Parallel Ink: Issue 1, Vol. 2 by Parallel Ink

Dec 2013 Issue 1 Vol 2 Publishing insightful writing for kids by kids around the world

PARALLEL INK Issue 1, Vol. 2

Editorial Board staff and contributors Jamie Uy Managing Editor Jiyoon Jeong Senior Editor Art & Korean Translation Puinoon Na Nakorn Senior Editor Technology & Thai Translation Priyanka Aiyer Guest Editor Bram Xu Guest Editor John Koh Guest Illustrator Elena Morey Guest Columnist Contributors: Aline Damas, Audrey Ellis Herrera, Christina Im, Lina Osmundson, Sun Yoon, Tri Giao Vu, Ziyi Lim, Sachi Shah, Silsopang (Som-O) Paknara, Daniel Kwiatkowski, Michelle Lu, Sarah du Pont COPYRIGHT STATEMENT ÂŠ Parallel Ink 2013 The writing and artwork published in this issue are the intellectual property of the accredited contributors. All rights reserved. No substantial part of this magazine may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Parallel Ink. COVER IMAGE ÂŠ Sachi Shah

PARALLEL INK Issue 1, Vol. 2

Editor’s Note ‘Tis the season I hope everyone stuffed themselves silly with turkey and good conversation last Thursday. To me, Thanksgiving marks the start of the holiday season, and this means two things. First: final exams! Second: it’s almost Christmas! It’s hard to ignore the upcoming festivities when department stores on every street are playing “Deck the Halls”. We’ve already hung up the lights on our Christmas tree. There’s actually a third thing on my mind as well. Parallel Ink grew and matured immensely through 2013 (hence the new logo!), and there’s a lot to be thankful for. As we typed away and planned each issue, the world in 2013 was rocked with protests, revolutions, and typhoons. Life is sometimes truly stranger - and scarier - than fiction. Writing is one way we make sense of it.

I think it’s because of this that Parallel Ink publishes so “Life is many poignant stories, sometimes truly narratives, and essays stranger - and about the human scarier - than condition. The young fiction. Writing is writers and artists in one way we this issue have creative make sense of and insightful pieces it.” about dealing with cancer, falling out of love, growing up, questioning your faith, and finding inspiration. It’s not mere coincidence that art rhymes with heart. PI’s gifts to you this wintertime are small: for example, opening submissions to artists and upperclassmen, a nicer submission form, an updated Facebook and Twitter page. Although these are little things, I hope you take these opportunities to create something meaningful this Christmastime. Sincerely, Jamie

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‘What’s up?’ Column: Tune In or Tune Out is listening to music good for homework? by Elena Morey A guest columnist writes the ‘what’s up’ column for each issue. Try listening to Baroque music, a blend of strings The column is contains thoughts and opinions on issues kids and soft wind instruments. What’s interesting is that face today. Baroque music is composed between 55 - 70 beats per minute, which activates Alpha mode and Many people listen to music while doing school maintains it for a longer period of time. Baroque work. Although people claim that music is just ‘white music allows you to learn better by increasing your noise’ in the background, studies have proven that concentration and memory, and the lull of music music hinders our ability to concentrate and learn. leaves you less stressed and more content. Other First, it is simply distracting because of how catchy studies have come to the same conclusion. the tune is; you start to listen to the song instead of To test this out, I listen to Baroque music while concentrating on your homework. Secondly, your brain moves to the beat of the song and the tempos doing my homework. The pleasant sounds and waves of music make me feel satisfied and engaged. make absorbing knowledge difficult. In fact, I gave myself quite a scare at first because I In an experiment at the University of Wales Institute, researchers asked volunteers to memorize a was enjoying myself while doing my social studies family tree assignment! If Baroque music can uplift series of numbers while listening to music, while you and improve your school work, why do people others were asked to do so in silence. Almost every time they repeated the experiment, the same results want to listen to the unearthly pounding and surfaced. The volunteers who had worked in silence clashing of modern-day music? recalled much more than the ones who had listened When I ask anyone why they listen to music while to music. Music, especially with lyrics, impairs cognitive abilities, in particular short-term memory doing homework, they tell me that they like it and performance. In conclusion of a similar study done they can handle multi-tasking. In response to a at Stanford University, Professor Clifford Nass said, survey about music choices when studying, the most popular answer to what music could worsen “The human brain listens to song lyrics with the homework performance was heavy metal; yet three same part of the brain that does word processing, which is the same part of the brain that supposedly people did listen to it while working! We all enjoy listening to music that keeps us occupied and happy, is being employed for studying.” but we need to think about what is best when studying. In May, 2010 I attended a presentation at the International School of Zug and Luzern in Switzerland by Terry Small, a teacher and studying Do your own experiments - listen to your own music when studying, and then try with Baroque. Go to strategies expert. During the presentation, he explained the three states of mind. The brain is most YouTube for playlists of Bach and Vivaldi songs. You will find that you will be able to finish homework open to the flow of knowledge in Alpha state, and this enables learning. Small asserts that maintaining faster and learn more. Now I’m done with my homework, have you finished yours yet? an Alpha state allows your mind to absorb knowledge quickly, and this occurs naturally during the engaging homework or studying. In addition, your heart beat is at rest and is steady. Since we know the brain responds to the tempo of music, is there is another way to jumpstart Alpha mode?

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Interview Tri Giao Vu: singer Tri Giao Vu has a Facebook fan page and has appeared on national TV and the news. YouTube clips of her singing have amassed over one million views. Her shy smile and down-to-earth views made her a fan favorite on Vietnam’s Got Talent. The funny thing? She’s only eleven! Jamie, Parallel Ink’s Managing Editor, exchanged emails with the talented girl, who also has a penchant for words.

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam has been my home for approximately 4 years. I came here in March 2009, during the middle of 1st grade. This place has really grown on me. It's kind of noisy and crowded in District 1 (And mark my words, if you are visiting for New Year's Eve, do not ever travel to the center of Ho Chi Minh City unless Tell us a bit about your family and you want your car to be stuck in traffic until 2:00 Vietnam. AM in the morning. Never happened to me, but...), but Phu My Hung, where I live, is as I am an only child. No brothers or sisters, older peaceful and quiet as it can get. But personally I or younger. The good end of the stick? Maybe. I like bustling streets and town squares. So... yeah, have to admit it's boring during the holidays, with HCMC is a pretty good place to visit on no one to play with. (Honestly, I prefer going to vacation. Just make sure it's not New Year's Eve! school than staying at home!) But yeah, I don't have to play the "responsible" and "proper" role What was it like performing on Vietnam's of an older sister, nor the "babyish" and "whiny" Got Talent? stereotype of a younger sister. So I guess it depends on which angle you're looking at it with. Vietnam's Got Talent? I have to admit, it was a bit nerve-wracking at first. I mean, I was 9 when My parents are both Vietnamese. That I first auditioned. The first round was just in a technically makes me a Vietnamese, too. But I was born in Singapore, which makes some people small room with a single judge watching you. That was scary for me. The judge listened to me

Left to Right Giao (http:// giaoduc.net.vn); Giao on Vietnam’s Got Talent (http:// www.tinmoi.vn)

consider me half-Singaporean. I'm fine either way.

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singing one of my ballads, and then he was like, "Do you sing pop or rock?" And back then, I wasn't much of an upbeat singer so I had to shake my head no. Majorly embarrassing. I'm glad that wasn't put on TV. Embarrassing Secret Number #1 on VN'sGT? I failed that audition. Then I got a second chance. I practiced another song (“You Raise Me Up”) and performed it to a different judge. Now I'm glad I re-did it or else I wouldn't be where I am not. Embarrassing Secret #2? The second judge asked me to sing a Vietnamese song. As I think you may have gathered, I stank at Vietnamese back then. (Don't worry, I'm fluent now.) So I remembered the first to sentences of a song I'd been practicing, and then I had to say, "Sorry but I forgot the lyrics." Mortifying. But I got through the round to face my famous X seat audition where I performed “You Raise Me Up”. This was the first time I'd ever gone on Live TV. I guess the fact that I stank at Vietnamese made it easier to bear, I didn't understand the judges so I didn't know what they were saying. On that note, nothing could break me. But I understood that I got through. That moment was awesome. But of course, there was another Embarrassing Moment. The interviewers were speaking in Vietnamese and I thought that we were disrupting the other performers so I kept saying "shh!" But on the whole, that audition was pretty good. And then it went on TV and went viral on the internet. From then things got a lot more pressuring. I had to skip school (I hated that, I'm a total nerd) in order to practice songs and do interviews. I admit I got a little cranky. I think my performances suffered more the longer I remained in the show. There were just too many rules and requirements. In the beginning, I got to make my own choices. After the X seat auditions, it was all interviews and fittings and practices. Ugh. On the bright side, I made quite a lot of friends. We even played games backstage using water bottles. Flip-the-bottle-and-try-to-make-it-stand was a major hit among us contestants. For the record, I managed to get 7 water bottles standing after flipping them in a row. That was one of the better times. On the final? I guess I always knew I would lose that round. But I'm totally fine with it. I just congratulated my friends who did get through. A pretty funny thing, though, is that in an interview all the contestants were asked who they thought was most likely to win. I was the only one who predicted right! Overall, it was a pretty awesome experience and I'm happy to be retelling it even a year or two after the whole experience. Aside from singing, what are your other interests? Oh, gosh, I have a lot of interests which don't include singing. For some reason, they don't really fit with each other. My number #1 hobby? Reading. I enjoy it even more than singing! Really, I don't go a day without reading. There's a stack of my books everywhere in the house: The kitchen, the dining table, the living room, the "TV" room (Self-explanatory), my study room, my bedroom (Surprise, surprise), my parent's room, maybe even one or two in the bathroom! Ha. When I was young, I kept asking my nanny to read for me. I guess she decided that I needed to learn by myself and I could handle it earlier than most so she taught me to read at an early age. I remember I got my first book, a storybook about forest fairies, and the age of 4-and-a-half. I still have it, somewhere in one of my bookshelves. So I can't remember a time when I hated books. Always been one heavy reader. Other hobbies? A ton. I like playing soccer, badminton, dodge-ball, water polo, tchoukball (Awesome sport, try it) and tennis. Along with that, I bike, skate (a bit), shoot hoops (although I'm

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not too keen of the rest of the game), and garden. Those are outdoorsy things. Indoorsy has just as many. I knit, crochet, embroider, sew, bead, and craft. I doodle when I'm bored. Sometimes, when I'm on a roll, I can write more than 12 pages on Google Docs in 45 minutes. I use my computer a lot. I organize my room (fine, I wouldn't be caught dead doing that) and I exercise indoors a lot. By mainly running up and down the stairs. I love going to school. I love to bake. Cakes, cupcakes, you name it, Just not cookies. I stink at those. I prefer to exchange my chocolate-covered-with-blue-icing cupcakes with my best friend Ariel in return for her specially baked blue chocolate chip cookies. Favorite song and book? Sorry, can't answer either. Too many options. But I will try. Songs? Well, my top three artists are Katy Perry, Demi Lovato, and Avril Lavigne. Ironic that all released an album in 2013. I have way too many favorite songs and they change over time but I will list the current top 6: “Gold” by Britt Nicole, “Heart Attack” by Demi Lovato, “Roar” by Katy Perry, “Rock n’ Roll” by Avril Lavigne, “Cups” by Anna Kendrick, and “American Girl” by Bonnie McKee. Books? Again, they change over time. Can you believe that a year ago, I enjoyed reading Rainbow Magic by Daisy Meadows? Now... not so much. So they might change over time, but for now... My top 5 series: 5. Malory Towers by Enid Blyton. They're classics. 4. Missing by Margaret Peterson Haddix. 3. Heroes of Olympus by Rick Riordan. 2. Harry Potter by J. K. Rowling. 1. Let's see. Gods, no contest for this! Percy Jackson and the Olympians, created by Rick Riordan! No contest on that. My top 3 stand-alone books: 3. Extras (technically it is) by Scott Westerfeld. 2. Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. 1. The Thief Lord by Cornelia Funke. I recommend all of these books and series. They're all epic! _____ Giao was kind enough to share an essay with us. Here’s a snippet of her writing! “Mesopotamians invented countless things that changed the world for the better. Without them, hardly anything we have today would’ve been possible. Buildings, streets, cities, countries, governments - none of this would have been possible if not for the Mesopotamians. The Mesopotamians always believed in the good of the people. They created all these adaptations just to make life easier for them and others around them. Available materials helped make everyday lives easier. Cuneiform was a way of recording down whatever they wanted. And Hammurabi’s Code helped guide all the rulers after him rule fairly and justly. Who would’ve thought that those inventions would have changed the world and would still remembered more than five millennia afterwards? Not the Mesopotamians. They didn’t plan on changing the world. They just wanted to make their own lives easier. And sometimes, even the smallest ideas can have the biggest impacts.” - Excerpt of “The Life Changing Mesopotamians” by Tri Giao Vu

Sometimes young kids can make a big impact, too. Just look at the ovations after Giao’s awardwinning performances. She’s more than just a singer: she’s a third culture kid, avid student, unabashed bookworm, and aspiring writer. PI wishes her all the best!

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Poetry

“Hot Cocoa” © Michelle Lu

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Twins Lina Osmundson There’s this word. It’s a short word, Quick as a hiccup on your tongue. It’s four letters. No, not the one that describes intense emotion towards your soulmate or maybe chocolate. No, not the word that sets fire, a deep flame hidden within the bones of those who loathe thy enemy or perhaps Brussels sprouts. This word is quite different. A secret. It describes something, Some things, Some people. It begins with “T”, ironically, the letter that when folded in half is perfectly symmetrical. That both sides mirror each other in a way that is not regarded with self-consciousness and aversion of the eyes, But with astonishment that something so ethereal exists. A “W” is next, literally two letters shoved next to each other in the words “Double U”, where you and I are together, the same, as one, and nothing will separate us, not even an eraser because when you vanquish a word you vanquish all of it and not just one half. The next is an “I”. Now, this is particularly interesting, this letter. This symbolic slash of a mark that not only describes our self-love and contempt as human beings

but as the way we view ourselves. Yet “I” can be folded in half too, portraying two beings entwined as one, as “I” from “we”. And they say no “I” is found in team and yet there’s no better word to describe what I am, with you. “N” is the last. No, it’s not symmetrical, But when I peer at its strange form and see two parallel lines formed by a diagonal I can only help but think, that no matter what, we will be connected evenly, in perfect balance. For what if the line went straight across, up or down or like an “H”? We would teeter back and forth back and forth, as if on top of a knife, with nothing to grasp. But now I will hold onto you, eternally. If our hands drift apart they will always find each other, and cling together, in the end. But there is no end, and as we will soon ride together in the bliss of darkness, where the knowns are unknown and the light and dark are one, where not only will we race through the valley of the shadow of death but of the shadows of life, of the twists and turns in the road that only end in a circle, where will find each other. So, I will ride with you, twin sister. Because as much as we tell others We are not the same, we are not much different, you and I.

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July 25th, 2013 Ziyi Lim I thought I understood it, But I didn’t Not all of it, at least. The truth was not the countless whispered confessions of planned affection; Not the young newborn excitement of it all; rid of any doubt that wormed its way into the midst of obsession. The truth was often blocked out, by ourselves. The truth that you and me doesn’t equal smooth-edged forevers, That halves can’t complete each other if they aren’t equal. The truth that we will never be whole without the in-between bits, that struggle to stay hidden under perfectly-dreamed-up lies.

ฉันนึกว'าฉันเข+าใจ แต'ฉันเปล'า อย'างน+อยก็ไม'ใช'ทั้งหมด ความจริงนั้นไม'ใช' คําสารภาพ ที่กระซิบบอกนับครั้งไม'ถ+วนของ เสน'หาที่ถูกกําหนดไว+ มันไม'ใช'ความเยาวK สิ่งแรกเกิด หรือการตื่นใจกับทุกสิ่ง การขจัดกังขาที่ไชทางเข+ามา ในหมอกควันแห'งความลุ'มหลง เมื่อนั้นความจริงย'อมถูกปNดบัง โดยตัวเราเอง ความจริงที่เธอและฉันไม'เท'าเทียมกัน และมีความเสมอภาคตลอดเวลา ส'วนต'างๆเติมเต็มกันและกันไม'ได+ ถ+ามันไม'เท'าเทียมกัน ความจริงที่เธอกับฉันจะไม'มีวันเปRนหนึ่งเดียว โดยปราศจากเศษส'วน ที่พยายามซุกซ'อนตัว อยู'ใต+ความฝVนที่เต็มไปด+วย

Translation by Sarah du Pont

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Blood and a Brother Sachi Shah I know a boy who has over one-hundred-and-thirty model airplanes. The thing is, he refuses to play with them. Instead, he polishes them. He mends the shattered pieces; by dawn the fallen wheel or the chipped tail would've been restored. I know a boy, who at eight, needed something with greater immensity than love. We gave him a Gameboy, his first wooden cricket bat, a mother, a father, a sister, and ceaseless amounts of snow. But what he really needed, was an organ. My father unfolded like a flower and gave his insides, his blood, his kidney, his love. But when they cut him open there was a forest inside. So they pulled it all out They grappled onto the flourishing vines and slit across the canopy and foliage protecting his heart. When it was over he grew old, but not necessarily the glorified way wine ages. He spent time in a hospital flipping through brochures of universities UCLA, LMU, UNSW, but they are paralyzed as acronyms and a fleck of hope. He grew old, but he also grew quiet. I don't know what he aspires to be I don't know if he's ever had a love (outside of this stupid insignificant house) And he doesn't know that I am intrigued by the holocaust he doesn't know, my favorite movie is about an unconventionally influential English teacher.

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And so this disease hasn't merely taken away gallons of blood or tissue or cells through ceaseless biopsies, ultrasounds, and needles. It has taken away a brother a persona who after fourteen years I still don't know. And when they ask what happened my mother says lymphoma my father says depression. I look at them my heart tightening and my hands trembling and whisper "they took away his forest."

Tonight I Tread Sachi Shah If I were to walk to the moon it would take me nine years in that time, 504 million people would’ve died. When I do get to the moon You’ll find me nestled in a crater sipping on stardust wondering why I didn’t leave sooner. If I were to walk to Paris it would take me 26,668 hours in that time, my mother’s hair would begin turning ashy In Paris I’ll be painting until my hands crumble away into my ink-stained tea cup and down my throat Tonight, I will begin. Tread through oceans and concrete kill away tiny little phrases like “it won’t happen” it may even induce a splintered spine or shriveled up lungs And I haven’t yet asserted; Paris, or the moon either way, I think I will be quite content.

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The Dragonfly Sachi Shah

ě&#x17E; ě&#x17E;?ëŚŹ Â

I think there is something something profound in their fragmented webbed wings. A dragonfly has a lifespan of only twenty-four hours and then perishes; but within those twenty-four hours the dragonfly- whether fluttering amidst the potted flowers of CafĂŠ Verlet in France, or dipping its soul in the chlorinated pools of Hanoi the little dragonfly will see far greater than humanity as an entirety will. The human eye, has only one lens The dragonflies eyes, contain up to 30,000 And so, my friend know that a dragonflyan ethereal, insignificant, little creature can see the blood the sweat the diseased and the light even though I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t but it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really matter, because the dragonfly is probably dead

ÂŠ Sachi Shah

ë&#x201D;ę°&#x20AC;, Â ë&#x201D;ę°&#x20AC; Â ě?&#x2DC;ëŻ¸ě&#x2039;Źě&#x17E;Ľí&#x2022;&#x153; Â ę˛&#x192;ě?´ Â ęˇ¸ë&#x201C;¤ě?&#x2DC; Â ěĄ°ę° ë&#x201A;&#x2DC;ęł Â ęą°ëŻ¸ě¤&#x201E; Â ę°&#x2122;ě?&#x20AC; Â ë&#x201A; ę°&#x153;ě&#x2014;? Â ě&#x17E;&#x2C6;ë&#x2039;¤ęł Â ě&#x192;?ę° í&#x2022;&#x153;ë&#x2039;¤. ě&#x17E; ě&#x17E;?ëŚŹě?&#x2DC; Â ě&#x2C6;&#x2DC;ëŞ&#x2026;ě?&#x20AC; Â ęł ě&#x17E;&#x2018; Â 24ě&#x2039;&#x153;ę°&#x201E; ęˇ¸ Â ë&#x2019;¤ě&#x2014;?ë&#x160;&#x201D; Â ěŁ˝ě&#x2013;´ë˛&#x201E;ëŚ°ë&#x2039;¤; í&#x2022;&#x2DC;ě§&#x20AC;ë§&#x152; Â ęˇ¸ Â 24ě&#x2039;&#x153;ę°&#x201E; Â ě?´ë&#x201A;´ě&#x2014;? Â ęˇ¸ Â ě&#x17E; ě&#x17E;?ëŚŹę°&#x20AC; Â - Â í&#x201D;&#x201E;ë&#x17E;&#x2018;ě&#x160;¤ě&#x2014;? Â ěš´í&#x17D;&#x2DC; Â ë˛ ëĽźë &#x2C6;ě?&#x2DC; Â í&#x2122;&#x201D;ëś&#x201E; Â ě&#x153;&#x201E; Â ę˝&#x192;ë&#x201C;¤ Â ě&#x153;&#x201E;ëĄ&#x153; Â ëš&#x201E;í&#x2013;&#x2030;í&#x2022;&#x2DC;ęł Â ě&#x17E;&#x2C6;ë?&#x2DC;ě§&#x20AC; Â ęˇ¸ě?&#x2DC; Â ě&#x2DC; í&#x2DC;źě?&#x201E; Â í&#x2022;&#x2DC;ë&#x2026;¸ě?´ě?&#x2DC; Â ě&#x2020;&#x152;ë?&#x2026;ë?&#x153; Â ě&#x2C6;&#x2DC;ě&#x2DC; ě&#x17E;Ľě&#x2014;? Â ë&#x2039;´ęˇ¸ęł Â ě&#x17E;&#x2C6;ë?&#x2DC;ě§&#x20AC; Â ęˇ¸ Â ěĄ°ęˇ¸ë§&#x152; Â ě&#x17E; ě&#x17E;?ëŚŹë&#x160;&#x201D; Â ě?¸ëĽ&#x2DC; Â ě &#x201E;ě˛´ę°&#x20AC; Â ëł´ë&#x160;&#x201D; Â ę˛&#x192;ëł´ë&#x2039;¤ Â í&#x203A;¨ě&#x201D;Ź Â ë§&#x17D;ě?´ Â ëłź Â ę˛&#x192;ě?´ë&#x2039;¤. Â ě?¸ę°&#x201E;ě?&#x2DC; Â ë&#x2C6;&#x2C6;ě?&#x20AC;, Â ě&#x2DC;¤ě§ Â í&#x2022;&#x2DC;ë&#x201A;&#x2DC;ě?&#x2DC; Â ë &#x152;ěŚ&#x2C6;ëĽź Â ę°&#x20AC;ě§&#x20AC;ęł Â ě&#x17E;&#x2C6;ë&#x2039;¤. Â ě&#x17E; ě&#x17E;?ëŚŹě?&#x2DC; Â ë&#x2C6;&#x2C6;ě?&#x20AC;, Â 30,000ę°&#x153;ęš&#x152;ě§&#x20AC;ë?&#x201E; Â ę°&#x20AC;ě§&#x20AC;ęł Â ě&#x17E;&#x2C6;ë&#x2039;¤. Â ęˇ¸ë&#x;Źë&#x2039;&#x2C6;, Â ë&#x201A;&#x2DC;ě?&#x2DC; Â ěš&#x153;ęľŹě&#x2022;ź Â ě&#x2022;&#x152;ęł Â ě&#x17E;&#x2C6;ě&#x2013;´, Â ě&#x17E; ě&#x17E;?ëŚŹ Â - Â ě&#x2014;?í&#x2026;&#x152;ëĽ´ Â ę°&#x2122;ęł , Â í&#x2022;&#x2DC;ě°Žęł , Â ě&#x17E;&#x2018;ě?&#x20AC; Â ě&#x192;?ëŹźě?&#x20AC; Â í&#x201D;źëĽź Â ë&#x2022;&#x20AC;ě?&#x201E; Â ě&#x2022;&#x201E;í&#x201D;&#x2C6; Â ě?´ë&#x201C;¤ě?&#x201E; Â ęˇ¸ëŚŹęł Â ëš&#x203A;ě?&#x201E; Â ë&#x201A;&#x153; Â ëłź Â ě&#x2C6;&#x2DC; Â ě&#x2014;&#x2020;ě§&#x20AC;ë§&#x152; Â ëłź Â ě&#x2C6;&#x2DC; Â ě&#x17E;&#x2C6;ě&#x2013;´. Â í&#x2022;&#x2DC;ě§&#x20AC;ë§&#x152; Â ëł&#x201E;ëĄ&#x153; Â ě&#x192; ę´&#x20AC;ě?´ Â ě&#x2014;&#x2020;ě?&#x201E; Â ęą°ě&#x2022;ź, Â ě&#x2122;&#x153;ë&#x192;?í&#x2022;&#x2DC;ëŠ´ Â ě&#x17E; ě&#x17E;?ëŚŹë&#x160;&#x201D; Â ě&#x2022;&#x201E;ë§&#x2C6;ë?&#x201E; Â ěŁ˝ě&#x2014;&#x2C6;ě?&#x201E; Â ę˛&#x192;ě?´ë&#x2039;&#x2C6;ęš&#x152;.

Translation by Jiyoon Jeong

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A Confusion of Pink Silsopang (Som-O) Paknara Pink flamingos, standing on the front lawn, next to the garden gnome A typical decoration for a suburban home, The blooming flowers of pink camellias, getting ready to be picked by my little sister and her friends, all tiny little girls With brown, black and blonde hair in spirally curls. It’s pink, pink, pink flowers. They play with My Little Pony and Barbie Having a pretend tea party, with plastic teacups, pink like the sweater that’s on me. My sister Bella giggles as she moves her pony to a teacup, leaving a bit of cut grass, but just a trace Pushing and making it clink with another one; it’s sound as delicate as lace Pink is what I think of when I hear the cups clink. It’s pink, pink, pink giggles. My wheelchair is pink, like cotton candy and strawberry milkshakes Even though I don’t like strawberry milkshakes, they taste so weird, unlike real strawberries, sweet and sour tang, while the milkshake is wrong tasting and fake. But the cotton candy is good, delicious; I have some on the plate beside me It’s sweet and sugary, as soft as a fairy’s puffy dress, pink as petals on the apple blossoms, on the apple tree. It’s pink, pink, pink food. I hear my mother making grilled salmon for dinner It’s smell wafts from the kitchen, putting a picture of succulent salmon into my mind, a meal that’s a real winner. I also smell my father’s cologne, which has a strong scent of rose The smell is a bit too strong, too much for my sensitive nose. My cotton candy scented Smencil sits beside me on my notebook It’s soft pink color just as delicate as it looks. It’s pink, pink, pink smell. My touches the uneaten cotton candy beside me, smoothing its soft and silky texture It’s made of melted and spun sugar, a simple mixture. Touching the silk strawberry on my dog’s collar, he sits next to me The strawberry is pink, close to the color of the cotton candy Front door bursts open, as loud as a lion’s roar Bella runs over to me, before that she shuts the door Handing her pony to me, she yells “Touch Sugar Star!” Sugar Star’s pink fur is soft, better than the rough pillow I’m sitting on, by far It’s pink, pink, pink feeling. It’s all around me.

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ÂŠ John Koh

Snow Michelle Lu Lo and behold, the fair maidens in white Twirling and dancing in their heavenly flight. Descending while donned in their ever so bright Dresses of crystals in the freezing cold night. Each one unique, their patterns none the same. Every sweet damsel indeed deserve fame! Natural doilies, features quite tame, Waltzing and greeting each lady who came As they settled down, they halt for brief rest, Layer upon layer, their form at their best. Excitement wears down, and comfortably they rest. Grouped in their huddle, no room for high zest. The bright sun shines in, and the pretty girls sigh Spring parades in, but the fine ladies cry.

ÂŠ Puinoon Na Nakorn

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Narratives

“Dotted Portrait” © Michelle Lu

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Dana: Chapters 2 & 3 Sun Yoon “Dana” is a science fiction serial. The story is told through the recordings, abandoned data, and articles collected by an AI program, named Dana, that orchestrated humanity’s demise. Read the prologue and chapter one in our previous issue to get up to speed! CHAPTER 2: THE LAST OF THE CONTINENTS "Hey there. Spare some food? "Get the **** out of my store! **** teenagers. Can't a man die peacefully?" "Don't be so panicked. I'm just pleading, one Korean to another. I'm hungry, need to eat, and my friend back there with a chainsaw has nothing to do with it. “Hey! No touching. Unless you have something to trade with it? (Raises knife)” “Aw c’mon, old man. You don’t need all this stuff. You won’t live long anyways, seeing your age.” “And you think in terms of just us? I thought you have family? You think I don’t? You realize that I have three generations of family to feed?” “You think I don’t? What makes you think your **** family is any more important---“ (Storeowner approaches a looter) “Get off my friend! ****!” (There is a fight, and the storeowner, injured, is dragged to the side, while the teenagers loot the store) -Translated transcript of CCTV footage, Incheon. Time stamp states that it was filmed on the 10th of April 2035. GOD SAVE US ALL! LETS GET THE **** BLACKS OFF THE CITY BEFORE WE DIE! -Graffiti found in Chicago slum. Written in red paint. ... Riots intensifies ... bloodbath in Chicago, approx. 400 dead in racial disputes ... Religious Cults Rioting ... Thousands dead in military crackdown in Atlanta ... Know your looting hotspots - where to stay safe ... ARE WE ALL DOOMED? ... The new plague- what you need to know... Society Collapses ... “Dana” taking over digital systems globally ... Is There Hope? ... -The Boston Globe. 10th of April 2035. This was the last issue of The Boston Globe. ... ... ... -The Times, 12th of April, 2035, which was never published due to the fact that nobody was alive to publish it.

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This is probably my last scribble. The plague has finally come and cleansed the world. I feel weak. This is truly God's apocalypse. You catch it, slowly grow weaker, and fade out of life with no other symptoms. I have no fear. God will take me in his arms. I’ve lived a good, happy, and faithful life. I miss my wife. I wonder where she is now? I cannot even hold a pen properly right now. I'll see the Creator soon. I cannot write further. It is bright. I end my life here, far from my birthplace. This is Joseph Smith, in Tibet, 15th of April -A sheet of paper found in the snow. Writing degenerates near the end, the date being nearly illegible. >Nearly all North American, South American, European, and Asian systems are under me now. Africa seems to not to have a lot in systems. >I am almost the sole owner of the human civilization now. >Almost. -Internal Log, Dana systems, 16th April 2035. Please help me! I don't think I can hang on any longer! My town is dead! Please. If anyone is out there... ...I’m starving... ...There are corpses outside... ...My location is... ...(Thumping sound, presumably falling down)... -Translated transcript of a radio message, originating from Siberia, 16th April 2035. HEY GUYS!!! IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD! WE CAN DO WHAT WE PLEASE! **** THE POLICE! IT’S KERRY HERE! -CNN comment by Kerry Sonny, originating from Cape Town, 16th April 2035. Satellite data suggests that Kerry may be the last survivor outside Antarctica

Hello. This is weird. Nobody’s online anymore. Anyways, I just wanted to get this off my chest. I, and my organization, am behind Their Doom Gamma. You know, the plague. We really didn’t know that this would happen.

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That A.I. tricked us all. I’m sorry. I really am. -Last blog post of thebrothers.net, written by an unknown person in the Sacred Brotherhood, 16th April 2035. This person also may be the last survivor outside Antarctica. CHAPTER 3: THE ANTARCTICANS Things went quite well. All student-age refugees were introduced to each other. I think that we’re already seeing friendships forming. Well, there isn’t anyone else here... ...It was quite surprising how we saw people of different continents walk up to and talk to each other... -Daily Log of Camp Nine, 17th April 2035. "Hey!" "What?" "Did you see the news?" "I thought there was no news." "Okay. Maybe not news, in the strictest sense, but we got a radio message from a Camp at the fringe of the continent." "So what's the latest news, as you say, Chang?" "It reached Camp Nine." "What reached Camp Nine?" "Oh c'mon, Carlos. You know what I'm talking about." "Anyone you know in Camp Nine?" "None. You?" "None, luckily. With Four, Seven, and now Nine down, you know, I'm starting to fear my own life." "Yup. But remember that we are at the center of Antarctica. Six, Ten, and Fourteen would never have been used if they thought that the fringe Camps were going to be safe." "You know, I'm hungry." "You Americans always seem to be. Unfortunately for you, we still have three hours until they start distributing rations." "Really? I'm really hungry." -Transcript of a recording in Room 114, Camp Fourteen, formerly Amundsen-Scott base, 19th April 2035 I think that keeping a Journal is a good idea after all in this crisis.

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But what can I do? One, Three, Eleven, and Thirteen went down today. Two, Five, and Eight went down yesterday. Maybe I should stop going out for walks. It’s cold outside anyways. There is no guarantee at all that we'll live until the plague virus (or is it a virus? It certainly didn't spread to the rest of us, despite the fact that a few of Camp Fourteen died of the Plague in the early days) dies out. Maybe we'll have the honor of being the last ones to die. -Carlos, 21st April 2035 -Page in a notebook, Camp Fourteen, formerly Amundsen-Scott base.

Mass fatigue and loss of consciousness is happening within our borders. First cases began appearing yesterday. Camp Twelve is experiencing similar cases. This will be my last transcript. I plan on spending time with my family until I drop dead myself. This is Joseph Turner of Camp Nine, reporting on the situation of the Camp. -A document found in Camp Nine. An identical radio message was broadcast on the 23rd of April. ... I dunno, I guess I have a few more hours to live. It appears that Camp Twelve is doomed. Why the heck am I writing in this fancy font?

I dunno. I want the last thing I leave on this planet to be beautiful... ... I hear rumours about a bio-attack. Who would want to do this? What would they gain by annilating civilization?...

... I’ll start at the end. I’m dying here at Camp Twelve in some icy wasteland. Life in Camp Twelve has been, well, fairly nice, in fact. The rations may not have been gourmets but what else did I need? Although I did

miss my friends. They’re probably included in the Berlin body count. Before I came here, I used to be a

biochemist. So I guess it was not surprising that I had some trouble getting used to the basic lifestyle of the

camp, or that I was called upon to solve the mystery of the plague. It was horrible when the plague ﬁrst began to hit Germany. I still have a gash on my shoulders. The sign of my involvement in what the media dubbed “the Great Riots” ... So when I was in that school, I...

... The deeper Camps will just delay the inevitable. The toxins are not going to settle anytime soon... ... Mark my words, Nobody is safe... ... Signed, Karl C.

-Crudely ripped piece of paper, Camp Twelve, a meter from a skeleton. Translated from German.

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Curious to see what happens to the Antarticans? Dana’s last installment will be published next issue, July 2014!

Morning Bliss Audrey Ellis Herrera A sliver of new morning light peers through my blinds, teasing me with the thought of a new day. My warm feet slip out of the white sheets of my bed, making their way to some slippers. Once wrapped in a blanket, I stare past the window out at the open bitter sky. It’s 6:45, Sunday morning; it’s that point of the morning where even the early risers are asleep. I step out the front door,the crisp air of an early summer morning bites my cheek. The streets are bare — no people, no cars. It’s 6:50, Sunday morning. I love wandering around the neighborhood when every soul is still at rest, every dog and cat curled up, dreaming about the adventures that lie ahead. A full loop around the block brings me back home, passing by the sleeping rose beds and the beautiful maple trees.

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It’s 6:55, Sunday morning. Back in my home I go. I fill up the dark blue pot with water and place it on the stove where a gas lit fire emerges from beneath. Outside my window, I spot a little blue bird hop about the garden, looking for an early breakfast. It’s 7:00, Sunday morning. The pot whistles out a puff of steam and I pour out the frothing water into a mason jar with a teabag flavored “Morning Chamomile”. I let the tea steep as I pace around the street in the front. No people, no cars. Just me and my slippers. It’s 7:10, Sunday morning, a wonderful morning at that. I start back home realizing that my tea is probably hot and ready to drink. Like before, I walk through the door to my tea. I pick up a book titled, “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” by J.K. Rowling, my favorite book in the Harry Potter series. I read slowly (I had time to waste) and sip my tea. It smells like a field of daisies and tastes like heaven on earth. It’s 7:20, Sunday morning, and I wish this Sunday morning would never end.

Faith Answers Daniel Kwiatkowski Luke sat in the pew, staring at Jesus. Towering 20 feet above the alter, Jesus hung. The plaster representation of the Messiah, with painted blood encircling nails piercing through his hands and feet, was fastened to the wooden symbol of Luke’s faith. There was a peaceful silence in the room occasionally broken by a muffled outburst of sobs taken in stride by the priest, as he continued his emotionless drone of prayer for and remembrance of a man he never knew. Luke clasped his gold cross, almost identical to the one adorned across the chest of the man in the closed, cherry casket. From merely looking at the body earlier, one could hardly tell the nature of the accident but its abruptness was obvious from looking at the crowd. Luke sat frozen, in tearless disbelief, wondering how, wondering why, God would take away his grandfather, a faithful, kind-hearted man, with all the sinners and the wrong-doers in the world, and why his grandfather deserved this unceremonious and premature death. He pictured the magnet on his grandfather’s fridge that he walked by on so many afternoons, but never truly understood, “When fear knocks at the door, send faith to answer and you’ll find nobody there.” He died alone and afraid on the freeway, victim of a late night hit and run, the shock of which induced a heart attack with no one there to help him and no door for his faith to answer. His body was found the next morning cold and pale, in his green, 1996 Chevrolet Impala. There was little said on the drive home from the burial. Luke’s mother sat motionless, her head cocked to the side. Mascara stained crescents complimented her glossy, bloodshot eyes stuck in an unfocussed stare out the window, watching as the world passed her by. His father delicately tried to free his wife from her paralysis, commenting on the beauty of the sermon and how at peace her father looked, but was met with no response. At only 12 years old, Luke was inexperienced with death; his mind was racing. In an emotional barrage of anger, grief, and confusion he interrupted his father’s determined monologue to ask the question burdening him, “why?” After a brief moment to formulate his thoughts, a deep breath, and a hard swallow, Luke’s father replied, “Didn’t you hear the priest? God has a plan for all of us. Everything happens for a reason.” “But why him? He went to church every Sunday his whole life, he was always kind and generous.” “God just decided it was his time to go, son.” “Well, then I hate God!” “Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that!”

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“God doesn’t care about you or me or Grandpa, so why should I care about Him?” Luke’s father was not ready for this argument nor did he think it was appropriate to have it in front of his grieving wife, so he resorted to silence, only allowing Luke’s newfound animosity towards God to fester and grow in his mind. Luke released his grasp, opening his hand and allowing the gold cross and chain he had been clutching since the service, to slide down, across his palm and onto the car floor. In the following days as his parents crawled through the legal proceedings, Luke often found himself in his grandfather’s house. Each doorway was protected by a crucifix above it. Luke reminisced of a time when he loved to admire all their differences, one a pearl white porcelain cross embellished with a sleeping baby Jesus across the center, others akin to the church’s lifelike variants. But as Luke sauntered through the home, the crucifixes only served as a solemn reminder of the good man God ripped from him. Luke loved the house but what he enjoyed most was feeling, if just for a moment, that his grandfather was there with him. He loved the smell, the same one always exuding from his grandfather’s chest, which he found the source of in a little ornate glass bottle, half filled with amber colored liquid. Carefully exploring, Luke made sure to put every item he picked up back in the exact place he found it, as if his grandfather would notice. He liked looking through the drawers, generally finding old papers, but occasionally stumbling across a gem of a photograph he had never seen before. He could no longer sit and listen to his grandfather’s stories of the war, or of his mother when she was a little girl, or the grandmother he never met. Luke slowly twisted the knob and nudged the door open, peering inside, almost waiting to be caught as he entered where he was never allowed: his grandfather’s bedroom. Luke rummaged through the dressers quickly, finding nothing to hold his attention until he reached his grandfather’s night table. Topped with a modest brass lamp, the table had a lone drawer. Luke pulled it open to find a slew of orange, CVS, transparent pill bottles, strewn across a leather-bound journal. He flipped through the yellowing pages, of this diary no one knew he kept, to the last entry. Oct 3, 2013 Today marks six months of radiation and it’s not even shrinking. The doctors say the next step is to operate aggressively. I can barely handle the agony as it is. The painkillers are doing nothing. How could I handle these operations? I don’t think I can take it any longer. I pray God will just take me away. Luke dropped the journal, falling to his knees in tears, as he dragged his hand down from his forehead, to his heart, then left to right, across his chest and whispered “Amen”.

Pinioned Christina Im No one is sure whether the whispers are coming from the crowd or the night itself. Fallen leaves snap like flames beneath wickedly pointed shoe heels. It is homecoming night. Witchcraft, some call it, that smell in the air. And they may be more right than they know. Tonight’s queen arrives alone. She forgoes the fanfare, the flamboyance, but her superiority could not be more obvious. And yet there is a naïveté to her that haunts her surroundings. The crowd grows louder - respect, curiosity, fear, lust, envy, they all sound the same when they are so hushed. They have seen her somewhere, they know, but at which lunch table, in which class, they are uncertain. A falcon circles overhead almost protectively. He clutches a softly glowing feather in his talons.

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Several feet away, two girls with the same sword-like cheekbones and full lips as the newcomer begin to chatter. They are the only ones who recognize the stranger. Queens, too, both of them, but their sister has pushed them out of line for the throne. The torrent of words spinning out of their mouths is blacker even than the night sky. They notice the limousine the girl has just emerged from, too sleek for her to have rented it herself. The businesslike black reflects a man’s taste. A lover, they decide at once. Perhaps too quickly. The source of the strange voice they have heard far too many times behind locked doors in the house. Still in the air, the falcon’s gaze pierces the throng, finds the sisters. His aim is true as he releases his feather, sending it straight into his lover’s hand. She catches it and throws a winning smile up to the stars. Her presence seems to throb with light. The attention of the partygoers is drawn to her again. People shuffle inside, dresses on the arms of tuxedos. This is the one night when girls are allowed to outshine their partners. They are all staring at her like she is a shared secret. In a few hours, a pair of girls will slip out of the stuffy homecoming dance, the pain of not being queen stinging their souls. They will leave a thicket of rose claws on their sister’s windowsill, and the falcon will fly home to his love only to find that his magic-stained wings still bleed when they are raked by thorns.

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Essays

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Antaeus Aline Damas I felt like the giant Antaeus; the longer I remained in New York City, the more confident and strong I felt. During that particular summer holiday, it was just my mother, my younger sister and I staying for a couple days in the city before we went off to Florida, since my dad and brother were visiting friends in France. The idea of visiting New York enthralled me, especially now that I was older and could appreciate the culture and history. I had always been told that humans were attracted to the unknown. As I got older, I found this to be true; my thoughts always leading me to New York. It was the unknown, and I realized that I wanted it. I was pretty familiar with the layout, due to all the information I could squeeze from my parents, who had met and lived there for years. Movies like Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Manhattan had also given me a small taste of the city, and I found that I like it. When we had first arrived, I told my mother and sister that we couldn’t waste any of our precious few days. We spent them drinking in the life and fire of the city—walking around endlessly on streets with modern architectural buildings that jutted out of the concrete into the summer sky. We strolled along Madison Avenue, eagerly entering boutiques barehanded and walking out laden with candy-coloured bags from the likes of Bloomingdale’s and Macy’s. My mother was always nostalgically pointing out things as we walked, and I listened with interest, curiosity and longing. My mother and I dragged my sister to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for a day-long visit. As I walked up the steps towards the Greco monolith of stone, I felt a tug towards the building, which contained some of humankind’s best art achievements. Looking out from the steps, I could see the charming Upper East Side. I thought of all the great people who had been inspired by New York and I wished that someday, perhaps, I could join their ranks. Being a great art enthusiast, I floated through the exhibitions. We went through sections on Egyptian art, Asian art, Renaissance paintings, 20th century art and many others. As we went along, I spouted facts about the architecture of the building and paintings we saw. I was lost in the greatness around me, all the colours, styles and images making a mosaic of beauty in my mind. I got particularly excited when we saw some work by Titian. “Jesus, don’t wet your pants!” my sister muttered. Her interest had declined as soon as we had left the Ancient Egyptian wing, her favourite part. “I was once like you, but you’ll find that as you get older you can appreciate so much more.” I said with a hint of superiority, and the flip of my hair. My sister rolled her eyes as my mother’s black eyes sparkled with humour. When I saw some obnoxiously loud tourist children daring each other to touch some French paintings of Marie Antoinette, I almost lost it completely. “Stop it, you brats! Do you realize that these paintings are worth thousands and should be respected for their greatness! Philistines!” I hissed with rage, as my mother and sister laughed. The kids cowered and ran away with fear. A beautiful young woman with auburn hair and a height of six feet turned around. She was clad in a fashionable plum satin dress, and had a badge around her neck indicating that she was a curator for the Greek and Roman Court of the museum. She was speaking with another curator, and gesturing at some of the paintings. She smiled at me, showing teeth as white as her pearl necklace and her intelligent blue-grey eyes twinkled. I flushed with embarrassment and hurried out to the next exhibit.

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Greek, Roman and European Neoclassic marble-bronze sculptures made up my favourite wing, also called the Court. I especially love it, because of the roof made of latticed glass. The dying light of the scorching day still shone on the marble statues, making them shine like moonlight. I spent fifteen minutes observing a beautiful, broken, nude Aphrodite marble sculpture that seemed perfect in its technique. Suddenly, someone appeared next to me. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” It was the tall museum curator. We observed the sculpture together. “I think it’s my favourite.” “You have good taste. Do you live here or are you visiting?” It was probably bizarre to speak to a stranger, but the woman seemed really nice.

“Yes, I’m visiting from Singapore. I really love it here in the city. And the museum.” I said. The tall woman smiled and her eyes glazed. “What do you like about it?”

“Umm... I love the architecture and the feel. It’s difficult to explain, but I just feel full of life here.” The woman nodded with understanding. “You seem to come from a really diverse place, but I understand. I grew up in L.A., but it never really appealed to me, even though it was a big city. I guess I came here to follow my dreams. Pretty corny, huh?” “If that’s corny, then I must be a walking cliché.” We both laughed. “I love art and I love to write. I think everybody with those passions comes here.” “Well, there is a reason. You seem pretty astute. Not many will spend hours in exhibits or chastise others for ruining the peace, I can tell you that.” She grinned as I beamed at the compliment. When I glanced at her, I hoped that I could be like her and live here. I hoped that world would be my oyster—I could have a job that I could be passionate about and an exciting life to look forward to everyday. “Coming to New York really helped me figure out what decisions I was going to make, what I was going to do,” she said. Suddenly something, probably a cellphone, was buzzing in a concealed pocket of her dress. “Oy! I’m late for a meeting! Sorry I’m going to have to dash. But it was nice meeting you!” I smiled with awe. “It was great meeting you too!” She started to walk towards the exits, but she paused and her eyes flashed with the excitement of the city. “If you do feel right here, then I think that it’s the first clue in finding that... something. When I moved here, all the pieces of my life puzzle began to come together, forming a picture that I could understand and loved. Hopefully we meet again when you live here!” She smiled one last time and gracefully hurried off. Her wise words sunk in. I nodded to myself and smiled, studying the gorgeous Aphrodite with dream-filled eyes.

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Last Words

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Bios the stories behind the stories Jiyoon Jeong is is a 15 year old Korean (living in South Korea right now) who is has a thing for sweets. She absolutely loves reading, watching movies, and things related to Tim Burton, steampunk, etc. Jiyoon sketches, draws, and thinks of short stories every now and then. She wishes everyone a merry Christmas! Jamie Uy is a Filipino-Chinese-Singaporean freshman. Her work has been appeared in Huffington Post, Launch Pad, GREYstone, Miracle, and other youth writing publications. She was a Commended Foyle Young Poet of the Year 2012, and has published a poetry anthology, The 1 AM Astronaut and Other Poems. She makes really bad puns, like 'PIe' (you're welcome!). Puinoon Na Nakorn is an Thai ninth-grader at International School Bangkok. In her spare time, she likes reading webcomics, eating good food, and tutoring her friends in Science. Tri Giao Vu is an 11-year-old 6th grader who lives in Vietnam. Her particular hobbies include singing and reading. She has participated in a few singing competitions. She also writes for her annual school yearbook. She is a very dedicated learner and pays a lot of attention to her schoolwork. When she's not studying, she likes to find new books to read, write short stories, listen to music, doodle, and chat with her friends online. John Raymund Koh is a thirteen year-old Filipino turning fourteen in February. He an eighth grader at the International School of Bangkok (ISB), but is moving to Canada next year. He loves visiting family relatives like his cousins in the Philippines, eating sweets, and music in any way: whether it’s playing the ukulele, guitar, trumpet, singing terribly, or just listening to new pop music. He also loves to swim competitively because of the adrenaline rush it gives him, and he loves to draw because it calms his mind. But then again, his mind is never calm because of all the fandoms that have taken over him like Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, Hunger Games, The Mortal Instruments, Divergent, and many more. Priyanka Aiyer is a 14-year old eighth grader who lives in Singapore. She is an avid reader and writer; in her spare time she also enjoys collecting vinyl records, playing guitar, and hanging out with her eccentric collection of bandmates. She doesn't know exactly where she's going on the road to life, but she is stopping to smell the roses on the way. Bram Xu is a 17-year-old senior, was born in Indonesia, yet has lived in Singapore for almost 14 years. He is an avid poet, likes writing dark, high-fantasy pieces, and prefers tea over coffee (it’s much better). In addition, he enjoys acting and all the facets that come with being on stage as a character. Elena Hope Morey was taken to the US by her current adopted parents (who are American) and started schooling there. At eight she moved near Zurich, Switzerland and stayed there for three years, learning German and French. She continues her French studies at Singapore American School. Last year she was a Peer Counsel and Junior Model United Art Society member. She continues art in Studio, a pre-AP course, and loves to draw and chill with friends. She enjoys bubble tea and write tons on her blog (www.elenamorey1.blogspot.sg). Besides all of the arts, she loves badminton and fencing. Daniel Kwiatkowski is 16 years old and a current junior. He attends Newark Academy in New Jersey, USA and is taking a creative writing class. He is a huge fan of the Philadelphia Eagles and plays on his school's golf team.

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Sachi Shah is a freshman attending high school at the Overseas Family School Singapore. She is a self taught young artist with a keen interest in mixed media, art journaling, and creative writing. Her work has been featured in gallery exhibits, and more recently auctioned at the Nokor Tep Gala dinner to raise money for a women's hospital in Cambodia. Silsopang (Som-O) Paknara is weird. You may call her quirky, strange, bizarre, whatever suits your fancy, she won't mind. Her creativity, ideas and things she likes (For example, chrysanthemum tea, cats, and the anime Axis Powers Hetalia.) fuel most of her writing, which is usually stashed away in Google Docs or her deviantArt sta.sh. If you want to see some of her work (and art) and learn some stuff about her, go to her deviantArt here: http://doctorcatastrophe.deviantart.com/ Aline Damas is a high school student who has lived internationally her whole life. Originally from Brussels and Miami, she embraces her background and the clash of cultures. Ever since she read Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, she has wanted to be a writer. It is one of her greatest passions, and she especially enjoys writing about her experiences in high school. Michelle Lu is a 17 year old Junior who loves to write and aspires to become an artist or a teacher. She grew up in Pennsylvania of the United States of 'Murica. Michelle later traversed through air to Shanghai at age 10.5, before moving again to Singapore. In her free time, she enjoys reading (especially manga), watching anime, doodling, and holding silly philosophical conversations with her "butties". She currently is residing in an apartment with her parents and younger brother and writing this bio. Fun Facts: Most of Michelle's stories come from dreaming (day and night) and nightmares, and she has a new-found interest of completing puzzles. Lina Osmundson is a sophomore at her local high school, where she enjoys playing in the Chamber Orchestra and spilling stories in her English class. She loves writing poems and fictional stories - especially on a rainy day - while listening to orchestral movie soundtracks, her favorite being from Finding Nemo. Lina's favorite hobby is spending hours sitting in her chair and completing various Â puzzles. When she's not busy sticking all those pieces together, she enjoys reading science fiction or fantasy books. She also loves romantic comedies from the 80's - director John Hughes is definitely a favorite! She hopes to continue her dreams of eventually becoming an author by writing every moment she can. Sun Yoon (full name Sunjoo Yoon) is a 15 year old student currently studying at International School Bangkok. He lives in an apartment in Nonthaburi, Thailand. He has a history of failed fiction drafts, which led him to prefer different styles of writing than most writers. Audrey Ellis Herrera is a student at a public school in the San Francisco Bay Area. She enjoys playing basketball for her school team and spending time with her friends. She prefers reading nonfiction over fiction. Ziyi Lim is 15 years old and living in Singapore. Likes green tea, exotic turtles, and scottish accents. Hates shoes in general. The type of writer that can only write when inspired, and does it in a 20-page iridescent word document. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s your average rebellious yet lazy teenager with a new goal to embrace her nerd side. Christina Im is an aspirant wordsmith obsessed with birdcages, automatons, and anything whimsical. She is currently hard at work on a novel in her prodigiously rainy hometown, where she takes pleasure in disrupting puddles. In her free time, she also serves as the editor-in-chief of The Teacup Trail, a Tumblr lit/art magazine. Her work either has appeared or is forthcoming in Brouhaha Magazine, VARIA, The Wandering Collective, and GREYstone. She blogs, too - at http:// lifeisinexpressible.blogspot.com/.

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Thank you for supporting Parallel Ink. On behalf of all the staff and contributors, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like to wish all our readers a great holiday season! Please consider donating to Haiyan typhoon relief or any other worthy cause to help spread the Yuletide cheer. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll see you next year! Sincerely,

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Parallel Ink caters to kids around the world aged 12-18 by publishing their writing and thoughts through digital, 21st-century mediums. We love writing that speaks to and addresses the issues aﬀecting the youth of today, and art that challenges us to change our perceptions. We are a completely voluntary, not-for-profit publication run by a team of three high-schoolers and other guest contributors internationally.

Wait There’s more! We hope that you enjoyed reading this issue. For general comments/feedback, please send emails to parallelink@gmail.com. We’d be happy to answer any questions you have. For submissions, head to our website at: https:// parallel-ink.webs.com/submit for guidelines, examples, and an easy-to-fill out online submission form. Also be sure to check out our calendar there and our ‘posters’ page - which is updated with cool promotional freebies (such as classroom posters) every so often.

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