room goes a long way in saving resources ice was set by the first five months of this year. Temper- and preventing the release of chemicals into the enatures every month have broken previous records and vironment. It could also be boycotting plastic bags this half-year was the warmest ever recorded. There when going out to buy groceries and using cloth is definitely something happening that shouldn’t be. made bags instead. Bigger steps are needed to make sure companies are ethical and adhere to environmenAnd, viola, it’s us. tal laws. This can only happen when the government Although we are trying to make life easier for us, is interested enough in this matter, which is why it is and making technological advancements everyday. our responsibility, as global citizens, to convince our Even though our incomes are increasing and we can governments of the importance of sustainable develafford more, which is why companies are producing opment and reversing climate change. more; even though we are better off, we are causing this change in the environment. The rapid usage of Environmental change is a change in itself, and it is the earth’s resources and their exploitation is some- real. Very real. Most of why this is happening is bething that we need to stop. We, as a collective human cause of our greed and our wants. Our desires are race, need to realize that we are just another species never going to die, but we need to find a way to live in designed to co-exist with every other species on this harmony with the environment. And it’s not too late, planet and that we are not a special lot. The earth can if we all manage to convince our governments that the survive without us, we can’t survive without the earth. most important step to take right now is sustainable development, but most importantly, if we all manage Let’s consider an example. The Canadian Govern- to convince ourselves that a change is required in ment granted companies the right to conduct seismic the way we live our lives and work actively towards blasting in the Arctic Ocean during the summer to achieving that change. map the ocean floor and look for oil and natural gas he world is experiencing a revolution. It is growing and expanding at a rate faster than that ever seen. New inventions, discoveries, and applications are sprouting up everywhere. Resources are getting over faster and faster and there is a race to find the new source for these resources.
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FAVOURITE TRACK: PEDESTRIAN AT BEST Courtney Barnett’s debut LP contains three things: vignettes, shower thoughts and guitar riffs. She’s a wordy yet laid back singer-songwriter and guitarist - one that refuses to play with a pick or strum with any kind of precision but manages to tell an entire story in the short span of four minutes. This album is the perfect blend of Barnett sitting and thinking, and just sitting, so perhaps you were warned. Lead single ‘Pedestrian at Best’ isn’t musically intricate - just two chords pulsing through the entire song - but the nature of her lyrics provide an almost black-and-white contrast. With lines like ‘Put me on a pedestal and I’ll only disappoint you’, ‘My internal monologue is saturated analogue’ and even a brief nod to Freud, the three-minute song details what seems to be every thought crossing Courtney’s mind during her rise to fame as an indie-rock darling. This is a record that is wholly unique in how it intertwines simplicity and complexity - an accessible sound welcomes you in, while big ideas provoke.
FAVOURITE TRACK: MY DEAD GIRL Commentary: Foil Deer is Speedy Ortiz’ sophomore effort, following the grungiest, most sonically dissonant break up record that I think I’ve ever heard in my life - 2013’s Major Arcana. While frontwoman Sadie Dupuis’ lyrics remain lengthy and notoriously hard to decipher, Foil Deer takes the focus away from external sources like the cheating ex that inspired much of Major Arcana and turns it back to Dupuis herself - leading to more introspective yet witty wordplay that both reveals and inspires, while layered guitars and a distinctively 90’s sound remains consistent throughout the entire LP. The backstory to ‘My Dead Girl’ is the embodiment of the statement ‘The personal is political’, and the same could be said for the album itself. Written in its entirety by Dupuis in a car, late at night, and initially conceptualized as a song in which she intended to express her newfound independence and strength, an incident where a group of ‘frat bros’ began to harass her while she wrote the song caused the lyrics to revert from ‘Riding in cars/but you’re not the driver’ to ‘If these are my last words/guess you’ve found me’. In a similar fashion, this album fluctuates between tones of feminist rallying cries and confessional poetry with an almost impossible fluidity. FAVOURITE TRACK: IN TIME FKA Twigs doesn’t have time for normal. Not in her sound, not in her look, and definitely not in her records. M3LL155X (MELLISSA) is Twigs’ first release after her critically lauded LP1. She is best described as an almost-human. M3LL155X upholds Twigs’ signature amalgamation of hushed vocals and strange instrumentals, but seems more confident, almost more aggressive than her previous releases. While many experimental artist rely on their ‘trippy’ sound to become and remain an enigma, Twigs’ music remains accessible because of the common human themes reflected in her lyrics. ‘In Time’ is an abstract depiction of her struggles in a tempestuous relationship coupled with layers of booming yet calculated instrumentals, boasting lyrics that encapsulate both vulnerability and anger - she’s pleading in the line ‘I won’t be lonely, and you won’t be silent’ and admonishing in ‘You’ve got a goddamn nerve’. The candor in her words somewhat lift the veil that shrouds her outlandish sound - forging an emotional connection with the listener that you really, really, never saw coming. ethos | 16 18
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P O E T RY
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HAIKU COLLECTION GABRIEL
PROMISE Hold onto my hand. As sure as the starry sky We will meet again.
WONG
REFLECTIONS Glass and light cascade. My thousand reflections smile. You cannot break me.
FOOLS
CIVILIZATION
Foolishly proud strides. Look - they fight for the queen’s hand. All kings die for her.
Lost in the forest. Civilization, a speck. The true test of time.
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PURITY They who are so pure. Make foulest claims. Drown the noise. Do not lose false hope.
NATURE LIGHTHOUSE
If the sky is dark Your eyes will be my night stars And your voice, the sea.
Moonlight. Rippled sea. A shining wink calms the waves. Your stoic beauty.
DAYBREAK The silence is loud. Watch the lights blur into dawn. You, your closest friend.
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L L I H
O F
B E E H
LIU N O
e uett o h l i ts scen ure e d i t ir its v ic in na f tears. h t i o n ity, w lous, iro wn vale r b , l l u i l o u n a h lley of sa tly neb my very o e n a folly s ’ hom the v ridesce it was gaze, t i y , of M i in for stere eyrie ering. eak , lost p e u h e a t e h s its for at t he glad n to r of suff r d l u t o t , h a re lendou n lley ed over soul in u a a v f the avi , the sp glaz Is my rie e h t m s reve , even a to fatho n i y e alad eventid l unable s, m a ures demure duty d like till the am stil g r nd I tin xica was you y dole a o t n , i h he ch ,m psyc ced wit inty, su demise beauty r u e yo ss la s no ly da pon rceiv our dre lorous elling u here wa e p I y do dw for t alice h ed c ck, ck w e -d edro ity. lo . k b d c e e o ong s ml ring w ing th l fidel . n e y l a h sw ind ur ea ifu em u bl ing our in yo forsw blasph f beaut ivy, o y o ll s ove ly. n oiso ered id o I can l we sha p f o h d lace e, smot stones s arn, an k c e s e an oo ith ill l gift, w my n e me w ay, I w r t, u yo no hear ng, strik Somed d r i gb ali min n of he m t, u h hear our th a hym nd I. d y n h it wi te a ua ills w he hills r yo ith has uteur, gs, h o n f i e s a w t en th it spir un for run for is a hav on hills ours is h r My it . lcy dy e ha wn, an of Hebe h t s, r e run. n fo rth is h the hill Oh ubri u h r r , fo to ea ear my h So run my d
E T H
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N SA
Run
me. o t r e hith
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PHOTO BY JESSICA HUANG
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R E S O L U T I O N S The year is 2015, the day- the 30th of December. I wake up sporting a blinding headache and a noticeable set of under-eye bags, both of which refuse to subside as I robotically maneuver myself through the obligatory routines of tooth brushing and face washing and the like. I swallow a breakfast of coffee and bread at the hotel restaurant with great difficulty, which (unsurprisingly) does not subdue the queasiness pooling in the depths of my stomach. I blanch as my tried and tested approach for finding comfort in books fails to revive my spirits, and the little bird on the cover of ‘The Goldfinch’ by Donna Tartt stares at me reproachfully from where I have abandoned it on the table. I tentatively turn to my setting, a relatively untouched corner of northern Thailand where the picturesque beaches belong on the back of postcards; you know, the ones adorned with white sands and improbable shades of azure. From my post overlooking the sea, I can still clearly discern the outlines of glittering shells nestled under the crook of the rocky shore and the cover of deep teal waves. Yet the enviable beauty of my location provides no reassurance. At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I remain moody, melancholy and similar adjectives.
the expanse of soothing turquoise surrounding me. And for what? It boiled down to a small, unavoidable deadline: I needed to conceptualize my new year’s resolutions. I realized that what had slowly but surely reduced me to my base level of irrationality was that trivial yet obsessive practice which has been drilled into humanity’s collective conscious. So I’ll cut myself
So, it becomes one of those excruciatingly slow, depressive days. Soon, the syrupy rhythm of time drips in perfect unison with the nonchalant whisper of waves wafting up from the ocean below. It is incredibly frustrating - I have only every reason to be happy. I can’t blame my mood some slack; it’s slightly unfair to blame myself soleon some uncontrollable pathetic fallacy: no, it has to ly for my less than pleasant disposition. Don’t get be self inflicted, I concede upon a cursory glance at me wrong, my feelings of indulgent self-pity were
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completely, unnecessarily blown out of proportion. But i wasn’t anything new. Rather, a lifetime of conditioning has made me unusually introspective, and unfortunately self-absorbed, every time January 1st creeps around the corner I mean, it’s the only time when I can feasibly justify sentimentality in the process of reflection, when there is a window available for simultaneous optimism and cynicism, when I can lift the facade of logic and sensibility that is expected of me during the academic year. Apparently.
recting your flaws becomes an inconceivable task.
Resolutions should be spontaneous pockets of self-examination that are born in life-changing moments, whether these revolve around dissatisfaction, uncertainty or contentment. If they are ignored until January 1st, the other 364 days of the year become an endless cycle of delusions, a game of waiting until the next day to start working out and eating healthy, but never actually following through. It’s a product of that ostensible complacency which is fostered by Yet, I can’t help but feel that the nostalgic meditation a feeling of ‘having an easy way out,’ and this feeling associated with meticulously penning a list of resolu- is encapsulated best by the purpose of the new year. tions is somewhat counterproductive. While it is grat- And so the scenario recurs: at the end of the day, ifying in one sense, it nevertheless demands a rigorous humiliated and defeated by lazy forgetfulness, you yet contrived introspection. And this process takes a vow to start tomorrow. As a student, I have been toll. By the end of this, not only am I exhausted, but host to a number of disheartening internal monoso is everyone who interacts with me and has to pa- logues which obey the same structure: “Hey, let’s tack tiently put up with my misanthropic ‘quirks’ and snap- [insert problem] onto my list of new year’s resopish defensiveness. As someone who is often limited lutions! They may be five months away, but figby the curses of nitpicking and self-deprecation, this uring out my issues within the span of two days behaviour is not at all forthcoming or constructive. should, theoretically, be doable. I have more important things (ugh, IB) to deal with right now.” But doesn’t the slightest presence of such an attitude negate the point of the new year? After all, In general, it’s important to sometimes let your aren’t we meant to re-evaluate and better ourselves? doubts take precedence, become your own filter, We always hope to emerge out the door of that and to set aside moments to upgrade and revitalize. celebratory stroke of midnight in a shiny and brand- In the meantime, maybe I’ll find time to reconcile new format, wherein we have officially re-committed with the new year - the fireworks alone are worth it. to soul-searching renovation. However, humans are creatures of habit: we tend to seize any opportunity to become sedentary, and to actively resist this impulse requires a nonsensical amount of effort. This pattern is especially illuminated in the hazy fog of disillusionment we experience when overwhelmed by the task of adhering to that invisible end-of-year schedule. Ultimately, if you leave all your plans to affect positive change to those last moments of the year, when time refuses to stop for you, reconstructing and cor-
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awn broke upon the ebony canvas of the silent city. As strokes of vermillion diluted the horizon, the hushed voices awoke and night took shelter beneath day’s shadow. It had begun. Thousands emerged from the scarlet-stained walls, and journeyed the rubble-filled streets, hurrying to their monotonous occupations that funded their hand to mouth existence. The silent city had now awoken. Bleats of bruised buses polluted the thick air whilst armies of fatigued bodies brimmed its yawning egress. The screams of vendors who were cluttered on the ends of the asphalt ribbon, rung in my ears, compelling me to divulge in their treasures: alabaster porcelain dolls with heavy doe eyes painted fawn, chains of long polychromatic drapes, baskets engrossed with pellets of golden-brown crackers. Trails of ambrosial gems haunted my every step whilst the fiery garlands lay still upon the unpaved surface of the earth, awaiting Maa Durga’s arrival. Then there was a bleat. A step. A change. Bleached pedestals stood tall as the amber bullets ricocheted and sank into the horizon. It was time. She had arrived. Bang. Echoes reflected off the curved alleys and lights flickered, she was near.
embedded with rich jewels, cascaded down her hourglass mount. I then looked up at the goddess. A warm simper had curved upon her meticulous profile whereas her eyes were now twinkling with endearment for her children. Boom. An explosion of colours painted into the blank canvas of the night sky, mirroring the celebration, which took place down below. The sky, now scorching with tints of glaring carmine, howled alongside the crowd. Bodies wrapped in lengthy psychedelic cloths capered around the deity, infusing the happiness that radiated from within them.
There was a new presence lingering about in the realm, catching glimpses of Maa Durga, beckoning her children to all now chant: Om Durgahei Nama. It was a small man wrapped in a long opalescent burgundy cloth whose mere shadows had silenced the crowd. He now led: “Om Durgahei Nama”. The voices followed, and the incantation flowed. As the goddess’ children rejoiced cantillating hymns, the goddess rose, her aura bestowing blessings upon her humble devotees. A minute’s silence, then followed SREEJONY SENGUPTA by a day’s celebration. More colours ignited the skyline, as exuberance and festivity drew upon Maa Durga’s revered progenies.
Calcutta
Bang. The beatings of the drums got louder, and the vibrations more recurrent; they were the echoes that sounded in my ears, the melody that my blood pumped to. They were the welcome song of Maa Durga. In the distance, her jewel-enlaced body glimmered under the shimmering of the stars; caterpillar-like, her ten arms protruded out of her exterior, clenching weapons, ready to fend off the evil of this world.
Men hammered at the drums whilst women whirled around them. Incense burned nearby, it’s aromatic whiff tickling my nostrils, coercing out a sneeze or two.
The bleat sounded again. The beatings of the drums were no longer pulsating through my veins. No longer did I catch glimpses of red and white drapes surging through the realm. Colours and tinges of gaiety had been sucked up by the opaque mist which Bang. The echoes had now metamorphosed into now tainted the sky. The chorus had come to a halt. chants; Durga Maa ki jai! The army sang in unison; Maa Durga was nowhere to be found. She had fled their hope, their savior, had arrived. They carried her after her few hours with her children, her presence immaculate frame- like a child riding on its father’s now nothing but a phantom, her blessings only to remain a memory. shoulders- their eyes glistening with hope as she lay. Bang. Nearby, on the bleached pedestal they let her As the children returned to their cages, dawn once down. She now stood, her wandering eyes zoning out again broke upon the tattered canvas of the silent city. into the oblivion, scanning her children. Her face was sculpted with precision and her jet-black hair, 33 | ethos
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I see a glimpse of light, like the will-o-the-wisp. I follow. In the dark of the forest, six lights appeared, one by one. I follow, entranced, moving towards them, thinking of no consequences. As I neared the first light, my hands moved, almost by their own accord. They reached out, into the light, bringing it closer, holding it to my chest. Everywhere the light touched, it burned. It burned so much, but I couldn’t stop. The pain was a welcome pain, a drunken pain. I took a step forward. And reached again. The pain intensifies, and this time, there isn’t just pain. The places the light came into contact with became dry, and cracked. Skin took on a hue so gray but so green, a hue previously unknown to mankind. I was disgusted, but‌ I needed more. The pain was like a drug, a saviour from the de35 | ethos
mons. Another step. Pain. Another step. More pain. Another step, another light, another pain, another transformation. My became red and bloodshot, pupils first dilating, then constricting, black dots in a silvery sky. Then, I grow. Wings sprout from my back, majestic, feathery, black wings. But when I begin to admire them, the hunger consumes me. I want more. I need more. But there are no more lights. There is only pain. The wings are no longer majestic things. The feathers fall off in clumps, and soon they are only of skin and bones. My eyes sink deep into my skull, lips thinning, cracking, blackening. My body shrinks outside of its structure, skin clinging to the bones, ribs jutting out, legs like sticks, barely just holding me up. Or,
what is left of me. But the hunger gnaws at me, heart pounding in time with my brain, grinding a message into myself- more! more! More! But there is no more. There is just me, and the hunger, and the pain.
Until there is no more of the villages either. Or towns. Or cities. Only wails, growing louder, of those poor babies, left for their own. But the voice is still there. Hunger claws at me, scraping at my insides. My head pounds, my heart And then, something new happens. An anger, a need pounds. And I am hungry. But there is no more. for blame. Something to point a finger at, something to eye in envy. So I set out, walking on my twigs, back hunched to hold my “wings�. I find the nearest village, There is no more. and see exactly what I want. I destroy the families, the neighborhoods, the whole village. Destroy until there is only the wail of the smallest child, left to tell it’s story. And I seek another village. Then another. And there is only one thing that still matters: the unsatisfiable message in my head, screaming for more! More! More! ethos | 36
her companion. REBEKAH YONG
I watched as Ada, my nanny rocked back and forth on her rocking chair, softly humming a melody that brought back memories and filled me with melancholy. I padded next to her and leapt up onto her lap, nuzzling her, memories washing over me. I was a kitten, half starved and scratched up. Cast out of my family and onto the streets, by my own mother as I was the runt, so she decided I was worthless and a burden, until Ada came and nurtured and loved me while singing that very tune. I mewed gently and batted the remote control which she then reached for to turn on the TV. She loved to watch videos of her and her husband who died years ago and I was content to watch with her. Sometimes though, when I study Ada while she’s watching the videos, I can see a twitch of an eye or a tremble of her lips and sometimes I think I can see her ages before she adopted me. She would be small and slight with that cheeky smile forever playing at her lips. Her dark hair which was now grey and matted would glisten and dance this way or that depending on where and how she turned her head and she would sing and dance with such passion that it was impossible to turn away. And seated on a chair before her, was a man. He wasn’t well built or attractive and didn’t look as though he was much but the love and pride in his eyes would tell you otherwise, that he was her lover. I knew she missed him terribly but what could I do? I was just a mere cat. I slowly padded away and studied the house which I knew so well with all the same photos and furniture but 37 | ethos
the most intriguing sheet of paper which painted on it was a picture of tree. A magnificent tree, but with a face which slightly resembled my imagination or mental creation of a younger Ada, and lying next to the picture on the right was an old and rusted hatchet and on the left, a small box containing little wood chips. After a while, I noticed that the TV was off so I sprinted back to her just in time to catch her opening her photo album. I’d never seen it before for as long as lived with her so I settled comfortably next to her and listened and watched as she described the photos to me. I was fairly relaxed and about to sleep when from the corner of my eye I caught sight of a photo almost identical to the painting except the face was horribly disfigured. I looked over to the next page, hoping that the next photo would give me some clues as to what the face in the tree was or meant but only saw a flat rolling bed with a man strapped to it. His face was blurred and he was wearing a mask and had wires tubes sticking out of him. Nothing that interested me so I dozed off. The next day, I awoke to the sound of metal screeching on wood, the hissing of an angry kettle and helpless sobbing. I ran over to the kitchen and saw the devastating sight of my nanny, hunched over, cradling a sad little scrap of a burnt picture while looking helplessly at a photo album burning atop the flaming stove which was now hissing and spitting with the boiling water spilt all over it. I don’t know how but instinctively knew that the little picture was the painting of the face in the tree and that she
was hoping to put it in the photo album to preserve it as she had with her other pictures, but she dropped the picture and the album, only managing to rescue that pathetic little portion. I knew she was mourning the lost memories. I tentatively stretched and curled up next to her, listening to her weep for a while before she got up and walked out of the kitchen, a look of determination set upon her face. I followed her. Ada went to the dining room and picked up the hatchet and headed out the door, I just managed to slip out with her before the door slammed shut. Ada walked out the backyard and headed the direction of the setting sun so that’s where I went too. We walked for days and nights, my muscles growing weary and her face drawn with exhaustion but she never stopped, until we came across that tree. It was horrible and disfigured like in the photo album but in real life it bore a slight resemblance to Ada. Etched on top of the face were the letters J and A in a heart. I heard a thump and looked left to see Ada crying silent tears of frustration and hacking away at the face, each thud made it look a bit more like her. And with a flash, though I didn’t know how, I understood. Ada, young again was seated next to her husband, Jimmy. Tears streaming down her face as he was about to take his final breath at the hospital bed. I was then transported further back. Ada was sitting at the foot of the tree, watching adoringly as Jimmy hacked away at the tree as a token of his love for her. But the face or carving was never finished. I blinked and looked back at Ada, furiously hacking at the tree, trying to finish what Jimmy and begun to show that she cared about his life’s work. But at her frail age, she couldn’t do much and with one last exasperated cry, she fell to the ground, eyes glassy. Her passion bested her. What was I doing? How did I feel? My dear Ada. Why I died with her, I was a figment of her imagination.
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“And you’re sure this is the place?” Lear looked up. “Yeah, where I saw the lights.” The tomb raider with the scanner pulled a bemused face, then shook the screen. “Well, if I’m correct, this is the highest reading anyone has seen for the last 2000 years. Anywhere, and I’m not just talking about this planet, Canis Major Beta.” “What is it, Stiff?” Stiff flashed a smile at Lear, and checked the reading. “Two thousand, three hundred and one.” “Are you…?” Lear’s mouth dropped to the ground. “Nah, just kidding. It’s showing that weird 8 on its side. What does that mean?” “Infinitum.” The air dropped from an already cold night to what could have had been about the temperature in Antarctica. A flash of thunder and rain fell from the dark sky. The two men opened their Shields and watched the rain bounce harmlessly off what looked like thin air. In reality it was one of Lear’s newest designs, in other words electromagnetic repulsion umbrellas. Stiff switched off the scanner. “Is the scanner broken?” “Nah, I charged it in the Electric before I came.” “Let me try.” Lear took out his Malus scanner and pressed the power button. The holographic screen activated. Lear flipped the scanner and walked out to the black pile of cinders, sweeping it across the ground. The screen flashed, and concentric rings floated off the display and rotated – the equivalent of calculation. The rings floated back into place. The screen flashed again and generated an infinity symbol before flickering to a halt. The forest fell into darkness. Again. “Darn. Got a Generator?” Stiff shrugged. “Left it at home.” But Lear was already walking deeper into the forest. Halfway through, he stopped and motioned for Stiff to come over. Stiff shuddered. “What is it?” Lear rubbed his eyes before looking at Stiff. “Looks like our lights left a calling card.” The piles of ash smoked and hissed as the rain fell on the forest. Six piles. Six lights. 39 | ethos
Stiff waltzed over, twirling and dancing in the rain. “Sorry. It just makes me feel like I’m in an old movie- you know, Singing-no, Dancing in the Rain?” “This isn’t no time for dancing, Stiff, and you know it.” As if on cue, lights sped through the forest, landing in a clearing. Stiff pointed. “Are those them?” Lear frowned. “No, but that’s the Governing Body.” What are they doing here? As they watched, cops got off vans that had been using Camo 3.0, saluting an Agent on a Fantom Hover Bike. He handed out pictures of a black-haired man’s face with blue eyes and a crooked smile. His face. After handing out a picture of Stiff, the Agent held his hand up. “Find them,” the Agent ordered in a barely audible but rasping and grating voice that could’ve had turned iron bars into filings. “Find the fugitives.” The two men sprang from their hiding spots, and Lear was about to look back when he heard a shout from the Agent. Almost instantly, Lear heard the unmistakable sound of a plasma cell charging and dodged the green-blue laser that burst through the skyline from a plasma cannon. Lear turned a corner with Stiff and sprinted down a well-worn but old path and into a dark cave, ignoring the red-eyed dragons on the cave wall, moving with the men as the cave entrance shimmered and shifted… The sergeant took off his tracker goggles and waved the Agent over. “Two fresh footprints. To the right.” The Agent nodded his thanks and radioed the rest of the squad. Soon, the cops appeared from the thick underbrush and were given a quick briefing by the Agent. “Most of you know why we are here, so I would like to get to the point. Yes, Private?” The boy who couldn’t have had been 18 years old reluctantly put down his hand, acknowledging the sniggers from the other squad-members with a slight red tinge in the face. The Agent nodded, understanding. “You’re the new guy, so I better give you a briefing. This,” he tossed a card that was paper-thin onto the floor, which generated a picture of a mechanical ball, “is Nibiru. The Doomsday Planet. Once inhabited by the Prometheans.” The boy nodded, hardly daring to speak. “This planet, incidentally, is going to crash into ours, and nobody wants to be around by then-unless we have help.” The card on the floor generated some kind of machine which had strange marks on it. This machine was discovered by an Outpost on Canis Minor 22B and had this drawing on it.” The card zoomed in on one of the panels on the machine, which showed a faintly shimmering orb. “Collecting these orbs are a secret government project, and the two men saw six of them, which means they know too much.” The boy sniggered slightly at the ‘comic book supervillain’ comment. “That makes them fugitives,” he concluded. The boy had barely opened his mouth to comment when a shimmer shone from a nearby cliff. The squad rushed there to investigate and just caught a glimpse of the cave entrance before it phased into nothingness. Lear was dead. He knew he was dead because of the pain. The horror. The darkness. But then his eyes fluttered open and he realized where he was. “Stiff?” Nothing. Not even a faint echo. “Pretty big cave.” He was lying inside a huge hallway. Red-eyed dragons were coiled on the wall. Gargoyles hung from the ceiling. Phoenixes adorned the table at the center of the chamber. And on the table, there was a large but exquisite blade, glimmering even after one million years. Lear had seen this blade before. His History and Archaeology degrees in Halid University had paid off. The blade had been depicted in so many Promethean carvings, carvings which were somehow found broken in a museum by an unknown force. “The Elder’s Blade,” Lear whispered. “Walmasnin Balid.” It is yours, someone whispered. ethos | 40
The hermit lived in a forest, a forest long forlorn. A forest in which the frogs chirped and the birds croaked, where the trees grew tall and crooked, and the bushes wellclipped. In a clearing in midst the overgrowth stood a cracked wall of mud and dung, a simple barrier against what nature has to provide. A bed of straw and large banana leaves sufficed as a shelter over rain, the natural essence of leaves allowing morning dew to slide off the green woven blankets in one crisp action. Inside lay the hermit, with the essentials, a gnarled gimer stick used both as a walking stick and defence, the banana leaves, and the ring. He always kept the ring. Nobody knew where the ring came from. Not even the birds or the lions, seeing all, but never understanding, not the bedbugs that lived at the bottom of the woven blanket, nor the earthworms that traveled in the small garden. Only the hermit bears the weight of the ring, bears the weight of loss and despair, and goodness, and life. The ring gives him life, remembering the past allows him to know what to live for, the ring gives him goodness, for his only desire is to protect the ring, the ring gives him loss, for the ones that it took, and despair, for the strings that it broke. The hermit bears what is to him, the world. When the rain slides down the banana leaves, and the towering palms cast a lengthy shadow over the dilapidated hut, the hermit thinks of his past, in the city, until the shadows came. Slowly sinking through the border states, flags placed, soldiers deployed, it all played out, the shadows’ essence flowing through throbbing veins and capillaries and arteries, the lungs bringing back the fire needed to keep up the monster. The hermit was driven away, along with the ring, representing the wholeness he once had, the people he was once with. The ring had the minute black dots on it when he first escaped to the forest, the shadows lingering with him forever. The crickets whisper, I can see it all, the hermit lives every day like the shadow doesn’t linger on him. I still live, some of me in the ring he keeps so dearly. It’s streaming with the shadow, with the figures that he knows 41 | ethos
so well, the figures that haunt him, give him the pain that keeps him alive. He needs the shadow to live, he needs the pain and loss, so he can remember what to live for. I am not killing him, I am doing him good. When the hermit runs out of food, he goes to the cave. Hidden amongst the thrushnests and the warped trees, two logs bar its way. The hermit nimbly leaps over the rotting logs, arriving at the cave, where a small stone sits. Beside it, a pile of food always lies there, different every time, be it piles of raw salmon and tuna or fresh fruit and root vegetables, there was always enough for the hermit to last the week. Perhaps it was the bears collecting food, the mountain lions storing their prey, or the squirrels hoarding their nuts. But we all know who collects it, who places it in that same cave. Inside the small wooden shack, another relic of the past lies, a small tape that he occasionally plays on his old tape player. A clip of the past, that he took from one of the deceased members of the ship that landed on the island. A cassette tape, still playable, somehow, with the analog monitor salvaged from the wreckage, fixed by his mediocre working table and screwdriver. The tape shows the shadows going over the city, swallowing the people, turning them into the undead, still alive but completely devoured by the shadow. I still linger. I bring the food to him, feeding him plump for the final slaughter, coming out of the ring, I grow stronger, fed by his will to live. I give him more pain, feeding him full of the hate needed to survive, he needs me. He will become my final product, go back to the world as my host body. The birds still croaked at the sign of no new arrival. The frogs still chirped in delight when the rain fell, upon the parched autumn leaves. The banana leaves still lay atop the wooden planks, the mushrooms still grew at the sign of a damp patch. The ring still lay, woven with threads of darkness, and only a small shadow covered a part of the beach. The shadows were everywhere, under the trees and underneath the cool breeze.
PROMPT:
GONE
i am slowly withering away to nothing nobody seems to notice i don’t think they care for i am invisible to them they won’t care when i’m gone Poem “Gone” credited to Lost: http://weheartit.com/entry/109453602
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2016