Zenith by Ms. Davis

ZENITH

Acknowledgements Thank you to Island Pacific Academy for its generous financial support of the magazine from its inception. The Technology Support Department is also very much appreciated for their continuous aid. The Zenith staff is grateful to Ms. Davis, advisor and literary extrordanaire. A special thanks goes to the Art Department for their assistance and significant contributions to the magazine. Lastly, thank you to everyone who submitted their work and made this magazine possible.

FRONT COVER: Kelsi Teramae, Flags TITLE PAGE: Noa Terada-Pagdilao, Mini Beach ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Jesssica Merriman, Horses

ZENITH

Island Pacific Academy 2012 ~ Volume 2 Editor-in-Chief

Kayla Economou Submissions Editor

Zoey Araki

Layout Editor

Kelsi Teramae Advisor

Ms. Laura Davis Staff

Taylor Burnett Rhenz Dan Iloreta Camille Larkins Daniel Moore Virginia Rhodes Danielle Scarpelli Brieanna Sundberg

Island Pacific Academyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s literary magazine stives to showcase extraordinary art and literature, encourage quality writing, and strengthen the confidence of our artists.

Contents Poems

Eric Acierto 35 Popeye Zoey Araki 96 Kim Jong-Il Sofia Frasz 14 The Wind in the Couryard Courtney Ketzenberger 16 Untitled Camille Larkins 50 Backseat Jamie-Rae Martin 48 The Woman in White and the Woman in Black Daniel Moore 1 Autobiography Erika Ohki 18 Together Come Alexis Perez 53 You Stressing: Breathe Virginia Rhodes 4 A Plea from the Planet Mrs. Sabine’s Sixth Grade Class 70 Six Word Memoirs Anonymous 107 Wretched

Stories

Sofia Frasz 8 The North Trail Mary Helen Gustafson 44 Ancestor Paper Camille Larkins 29 Camp

Robert Meeks 57 The Creation of Auburn University Sean Murakami 38 Scout 100 She’s So Heavy Tara Norton 88 Rainy Days Dayne Ramos 112 Tweeting My Life Away Tullie St. John 20 The Gorl Kazuo White 62 Two Front War Anonymous 74 The Gakuen

80 Rascal

Photography

Vivian Bentley 15 Why Wait for Rain Taylor Burnett 2 Casey 6 Garden of Innocence 19 Purple Delight 110 Sandy Treasures Catherine Davis 98 Zipperz Kayla Economou 68 Juxtaposition 83 Lines in the Sky Sarah Li 78 Care 79 Life

Danielle Scarpelli 41 Molokai, The Story Of 34 NINJAS!? Erika Ohki 119 Dead End 97 Sophie Noa Terada-Pagdilao 61 BW 86 Colored Ends 54 Mini Beach 105 Representing the HI 60 Right Side Up 17 Splash 108 Two-Side West Side Ketan Patel 72 Determination Kelsi Teramae 42 Arachnid 32 Not a Leaf 43 Pandora 71 Turtle Kennedy Wilson 47 Goddess Anonymous 33 The Flower of Life

Visual Art

Zoey Araki & Kelsi Teramae 12 Hands of Eden Kouko Carter 76 Do you peaCe Brandon Cieslak 22 Out of the Blue Theophile Duplechain 36 Moustache

Erin Follwell 104 Pause in the Moment Makana Gionet 11 Escape Eliana Hanan 37 Untitled Tomi Harada 3 Banana Phone Eric Kawatachi 106 Droll Kaylyn Kekoa 52 Marlin Fishing Salus Kim 59 Family Circle Amirah Majied 73 Amirah 77 Green Eyes 67 Soldiers are People Too Aly McCormick 116 On the Wing Jessica Merriman 94 Horse Michelle Mina 5 Untitled Tori-Ann Miyahara 49 Looking Back Noa Terada-Pagdilao 51 Mosaic-Aly Tristan Schmidt 95 Craving 7 Untitled Alexis Tom 84 Friends Colt Wallace 56 After Morrissoeau 117 Collage

Zenith

Autobiography Daniel Moore â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13 Eyes of a rhino Pleasant subtleness Dripping peanut butter Where is the corn? I am the quivering watermelon

Casey Taylor Burnett â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;14

Banana Phone Tomi Harada â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

A Plea from the Planet Virginia Rhodes ‘13 The factory wheels activate and soon you are made Bright white Plastic Easily blown away I see you in the grocery store, I see you on the street I even see you in the hands of the people that I meet Sometimes you are very large Sometimes you are very small But there’s something different about you that bothers me most of all I am bothered when I see you in The ocean The rivers The streams Floating in the water like a cherry in whipped cream I know it’s not your fault That you are not to blame But I can’t convince people even if I exclaim That you are dangerous Hazardous A killer in disguise No one will listen No one hears my cries I can shout all I want But you’re only a plastic bag There is nothing you can do Even if I start to nag However, hope is not lost and the world will still turn Maybe whoever reads this will show some concern Pollution is a problem But people can assist Help the world out Pick up your bags, I insist

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Untitled Michelle Mina â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;11

Garden of Innocence Taylor Burnett â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;14

Untitled Tristan Schmidt â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;11

The North Trail Sofia Frasz â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18 The frigid tundra wind ruffled the dogsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; fur that morning, making the icicles that had formed in their ruffs overnight clatter together like glass chips. The team was made up of mostly Alaskan-Amerindian huskies, a cross between the Siberian husky and the Alaskan husky. The dogs inherited their endurance from the Alaskan husky side of them, and their thick, insulating fur from the Siberian husky. The lead dog was a five-year-old, battle-scarred black and white malamute with piercing blue eyes called Bear, known for his short temper, extreme intelligence, brute strength, and remarkable stamina. Now Bear raised his head at the familiar sound of the snow crunching as his master walked out of the cabin and in the direction of the shed. He looked around, scanning the vast, white world he had known for so long. He was king of it all, this wild, white empire -- and his queen, he knew, lay within the shed. He knew not why she was being separated from him, but he certainly did not like it. She was his, he was hers, they were supposed to be together. He was supposed to protect her. The fact that she was not curled up, buried under layers of snow from last nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s blizzard made him anxious. Up ahead, his master, Warren Hunter, was slowly crossing the field of ice and snow toward the shed. Bear strained at the harness that bound him and the rest of the team together to a wooden post. His loud whining soon became excited barking. The other dogs awoke to see him rearing up on his hind legs, kicking up snow and barking at Warren. They felt his excited energy, and joined in without good reason. They just wanted to know why Bear was barking and felt compelled to join in, creating a chaotic chorus of yapping, howling, and whining. As a last resort, when Warren did not even acknowledge his presence, Bear twisted his neck around and sliced through the harness with his incisors. Then he sprang up and over a snowdrift and down into the snow once again, and charged through, his broad chest bulldozing a trail through the deep snow, barking all the while in his powerful, gruff voice. Hunter did not turn to look at him, but kept straight on course. When Bear reached the door of the shed, he stood on his hind legs and scratched at the door, whining and yelping in excitement and angst. Warren calmly turned the doorknob and pushed it open. What the dog saw stopped him immediately in his tracks from rushing toward his mate in a frenzy of love. There was a curious look on his face as he gazed upon the lean, muscular, reddish-brown furred, wolfish-looking Alaskan husky lying in a nest made of caribou hide with a tiny, wet, darkfurred creature at her side, mewling and suckling. An impulse that had never before struck him in his life now hit as hard as an iron club -- the paternal

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Zenith instinct to get to know what this little creature that looked so much like a young Arctic fox , to love and protect it. From its scent, he could tell it was of his own kind. He stood completely and utterly still, ears pricked, tail curled over his back, nostrils flaring to take in every unknown scent the shed offered. His attention had been so drawn to the pup that he did not notice Warren’s seventeen-year-old son Eric standing behind the beautiful husky. However, as he sniffed, he became aware of Eric’s presence, and lifted his lips in a growl. Rita was his. Eric stepped back. Bear ceased growling, and curiously approached Rita, wanting to sniff the pup. Suddenly, he heard a terrible, bloodcurdling snarl from the she-dog. He saw the whites of her greyish-gold eyes, her hackles bristling, muscles tense. Every inch of her star-white fangs was exposed -- toward him! Bear could not understand. He flattened his ears against his head and tucked his tail between his legs. Still, Rita’s snarling was as savage as ever. He leaned closer, whining to let her know that he didn’t mean any harm. Faster than one could blink, Rita lashed out with her fangs and laid open Bear’s muzzle. Bear was so shocked that he stumbled back, yelping in fright. When he recovered enough, he raced behind Warren and cowered down, whimpering and shaking. “Would you look at that!” Eric exclaimed. “That Bear, strong as a bull, is afraid of his own mate!” “Well if I were him, I’d also be pretty scared,” Warren said. “He’s no fool-dog, that’s for sure. Rita’d thoroughly rip him up before he can even get close to that pup of hers.” He reached over to stroke Rita’s head, and though her hackles bristled, he was her master, and she did not dare bite. She trusted Warren enough to let him stroke her while a newborn, helpless pup nursed at her side. All the while, she never took her greyish-gold eyes off of the obviously stunned Bear. Every once in a while, her lips lifted in a belligerent “I’m still watching you” sort of way, and a low growl escaped her chest. Bear let out something like a sigh and slowly stood up straight again, watching Rita’s every move. There was almost an amused look on her face as she returned his gaze. Warren tapped his thigh and called Bear’s name. Bear turned toward him and began following him outside and into the deep snow. “Hey, Eric,” Warren said. “Yeah, what?” Eric asked. “That pup male or female?” “I’m pretty sure we have another little boy.” Warren nodded and stepped outside, Bear following close behind him, still confused by Rita’s hostility. The pup opened his eyes for the first time. He cried out at first, blinded by the sunlight. What was that sudden pain that had inflicted his

delicate little eyes that were totally unused to the brightness of the world? He blinked rapidly, and wrinkled his nose, whimpering. Gradually, images began to take shape; the images of a square with more of that bright stuff pouring in through it, a tall creature with two long legs instead of four. He turned around on wobbly, unsteady legs, and came face-to-face with another thing that smelled of life. But this creature smelled oddly familiar, a scent he had known for what seemed like a long time, that had a warmth radiating out from it that was also known to him and that he loved, something that pulsed and throbbed with the life that was in it, something that moved of its own accord. The wolf-like, warm, kindly-looking creature bent her muzzle toward him and out flashed the tongue he had felt so many times before, out to caress his small, fragile body. He cried out with joy, and felt his own tongue flicker out and touch the moist, black thing that moved as his mother breathed. He pressed himself against her cream-colored chest and felt her heart beat against his ribs, a rhythm that he knew, but had not been able to place until now. He felt her warmth, her life, her loving and protective energy embrace him. He set his chin down on her muscular, short-haired foreleg. His ears pricked up as he heard a sloshing sound, and saw the animal with the two tall legs set down a hard, shining thing with a clear substance in it that was not solid. He leaned forward to investigate it, and touched his nose to it. It was cold and he drew back, sneezing. His mother bent her head down and lapped it up with her tongue. He heard a strange sound, something that sounded like breathing, but harsher and broken. He did not know it, but he had heard Eric laughing. The pup looked up toward him and barked for the first time. That day, he had discovered his world.

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Escape Makana Gionet â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;14

Hands of Eden Zoey Araki & Kelsi Teramae â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13

The Wind in the Courtyard Sofia Frasz ‘18 The brook laughs as she winds through the trees The ravens cry in contempt The people of the wood come out as the sun sinks, and dance and sing in triumph. Can you hear the wind in the courtyard Whilst the king and queen sleep? There are rebels about, ready to end their reign. The Queen of Temptation has lured the knights in With her sword-sharp beauty. The King of Pride rewards them with a sly laugh and praise for bringing the wanted one to the palace, and the roof opens up to bring a shower of poisoned gold. Can you hear the wind in the courtyard Whilst the king and queen sleep? There are rebels about, ready to set the victims free. The rulers’ dungeon is made of solid gold. Be strong, warriors, be strong. Cease not your silent march. With the rising of the sun, the palace of gold shines wicked serpentine The eyes of the gargoyles are bright red Beware, rebels, there are things more frightening than the tip of a sword. The king and queen awaken the lone renegade stands with a quill pen of diamonds. By his coaxing words of endless riches, the monarch’s empire is destroyed as their spell is broken And they fall in the palace of gold, dying in their own words. The raven perches on the gate with a message written by the diamond quill, and now the dawn has come, and the laughter of the freed ones rings clear and echoes through the forests of time.

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Why Wait for Rain Vivian Bentley â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

Untitled Courtney Ketzenberger â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12 Breeze toying with branches and leaves, Children on their playground, Bugs in their own verdant green labyrinth. Birds coo their sweet songs of warm welcome, Looming dark clouds whisper promises of rain, Small creatures call to their comrades to head for shelter. Rain rushes in anticipation to the begging Earth, Prepared to fill their sole purpose in their short lived lives, Hailing from these clouds, Squeezed as the oranges in a juicer, Inevitably and falling infinitely until they meet their untimely end. But this isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the end, even though these drops donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see it, They live on forever, deep in the soil, Where they are not seen, but not forgotten. When saturated skies cry, and eager sky-children seize their opportunity to hug their long missed mother earth, their journey truly begins when their anticipating hands grab hold of our planet, worming their way down through the depths.

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Deeper and deeper they crawl.

Splash Noa Terada-Pagdilao â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

Together Come Erika Ohki ‘15 Rain falls slowly on different atmospheres. . . but while I’m here, we should synchronize. Your cloudy vision overpopulates my breath. And it’s hard to see when you’re stormy. Let me run with you and away from the wolves to a different story on the moon. Drink my tears saltwater bath. Cleanse in fairy dust aroma. Here we can be safe covered in movement. Steps on cue because our hair runs together in the wind. We are strong together. I am an individual as the shadows chase. Don’t let the dirt overwhelm you it’s hard to see the air through the steamy fog. It’s not too far until you see the light reflecting off the moonlit surface You know one day I’ll be there waiting.

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Purple Delight Taylor Burnett â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;14

The Gorl Tullie St. John ‘15 My name is indiscernible in your language, therefore call me John Smith. I stand about nine feet tall and, look somewhat bug-like with six pointy legs. I have two arms that look stumpy and cut off and pulse in an iridescent turquoise. My arms are capable of projecting a substance which can be controlled and shaped into any form I want. The Star date is 2742; we have touched down on this strange planet, so far away from everything. I can’t wait to get back to civilization. We came to this world following an old radio signal broadcasted in all frequencies, consisting of their entire dictionary, some form of music that hurts our ears. We have since translated it. It seems they are another old colony of the human empire that had fallen apart after conquering the galaxy. Most of the planet is water. It seems that sentient life once lived here, but they are long gone, just like I want to be. According to our scanners, we accessed something called the Ethernet. The files stored on it are vast. Apparently it was kept alive by some primitive solar power harvester. The Ethernet holds the entire history of this species that calls itself mankind, or humanity. These people seem very warlike and short lived; according to their histories they have been fighting since the dawn of their race. They have clearly desecrated the landscape in their race to build weapons. As we read further we laugh at their childlike attempts at space travel. As we continue the scans of the planet I lock onto a faint energy signal somewhere in the middle of a desert. I take a hovercraft and I’m there in a few hours. As I come upon the signal I see an ancient rusted gray looking structure with a strange dark blue marking worn away by sand and time, barely visible on the sides. As I walk in I see a strange green light, coming from a box that has grooves encasing it like claw marks, then suddenly it starts beeping a loud, high pitched, annoying sound. I slowly reach out and touch the light. A loud noise like static emits from the box and the noise slowly becomes distinguishable like a sculpture taking shape in an artist’s hands. Then in a robotic voice it talks: “This is Vox message Alpha star date 2012. To whoever is hearing this, the human race is extinct. Early in the year 2012 a large comet crashed into the Gulf of Mexico. The United Nations was deployed to investigate. They reported it was a piece of rock and nothing more, but when they came back the entire dive crew had fallen ill with some strange disease. Despite the most advanced medicine available, all 32 of them died. While the doctors were performing autopsies so we could better understand what killed them, the bodies came back to life and killed every human being in the hospital. It was a plague; a virus kills the body and reanimates it, using the body to spread

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Zenith the disease through biting. We called it the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;zombie plagueâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; and within eight hours they had overrun the entire city. Because the task force which investigated the comet was international, all continents were infected. We tried to fight back but the zombies just kept coming. The only way to kill them was a direct shot to the head. But because the zombie were controlled by a virus, they had infinite endurance and would just keep coming until all the defending forces ran out of ammo, or were too tired to fight, it took only 10 months for the zombie plague to bring the human race to its knees. Without sentient life they all died out in three to five years.â&#x20AC;? I almost cried out at the thought of an entire race killed in 10 months; the carnage was beyond my peace loving mind. I sat there, dumbfounded, for 10 minutes. When I informed the rest of the expedition, we left immediately.

Brandon Cieslak â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;11

Zenith Camp Camille Larkins ‘14 There were probably more pictures of her, of course, but I had only ever seen ones of her at the lake or in the trees surrounding her home, my home. It was strange to think that she had walked on the same paths I had, taken photos in the same spots. It was even stranger to think that with all the impact she had made on my life, I have no recollection of ever meeting her. “Of course you did. You were little, you probably don’t remember.” I don’t know if there is any truth to this. Memories are weird in that way. We live through many years and only remember some. I tried to imagine her lively, up and about early in the morning, energetic throughout the day. This was harder to imagine than the image I had been fed of her, sick in the little green house down the hill. I know she was a legend, though, at camp. The camp she and her husband started had only a few campers who were all family members, my grandma, then the camp laundress, had told me. Everyone knew her then and everyone still knows of her now, although few have actually met her. Saying her name is a proven way to find new cousins. “You’re related to Lynne? You should talk to him, yeah, I think she’s his mom’s aunt’s sister or something, yeah, you’re probably cousins or something like that.” This had happened to me once or twice. I tried to think of what caused her to create this camp. Maybe she was creating a sanctuary for herself and little kids like her. Did she not have a place to run to in the summer, to escape from school and the people there? Or it could have been for business, a budding industry, a great opportunity. She was smart, my mom had told me. A strong woman her whole life, from shooting ducks as a little girl to making business deals among only men. She had fought to be just as good as them in times that didn’t agree with her. I imagined her as a fighter, a feminist. I imagined her not letting anyone push her down, and I could see her personality in myself. I could imagine her being a young woman that was wise beyond her years, able to see progression that others couldn’t. I could see her waiting for a society to catch up with her, waiting for women to follow her and join her. The images of her being sick started to dissolve, being replaced with thoughts of her making business deals, the only woman there. I could picture her walking the paths of a camp she had created. In my imagination, she had feathered blond hair, Farrah Fawcett-esque. My mom had told me that she was a part of her father’s shooting club, exclusively male, when she was just a little girl. Out of three sisters, she must have been the only one. I had never heard my grandma or her sister

ever mentioning this, but maybe they were too young. I could picture her with blond pigtails, talking to wealthy men with a slight lisp caused by her missing two front teeth. She could have been something of a mascot, a little novelty figure with a weapon too big for her small hands, a little girl with unremitting strength. My aunt must have been stubborn and bent on going with her dad to this club, showing that she wasn’t going to let anyone get her down. I couldn’t imagine that it was easy to get in, but maybe she, even at that young age, was thinking it was silly that only men would be allowed to be somewhere, just as I do now. My thoughts wandered to a picture I had sitting on a shelf at home. It was a black and white photograph showing Lynne, my grandma, and their other sister, all dressed in World War II garb, probably given to them by their father, a military man. In the photograph, the two older sisters, Lynne and Leslie, were standingup straight. They sent stiff salutes to the littlest, smaller than them both by at least a foot. My grandma had the most serious and proud countenance there, while her sisters were breaking into smiles they try not to let show. As I looked through more pictures and think more about my greataunt Lynne, it was impossible for me not to feel ultimately changed from what she began. Her legacy stays with me today as my retreat every summer, my favorite place to be, the place that causes me to count down every day of school until I get there. I’m not alone in thinking this, of course, but camp is my home. I don’t think she knew that she would be providing me, her great-niece who did not exist yet, with so many memories and friends when she started it. I wish I could tell her now how much I owe her for creating a perfect refuge from everything, and I hope she would be proud of me for fighting for some of the same things she did. I wondered what her favorite places to be at camp were. Maybe it was the dining deck, where you could see the mountaintops sleep, their mouth gaping open, snoring with the nighttime winds. Or it could be the meadow, where the daring ones say they go streaking when the moon is at its highest. It was probably the pond though; she must have loved it. Did someone name it Lynne’s Pond while she was alive or after? I went to a memorial service for her there while I was little, too little to remember. Since then, it’s been used for teenagers to eat food they’re not allowed to have or listen to music that’s too loud, to yell and scream because it’s out of the way of camp enough so that young campers couldn’t hear. I think it’s a rite of passage to go to Lynne’s Pond, one that I may have experienced prematurely when I went that first time for sadness. Young campers might not even know it exists. But it’s beautiful, understandable that it could be her favorite place. There, it’s always the perfect time of day, that hour when the shadows are

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Zenith long and everything is pinks and oranges. Woods stretch out behind the pond, where we are sent to look for firewood and are forced to evade mosquitoes. A little dock sits over the edge, across from the campfire. It tests who is superior at skipping stones. At night, the sky opens up and shows all its stars. It’s a different sky, not the one you see in a crowded place with polluted people. This is a sky that cannot be photographed or described or replicated, but only experienced with the chill of a summer night and dew on your skin and frogs croaking in the pond. This is a perfect sky, never changing, the blackest of blacks, the brightest of twinkling stars. No amount of words could capture half of its mesmerizing surface. Those little luminaries show what love feels like, certainly what I was. I was irrevocably in love with that little camp in the mountains. There’s this one tall tree that you can see from the road, all the way across the big meadow where horses run. The tree is a guard, protecting us from the problems outside. Maybe it’s her.

Not a Leaf Kelsi Teramae â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13

The Flower of Life Anonymous

NINJAS!? Danielle Scarpelli â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;14

Zenith Popeye Eric Acierto ‘12 Fingers trekking down the canyon of crusted corn wanting yet regretting the deep plunge into the ever so tempted cayenne gold dwelling on the bottom of the fissure only overshadowed by the fresh fern growing above it. This ain’t no meat and potato trip but a way of life. Nuff said. “All treks must be an experience,” said the fly overhead, But I shoed it away. With a shoe. The waterfall came splashing down the canyon from my teeth. I couldn’t wait. I wanted to play with fire and got the hot sauce. The flame from the lava scorched the canyon as if it were running dry only to be saved by the waterfall. I conquered the taco.

Moustache Theophile Duplechain â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;11

Untitled Eliana Hanan â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;14

Scout Sean Murakami ‘15 Are there any perks of being a boy scout? A couple I guess. You get to travel to cool places. You get to learn epic survival skills. You get to start fires. You get an awesome Swiss army knife so you can pretend to be MacGyver. It’s pretty awesome. One trip I went on with Boy Scout troop 126 was a camping trip at Haleakala. I initially dreaded the idea of going to another island for a couple of days. I could not live without technology back then. I was also very skittish when it comes to bathrooms. I hate public bathrooms. I still do to this day. I can’t stand how nasty they are. I had only camped once prior to that trip, and it really didn’t count since it was only one day. The first step of our journey was waking up at four in the morning to meet up with my troop. If there is one thing I don’t get enough of in my life, it’s sleep. I also had to carry this huge hiking bag that weighed at least fifty pounds. Keep in mind I was only ten. I packed the essentials, but my mom snuck an extra twenty pounds of junk into my bag. So there I was: half asleep at four in the morning carrying a giant bag. The second step was getting to Maui. There are only two ways to get to Maui: flying or going by boat. Unfortunately, we chose the latter. We took the Super Ferry so it wasn’t that bad (except for the turbulence, AC set at 50 degrees Fahrenheit, nasty bathrooms, and nasty food). Sleeping was almost impossible due to the turbulence. The food was unbearable (still better than plane food). About four hours later we ended up at some port in Maui. The third step of our trip was getting to the campgrounds, but first we stopped at a doughnut shop. Those doughnut were amazing, bested only by Krispy Kreme. So far the positives of the trip were one to three. Next came the long annoying drive up Haleakala. We brought two cars to avoid crowding into one. Of course the people I sat with wouldn’t shut up. My fellow scouts would not shut their mouths for the whole three hour drive. I wouldn’t mind as much if it was good music like the Beatles or the Rolling Stones, but it was Green Day or whatever it was. An hour into the drive I was hoping that we’d drive off a cliff so I wouldn’t have to hear that awful singing. I remember looking over one of the cliffs and seeing a hundred foot drop. I can’t stand heights. I was seriously having regrets by the time we got to the campsite. I was tired out and we barely started our trip. I wasn’t the only one too, my friends were also tired out. I had no energy to continue. I just wanted to go to sleep, and it was only five in the evening. Of course, the scout master had other plans. We still had to pitch our tents, prepare the fire pit, and make food. Afterwards, the scoutmaster sent our group to run some errands, I just

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Zenith hid and slept. I woke up about two hours later covered in bird crap. It wasn’t fun explaining that to the scoutmaster. I asked my scoutmaster if I could take a shower, and he told me that there were no showers here. I didn’t believe him at first. “That’s crazy! Ludicrous!” You can’t not have showers at a campground. I didn’t believe him at first because he is pretty sarcastic, but his tone was serious. It was about that time when I started to lose my mind. I believed in karma back then so I was trying to figure out what I did to deserve this. The trip continued at a slow rate--a dead rate to be honest. It felt like the days would last forever only to end with a long slow night filled with laughter from my idiot-friends who didn’t understand that if we slept this trip would end faster. We would eventually fall asleep after countless hours of discussion. Every morning we would wake up at five and go for a threemile run. This wasn’t Scout camp, it was Boot camp. The altitude didn’t help either. Imagine running with your friends having a decent conversation only to throw up out of nowhere. I think there were pills or something for the altitude sickness but it was like swallowing a gumball. There are a couple of things to look forward to at camp: creating the fire is pretty fun, but we weren’t allowed to use any lighters. We had to “Bear Grylls” that fire. Of course it wasn’t easy. We eventually started a fire after about an hour in a half. It was probably around nine o’clock by the time we got that fire going so we were all freezing. I expected something to go wrong with the fire knowing my past experiences on this trip, and I was right. When you leave a fire unattended with a bunch of idiot-kids hyped up on smuggled candy and soda someone is going to get hurt. We constantly put cans of full soda in the fire. About five minutes later they exploded and went flying. Putting just one can in is stupid, but a whole twelve pack of soda is freaking insane. It pretty much turned into a Sprite shotgun with cans flying all over the place; one of those places was my friends face. Imagine your mom asking you how you got that cut on your face and answering with “I got hit by a flying can of Sprite.” The next morning after the usual three-mile run and tent inspection we went to the summit of Haleakala. If you have not been there, it is a huge crater. It was amazing, inspiring, and truly wondrous… except for the 5-mile walk around the entire crater. After about an hour of walking I was just zoning out until my friends and I noticed this nasty smell. I found out that three of my friends stepped in horse crap. It wasn’t fun sitting in a car filled with the aroma of horse manure. After a thirty-minute drive back to our campground I just wanted to sleep. That night one of my friends brought his yearbook. He showed me a bunch of pretty girls and stuff so that wasn’t bad. At about one in the morning I heard a clawing noise outside of the tent. I quickly woke my

friends up and told them. Terrified, we started screaming until one of the older scouts asked us what was going on from his tent. “A giant monster is trying to claw its way into our tent.” He just laughed, called us things I can’t write down, and went back to sleep. We still heard the thing clawing at our tent, so the oldest of our group decided to go out there and inspect. We were practically screaming at him not to go out there, but he left anyway. “Nothing’s out here.” Three seconds later he ran back in, petrified, his dark complexion white as a ghost. We all huddled in one corner of our tent hiding in our sleeping bags. Two hours later we all fell asleep. When I awoke to the sound of packing the first thought in my head was “Sweet Mother of God! I get to leave this forsaken place!” I packed my stuff as fast as I could. It was an awesome feeling. Of course the three hour drive to the docks wasn’t fun sitting next to William Hung Junior. And the ferry ride felt like forever. I spent most of it in an isolated part of the ship watching The Neverending Story. For the first time, I relaxed. It felt so good to be back in my house taking a nice bath fifty miles away from the giant monsters, bathrooms, and long car rides. Although this trip was unpleasant in almost every way, it was pretty great. It taught me a lesson; I do feel some nostalgia about that trip. There were some pretty girls in that yearbook. The three mile run was actually refreshing in the cool morning air. And the trip to the summit was amazing, except for the smell. Don’t focus on the bad things. Pretend they don’t exist and maybe you can have a nice memorable trip.

Spring 2012

Molokai, the Story of Danielle Scarpelli â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;14

Arachnid Kelsi Teramae â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13

Pandora Kelsi Teramae â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13

Ancestor Paper Mary Helen Gustafson ‘14 Sitting on the edge of the roof, she dangles her lanky legs over the side. She reached up and took her hair down, letting the light breeze sift though her blonde strands. Her hair caught the dark Honduran sunset and mesmerized a nearby squirrel. She thought about how stupid her life was, how even if she tried to turn it around to go the right away, it wouldn’t make any difference. Her boyfriend hadn’t made any attempts to talk to her after the last beating that he dished out which left her with a bruise under her eye. It couldn’t have been any better though. She deserved it; she had been whining about her seven other sisters being better or something. She couldn’t remember. It hurt under her eye to remember. The sun started to fall slowly into the dry dirt in the distance and she rose from her seated position to a standing one and watched as it completely disappeared from sight. It was quick and over just like that. She wanted to take that concept and apply it to her life. Quick and over just like that. Sometimes, she wondered what it would be like if she died. Not that she would ever do it, of course, but how would people react? Would they go to her funeral and leave her flowers? Maybe even make one of those long and boring sermons to remember her. Or would she even have a funeral? Maybe she’d be cremated and spread over Yellow Stone National Park just like her mother had. What if it had been just as she feared? What if they didn’t do anything? It would be as if she never existed in the first place, like she never stepped foot on the dirt of this planet. She shook the thought from her head and stood with no thoughts for a moment and then headed towards the fire exist stairs that she had originally climbed up to get to the roof. Her sisters’ yelling and screaming got louder as she approached the opening of the hatch leading into the kitchen. “So long, free air,” she whispered as she closed the hatch door above her head. She plastered a fake smile to her face as she greeted her sisters with love and affection. X Her face was slightly sticky from the drool that had hit her pillow and face from the night before. She wiped it off with a free hand and hit the alarm clock on the cherry wood nightstand next to her bed. She rubbed the sleep out of the corners of her eyes and sat up, causing the homemade quilt to drop slightly, revealing the bruises covering her stomach. Lightning fast, she covered herself again before anyone who walked into the room could see.

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Zenith Letting out a yawn that was worthy of a lion, she rolled off the side of her bed and almost fell onto the floor. Luckily she caught herself and stood up abruptly, slightly confused as to how she managed to not fall like she always does. She walked over to her vanity mirror in the corner of her room and tried to suppress the massive lump of frizzy hair on her head. It was no use; it just kept popping up over and over. She turned away and stumbled back towards her bed. Something was wrong. There wasn’t any screaming or yelling that came from the downstairs area. She sat up again and bounded out of her door, leaving it open. It was dead quiet. Being the quietest she’s ever been, she crept up the stairs one by one, afraid to see what was waiting for her. The suspense was needed, because there on the floor lay her seven sisters, dead. The red blood seeped through the carpet. X “I’m sorry for your loss,” a stranger said. “They’re in a better place now, dearie,” another stranger said to her. That’s all that they were: strangers. The words that they said to her only made it worse. She hadn’t even said anything about her sisters. She didn’t cry, nor did she show any signs of emotion. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was supposed to die first. Intentionally. This was simply because a murderer had been loose in the area and had seen her house as a harmless target. Then he took advantage of the situation that had been presented to him. Her memory flashed back to the blood on the floor. It had been so red. Such a dark colour mixed with the white of the carpet that they had put in not a month earlier. It had almost made a slightly pink colour. She didn’t try to touch her siblings. She simply stepped over the mess and reached for the telephone. Avoid the mess. Avoid the mess. The police had come in less than two minutes and carried her away, telling her to be calm even though she didn’t show a hint of emotion on her face, much less in her body language. “It’ll be okay ma’am,” they all said to her. She knew it would be okay. She knew she could just move on. “Excuse me, miss. But I think you’re boyfriend is here,” someone threw her train of thought, which was going nowhere to begin with, off the track. She nodded and went to him. He regarded her, grabbed her arm and almost threw her into the cab that he had ordered to take her home. Her fragile body hit the leathery cushions of the taxi and he slid right in after her. He gave the driver mumbled words of direction and then it took off in a

rush. She looked out the window with longing. She didn’t say anything. “We’re going to my place. We’re living together now. Got it?” he stated. It wasn’t even intended as a question. She nodded and didn’t move. When they reached his home he pulled her out of the car as soon as he shoved cash in the driver’s face. She found out in the next five minutes that she would be sleeping in the basement with the rats, and she would be fed two times a day with whatever he brought home from the bar. I deserve this, she thought, I deserve this. It’s been two years from that day. She died of inhaling too much black mold from living in the basement, but before that she killed her boyfriend with a frying pan. Interesting how you can stand up for yourself at the last second, isn’t it?

Spring 2012

Goddess Kennedy Wilson â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13

The Woman in White and the Woman in Black Jamie-Rae Martin â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12 Driving down the road There she stood-- Lady in White Before you pass, stop Stop and pick her up Open the door, let her in As you drive, sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gone Driving down the road There she stood-- Lady in Black Never stop for her

Spring 2012

Looking Back Tori-Ann Miyahara â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13

Backseat Camille Larkins ‘14 You are dozing in the backseat of you parents’ car. You are five years old again. On your way home from a party, Or a family friend’s house, Or some boring event your parents dragged you to, And 11:30 seems awfully late to you. The streetlights whirl past. Your blinks get longer each time. And your eyes struggle to stay open. And your eyelashes nearly close together. They are a Venus flytrap, Containing sleepy thoughts and lights dancing behind your eyes. The seatbelt is digging into your arm, And it’s a little cold in here, But the buzz of the highway lulls you to a shallow sleep. You can still hear your parents’ soft voices. They think you can’t hear them. You drift in and out, From the car to dreamland. You rise again when the movement comes to a halt. You have reached the driveway. There is drool on your chin and your eyes are still heavy. The car doors open, And you keep your eyes closed. You feel your mom’s soft hands unbuckle the belt across your waist And your dad’s rough ones follow, Holding you into his chest Even though you’re getting too big for this, he always says. The rules seem to change on nights like this. You don’t know it, but you are still his little boy. You are not fully asleep, But you like to pretend.

Spring 2012

Mosaic-Aly Noa Terada-Pagdilao â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

Marlin Fishing Kaylyn Kekoa â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13

Zenith You Stressing: Breathe Alexis Perez ‘12 Don’t just worry about everything in you life. Out there in some land far away where you could have been, in a fantasy, where a dream may arrive and begin the story about how life is supposed to be. So don’t worry either. Let your whole self float away and not think about a thing. Let that imagination of yours take you away like your drifting in the ocean. Swim here till all that stressing disappears, carrying a new perspective to look at the world. Feel it? That’s what we mean. So don’t just read this, rub your thought over it. Now you can breathe.

Mini Beach Noa Terada-Pagdilao â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

After Morrissoeau Colt Wallace â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

Zenith The Creation of Auburn University Robert Meeks ‘17 A long time ago, a Native American tribe lived in a place we now call Auburn, Alabama. They obeyed the Eagle God, their leader, peace and harmony. They lived with great joy, and were the strongest tribe in all of Alabama. Then, on one unfortunate day for the tribe, swoosh, The Crimson Tide Flood, a cause of chaos, ruined their crops, and left their tribe in ruins. The village was destroyed with hardly anything but soggy wood and puddles of water left. For ten long days they begged the Eagle God to help them fix their home. But the Eagle God was worried about something else that would happen in the future. Even though the tribe wondered what troubled him, they slowly brought parts of the village back together. The tribe was working on the houses of the village when they found a note on one of the floors. It said, “In three days, a powerful army will attack the village, and destroy it.” The tribe was in chaos after hearing this news, finding armor, gathering weapons, and preparing for the attack. Finally, after two long days, they were ready for the battle. The warriors of the tribe were waiting and waiting, when suddenly, a tiger jumped out of thin air! The warriors thought he was the first of the army, and were ready to fight, when the Eagle God swooped down to the tribe. He dived down on the tiger and they began the fight. POW! BAM! The tiger was as strong as a gorilla, yet the eagle was lightning fast. After hours of brawling, the Eagle God had the tiger pinned to the ground. He was about to give the final blow when the tiger held out a small note. It was from John Heisman, the Eagle God’s master! Apparently, the “invader” was really the Tiger God, and came with vital information. The army was coming in eight hours, and he was sent to be an ally to them. The Gods collected all the eagles and tigers they could, but it was not quite enough to defeat the mysterious army. For help, John Heisman planted a spirit tree to protect the village. The next day, the eagles, tigers, and warriors were ready to fight, when the leader of the army showed himself. The army was a group of seven elephants! They were rushing to the village, destroying everything in sight. The warriors had lost all hope, and the elephants were a few feet away, then inches away from the village when, bang! The elephants looked like they hit a brick wall. The spirit tree protected the tribe with a force field! The warriors got their bows and arrows, scared them with fire, and sent the elephants up north to Tuscaloosa, Alabama. They didn’t have anything to celebrate with that made it through the flood except for toilet paper, so to celebrate their victory; they decided to teepee the Spirit Tree. What they didn’t know was that it cancelled the power of the spirit tree!

They kept celebrating until an eagle spotted something in the distance. The leader elephant was back, and he was running towards the village! The eagle told the others, and a tiger noticed that the shield was off. They told all of the people and animals, and before anyone could stop them, the Tiger God and Eagle God charged straight at the elephant leader. Even with their combined strength, they could not last very long. They were too far away from anyone to help, and the warriors were out of arrows. It looked like this was the end of the terrified, troubled tribe and the pair of Gods. Suddenly the Tiger and Eagle Gods made some signals to the others. They wanted the others to take the toilet paper off the tree! No one understood this, except for the chief of the tribe. He ran as fast as he could to the tree, and started taking off the paper. It was almost the end of the gods, when the chief took off the last piece. The three were in the middle of the barrier the spirit tree protected, and the beams came down over them. After that, all three of them disappeared. It was the end of the elephant invasion, yet everyone was disappointed that the two heroes vanished. The eagles flew away, the tigers walked into the forest, and the tribe continued cleaning up their home. A week later, the warriors, eagles, and tigers were still unhappy the gods were gone. That day, John Heisman gathered them together to build a town dedicated to the two gods. They made a college to remember the tiger and eagle as big as a mall. The eagles and tigers were sent back to their homes. After all of that work, the tribe celebrated like they did after the invasion. They made a creed for the gods. Today they still teepee the Spirit Tree, hate the elephants, and remember the two Gods that helped them survive the invasion.

Spring 2012

Family Circle Salus Kim â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;14

Right Side Up Noa Terada-Pagdilao â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

BW Noa Terada-Pagdilao ‘12

Two Front War Kazuo White ‘14 The heat, it was unbearable. Poston, Arizona, the place we had been forced to move to was a great change from the farm back in Salinas, California. The heat, the bugs, the horrible food, the government, it seemed as if everything was out to get us. The government put us here saying it was for our own protection, but everyone knew it wasn’t true. The real reason we were here was because everyone thought that we were the enemy. They thought we were the ones who blew up Pearl Harbor since we looked like those Zero pilots. But then one day Army recruiters came to the relocation camp and told us that there was a way for us to get out. There was a way to escape the heat and the barbed wire fence. There was a way to prove that we were truly Americans. The Army was mustering a regiment of Japanese-American soldiers. It was to be called the 442nd Regiment. I didn’t see this just as a way to get out. I saw this as a way to prove that I was American. I waited in line for hours. It appeared everyone in the camp had the same idea I did. The line slowly advanced up to the barrack where the recruitment officers waited. I walked into the hot barrack and a recruitment officer gave me a glance. He was a tall Hakujin fellow with a shaved head. He had blue eyes and spoke really slowly. He looked down at a paper and then looked back up to me. “Name?” He asked. “Takami Shinn,” I replied. “Are you willing to serve in the armed forces of the United States on combat duty wherever ordered?” he asked. “Yes, sir,” I replied. “Will you swear unqualified allegiance to the United States of America and faithfully defend the United States from any or all attacks by foreign or domestic forces, and foreswear any form of allegiance or obedience to the Japanese emperor, to any other foreign government, power or organization?” Was this a trap? I was a citizen of the United States. I had never even been to Japan, but he thought I had an allegiance with it? Were we really not trusted at all? I knew what I had to do. Even though they thought I was the enemy, I knew it was not true. I would prove to them that I was more American than any of them. So I responded, “Yes.” I held my head high as I walked out. There were some that said no to both questions. One of them was my friend from high school, Dai. When I asked him why he didn’t agree, he said that the government would never trust us and there was nothing we could do that

Spring 2012

Zenith would prove them wrong. But I knew he was mistaken. President Roosevelt had just made a mistake. We all did. We had to show him and all the others that they were wrong before they would change. That was my job--our job. If some of us didn’t serve, people would always have a suspicion that we were traitors. I would have told him this, if only the feds hadn’t taken him to prison. I never saw him after that. Later that month, I got the call. I had been selected to join the 442nd. I packed my bag, said goodbye to my mother, father, brother and sisters, and then boarded the train. It was a long trip to Mississippi. The shades were pulled down so that the outsiders couldn’t see us and feel afraid thinking we were Japanese Imperial soldiers. When we finally got to boot camp, I saw what type of soldiers we had to become. Lucky for me I had grown strong working in the fields. I saw some of the city folk dying during the first month of drills. The JapaneseAmericans from Hawaii never really got along with us in the beginning. While we sent most of our money to our families who were still making do in camp, they spent it on cheap beer and stuff like that. They couldn’t understand why we did what we did. We had a couple of fights and there seemed to be no solution. One day a priest came along and took all the Hawaii guys down to the internment camp in Arkansas. After that, they understood why we did what we did and why we weren’t as happy-go-lucky. We faced many battles on our European tour, but The Lost Battalion battle would always be remembered. It wasn’t just because of the magnitude of the death toll. It was because that was the first time I had seen that the Jerries were people. Throughout the other battles, we were firing at faceless enemies. Killing a man with a gun far away was easy. I pulled the trigger and he was dead. Up close, however, it was a different story. There was a moment when we both knew he would die. The only thing I could do to help him was put the blade deeper in his chest and hope that relieved the pain. We were told never to check our kills, and I now knew why. On October 26, 1944, in the Vosges Mountains, the Germans beset the 1st Battalion, 141st Infantry (originally the Texas National Guard). Our job was to get them out. Two other attempts had failed, and we were expendable. Everyone in our unit knew that the superior officers picked us because they knew that most of us wouldn’t make it back. To be honest, I think that they didn’t care if the entire unit was killed. The French mountains were the opposite of the Poston desert, cold and lifeless, not a living thing in sight. Even the bugs would have been a relief from the silence. We moved up on the enemy position. No number of years would ever make me forget what happened that day. All was quiet when the crack of gunfire broke out on the horizon. German machine gunfire started mowing us down. The explosion of mortars broke out around us. All I could

do was hide in a sewer ditch. A mortar burst next to my head. I could only hear a loud ringing, the loudest ringing I’d ever heard in my life. I felt some guy’s hand on my shoulder. I looked behind me to see him saying something. I assumed he was praying that he would survive this bloodbath. I had never met the guy, but there is a type of bond soldiers developed while being next to death. Poor fellow. A Stalenheiner landed right next to him. He tried to throw it back, but it was too late. The grenade blew his arm off. “Guess I wasn’t good enough,” he calmly said. He realized that his arm was laying ten feet away. “Awwwwwwww! Goddamn it! Oh, God, do something! Medic!” A medic came running over to us. He pulled the poor fellow out of that blood soaked trench. “How bad is it?” he asked. “Not too bad. You are going to be fine,” the medic reassured him. “Naw, I ain’t going to make it.” “Really? Where did you get your PhD?” “W-w-what?” “Are you a doctor?” The medic then injected him with morphine. “What? No!” “Then you are going to be fine, damn it! This is going to sting like hell.” The medic then poured disinfectant on the guys arm. I didn’t see what happened next because we got the order to charge. I did as I was told. We ran at the Jerry machine gunfire. I looked to the left and I saw a guy get his legs blown off by a landmine. I looked to the right and saw a man get ripped apart by machine gunfire. As we ran, we were told not to look up. Of course, some people didn’t listen. They looked up and the wood from the trees came down like shards of glass. Wood splinters the size of my arm rained down upon us. Some people looked as if they were hedgehogs with the amount of wood in them. The snow was red with blood and screams filled the air. I barely had time to do anything, so I tried to dig a foxhole. The earth was hard and frozen making my job even harder. I settled on digging a slit trench, a small trench just big enough for me to lie in prone. I looked to my left and saw a new guy. You could tell he was new because he was shaking from head to toes and his helmet was on as tight as it would go. “Loosen your helmet!” I shouted over the machine gunfire. “Why?” “Because if you get hit with a grenade your helmet will blow off with your head still in it!” Then I had to move. I saw a Jerry trench that was wide open. I made a dash and dove in it. First time I had ever a seen a Jerry up close. When they were raining down hell upon me, I started thinking they were some inhuman beasts. But this was just a man. A man filled with fear. I could see it from a mile away. He didn’t care who won the battle, he just wanted to get out

Spring 2012

Zenith alive. Well, there wasn’t much to do, it was either him or me. I stabbed him once with my rifle bayonet square in the chest. At first he tried to pull the bayonet out, but then came the slow realization that he was dead no matter what he did. So he just sat there letting me put the bayonet in him. With one final twist, he died. Then I did the one thing we learned not to do in boot camp. I checked him for a wallet. I couldn’t read the German part, but I saw a picture of his wife and kids. I knew how horrible it would be for them to learn what had happened to him. I thought back to my parents and how bad it would be for them to learn that I had died. I knew I didn’t have to make it back alive for me. I had to make it back for them. As I was about to charge, I looked back on that man I had killed. He and I both knew only one of us was going to leave that trench, but it was not time to linger on past happenings. It was time to save that battalion. We charged towards the Jerry line as mortars and artillery started raining down upon us. Death was all around me. The smell of gunshots and dead flesh, the fine mist of blood that was floating around us, the sight of my friends and comrades getting blown to pieces, and the cries of the dying. The screams never ended. Their voices just echoed up and down the forest, but I kept charging. None of that seemed to matter. I hopped into another Jerry trench, but this one seemed too good to be true. Not one Jerry in it and no guns or shells either. It wasn’t even bloodstained. Then I remembered a while back when the Jerries used to booby-trap some of their trenches. I froze and looked downward. I had stepped on a Bouncing Betty. I slowly tried to back away, but I had pressed that frozen ground a bit too hard. I then jumped over the sand bags and fell into a prone position. The entire trench erupted into an explosion of ball bearings. It ripped apart the shrubbery around me. Then came the ringing again, that god-awful ringing. Everything was blurry and the whole world seemed to shake. All I could do was lie there and wait for it to stop. One guy came up to me and said something, but I just saw his lips moving. I told him I was fine and for him to keep going. When the ringing finally stopped, I had a brief period of silence. Then gunfire broke out again. I ran to rejoin the group. Then I saw it, the final Jerry machine gun line. This one was more heavily armed than the others. I saw an empty foxhole. I ran for it and dove in. The ground was covered in a mixture of mud, water, and ice. The water soaked right through my boots and into my socks. I knew I had to get out of there unless I wanted to get trench foot. I had kept a nice, dry pair of socks under my armpits just in case this happened. I waited for a break in fire and then climbed out of that soaking hole. I could feel my soaked socks rubbing against my feet as I ran and tried to get cover. I had seen some really bad trench foot, ones where all the skin

had rubbed off and puss leaked out of the raw foot. I knew how serious wet socks could be. I saw that several GIs had captured a Jerry trench in a great position. It overlooked the entire battle. I ran over there snaking between dead bodies and guns lying on the ground. I pulled out my rifle and started firing at a Jerry nest. The gunner started unloading his Belgian Rattlesnake machine gun at us. Now we just had to wait for him to reload. It was hard for a gunner to reload with two people, but with one it was nearly impossible. I looked to the left and saw a guy I knew. I had met him in boot camp. His name was Sam and I had talked to him once or twice. Sam dropped his gun and ran at the nest. He pulled out a grenade and tossed it in. The gunner scrambled to throw it out but Sam had cooked the grenade perfectly. A Jerry sniper took the head off of the guy to my right. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see him after the first shot. Now it was cat and mouse. I was looking for him and he for me. I sat and waited for the white flash of the reflection of the sun off of his scope. Time seemed to slow down to a standstill. Then I saw the little white glare from his scope. Clever guy had hid in a camouflaged foxhole on top of the hill. He probably took down twenty guys today. Right before I could squeeze the trigger I saw a flash. I felt the cold bullet ripping through my skin. Everything seemed to slow down as I fell onto the hard earth. My vision started to blur as I saw a figure stand above me. He pressed down on my chest where I had been shot. He called out something, probably medic. Everything started going numb. A medic ran over and stood above me. He was trying to tell me something--I blacked out. When I woke back up, I could feel the open hole in me. The medic had removed the slug but was still patching me up. I did everything I could do not to scream. I gritted my teeth for some time before the medic noticed I was back up. He gave me a shot of morphine, which really took the edge off. I blacked out again. When I woke up, I saw the Texan battalion. They were smiling and cheering for us. My chest still hurt real badly, but I told them I was fine. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t go to the aid station. I had to keep marching on. I had to keep proving I was an American. When I look back upon my grandfather, I see him within me. I see his determination and courage. I see how his experiences affected him and subsequently affected me. His experiences have shaped who he was and what I will become.

Spring 2012

Soldiers Are People Too Amirah Majied â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

Juxtaposition

Kayla Economou ‘13

Sixth Grade Six Word Memoirs ‘18 Be original, inspiring, imaginative and unstoppable. Alyssa Estenson Asian boy, tiny, but smiling big! Ethan Suga Turned around, ran into a pillar. Shawn Kobayashi Chaos begins everything, good comes next. Donald Ouk Africa; fun, still scared of diseases. Justin Fletes Influenced, but the decision is mine. Jaymee Weisberg You aren’t the only person here. If you are proud of yourself, good. Shirleen Wong What more can I ask for? Hau’oli Carr I feel like I’m always lost. Kai Reyes-Huynh I’m myself and not anyone else. Maddie Yamammura Ready, set, terrible. Don’t blow it! Adrian Bates-Domingo My family is sometimes messed up. Erick Arana

Spring 2012

Turtle Kelsi Teramae â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13

Determination Ketan Patel â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

Amirah Amirah Majied â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

The Gakuen Anonymous ‘15 I sat in my uncomfortable seat, half listening to my sensei talk about new kanji that we had to learn by next week. I let my imagination take over, pencils turning into rockets and erasers into bombs, as I had done countless classes before. This was my usual Saturday. I was not having fun with my family or friends like a normal eight-year-old would be doing, but in a classroom learning Japanese. In these walls of Kaimuki High School, I felt trapped. Since I was five, these hallways consumed my Saturdays. This was Rainbow Gakuen, Rainbow School, a Saturday school for Japanese children like myself; a place where speaking English was not allowed and rules were strict. My best friend at the time was my imagination. It could take me away when I didn’t feel like learning. I didn’t understand most of what my teacher was saying and this made me scared to talk to any other students. My mom put me into this school to learn her culture and language. “Gam bate Kaikun, dekiru yo,” she would say: work hard, you can do it John. But I was struggling. So there I was, beginning my third year at the Gakuen, sitting as far away as I could from anyone else. I was tall, scrawny, and I still had that baby face that hadn’t been cute in a few years. Suddenly the bell awoke me from my daydreaming, signaling the end of class. “Shukudai yara nakusha dame,” you must do your homework, the teacher announced. My next class was Japanese grammar, which meant I had a 15-minute break. This was the time I felt the loneliest, sitting on the stairs watching the other kids play games and talk to each other in Japanese. There I was, the lone goldfish put into a small bowl with no one to talk to. I wandered around the campus kicking rocks with my torn up Adidas not sure exactly where my feet were taking me. As long as it was away from all those people, I was fine. I found myself at the door of my next class, and was the first to arrive as usual. I even beat the teacher this time. I took a seat in the back corner of the class and got out my books. As the clock ticked with its usual rhythm, the other kids started piling in the classroom. “Hey you,” I heard from behind me. Startled, I turned around nervously to see a tall figure who looked half Japanese, half white. His short black hair and ear piercing had a rebellious look. “I’m Ben, You?” “Tadenuma-Kai,” I responded, using my Japanese name. He seemed disappointed as I told him. “No, in English,” he said, a little annoyed. I looked to make sure the teacher wasn’t around. I couldn’t see her, she was probably getting her afternoon tea.

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Zenith “John Bennet.” “Alright, I’m going to sit next to you John.” He took a seat next to mine with his half interested look that he wore all the time. Little did I know that he would change my life forever. My day went on as it usually did, but I felt different, like I wasn’t alone. Why would Ben want to hang out with me? He was like the king of hearts and I was the card with the rules written on it, put to the side and forgotten. After a month, I still asked the same question, but I started getting used to this new presence in my life, that lonely stairwell was a thing of the past. His friends became my friends and soon, before I knew it, companions surrounded me. Our conversations filled with dreams of leaving the school and ranting about teachers. Overall, I felt accepted. “Anata ga shiwase-so ni miru,” you seem happy, my mom would say and honestly, I was. January rolled along marking the middle of the school year. I now had a close group of friends of about five people. All of us were half white unlike most of the other kids at the school, who were full Japanese. I didn’t notice it till years later, but that school was segregated by race. The groups of full Japanese students were usually smart and only spoke in Japanese, which was probably their first language. The “Hapa” kids, half white, were not as smart and secretly spoke in English. A few weeks after I turned nine years old, Ben got our group together to make a plan. Our plan was simply to convince our parents that this school was ruining our lives, and that they should let us quit. This plan only worked for two of us, Ben and I.

Do you pea ce Kouko Carter â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

Green Eyes Amirah Majied â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

Care Sarah Li â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13

Life Sarah Li â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13

Rascal Anonymous ‘15 Every hero needs a sidekick. Batman had Robin, Calvin had Hobbes—what’s a hero without a sidekick? My hero found me on a cold September morning. I remember it being dark with the distinct smell of my brothers and sisters surrounding me in the small-enclosed space. The sound of passing cars zooming along filled our little floppy ears. I was as good as dead without even a name to call myself. Some of my brothers and sisters barked and yapped, trying to get any attention they could find, but none came. Some time passed before light poured into our little cardboard box. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a face looking down at us. The face was of a human in his late twenties with shortly cut brown hair and a small scar above his left eye. He wore a camouflage jacket used for hunting, a dagger hung on one hip and a whisky flask on the other. Not someone you would find at your Sunday church service. I looked into his dark brown eyes and for the first time I saw myself. I was just a puppy then, a German Shepard mix with a pitch-black coat everywhere except on my belly and neck, which was light brown. Now, in the movies, when someone would find a cardboard box full of puppies, they would pick up the little one hiding shyly in the back corner. But not my hero. He looked from puppy to puppy and when his eyes wondered across me I jumped up and down trying to stand on my hind legs. A small smile spread across his face. I guess even alcoholic hunters have a soft spot. As he moved his hands closer to me I started to bark furiously, my sharp small teeth in a snarl. He put his hand on my soft pelt and lifted me up close to his face. I could smell his breath, a mix of cheap whisky and Trident gum. I didn’t want to be carried around and examined by this tippler so I turned my head around and bit him right on his hand. He dropped me with a thump, cursing and screaming, “YOU RASCAL!” I guess that name stuck because next thing you know he had picked me back up, more cautiously this time, and sat me down in the front seat of his scratched and stained ‘97 Silverado saying, “Alright Rascal, you can sit shotgun.” The thirty minute drive back to his house was anything but quiet. He proceeded to give his life story in full detail without pausing to take a breath. Of course dogs can’t talk back, but that didn’t stop him. “So I live down south in the Mancos. One of the nicest towns in Colorado ayy say. Where ya from Rascal? How come that owner of yours don leave you on the side of the road? Ya know owners ain’t no good anyways, my parents weren’t nothing special. Did you catch my name? It’s Junior Robinson.” The name Junior didn’t fit him well, especially in Mancos, which is right next to some of the biggest American Indian reservations in America. Down in the reservation, a quarter of the men were “Junior.” To see a white

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Zenith man have this name was just plain weird. I sat there in the big front seat, staring out at the dead trees and fake tipis used to attract lost tourists trying to find their way to the San Juan National Forest. The sound of the motor working hard for every mile and a roaring river in the distance soothed me and soon I fell asleep. When I awoke we were just turning off the quiet highway 160, entering the silent town of Mancos, Colorado. He pulled into a tiny one story house off of Oak Street and welcomed me to “Casa del Junior.” The house looked about as sturdy as stacked playing cards built by an old man with Parkisons. One gust of wind would tear the roof off the house. But it was a home, something I never had before. I followed him into his house and found a maze of empty beer bottles and shotgun shells. “Ya know the famous flutist David Nighteagle? He lives right across from us. Sometimes during the night you can hear him playing his flutes. He got all kinds, big and small. So let’s see…” Junior opened up his fridge and looked around. “What do ya wanna eat? Do ya drink beer? Nah nah ok well I got some ham you can eat?” He pulled out some ham from a small container and put it on a used napkin he found laying around and put it in front of me. Starving, I took a bite out of the sour smelling ham. After a few bites the ham was completely gone. After a week at the Casa del Junior, I finally started to figure out what type of person he was. For one, he was quite lonely. He would stay up late at night petting my back and talking to me as if I was an old friend. Even after I fell asleep, I’m sure he just kept talking until he couldn’t talk any longer and fell into a deep slumber. His favorite thing to talk about was his hunting adventures. “There was this one damn early spring back in ’05. I went huntin’ all the way out to Hotchkiss in central Colorado just to get a nice big o’ black bear. Huntin’ was dangerous, a scare at every turn. I must have waited four full hours before anything crossed my path. Then I saw this big papa black bear, majestic creatures they are. Aimed my rifle right at his heart. BAM BAM. Two shots, direct hits. The beast let out a roar and burst into a run. Ya know they can run thirty miles per hour? Well I followed the blood trail and found my 280 pound bear lying as dead as a rock by the side of a big o’ cave. That was some day, yeah Rascal? I gotta take you huntin’ one day.” One lazy evening about five weeks after my rescue, Junior turned on the Outdoor Channel and started watching a duck hunting special. The hunter in that screen gracefully moved his shotgun in the direction of the flying ducks, shooting them down one by one, pummeling them to their death. But it was what happened next that caught Junior’s attention. A dog, similar to me, gently picked it up and brought it back to his master. Now that sparked an idea. “Rascal, when you’re older, you’re gonna be doing that

with me,” Junior remarked with eagerness pointing to his television screen. How different life can be with a future. The sound of shotgun shells going off was like the fireworks that went off during the Fourth of July, when I would hide in my kennel and try to escape from the scariness. Every Saturday I would smell the smoke coming from his gun, which had become familiar to me. I would smell that sweet rich smell and know it was time for me to do my job. It had been five months since my hero had found me. I was still just a puppy, but the muscles in my body were beginning to show. My canine teeth began to grow in sharper, like a nail. As Junior raised his gun to shoot the mallard out of the sky, I let out a roar of excitement. The firework sound went off and the smell of gunpowder wafted through my nostrils. I looked up into the sky and saw the bird explode into a cloud of feathers. With Junior’s command I burst off running. My paws felt cool and comfortable as they sank into the ground, moving faster than any human could go. The smell of blood and the frightened duck filled my nostrils. It didn’t take me long before my nose led me straight to the duck. Its head was twisted in a direction far too unusual to be alive and the blood from its side was running into the soggy ground, turning the grass red like a burning fire. The smell was tempting. How easy it would be to sink my teeth into the flesh of the recently killed meat. But that would mean disrespecting and breaking the trust between my master. This was my master’s meal, so I gently picked up the bird like that dog did in the television show I saw months before. The taste of the duck raced through my mouth, not easing the temptation. I ran back to Junior, duck in my mouth, and found him waiting for me with a smile from ear to ear and a doggy treat as I set down the duck by his side. I caught the treat in my mouth and ate it in a few bites. Adrenaline pumped through my body and I let out a howl of victory.

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Lines in the Sky Kayla Economou â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13

Friends Alexis Tom â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;14

Colored Ends Noa Terada-Pagdilao â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

Rainy Days Tara Norton ‘15 After changing into her favorite white sweater and old worn pair of blue jeans, Elena grabbed her notebook, pencil, and her small white umbrella and set out the door. The air was crisp, like biting into a fresh granny smith apple and she breathed it in slowly, happy to be out of the thick veil of silence that has incased their house for the past few months. Or at least silence is what her parents wanted it to sound like. She didn’t tell them, but she heard it mostly every night. It was always around eleven, when Elena was supposed to be sleeping. First it was her mom. And her father would reply calmly, but the conversation would soon spoil with rotten words and turn to yelling. Elena would close her door and turn on the lamp sitting on her desk, for she could never sleep until they stopped fighting. On nights like these, she put on her headphones and blasted the music into her eardrums until she drifted into sleep, and her pencil rolled out of her hand. The comforting smell of rain flowed through her and she drifted in and out of her thoughts, walking through the slight drizzle. It dripped down from the sky as it hit the pavement and her small white umbrella as the snowflakes would in winter. Elena walked through a small neighborhood, passing little blue fences and the peach trees hanging above her like a canopy, leaving a sweet scent that wafted through the town as they would soon be ripping. They were famous for their peaches. As she made a turn to the right, she came to where the bay began. She smiled; it was her favorite time of the day, dawn. This is when the sun begins to rise from its sleep, creating slivers of pink and orange that dance across the water. Something caught her eye, and she halted. Before her, a girl who seemed to be about her age stood defiantly at the edge of the wooden platform, her hands resting calmly on her hips. As Elena got closer, she started to examine the girl. Rich, chocolaty brown hair formed a braid down her back. She wore a purple and flannel shirt, like the kind a woodsman wears, scuffed and nicked at the rolled up sleeves. A pair of old looking blue jeans hugged her hips and black converse held on to her feet with bright purple laces. She looked like the type of girl that could easily take on anyone and defeat them. You could tell by the slight toning in her upper biceps. Elena stood apprehensively a little ways behind her, feeling a bit uneasy as she began to walk slowly up next to the girl. “Nice sunrise, eh?” Elena’s voice came out in almost a whisper. The girl turned, Elena’s eyes fixated on hers, the purist blue Elena had ever seen. “Oh…Hi, didn’t see ya’ there,” The girl said, turning back to look at

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Zenith the ripple of colors of the water. “Uh, hello, um…” Elena was never good at talking to other people. She hadn’t had a real friend since the second grade. That’s when a sudden clap of thunder reached their ears, rumbling through the sky and rain began to pour from the clouds in buckets. Elena made a frustrated sound as she hugged her notebook to keep it from getting wet and stood under her umbrella. She looked at the strange girl, hesitated, then held out her umbrella. “Uh, here… I don’t need it; my house isn’t much of walk from here. We should go, lightning is attracted to large bodies of water.” She tried to make her voice loud enough to be heard over the roaring noise of the rain pelting in sleets against the lake. A gentle shock spread through the girl’s face as the umbrella was shoved into her hand. Elena gave a weak smile, then turned around and started to run down the dock, the thump, thump, thump of her shoes clunking against the wood planks fading into the sound of the rain as she disappeared around the block. The morning, Elena moved with a sudden urgency through the neighborhood as dawn broke, an excellent springing in her step. But when she reached the empty dock, she felt a certain disappointment spread through her veins. A milky pink began to settle in the sky as she sat down, her feet dangling on the edge. She took a few moments to admire the view then backed up, dragging her legs over and opening up her notebook on her lap. She turned to a blank page, breathing in the musty scent of the crisp clean paper. A slight tap greeted her on the shoulder and she jumped as if she had just been struck by lightning. Flustered, strangling her book close to her chest, she looked up, her heart jumping as her eyes landed on the girl from the day before. “Do you come here every morning?” It wasn’t that type of hello Elena was expecting. “Y-Yes… Yes I do.” She tried not to stutter, but couldn’t help it. “Here’s your umbrella. Thank you.” The girl smiled calmly as she held it to her. Elena hesitated, but then gave a delicate grin as she grabbed her umbrella out other hand. The girl plopped down next to her. “The name’s Carter, Carter Mace. Nice to meet’cha.” She took Elena’s hand as they shook and greeted one another. “Elena, Elena Bluem.” “Nice name.” “Oh…thank you.” Elena pondered her way of speaking as Carter laughed, and looked out at the horizon.

“You know…You interest me. I’ve never met anyone before that was nice enough to lend something to a stranger.” “It’s nothing really.” “Nah, you’re special.” A light shade of pick spread across Elena’s cheeks. “Thank you…” “Oh come on, I bet you hear that all the time!” “Thant’s actually a first.” “Your parents…?” But the question seemed to die as Elena looked away, her eyes growing a dull green, choking back to tears. Carter understood and let the subject fade into another like the colors in the sky. Over the next few hours, Carter talked about her life on the West Coast and her large house and many friends who went with her to private school. She talked about her parents who were too busy with work to take care of her, so they shipped her off the week before to her grandmother’s house here for the summer. Elena told Cater about the town, about her small house and public school. They lived two completely different lives, yet they instantly clicked, their friendship blossoming as beautifully as rare flower. August was approaching, and the air began to thicken and grow more humid, though the rain never stopped. These days, Elena and Carter spent their time talking until the sun went down. On one cloudy day, Carter’s curiosity over Elena’s notebook won the best of her. “Hey El?” “Hm..?” “What’s that you’re always holding?” Elena’s face grew a bright pink, and began to stutter as Carter chuckled and took the book out right out of her hands. Elena tried to grab it back, but Carter was stubborn. The book was green and spiraled, the edges of the pages frayed and worn from over handling. As carted opened to the first page, she immediately paused, gasping at the beauty. Before her, the paper held an image carved with a gentle hand and a smooth pencil. The drawing was so lifelike that Carter had to stare at it for a few minutes to take in the all of the detail. It was the face of a girl. The hair curved and flowed from her head, her eyes showing a thousand feelings, and telling a story that could only be truly expressed through pencil lines and lead smudges. Carter looked at the date at the bottom of the page, June 16, the beginning of summer. Her face showed and expression mixed with shock and awe as she flipped slowly through the pages, occasionally stopping to take in the detail. That’s when she turned the page to the image of a certain girl, her face in her hands, crying. Then a lone girl standing in the rain, a girl drown-

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Zenith ing, a girl with her hands over her mouth, then her ears, then one with a girl burning papers, each and every girl crying. One after, raw emotions poured out of the drawings and shocked Carter. Drawing after drawing, all that continued was crying, sadness, rain. Even Carter’s eyes began to water. “El…What…” Elena snatched it out of her hands, hugging it close to her chest, her eyes blurry as she rubbed them, trying not to spill tears. “I don’t show anyone this…” “B-but why?!” Elena broke down, tears spilling down her cheeks. Everything began to leak out her lungs at once…She told Carter about her parents, all of the friendships that never lasted, all of the fighting, and all of the endless night of crying to herself, alone in her room. The glass that had been filled for too long, tipped over. Their bittersweet summer was coming to an end. There were two weeks left before school was to start, and the earthy tones of autumn were beginning to appear. The annual peach festival had just ended, and the trees began to turn to rustic oranges and lush browns. The scent of cinnamon peach pies lingered through every household as families made use of the abundant crop and took advantage of the cozy feeling of fall. Carter knocked on the door and Elena opened it, smiling gingerly for it was the last day they would be together and Carter’s plane would be leaving the next day. They spent the morning looking through cookbooks in Elena’s bedroom, for thunderstorms ruled the sky, preventing them from the bay. A click came from the doorway as Elena heard her mom open the lock with her spare key. She popped her head in on them, and smiled. She had met Carter before, and was always pleased to see Elena with a friend. Mrs. Bluem was a sweet woman, her cheeks always rosy and her spirits high. Her hair was a dark auburn color, accenting her petite figure with hazel eyes to match. But you could tell she was worn by years of hardship, her smile tentative and with faint hints of sorrow. Elena’s mother left the doorway and Elena went to go use the restroom. With out thinking, Carter grabbed Elena’s sketchbook off her desk, and quickly made her way to the kitchen, where her mother was making tea. The smell of chamomile drifted through the air as Carter suddenly stopped, her heart thumping “Um…Mrs. Bluem?” She asked quietly, Mrs. Bluem turned, her lips forming into a delighted smile as she spotted her. “Yes dear?” “Well…Can I show you something?” A slight confusion fell on her face. “Why yes, of course!”She poured her tea into a coffee mug and

ushered Carter to the table. She sat and Carter held out the sketchbook. “What..?” “Elena drew them.” Mrs. Bluem’s expression turned to a slight shock. She opened the first page. Carter’s heart beat increased in speed as Elena’s mother gasped, turning to the first page.It was the same picture Carter had first seen, a beautiful girl, her face curved gracefully out of pencil, shaded to where it looked almost real. You could tell her mother was speechless, but her hand began to waver as she turned to the page with the crying girl, and then the next and the next. Realization hit her, and pace slowing, all of her color drained seemed to drain from her face. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks, matching the rain that hit the windows. “M-Mom!” Elena appeared next to Carter, tears in her eyes, hands shaking uneasily. She didn’t even bother to look Carter in the eye as she snatched the sketchbook out of her mother’s hands. Quickly turning around, she ran to her room and slammed the door behind her. Carter felt her insides coil as she gathered her things and let herself out, leaving a tense of bitterness in the air. Mrs. Bluem was left at the kitchen table, her hands wrapping around the now cold cup of tea. As Carter began her way down the street, tears formed in her eyes but she rubbed them away hastily with the ragged sleeved of her worn flannel shirt. As the fallen leaves rustled across the pavement, Carter departed. A year had passed, and a fresh new summer began. Elena shifted from foot to foot, trying to ignore the nervous knot in her stomach. She had on a ruffled sky blue blouse and white jeans, worn in at the knees. It was hotter than usual, so she had her hair braided to the side, and pretty white flowers decorated the silky auburn mess. As usual she hugged her sketchbook close. The airport was never a busy place being so small, but today people bustled through to get to their destinations. Just as she turned her gaze from the clock, her eyes fell on the girl who had just made her way out of the gate. Her hair now framed her face, short pixie-like but still the same rich chocolate brown. She wore a familiar flannel shirt and a pair of dark blue jean shorts and white flip flops. In her hand was crinkled one-way ticket, and in the other, her summer suitcase. Big blue eyes grew in shock as they settled on the girl with the auburn hair. Elena smiled, and Carter returned the favor, changing forward and tackling Elena with a deathlike hug. They both squeezed tight, not having seen each other for nine months and when they finally parted, they both had joyful tears in their eyes. But Carter’s face tweaked with a hint of bitter. “El, I’m sorry…I never said goodbye…And for what I did, I thought you would never talk to me again…”

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Zenith They began to walk, Carter’s grandma who had also been waiting, took Carter’s suitcase and let them go freely. They made their decent to the harbor. At first silence followed them, only the sound of their footsteps breaking the slightly tense air. “El…” “It was never your fault. I know you only wanted to help…” “And your parents..?” “They divorced last December.” Elena said it as if it left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. “I’m so sorry…” “Don’t be…” “But-” “My father became a cruel man. A month after you left, he pushed my mother into the kitchen table, and I think that’s when it all truly began to fall apart. She did what was best. But hey… without you, I would have never become as close with her as I am now… She likes to watch me draw.” Elena smiled slightly. They reached the dock and Elena pulled out her sketchbook. “Look,” she flipped halfway through the book, and on the paper was beautiful girl, her dark hair braided down her back, and her flannel shirt rugged and scuffed. Carter gasped as her finger traced the delicate lines. She then stopped to examine the smile that shone magnificently on the girl’s face. Page after page was the same girl, each time more exquisite and picturesque. “I never got the chance to tell you Carter, but you are the most incredible friend I could have asked for… Thank you so much, for everything.” Elena’s lips twisted into a kind smile that dazed Carter as they sat on the pier. “You know, Elena, since the day you shoved that umbrella in my hand, part of me has been eagerly waiting to see your true smile…and I think I just found it.” They both grinned. And it was as simple as the sun setting into the horizon, and the colors fluttered across the burning sky like fireworks.

Horse Jessica Merriman â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;14

Craving Tristan Schmidt â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;11

Kim Jong-II Zoey Araki ‘13 I love his smile. I love his receding hair line. I love the way he salutes his soldiers with his lips pursed together and eyes extra squinty. I love the double chin that visits when he’s in deep thought about his next order of nuclear bombs. I love how Korean he is. I love the way he thinks. I love his diarrhea-green jumpsuit. I love mama Jong for bringing Kim Jong-il into this world. I love his eyes. I love his two sons that no one knows about for carrying Kim Jong-il’s genes, blossoming into the next generation of awesome. I love North Korea. Kim Jong-il is my hero.

Spring 2012

Sophie Erika Ohki â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

Zipperz Catherine Davis â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;11

She’s So Heavy Sean Murakami ‘15 I remember seeing Her there in the store about two months ago. I was in awe the first time I saw Her. I was simply dumbstruck. Everything about Her was beautiful: Her beautiful crafted neck, Her perfect head, and Her body with just the right amount of color. I once heard Her sing to someone too. To put it simply, Her voice was amazing. It was like a choir of angels. I knew I wanted Her; I needed Her. I could feel that She wanted me too; She needed me. Every day when I walk to work, I remember seeing Her. I think about Her; I think about us being happy; I think about us being together, singing. I was determined to get her. However, there was one problem. To free Her would cost $4,500. I barely had $1,000, but I knew I had to help Her. She needed to be with someone who would take care of Her, someone like me. Today I spent more time looking at Her than usual. I was looking at Her details, and I noticed they were just as amazing as when I first saw Her. I would have loved to watch Her more, but I had to get back to work. I quickly got back on my old bike—it was just starting to rust—and sat down on the dilapidated seat. As I peddled, I could not stop thinking about Her. She was taking me over. I swiftly steered myself into the parking lot of an old Italian restaurant. I locked my bike onto a small tree and quickly ran into the 120-year-old building. I walked into the building through a rusted double-sided door and was greeted with usual, “Hey man! What’s up?” from my co-worker, John. To which I would usually reply, “Nothing man. Hey, did you see that show last night?” However, my answer would be different tonight. “Hey dude, I have a question,” I said to him as I put on my Mariano’s Pizzeria hat. “Sure dude, what’s on your mind?” John asked. “I need some advice. I need to raise some money for my mom’s upcoming operation. Any ideas?” John’s cheerful disposition quickly saddened. “Aw man, that sucks. What does your mom have?” John asked solemnly. “She has lung cancer,” I quickly made up. It hadn’t really occurred to me that I had just told a pretty big lie, but She was important. I was willing to take the risk. “Well dude, to be honest, I do take a couple bucks out of the register at the end of the day. You could probably use the money more than me. Don’t worry, Ennio doesn’t notice. He’s getting dumber with his old age,” John said with a smile. “Thanks dude. You have no idea how much this helps me,” I said.

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Zenith After about three pizzas, two calzones, and five subs, I realized that I was now committing theft and fraud. Oh well, no one will know. After my shift was done, I rode back to make sure She was still there. She was. I convinced myself that it was for a good cause. It really was. I needed to help Her since she needed me. I tried not to think too much about Her. I got back on my bike and peddled to my apartment complex two miles away. However, I soon began to think about Her. I wondered if She was really worth it. Was She? Of course She is, I said to myself. But how would I explain this to John when it was all over? Should I just say the operation was a success? Knowing John, he would want to visit Her. I tried not to think too much about it. I arrived at my apartment. I carried my bike into the old rusted elevator and went up to my floor. I walked my bike to my room and slid the key into the lock, opening the door. I walked my bike inside and let it fall to my old stained carpet. I quickly got into my queen sized bed and tried to fall asleep. I couldn’t. I just kept thinking about Her. It was the weekend. I had no work and three days to look for other money-making opportunities. I remember being fascinated by the sound of bacon being cooked. I stood there in awe, waiting for my breakfast to be finished, when I heard something come up on the news. There on the screen I saw the works “Break-in”. I suddenly got an idea. Why am I raising money when I can just take Her? It was brilliant. I immediately started to plan. I’m pretty familiar with the layout of the building, so this will be easy. I remember taking my hoodie, lock pick set, and Swiss army knife—I left my bike so I wouldn’t attract any attention—and exited in to the night. After arriving, I didn’t see Her in her usual spot. They probably moved Her into the back-room of the store; that would make it much easier since I planned to enter through the back. I walked around to the back alley and saw the door. It had a simple lock, nothing that should give me too much trouble. After making sure there were no security cameras, I picked the lock. As I slowly opened the door, I saw other people of value. I was only there for one though. I looked around the store. She wasn’t anywhere in the store. I was pretty angry. I started knocking over objects and screaming. It was just then that I was interrupted by someone. “What are you doing here?!” shouted one of the employees. What he was doing in the store at this time of night didn’t make any sense, but it didn’t really matter to me. “Answer me! What are you doing here?” he exclaimed. I didn’t know what to say. Without thinking, I took out my Swiss army knife out, flipped the blade out, and ran towards the man and stabbed him. It was then that I started to have some regrets. I wasn’t the most moral person, but I did have some morality. Killing someone was something I

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would never hope to do. Yet there I was--standing over a body, clutching a knife, being watched by security cameras. Security cameras? I forgot about them. Luckily my face was concealed by my hood, so all I had to worry about was escaping. I ran out the backdoor and grabbed the store log on my way out. I continued to run to my apartment, as if it was home base in a game of tag. However, I decided to slow down a little so I didn’t raise any suspicions. I paged through the log of purchases and people. Eventually, someone bought her. It was an old rich man named Joe Martin. “That’s not fair. She should go to someone who will take care of her. Someone like me,” I shouted. I remember biking down the street to the Pizzeria some time later. Just then I saw a man driving a Ferrari. “Man, I hate those people,” I muttered to myself. If people have expendable money, why don’t they spend it on something good? I could be using that money much more than him. I stopped and realized what I just said could be another way to make money. If they make a hundred grand a year, they won’t miss a couple thousand dollars. I hopped on my bike and followed him. After about 15 minutes of watching him drive to his house and keeping out of sight, I found his house. It was a three story house that appeared to be at least 5,000 square feet. I remembered the street and biked back to my house. I waited a couple hours before going back to his house. I grabbed my professional lock-pick set and a large backpack. As soon as it was eleven o’clock at night, I walked outside my house with my bike and began to ride to his house. The crisp night air cooled and relaxed me. After about 30 minutes of biking using Map Quest to find the guy’s street, I arrived. I almost stopped myself and turned back, until I thought of Her. I thought Her, locked up in her cell waiting for a hero to rescue her. I proceeded to the man’s house. I climbed up the side of his house, looking for an easy way in. After finding a partly open window, I took my Swiss army knife and cut into the screen. I squeezed through the small space and I immediately realized that this place was a gold mine. There were jewels and antiques all over the place. I grabbed the most valuable stuff (gold, silver, antiques) and stuffed them into my backpack. This must be enough to pay for Her freedom. This was amazing. After clearing out what appeared to be a bedroom, I walked downstairs and found his basement. Across the room, there was a locked closet. I quickly pulled out my lock-pick kit and made quick work of the lock. In there, I found guns of all sorts. There was more money. I grabbed as many handguns as I could and put them into my bag. I continued to wander around the man’s basement when I stopped. I just froze. I was dumbstruck once again. I saw Her sitting there. This was my chance. I sat down and started to talk to her. She sang,

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Zenith and I sang. I talked to her about my problems, and she told me Hers. Her voice was unlike anything I imagined. She was beautiful. She was amazing. She was heavy. All night I sang to her. We sang and we sang. We shouted and sang until we were interrupted. Joe Martin arrived with a gun. Before I could act, he discharged three shots into my chest. I fell to the ground. I saw Her right there. I reached for Her. I couldn’t reach Her. Several hours later, a row of policemen were standing outside of Martin’s house with several detectives inside. On the police report it read, “Paul McKenzie was shot dead in the victim’s house while holding a guitar.”

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Pause in the Moment Erin Follwell â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13

Representing the HI Noa Terada-Pagdilao â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

Droll Eric Kawatachi â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;13

Zenith Wretched Anonymous Standing in the store, neon signs glare All are begging for your attention Roaring chaos encompasses you As people mill around you All on their own, each for their own wants and needs But there is an escape And you focus, And inevitably, time moves slower And you now move with the people around you Surrendering to everything you could ever want or need So whether it be sooner or later You will surrender yourself to the chaos And once you feel powerless, you will know exactly what you want So never forget this feeling Even in the chaotic consumer world Now, go get me a sandwich.

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Two-side West Side By: Noa Terada-Pagdilao â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

Two-Side West Side Noa Terada-Pagdilao â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

Sandy Treasures Taylor Burnett â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;14

Tweeting My Life Away Dayne Ramos ‘15 I gazed at the computer screen. The words “It’s your turn. Join Twitter” scattered through my mind like fragments of a mine explosion. I could see my reflection on the screen. It was my slender face, large nose, light skin and cardboard eyes. It was a similar look as a normal Puerto Rican teenager. I moved the mouse to the full name box and typed in “Carter Simmons”. I typed my e-mail address, password, and my username, which was @CarterSimmons. I then moved the mouse to Create Account and hesitated. I thought that all these years I have been in hiding, not blossoming into my true self. I have dreamed such high dreams but never prevailed. This might be the start of a new life. It was my only chance. With this I can come up with fresh ideas, newly revealed content and trends in social media that comes at me faster than an overcrowded chat room. I can be useful for once. It was my turn. I clicked and my life changed forever. It took me to the home page and I slammed my back on the chair. I sighed in relief and celebrated with a fist pump. I finally can be free. I stared at the screen for a couple of minutes. I was mesmerized by how someone can come up with this. This was a program where you can be an innovator and express your feelings. My thoughts were interrupted when I heard my mother yell. “Carter!” I rolled my eyes. “Yes, mom?” I responded in an irritated voice. “Time for dinner!” I got up from the chair, made a squeaking noise like the sound of a mouse squealing. I instantly smelled the fragrance of Portuguese bean soup waiting for me on the table. I rushed downstairs not knowing that I didn’t close my window on the computer. After dinner I would do my regular chores such as wiping the table and taking out the trash. They may be hectic but my mother made the best Portuguese bean soup, so I didn’t complain. I ran upstairs only to find my mom standing by the computer. Shannon, was her name. She was a hardworking woman, and was known as a perfectionist. She turned and looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes. She was half Puerto Rican and was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life. But I don’t think my father realized that. He ended up cheating on her and she left him, with no forgiveness whatsoever. My dad was an idiot. He made silly mistakes and is probably in jail right now. She was a pleasure to look at, until she was irritated or mad. That is exactly what her visage showed. “Carter, what is this?” she asked. “Oh, this is my Twitter page; I signed up,” I replied. She raised one eyebrow with the look of, what the hell is wrong with you? She twitched and asked me another question, “Oh really, now when

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Zenith were you going to ask me about this?” I looked at her nervously, “Just now?” expanding the now sound. “Don’t lie to me. I know you weren’t going to tell me.” She shook her head in disappointment, looked at me and shook her head again. “Don’t ever let me catch you lying to me, understand!?” she exclaimed. “Yes!” I answered quickly. She stomped her way out of the room, leaving a silence that made me shutter. School, the one place I felt trapped. Other classmates never talked to me unless they had to and I was the last resort for everything: projects, sports, and even silly activities in class. I was the kind of guy who is what you call “odd” or a “loser”. I never took chances. Maybe this was the way I am supposed to be. Maybe I was meant for another purpose. That was when the Twitter kicked in. I never felt as alive as I did while on Twitter. I would make great comments and post different ideas. But the only problem was the fact that I don’t have any followers. So then I decided to become a follower. I clicked and clicked and clicked again on the follow key for every person I knew. I never stopped clicking, like a car alarm at the back of a parking lot of a mall. I finally finished. Ever singly name I knew that was on Twitter, I tried to follow. “Carter, are you okay? Are you tweeting or whatever it’s called?” I groaned, “Yes, mom.” I closed the window and shut down the computer. I opened my door, revealing the walls clad with white paint. The house was painted all white. The only colors in the room were us and the extra accessories. I marched down the stairs and found my mom looking at me. “You have been there quite a long time. I am worried about you Carter. Is everything alright?” I rolled my eyes, “Yes mother. I’m okay, just a little busy.” I started to walk away into the kitchen until she said, “Oh okay. It seems lie you’ve been in that room a lot of times. It just seems like a dungeon for you.” “Mom, it’s okay. I’m trying to express myself a little more.” I walked away, feeling adrift from the most beloved person in my life; It was as if hands were pulling me away from her. I checked every day for followers, but nothing came up. “Aww, come on! No followers,” I exclaimed. I became very frustrated throughout the rest of the week. At the end of the week, I still had no followers. By that time, I was going crazy. I paced through my small room, my hands were swinging and spit was flying. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw baggy dark circles around the edges of my eyes like fat from a stomach. My hair was frizzed and a little smile grew on my face. “I am going to make another Twitter account. I will never be alone again.” I rushed back to

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the computer screen and went to the sign up page. I typed my name as Jack Foster. I clicked Create Account and it took me to the home page. I immediately searched for Carter Simmons and followed him. I became two people. I was my only friend. My mom entered the room looking worried, “Carter, you have been up here for over three and a half hours. What is wrong with you?” I turned, looking angry, “Mom, get way. I don’t want you here.” She shot her head back in shock, “Carter James Simmons!” What did you say?” She seemed to get in a defensive position. “You heard me, go away. I don’t want you here. I am busy.” She walked up to me and slapped me in the face. It hit me like a sting of a wasp. My head jerked and I stared into her fiery eyes. She turned angrily and slammed the door like it was a feather. I sat down, looking at the screen, not knowing what became of me. I started to make conversation between the two identities. I asked my Jack Foster account how he was doing. I then answered on the profile that I was doing good. This became an ongoing problem with me. I had become a monster. My mom stopped talking to me. It was like I was the only one in the room. All I did was go to school, tweet and sleep. It was the same schedule every day. I ignored homework and started to get horrendous grades. Teachers would remind my mom, but she wouldn’t talk to me about it. But one day, I was tweeting myself and she opened the door. I looked back, only to find her staring at me. “I will never give up on you! You are my son and I am your mother. But please, do not give up on yourself. It will only lead you to your downfall Carter.” I stared through her, her words being interpreted as blah blah blah blah. I turned and went back to tweeting. I heard the door close and the stomping of feet on stairs, like little kids running to the ice cream truck. I checked my followers and I still had one on both accounts. I pounded my head on the table in front of me. I stared at that number one for a couple of minutes. I finally realized what I did to not just me, but to the people around me. I started to cry. It was the first time I had cried in a long time. I felt sorry for myself. And in that moment, I was pathetic. I was weak and crazy. I had no life. I thought this was my solution, but it ended up being the exact opposite. I thought to myself, what have I become? I was talking to myself. I was being selfish. I cried myself asleep, falling into a deep slumber of shame. I thought long and hard and I came up with a solution. I decided to leave and never come back. This was the place where I became what I am now. It had caused my ultimate demise. I will never come back to this place. But the only thing that made me hesitate was my mother. She was the only person who cared for me. She was the one who raised me. But I hated her for that. She was the one who caused this. She raised me to be like this. So my

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Zenith decision was to leave. I went up to the computer and wanted to delete my accounts. I deleted my Jack Foster account and opened my original account. I went to the section where you delete your page until I found one small difference. I tried to find where the difference was. Then it came to me. I looked up at my followers and the number was two.

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On the Wing Aly McCormick â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;14

Collage Colt Wallace â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;12

Dead End Erika Ohki â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15