LINK 2020 by English Society, A.A.H.K.U.S.U.

TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE 3 FOREWORD

PAGE 4 IN RETROSPECT

PAGE 7 JUG OF THOUGHTS

PAGE 26 CREATIVE WORKS

PAGE 44 RECOMMENDATIONS 2

‘WHAT IS IT YOU LIKE ABOUT THIS HOUSE SO MUCH?’ ‘HISTORY’ If you have been following the activities of our society, you would know that LINK is usually published in April (at least for the first edition). Moving the publication date of LINK was one of many choices we had to make throughout our year as part of the cabinet. I still remember that day in October as my team and I decided on the theme and the contents over Skype (back when Zoom and Discord weren’t even on our minds!). We started in October, we’re ending in October. LINK basically signifies the start and the end of our journey, so this publication would be a perfect gift to my team and I as we reach the end of our session.

F O R E W We decided on the theme Hope in October 2019, and here we are, one year later, laying down our finishing touches, in October 2020. O Somehow, one year later, this theme is still relevant to the world. 2020 has been chaotic: we have already gone through wave after R wave of the pandemic, the rise of hope, the fall of hope. In December of 2019, I asked my team to write their pieces on their interpretation of hope. In September of 2020, I asked them once D again if they would want to rewrite their pieces. As the editor, it is absolutely amazing and inspiring to see a change in their perspectives towards life as reflected in their pieces.

There always comes a bittersweet moment when you must pass the baton to the next generation, the number that marks the days until the end of our journey is decreasing with every passing hour. I must once again thank my team for being my source of support and inspiration throughout this journey, and Felix for having faith in me with this responsibility, and guiding me along the way.

Pauline Wong Editor

A Ghost Story (2017) dir. David Lowery

I N R E T R O S P E C T

Walking down the memory lane of the events that we managed to slip in amidst the pandemic, all socially-distanced and safe, of course: what memories of these beautiful periods have we chosen to be remembered forever? Will we look back one day and remember that all those hopeless nights drilling over preparation work were only dust on the back of our hands?

19/08/2020–30/08/2020 ORIENTATION PROGRAMME Our Online Orientation Programme, themed Crazy Rich Asians— The Unfamiliar Familiar, was successfully held in late August. The theme was reflected throughout the Registration Days (19/8 and 24/8) and our very first Orientation On Camera (29/8 and 30/8). Through this programme, we hope that freshmen would be able to familiarise themselves with the new learning environment, and in doing so, adapt to their university life. On the Registration Days, we introduced the School of English and the courses offered in the coming school year to the freshmen. Our society’s publication, the Annual Journal and our Orientation on Camera were also promoted to them. During our Orientation on Camera, participants participated in the activity on Zoom along with our helpers and our fellow ExCo members. We first played ice-breaking games such as Charades and Skribbl.io, followed by our Society Game, which introduced the five different facets of university life to our participants. Our most anticipated activity, Werewolf, was held after the Society Game. Participants were assigned to different groups in this exciting game, eager to identify the imposter among them. Our last event, Letter to Myself, encouraged participants to reflect on their journeys and ponder upon the university life they will be exploring in the next four to five years. The Orietation on Camera was especially successful with 60 participants participating in our event. We pay gratitude to our wonderful helpers for supporting us and devoting their time to making our event smooth and fun. We do hope our dear freshmen had an unforgettable time participating in our programme and we wish them all a great school year ahead. 5

26/09/2020 POETRY NIGHT The long-awaited Poetry Night was successfully held on the 26th September on the theme of Identity. This is the first time our society has ever held, let alone host a poetry night. Saying that we were nervous prior to the night of the event is an understatement, but we are glad to say that the event was a great success. What’s great about literature and creative writing is that a single theme can be interpreted in so many different ways. When we chose the theme Identity we wished that our participants could take this broad theme and run wild with it. While labels are, of course, not important, it would be a meaningless statis to say that one can be without the position of any label, or, an identity. Whether it be gender, family role, societal role etc., we all have something to name ourselves, and if not, society always has something to perceive us as. Within the limited time, we were able to fit in around 20 readers to either share their very own original verses to us, or read out a poem that they believe is relevant to the theme. After each performance, we had a short discussion session on the content of the poem, and the thoughts we had after reflecting on it. While it started off as a rather academic and stoic night, the rhythm of the words soon coaxed the emotions out of us as we speak of our personal journeys in parallel to the vulnerabilities of the poems. It is especially meaningful, to see how literature can connect people in different parts of Hong Kong. We are so grateful for the positive feedback coming from the participants and the overwhelming support, and we sincerely hope that our dear participants had a great time coming to our event. To end this, allow me to share with you one of my favorite lines from the night: A soul unshackled like eternity, Spurning earth’s vain and soul debasing thrall But now I only know I am— that’s all. 6— I Feel I Am - John Clare

T J H U O G U G H O T F S

LORIS GOSAMKEE MBTI ENFP POSITION CHAIRPERSON MAJOR ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LINGUISTICS MINOR MUSIC ZODIAC SIGN VIRGO ANTHEM BIRD SET FREE LITERARY WORK TWILIGHT WORD SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS NAME

People say music is the key to opening your soul. When words fail, music speaks. It soothes you when you are in despair, it calms you when you are nervous. It hits the strings of your heart and lifts your spirits. Music is the light in the dark. For me, music is not just for enjoyment, it’s a safe port when I am depressed, a place for me to recover. Here, I would like to share a few important things that occurred in my life, and how each piece of music raised me up.

April 2014 Song of the month: Let It Go― Idina Menzel “Music and rhythm find their way into the secret places of the soul.” — Plato It was my first singing competition and it was devastating. We had mixed up the dates for the competition and did not have enough time to prepare for the repertoire. It was not the best feeling being under-prepared. Feeling defeated, I went home with tears rolling down my cheeks. People always say Disney has its way of working its magic, and even in your darkest days it could ignite a spark within. Let It Go, being one of the most ‘iconic’ Disney songs (for which it has been stuck in everyone’s head for years) taught me more than I thought a song could do. We shouldn’t be holding onto our past mistakes, concealing it and not feeling it. When you let things go, life opens new doors for you to explore. Keep your hopes high, and you will find your way to building your own empire.

October 2019 Choral piece of the month: Smile― Libera “Music is the moonlight in the gloomy night of life.” ― Jean Paul Friedrich Richter It is one of the gloomiest days of my life. My great grandmother has passed away. It was not shocking, but I was definitely heartbroken. Seeing her pass away made me think of how I would make excuses to not meet her and complain about how I had to push her wheelchair back to the elderly home. She had said she liked me and wanted to see me more. But in the end, she went to heaven and left me no chance to redeem myself. Regrets turned into depression, like a torch losing its light. This piece makes me believe that mourning is not the only thing I can do in memory of her, but also smiling through difficult times. “Smile and maybe tomorrow, you’ll see the sun come shining through you.” Music has always had a dear place in my heart: to excite, heal, and comfort. It inspires me to be hopeful despite the obstacles I must face. I wish you could find the music that teaches you to believe and be hopeful as well.

RENEE LUI MBTI ENFP POSITION EXTERNAL VICE-CHAIRPERSON MAJORS ENGLISH STUDIES ART HISTORY ZODIAC SIGN LEO-VIRGO CUSP ANTHEM SAW YOU IN A DREAM LITERARY WORK SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGESE WORD MIRAGE NAME

Rain fell mercilessly on my windowpane. The drumming noise rang like a bell and sliced through my slumber. I took a glance at the clock― it was three in the morning. I heaved the duvet away and dragged my heavy body out of the bed. I limped over to the wooden table, gave it soft caresses as if it was you touching my hair. My fingers reached the record player and placed the needle on the plastic record. The sound of violins filled the dark room instantly. Vivaldi’s Cessate Omai Cessate resonated in the empty space and I started dancing in the dark along with the dulcet tunes― Cease Henceforth stop Savage memories Of a potent love; Heartless and remorseless, You have changed my joy into intense regret. Hope is of duality. On one hand, it fuelled me to discover the wonders of life. On the other hand, it offered me dark advice that plunged me into the deepest abyss of hopelessness. Your honey dipped hoax was a deceiving siren. Lured me into your endangering embrace then you pushed me into the deep dark ocean of regret. My limbs waved in the air swiftly, body swayed softly to the melodious tunes like a willow tree that weeps next to a river. The cantata continues and moved on to its next verse. For me there is no cure, For me no more hope. Only death will quench My pain and sadness. I let my fingers dance on the table and found the red lipstick you gave me. I held it in my palm and continued to dance. Amidst the darkness, the golden tube of the lipstick shone like a star. Its light so blinding and vivid like the memories we once shared. Yet its light dimmed when the tube slowly turned rusty with the fleeting time; our memories rusted after you slammed the door and left. I threw its cap across the room, spun the red wax out from the tube and drew lines after lines on my wrist. The record continued to spin. I arched my feet, stood on my frail toes and spun in the room like a ballerina in a white tutu tainted with splotches of red. The melodies sung by the soprano dimmed down as she sang― I come, dear caves I come, hospitable places, Until at last, destroyed by my grief, I will entomb myself there. Dizzy from the spins, I lay on the floor, staring at the bright full moon which is far from my reach on the other side of the glass window. I yearned to bathe in the moonlight and let in some light and hope to my life again. However, the barbaric glass would not let me do so. Here, I lie on the cold hard wooden floor, I closed my eyes, waiting to be entombed in darkness, grief and despair. Moonlight shone through the glass and filtered on my pale wrist which bloom red roses. Potent love no longer entrap me inside this cold dark room of mine as I dissolved into the night sky.

CARMAN CHAN MBTI INFP VICE-CHAIRPERSON AND ACTING FINANCIAL SECRETARY MAJORS ENGLISH STUDIES GLOBAL CREATIVE INDUSTRIES MINOR TRANSLATION ZODIAC SIGN AQUARIUS ANTHEM I HAVE QUESTIONS LITERARY WORK THE ALCHEMIST WORD DETERMINATION NAME

POSITION INTERNAL

“I like the night. Without the dark, we’d never see the stars.” I know this saying may sound a bit cliché, but only when we have experienced the darkest moments in our life do we learn how to cherish the shimmer of light we have. Without dull moments, we can never realize how bright happiness could be. Allow me to share my darkest moments with you. I had a breakdown in Primary 6, when I was trapped in the middle of a broken family: my parents were on the verge of divorce and thus I had to face the dilemma of choosing between my parents. To a twelve-year-old, it was possibly one of the toughest decisions one ever had to make. Every time I reminisce that period, sorrow and tears fill me. Spoiled by my parents, I had no idea how I was going to deal with separation from any one of them. Amidst their daily quarrels, I was lonely, isolated. I refused to talk to anyone about the situation, not even my friends because I felt they would not understand me. I was on the verge of depression, the burden on my shoulders putting me on thin ice, and perhaps tipping me towards a dark voyage of doom. The same year, we fortunately reached a turning point. It was almost like an episode from a soap opera, the deux ex machina. On 7th June of that year, my sister was born into our family. I vividly remember how this tiny little creature brought so much joy and happiness to the family, how her smile warmed every one of us, how her giggle woke the hope within our hearts. Only then did my family start to mend our bond again. She is like an angel sent to us from heaven to light up our lives. Life is bitter, but she is the little sweetness in it. Hope is not only a simple word that is formed by four letters: each letter has its own unique meaning. Today, I finally understand the true meaning of hope. First, always remember there is a place called Home, where you can take a rest and find a shoulder to lean on. Second, be Optimistic. Third, whenever there is a hurdle, be Persistent. Last but not least, love Everyone, love Everything. Only when we keep these in mind do we have hope in our hearts and see the stars in our lives.

TIMOTHY LO MBTI INFJ POSITION GENERAL SECRETARY MAJORS COMPARATIVE LITERATURE MINORS ART HISTORY FRENCH ZODIAC SIGN LEO ANTHEM LIGHTS LITERARY WORK A CHRISTMAS CAROL WORD LOVE NAME

To every mother, bearing and giving birth to a child is an experience to be cherished for life. But for my mother, it is quite the opposite. Upon sheer misfortune, she lost her first child. I did not know of this until I turned ten. I remembered asking her one day, “How did you come up with my name?” She was silent for a while as the realization sank in that it was time she tell the truth. As the story was being vividly painted in front of me, tears consumed my eyes and my vision blurred. I could not wait until the end of the story― I stood up and hugged her. She is a warrior in silver armor. Drowning in misery, she fought her way out of the dark woods. She tumbled, but did not crumble; She screamed, but did not utter a single word of giving up. She dragged her body of wounds until she saw the sparkle of light. My birth ignited the spark of fire on her darkest night. Through her faith of hope, she made it through. Being so grateful of the light in her hallway, she named me “Tin Yan”. These two simple Chinese characters means ‘to be grateful every day’. Since then, counting my blessings has become my everyday practice. The pain which my mother went through was unmeasurable. Yet, she hoped for a better tomorrow every day. Gratitude is the biggest lesson I have learnt from her. Every sunrise that farewells the night, every moment we spend with our loved ones and every breath we take are indeed blessings to us. Every day after I wake up and before I go to bed, I will count the blessings that I have one-by-one. Very often, we are too busy that we ignore all those blessings in life, but how about we slow our footsteps and appreciate every blessing that we have? After all, being grateful allows us to appreciate the beauty in life.

CARMAN CHEUNG MBTI ESFP SECRETARY AND ACTING MARKETING SECRETARY MAJORS TRANSLATION GERMAN ZODIAC SIGN CANCER ANTHEM GOLDEN SLUMBERS LITERARY WORK I HUNT KILLERS WORD ADVENTURE NAME

POSITION PROMOTION

There were two ways to reach my destination. Option one was to ride on a hot air balloon, which was more challenging but it would bring me a unique experience. The other option was to get there by plane, which was boring yet safe. What would I do? I would step back and stay in my cozy cave which had everything I ever needed. You may start wondering about the reasons behind my choice. Why didn’t I start my adventure when there were options and opportunities already? You see, riding on a hot air balloon was too dangerous for me. I might lose directions or face emergencies that I could not solve, which made me nervous and pessimistic. Then why didn’t I choose to go there by plane, which was relatively safer? Cowardice prevented me from doing that. There could still be risks and the plane might lose control unexpectedly. That was why the best decision was to stay in my cave. Yes, I probably did over-think that quite a bit. Back in the days, I would worry over everything. Giving my opinions in front of everyone? No, thank you, I didn’t want to be mocked at. Should I participate in this programme that I’ve always wanted to be a part of? No, what if the other participants did way better than me in the interviews? I’m sure even people who have never had these kinds of thoughts before would be sick of them already, the same way I was sick of them myself. I was so sick of my pessimism and low self-esteem, but I couldn’t control them. I had no hope for myself. Only a few of my closest friends knew about this side of me, the Carman who hid her thoughts and true feelings. On top of that, I tried to paint myself as confident all the time, so not many people would see my true side. I didn’t find a breakthrough until last year. Entering university sent me into the arms of a few new acquaintances. Some of them have even become good friends with me, friends who are willing to listen to my pessimistic thoughts whenever I feel low. They don’t mind spending hours and hours to ease my anxiety and give me hope. I couldn’t express how grateful I am. Once, one of my friends even sent me cards and a letter to help me gain confidence and seek hope. Now, even though I am not the most confident person in the world, I know I am confident, hopeful and courageous enough to start any adventure that I want to have. This time, the same choices are in front of me again. Let’s step out of my cozy cave and have a fantastic and marvelous journey by having a hot air balloon ride. It is time to unfold our adventure with hope!

JOYCE MAK MBTI INFJ POSITION PROMOTION SECRETARY MAJORS ENGLISH STUDIES HISTORY MINOR SPANISH ZODIAC SIGN CAPRICORN ANTHEM DEMONS LITERARY WORK NEVER LET ME GO WORD PASSION NAME

Many people have said that 2020 is the worst year in history. The COVID-19 pandemic alone is already a great factor itself. People have lost their jobs, lives, and of course, hope. For many university students like me, 2020 is a huge challenge. Not only do we need to adapt to the new online learning platforms and methods, we also have to worry about the daily escalating reported cases of COVID-19. It seems that everything in 2020 is changing too quickly. I was still a first-year student at the beginning of 2020 trying to figure out what university meant to me, so it is not surprising that I would feel ‘overwhelmed’ with the sudden changes around me. Everything had been moved online and it would be ages before I was able to see my friends once again. My daily routine consisted of staring blankly at the computer screen instead of enjoying university life the way I had anticipated to be. Upon the year-long experience of online learning, my identity as a college student remained foreign and unfamiliar to me. It was extremely hard to cope with the inevitable changes and failures in the early months of 2020. My world was falling apart, my hope for the world was dangling off the cliff, slipping away quickly and steadily bit by bit, day by day. I remembered spending nights, alone, in tears. We are humans after all. We have feelings. It is totally fine for us to feel frustrated and unmotivated in these difficult times. Just as I was digging myself into the deepest hole, a phone call from my grandmother ignited a spark in the depths of my despair. She immediately sensed that something was wrong from my shaky voice, even when I was trying to keep my cool. She didn’t say much in that phone call, but she ended it by quoting John Milton’s “every cloud has a silver lining”. Long after we conversed on the phone, her voice and words still echo in my head today. I must thank my grandmother for encouraging me to conquer fear and difficulties with the power of hope. With the sparkle of hope in my grasp, I walked across the hallway of the impossible and opened up a brand new world where I learned to appreciate the beauty in life. The process of finding hope in chaos is undoubtedly very arduous to me but I am also thankful for how hope has guided me this year. As I watch 2020 slowly coming to an end, I realize maybe it is not as bad as I have expected!

PAULINE WONG MBTI INTJ POSITION PUBLICATION SECRETARY AND ACTING ACADEMIC SECRETARY MAJOR COMPARATIVE LITERATURE ZODIAC SIGN SCORPIO ANTHEM THE KILLERâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S DEATH - INSTRUMENTAL LITERARY WORK INCEPTION WORD DEUX EX MACHINA NAME

We stand demurely along the line drawn at the break of dawn Gazing at the shadows and the patterns they form Against the ebb and flow of the concrete floor. A subtle shift from the soles of my shoes sop up freckles Of powder and send them flying over the line that meddles With our power. The black ink that draws the line writes also the lines I am to speak To any question about my shape and angles. Words tweaked Into my mouth just because the black ink says so. Like a script it introduces the blocking, the venue, the status quo: The dotted matrixes attach themselves to the yellow expanse Of my skin, holding me captive with escape at no chance. But lines donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stay straight like the way my mind runs when I see pretty girls. Lines are meant to be caved, concaved, convexed, like curls. We push our soles against the black ink back and forth, Back and forth like the battles we fight for decades we only hope to go north. When the black is blurred like the boundaries that define binaries, Who is to say that to society we must not displease? I cross the line of society because it does not define me, their golden ratio Curves beautifully but still limited by the 16 to 9 domino. My mind will picture tranquility incepted from the symmetry Of Wes Anderson films so my dreams are my reality, Or will be; until the day I no longer crook my long finger wielding Thoughts that can only exist in papers unyielding.

GRACE NGAN MBTI ESFP POSITION SOCIAL SECRETARY MAJORS ENGLISH STUDIES GLOBAL CREATIVE INDUSTRIES ZODIAC SIGN GEMINI ANTHEM DRESS UP LITERARY WORK NEVER EAT ALONE WORD MEH NAME

Drooling over the perfect dumplings made by my grandma is the happiest memory of my childhood. Seeing my grandma effortlessly churn out rows of plump balls of dough used to make my eyes greener than the cabbage fillings. I remember being ordered by my grandmother to glisten the rim of the wrappings with water and enfold the fillings into the thin layer of dough and then into little halfmoons. “Nice job! This dumpling ho leng wor!” No matter how distorted my dumplings were, my grandma would still praise me as if I were a Michelin chef and treated me with the largest dumpling stuffed with juicy pork and crispy cabbage. Despite my privilege of being my grandma’s favorite grandchild, I was a skinny kid who did not like to eat and always refused to eat her generously filled dumplings, the very same treats I missed most when my grandma left us 9 years ago. I was very close with my grandma when I was younger. She lived with me and I enjoyed clinging onto her like a koala hugging the sturdy trunk of a tall tree. However, there was one thing about her that I did not love that much— her mastery in nagging her grandchildren. Neither of my siblings and I would go practice playing the piano out of our own will. While I was playing with my doll, she would say, “Lok Ching, go play the piano for me.” I was constantly showered with compliments as a kid, so now you know why I am so indifferent to praises and appreciations. However, no matter how hard she tried to beg me, I would not get close to that little black chair until my mom came home and yelled at me. Ever since my grandma left me, I have always missed her dumplings, missed her nagging, missed her being the only person who would accompany me whenever I feel lonely. She was my source of security. There are nights that I would dream of her and wake up with tears on my face. But I know two things for sure— one, I will meet her in heaven one day and second, she is my guardian angel watching me from above. It is of the biggest pity that she was not able to witness the moments when I passed my piano exams. I know for a fact she would be proud of me. I pick up another piece of wrapping, scooped up a spoonful of fillings and folded it into a dumpling which the dough hugs the fillings tightly. How wonderful would it be if I could make dumplings for her again!

LACUS CHENG MBTI ESFP SECRETARY MAJORS ENGLISH STUDIES TRANSLATION ZODIAC SIGN AQUARIUS ANTHEM HAVE IT ALL LITERARY WORK JANE ERYE WORD ENOUGH NAME

POSITION PROGRAMME

Just like what Robert Ludlum has said, “hope is the only thing stronger than fear”. I strongly believe that hope serves as the strongest factor that takes us out of any hardship. As a result, it is important to everyone in order to survive. Graduating from secondary school is a really big milestone for me: it took me out of the comfort zone that is my dear teachers and secondary classmates, whom I’ve known for a long while. While I am proud of this achievement, it also creates great fear. After all, I am the kind of person who doesn’t enjoy stepping out of my comfort zone. Most importantly, any new journey would mean the arrival of one thing, and my greatest fear— oblivion. The expanse of university seems as large as the universe itself. I was very curious about everything but at the same time, I was also so anxious about everything. When I first entered HKU, one of my biggest fears is losing my closest friends from secondary school, or not being able to meet any new friends. Basically, I was afraid of being alone. If I have to be honest, this fear and anxiety has been growing since after the release of JUPAS results, from the moment I knew I am to be a HKU student. Sitting there, I had felt as if university was a bowl of soup and I was a fork. Nevertheless, I started to adjust my mentality when the orientation period approached, and to see the light of hope. Orientation camp marked the beginning of my university life, including the camps organized by Arts Association, English Society as well as the Rotaract Club. Throughout these three camps, I felt as if I had made a lot of friends. However, I didn’t keep in contact with most of them since we drifted apart after the reunion. Hence, I started to feel alone again, and I could not help myself from overthinking: how am I supposed to carry on with my life when there is no one standing by my side? Hope is a miraculous thing as it could appear when someone encourages and supports you. Even though I am always isolating myself or crying over unchangeable facts, my closest friends and family would still show their love and care to me every single day. For instance, encouraging me to hang out more, reminding me of my worth and giving countless suggestions to me. What they have said or done may seem so little, but it means so much to me and their love is what is keeping me alive today. Losing hope is the most dangerous thing as the loss of it has the power to kill us. However, we need not fear, because hope is all around us if we allow ourselves to see it.

The Lane of Mist

Onto her cuff climbs the dew after midnight, Moaning a song forgotten in rain; Damp were the mosses that hardly realized Faded memory of ever-coming Day. Into the middle she silently hides, Speaking a riddle of unspoken vain; Behind the corner her black gown shines And ripples that blossom along the lane. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Bugles in mountains Ashes of pain.â&#x20AC;? Tales and myths of never-dim dawnlight, And endless songs were gone in faint; She comes trotting with feet in pure-white, With ripples that blossom along the lane. Cai Xuheng

Death is Positive Alvin Hung

Trigger warnings: death, blood. mention of suicide It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Hazel and Payton were in a fancy Italian restaurant celebrating Hazel’s recent completion of the university entrance exams. It was just the two of them tonight— their parents didn’t want to intrude on their sibling bonding moment. They were going to banter and laugh and don’t think about the fact that after a year, it was Payton’s turn to take the exams. Then… he couldn’t remember, like his memories were replaced with static. There was a man, a man with a knife and there was blood, so much blood and screaming too. Payton was pushed onto the floor, there were noises and shouting, and… he couldn’t remember anything else. Then silence. The thick metallic stench of iron permeated the air. He could hear footsteps approaching him, the soft squelching of blood. The man was coming towards him. He could hear his breaths; they were so loud. Payton closed his eyes. If he’s going to die, he doesn’t want to see the blade coming for him. The footsteps stopped, replaced by a soft dripping in front of him. Payton creaked open his eyes and saw the man looking down at him with his head tilted to the side, like he was some specimen under a microscope. “Aren’t you going to kill me?” Payton blurted out. The man looked at him curiously. “Do you want me to?” “NO!” He exclaimed. “No… I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die…” He repeated, like a mantra. He sat there on the floor shellshocked when his gaze fell to his left and he looked into a pair of eyes. Right beside him laid Hazel’s blood-soaked body, with a large gash on her neck still slowly weeping blood out. Eyes that were a shining hazel brown were now a dull drab shade. The image of his fallen sister was seared into his brain. The man looked around the now-empty restaurant and laughed. “Looks like I went a bit overboard. That happens.” “You… you killed her. You killed Hazel.” Payton whispered. “If you ask me, I did her a favour.” “A favour?!” “It’s not that difficult to understand. You know what? Let me write it out for you.”

He walked over to a wall and using the crimson blood dripping from his arm, he began to write on its surface. “Since there is no afterlife, and don’t give me all that hogwash about Heaven and Hell, death is neutral because you aren’t conscious. This gives death a value of zero.” As he spoke, he drew his finger across the wall, slowly writing out an equation. “What… what are you saying?” “That your sister, sorry, dead sister doesn’t miss you. Her brain doesn’t work anymore. No brain, no life, no emotions.” “Why… why did you do this?” Payton shouted. Tears were now scaling down his cheeks. Slap! “Tsk tsk. Has your mother never taught you to not interrupt people when they’re speaking?” The man said before turning around and continuing to write on the wall. But Payton wasn’t listening. His right cheek was stinging, though numbed by shock. Instead, he was focused on the thick sticky crimson slowly dripping down his cheek. The smell of blood increased tenfold as it shot up his nose and he could taste it. He could taste iron. There was blood in his mouth. Some blood, someone’s blood, managed to get into his mouth and he was tasting it. “Anyways, as I was saying, death has a value of zero. But to experience bad things in life, all that pain and suffering, that’s always negative, no matter how you try to spin it.” He continued writing on the wall. “So, the lack of negative experiences has a positive value. Thus, death has a positive value!” The man spun around with a slight gusto, like he was presenting some grand formula. “See? Very simple.” Payton stared in shock at the words written in front of him. DEATH = 0 + VALUE “Why do you look so sad? I just proved that your sister is better off dead, using math no less.” “You’re wrong…” Payton whispered. “Excuse me?” The man seemed taken aback. “Yo-You’re wrong. Life has value. It isn’t just negative experiences. The-There’s also happiness and… and…”

“Oh? And for every happy moment, how many sad ones are there? For every crush you had, how many led to heartbreaks? For every birth, how many deaths are there?” The man snarled. There was the faint sound of police sirens in the distance. “Whoops, got to cut our little conversation short. Looks like I got to go. Places to be, people to kill.” “You-You’re going to let me live?” The man smirked and tapped his nose, like he had some little secret that only he knew. “There’s no point wasting my efforts.” There were 131 victims that day. They weren’t able to catch the murderer. It was as if the man disappeared into thin air. Yet every day, the memory of the event would haunt him. There are days where he would sit on the sofa, some random show playing in the background, and Payton would stare at the empty spot beside him. The place Hazel used to sit. The place where she used to watch silly shows with him. The place which now stood empty. Payton didn’t want to admit it, but that man was right. And he finally understood what his parting words meant. There were 132 victims that day.

A Reason to Be You showed me love on a tree branch. White billows. Soft rain. Flushed in heat, it felt like a summer: My languid soul. There was something broken in your eyes. Flaring sunstones breathing light but flush, close behind, I could hear the rush of water. I think the teardrops wanted to scream. Beating furrows on your flesh, where memories pool together and demons sigh. If thoughts must puddle themselves against our fleshy walls. And aching voices warn us that remembering is snow. Then lead me to the valley where those darkened streams unfold, those untouchable recesses. And our flesh will puddle itself. The wind pulls starlight from sky Eternityâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; what colour! If we forget, and shadows leave Can heaven enter our souls? You showed me love that day, and since I have remembered your face, so softly. The pools, though they still remain their surface rarely stirs. Just cast your newfound sails, my love. And I will dream of cotton.

Felix Chow

A Last Resort

John K. V. Bewley Julia had been lying naked in bed when she reached for her mobile. It was 1 on a Saturday afternoon. “Hi, Catherine. The deal went well, thanks. I’ll be back at night for them. Thanks very much.” Julia really wasn’t bothered. Catherine was always the busy body everybody disliked. But soon Julia’s opinion towards her quickly dissipated when she felt an ice pick being sandwiched and run meanderingly through the curve of her thighs. The electric shock made her spine arch outwards. His intentions were clear. No. No more. Before she could succumb to her lustful longing, she jackknifed out of the bed and walked towards a wardrobe. “I wouldn’t want to be charged double”, she spoke nonchalantly as she took a blue dress off its hanger. “That trick usually works, so I thought I’d give it a gamble. Your acrobatic display almost broke my finger”. He replied as he nursed it with the warmth of his other hand. The agreeable Dover sunshine struggled through the blinds in the dim motel room and the stripes of light and shade on Julia’s sensuous nude figure only made her more desirable to the man. The years had been kind to her and she was still quite the femme fatale. “Though in your case, it’d be on the house. A rare exception.” She smiled at the compliment. He was brilliant at his job, but the climaxes they’d shared just couldn’t cloud the guilt she experienced every time. The golden ring she’d placed on the window sill reminded her of it, and the call she received from her mother-in-law earlier didn’t help either. Julia adjusted the dress on her fine figure and put on the beige flats near the doorway. Her tousled hair swung like a samba when she turned to face him. “We can’t do this anymore. I’m serious”. He knew she was from the tone. “I see, but you should’ve heard yourself yesterday night.” A tinge of embarrassment welled up inside her that her flushed cheeks couldn’t conceal. “As hard as it is for you to believe. I’m a Catholic. A bloody Catholic.” The motel near the white cliffs was a convenient spot for her cavorting, not just location wise, but also for the purpose of persuading doubtful others. The rural cottages on the English coast were hot property amongst new-wave wealthy Chinese and Eastern European merchants who would escort their young mistresses there on their business trips in the UK. It was ironic since, as a realtor, she was satisfying her clients’ as well as her more personal desires there. It made for a great cover up story for her ever-suspicious mother-in-law, which was most important. She hated the train ride back to London as reality would again slap her in the face: her two sons, her mother-in-law, her friends, just not her husband. He was never there. She started reminiscing the days when they’d first met. He was a Catholic and she was a non-believer but they didn’t care.

They were both young, naïve and reckless even, yet were madly in love with each other. The movies they’d watch in the Odeon, their strolls in Hyde Park, the laughter they’d share in the miserable London rain and the virginal excitement prior to their lovemaking on their nuptial bed were flooding her imaginative faculties at that moment. However, two children and a failing marriage later, the slight wrinkles circling her eyes were a testament to those long-lost days. Ever since he’d passed the bar, he wasn’t the same man. He was recruited by a top London law firm and his legal talents proved superior to his colleagues. He was soon getting all the top jobs and made a killing in most of them. The ladies invariably noticed, but he was loyal to his wife and his nosy secretary confirmed that. He still had time for her and the children despite his hectic schedule, but his career change 3 years ago quickly extinguished any illusion of his commitment to spending time with the family. That was when she started her sexual gallivanting with another lover. He told her he had been hired as the personal lawyer of Igor Kalinka, a Russian tycoon who had made his fortune during the establishment of the Russian Federation and had interests in real estate, precious metals, shipping and the entertainment industry. That’s what the papers said. What most people didn’t know was that he was a kingpin in the Russian mafia, financing illegal gambling joints, prostitution hubs and even terrorist operations. Julia only knew of this since she was in the same business he was in and had heard convincing rumours. There couldn’t have been worse news than her husband being the Head of Legal at Kalinka’s conglomerate. Did she love him? Not as much as she used to. But was she worried? Yes, she definitely was. Not for her sake, but her children’s. She didn’t complain when they moved from a house in Hampstead to an apartment in Knightsbridge or getting VIP treatment in every bankers’ club she went to, but any mishap in her husband’s job and they’d all get implicated. She could’ve filed for a divorce, but the sinful pleasures of the flesh had only made her senseless, not stupid. Every child needs a father growing up, and she was well aware of that maxim. *** “Darling, I’m still in Tel Aviv negotiating a deal with some Arab sheikh. You know how these things are. I’m sorry, but I think it’ll be another 2 weeks before I get back. Love you lots. XXX” At least he texted her. Last time it was Monaco, this time it was Tel Aviv. Cities synonymous with the underworld and dark wrongdoing smudged over by their opulent façades. Kalinka had asked him to tag along to assist him on the legal arrangements of some dodgy business venture in the Middle East. She knew her husband was completely aware of the risk of his work and the moral depravity in it as well. But what she couldn’t accept was how he was potentially putting her and the children in danger. She’d asked him to get another job, but it was hopeless. The money was too good to refuse. In spite of her dissatisfaction, she still knew there was no excuse for her affair. Yet, it gave her some perverse sort of relief that by and large, both of them had blasphemed against the Church by their actions, which was something they shared. Julia lied to her mother-in-law so she would take care of the kids, allowing her to screw that gigolo on an almost weekly basis, and her husband was indirectly involved with the so-called forces of evil, hardly things condoned in the House of God. Of course, sordid popes and members of the clergy had always been involved in scandals, they thought, so why couldn’t they?

As she was replenishing her makeup in front of a mirror, she thought of a conversation they had had when he switched jobs. “Julia, I love you, and I have not kept any secrets from you. But for the sake of us, don’t inquire on the contents of my work.” “Why? What is it that you can’t share with me? Am I to be some Italian housewife solely responsible for making hot meals for the family and taking the kids to school?” “Yes and no. You have to understand that my work is highly sensitive, and you might not like it. Some things are better left unsaid. All I ask for you is to believe me.” Julia conceded. She knew he was doing it for the love of his family. Though a man who did not make time for his family could not be considered a man. She still loved him, but his absence was problematic to their relationship. That void had to be filled, quite literally too. In the end, all she wanted was her husband to be safe, was that too much to hope for? The train had arrived at Euston and she disembarked. She’d have to see Catherine. Bugger. Julia’s girl friends were shocked when they heard that she had been baptized. Julia shocked herself too and she wouldn’t have done so if it weren’t for Catherine. She started going to church, attending sermons and confessing but not because she believed in God. She just loved her husband too much. This reluctance however did not excuse her from taking Communion with Catherine and the children every Sunday morning. As if being a real estate agent wasn’t tough enough. Catherine answered the door when Julia rang the doorbell to their luxurious apartment. After a customary hug, she went in and was greeted by her children and some food on the table. The sight of her children brought her immense elation. “How was the deal with that Sri Lankan socialite? You gave the impression it was going to take longer.” Catherine always tried to make polite conversation with Julia. “Yes, it did seem so. But I gave it to him straight up with a twist. It was tough, but I pulled through. It was exhausting. Thanks for doing the cooking by the way.” Julia smirked at the multiple layers of meaning in her remark. “Anytime, love. I’ll see you tomorrow morning downstairs. We’ll head to the cathedral together.” Julia finished up and unpacked. The children, undisciplined as usual, started harassing their mother. She played with them for a while and tucked them in bed at night. And that was when she got her second phone call from the day. It was from her husband. “Julia, is it you? I’m calling to tell you that I’m in trouble. Israel has started a manhunt on Kalinka. Don’t call the authorities or things will get worse. Can’t talk now, I’ll call you when I can. Tell the kids I love them. I love you too.”

Julia froze where she stood and stared into an empty space. She was mortified. But she trusted her husband, despite his work, and decided to sleep on it. She would not involve the authorities as per her husband’s instructions. It was a particularly cold night, and for some reason, Julia for the first time in her life, actually looked forward to the following day, because from what she could see, there wasn’t much else she could do. *** Julia, Catherine and the children took a cab to Westminster Cathedral, the mother church of England and Wales. Julia was surprised at how calm she was, despite the impending uncertainty on her husband’s fate. The cathedral was grander in the morning sun and the stained-glass windows shielded the interior from heat and light. It would be pleasant inside, a place for prayer. Julia let Catherine and the children enter first. They preferred the pews up front, close to the altar. Julia waited for a while. There was always a sense of apprehension at this moment. She made up her mind and entered. She dipped her fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross, gently smearing the remainder of the moisture on her lips that had sinned so much the previous night. The flickering candles guided her to her preferred row. She genuflected and felt the gradual discomfort of kneeling on the hard iron rail of the pew to wait for her call to Communion. She lowered her head but wasn’t praying. She wasn’t ready yet. Only in these quiet vaulted walls was she able to think about her husband’s life and her own. She had raised two loving children, but was promiscuous to say the least. He was loyal, but had chosen the wrong career path. They were successful, but outcasts of their world. There was nobody on this earth who would not treat them judgmentally should they know of the true contents of their lives. Only in the eyes of God, would they be understood, forgiven and absolved of their sins, for they would never be accepted in this world. Julia only desperately wished for the safety of her children and in spite of her relationship with her husband, she wanted the same for him. She hoped for a better future and turned to divine intervention. The bell tolled for repentance in the recess of the cathedral. Julia struck her chest with her fist, a stroke for atonement. She rose and joined the swathes of communicants to approach the altar. She knelt before the priest and tilted her head, opening her mouth to receive the thin Eucharist. She waited for the unpleasant consistency to vanish as the wafer melted away. She could do what she was there to do. Julia was now spiritually clean, washed of sin and a favoured supplicant. She emptied her mind of all worldly desires and thoughts and left behind her children and Catherine. Finally, with a drive of elephantine profundity to believe, she shuffled her weight from left to right to make her weight less brutal to her knees, and prayed for the soul of her husband.

Futility There are some things lost in the night that go silent as angels in sleep. A baby’s breath, a lover’s heart. Yet we wake up, and dare to hope. Like Zagajewski, too often we try to spot a glimmer in the debris and find ourselves praising shards of glass. Do our hearts stretch less? Time, spent waiting for candles to snuff themselves, looks at the stretchings, halts itself, and shakes its head at the same mistake men make. As we grow we know a heart unchained is not a blessing. It hurts, yet we distance the feeling, and the thing. Does the heart stretch less? If hope is the thing with feathers we should learn to let it fly. But can we let go, and still be human? — Felix Chow

Grief in Growth Lion grieving, spreading wings With its claws, it draws a formless shape Casting everything aside of its soundless vision. Leashing out a cry in purple, in blue, indigo to weave your oxblood tears away. O’ sweet child. Golden palace of shimmering clouds showers down water from our olden days, for our eyes to see for thou eyes to see for our eyes to see the truth within our scars to bear. — Louise Leung

Pandora’s Box: The Duality of Hope Julia Verdickt

Where is the line between Hope and Desperation? Between Perseverance and Illusion? This is the conflict that makes me wary of Hope. It is a beautiful and dangerous thing. Hopes of grandeur can push us to do great things but can suck us into fantasies that tear us from reality and break our hearts and ruin our expectations. When is the time to hope and when is the time to face the music? In ancient Greek mythology, Pandora, the first human, opens a jar left in her care, which she was warned never to open. Sickness, death, and many other evils fly out of the jar and into the human world to plague mankind for all time. At the bottom of the box, however, is the spirit of hope. A small twinkling light amidst the dark forces that now plague the Earth. Through Pandora’s box, we see the duality of hope, which might even be translated from ancient Greek as “deceptive expectation.” The box was designed to hold all the evils that the god Zeus had created, and hope was included within that. While hope consoled Pandora’s fears about the evils she released, it did only that, console her. What is hope without action? There are things we hope for in life: love, security, warmth, care. Sometimes those hopes consume us, turning into desperation, wanting. We construct fantasies and take chances without reason, riding the high that hope gives us. The bright feeling that everything will be alright. We gamble away our money on risky ventures, idolize corrupt politicians that say words that make us feel good, and remain passive with the hope that everything will just “sort itself out”. This is when hope becomes dangerous. When it takes us away from reality, from truth. For Hope to be a force for good, we must take action. We cannot simply hope for evils like poverty, oppression, and abuse to end. We cannot let pink-tinted lenses or bright-colored lights make the world rosier than it is. Those pink-tinted glasses will make us feel safe, but that feeling will only exist in the fantasies we create for ourselves. Let us harness Hope. We should not be controlled by our own fantasies but channel our hopes towards something greater than ourselves. Sometimes the truth can be painful. Let us not use Hope as a shield but as a sword. Something that makes us stronger. We must be willing to take the actions necessary to bring forth the future we hope to see. Only then, will Hope be the flame that lights our way out of darkness and not the spark that makes us feel safe in the confines of the cave.

Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019) dir. CĂŠline Sciamma

Dear Hope, Dear hope, You are so much more than I give credit for. White bulbous mountains puffed against poster-blue skies, my midnight cravings composed of spicy salted fries, or handfuls of sunflower seeds and sugar beads. You are that bitter-sweet hope that I want and need. You slid off like bars of soap. You’re that thin flimsy rope of hope. You are what I use to cope, against this rescinding slope. Yet, here I stand before you, open mind and casual longing. Because you are the arms that make my body feel like belonging to a world that casts judgement Prejudice, injustice and hate. And its only justification is That you’ll be our destined fate. To save us from this turmoil we’ve willingly left ourselves in. Because you’re just that tempting sin. You’re just everything we’ve been taught to doubt, like the seed we sow that fails to sprout. You lead me on like all the ones before, like how I chase the moon, thinking it was chasing me all along. A question of trusting you with blindfolds, which made me think was it all so wrong? If I really understood how you behaved and reacted, You’d be diseases that I never would have contracted. Why is this affliction leaving me attracted to the repercussions behind a glorious facade?

The sun owes the sky sunrises everyday, just as how humanity depends on your magic. In the sweet sweet tumours that feel tragic. Because we await you. Always waiting. Waiting for creeping flickers of sunlight when the moment of time strikes right. If we happen to be blinded by darkness, we will forget what comes after night. The moon owes the sky its concubines of stars, sparkling in galactic archaic kingdoms. In what lay the saccharine sap of crooked trees is millions of asteroid-birds set free, cannoning explosive supernovas. You are devilishly wondrous in your ways, A seductress of wicked intentions. Beware frail hearts and lowered gazes, for she will turn your mind into tangled mazes. Regardless of the way you play and say my name with honeyed voices doused in syrup, I will always find ways to fall infatuated with you. Your siblings of luck and miracles deign us much the same, To the ones that bow to the heavens beneath their feet. So make our sufferings a little easier. Loosen the noose etching the red marks around soft necks that beg for air. For mercy. Have mercy. Because we are all just trying to sustain ourselves, with something in a world where we are specks among grains. Always, anonymous Mohideen Yusuf

Twisted Olivia Yu I was thrown out of my own apartment. I was pushed out of the lobby and into the street, while scattered bills of orange and brown were thrown at me as I stood, speechless. Comically enough, in that moment, it felt like I was standing under an autumn tree on a windy day. My rent landed at my feet, with some bills landing in murky puddles of water on the sidewalk. My meagre savings proved that I’d worked hard given my circumstances, but clearly my effort wasn’t appreciated. A year’s hard work. I peeled the damp paper from the ground while onlookers gawked. I wasn’t even given a moment to collect my belongings. They were stuffed into trash bags and thrown out the front door shortly after. To everybody else, I was just a short, childlike figure picking up cash scattered on the ground with no sense of urgency. Nobody came to help me. Perhaps they did not want to be falsely accused of theft, or they thought that I must have deserved this; I must have provoked someone to cause such an extreme, volatile reaction. Around four months ago, I signed a 12-month lease for what looked like a very high-end apartment. The apartment was near my university, near where I’d worked, and it had mostly brandnew furniture. For someone studying at a university more than 2 hours away from home with barely any money, it sounded like a great deal. A week after I’d moved in, I realized the best part about living there was the bustling nightlife that came with living in that district, something I’d never asked for but couldn’t wait to experience. It was only when I’d moved in, however, that I realized I was going to share the apartment with my landlady, a girl my age called Gwen, and to my dismay, she was the worst part of it all. Regardless of how much I hated it there, I got used to it. All of it. The noise, the lights, the loneliness and the arguments Gwen had with her boyfriend, Kyle, who was pretty much like another flatmate to us. It was beyond me why she hadn’t just asked Kyle to move in instead of a random stranger like me. I decided to try and make the most of my year anyway by getting drinks at the bars down the street every weekend. I never invited Gwen, but she’d always insisted on tagging along, something about having a girls’ night out. I always found her remarks very sarcastic. She paid for my drinks every time she tagged along, but I knew it was just her not-so-subtle way to flaunt her wealth. To me, the free drink was just compensation for ruining my alone time, like slapping a band-aid over a dismembered limb. I hated her high-pitched laughter and her ceaseless, nosy questions about my life. I hated her even more when she told me about her life; I had absolutely no interest in knowing about this narcissistic rich kid who somehow got a flat to her name before even graduating. Fortunately for me, the alcohol was free, and it numbed me down enough so I could talk myself into living there with her for another month. A few months into the lease, Gwen and Kyle had an argument that kept me up all night. Apparently, Gwen had placed a tracker in Kyle’s phone, and he was not happy about it. I already knew that Gwen was somehow insane, but I thought Kyle was even crazier for putting up with all this.

There was shouting, and things were being thrown at anything that moved. I had to duck to dodge a plate being thrown at my head. It hit the wall and sharp white pieces scattered onto the floor. I tiptoed around the mess and tried to stay out of it, though the walls in all of Hong Kong’s flats are always way too thin. The shouting lasted for about an hour, on and off, but Gwen’s sobbing kept me up until 6am, when I decided that it was too late to sleep only to wake up two hours later for class. For the remaining two hours, I pored over my contract to find ways to get out of my lease early without having to pay the hefty penalty. A quick search revealed the most common ways: the house had to be uninhabitable, repairs had to be delayed for a significant amount of time, or the landowner had to void the lease on their own. I’d struck gold. It was like I’d begun to see the light at the end of the tunnel, or maybe it was just the sunrise peeking in from my blinds. The most likely way, I concluded, was for me to just suck it up and tough it out. *** “Do you want a bag with that?” the lady said. I shook my head as I fished out a handful of bills from my wallet and handed them to her. “These are all shopping coupons, young lady,” she said. I apologized and handed her some cash. My sleep-depleted (not sleep-deprived) brain was only running on three cans of Red Bull. I stepped to the side after she handed me the little box and tore open the packaging. I gently pulled the charging case out and plugged the wireless ear-buds in. The second I put some jazz music on, all the noise— people talking, cars honking, buses rumbling, songs being blasted from street-level shops— vanished. I knew I’d be needing those after Gwen got back from her trip in a few days. Gwen left in a rush the next morning after the fight with Kyle; she told me she had to go home for a few days because she missed her parents, but I knew she was just contemplating a breakup with Kyle and needed the space to think. The apartment probably housed too many memories of them being together. I got home to see the house in the absolute mess that I was not mentally prepared to clean up. Kyle should come to clean up the mess they made, I figured. I pulled out my phone and searched for Kyle from Gwen’s Instagram followers. Hey, Kyle, this is Maeve, I was wondering if you are free to stop by later tonight. I think you left something at our place. I got a reply less than a minute later. Hi Maeve, is 7 ok? I typed out my response, shaking my head. Yes, sure. I’ll probably still be cleaning up the apartment by then though. You guys left quite a big mess.

Another lightning-fast reply. Right, sorry about that. Gwen was being paranoid and taking it out on me, as usual. I bet you probably didn’t get much sleep last night.

I double-tapped his message. Yeah, didn’t sleep at all, actually. My head hurts like hell. My message was read as soon as it got sent. I’m so sorry. Her voice makes my ears bleed too sometimes. The least I can do is help you clean up. I hesitated for a moment, then replied. Ok, but what about all the broken plates? He took a minute to reply this time. I’ll bring us both some takeout on the way there, how about that? I double-tapped his message again. Great, guess that’ll make us even. The next morning, Kyle left at the same time I left for school. When I got home that day, I opened the door to see Gwen sitting in the living room. She was dressed in her outside clothes, and her luggage was next to her, all the locks and zippers still untouched. She stood up, turned around and locked eyes with me. Her eyes were red and puffy, and bits of her hair was stuck to her cheeks. “Get out,” she mumbled. I froze. “Get out,” she said again, walking towards me. I raised my hands in defense as I stepped backwards, out the door and into the hallway. Her hand came down on my cheek with a loud smack. Only then did I realise I’d been holding my breath. It wasn’t my fault that I knew Kyle had commitment issues. I didn’t want to eavesdrop. I even spent a thousand dollars on noise-cancelling earphones. Kyle threw things whenever he got mad. It’s not like Gwen was happy when she was with him. he was absolutely deluded, too, she even invaded his privacy. Maybe I would have thrown things, too, if I’d been provoked like that. Gwen wasn’t completely innocent anyway. Someone had to teach her to shut up and stop being so clingy and annoying. Actually, she should probably thank me for teaching her not to trust people she barely knew. I just did what had to be done. I felt trapped, and Gwen deserved it. What else could I have done anyway? I looked down at the trash bags in my hand and smiled. I’d been thrown out of my apartment, finally. No lease, no penalty, no Gwen. I’d arrived at the end of the tunnel. Tonight, I could go anywhere and be free.

Homage to Hemingwayâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;True Sentences and A Moveable Feast Sankalok Sen There is a visible stigma that calls forth the beginning and beckoning of something unpleasant when humanity as a generation makes a soulful and dull attempt in trying. A monocleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s view from eternity hints of a world torn apart by displays of rage at facetious decisions and tongue-in-cheek indecisions. The faintest glimmers of hope stems from the connections and contacts that humans as beings make with each other. Hope in the form of voices is the picturesque stimulus holding the populace feebly together. Hopelessness, on one hand can make a person cry, while hopelessness driven anger on the other, can make the Crown rattle. Hope is the faint glitter of cosmetic paradise in the constant struggle to achieve validation in the otherwise dismal life and less than dismal faith in the worth of the self. Hope is the crying of the baby on a Sunday morning in Boston heralding another happily painful day for the Mother superior. To the lucky few, it exists in morsels. To everyone else stranded on desolation row, there isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t any.

R E C O M M E N D A T I O N S Upon the release of her comeback single, No Tears Left To Cry, Ariana Grande demonstrates her will to overcome her trauma in life and continue on her life journey. We, at some point in our lives, will encounter bewilderment and suffer from loss in life. In fact, it would be a great privilege to have never suffered the melancholy that comes with loss. During that time, we feel as if hope has flown very far away from us. For Ariana, she was traumatized by the 2017 Manchester Bombing Attack. Feeling guilty because of her fans’ death, she was disorientated and lost. She then went through the quest of finding hope again. Just like Ariana, fate will put us in situations where hope and spirit will be painfully taken away from us. But only when we overcome the hurdles in life do we realize that hope is our motivation. Only with hope can we hang on by our eyebrows, and at last, have no tears left to cry. — Carman Chan

NO TEARS LEFT TO CRY ARIANA GRANDE

To Kill a Mockingbird is surely a classic that everyone needs to read. Not only does it address social issues such as racial prejudice and the flaws of the American legal system back in the 30s, it also offers us hope to cope with the existing injustices in our society. Atticus Finch, the protagonist of the novel is a lawyer who defended Tom Robinson, a Black man who was falsely accused of rape. Seeing how Atticus stood up for a Black man in an extremely racist town reminds us that there will always be some righteous individual who will actively fight against injustice in our society. Albeit he lost the case and Tom still died after the trial, the novel continues to illustrate the subtle changes in the mindsets of other characters after the trial. It proves that even though injustices such as racism would not be completely eliminated, small changes, baby steps are still steps taken on the trail towards a better future. Hence, this novel encourages its readers to stay hopeful and “We’re making a step, it’s just a baby believe that the baby steps they have made against injustice step, but it’s a step.” would one day turn into a big step towards their goal of — Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird living in a just society. — Renee Lui

A Ghost Story (2017) dir. David Lowery

Why do ghosts haunt houses? If it’s not because they are a vengeful spirit, then why are they still here? A Ghost Story might not be a film about hope, but it could be one that brings your hope, a comfort film to say the least. It is comforting not because of the plot itself, but rather because of the use of neorealism in a supernatural film. The idea is paradoxical, I understand, but hear me out. The film spends much of its time illustrating the mundane lives of people living in the house, whether it be eating a pie, celebrating Christmas, etc. With hardly any non-diegetic music, the film feels real, almost like a documentary. After his death, the ghost is there for his wife, who has outlived him. He is there as she grieves, mourns, and eventually, when she moves on. I find the idea of a ghost in a bedsheet living in your house quite comforting for the lonely ones, or those going through a loss. A hopeful revelation, to say the least. Even for those who do not believe in the supernatural, it is a nice sentiment. Perhaps the next time you feel lonely, you could put on this film as you imagine the thought of a (or the!) bedsheet ghost being there for you, watching over you, as you wait through the long nights. — Pauline Wong

Premiered in 2009, The Princess and the Frog is the first Disney (musical) film with a Black lead and the first time a Black Disney princess is introduced. As some of you might notice, it takes a twist to the story The Frog Prince. This movie plays an important role on the movies that are thereafter produced as it inspires the Studio to gradually put more emphasis on the idea of feminism in Disney Princess movies. After being turned into a frog due to Prince Naveen’s curse in a welcoming party, Tiana and Prince Naveen set off on a journey in hopes of breaking the curse. Prince Naveen, being a spoiled kid, wasn’t able to do even the simplest tasks when facing obstacles. On the other hand, not only did Tiana help Prince Naveen escape from danger, she also helped other characters along the way. Tiana’s experience was very different from a typical fairy tale: she was not a damsel in distress but rather a strong independent woman who had big dreams. The story itself is very encouraging for all ages. Tiana’s determination to have her own restaurant and Prince Naveen’s hopes of becoming a human again are truly inspiring. Even with the most difficult challenges, they never thought of giving up. Their spirits spark hope in everyone’s hearts. — Loris Gosamkee

“YOU KNOW WHY THIS IS MY FAVORITE TREE?” “WHY?” “BECAUSE IT’S TIPPED OVER, BUT IT’S STILL GROWING.” The Florida Project (2017) dir. Sean Baker

Acknowledgments Publisher: English Society, A.A.H.K.U.S.U., Session 2019â&#x20AC;&#x201C;2020 Editor: Pauline Wong [pauline.hkuengsoc@gmail.com] Cover Art: Carman Cheung [carmanc.hkuengsoc@gmail.com] Facebook: www.facebook.com/HKU.English Instagram: @hkuengsoc Issuu: issuu.com/hkuengsoc Email: engsoc@connect.hku.hk Address: 2A01(1), Fong Shu Chuen Amenities Centre, the University of Hong Kong Disclaimer: English Society, A.A.H.K.U.S.U. does not own any of the graphics in this publication (except original photos and graphic arts). The works submitted and printed in this publication may not represent the views of English Society, A.A.H.K.U.S.U. as a whole.