INKLINGS: Middle School Creative Writing & Art

2019

INKLINGS HKIS MIDDLE SCHOOL

Caitlyn Ng

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Artwork done by Emily Yates

CONVERGENCE J O N A T H A N

C H E N G

Beneath the azure canopy Surrounded by a fraud, a perpetual motion machine conquered the bringers of life are Slowly Suffocating

Scarlet rainwater that belittles down In transience when tortured by ecstasy The birds and the trees weep unseen

The law of equivalent exchange Within the desert, a scorched wasteland there lies a patch of bright cerulean sky Ambiguously shining on the loneliest tree

Severed at the waist by a drunk driver

M I M I

L O O M I S

Bitter Pool Carolyn Cheng I know a girl Who sits cross-legged on the bottom Of a chlorine wasteland, Letting the water whisper secrets In and out of her ears.

I know a girl Who lets out a guttural scream Muffled by the misty-eyed chlorine water coiled around her head, squeezing, suffocating.

I know a girl Who reaches out to feel The ray of golden, iridescent sun Trickling through bitter-tasting waters.

A tear slips down her porcelain face as she watches it dance And send golden remnants of wonder across The swimming pool floor.

I know a girl Who sits on rough, uneven metal bleachers Facing the pool, and watches a gentle breeze Send a ripple across a mirror of water so still, it could be glass.

A girl who sees ghosts of a lost childhood Dance and soar across a thin sheet of waves.

I know a girl Who pulls her head under the blue, Who finally closes her eyes and puts the tsunami that snaps and snarls in her mind to rest.

Art By Lily Morse

City of Hope Erika Hornmark

Five-forty in the morning is not the ideal time to be wandering about the streets of London. The fall weather meant many things: for children, it marked the beginning of a school year; for parents, it meant returning from summer break.

As for me, it marked the time to bust out my cheap ankle boots and a coat. My boots, as thin as they were, caused a loud thumping noise on the wet cobblestone streets. The sky was only just morphing into an unattractive mixture of tangerine and slate gray. The air was ripe with a combination of fresh-inked newspapers and the dewy scent of petrichor. I made the final turn on the block; I stopped in my tracks. The remainder of civilization had made camp at the Underground.

I heard Jenny’s voice ringing on my phone. “Aw, long line again? Why don’t you purchase a car? It’s a great investment, even in your situation,” she sneered, playing it off as sisterly sympathy. I stood agape at the crowd. The line of business people carrying briefcases and wearing tan slacks stood with unpleasant expressions carved into their faces. Their Underground passes beeped at high pitches in a rhythmic symphony. I let out a disapproving sigh as I filed into the shortest line. “Honestly, Ivy, you’ve got to rethink your future.

You’re not making anything. Your situation is quite pitiful,” she continued, sharp-tongued.

“My “situation” is fine!” I hollered at Jenny. Despite yelling into my phone, there was a very small chance she was able to hear me. The cacophony of the London Underground was unmatched. The man in front of me was laughing with his coworker, whereas the man behind me reprimanded the Underground supervisor. The energies within the bounds of the platform were as varied as icecream flavors. They were the only thing on my mind - ever since I’d realized I hadn’t eaten breakfast.

Jenny, put merely, carried around an air of holier-than-thou. She stank of it.

Funnily enough, the split second following my arrogant statement, an elegant lady tractored over my foot in a gargantuan Samsonite bag. I yelped in pain.

Despite wearing boots, the durability was as refined as plastic bags. Outside, the sky transformed into a cloudy sea. Heavy rain began harassing pedestrians. The cacophony was only elevated.

I finally reached the front of the queue, where I scanned my card and was charged an additional 3.9 pounds. The doors opened, however, they closed with tremendous force on my left thigh. I stuffed Jenny’s voice into my bag as I attempted to force the doors open. I could feel the reproving looks being pinned to my back. The supervisor made a beeline to help open the doors. Through a series of punches and pulls, my leg was freed. I flew out of control across the freshly-mopped stone floors and landed on my arms. A select few Londoners got the pleasure of watching the circus show. I picked up my phone from the floor, which reeked of lemon-lime. “You're so ignorant! You’re paid so little,” Jenny sighed. Three minutes and Jenny hadn’t yet realized that I’d stuffed her into my thrifted purse.

“I’m not ignorant!” I emphasized, exasperated. As much as I wanted to deny that the firm I worked at paid me a lilliputian sum for my efforts, I couldn’t. I struggled to stay on balance on the escalators. In a final attempt to save myself, I grabbed onto the rubber handle. I was met with the sickening texture on my hands. It was gummy-like and smelt like the lemon-lime detergent.

I was determined to make it to the office with a smile on my face, donning my outfit. A hand-me-down from Jenny, a poodle-skirt with a white lace blouse. I felt as 1950s as Marilyn Monroe. I scampered down, hearing the sickening cry of the train. Beeep. I attempted to run; however my high heeled boots made it impossible to run at over 2 kilometers an hour. Most Londoners quit the JimmyChoo dream within the second week of a commute in the Underground. But that was not me. That would be me had I not found work under the thumb of the devil herself. Meryl Streep wouldn’t have had to participate in the Devil Wears Prada had my demanding boss, Daphne James, had been born a few years earlier. Edging just over forty, the devil would skin the artistic associates alive had we shown up in Ferragamo flats or two hundred pound sneakers. For that reason, all of my coworkers had eccentric, tasteful styles. My coworkers would show up fashionably late to the office, adorned in homemade hair accessories or vintage jeans that cost upwards of a hundred pounds.

Shoving towards the G train, I stare at the doors. With a few depressing beeps, the train doors close. I’ve already missed the morning G train towards Westminister. I can see inside the plastic windows of the train. The few elites who manage to seat themselves on the uncomfortably plush seats refuse to look upwards (except to mock the plebian Underground riders who get on at crowded stops). I stand, agape as the train tractors onwards. My feet ache horribly from the high heels, so I slap on a band-aid.

I can hear Jenny. She’s saying, “band aids aren’t going to solve your life.”

Photo by: Talia Tom

Graves Will Sierleja

I have always been fascinated with the concept of necromancy.

Raising those long, or not so long,

20/5/1968: A foul murder has been committed in the community. No one will find the

dead and binding them to my will. This

perpetrator, nor the body. Only

diary is a recording of my tests with the

blood. But now I have a very fresh

subject and whether it is actually possible

specimen. Subject 13’s testing will

for a man to raise the deceased.

begin today

Addendum, I have discovered an

25/1968: Subjects are now all

old book on with which I will base these

fully animated and conversing with

experiments.

each other. They keep glancing at me

2/4/1968: Subjects 1, 2, 4, and 8

for some reason. It makes me

twitched upon spells completion. All

uncomfortable. Must remember to

were male, but that is the only apparent

retrieve fresh cabbage for dinner

similarity. I will not conduct surgery at

tonight.

this time as I do not wish to ruin otherwise perfect specimens.

4/4/1968: Subject 1 and 2 moved

29/5/1968: Subject 1 tried to attack me with an improvised club today. I must carry a revolver to

their arms and fingers in imitations of

future testings. Safety and comfort.

human motions. No spell was enacted,

29/5/1968: They’re speaking

maybe some residue from past spells?

10/4/1968: Astonishing breakthrough! Subject 5 stood of his own

again. Maybe this is what lead to subject 1’s outburst. I will move them to separate rooms tomorrow.

volition and began moving. Unfortunately

30/5/1968: Subjects have

increased cellular degradation began and

escaped and are after me. If anyone

her corpse crumbled to ash shortly after.

finds and reads this, please, do not

Will have to keep subjects in cold

attempt to mettle in gods domain.

environments.

11/4/1968: Subject 10, 11, and 12 have been delivered. Tests will begin shortly.

13/4/1968: I hear screaming. I don’t want to know where it originates.

15/4/1968: Spell energy was

There is a knocking at my door.

The corpses are outside. Goodbye.

Increased monitoring of holders of necromantic texts will be held in the near future. I hope this report convinces you to

successful in fully animating subject 12,

rethink your choices on the

but corpse still was not fresh enough. I

availability to the public

need them to be fresher. Very fresh.

you’ve allowed these things.

Artist: Gaia Liu

Hands Poem: My Grandmother's Hands Victoria Lai My grandmother's hands soft smooth so warm and capable.

Almost wrinkleless (I don't know how she keeps so young) Floating as if skating on a piece of ice Yet dancing.

She slides and glides, flowing with symphonies Her tutu flies up like Marilyn Monroe.

Her hands swaying gracefully creating a cool breezy wind.

Her skill is shown from years of practice.

These hands have so many significances The hands that hold our family together.

Hands that express love and beauty.

Hands that write words of encouragement and belief.

Hands that have held hope and longing.

The ones that have nestled soft babies and granddaughters.

Hands that have wiped tears and caressed cheeks.

Strong hands. Loving hands.

Holding onto dreams and trust.

A blessing to behold.

My grandmother's hands.

The blood filled dancing shoes As graceful as a swan.

The legs of an athlete.

She flies through the air and lands like a feather.

Only touching the stage for a second.

Before rising again like a Phoenix through an orange flare.

Strong hands holding a pen.

As powerful as a weapon.

A war of words on a single sheet of paper.

Nathalie Bos

This living hand, so warm and capable Documenting the Chinese revolution.

Long endless ride Isolated But so strong so brave and bold I imagine holding the soft warm hands as I walk to The monumental gate towards the new chapter of my life.

She would hold my degree proudly and tearing up emotionally.

Zoe Tranbarger

An Agricultural Miracle Mika Livne

My dad; A strong, tall mountain, built by seismic activity, of love and war, and perseverance.

Rivers gushing, providing water to The Land, a rainbow in the distance, a promise fulfilled.

The promise land, a dry, barren desert, a mountain, flourishing, like an agricultural miracle.

Artwork By Danielle Cheong

How to Live (Inspired by Charles Harper Webb) Darcy Lin Ask somebody to make kimbap and eat each bundle as it’s made.

Slurp phở and gorge on burgers. Vow to scout out adventure. Don’t be boring. Don’t shame the boring.

Go to the zoo. Stroke the prickly porcupines.

Wander down smooth, pebble-paved paths until dusk falls and the damp mist brushes against your cheek. Meander through memory lane (don’t reprimand yourself. It doesn’t help).

Shop online. Send SoundCloud links to mass Instagram group chats. Edit all your photos through VSCO. Don’t pay.

Don’t borrow money. Ever.

Don’t hit too hard. Slap back.

Sit in bathrooms during lunch.

Feel your voice reverberating. Don’t wear a watch. Fight inanimate objects. Own a Venus Flytrap. Name it Serena. Let it die.

“Do it for the Gram.” Smell books (old ones),

Lola Pierce

and let the musky aroma waft into your nose.

Linger your home before you abandon it. Sift through your parent’s closets, eyes scanning.

Remember: they were teenagers too. Yell “put your shirt back on!” when your friend’s on a phone call.

Buy an exorbitant amount of things that you love. Go to stores. Don’t buy anything. Draw pigs on the back of whiteboards. Eat Ferrero Rocher chocolates. Recycle. Dance in Lola Pierce

corridors, hallways, streets. Smile through the wincing pain. Don’t let others know.

Have neat handwriting — it’ll help you later. Copy people. Read everything: news, magazines, Newbery Honors, and

Aubrie Gut

bottom of the barrel books. Losing things isn’t a crime. Losing trust is. Listen to the rain, Mother Nature’s drum. Cry and let it wash over you.

Sing in the shower. Scream until it hurts. Don’t let life pass you by. Marie-Kondo your room. Don’t stop there. Look back. Inhale nostalgia, exhale regrets. Don’t tell Derek.

Run at Noelle. Praise Allison.

Parent Talia. Embarrass Terrence. Miss Ava. Cut your hair when you have mental breakdowns.

Keep old friends, make new — “squad up” with both.

Wear a vest whenever possible.

Unabashedly embrace trends.

Sing Michael Jackson — it’ll cheer you up.

Lay in the sun on the rugby field.

Drink boba exclusively in the morning. Race through defunct passageways. Apologize now. Love your 엄마, 爸爸, sisters.

Love yourself, it’s not too hard.

Say thanks once in a while.

Take compliments — you earned them.

Chloe Pan

Parker Boyle

The separated roof Faith Yih The grandfather clock struck 9pm , darkness crept in the tall room with queen bunk beds, two metal flashlights were in our hands, Projecting on the wall.

Standing out like stars.

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Then the burst of laughter explodes like fireworks A brother and a sister hiding under the blanket Chuckling Smiling

le

Rachel Kim

Ella Chang

They split apart and go back to their bunk beds Giggling like coyotes Still smiling But separated Then a door flung open BOOM The sound of the rock solid door Banging on the wall “KIDS GO TO SLEEP�

The yelling of a mum Then the slam of the door closing The night coming back in Light fading away

M ne

The sound of yelling is still ringing in our heads But the blinking of lights on the wall came back on Showing that through the fear Was comfort And again, the burst of laughter reappears And it overcomes everything.

Lily Morse

Life is a Pool of Pain Yonsu Park Life is a pool of pain.

It’s the same all the time.

Everyday someone adds to my pool.

And it just get deeper.

Until I can’t see the bottom.

It’s cold black waves.

Crashing around savagely, it’s cold dark water, creeping down my throat.

Life is a pool of pain, and we are all drowning.

Art By: Anya Shah

Light is a shield Olivia Gordon Steps rapidly moving back and forth, back and forth.

He knew what was chasing him, where it had come from.

The dark blood of trees had been marked up by lucid dreams.

Painting screaming stretching the cords of a howl.

Taller taller one foot after another relentlessly up.

The soft grid of his shoes sucked to

Up, up!! A tiny branch broke through his skin as blood rushed out.

Stop. A regain of warmth a color of some sort.

Blink the shadows overcame blink, blink.

Then I was on top of my fears as they left me once again, no blood no dark just me alone on top of light a shield from lies and words.

For now.

the wrinkles of strength. Breaking past all, at last, it clawed the protection that yet dimed from his mind.

By: Parker Boyle Photography S2

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fired back.

“You’re laughing now, but you’ll see! You’ll all see!” Steven confidently exclaimed.

The other three people in the building, who had said nothing, just gazed at him with wide-eyes.

“Now, if ya don’t mind, I’m heading home. My shift ended an hour ago but the 9:15 came in late...as expected.” The yardmaster replied, packing his backpack.

“Fine by me! Just be prepared to be shocked when you return!” The old engineer shouted as the yardmaster walked out of the depot.

The sky got darker and darker as the night danced it’s way into the evening. The Tacoma yard was silent, say for a mouse burrowing under the rotting railroad ties. Off in the distance, an echo of a steam whistle bounced off the mountains. The steady pounding of a steam locomotive got closer and closer. With a whoosh of steam, a big mighty steam locomotive pulled into the murky yard. The locomotive’s black paint glistening in the pale moonlight. Behind the locomotive trailed a consist of three boxcars, a flatcar with a tarped load on it, a lone Pennsylvania Railroad P70 Coach, and an old wooden caboose. The old locomotive decoupled it’s train off on track four, and with two hoots of the old six chime, it slowly lumbered away.

The 587 had exited the engine terminal and was now on the yard switches. The yardmaster darted to the other side just as the black beast pulled through, The rails creaking under the weight of the locomotive. Engineer Steven got out of the cab of the locomotive to switch the track while the yardmaster stood there, starstruck.

“How the- What the- How did you -” The yardmaster stuttered.

“Somethings are better left unsaid.” The engineer calmly replied.

With that, he mounted the trusty iron horse and backed down onto the train. The locomotive bellowing white steam from the cylinders and the safety valve. The yardmaster ran over to the cab.

“Do you have permission from the Division Manager!?” He hollered.

“I don’t think I’ll need that.” The engineer replied.

And on that note, the engineer opened up the regulator and the oddball consist left Tacoma yard bound to a place unknown to the yardmaster...or anyone for that matter. The engineer, an enigma wrapped in a code wrapped in an enigma.

The engineer and the 587 was never heard from again.

Some say they came off a curve too fast, some say the fell into the river, but the Tacoma yardmaster knew that something was not as it seems on the blustery March Morning.

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Reasons of Music, Seasons of Mind Alistair Lam | A Narrative Poem

silent vows Margot Siebengartner melody,

fear

l o u d

Emily Chen, G7

Strangers Anouk Hirano

She sat on the wooden chair Looking up and down, swaying to the music Hovering through the clouds, floating to the stars She never seemed to cry Thus her heart was made of steel Locked up behind golden bars Chains so bright that it painted a mural of sunshine and music Perfection you only saw in art or the passing of a stranger She spoke to me about the times we lost The silence we sat in or the grief we spent apart, “We were just two outsiders that took the same path home, always aware of each other, curious of one another’s passions and

Sasha Disalvo

dreams; unable to graph the honest truth, so instead wrote diary entries of lies,” I began to shiver against her words the tears that fell down my cheeks creating a tsunami of desire that flooded our hearts she who smelt of empty bus rides, roads that continues for miles, or the lilies of her sweet perfume that she wore so often, so long it became her skin her hair draping down creating curtains for her face The wind brushing it forward and backwards As to tease her subtle beauty to ones who cross, like a ghost that lingers past her friends and foes Sabine my sister, my only sibling, the ghost in the house, the only stranger in my heart

Ariel Yu

The Natural World - Haiku

The Natural World - Haiku Amelie Bedell

Amelie Bedell

River River flows past trees.

Lantern illuminates dark Leafless trees behind Forest (Storm)

Rain falls through forest Grass bends and trees fall through night Dewdrops fall off leaves

River River flows past trees.

Lantern illuminates dark Leafless trees behind Forest (Storm)

Rain falls through forest Grass bends and trees fall through night Dewdrops fall off leaves

Art By: Sean Buxton

The Hotel Murder Everett Yum

“The initials of the partners were something like SKE, or SCI, or SBL, I can’t remember. At some corporate company.”

“I’m sorry,” Park responded. They both had a moment of silence, and then Park said, “I should get going.”

“Well, it was really nice to catch up. See you.”

“Goodnight.”

Park climbed two flights of stairs to his hotel room, and tripped on his leg. He winced for a second, and pulled up his pant leg to see a large bruise. He continued walking, and arrived to his room. The room had a bathroom in the front to the left, a large bed in the main chamber, and a large window looking over New York. It Photo by Sammy Hwang looked opulent, reflecting the hotel’s wealth. Near the etective Park forgot all about the case window, on the right wall was a door that connected to he was to attend to in two days, his partner the room in which Detective Wright slept in. Park heard Detective Wright, and all of his thoughts about him get up from his bed and saw him walk through the work as his old friend absorbed him in compel- adjoining door. Wright was about fifteen years older ling conversation. They sipped their drinks in a than Park, and had much more experience doing detecbar, which was a part of the hotel they were tive work. He stood tall, had a few gray hairs, was stocky, both staying at. The sun had set and night had and carried an authoritative presence. Park looked like come, so many people were in the bar and the opposite of him. Park was quite lanky, had a small surrounded them, also talking and having build, his hair was jet black, and was fairly young. Despite drinks, creating a loud environment. But Park their physical differences, they enjoyed each other’s and Clara weren’t distracted by the noise. company, and have been partners for years. “You’re “So what have you been doing since awfully late,” said Wright, like a parent who caught his school?” queried Park. child past curfew, “it’s quarter past eleven.”

“I just landed a job at this prestigious “Don’t be like that,” Park responded. lab,” Clara replied, “but before I just did menial “Did you read the case file?” work as I was studying chemistry.”

“No, I was busy. I was meeting an old friend.”

“Where?”

“That’s nice, but we should go over it together “Columbia.” then.”

“Really? I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be “Let me just get some ice. It’s for my leg.” rude. That’s great!”

“Alright, meet in my room.”

“Actually, during college, I was working At 11:17 PM, Park left his room with an ice bucket in this hotel. Total hell.” in hand to get ice, returned a few minutes later, closed Park laughed, absorbed by the warm his door, and met Wright in his room to review the case. feelings that the conversation gave. As it went About thirty five minutes into Park and Wright’s on, they became more personal review of the case file, an unnerving shriek resounded with each other, and it reached to a point throughout the floor. They exited Wright’s room and where Clara shared about her tragic brother. found that others had heard the screech, as they were “I don’t know where it went wrong for outside their doors, confused and worried. To the left of Lucas,” she said despondently, “I felt so close Wright’s room was Park’s room, and to the left of Park’s to him, and then he was just gone. He shot room stood Clara. himself because of that damned job.”

“You’re on this floor?” Clara asked Park.

“That’s awful. Where did he work?”

“Yes, I am,” he responded.

“Do you know who that was?”

D

He shook his head, and then looked down the hallway. The hallway stretched to four rooms to the left of Clara’s room until an emergency exit, which meant there were seven rooms in total in the hallway. The rooms to the left of Clara all had people standing in front of their doors, except for the one directly next to her. There were six people outside their doors. Detective Wright walked to the door with no one in front of it, and knocked on it.

“Is anyone there?” He asked. With no response, he tried again, saying, “Hello? Is everything alright?” He was met by silence again. “Get the hotel manager,” he told to everyone.

The hotel manager was called, opened the door and entered, with the six residents of the floor following. Inside the hotel room laid a dead man sitting in a chair. He held an empty tea cup, with all of the tea seemingly spilled on his shirt, shown by brown splotches. His eyes were shut, and his face was colored a sordid violet. The smell in the air was putrid.

“Good God.” “What happened?”

“Is he actually dead?”

“What happened here?” the manager asked.

The guests worriedly explained that they had heard a shriek in the middle of the night. While the manager tried to take control of the situation by calling the police, Detective Wright inspected the body. He searched it, and found a business card reading “Wayne Sherman/SHR”. He looked at his purple face and deduced the cause of death.

“He’s been poisoned,” he concluded, “the face color says it all. His tea was poisoned. That’s why he spilled some of it.”

Everyone was shocked, and became even more afraid and concerned.

“It was a murder?” asked one of the people.

“Yes,” responded Wright. That fact only added onto their anxiety.

“The police aren’t available right now,” said the manager, “They say they’re stretched too thin.

They say it could be many hours.”

Everybody was terrified of the fact that there was a dead body in front of them, and that a murderer was not far.

“We’re detectives,” Park said, “We can handle this.” He went to his hotel room to show the crowd his and Wright’s credentials. They all seemed to accept them, partially because they wanted to feel safer.

The manager pulled out his phone and walked outside the room for a moment to talk with a security guard with cameras. He asked about the fifth floor cameras, and a few other questions concerning who went in and out of the elevators. He returned to the room, and said with fearfully, “I just spoke with a security guard. He’s on his way right now because he said that no one exited the floor since nine o’clock, which was hours before the shriek. Which means that the murderer is someone on this floor, one of us.”

Photo by Mieke Chorus

Part 2 The security guard came to the room with a laptop that held the security information. He seemed to be aware of the situation. He handed off the computer to the manager and promptly left. The manager brought up the CCTV camera of the floor, which was partitioned into three sections: one had the elevator and Wright’s room door, one showed Park and Clara’s rooms, which was directly to the left of Wright’s room, and the final showed four hotel doors with the three other people who had hotel rooms and the dead man. The dead man’s room was the furthest to the right; he was next to Clara’s room. The timestamp was paused on 11:20 PM. There was no activity at all; all the doors were closed. The manager ran the footage so everyone can see.

Nothing happened until 11:40 PM, when at that point the camera showing the door of the dead man and the three other people suddenly cut out. All of the audio from the cameras cut out as well.

Everybody had their eyes peeled on the footage. Then, at 11:54 PM, the video and audio returned. The footage then showed everybody walking out of their doors and Wright inspecting the dead man’s door. A few minutes later it showed the manager coming and opening the door. The manager paused the footage.

“The footage showed no one entering or exiting the floor, so the culprit must be one of us,” deduced Clara.

“I think we can rule out the three rooms to the left of the elevator,” said Park, “as the footage did not cut out on our sections. We can rule out me, my partner Wright, and Clara here, the woman who was in the room to the right of the dead man’s room. And no one could have come in from the elevator so...”

Wright, Park, Clara and the manager stared at the three other people.

“Excuse me? Are you accusing me of murder?”

“Yeah! Why do you all get off the hook so fast?”

“I wouldn’t kill anyone!”

“Hey, no one is being accused here,” said the manager.

“Well...” said Park tentatively.

“We’re not making any accusations without solid proof.” Wright tried to comfort the three people.

“I’m going to be blunt. It’s just that the evidence points to you all, and it clears us. It’s irrefutable, you can’t contest that.”

Artwork by Anouk Hirano

Each of the three tried to raise a point to possibly incriminate them, but they couldn’t find a reasonable argument.

“Fine then. Interview me. I’ll prove I’m innocent.”

“Very well then. I’ll interview each of you three who had hotel rooms in the screen that was cut out.” They all agreed and the interviews began.

Park interviewed one of the three that was a man in his thirties, who was an accountant. He led a mundane life and had no ties to the victim, or violent history. He said that he was reading when the dead man shrieked. Park put him down as “not suspicious”.

Wright interviewed a woman, who was a young entrepreneur, who had no ties to the victim or violent history. She was on her computer. Once again a bust.

At last, there was one more to be interviewed, so Wright and Park interviewed him together.

“What is your name?” Park asked.

“Richard Horowitz.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a partner at the corporation SHR. I’m the ‘H’.”

“Alright then. Did you know the victim?”

“As a matter of fact I did. He was the ‘S’ in the corporation. Sherman. Wayne Sherman. I’m in the room next to him. We have adjoining rooms because of a business trip.”

“He’s got the name right,” Wright whispered to Park, “It was on his business card of the corpse.” Park nodded in understanding.

“Did you have a -- How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Sherman?” Wright asked.

“Well,” Horowitz said, pausing to think for a moment, “our relationship wasn’t the best. We had our fair share of disagreements, but nothing to -- to the point of murder.”

“And what were these arguments about?”

“Business affairs. You know, commissions and fees. Nothing personal.”

“You seem awfully calm. Why is that?”

“Honest to God, I don’t know. I think I’m in shock.”

“Hm. What were you doing when you heard the shriek?”

“I was asleep.”

“I see. We’ll pull you in for further questioning if we need it. Thank you.”

The detectives highly suspected Horowitz, as he had ties to Sherman.

“You think he did it?” Park asked Wright.

“I can’t be sure,” Wright responded, “He just doesn’t seem like that kind of guy.”

With the suspects interviewed, the detectives felt they had made little progress. But they did not lose hope. They would review the evidence further. While Park started thinking, Clara pulled him aside.

“Hey Park, are you alright?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” he responded, “but I think we might be onto something. We’ll just need to think about it.”

“Okay. Good luck.” Clara walked back to her hotel room, and Wright started talking to Park.

“So that was your old friend?” Wright asked.

“Yeah.”

“Interesting.”

And so the detectives sat back and reviewed the case in their heads.

Photo by Eva Morton

Part 3 Suddenly, Detective Wright came to an epiphany. He jolted and asked the manager for the computer. He looked for the time stamp 11:17 PM and scanned the camera with Clara and Park’s room. He saw nothing; the doors were shut. He moved the footage a few minutes forwards and backwards, and the picture didn’t change. But then he remembered something: Park had gotten ice at 11:17 PM, which means that the cameras should show him leaving his room sometime then and entering a few minutes later, but there was no movement at all; Park’s door remained closed. The camera of Clara and Park’s room had been hacked. He saw that the millisecond counter between the times 11:15 PM and 11:35 PM was frozen and only resumed until after 11:35, which corroborated his inference. He looked on the camera that looked over the elevator to see the same pattern, and he saw just that.

He then looked at the crime scene, and saw that the tea the victim was drinking was the hotel’s. The teapot had the hotel’s logo on it. The victim ordered room service. The hotel server was the murderer. He asked the manager for the hotel’s room service records, but to his dismay, he found that there had been no service on the fifth floor since 5 PM. It was a dead end, but Wright was close. He knew it.

He knew that the victim ordered room service, but the assassin erased the order from the records to clear their tracks. He also knew that the assassin hacked the security cameras so that it would freeze the frame for twenty minutes and the tea delivery would be covered up without drawing suspicion. They also made a red herring by making the footage cut out at 11:40 in a very noticeable way, so it seemed like someone from the three rooms at the end had committed the crime when they hadn’t. He reasoned the poison in the tea acted many minutes after it was ingested and made the victim noticeably shriek when they died, so that the assassin could cut out the footage the same time the victim would shriek, making it seem that the murder happened then and further elaborating on the red herring.

Photo by Arianne Khoo

Wright knew that the murderer was likely someone who worked or previously worked at the hotel; someone who could dress up as a server, and be able to have access to the cameras. He asked the manager for the records, which he promptly received, and searched it. He didn’t know what he was looking for exactly, but when he came across the name “Clara Dressner”, he knew he had a strong hunch. That Clara was the Clara on the fifth floor. Clara used to work at the hotel. She would have access to hotel uniforms and know how to get to the security room. Wright took Clara off the innocent list and Googled her. And what he found was shocking.

He found several articles about her from many prestigious sources. The articles stated that she was the brother of a man who killed himself because he was overworked and had a series of failure at work. But not just any place, at SHR, where Sherman was a partner. In fact, Clara and her family sued Sherman, the man’s boss for killing her brother because of horrible work conditions and too much stress. However, the case fell through and no sentence was issued. Wright came to several conclusions in a moment, and grabbed Park’s attention.

“Park! Hey! I got it!” yelled Wright.

“What? You do? What is it?”

“Where’s Clara? Where is she? Now!” “I think she’s in her room. Wait, why do you--” Wright sprinted to her door and slammed it open; it was unlocked. Clara was sitting in a chair, reading a book.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“You’re going to jail. For a long, long time.”

Finale Park then ran into the room, saying, “Hey! What’s going on?”

“Excuse me?” Clara said, “What have I done?”

“What has she done?” asked Park accusingly, “She’s innocent, she couldn’t have killed him.”

“No Park, you’re wrong,” replied Wright, “The security camera hacking, the red herring, you poisoned the tea!” He was speaking loud and passionately.

“Are you insane? That can’t be true. You’re insane. Stop it,” said Park, defending Clara.

“No, you don’t understand--” In that moment, Clara bolted for the door. She managed to get to the stairs, but Wright stopped her and held her in place. Park had no idea what do or say; he was flabbergasted.

“But Clara, why?” Park asked desperately. But she only returned him a cold stare.

The police arrived an hour later. Wright explained the whole story to the police, which took a long time, but they arrested her in the end.

In Park’s room, Park sat on his bed, thinking about the past few hours, utterly despondent. Wright found Park and sat down next to him.

“How did you know?”

“Things just didn’t add up. You got ice at 11:17 PM, but the cameras just didn’t show it. They didn’t show anything from 11:15 to 11: 35. Clara also worked here, and had bellicose feelings toward the victim, so I figured she must have been plotting the murder. She must have dressed up as a server, poisoned the tea, gave it to him, and hacked the cameras.”

“But then what about the cut out?” Park asked.

“That was a red herring,” Wright responded, “She’s real clever. But she’s in the right hands now.”

“Don’t be so blunt about it,” Park said bitterly.

“I’m sorry, but it’s what’s right.”

“But you don’t understand! Her brother was everything to her, and that madman made him commit suicide. That company caused her so much pain! There is morality in all crimes Wright. The jury will convict her to life in prison, you know that, right? Sherman killed her brother, so she killed him. Eye for an eye.”

“You can’t think like that Park. We are not the jury. We carry out the law and find those who broke it.

We do what’s right without emotion; that’s our job. We cannot operate with our minds if our hearts intrude.”

Wright stood up, walked back to his room, and closed the adjoining door. But Park remained still, sitting in anger and sadness.

Photo by Cooper Winegar

The Sorrow of Trying Leon Hoerdahl The sea crashed hard against the rocks, Scraping them bare until they bled of sorrow, The wind tearing at the seams, Of space and time, The reality I thought I once knew, The home I once thought was safe, Now gone, I sighed, Wondering to myself in this steely night.

What could one do to end this melancholy, This never-ending wave of sadness, The endless crashing of leaden steel, This downbeat, unpromising, bleak, Grim, comfortless, hopeless, life, Yet strangely familiar, But, As I changed my gaze, Trying to make things right, Brought myself from the sea, Of hopelessness, Working every day, Then, Eventually, I Worked enough I made things right, I thought I was one to last, But soon enough I found myself, Back, Staring, Wondering, “What went wrong?�

Art by Mimi Loomis

As the sun dips into the sea, The mirror makes it more prominent.

Colors are splashing, blossoming all over the sky.

At Golden Hour the sky is God's canvas, the sun, and clouds just minor mistakes.

It is gracefully swirling into making something intentional.

For the real stars of the show are the colors.

Somehow, the colors that would never go together are the most beautiful.

The horizon between air and water hazy.

Today, it feels different; the sea mist is rising above, sea and sky uniting into one.

This time it is when the sea and sky forgive each other, they look upon each other like best friends.

Stars twinkle above the still sea, a sign of peace.

Fish jump up to grasp the sky, playfully accepting the friendship.

But after the sun is swallowed by the sea, we see nothing but dark, for the sea and sky separate once again.

Photo by: Rixi LAgutaine

“Where I’m From” Carolina Wen I am from plastic tiaras, paired with puffy pink gown, from my mom’s oversized Ferragamo heels, to the rainbow butterfly clips in my hair, and the boundaries I “occupied” on the playground.

I’m from the ambrosial taste of handmade dim sum, the intricate golden designs of the red packets, the 90’s chinese ballads from my dad’s college days, the melody still etched in my brain, the vibrant colors radiating from the cinema screen, my hands over my eyes shielding them from the spine-curling scenes.

I’m from the flourishing cities of the world, skyscrapers crowded together like trees in the Amazon forests.

Yet I like to think maybe part of me, still seeks raging fields and the wooden houses of my ancestors in the Chinese countrysides.

I am from a family of survivors, dreamers, and tragedies, my grandfathers late-night shifts saving lives with bags under his eyes, my grandmother’s troubled childhood with drunken bottles of alcohol, my mom’s whimsical wishes of leaving town, my great uncle drowning with his river of hopes.

I am from yes you can, to no one can make you feel inferior without your own consent.

This is a poem for the tiny details, the intricate golden filigree, that make up who I am.

Photo Credits: Justin Lee

Where the East Meets the West: The Meaning of the Term “Middle”

Kristy Luk

Being a sixth grader, I have just started my journey as being a student in the Middle School, and I will move up to become the middle of the Middle School next year. I see this term “middle” in the school everywhere: the school entrance, student planners, and even on the name cards of teachers. Surrounded by the word “middle” everywhere, I wonder what this word actually means to me.

Another perspective of the word “middle” is that we should live a balanced life. We should have a balance between academic studies and social relationships. Just like a balance scale, we have to find our own “middle” in our life. For some it can mean to follow the Chinese saying, while for others it means to follow the Western philosophy.

For instance, one meaning of the word “middle” is that I am in the middle of my learning journey. Looking back, there are so many things that I learnt in the previous years of my learning journey, easy stuff like counting, and the alphabets. There will also be many difficult subjects I will have to learn about, like trigonometry and calculus in the future.

As you can see, such a simple and common word that we see every day can have so many meanings, each that are unique, special, and put the name of our school into different perspectives, and also adds major significance to our lives. I just started my journey as a student in Middle School, and still have a long way to go to complete this journey. At this stage in this journey and my life, this is what I see of the word “middle” and what it means to me. I wonder, when I grow older and pass through more experiences, what will this term, “middle”, mean to me?

Another meaning of the word “middle” is from an old Chinese saying, saying that being in the middle is the safe place to be, and the correct place to be. This makes good sense. Imagine you are marching with a group of soldiers, you being in the middle.

You are the core person, the one providing support to the whole military. This is a safe place to be because you are not in the front, the first one to be attacked, or at the back, laying behind. This is the correct place to be because you, the center, are providing core support for the military.

However, we should take this saying not only literally, but also symbolically. We should not try to stick out in a community, or be the worst person in a community, we should be somewhere in the middle, and live a simple yet meaningful life.

Meanwhile, I propose that you let me share the above ideas to you so that you could think more about what the term “middle” means to you.

In the West one type of philosophy is that being in the middle also means having the greatest power and significance. On the podium, the champion stands in the middle, during ceremonies or meetings, the head figure always stands in the middle. Being flanked on either side, the middle is a symbol of power.

The two preceding ideas do not seem to fully agree. The idea above states that being in the middle is simple and low-key, while the idea just mentioned states that being in the middle is outstanding and glamorous.

Talia Tom

Inklings 2019