Literary Harrovian – Identity and Legacy (May 2022)

Head’s Foreword 4

Editor’s Note 5

The Secret Girl, Sophia Hotung 6-7

Thicker Than Water, Alyssa Wong 8-11

To Build a Legacy, Ishbel Logue 12-13

In the Eyes of a Pillar, Lydia Daly 14-15

Turn Back, Alyssa Wong 16-17

When I am Gone, Mr T. Hicks 18-19

Lost Identity, June Wang 20

In the Pearl of the East, Manci Fang 21

She, Stephanie Webb 22-23

Facade, Eric Lai 24

How Elizabeth Bennet Paved the Way for Future Generations, Hatti Knight 26-27

Grandpa, Thomas Gall 28

Seeing Litter on the Pavements - after Larkin, Mr T. Hicks 29

From the Old to the New, Anya Gidumal and Ava Peck 30

All That You Are, Thumbiko Mtonga 31

The Things I Plan to Be, Grace Rompotis 32

How I Want to be Remembered, Emma Chua 33

Swiss Cheese Rolls and Involution, Dora Gan 34-35

Who Am I?, Katy Shiu 36-37

An End to the Darkness, Benjamin Qin 38-40

The Balloon Girl, Kevin Liew 42

A New Legacy, Hugo Hellen 44-45

Little Ghost, Joy Chen 46

A Small Little Gift, Alicia Wan 48-50

Albedo, Sharon Lam 51

Another Year, Paris Wang 53

For My, Shannon So 54

Once, Luna Huang 55

Remembering, Warren Zhu 56

Untitled, Kathryn Chan 58

That’s Me, Pia Gargallo 59

Leave No Stone Unturned, Coco Bromhead 60

Time is a Great Stream, Henry Lin 61

The Straw Hat - Harrow’s Legacy, Vanessa Wang 62

The Trial of the Jaguar Boy, Ethan Lan 64-67

Garden Over Yonder, Catherine Hu 68

Book Review of ‘Lore’, Jolie Chan 70-71

Book Review of ‘Bowler’s Name?: The Life of a Cricketing Also-Ran’, Mr Rapley 72-73

Book Review: How Legacy Defines Identity in ‘Call Us What We Carry’, Mrs Campbell 74-75

Book Review: ‘The Old Man and the Sea’, Mr Wiggall 76-77

Locker, Tan Kiu Leung 78

Autumn, Angelina Lu 79

Imperfectly Perfect, Daniel Tam 80-81

the team

Editor-in-Chief: Chloe Levieux

Deputy Editor-in Chief & Design Editor: Joy Chen

Editors: Angelina Lu, Prinda Li, Valerie Ho

art and photography

Artwork:

Estelle Chan

Se Lyn Lim

Sharon Lam

Chloe Yang

Elizabeth Yang

Vanessa Ho

Special thanks to Stella and Chloe for sharing their collections of aesthetic~ photos with us!

by Stella Liu

Photography

Stetfortunadomus ‘Maythefortuneofthehousestand’

#4 EDITOR’S NOTE

Stetfortunadomus

‘Maythefortuneofthehousestand’

Every person leaves this planet having made some kind of impact on it. However transient, limited or superficial, our existence is enough to influence the people around us, or, at the very least, to produce carbon dioxide and contribute to the deterioration of the Earth. Happy thoughts.

Nevertheless, every now and then an individual decides they want to leave a longer-lasting legacy, possibly in the form of a 450 year old educational institution or a similarly aged series of literary masterpieces. I doubt Shakespeare envisioned legions of GCSE and A-Level students trudging through ‘What you egg!’ four centuries into the future, yet he lived to entertain and examine human nature through stories. Learning about these characters can lead us to rethink our own identities, or cause us to resonate with some narratives and feel ‘seen’ by the author. Literature can make us learn more about ourselves while also providing a means to share who we are with the world.

We hope you enjoy this mega-edition of the Literary Harrovian, and we hope it leaves you thinking about your own legacy.

Literary

Harrovian Foreword

by Ann Haydon

2022 is a special year in the record books for the Harrow family of schools as we celebrate 10 years since the opening of Harrow International School, Hong Kong, 25 years since the first Harrow School was opened in Asia and 450 years since Queen Elizabeth I granted a charter to North London Landowner, John Lyon to enable him to set up a school to educate ‘local boys’.

Godliness and good learning were the aspirations of the school’s Founder and Harrow Schools continue to deliver “educational excellence for life and leadership”, service and personal fulfilment which are found in our four values of, ‘courage’, ‘honour ’, ‘fellowship’ and ‘humility’. Quite a legacy! I imagine that John Lyon could scarcely have conceived how his plans to bequeath part of his wealth for educating local boys at Harrow London would have such a transforming effect on the local community, the country and even the world.

I am delighted to write a foreword for this year ’s ‘Literary Harrovian’ whose theme is ‘identity and legacy’ which will also be the focus of our 2022 “Speeches and Prizes”.

Harrovians are quick to establish traditions which have survived for years. Our distinctive dress, the ‘Harrow hat’, ‘Bluers’, ‘Greyers’; the singing of the Harrow song; the archaic slang, ‘Ducker ’, ‘Bill', ‘Send Ups’ and ‘Call Over ’. Customs which develop a strong corporate spirit and a sense of belonging to something bigger than itself and which forge our identity

Being part of Harrow Hong Kong means that we are part of a special community who share a connection with the Harrow family We are part of the history of a world famous establishment and have been influenced by those who have gone before us ‘The Giants of Old’ as they are known and, many of whom have contributed to the world of literature. George Barrow, Edward Barnard, Lord Byron - Poets, Harry Bucknall - Travel Writer, Richard Curtis - Scriptwriter, John Gatsworthy - Novelist, LP Hartley - Author and Arthur Montagu Buller, UK House of Lords Librarian to name but a few We should celebrate their contribution to the Arts and preserve our heritage.

I have no doubt that just as these former Harrovians, many of our pupils who pass through our doors at Harrow Hong Kong will leave a legacy and go out in the world and make a difference.

My thanks go to all of those who have participated in any way to the production of the 2022 Literary Harrovian. In the worlds of perhaps our most famous Harrovian, Sir Winston Churchill, ‘ we make a life by what we give’.

Ann Haydon Head

Head, Ms Ann Haydon

HARROW HONG KONG

38 Tsing Ying Road, Tuen Mun, New Territories, Hong Kong Tel: +852 2824 9099 Email: ahaydon@harrowschool hk www harrowschool hk

Artwork by Chloe and Elizabeth Yang

The Secret Girl

burdened by corridors of tradition i don a bluer begging wishing it had more buttons to hide my chest from the dubious brows of the virile rest so i tie up my locks unwashed and matted pull them to a bun and hide it straw-hatted bury the bra and stash the stockings adopt a low voice swaggering and cocking my head to and fro as i keep up my guard grumbling “here sir” down in the bill yard while in the showers nudity abounds so i fester in sweat that i am not found yet once a month when ma nature hovers i’m extra clandestine to stay undercover avoiding the sceptical eye of the beaks who notice how often my voice shrilly squeaks but when in class i’m as quick as the rest though these men would never deem true me the best still i sit and laugh along at the jokes of women in kitchens deferring to blokes i hate that i’m faking that i’m a lad too with bulges men’s rights a urinal loo so i pray every night that no one will know of the secret girl who went to harrow

The Secret Girl was written by Sophia Hotung (Tutt, 2012-14) and edited by then Head of English Mrs Bella Nightingale in October 2013. Sophia performed it at an upper school opening ceremony that hosted then Education Chief Eddie Ng Hak-kim on October 23, 2013. The poem has been revised with small changes for publication in 2022.

Illustration by Estelle Chan

THICKER THAN WATER

by Alyssa Wong

Blurb:

‘Thicker Than Water’ transforms Shakespeare’s Hamlet from a 13th century Danish prince to a young Anglo-Burmese heiress. The original play’s universal themes of identity and legacy are further explored through this gender swap and the story’s setting of colonial Burma on the brink of World War II. In Act 1 Scene 2, we are introduced to a Hamlet struggling with his father’s death and his mother’s hasty remarriage to his father’s own brother. Unbeknownst to Hamlet, his uncle is the one behind his father’s murder—which is soon to be revealed by his father’s ghost. This tense family situation is reinterpreted as a Christmas dinner party, where festive spirit is about to collide with supernatural spirits, to calamitous effect.

It glistens with the shine of freshly healed skin. Clots of redness. Oozing. I hate cranberry sauce. Sliding my knife under the skin of the roast turkey, I scrape it all off.

Clark buzzes through his speech, making a toast to himself. He is, naturally, still mourning his dear brother’s death. But he must, of course, balance this wisest sorrow with defeated joy in his recent marriage to my mother. The assorted associates of the Denman Teak Company squawk in agreement with their new chairman. Paul Ouyang, Clark’s favourite manager, squawks the loudest. His children sit opposite him—Landon, respectfully observing his father’s clucking, and Ophelia, demure as ever. Clark drones on. The war, Frederick Norbert’s teak lease demands, the war. I puncture a crisp potato. How disjointed and out of frame it all is! I destroy Brussels sprouts. Press down my fork and crush them.

by Stella Liu

Photography

“Mary.” He fixes his cannon on me. “How is it that the clouds still hang on you, among all this Christmas cheer and comfort?”

Black pepper litters my plate like bullets. I sweep my fork across the plate, drawing the specks into a thick rope.

“Of course, the loss of family is always difficult,” he nods, vibrating with understanding. “But family surrounds you still. You are my niece, and now, my daughter. Am I not your kin too?”

“A little more than kin, and less than kind.” I snap my eyes up briefly, meeting his.

He clicks his tongue. “You need not be so stubborn in your obstinate condolement.”

My mother turns to me, tilting my chin up. “Do not forever seek your father in the dust. All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity—you know this.” She brushes invisible dust from the shoulder of my dress. “Come now, cast off this solemn black.”

I shrug her off. “I could wear any colour. No forms, moods, or shows of grief can denote me truly.”

“This is sweet of you, Mary,” Clark declares. “Commendable. But you must know, your father lost a father. And that father lost his. We could never allow ourselves to be weighed down by all these lost fathers. One day,” he says, taking my mother’s hand, “the pain you feel will wash away like rain.”

It’s the air that comes first. June air, warm,

the wet monsoon. Then it’s me, a child. I’m smushing dirt between my toes, dizzy from twirling. I’m staring up into the sky, a world that spins until it rights itself. And then I’m watching the sun vanish behind storm clouds, the sudden plunge into shadow.

My mother is there, tugging me along, before my father scoops me up. We need to hurry, get inside. But that’s not what we do. What we do is stay. We understand each other; we are waiting. And then––Look, Nene––it’s here. Rain, like the flickering of static. My brown hair is inked black, drizzling. Isn’t it beautiful? The outline of my mother’s face, laughing. My father’s eyes. Their hands interlocked.

The soil floods. Holy ground.

“We do beseech you to stay with us for the rest of the holidays, rather than returning to school in Mandalay so soon.” Clark is still speaking, clutching my mother’s hand.

I want to say their rank and gross display disgusts me. I want to say it so they can hear my heart, break. I want to say it just to hear it said.

“Hla Ne Mary.” My mother’s tone is pointed. “Are you not going to respond?”

I feel a sharp, hot flash of anger. “I shall in all my best obey you, Ah May Jhee.” Sarcasm drools onto my plate.

“A loving and fair reply,” my uncle proclaims. His teeth glint in the candlelight. Shadows wash over us, in this part of the room. We blur into the darkness, twisted. The two of us, like monsters.

“I need some fresh air. The air in here is all wrong.” I push my chair back. The chattering room quiets and the assorted associates gawk at me. I hear my mother murmuring excuses as I leave. My mother, who spoke to me—in Burmese and Yunnanese and English—like I 11

understood, when I was so young I couldn’t yet distinguish between them. My mother, who I can no longer understand.

I walk out the door. I want everything to detonate behind me.

The lobby of the Crown Rangoon gleams, soaking in the gold from the drooping chandelier. A banner strung across the wall reads, Wishing you a peaceful Christmas. In a week, it will be replaced by New Year’s Eve decorations to usher in 1941. I imagine partygoers at the wake, dressed as I am, black and glittering. Ma Phae Wah—the yellow ribbon lady, guardian spirit of the graveyards—lays her casket on the hotel steps. Death arrives, well-fed by war. The guest of honour. Lilies and chrysanthemums burst from his hollow mouth. He makes a toast. He wishes us a restful new year, ending with a peaceful Christmas. Wine sloshes over the edge of his glass, leaving bloodstains on the marble.

I read the banner again and I giggle.

Laughter leaks out from the hotel restaurant. It’s the bleating of Paul Ouyang, Clark’s favourite manager. The conversation must have begun again. I think of my mother and him inside. They’re grasping at each other, treacherous. They’re the king and queen of the dinner party, beaming as their courtiers simper over them. They’re—

Footsteps settle softly beside me. I feel my pulse scratching in my ear. This strange effect she always has on me. It makes my skin crawl. I glimpse the pattern of her skirt—flowered, with yellow petals like crosses. I take a peek. It’s a tight fit, clinging to her frame. I look away.

Paul’s bleating pours into the lobby again. “You’d have to kill my father to shut him up,” Ophelia notes mildly.

“Maybe,” I concede. The bleating continues. “Perhaps I’ll kill him myself.”

A smile blooms across her face. I cannot believe she is real. I could step closer, until her hair frames my face and our arms bracket one another, until we’re closer than my next breath. I could do this. I have.

“What polite excuse did you come up with to follow me out here?” I prod, grinning.

Stillness for several heartbeats, before she says, “You do know I can’t be with you anymore.” Ophelia tilts her head back, examining the doomed ceiling, sagging under the chandelier’s weight. Light sinks down and drowns in the deep brown of her eyes. “Your favour is trifling.” She takes on the resolute cadence of her brother. “This is merely sweet, not lasting. It’s time to look forward, find something permanent.”

I press closer. “I thought your father liked being close with the Denmans.”

She steps back. “Not that close.”

“There’s no one here, Ophelia.” My voice is level. I gesture towards the empty lobby, the polished walls. “We’re divided from everyone else. Say what you want.”

She pauses, rueful. “I’m sorry. But my father and brother have both told me not to talk to you.”

“Then don’t.” I’m gone already, across the room, slipping past the Christmas tree and falling out the glass doors into infinite

space—the hotel garden. All I have to do is go in and get her. Make it better. Maybe she’s walking back to the restaurant already, but she’ll turn around. Look at me. Crawl under my skin. I can go back… be there. I almost do.

In the distance, the surface of the Rangoon River glimmers like scales on a nga pat fish. It’s cold enough now that the air has a bite to it. I start towards the river. Away from this hotel, this place. As I smack my feet down the path, small clouds of dust rise up. The smell of germinating seeds creeps in.

I hang my arms over the railing at the end of the garden. I feel chilled, ice in my bones. I envision myself coaxing the gate open, sliding down the riverbank. This too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew, spilling into the water. The blood would dissolve gently into the burning red illumination of the river’s surface. Above the water, golden hour gasps its last breath. In the afterglow, the garden finds its footing on a knife’s edge of darkness, and changes into something sublime.

It is all so stale. Weary and flat. Beauty possesses it merely.

I turn around, leaning against the railings. A figure emerges from the dim fade of the horizon. Henry, Anglo-Burmese as well, like me. Bundled away from St. Swithin’s English School, here at last. The one who knows me most. Give me this boy that is not in passion’s thrall, and I will wear him in my heart’s core. He slots into place beside me, peering through the rails at the river.

“I thought you weren’t attending the dinner,” I remark.

“I’m not.” He faces me, a smile swirling at the corners of his mouth. “Clearly you’re not. We both know I can’t afford to eat here and you don’t want to eat here.”

“No,” I scoff. “Not with those idiots.”

There’s a divinity that shapes the scene. Clarifying and mystifying. We are wrapped in the night, two ghosts, together. Ma Phae Wah could be there with us––long, black hair tangling in the wind, an octopus’ tentacles. The air, like the tang of pine in Maymyo. It’s overwhelming, so clean it cuts my throat as I swallow it. I am drowning, but I can finally breathe. A state of grace. And I know that when the light returns, I’ll be ready for it.

I exhale. “I’m really glad to see you.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, smug. He blinks, glancing around the unweeded garden, and then moves nearer. Quietly, he says, “It’s going to sound mad, Nene, but I think I saw––”

“I saw my father today.” It tumbles out; I need to tell someone.

“Where?” He pulls back, tense, unbalancing me.

I frown. “In my mind’s eye, Henry. I’ve been remembering a lot recently.” He relaxes. I want to ask him what is gnawing at him, but the memory still stings at me, raw and sweet. I’m motionless. I can see it.

Glistening beads of rain levitate. The world rights itself. There we are again.

A large expanse

Of shivering green. Dancing, swaying, leaping; Wildly swinging blades. Sun whispers warmth Into her vivid, beaming rays. Feeding life to the blades of green. Delaying cruel time from running The emerald crystals grey.

A lush, yet barren meadow. A perilous journey without A destination. The hollow shell, without a soul.

Devoid of the gentle movement, Of life.

The rapid stuttering of a heart, The embrace of a wide-lipped smile, Excepting a huddled figure. Sage eyes; a wide vacuum, Drinking in the sights. A lush life to come, A barren shell discarded.

A large expanse

Of shivering green. Solid, packed earth. A chanting slowly accumulates, As it snags on the wind’s subtle pull. To build, to build, to build. A canvas nothing without The kaleidoscope of dense colour Whisked upon it.

The figure unfolds, Steely determination set Into every lithe muscle; Every ebony bone. Strong, quaking steps carry Across the desolate field. To the centre. Where the ground holds strongest. And they begin to build.

A large expanse

TO BUILD LEGACY

by Ishbel

BUILD A LEGACY

Of shivering green. Broken only by what The figure thinks to make. Towers; Skyscrapers; Mammoth walls and Vaulted roofs. Gardens; houses; All built from that huddled form.

The structure yawns up, And up, and up. Vast spaces filled with life. That rapid, stuttering heart.

Naked eye can see

But see not.

For the figure carves the intricate, Picturesque details beyond our general eye. The embrace of a wide-lipped smile. Complete, the figure Settles down. Purpose fulfilled. Like a dormant volcano at last scorching the air.

A large expanse Of shivering green. Now full of life, and life To come.

The dent the figure engraves on this world.

Generations, and generations pass, And shelter within The tedious work of the figure. Their story lives in their hearts

As life drifts down The seas of eternity, It is not where you dock on the shores, It is the route you mark With the frothing wake you leave behind.

And woven between the colossal structures, The green grass still lays. And oh, How the green shivers.

As the soft gentle breeze tickles my skin and the warm rays of sunshine brush across my face, my eyelids rise as though I have been awakened from a state of hibernation. The sound of little footsteps sprinting down the stairs fill my ears whilst notes of elation echo throughout the Temple and bounce from pillar to pillar. Their smiles like beams of light illuminating the darkest corners of the building; students and their teachers sharing the same sparkle of anticipation in their eyes as they anxiously wait for the day to begin. The time has finally arrived! A sense of euphoria conquers my body as I hear the sound “Ding ding, ding ding”, realising that the once empty white building would be filled with exuberance again. Their lives have touched mine with their ability to bring every inch of the world into our community. From the new nervous students walking past me every day, who are oblivious to the adventure that awaits them, to the leavers gathering on the Astro to throw their boaters together in celebration of what they have accomplished here. They have formed the very fabric of my existence as I can remember all of them even though I know some never noticed me. Although my heart sinks at the thought of them departing, I know that everything must come to an end when I’m reminded by the long summer days finishing with a wash of golden hue. It is then, when there’s nothing but deafening silence and I begin to drown in my own thoughts, the walls encircling me softly sing the sweet songs of the school’s choir in reminiscence of the year that has just passed. Slowly lured into a trance-like state, I settle into dormancy once again.

"I sometimes think that people’s hearts are like deep wells. Nobody knows what’s at the bottom. All you can do is imagine by what comes floating to the surface every once in a while."

—

Haruki Murakami (Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman)

Photography by Joy Chen

Turn Back

Turn Back

Tick. Cities exhaling, inhaling smoke.

Tock. Grave dust to ashes to unscorched unsalted earth

Sickness, the crawling of rot, the clawing of corruption, cawing like crows

Shock of stillness, thud of a corpse, thousand two thousand yards, unfocused

Quicker, briefer than breath, snap of a switch, a sharp slice, a single gunshot

Lock and key: munitions, men, and money. Are you helping to turn it?

Kick drum of a pulse, beating back, that rhythmic dream of red

Knocked down, the world shudders, grumbles like boiling water

Flickering flash burn of a new day, decade, century Bedrock of bone and rubble

A glance of relief. Enough.

Supporting commentary

By Alyssa Wong (Harrow Lead Poet)

It is one 11 line stanza to represent how Remembrance Day takes place 11 minutes past 11 on the 11th of the 11th.

This idea of time is the central theme of the poem, as humanity’s history (and present) is plagued by war and conflict. I wanted to establish this through the ‘Tick Tock’ at the start, which then continues as beginning rhyme of ‘ick/ock’ through the rest of the poem, mimicking a clock ticking.

I used beginning rhyme because I wanted to create the effect of moving backwards in time (also implied by the order of ‘exhaling, inhaling’ in the first line). The final line is unrhymed to represent a break from the past cycle of war and the possibility of future peace.

The poem begins in the present day, then moves through the past in a nonlinear fashion, with different sentence fragments lingering on different snapshots of memories. For example, the ‘lock and key’ line references an image of a British WW1 propaganda poster I found, while the ‘flash burn’ line references injuries sustained in the aftermath of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

The title ‘Turn Back’ therefore means to turn back time to remember and thus potentially learn from the past. It also links to the concept of how people have ‘turned their back’ on forgotten and unacknowledged wartime heroes/victims, though in a more positive light it could mean to turn your back on war/violence itself in favour of peace and compassion.

When I am gone by Mr T. Hicks

(June 2019)

When I am gone, you may take these words and know I was there.

Where the track bends, and I’m away from you Where bombs once dropped, and will again. When the ink runs no more from my pen

Know that I wrote these words and was with you. When planes go by, but birds still sing But the colour’s drained from everything. When fat cloudsrain full of thunder falls, When roots are mossed over, When you can hear the gentle crackling of the corn or wheat And sense a butterfly’s wings as they beat Or new-born lambs as they bleat Where nettles guard where two fields meet And a stile serves for a weary seat. When I am gone, I hope you’ll walk And though I can’t, the earth will talk And tell you the secret names of plants and birds Chiming with my words, Rhyming with the time we shared. When I am gone, you may take these words and know I cared.

Photography by Stella Liu

Lost Identity

by June Wang

Trembling fingers, I type into the overly-deceiving Internet

‘Who am I?”

Google spits back wikipedia pages, articles That ring hollow, That hit me

HARD

I try to voice

My charred, raspy, weak words That wither in the loneliness I wrap my hands around my body, Feeling the shattered beats of my heart, Trying hard to give myself comfort But my hands are too short Not l o n g enough To encompass the Questions About Myself.

I wonder about the rambling voices of Inspirational Ted talks That lunge at me from all corners and creases, My own accomplishments subside Weaving into my fear, ‘What will I leave behind?’

The only answer My mind can wring out is ‘Nothing’

In the pearl of the east, Where time will never cease, My inspirations are released, Enjoying learning at ease.

Surrounded by the attractive white, In the embrace of the mountain, we write. The past, the way that could be wrong or right, Will always be the guiding street light.

At the table where everyone learns, Placed the knowledge that all of us earn, The fire we light up will always burn, With kindness and genuineness that all humankind yearns.

In the night before the sun arrives, Reviewing the past from the deep inside. Where have I been and when can I realise, How can I show that my path is not designed?

The shells on the beach, The dreams I did reach, ‘I am myself’ is not just a speech, The colour will never be bleached.

The night is away, It is another whole new day. The light will not only reach in future days, It is always shining like rays.

Photography by Joy Chen

She

By Stephanie Webb

She can’t keep their voices out of her head.

Every night, the same thing happens. She lies flat on her back, face to the ceiling, eyes glazed over. She stares straight ahead into the darkness that surrounds her, the gloom that envelopes her. Every night, in her own room, she is drowned by a sickly pool of dread, a pool of quicksand that slowly drags her deeper and deeper into an unending void of suffering, a pool in which she writhes and squirms, trying desperately to free herself from, and yet pathetically failing. The dread that their voices will return suffocates her. She is trapped. She cannot move. She cannot breathe. She cannot escape. The voices hold her captive.

It’s been this way ever since she was a child. She always knew that there was something different about her. The moment she set foot in any toy shop, she would race all the way to the Barbie dolls section. She could spend all day in front of the rows and rows of plastic boxes, peering wide-eyed into each individual one. She felt a connection to them, always admiring their long luscious hair, those sparkling pink handbags, their elegant high-heeled shoes and their warm, welcoming smiles.

All she wanted was to join them in their boxes, to feel proud alongside them on their pink and purple pedestals. This dream was so close yet so out of reach, for no amount of wanting could ever transport her to the same realm as them. Although the dolls were strapped to the cardboard packaging, she felt that they were the ones who were free instead of her. It seemed like they were the ones looking out at her, observing

her from their compact boxes. And it was through looking into those tiny boxes that she gained a sense of peace, a taste of paradise.

But then the voices would come. As people brushed past her, she was made aware of her surroundings. Sometimes, their voices were not that explicit. People did not need to say anything aloud, but she could already hear what they were thinking. Echoes of their thoughts arrived in the form of inquiring gazes and furrowed brows and disapproving looks. They came up with their own theories, hypotheses, conjectures, in order to explain her behaviour. They thought they were being subtle. She knew all along what they were thinking.

She’s different. Is she just acting out?

Surely, she’s just doing it for attention.

But they did not understand. How could they, after all? They had never been in her position. They had never felt how she felt. What she couldn’t understand was why they tried to play the role of the expert, why they put on the persona of the older, wiser, all-knowing adult who had all the answers. When in reality they did not understand anything.

All they did was suffocate her.

It was normally around then that she would be ushered to another section in the toy store. The one where there were no sparkling accessories nor any pink dresses. The one where there were robots, cars and guns instead.

And that was that. Nothing she could do about it.

As she grew older, she hoped to seek comfort in her fellow classmates, the people who were her own age, who would hopefully be compassionate and offer more support.

Yet, she was treated more and more like an outcast, someone desperately trying to claw her way into their box. She was different and people knew she was different. Different was not considered good. If she tried to be herself, the girls sneered, the boys jeered, their frowns were deeper, their stares lingered and burned holes through her heart. At the beginning, there were only the occasional whispers here and there, but all too soon they grew into insults and mockery that seemed to haunt her wherever she roamed. She would hear them ringing in the hallways as she slunk past, echoing in the school hall during assembly, pulsating in the classrooms where she was surrounded and unable to escape.

Eventually, their voices became shackles that immobilised her. She decided it would be best for them and for herself and for everyone if she were to just slowly fade far, far away into her own secluded universe. She learnt to suppress her feelings and confine them to a microscopic, miniscule cage. She let her universe ebb away, surrendering to the tides of society.

But every night, as she lies down in her bed, as she is engulfed by darkness, the horrifying realisation that she will never be able to escape who she really is slams into her like a brick wall. At the same time, their voices swirl around in her head, forever sticking and staying, like a suffocating layer of thick tar.

The darkness is too much for her.

She sits up in her bed and reaches for the light switch, for a source of comfort. As the lights come on, the mirror taunts her with the image of a stranger. This person has a square jaw with stubble clinging to it. There’s a lump jutting outwards in the middle of their throat. Thick, dense hair sticks out like bristles in every direction on their legs. This person is sitting in the same position as she. This person is in the same

room as she. They have the same pillows, the same bed sheets, the same furniture.

That is not her reflection. No, it isn’t. Surely, it can’t be.

But as tears roll uncontrollably down her cheeks like a chain of broken pearls, the same can be seen for the stranger sitting in front of her. She doubles over, not in physical pain, but an emotional one, a pain that crushes all of the air out of your lungs; a pain that consumes you as it spreads to every fibre of your being. As she falls onto the floor in a heap of exhaustion and weeps in utter disregard, so does the stranger.

She stares at the person sitting across from her, the stranger glares straight back.

This is whom they see, but this is not who she really is.

And all that’s running through her head are their voices.

Why are they like this?

Why can’t they see me for who I really am?

Why don’t they understand me?

Perhaps one day, they will.

But for now, she can’t keep the voices out of her head.

Facade

At school, he lacked presence. Quiet, studious, unremarkable, always in the background. With teachers, he was agreeable and respectful, rarely speaking without being spoken to. With friends, he was a bit more open. A calm in the whirling storm that was his two friends and their unmatched energy, issuing a wisecrack from time to time to rein in their insanity. With his parents, he was courteous, graceful, the gentleman they expected him to be. With his parent’s friends, he was well behaved, obedient and had good grades, the type certain parents would torment their children with comparisons to them for months on end.

But he had a secret.

Kept behind closed doors, locked deep in his heart, behind chains and fences and barbed wire and padlocks, a chamber full of pain and rejection. Locked up memories of yells, scolds, and beatings. His father, furious. His mother, concerned. Pain. Sharp pain stabbing through his heart, stinging pain echoing in his palms, dull pain pulsing in his lungs.

But that wasn’t all.

Buried within the bad memories, a single glimmer. A secret desire. Of dresses and makeup and glitz and glamour. A wish to become the glamorous and beguiling Hollywood stars in his mother’s old movies, if even for a second. A wrong turn.

On the way home from a tutor, his fifth in five days. Down a shady alley, past the leering eyes, an alluring avenue lit by blinding neon signs. Pink and blue and green and so many other colors. Disheveled salarymen, their glasses sliding off their face, reeking of alcohol, briefcases long forgotten in a dimly lit bar with smooth swing jazz and a well toned bartender. Women in revealing cocktail dresses clinging to a blushing university student.

by Eric Lai

This was the underbelly of his town. The red light district full of “thugs, miscreants and alcoholics”. The place his parents vehemently warned him to stay away from.

There, he saw her.

A woman. A woman? She appeared to be a woman, but looking through the window of the dimly lit bar, it was hard to tell. She was wearing a sparkling pink bodysuit with bell sleeves and fringe hanging off her arms. She danced on a small stage in the bar, spinning and flourishing and flaring, like a piece of kelp dancing through the sea. A peacock flaring its plumage, showing itself off in all its turquoise glory. As she danced, she wore a big smile on her face, her forehead glistening with sweat.

She was glamorous.

On his way home, the world was still tinged with toobright neon. As he walked home bathed in the milky light of the street lamps, he pondered.

Can I be like that?

What do I want?

Who am I?

He thought back to his facades. The indifferent silence at school, the well practiced manners at home. Were they him?

Padlocks shook and broke. Barbed wire unravelled and snaked away. Fences sank into the ground with a dull rumble. Chains fell to the ground with dull clangs.

The facades were breaking.

He was coming out.

“As a woman, I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman, my country is the whole world”

-Virginia Woolf

by Manhattan Knight

How Elizabeth Bennet Paved the Way for Future Generations

The character of Elizabeth Bennet from the novel Pride and Prejudice, written by Jane Austen, could be considered to have been revolutionary or certainly ahead of its time. There is a misconception that Jane Austen's novel is only about the pursuit of women trying to find a husband. However, the character of Elizabeth Bennet breaks the mould and adds a modern trait into the novel, and one that adapted the characteristics of female characters for many years thereafter. She refuses to show the desperation of entrapping a man to gain a husband. Admittedly, the novel does focus on women’s quest in finding a perfect husband. Jane Austen attempts to emphasise female empowerment during the 19th century through the iconic character of Elizabth Bennet and the unique traits that are shown through her persona that change the views of many women alive during this time period. Elizabeth's opinionated and ‘headstrong’ nature and unconventional independence challenges the 19th century stereotype of a high-class woman who would have to conform to the expectations of society. This behaviour is shown through the common characteristics and expectations held by Miss Bingley who encompasses the nature of a high society woman of high marriage perspectives. Elizabeth expresses much propriety in the presence of company; she realises the importance of appropriate etiquette, and displays this during her vain attempts to apologise for her mothers’s untamed remarks towards Darcy. She has pride to uphold her family name, though unsuccessful without the assistance of Darcy. She is keen about nature and using her perceptive eye to marvel at its beauty. Her intelligence and fondness for reading means that she is able to “amuse herself with a book”, meaning that she does not get down without the attention of a man and she is happy in her own company.

Elizabeth Bennet's family comes from a comfortable background (with the exception of her mother who was of a lower class). This resulted in them being of upper class society, but not aristocratic. The second of five girls, it was Mrs Bennet’s life duty to have her daughters married to an acceptable man, who would ideally be of higher social standing and wealth. In the 18th century a woman's sole purpose was to make sure that she was to be found by a man who could provide for them or of an upper lifestyle to make sure that they were not considered to be a ‘spinster’. Elizabeth found this idealism (she opposed what society wanted, she did not let a male dominated society tell her how to live and act herself) ridiculous and as a head-strong child into adulthood she did things her own way and had her idealisms on how she wanted women to behave in the company of gentlemen and others. Whilst all other females lead a life to become desired by a man in order to obtain a marriage proposal, Elizabeth's thoughts were far from this. Jane Austen shares the same views as Elizabeth and this is represented in the novel through Lydia accepting the hand of Mr Collins and then leading a miserable life whereas Elizabeth declines many proposals in order to marry for love. This love is simultaneously found with the wealthiest man in the area and the man of the highest society. Jane Austen also declined proposals in her lifetime. The novel shows that you do not need to act irrationally and make hasty judgments in the presence of a gentleman looking for a wife or with connections.

Elizabeth wanted to marry for love rather than status and wealth because she knew that she would never be happy if she was in a loveless marriage, this was shown through the relationship of her parents perfectly portraying what she wanted to escape. So passionate about this that she was prepared to be labelled a ‘spinster’ until she felt that met the right man; to forgo her reputation by declining eligible bachelors (including the offer of Darcy’s hand), and therefore, ignoring the opinion of her mother in the desire to marrying for happiness. This also comes with Elizabeth not judging a man on his appearance and attractiveness, asshe makes decisions about people based on their morals.

To conclude, the characterisation of Elizabeth Bennet is ahead of its time and led to a widespread change in mindset within young females in England. Those that read this novel realised that they did not need a man to be happy and this legacy is still in place in today's society. The definition of legacy is ‘something that is a part of your history or that remains from an earlier time’ and the character of Elizabeth Bennet encompasses this. Her character is also able to recognise her faults and mistakes and therefore, tries to correct them or learn from them rather than act in denial, as so many women of this time did. The novel's underlying message is that women should stand up for what they want and act the way that they wish to rather than how society wants women to act in order to seem attractive to a man.

Grandpa

Dear Grandpa,

How are you?

I’m ... good.

Dad and I miss you lots. I cry sometimes, Dad does too. He tells me to be strong but sometimes it is too hard.

Dad tells me stories. Of how you were a man.

by Thomas Gall

How you were tough, strong, and independent when times were bad. I hope to live up to be half the man that you were. But I am none of those things.

Dad tells me that it is okay to be yourself, to love yourself. So I would like to make a deal with you and all my ancestors, to make sure that I will be a man and be everything that you were and more.

Seeing litter on pavements – after Larkin

by Mr T. Hicks

Seeing litter on platforms, roadsides, under benches and by bins, I think of people’s fingers who have touched the thingsGreasy, chipped, dirty nails digging for the last Cheese and onion. False, scarlet-tipped, corporate hand clasped Around a corrugated coffee cup. Mittened fingers on a can of coke

5 And yellowing cuticles sweet with smell of smoke.

Somewhere else, someone else’s hands slowly toiled for somewhat less. Worked amongst detritus, filth, industrial mess; Groped in the ill-lit concrete rooms of foreign lands

To put the disposable matter in our tawdry hands.

10 Cracked and brown impoverished digits pulled levers, turned the many Handles of machines for just one extra, grateful penny.

by Joy Chen

Photography

From the old to new, Nothing really stays the same, But the traditions that we created, Those are never to be changed.

The culture nonetheless will stay in our hearts, A simple “here ma’am!”, And a tip of a hat, Many years of history sitting right in our palm.

As we cherish these memories, For decades to come. The next generations, No clue as to what they’ll become.

As they look at their reflection, They have questions to be answered, Yet we know in our hearts, The things they have aren’t just standard.

The old wood that formed strong foundations, Memories trapped in tall white structures. The past is so far yet so easy to see, Words from old generations,

Memories live cherished in our thoughts, Memories from the past, Present, Are vast.

We think to ourselves that these details are nothing,

From the Old to the New

by Anya Gidumal and Ava Peck

But when we look upon them; We realise they’re everything. As we think deeply we will cherish them again.

The lit candelabras , With their dim, flickering glow, We think of them as objects , But in our hearts we know-

We know that someday, Our lives may be history, But in the ever so far future, We will cherish our story.

We may ponder upon our future, And though may never find answer in text, We still are never to forget, The legacy to create determines what you do next.

All That You Are

It’s funny, how we perceive ourselves, How others perceive us.

To the first time they talk to us,

by Thumbiko Mtonga

The opinions a person can make from the first time they look at us

By the way we hold ourselves with a sort of laid back confidence, The way in which we stand Talk Laugh.

To the way we furrow our brows when something perplexes us

The way we slouch our backs as we lean further and further into our chair,

Or the way we

Clamp our jaws as we chew,

Forcing food down our throats-

What they can never see.

Though, Is your first breath

Your first kiss.

The first graze of the knee

That first dance.

Your first love.

What they can never see is who you truly are;

All that you are.

As you stand there,

All that is you screams out

In an incessant choir, In an uproar of noise, Screeching

At whoever casts their glance in your direction.

All that is you yearns:

To be listened to, To be seen, To be heard.

But the funny thing is, However hard

However persistently they struggle to one day be discovered

No matter how violently they fight, It never comes to fruition.

All that is you is forced to sit there. Despondent. Never to be seen,

by Stella Liu

Photography

The Things I Plan to Be by

Grace Rompotis

When I am gone, no more to see What things will shape my legacy

Will my job define my time on Earth Will my successes determine what I’m worth

Will material things fill every shelf Will money be my only wealth

Will power used to self promote Be the sea upon which my dreams shall float

No.

I will not seek fortune and fame I don’t need this to make my name

I’ll raise my voice for those in need I’ll turn my back on human greed

I’ll give support to all who ask Not trample those who cross my path

I’ll listen when others want to speak Not shut them down and call them weak

I’ll offer an ear and lend a hand Be someone upon whom they can depend

I’ll be honest and true and dignified I’ll keep my morals close by my side

These are the things I plan to be This shall be my legacy

How I Want to be Remembered

by Emma Chua

When my heart gives its last squeeze, when my chest heaves for its last breath, when I embrace the world for the last time, this is how I want you to remember me.

When you think of me, I want you to think of a girl who isn’t afraid to laugh until her whole body trembles, until tears gush out from her eyes uncontrollably, until her lungs struggle to suck in every new breath, and her feet whizz in different directions as she spins around, dancing with the surge of happiness gifted by her friends – totally and utterly drunk with euphoria.

When you close your eyes and picture me, I want you to picture a girl who would envelop you in a massive embrace if you were fighting hard to hide your tears. If you were down she would rack her brain for solutions, give you another perspective and reassure you that you did your best and that she was, and always will be proud of you.

When you try to describe me, I don’t want you to describe me as “smart”. “Smart” undermines the countless times I’ve recited Spanish conjugations to myself, trying to drum them into my brain; the hours I’ve spent hunching over my computer, biting my pen, trying to plan essays; the amount of times I almost crashed into a state of nihilism and was on the very verge of giving up, but didn’t.

I want to be remembered as someone who cared: someone who cared for her family and constantly tried to show her gratitude to her wonderful parents who showered her with love and affection, and who taught her invaluable lessons. They taught her that she had to be humble and hardworking, that she had to know her own self-worth and in order to help others to recognise theirs, she must always strive to be kind, but also recognise when that kindness isn’t reciprocated. They taught her to always search high and low for the silver lining and that life is what you make of it.

I want to be remembered as someone who loved: someone who loved reading about philosophical situations, situations that sparked her curiosity and left her hungry for more; someone who loved getting her energy out in boxing, who loved the rush of adrenaline it gave her even as she panted and her muscles groaned in exhaustion; someone who was fascinated by building, who loved seeing her hours of hard work displayed in front of her in the form of detailed wooden models.

I want to be remembered as someone who tried: someone who tried to improve. She knew she wasn’t perfect – far from it in fact. She snapped at those who cared deeply for her; she let her mood swings overwhelm her rationality; she made promises she couldn’t keep; she was stubborn at times. But she was constantly trying to improve and blossom and progress: one step at a time.

When blood no longer courses through my veins, when my chest softly collapses and releases its last shattered breath, when I fall back into the embrace of mother nature, I hope you’ll remember me as “trying”.

Photography by Stella Liu

Swiss Cheese Rolls and Involution

by Dora Gan

This is an edited version of the speech that Dora Gan made for TEDxHarrow 2022, touching on struggles that many youths nowadays face, such as peer pressure and mental health.

Summary:

Our generation is constantly at competition with each other, even if it is subconsciously. We all want to win but for some to win, some have to lose, and none of us want to be losers. To prevent wearing the self proclaimed scarlet letter of failure, we want to do as much as we can to gain an advantage over others. This has become so radical that there is even a new word for it “involution” and it harms peoples’ health -- mentally and physically. In a school full of overachievers, this talk, touching upon mental health, is about how you can come to terms with yourself and learn to be proud of your achievements.

Everyone is stressed. You, me, Bob the builder, we’re all concerned about something that is going to happen.

Looking at students in particular, we all have this pressure to excel to the best of our abilities, to go to a university and get a good job. But the world is selective, and only the best of the best of the best get to make it to these “top” universities. So, in a sense, we’re all at competition with each other, hoping not to fall under the “out” category in the race. While this may be good in a sense that it is pushing us to be the best version of ourselves, there is also a negative side, when we all get so caught up in competition that we forget ourselves.

In Chinese, this brainless competition is called Nei Juan, or involution. According to the Urban Dictionary, involution refers to “a spiralling decay of mental wellbeing. Especially in modern day China, it refers to a feeling of hopelessness, pointlessness, and dread created by an oppressively competitive and overworked society with strict expectations.” While this word mostly describes the social phenomenon in China, it applies to other countries as well. In Chinese, involution is made up of the characters of “inside” and “rolling”, so literally, like rolling inwards. You can imagine it like a swiss cheese roll. Just as a Swiss cheese roll folds inwards, humans squirm inside when we think about competition and the pressure it puts on us to work harder and harder to win. According to Chinese anthropologist Xiang Biao, this is an “endless cycle of self flagellation” or the “experience of being locked in competition that one ultimately knows is meaningless”.

Photography by Stella Liu

Let me give you an example. Lets say your teacher told you to write a 100 word short answer. Bob wants to leave a good impression and may end up writing 150, and another person who hates Bob ends up writing 200 to beat him. And this keeps going until all the answers are two pages long. This is Nei Juan，this is involution or, as I like to call it: the brainless competition.

Somehow, we stopped viewing life as a chance to become the best version of ourselves but instead started viewing it as a competition.

And that’s the most ridiculous feeling in the whole world. We’re all travelling at our own pace, we’re all unique. You know, kind of like a snowflake, or whatever they tell you in lower school nowadays. Just because it’s cheesy doesn't mean it isn’t true. I made an assumption at the start of my speech that all a student wants to do is to go to a good university and get a good job. But that’s not true. Maybe that is someone’s goal, but it is not everyone’s goal. Someone might want to become a doctor, someone may want to become a Youtuber. And that’s not to say one is easier, and the other is harder, the paths are simply just different. We’ll all get there in the end.

It might be easier to picture it this way. California is three hours behind New York, but that doesn’t mean everyone in California is slower. We are each in our own time zone, doing our own thing, and in the end, we will reach our goals. We don’t have to compare ourselves to anyone else. Like Australia. They have Christmas in the summer, but it still works out well right?

Your life is your life: it is not about others, it is about you, your mindset and how you feel with where you’re at.

In order to reverse one's ‘involution’, we need to forgive ourselves, allow ourselves breaks, and have a mindset where people are seen as friends and collaborators other than partners.

I know it’s easier said than done right, it’s not like there’s a switch in my brain that can turn my competitiveness and my anxiety on and off. Something I usually do to adopt this mindset is when I am in the face of competition, I ask myself whether I would really be happy doing the extra work, and whether I will be pleased with the end product.

Take this for instance. Your friend just won an international music competition and you think that would help them a lot for getting into college. Now, an involuted person would frantically practise the violin to beat their friend. Here, you have to ask yourself, is music really my path? Your friend might be good at music, but there may be other things that you are much better at. So my advice would be to just congratulate them, and focus on what you truly want instead of what you want to gain over others.

Another way to reject involution is to realise how it is inherently illogical. If you roll inwards and life becomes a huge competition, where is the finish line? Are you just going to keep going in circles? Life can’t be a competition, and as Bao said, involution is “meaningless”. Let’s stop focusing on it; we might as well just eat the cheese roll.

So stop worrying about whether you’re falling behind, because you’re not. Stop trying to compete with others, because life isn’t about competition and involution.

Photography by Joy Chen

Who Am I?

by Katy Shiu

The thief stole ‘me’

Who am I in this world?

I have no identity. The thief has stolen me.

My eyes welled up with frustration. Who am I in this world?

Useless? Pointless?

Just a dying shell? Who am I?

Who am I?

Just a dying shell?

There is a hungry gleam in my eyes, ravenous for every morsel of life.

And now its all black, In the blackness, I could see myself being loved.

Someone whose soul is a beacon to those seeking safe harbours.

In the blackness, my heart is free. It's letting my beauty radiate from within.

The blackness is now gone, I see the sun yawn.

Slowly flooding the path before me with light, The rays are faint. Here it reveals the palette of greens, dancing in the lightThe bounty of grass

The blackness is now gone, I see a white crescent-shaped school, Humongous and extravagant . Where students grew stronger and the golden age began.

The rise of something new, The days of the rise of life

And the blackness is gone, I see myself.

Holding a straw hat right within my palms.

And the blackness is gone, I found myself.

Harrow Hong Kong is where my soul lays, Harrow Hong Kong is where I can shine. Here I found ‘me’.

I know who i am in this world, I have an identity, I got myself back. And now forever lay my soul Deep inside the palms of this school And now, forever i will Have my legacy, identity.

Stay here forever with me.

AN END TO THE DARKNESS

by Benjamin Qin

The ink carrying me seemed especially cold today.

Little by little, it slithered in cunningly1. It felt strange, like the feeble pierce of an Autumn gale. Staying silent, it moved calmly. I thought it was nothing but I was wrong. Now, its thorns were blossoming into adamant daggers.

It was overwhelming, enveloping me like an impervious husk: unbreakable, unstoppable, unafraid. It was the Darkness.2

I was lost, as I desperately searched for something when there was nothing.

I felt memories of my past crescendoing, but in reality, it was just a faint diminuendo, gradually fading away into the dingy fire of disconsolateness. I thought I remembered who I used to be, but it was all gone now. I have crossed seas, left cities, ventured through forests, followed to the sources of rivers, and where has that led me? To the Darkness.

The Self never existed: I have no identity.

The pallid faces of the clouds above me swirled in angst as they came to the same realisation. Even the quiet chirps of the birds seemed like an iridescent sheen of blood.

1Reference to Sartre’s Nausea, which conveys similar ideas to the ones in this essay.

2Reference to Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, because the section explores an approach to the unsettled nature of the “Darkness” (which is quite open to interpretation).

I was another man ten years ago, I am a different man now, and I will become a man ten years later. The tumultuous tides of experience have polished me clean of all the temporary drops I have drunk. All the drops of delight, and all the drops of meaning I thought I loved.

As a Dark line, endlessly simple, yet endlessly complex in the concept of my perceived simplicity; I wandered into the City of Words, hooded in a thick veil of non-existence. I used to be a line like everyone else, but now, I have darkened into something bolder, bold enough to come to that realisation.

“ID please,” the customs official said.

“I don’t have mine, and I never had,” I stated.

“I understand, you may proceed,” he replied.

I have changed over time, how can I be the same as I in-itself?

As I entered the City, the side of my eye caught the silhouette of Time.

Time frowned and plodded towards me.

“I have changed you, yet I remain unchanged,” Time said.

“If you never existed, neither did my identities; I was never the same, always endlessly different, yet endlessly identical in the concept of the perceived difference,” I said.

Walking further into the City, I heard a symphonic sight I’d never seen before.

The atmosphere had the sour tang of wild humans trying to communicate, each with the delusion of their perceived “personalities”. What fools they were, believing they had a constantly unchanged Self within them!

Then, one of the humans toppled over like a domino, dead. The same blood of meaninglessness trickled from his forehead as he groaned in excruciating pain.

The murderer stepped from the shadows and bellowed: “He will be remembered for his lively persona, and for the numerous sins he committed as well! It has now been avenged.”

And that was when I knew.

The man’s legacy was defined through his actions. Even from the grave, he must take responsibility for all his empirical acts. In the end, he did have a Self.

It was not predetermined, yet he defined it himself, through his experience, through his perception, through his thoughts. One’s legacy is determined by their actions, and so is the Self. There is no transcendental ego that exists beyond experience. In the end, there is only an empirical Self and there is only experience and there is only life and there is only the delight accumulated through life!

The Darkness lightened, the nights became white, and the shadows became radiant reflections. Before I perished, I had to establish a legacy for myself, one defined through knowledge.

I hurtled through the City like a freed convict (though I was always free) towards the City gates. All convicts are free in their own right: when imprisoned in prison, you have the freedom to appreciate the prison environment and when imprisoned in society, you have the freedom to appreciate the societal environment and when imprisoned in oneself, you have the freedom to appreciate the inner environment. And then, I encountered the same customs official.

“Sir, I have my ID now,” I stated.

“I do not remember you,” he answered in a solemn tone.

“There was no need for you to do so, as I was constructed from erased memories,” I said.

“However, I now do have my ID,” I continued.

“Please hand it to me,” he said.

I visualized myself with lilies over my head, resting underneath the verdant countryside. On my gravestone, it was engraved : ‘a figure who obeyed his will.’

I blew my thought to the official, and so he nodded.

Returning to the unquiet Darkness2, I ignited a bright flambeau. The lambent Light devoured and mantled the Darkness within itself like the wings of a great phoenix without glory. A polychromatic silence settled and it was all calm. I have returned, ready to create a legacy for myself, an empirical Self.

Within the Light, I explored the great depths of the oceans to the great heights of the mountains. Within the Light, I met other lines and we bonded to form meaning from meaninglessness. Within the Light, I found the hues of evil to be dark, but still retaining colour.

I had no Self, yet I had defined my own.

“He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.”

-

Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

In the ashen districts where tortured walls were left to wrinkle, Where the brick pavements paled against the pained breath of the wild, A lone red balloon gently swayed along to the mist’s soft lullaby, Before the sharp gaze of a little girl who had tuned in from afar.

As the blue voice continued humming a subdued melody for the attentive, Kaleidoscopic murals sprayed outwards like a swirling disco ball, Guiding the girl’s tiny hand to reach out towards its iridescent shell, towards the source where the glimmering sparks forever dwells.

In the sequestered sanctuaries where shadows sought refuge, Where the patrol of monstrous slabs gave shelter to mighty hells, A little girl who yearnfully craved to soar beyond the edge of dawn Became graced upon by a close-knit exodus of red balloons.

With her smooth hands clutching tightly onto its hordes of taut string, She steadily rose above the congregation of swirling twisted steel Meeting the open fields of nourishing breezes and rekindled flames, Taking solace in her safe passage into the celestial canyon.

In Calamity’s lodgings where blackened beasts tracked blood upon scorched earth, Where soiled screeches shattered the skies to bursting applause from popping blazed hues, Blossoms of kindred spirits became harvested under cascading waterfalls of rubble While the crisp breeze feasted upon tangerine fumes emanating from the lushious civil chaos.

As the fleet of balloons glided down upon the jagged marshlands, With each clasping palm igniting the plethora of distant luminous stars, Sprouted floating hills and valleys of glowing lanterns akin to ornamented christmas trees, With the enchanted aura of each bauble further illuminating the bright cheers of awe and wonder.

In the Elysian gardens where thoughts and hopes lie enshrined, where lost souls bathe themselves in the pearlescent glows of Arcadian hot springs, Encircled by blooming ethereal constructs handcrafted by the grace of astral beings, Herein lies the company of a little girl and her red balloon on display.

Where the eyes sore at the divine presence of seraphic, timeless artistry Scorched into the hearts and memories of those who bear witness, The ribbon strips spin perpetually along the invisible ether for all to behold, For which the glimmering sparks can never be shredded altogether.

“They say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.”

- Banksy

A New Legacy

by Hugo Hellen

I’d always wondered who I was, and finally I understood.

Whenever a scared cat is stuck helpless in a tree, whenever a poor homeless man begs desperately for money; whenever an old lady needs help to cross the road, I turn my back and ignore them.

Whether it’s the chance to end world hunger, whether it's fulfilling the last wish of a chronically ill person, if there were a single action to protect the entirety of humanity and the entire universe was relying on me to do it, I would refuse.

I won’t refuse just because I want to; it is more of a compulsion, the feeling that it’s something I am meant to do. It’s this wave of adrenaline and excitement, a slight glimpse of mystery rushing through the blood vessels into your soul - it’s fascinating.

I am cruel, I am mean: I am Alister.

My day begins with the alarm rudely invading my nightmares and destroying what remains of peace in my room with its discordant chimes, followed by my skin being met with an infuriating splash of water from the broken air conditioner and then finally, with the sight of the sun illuminating the morning sky. I woke up on Tuesday the 7th of January, and I was furious.

I decided to show up to school at around 9:45 because that was when History started. I’d do anything to escape the bloodbath of Mr Tsarina’s quarters. He speaks each bitter word with spit spraying from his crushing fangs, giving off a slow slithery hiss with each close. Although every teacher I’ve had has treated me horribly, Mr Tsarina is exceptional at this. I sit on the floor when the class gets chairs, I am the last to get fed when everybody is full. I am segregated from the others like an uncontrollable animal caged from society. Today however, I stroll into his class as if gold mines are drilling in my garden and I have diamond rings wrapped around my fingers. I am instantly uplifted at the sight of his defenceless weak appearance. Today is the day that I end my suffering and I am delighted.

His cruel insults die out before penetrating my skin, decelerating as they struggle through the air. Throughout the whole lesson he continues to fire insults in my direction, not knowing that today, my mind is bulletproof. He tries pushing me down to the ground despite my immense strength. He, as he does every other day, uses every possible opportunity and every given chance to dehumanise, to degrade and to disgrace me not knowing that I am now completely immune.

I wait for the chimes to ring at the end of the lesson and watch the flock of students escape out of the classroom. I sit back, not moving a muscle, not moving at all.

“Get out Alistar.”

I smirk.

“I said leave the classroom.”

I slowly get up, extending the bend at my knees and pushing through the soles of my feet. With each stride I take I get closer, closer, closer. His rage visibly burning, the steam rushing out of his head suddenly condenses to the sight of the knife squeezed in my right hand. The closer I get, the more his presence dies. Lower, lower, lower. The wave. The wave of adrenaline and excitement rushes through my blood vessels again, storming through each cell and particle, shining through my body. The joy I experience at sight of the fear and horror building up in his eyes makes me feel bigger than the universe itself. For at this moment, nothing can beat me: no words or kindness can protect him, no action nor situation can prevent him from his inevitable doom

I lift my right hand up, a perpendicular angle to his upper right chest. My thumbs grip tighter, stronger. I stare deep into the trauma swirling in his mind, smiling stretching from the South to the North Pole. I jerk my elbow forward, the knife tears open his innocent skin, crushing through his defenceless rib cage and stabbing a hole straight into his heart. His eyes roll back. His body leans forward. His heart lies silent. Today is the day I killed Mr Tsarina; today I am ecstatic.

Behind all my anger, I always liked to think that there was a kind, normal person. I liked to believe that all my cruelty was simply just a label that I was given when I was younger. I hoped that everybody thought the same, that everybody behaved the same, yet the more that I live the more I realise nobody is. Nobody felt the way I did. I had pushed the knife into his chest with such ease and simplicity, carving out and revealing the answers all at once.

I glance at the sight of his dead, jammed corpse lying lifeless on the floor, blood splashed and sprinkled on the white walls behind him. I grin. I can finally understand who I am now. I am cruel. I am mean.

I am a killer.

little ghost

by Joy Chen

there is an old man who drags his lute up to the mountain, sits under the temple roof and plays his heart out: strained chords, from the cataclysmic meeting of his fingers and string as we walk past and wince.

his lashes settle, basking in nostalgic memories of young love, real love, before reaching eighteen. locked in a dark room for months on end because he wanted to teach children to read and now that dark room, pain-stained, convulsing and empty, and silent, settles deep inside of him — a nauseating chasm of lost potential and too much time spent alone.

for in there, he dreamt of his children dying, again and again, wishing the world would stop expanding; implode, so at least his wife, love of his life, could stay a bit closer to him. in the blazing nights he saw her translucent and wonderful in his star-bathed, bleary gaze, smiled contentedly, little ghost, slept and stayed like that for days. in the end, it is man’s own self delusion that drives him to keep living — delusions of grandeur, and the future, and we’re going to be so happy! we’re going to be so free! the real world’s a fright, but you’re still here right next to me, sweat-sticky and alive.

he may have clung on to the edge of this existence, a basement room, mould scratched world noiseless and death-waiting, for one entire year but look at him now! on top of the world and singing his heart out, voice tremulous in the wind and warmth suffusing rosy wrinkled cheeks — a god.

"Is it true that human beings are fundamentally cruel? Is the experience of cruelty the only thing we share as a species?

Is the dignity that we cling to nothing but self-delusion, masking from ourselves the single truth: that each one of us is capable of being reduced to an insect, a ravening beast, a lump of meat?

— Han Kang (Human Acts)

A Small Little Gift

by Alicia Wan

Takara huddled beside her sleeping Grandma with a warm glass of hot chocolate. Shewas seated on a wheelchair near the fireplace. Winter was awfully cold this season in the snowy places of Japan, just like every winter night so far.

The girl’s eyes traced to the snowflakes that fluttered and fell outside the glass door that connected to their small garden. The sun had just started to set behind Tiangou mountain. Slowly but surely, the sky faded from pale blue to a mixture of a beautiful auburn pink, royal blue, and daffodil yellow, sprinkled with a few hints of lavender purple.

Takara sighed at the alluring view. If only Mama and Papa were here to see this.The girl was alone with her Sobo, which was Grandmother in japanese, since her mother had gone out to work, like every other day, only to return at midnight, ever since Takara’s papa had passed. Takara only wished that her mother would have time to huddle close to the fireplace, to enjoy a cup of warm marshmallow hot chocolate, instead of burning her soul and spirit outside in a busy and cramped office.

“... Takara …” Grandma suddenly whispered, as she patted her on the shoulder.

“Yes, Sobo Hoshika?”

“... can you please push me to see the stars outside?” The elderly woman smiled softly.

Takara nodded, placing her hot chocolate aside and grabbing the wheel-chair handles, pushing her to the deck that connected to their snow-filled garden, just as the clouds had started to flutter off, giving way to the beautiful stars of Otaru. It has been a while since the sky cleared up, especially from the recent snowstorms. Even from afar and with the small city lights, Takara could spot the Big Dipper and Ursa Minor.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her Grandmother.

“... Takara… do you remember what I said to you, a year … from today?”

“I do, sobo.”

“Now now my little treasure…” Takara’s grandmother said, as she brushed a pint of hair away from her granddaughter’s face, as both of them stared at the puffy clouds covering the sky. “The gods from above have given a very special gift to the Okuri family… but… you will have to find that gift yourself, for it is showing them your worthiness. Perhaps that day will come when all these skies clear.”

Takara bit her lip. Her Sobo was coming up with fantasy again. “Sobo… what do you mean?” She asked, but Sobo shook her head.

“It will be at first. It always will be. Who knows, you might get a guide one day, from your dreams. It is real.”

“Tonight is the night, Takara… I can feel it…” She muttered, as she closed her eyes to feel the snowflakes land freely on her wrinkled but heart-warming face.

Takara shook her head slightly. Till this day, Takara Okuri had never understood what her grandmother had been so sure about, apart from knowing that it had something to do with God’s ‘gift’ for her and her family. She had been told countless stories about the good things these ‘gifts’ had performed, such as her descendants harvesting fruit with the perfect sweetness to juice ratio.

“... Takara, you still don’t believe me, do you?” Sobo whispered after a while of pure silence.

The girl hesitated, then shook her head.

Her grandmother smiled faintly again. “Tonight is the night.”

It was late eleven o’ clock by the time that Takara’s grandmother had been put to sleep by the child. Both of them had stayed outside for a chilling forty five minutes, but no matter how cold it got for Grandma she still wouldn’t budge. Takara had to go back and forth to grab scarfs, sweaters, and gloves for her thanks to her stubbornness.

Takara settled herself by the fireplace, tucking herself in a relaxed position as she laid down on the blackfeathered rug and stared at the flames that flickered and burnt the wood. The more she stared at the flames, the more her eyelids got heavier, it was then she finally relaxed them and drifted away, off to sleep, not realising that sobo was in fact, indeed, right all along. -

“Twinkle twinkle little star… how I wonder what you are… up above in a world so high…” The sound of a young child singing was one of the first things that she came awake to. Takara found herself lying on a patch of grass, opening her eyes to a starry night sky. There was no sign of the cottage wooden houses, or the brightly lit streets of Otaru, nor was there the big and mighty Tiangou mountain that used to sit nearby.

It was so awfully quiet, yet so blindingly heavenly at the same time.

Takara knew that she was supposed to be scared, scared of being alone, in the middle of nowhere, but the feeling of being lost was completely covered by what she was experiencing. She hadn’t had the slightest idea if this was a dream or not.

As she continued to stargaze, there was a sudden flash of light that zipped through the sky.

Swoosh. Maybe it was her eyes that were tricking her.

But then came another flash. Then another, then another… it was a comet shower.

Takara gasped in awe, her hand trailing up to cover her mouth, a smile spreading wide across her face. Come to think of it, it has been a while since she was able to see comets. They rarely came around Otaru at this time of the year.

Suddenly, one of the comets broke free from their tracks, and came rushing down to the girl. Takara sat there, confused as to why it did. Although she knew that she should run, something about this just seemed all a bit too unreal.. perhaps she was dreaming. Opening her hands wide to let the comet land on her palms, it slowly faded away, revealing an opulent navy box that glimmered like the stars, somewhat similar to the luxury jewellery brands.

Her hands shook. She never touched something so rich and exquisite. She probably should open it.

Slowly removing the cover, she found a silver ring with the sign of a strange but colourful zig zag of different colours embarked on the centre. What it was supposed to mean, she didn’t care, because she was too shocked and surprised. She slid it onto her index finger carefully prior to putting the box on the ground.

And then she heard the tune again.

“Likeadiamondinthesky… … twinkle twinkle little star…. …howIwonderwhatyouare..”

Takara opened her eyes, and found herself back in the house. The fireplace had already died out into ashes, and the only sound beside silence was the ticking of the grandfather clock. She looked behind her, and saw that Grandmother was still sleeping peacefully.

So it had been a dream all along.

Even if a pang of disappointment did hit her, Takara shook her head. At least it did hold a memory slot in her mind.

As Takara got up from the ground, a cold pain shot up her leg from her foot. …huh?

She rubbed her eyes, and there was the ring. The same ring from her dream.

Maybe what Sobo said was true.

Written and Illustrated by Sharon Lam

“Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.”

- Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

Another Year

by Paris Wang

Another year, another experience of life at its fullest, The sun is rising up and over the horizon. The grand, majestic, white castle sit atop the hills, Preparing for chaos, screams of happiness from children. Slowly but surely, the first day creeps by, Dragging me along, barely hanging on. But before I know it

A week has passed, leaving me to prepare for the next. Travelling through the years All I hope for is to leave my footprints behind

As a reminder of my shadow And my experiences here. I will never forget them, The unique events, the one of a kind connections And the friends

That I have made for life.

With each year, a new goal comes attached, With the pressure of always achieving the best, But year after year, The competition gets stronger. The older you get, The more you lose

Your sense of identity

Dazed and confused

You blindly follow the path lit for you And find yourself, coming out triumphant.

For all your hardships, A reward awaits you, For you to finish your journey here.

For My

This is for my motherland

Who has pushed me to admire and stand,

The towering skyscrapers that encircle her city

And the market streets that are ever so pretty

Whether it’s a cold winter’s day or a warm breezy May,

A subtle sweep adds to my world everyday

From mortifying phenomenons to acts of kindness

She’s our treasured home, our one remarkable witness

Something we both feel and understand

Me and my motherland

This is for my school

Who has taught and shown

Guiding me through years of education

by Shannon So

It stands proud and straight, with dignified sophistication

White walls adorned with a vibrant colour

The community I belong to is really spectacular

From Robert Peel to Winston Churchill

Who else was nurtured by Harrow on the Hill

School life consists of ups and downs

And it’s never easy to get around

But at the end of the day, it’s always

Me and my school

This is for my friends and family,

Who have encouraged and motivated

Standing by my saide

On days when I am on cloud nine

On days where I drown in my cesspool of mind

No one can resist your infectious laughter

Not even in the harsh times of corona

For you are the person who came as an unwelcome face

And you are the person whom I now embrace

Thank you for keeping me in my sanity

And creating my identity

Me, my friends and family

O N C E O N C E

by Luna Huang

Once On Harrow’s hill

820 little boys, young and innocent Were stripped of their childhood years, stolen of their youth.

Once,

820 little boys

Marched into the war of cold revenge, Their legacies dying and guns screaming.

Once,

410 devoted soldiers

Laid their dreams aside And would only dream those dreams again, after the war

Once,

205 grown men

Realised that in order to win the war They would have to return with new dreams.

Once, On Harrow’s Hill

An ancient elderly Saw the bluebirds fly And wept in the poppy fields, For they were so charming, until the sun shrivelled them away

Once,

A little boy was told That war was not a game, That You can never wake up from it, because it isn’t a dream.

by Joy Chen

Photography

Remembering

By Warren Zhu

“Mnemosyne is the mother of all the muses,” they say. Indeed, The Academy taught that all knowledge is remembrance. Under the sun, all things past and all things return.

But I don’t like to remember. It brings nothing but pain. What sweetness it bestows is lost more in yearning. I was happy. Yes. Isn’t it nice that it is no more? I was sad. Yes. How wonderful is it that it shall be again? Restlessly I want to hide myself in the past through remembering, only to be borne ceaselessly back into the future. Terrified, I want to turn towards what is to come, only to be plagued by the spectre of what had been. Nostalgia, that eddy of impossibility, speaks of the infinitude of finitude, the being of becoming. No, I don’t like to remember.

To remember is to change, to destroy, to obliterate. It is a stream that rushes everything away, that drowns all liveliness into a night where all cows are black. Mnemosyne’s temple is fragile, wearing away with every visit. The more I try to remember, the more the memories twist. They fade less than disappear. Replaced in time by time. The more vivid and familiar the memory is, the more it is hallowed, replaced through my presence. Was this it? Or is this just fantasy, Imagination’s trick? I can delude myself, of course. But to do so is to, still, at some level, helplessly know. Memory is nothing but a string of falsehoods appended to an original trace of sense. Mnemosyne never is – she was – one of the many things I remember. In my temple, I am the only muse, and the mother of myself. In this temple of mirrors, I reach out into myself.

Thus, there is no past. I am the architect of history, blessing events, retroactively, meaning. I never recollect, but reconstruct. And in my reconstruction, I destroy what was for what will become. I can have no past outside me. No future beyond. I smother all possibility for an ephemeral actuality. An is that was and will be folding upon itself.

Q: How do I know that my past exists?

A: Because I am remembering it.

Q: How about when I am not remembering?

Q: What becomes of my past?

Q: What if I forget about it?

Q: What if I forget that I was?

A: Then I am not.

I am always catching up with myself to make me be. Narcissus, I understand you. We’re only our memory.

by Stella Liu

Photography

untitled.

It had been passed on from grandfather to grandson for generations and now it was my turn. My father strode into the room, walking gingerly towards me, the delicate small box in his palm. My eyes widened as the true importance of this legacy from centuries of tradition enveloped me.

by Kathryn Chan

The entire box was carved out of gold, engraved with intricate designs of mythical beasts and symbols from ancient tales. The gold was polished and gleamed under the gentle rays of the sun shining in the room, reflecting all that was around it on its flawless surface. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds… all kinds of precious jewels were embedded into the rim of the box, a vibrant array of colours which glimmered like stars in the night sky. A golden dragon coiled up around the silver lock, its ruby eyes penetrating into mine, radiating a sense of veneration and fierceness that demanded respect and admiration. If it wasn’t for the tiny crest identifying my family lineage scrawled under the lock of the box, I never would have known that it had been completely handmade by my ancestors. Tentatively opening the box and lifting the dragon’s tail clip, a golden coin lay on a cushion of thick purple velvet. I leant forward and whilst taking it out, realised there were several lines of old script written around the edge.

This heritage is your legacy Make of it what you will Your ancestors are looking on

What did it mean? I turned to my father but he had left the room. This heritage? My legacy? It made no sense. Later that evening I asked my father the same questions. As he stood on our terrace looking out over the green pastures surrounding our home, he told me that every second son for generations gone by had received the coin and with the knowledge it gave, had left something beneficial for mankind behind as their legacy. Now it was my turn. I slept fitfully that night, my restless mind exploring possibilities but rejecting them all. How could I, a young girl, leave any legacy of sorts?

Shaking myself out of my reverie the next morning, I left my home and strolled through the nearby streets, not for leisure but in the hope of finding a solution. Could I change climate change? Alleviate poverty? Start my own charity? These were huge worthwhile issues, but how could I do anything about them? I passed the local primary school, smiling at a young girl skipping in the dusty yard. It was only when her friend said, “It’s my turn now.” that I noticed the queue of children waiting for a turn of this one, singular rope. Looking further afield, I saw the small muddy pitch that was once green with goalposts and nets for the children to play, now broken and unused. Advancing towards the main building of the school, I watched the students retreat into the one classroom with its dim light and an excessive number of tables and chairs.

Yet these children who had so little, smiled, laughed and seemed completely content with their lot. It was then an idea sparked in my mind and I knew what my legacy would be. Only one problem - I had no money to achieve it. Turning, I rushed back home. My ancestors would have to lose something for me to achieve this. Months later, the renovated school stands proud with three rooms. A science lab, a sports centre and a brand new football pitch. The children still smile in their brightly lit classroom, running around at recess on the grassy field. Meanwhile, the box my ancestors had entrusted to me now lay bare, the jewels gone around the rim, leaving a smooth gold box for the next grandson of a grandfather.

Leave No Stone Unturned

by Coco Bromhead

Leave no stone unturned

No place left unseen

All you have learned

Set free

It’s up to your imagination

Your creativity

The waves of hope Rains of gloom Were just ropes For you to climb and bloom

The earthquakes of terror Typhoons and rain Were not to admire

Nor for fame

You did it for others

Growing like a tree

Passing life with flying colours

You left a legacy

Time is a Great Stream

by Henry Lin

Time is a great stream. In which the droplets of our lives Could only create a ripple, Before dwindling to nothing.

Time is a sharp blade, Which carves wrinkles into men, Wounds onto bodies, And memories into hearts.

Time is a barren desert, In which even the highest of hills, And the deepest of seas, Erodes and dries with a touch of eternity.

However, we are not insignificant,ww For our bodies may die, And our souls may fleet, Our feats will last for ages to come.

Without knowing, forty-five decades Have almost passed, and yet, The school, sat on the hill, Stands proud, facing the sun.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow, May creep and hint at futility. But the school, that raised many before us, Shall continue to do so, for as long as it is.

by Joy Chen

Photography

Scattered bales of hay, Sea-blue ribbons lay astray. Calloused hands cradle me gently, Weaving intensely.

The Straw HatHarrow's Legacy

Landing in the palms of another, Held by the soft hands of a boy and his mother. Under their gaze filled with curiosity and awe, Feeling the sense of pride and purpose flow through my straw.

The Harrow walls of history greet me, They gaze at the chattering crowd warmly. Those bright and kind eyes of the other boys, Seem to distract mine from the chattering noise.

Time rapidly passes by, Fun and eccers under the azure sky. My ribbon seems to flap confidently with knowledge, As my boy prepares for the seemingly scary world of college.

The Beaks passionately transfer wisdom to my boy, Who attends each lesson with joy. No longer is the timid weak child I used to see, He stands tall and proud like an indestructible tree.

As days arrive and my boy grows older, I seem to have gotten smaller. My bales of hay now frayed, My sea-blue ribbon aged.

At last the day I longed for had come, My heart pounding like a drum. I was thrown in the air, For the first time, away from my boy’s hair.

by Vanessa Wang

Anxiousness filled me as I waited, In the little hut from which I had been birthed. Those calloused hands… Now replacing my ribbon and straw on that ancient stand.

My soul seems to sing a joyous tune, As I return to a different pair of soft hands under a joyous moon.

His bright eyes observe me intently, My ribbon hugs him back warmly.

Those breathtaking eyes might be somewhat new, They still hold purity like morning dew. My heart sings a delightful trill, As I wait to return to Harrow on the hill.

The Trial of the Jaguar Boy The Trial of the Jaguar Boy

The Trial of the Jaguar Boy

by Ethan Lan

It had been ten gruelling hours behind bars with only a stool to sit on. The courtroom was bright, cold and solemn. Julio could hear the humming of the air conditioner unit above the ceiling. The long wait reminded him of the time when he broke the raft before Papa was about to head up the River for the weekly catch. Papa was so angry that he made him stand by the River for the entire night without food.

Finally, the jury returned. The deep baritone voice of the judge rang out, “Have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, your Honor. We, the jury, in the case of the State of Amazonas versus Julio Mecudu find the defendant not guilty in the charge of murder.”

The courtroom was filled with whispers of joy and relief. Julio could see tears in his papa’s eyes. He just wanted to get back to the River that gave life to his family and the trees that guarded them for centuries.

It was another damp and hot morning when Dr John McClusky and his team began to make their way into the forest to study the rare species of flora and fauna. Each man carried a small cage and a pocket knife to collect samples and bring them back to the makeshift laboratory. Dr McClusky, born and raised in the large city of Austin, Texas, had always been fascinated by the abundance of life and the hidden treasures of the Amazon forest. Dr McClusky was 70, but looked much younger, with a smile that could appear pleasing or sinister at the same time. He carried a small box of aspirins for the frequent aches in the chest. He had spent his career teaching biosciences and researching for pharmaceutical companies. Three weeks ago, Dr McClusky led a team of six men into the heart of the Amazon on the border of Brazil and Peru, funded by Genesis Chemicals, with a mission to discover plants and animals that might help cure heart diseases. Dr McClusky knew that there were many uncontacted tribes who had survived and healed themselves by the use of the natural resources in the forest. The way he saw it, everything grown on this planet was a gift from God to mankind -- to be harvested and exploited as men wished.

His team had been searching for the green tree frogs that were known to have a secretion that was poisonous, but if used in the correct amount, could potentially alleviate heart attacks. As the men moved deeper into the woods, Dr McClusky spotted a tall, dark figure behind the towering plantain trees. Then another, and another -- he counted ten men in total. The men were topless, baring their muscular bodies, and they had facial tattoos of such a deep red that one could not be sure if they were fresh blood or paint. Dr McClusky knew immediately that they were from the uncontacted Matsés tribe, or the “Jaguar people” who were known to be fierce warriors. Within seconds, Dr McClusky and his team found themselves surrounded by the Matsés. The Matsés started speaking to them in a language that faintly resembled Spanish, with spears pointing towards the foreigners and then into the forest, motioning them to follow. Frightened and reluctant, the team prodded along with the tribal men. After what felt like an eternity, Dr McClusky and his men were led into a tent where a man sat with eyes as fierce as a raging jaguar. His chiselled face and bulky body were covered with red tattoos, and on his head sat a crown that was adorned with flowers, leaves and animal teeth. He must be the Chief of the Matsés tribe, thought Dr McClusky.

“We mean no harm!” wailed Dr McClusky.

“Who you and where from?” demanded the Chief in broken English.

Dr McClusky explained slowly about his profession as a teacher and a scientist, and that he had come to study the forest, deliberately leaving out the main mission to capture the green tree frogs. The Chief listened intently and his face eased as he realised that Dr McClusky and his men were not soldiers.

Just then, a young boy appeared, with a smile bright as the midday sun, and hair black as the darkest night. “Papa!” exclaimed the boy as he ran towards the Chief. “Come, my Julio,” the Chief said. “Men come in peace. Show around guests!”

Julio’s eyes lit up. “Yes, Papa!” Julio obeyed. “Follow me!” he called, waving to the men. Dr McClusky and his men were so relieved that they quickly followed him.

“So what do you want to see? I am happy to show you our forest. But there is one rule: you must not capture any insects or animals, and you must not destroy any plants!” warned Julio. “For centuries, the plant spirits have saved my people from all sickness. They must not be killed without Papa’s blessing.”

“Well,” Dr McClusky began cautiously. “We heard that there are green tree frogs around here that are so rare that no one outside the forest has seen them.” Julio stared at Dr McClusky suspiciously. “Acatés are sacred to our people. They bring our warriors strength and courage, and the fluid on the skin heals the sick. Acatés are protected from the outside world.”

One of the men stepped forward and said, “Julio, we do not wish to take away any of the power of the frogs. We are simply curious.” Dr McClusky quickly added, “I am a teacher, and I would love to take a photo of this fabled Acaté, to show my students back home.” This was of course a lie, for Dr McClusky understood that bringing the Acatés back to Genesis Chemicals would make him a hero. “But I won’t insist if you are uncomfortable with it,” he continued.

As Julio led the men up the River and deeper into the forest, the men were amazed at the variety of life bursting from every corner. There were plants so exotic that they had never seen them in any textbook, and insects so remarkable that they looked like they had come from another world. Stealthily, the men took out their pocket knives to cut samples of some of the unknown flowers and plants. When there were insects that seemed worthy of an experiment, the men would secretly slip them into the cages they carried. Julio walked on in the front, without noticing what the men were doing. In Julio’s world, a promise made is a promise kept. The Matsés placed honesty above all else, and would never dishonour their family by breaking a promise, lying, or cheating. Julio assumed the same values for the foreigners and suspected nothing.

Soon enough, night fell and everything went dark. Julio led the men back to the riverbank so that Dr McClusky and his men could get back to their base. Meanwhile, Julio returned to his tent when Mama was boiling his favourite plantain drink, Chapo. Julio wanted to share this sweet treat with his guests, so he headed down the River to Dr McClusky’s base, bringing with him a pot of freshly boiled Chapo.

As Julio approached Dr McClusky’s temporary home, he could hear the men arguing and shouting at one another.

“We must get our hands on those green tree frogs!” said Dr McClusky as he clutched his chest as if in pain.

“The Matsés have placed their trust in us. We cannot betray them…” muttered one of the men.

“The frogs belong to the Amazon forest, and the forest belongs to all men, not the Matsés. We will not be able to get funding for our explorations if we go back to Genesis empty-handed,” argued another man.

“We need to follow Julio into his tribe, the frogs must be kept somewhere safe. After all, these Jaguar people use the Acatés to give them strength every time they go hunting or fighting. Now if you’ll

excuse me,” said Dr McClusky, taking an aspirin out of his medicine box.

Julio could not believe what he heard. He felt betrayed and disappointed. He dropped his pot of Chapo and ran back home. For the entire night, Julio was tossing and turning, not knowing what to do. One thing he knew for certain was that he could not face Dr McClusky and his men again.

A week passed, a team of police from the Brazilian government arrived at Papa’s tent.

“We are looking for Julio Meducu. We suspected that he may be related to the death of Dr McClusky. We learned that Julio was the last outside contact of Dr McClusky,” said one of the policemen. “We also found a pot of drink from your tribe outside Dr McClusky’s tent.”

“My Julio never hurt a plant!” shouted the Chief.

“Yes, Julio kindest boy!” screamed the other Matsés men.

“It’s ok, Papa, don’t worry,” reassured Julio. “How did Dr McClusky die?” asked Julio.

“Dr McClusky was found dead by the riverbank. We could not be sure if he was murdered or died of natural causes. After all, we understand that Dr McClusky had a history of heart attacks,” explained the policeman. “Unfortunately for you, Julio, we must bring you to trial.”

After weeks of being kept in the Brazil juvenile detention centre, Julio finally connected with the forest that he called home. The sweet smell of flowers, the humidity rising up from the soil, the warmth of the sun coming through the soaring trees overwhelmed Julio’s senses.

That evening, Julio headed out to the riverbank. As he walked towards the River, Julio bent down to lift up a rock. Slowly, he retrieved a box of aspirin from underneath and emptied its contents into the River.

by Catherine Hu

A gardener plants the final flower. Back hunched, shaky hands getting old. The seeds he so carefully planted Are ones he will never behold.

A gardener who will never admire his work, Stumbling through life with nothing but a mission.

To make a name for himself, make a mark, Yet leaving only hopes, dreams and ambitions.

Oh, how the fauna wept. Each dewdrop on a leaf a crystalline tear The birds sing mournful songs of grief, “Once, a wise, noble man stood here.”

Where the winding paths were carved by his journey Where each playful breeze brought a whisper so gentle. Where every delicate flower carries a recollection of him: The sweet, the bitter and the sentimental.

Though the gardener is long gone, Though time is a harbinger of turmoil - mourn not. His spirit is there in each fragile flower bud. His soul lives on eternally in the early spring soil.

Photography by Chloe Levieux

BOOK REVIEW: 'Lore' by Alexandra Bracken

Written by Jolie Chan

Synopsis (pasted from the actual blurb):

Every seven years, the Agon begins. As punishment for a past rebellion, nine Greek gods are forced to walk the earth as mortals, hunted by the descendants of ancient bloodlines, all eager to kill a god and seize their divine power and immortality.

Long ago, Lore Perseous fled that brutal world in the wake of her family's sadistic murder by a rival line, turning her back on the hunt's promises of eternal glory. For years she's pushed away any thought of revenge against the man--now a god--responsible for their deaths.

Yet as the next hunt dawns over New York City, two participants seek out her help: Castor, a childhood friend of Lore believed long dead, and a gravely wounded Athena, among the last of the original gods.

The goddess offers an alliance against their mutual enemy and, at last, a way for Lore to leave the Agon behind forever. But Lore's decision to bind her fate to Athena's and rejoin the hunt will come at a deadly cost--and still may not be enough to stop the rise of a new god with the power to bring humanity to its knees.

Review:

Lore by Alexandra Bracken was the most hyped up mythology book on Goodreads, and for that reason, I had to buy it. My first impression: “this book is pretty hefty”. It had a good weight to it; I thought that it must be good, since its publisher had invested such high-quality paper into it. Plus, according to reviews, it is the Hunger Games meets Greek Mythology, both well-liked by me. Two positives can’t make a negative, right?

Wrong!

Lore is a high-intensity, action packed book. But the intensity was perhaps too high. So much action was crammed into so few words that I was rendered numb from reading it. Yes, there was action, but if you repeat an action too many times, it simply becomes meaningless motion. Every page had something that was happening, either a presumed character was resurrected (spoiler: the love interest doesn’t die), or the main character was conveniently best friends with someone integral to the success of the grand plan. There is so much suspense and tension throughout the book that because of it, the climax ended up very anti-climatic:I was left with an aloof “that’s it?” when I reached the final battle.

Although it attempted to dissect the inner workings of its characters, Lore unfortunately falls flat as the characters are as developed as my reading taste—which is another way of saying not developed at all, as I chose to read this book.

We follow the main character, Lore, yes that is her actual name, through her journey between choosing to stay out of the brutal world that she was born in, or returning to seek revenge and uncover the plot to kill her family. Lore struggles with an internal battle between accepting her family’s legacy (as she is the last of her name), or abandoning that part of her identity to take the “easy way out”. The reason why she was in this situation in the first place was because she wanted to escape the violence, bloodshed and danger of the world she was born into. Of course, she gets dragged back in against her will because she is simply too important; the world cannot function without her. Lore struggles with her identity in the sense that the author appears to be unable to write a consistent character that doesn’t have sixteen different personalities. She switches back and forth between a very emo and hooligan street fighter full of guilt and trauma from her family’s death, and an annoying teenager that's sad because her childhood crush ignored her for a few too many years (seven).

Overall, the legacy that this book left on me is that I should stick to character-driven books because I meet enough shallow people in my everyday life as is.

*I actually rated this book 4/5 stars despite my review but it was fun to insult it while it lasted

Book Review: 'Bowler’s Name?: The Life of a Cricketing Also-Ran'

by Mr Rapley

Reading Bowler’s Name?: The Life of a Cricketing Also-Ran, a cricketing memoir by Mr Tom Hicks, the Principal Deputy Head of Harrow Hong Kong, revived many distant memories of my childhood: morning cricket nets with a windball, slip machines, knocking in a new SS Turbo cricket bat, and painful aches from bowling and standing in a field for hours on end.

The memoir recounts a journey that begins with a burgeoning childhood passion for cricket at Child Okeford in Dorset. After moving on to Farnham Cricket Club, Hicks later earns the honour of captaining the University of Oxford before graduating to become captain of Dorset CCC in the Minor Counties Championship for many successful seasons. A striking and admirable level of dedication to the game pervades the pages, such as when batting at Lord’s for the first time, ‘You have time enough to feel the turf beneath your feet, as echoing around the cavernous stadium comes a voice as if from one of your boyhood dreams: ‘The incoming batsman… Tom (pause) Hicks.’

Life and game are intertwined, irrevocably bound as highs and lows are navigated with the aim of achieving the childhood dream of becoming a professional cricketer. Cricket is a unique sport in the way that it dishes out flashes of glory and immense disappointments, which are often crushing humiliations. As a batsman, you can train for your momentous event at the crease for hours, days, maybe even weeks to be only bowled out unceremoniously for a duck (scoring nought), an embarrassing golden duck (out the first ball), or perhaps even an ignominious diamond (out the first ball of the match). Reflecting on his dismissal at Lord’s for eleven runs, Hicks writes, ‘The walk back is a less enjoyable affair, and the bloke who announced you with all the pomp of a gladiator entering the Colosseum, is now making darn sure everyone in the St John’s Wood area knows you are out, discarding you like a pair of gloves tossed into a smelly kit bag as he searches for the next hopeful hero.’

Following cricket’s calling and the allure of first-class appearances, Hicks applied to and gained a place at the University of Oxford, where he met his wife, Mrs Penny Hicks, who is also a keen cricketer. Since then, Hicks has enjoyed cricketing adventures in Croatia, Denmark and Sweden, sometimes meeting even more fanatical cricketers than himself. When on tour with Oxford in Pakistan, one player, Dr Asghar Ali Shah was, ‘completing the surgery from the end of a mobile phone whilst standing at mid-off, setting the field all the while.’ Amidst the amusing anecdotes and poignant recollections of famous victories and unforgettable losses, there is a lingering sense that cricket, and indeed all sport, act as an escape. In this refuge, rules, fair competition, and old

traditions are always well-respected, providing great tests and challenges but also acting as a source of comfort, stability and reassurance. This is highlighted on occasion with the encroachment of geopolitical realities. For example, Hicks notes that during the tour to Pakistan in 2000, a year before 9/11, security was already an issue with the ‘team bus flanked by three armoured vehicles for our return journey home.’

As the captain of several cricket teams, valuable leadership experiences are encountered: from learning how to keep the umpires happy, ‘the savviest captains build up these relationships over a period of years and you must always be mindful that the opposition captain is probably doing the same,’ to more mundane, but essential matters such as placing and collecting the boundary markers, rolling the covers on and off, and being a general ‘dogsbody’. Club captain is clearly a demanding role, taking responsibility for difficult conversations with players that are going to be dropped from the team, and unless you can delegate the job to someone else, collecting the dreaded match fees, ‘You instantly become Public Enemy No.1 as you sidle from person to person like a Victorian debt collector, sending the impecunious or tight-fisted slipping out back doors and windows in an attempt to evade the inevitable.’

This is a book about following your dreams: meeting and playing with sporting heroes such as Robin Smith, Allan Lamb and Mike Gatting, scoring a first-class fifty, taking a first-class five-wicket haul, and playing regularly for the MCC, the prestigious team of Lord’s Cricket Ground. Through various anecdotal insights, we are invited to peer into a distinctive cultural side of England: the many idiosyncrasies of the game that inspire such devotion and loyalty, the creation of strong local and global communities in the form of friends made on tour, the inclusive village cricket club functioning at a grassroots level, and society’s upper echelons at the University of Oxford and Lord’s Cricket Ground. Hicks records the changing cultural landscape of a country as it endeavours to maintain many honourable traditions whilst occasionally making seismic changes to stay relevant and popular with each successive generation.

I no longer have my old SS Turbo from when I was a teenager. Still, the book had a Proustian effect, reminding me of the euphoria of scoring a fifty or catching a batsman out with a diving catch. A truly enjoyable read, Hicks embodies the many benefits of discovering a passion, whatever that may be. By committing to and pursuing that passion, friends are made, and rich experiences are gained so that one day heartwarming stories can be told somewhere like Farnham HQ to keep the grassroots tradition alive and pass on hard-won wisdom to the next generation.

If you would like to learn more about Mr Hicks’ cricketing adventures, you can find a copy in the school library or ask the author when you see him in the lunch queue, his office or bowling a few handy off-spinners on the Astro.

MrTomHicks’book,Bowler’sName?:TheLifeofaCricketingAlso-Ranisnowavailable inhardbackatWaterstonesanddigitallyonAmazonKindle.

How Legacy Defines Identity in CallUsWhatWeCarry

by Amanda Gorman

A Review by Mrs Campbell

Presidential inaugural poet Amanda Gorman has produced a book of poetry written amidst the global pandemic that is at once illuminating, cathartic and healing. By exploring the shared grief of humanity during worldwide trauma, she reveals how collective suffering can define a nation or a race.

She begins with small snapshots from a world gripped in endless lockdowns where ‘we slept the days down/we wept the year away/frayed & afraid’. We are reminded of when ‘We grasped our loved ones/By the slash of a screen/Felt ourselves Zoombies/Faces trapped in a prison of a prism.” She paints humanity as grief-stricken survivors of a communal shipwreck, but reminds us hopefully that ‘only when we’re drowning do we understand how fierce our feet can kick’. Gorman’s ability to turn grief into a catalyst for healing is her greatest strength, and we can lean on it when she tells us “All that is grave need/Not be a burden, and anguish./Call it, instead, an anchor.”

Unity, the collective and a common heritage echo throughout her poems. “When we tell a story, We are living Memory.” For Amanda Gorman, her African American heritage and their collective traumatic history play a vital role in her identity. She looks to legacies from the past that shape her people. “The whiplike echo of Jim Crow, too, passes through Black bodies, even before birth.”1She suggests that living through the memories of our ancestors we may find our commonality and shape our identity. “Heritage is passed not in direct recollection but through indirect retelling”.

Gorman likens the pandemic to war and draws allusions to the struggle inside us: “A virus is fought inside us/While violence is fought amongst us.” She takes us again to the struggle that rages in America over race which has spawned the powerful Black Lives Matter movement. It is that legacy of their forefathers, that collective grief that makes her who she is. But far more important to Gorman is the ‘we’, the collective identity. There is not one poem in the collection with the word “I” — it is instead ‘we’ or ‘ours’.

Global pandemic, universal trauma and the legacy of grief might suggest that Gorman’s poetry is a treatise of doom, but it is quite the opposite. Throughout the work, there is light and brightness, and she carries us through with her messages of hope. She writes of luminescence often, ‘the lit-up spaces in between’ and reminds us that “Our scars are the brightest part of us.”

Amanda Gorman’s own legacy is this work that defines her as one of the most lyrical and influential poets of our time.

1 Jim Crow laws were state edicts enforcing racial segregation in the Southern States of America until 1965.

“We can spend our lives letting the world tell us

who we are. Sane or insane. Saints or not*. Heroes or victims. Letting history tell us how good or bad we are.

Letting our past decide our future. Or we can decide for ourselves. And maybe it's our job to invent something better.”

- Chuck Palahniuk

A Review of TheOldManandtheSea

by Mr Wiggall

TheOldManandtheSea , published in 1951, was Ernest Hemingway’s last major work of fiction. Hemingway wrote this short novel after a significant period of depression and artistic frustration. Many of his friends had died during the 1940s, and he had suffered a series of accidents which had left him, his wife and one of his sons, at different times, severely injured. Hemingway had also turned to excessive drinking, resulting in increasingly poor health. In the mid-40s, Hemingway declared himself “out of business as a writer”. It was after this dark decade of Hemingway’s life that he wrote TheOldManandtheSea.This short novel tells the simple tale of an old Cuban fisherman, Santiago, down on his luck, going out to fish after 84 days without catching anything. Hemingway wrote the novel at a furious pace, completing the first draft in 8 weeks. The novel reinvigorated Hemingway’s reputation and made him an international celebrity. Later, he said that the novel was “the best I can write ever for all of my life”.

I don’t want to spoil your experience of reading this book by giving you a plot summary. I do, however, want to mention some of the ideas, and tell you what I particularly love about it. The novel explores themes of the relationship of Humanity with Nature, Friendship, Family, Pride, Resistance to Defeat, Suffering, Persistence, Mastery and Skill, Experience, Memory, Isolation and Loneliness, Luck, Acceptance, and Humility. This makes the novel sound rather high-flown and complex. It’s not. Hemingway’s trademark style is simple and direct. He avoids flowery descriptive language and very few sentences run to more than 10 words. The thing about this book that inspired me the most, though, was the central character’s resilience, his acceptance of misfortune, and his dignity in the face of seeming defeat.

During the course of the novel, Santiago experiences moments of triumph and other times of disaster. However, when luck turns against him, Santiago remains cheerful and his spirit is undefeated. He is able to separate the outcome of events from his conduct and bearing during those events. For Santiago, it is all about acting with honour and dignity. Whether or not this results in outward success or failure is of no account. This is a hard lesson and one which can seem almost impossible to put into practice when we suffer misfortune or seem to fail in our own lives. It’s also a theme that recurs frequently in Hemingway’s work. Describing the characters in his debut novel, TheSunAlsoRises , who have just emerged from the horrors of the First World War, he says that they may have been “battered” but they “were not lost”.

There is a reservoir of wisdom and meaning in this book that makes it worth reading. However, I would also recommend the physical experience of reading the book. On being asked about the meaning of life, Joseph Campbell, the great American 20th century mythologist, once gave the following answer. “People say that what we’re all seeking is a meaning for life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive […] so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive.”

This is how I felt when I read TheOldManandtheSea.I read the novel in one sitting one evening. The experience left me overwhelmed and tearful with a sense of gratitude, relief, admiration (for both the characters and the author), exhilaration and, ultimately, with a heightened and vivifying feeling of being alive.

It is possible that, if he were here now, Hemingway would totally disagree with my symbolic and allegorical interpretation of his beautiful novel. Writing to a critic, he said, “There isn’t any symbolism. The sea is the sea. The old man is an old man. The boy is a boy and the fish is a fish. The sharks are all sharks, no better and no worse. All the symbolism that people say is [rubbish].” He contended that TheOldManandtheSeawas just a simple story about an old Cuban fisherman. Nevertheless, TheOldManandtheSearemains one of the most popular, studied and admired books of the 20th century. See what you think.

Locker Locker

BY TAN KIU LEUNG

She puts her backpack in me, containing pens of all the colour of the rainbow.

Cherry red, neon yellow, emerald green!

She stores her little hopes and dreams in the inmost corner, keeping them protected.

She puts the mountain of essays, assignments and tasks. Tucking away the fears, pressures, and stress, cramped in my body.

Every morning

I am awakened by the sound of her lively chatter and the stories she has to tell.

And every evening, I am enlightened with the facts and figures of what she’s learnt in a day.

Until one morning she stops.

She had not come.

I am left empty, with no books, no bag, no hope to carry.

Feeling naked.

The sound of footsteps echoing through the hallway.

I could hear her approaching. Leaning in to tell me,

“You see, it is time for me to depart. I will be off, off into the vast world.

To places you won’t believe, living my dream! Which if not for you, would be obsolete.”

Then, she delicately hands me a golden straw hat with a dainty blue ribbon tied around and says:

“But don’t you worry, because I know that one day, you will hold that spark of hope for someone else.”

O, how I would love

To fall into a pile of autumn leaves

And be lost

In the chilling breeze. It would be a dream

To transform like the leaves,

From green to rouge,

From ordinary to extraordinary.

The musky-sweet smell of decaying leaves

Bewitches me instantly,

As I transform into the girl

I was always meant to be.

The girl that lights up a room

Making souls helpless

And bodies limp,

With a flash of white teeth.

Autumn’s my dearest friend

For we’re the same,

Autumn Autumn

BY ANGELINA LU

My cold eyes chase away warmth

While my cruel tongue makes the sky cry

Leaving nothing

But darkness and decay.

I’d do anything to be like Summer

When you’re with her,

Everyday is a sunny day

Her beaming ray of light

So bright and pure

Eyes go blind at her side.

When I unravel my legs

And break free from under the autumn leaves, I caress my face and finally see

The girl I am and will forever be,

I’m not Summer and sunshine

I’m Autumn and the rich taste of wine

Bitter yet sweet

Lavish and unique,

The more you look

The more power I hold

Until one blow pushes you back and you Fall

Laying still on the grass

Like a pile of leaves.

by Chloe Levieux

Photography

Imperfectly Perfect Imperfectly Perfect

by Daniel Tam

I wonder if There is a parallel universe, A universe with another me.

I wonder if I spoke more to my classmates instead of isolating myself in a well of darkness, Would I have not been so lonely, or still be neglected all the same?

I wonder if I stood up to that bully instead of letting myself be beaten down, Would I have grown stronger, or be beaten down again nonetheless?

I wonder if I didn’t spend all those hours drowning myself in a whirlpool of textbooks and worksheets, Would I have taken a moment to stop and rest?

I wonder if I cared less about what others thought of me, Would I have seen myself in a new light?

A universe with another me.

I wonder if I chose the job back home instead of the one overseas, Would I have laughed and smiled more beside my family?

I wonder if I picked up that guitar my father bought me, Would I have found passion or purpose in music?

I wonder if I went on that trip to a distant land, Would I have opened my eyes to a larger world?

I wonder if I confessed my feelings for the one I loved, Would I have seen them once more?

I wonder if I spent less time dwelling on the past, Would I have had more time to do something new instead?

I wonder if when the day comes, Would I have someone beside me as I watch my final sunset?

A universe with another me.

I wonder if I could swap places, leaving all my mistakes and regrets behind, Would I finally be happy? Would I finally be complete?

Yet

Would I still be me?

I spent so much time wondering what my life could have been, Wondering about how things could have played out differently, That I never realised the truth.

We are the mistakes that we make, The pain that we feel, And the choices that we regret.

But also the places we go, The people that we meet, And the passions we pursue

Now I know when it’s time, Even with my past mistakes and struggles I’ll regret nothing,

I’ll look up at the stars and smile, Because that’s what made me who I am today That’s what made me different

I’ll stumble, then run. I’ll sink, then rise. I’ll fail, then succeed.

Imperfectly perfect.

“We

are not idealized wild things. We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.”

- Joan Didion, the

YearofMagicalThinking

Thank you for reading this edition of the Literary Harrovian, we hope it has inspired you to embark on a writing journey of your own and create your own legacy to leave behind.

Stay tuned for our next edition.

In the meantime, you can always contact us through our email:

literary-harrovian@harrowschool.hk

Artwork by Vanessa Ho