Scribbles: Issue 6 by Scribbles

Scribbles

Issue 6

Summer 2013

The Poetry Issue

Contents 4 5 6 8 11 12 14 16 18 20 22 24 26 28 30

Editor and Deputy Head Editor’s Letter The Team Featured Writer - Sophie Li, 9CC Featured Artist - Louise Wihlborn, 13TY

The Passing by Kendra Cui Alzheimer’s by Charlotte Target Bank of the River by Erica Qiu Artworks Death of a Relative by Charlene Phua Artworks The Cry of Two Mothers by Jimin Kang Vicodin by Susan Maginn The Old Lie by Joshua Hung Artworks Of Poetry, Hoarding and Elderly Homes by Lee Ming Yan Artworks I want to go to the place where I am nothing and everything by Rachel lee The Development of a Dangerous Idea by May Huang

Editor’s Letter I write this in school on a Friday afternoon after the school has been almost emptied, with the exception of a few stragglers, of its regular inhabitants. In spite of this, I am still assaulted by the sights (and smells) that remain of what was an unusual day. Today is, or was, Prank Day — the final chance for the departing year 13s to wreak havoc on the school before they leave CIS. I write of this because today perfectly fit the theme of the general succession of things at the end of every school year, something Scribbles feels more than ever in 2013. The current editorial board will move on next year, leaving the magazine to Angela Yang, May Huang, Shirley Lau, Doroty Sanussi and Kate Wang. Meanwhile, among the year 13 cohort are none other than the pioneers of Scribbles, the first editorial team, the students who brought this magazine to life. Schools are somewhat unusual in that they follow a regular ebb and flow of people and emotions that repeats every year. Much of the work in this magazine stems from sources such as the year 13 IB art exhibition, produced by individuals who have all but left us. And yet much of the other work is by younger students who will inevitably rise to fill this void. All, naturally, are wonderful examples of the skill and enthusiasm of those who contributed. What Scribbles has set out to do is to chronicle and anthologise the works of CIS students so that there is a record in these pages of their passion, talent and development in the creative arts. This magazine is a constant in the constantly changing world of student life. It takes many people and much effort to keep a student-led project like this going for so many years. I must thank, as always, our supervisor, Mr. Mulcahy; Dr. Faunce, for his support; Ms. Lee, for her expertise in publication; and the Annual Fund, for making possible the production of this magazine. Thank you to the artists, writers and poets who have contributed to Scribbles in this issue, the ones that have preceded it, and the ones that will follow. I also congratulate the original editors, Kenneth, Jade, Yoon-Ji, Tommy, Bok Wai, Thomson and Justin, on graduating from CIS, and I wish them the best of luck in all their future endeavours. I also thank you, the reader, for reading this magazine and thus for supporting Scribbles and the creative arts in CIS. Bryce Lim Head Editor

Deputy Head Editor As the school year comes to a close, we are all rushing to give recognition to all our achievements in this past year, either in sports assemblies, award ceremonies or final concerts. At this time of year, what is often overlooked is the hidden talents of creative arts among our fellow CIS-ers. Scribbles is a perfect platform to celebrate the passions of our fellow CIS students, many of whom we have just said goodbye to, the effervescent year 13s. I’m very honored to introduce myself as the upcoming editor-in-chief of Scribbles. I’ve watched Scribbles grow from a small, low-key magazine into what it is today, a true representation of who CIS students really are and what we are really capable of; a professional anthology of creative life at CIS. I’m so proud of how far this magazine has come, and all the work that has been put into every issue because I now know that it’s no easy task. The team of directors for next year will include: May Huang in the Creative Writing Department, Shirley Lau in the Art Department, Doroty Sanussi in Layout, and Kate Wang in Administration. Next year, we are looking to open up Scribbles to a wider audience, as well as a larger variety of writers and artists, and maybe even change up the layout a bit. We are all incredibly excited to be a part Scribbles, to do more, to keep the magazine fresh and engaging. We look forward to working with all the budding artists, writers and poets in the next issue. We’d like to thank you dear reader for your support in this magazine, and we hope you stay tuned for more Scribbles, because exciting new changes are coming. Angela Yang Deputy editor

The Team Head Editor Bryce Lim

Deputy Head Editor Angela Yang

Art Director Shirley Lau

Writing Director Susan Maginn

Deputy Writing Director May Huang

Layout Directors Claron Niu Doroty Sanussi

Operations Managers Aspen Wang Kate Wang

Founders

Kenneth Lee Tommy Li Yoon-Ji Han Jade Mallabone Bok Wai Yeung Thomson Loong Justin Cheng

Art Staff

Alison Wong Alistair Liu Angela Yang Angelina Wang Anny Teng Ashley Law Christy Lee Daphne Ng Gary So Georgie Reading Hyoju Sohn Jackie Shin Jade Ng Jennifer Ho Jessica Eu Justina Yam Kaitlin Chan Kameka Herbst Letitia Ho Louise Wihlborn Matthew Ho Mayan Braude Melanie Ng Nicole Wong Oriana Catton Robyn Houghton Sabrina Hoong Shirley Lau Star Zee Stephanie Cheung

Stephanie Lau Vivian li Yan Ling Liu Yanna Lee Yasmine Lai Zoe Suen

Writing Staff

Adrienne Zhang Charlene Phua Charlotte Target Cynthia Huang Daniel Li Erica Qiu Jimin Kang Joshua Huang Kate Brashear Kendra Cui May Huang Ming Yan Lee Miyeon Kim Rachel Lee Samantha Chong Sasha Corr Shannon Hu Sophie Li Susan Maginn

Featured Writer

Sophie Li 9CC

Symphony Beneath Once I stood at my grandfather’s grave and thought Of his bones lying there, Decaying at my feet. Did you know that even after they die, The husks of dead beetles still cling to the tree? It has to do with loving, with leaving. Life trembles Like the victim who keeps going, who keeps burning Like a gun in the war Like the first tear on a mercenary’s hardened cheek-And I know that for every birthday cake there Is a girl loving her wrists with a razorblade A whisper in the wind says, Just take me, just take me. I know loneliness but I also know my heart beating I know loneliness but I also know the sun rising in the east You are not a sad story. Breathe. Open your palms, see Lifelines stretching out like the branches Of the Aspen tree. Here is a letter to you saying There are countless horizons beyond The dull gray of the classroom Kintsugi is the art of filling in the cracks In broken pottery with gold, it is saying Objects are all the more beautiful For what they’ve been through The world was not shaped by happy people Cracked hands made it, Bleeding fingers made it, There is suffering but at the end of all things There is happiness beyond the sea Bleed out, but know that You are not as alone as you might think.

Hold your ground even If everyone else wants to bury you beneath it. There are beautiful people for the terrible ones. Someday this will all be just a breath in the breeze. So what if our star is fading? So what if we are just stories in the night? Let go. Let go. Let Go. Let the Atlantic douse us. We are pirates, and happiness Is just a thing three sheets to the wind. Let’s steal it. Lock the chest tight-We can love them in leaving, As birds love the morning, as birds shudder free. So what if our souls know solitude? So what if we are just stories, whispered by the trees? Let’s make it a good one. Sink me in the ocean Bury me in the river Sing me asleep Bring me an airplane, A rocket, a memory. Wake the songbirds in our fingers. There is a boy in the park who writes poetry His breath misting like the first notes of a symphony His fingers trembling The throbbing of your own heartbeat. We walk in beauty Whose birth was announced by fireworks. In a world full of lonely people, How selfish it is to be lonely, alone.

Morning finds our bodies washed up thirty miles west Whoever said that without pain, You cannot know happiness, Can rot in hell. We are islands, all Of us, but we also Have our boats and signal flares. One blast means hunger. Two blasts mean the end of eternity. Three blasts mean that You are not alone. We are also rivers, Trying to find our way Home. Our secret pyrotechnic devices say, There is still someone living inside here. We are only sleeping. We are alive and Breathing Still. These skins are only kite strings. I say, burn it. Leave it. If I knew where I was going, I wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be writing these words, Reading these books, Trying to divine my future in the small Glories of book bindings, Every day a little number. Is there a manual on happiness, on living? Let the apocalypse happen, darling. When it comes, So will we. Afraid of nothing As if we had Wings.

Featured Artist

Louise Wihlborn 13TY

Why not, Apr 2013 Acrylic 150x125cm

Scream, Sept 2012 Acrylic 80x60cm

Rise, Sept 2011 Papier-mâché 100x80cm

Noble Savage, Mar 2012 Ink, pen 85x125cm 8

The Passing

by Kendra Cui, 12YC It is eight o’clock on a Monday morning, the height of rush hour. Like angry wasps, we storm into the train compartment, buzzing and alight with attention. Briskly-paced feet betray the stupor lurking behind people’s faces, as we fight for the few seats available. Some of us are lucky, and manage to sit down, stifling a yawn, before taking out our smart phones and burying our noses in them. We are in all shapes and colors; some of us wearing black business suits pressed smartly over white blouses, others wearing loose trousers and t-shirts. Ugh, you just stepped on my foot. The train starts off with a sudden lurch, and an old man stumbles over and nearly falls. He is wearing a loose polo shirt tucked into his black trousers, and has on old, tattered sneakers—those type of sneakers that you know you should replace, but can’t bear to throw out because you’ve become so attached to them. The train moves on. Chug, chug, chug… A few stops later, most of us have got off the train, and have headed towards our offices. Finally there are a few empty seats, and the old man totters slowly to one of them. Just as he is about to bend over and sit down, another young man briskly walks by and slides in under the old man, sitting down. The young man receives a reproachful stare, and muttering something about having to sacrifice his seat to an old phony, allows the old man to sit down. The train lurches once more, and the old man grabs onto a nearby pole to avoid bumping into the lady he is sitting next to. Steady now, hold on. Chug, chug, chug… There’s almost no one on the train now; just one or two of us and the old man. He’s fallen asleep. In this state of daze, his wrinkles have smoothed out and his expression completely at peace with the world. I wonder where he’s going. Isn’t he going to wake up soon? It’s almost the end of the line. We’re at the end of the line now. The old man still hasn’t woken up. I try shaking him, but he doesn’t wake. Harder, harder. The people gradually come swarming in again, and although I have to get off, I’m anxious about leaving the old man, anxious about leaving him with all this people, who seem like vultures ready to prey on him at any moment. And just as I am about to step off, the train doors slam shut with a wooden thud, and the train screeches in the opposite direction. Oh my god! Get off me! The old man has fallen into a woman’s lap, mouth agape, eyes still closed. Several passengers skitter back a few steps; the man is a terrible disease. The woman pushes him onto the floor, with a look of disgust and stands up on her seat, unwilling to stand on the floor. My blood pounding in my ears, I can see only the old man on the floor; I have no regard for the people around me panicking, their voices melting into an ominously si-

lent rush. My heart pounds in my throat as I grab the man’s clammy hands, searching for the pulse that is not there. Chug, chug, chug… The train lurches to a stop again, and a station attendant is brought in. We are delayed for ten, maybe fifteen minutes so that the old man can be lifted out of the compartment. Someone has the audacity to video it on their phone, and others are phoning their spouses, bosses, children. We are going to be late, there’s been some accident. Everyone is shouting at the station manager to get the train started again. The old man has interrupted our day for long enough. It takes forever but finally the station master agrees we can get back onto the train. Chug, chug, chug... The next station is...Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.

Photo by Jessica Eu, 11HZ 11

Alzheimer’s

Bank of the River

The trees were green when first he took my hand; The yellow dandelions full in bloom. But in our youth we could not understand Our sweet forever’s end should come too soon. For when the trees did burn maroon and gold And when the dandelions changed to white, Then patient fate did take him from my hold: He left me here but stayed within my sight. No longer does he sing in our duet, This tune a solo in the lonely fall. The gentle song that I cannot forget Is now the song that he cannot recall. The woodland trees now bare this winter’s day; The dandelions all but blown away.

I know a place where the wild thyme blows, Where blossoms and red love-flowers grow, Over your head hangs the soft willow leaves, And beneath is the soft mossy ground.

by Charlotte Target, 10GZ

by Erica Qiu, 8NJ

I know a place where cool breezes flow, And bend the bright flowers low, The gurgling stream washes the stones clean, As the emerald moss stains the ground green. I know a place where birds can fly freely, Where bugs may scuttle around your feet cheerily, The sparkling fish splash water onto your bare feet, And glittering dragonflies land behind your soft seat. I know a place where you can lie down, With a pillow of soft ferns green, Sky full of aquamarine blue, The grass blades shimmering with dew. I know a place where you and I can stay, Forever and ever, while the world turns ash grey, We can watch the silver moon rise, While the shining stars reflect in our eyes. I know a place where the wild thyme blows, Where blossoms and red love-flowers grow, Entwined forever, just you and me, Until all that is left, are the whispering trees.

Artwork by Anny Teng, 11HZ Photo by Justina Yam, 11NN 12

Clockwise from top: Angela Yang, 11UQ; Alistair Liu, 13HK; Letitia Ho, 11NN; Nicole Wong, 13LS

Page opposite Clockwise from top: Matthew Ho, 12XN; Alistair Liu, 13HK; Yasmine Lai, 11UQ 15

Death of a Relative by Charlene Phua, 11GL

I hate this assignment because I can list more than six people in this class who are going to get a better grade than me for the simple reason that they actually have something or someone to write about whereas I have the choice of my dead cat or my dead cousin and, quite frankly, I miss my cat more. Looking back, I can see that my cat had always been there, like a clock on the wall or a coffee mug on the table; that is, until my baby sister accidentally sat on her and broke her thoracic vertebrae. Salvador, on the other hand, I only saw every few months or so, when he came by for a breath of sanity. I say every few months, as this was roughly how long it took for his deadbeat mother, my aunt, to find a new boyfriend after squeezing the living essence out of the previous one. I would come home from school one day and he would be on the sofa with the TV on and a bowl of chips in his lap. When Hazel, that’s my cat-murderer of a sister, would come home from preschool, he would switch channels and watch cartoons with her for the rest of the afternoon until dinner time after which he would disappear. He rarely did anything else during his visits and interactions between the two of us for the most part consisted solely of “Hey, turn the volume down,” or “What do you want for dinner?” and once he ironically asked me, “What does sesquipedalian mean?” Important note- because Salvador’s bum never left the couch and I never left my room, all pre-dinner forms of communication were called out to one another and could be heard all around the cul-de-sac. Some would say that our routine was borderline unacceptable considering we were, indeed blood-related, but for us, it worked just fine. It meant Hazel, who adored Salvador, would get to spend time with him, and I, who didn’t really care for dealing with kids, would get out of babysitting duties. Heaven knows what Salvador got out of watching children’s shows for two hours with an inarticulate toddler, but he never complained and it certainly made Hazel happy. I was steadfast in my refusal to watch Tom and Jerry ever since Pepper’s unfortunate death. And though I never saw him do studying of any kind, including finals week, Salvador still managed to maintain perfect grades in all his classes and could answer everything on Jeopardy, which we usually watched together in the brief period after I had come home and before Hazel arrived. Anyone with half an eyeball could see that he was intelligent, but he never really struck me as exceptionally brilliant. If anything, he seemed more like the type to drop out of school and live on the streets for a while. I could quite easily picture him becoming the next Picasso, which 16

was funny because he was one of the three artists Salvador detested with passion. Salvador hated Pablo Picasso, he informed me one day, because Picasso’s work overshadowed Dali’s work. But he also hated Salvador Dali because they shared the same name and everyone loved to compare the two of them. And finally, he hated Jackson Pollock because, in Salvador’s eyes, all of Pollock’s work “looks like animal puke.” Come to think of it, Salvador said much more than that regarding Pollock’s work, and that was probably one of the nicer comments. It was one of those days when the TV had died on us, and since our wifi was connected to our cable, we really had nothing to do. That’s when we decided to go to an art exhibition downtown, just the two of us. It was one of those posh, modern, minimalistic art exhibitions where a nosebleed on white canvas was considered “avant-garde” and what could have been a Hazel’s scribbles supposedly had a really profound meaning if you just stared for long enough. We came to stand in front of the award-winning piece – a shadowy mural of three blobs containing the bold white words CYNICAL, INNOCENT and PERFUNCTORY against a backdrop that looked like the aftermath of an amputation – and he asked me what I thought of the painting.

“I hate it,” I told him bluntly.

“Oh. Good, I hate it too.”

In that moment, we discovered that neither of us really wanted to be in the exhibit for a minute longer, or for that matter, ever see a another “existentialistic” and “spellbinding” painting that even our combined imaginations could not make heads or tails of.

It was a very profound bonding moment.

It was made even more profound by the hour and a half discussion regarding our mutual distaste for minimalism and Salvador’s declaration of the three artists he couldn’t stand. Without a doubt he spent the longest time on Pollock whose work Salvador described as “a kitchen mess”, “paintball game center wall” and “redoubtably asinine” in addition to comparing it to animal sick. After the exhibit, I don’t think we ever went on an excursion together again and despite the marvelous bonding time, we did not grow closer. Honestly I think we both knew that if we both tried we probably could have found another matter on which we shared similar opinions, but you see we simply couldn’t be bothered.

We were too alike, too apathetic. We both could see that we would have different paths and neither saw the point in trying to sew together the fabrics of our lives when it would inevitably be shredded apart again sometime down the line. It infuriated my mother. “You’re cousins!” she would say as if sharing an eight of our genes with each other was some kind of magical password that would unlock our nonexistent love for each other. “The War of the Roses was between cousins,” Salvador muttered under his breath. “The Boleyns and Howards hated each other.” “King George the First and Sophia Dorothea.” “Jack and Bill Henney down the street.” “Marabelle Smith and Theodore Jane from school.” Mum sighed expressively, exaggeratedly, loudly, but she didn’t pursue what she must have thought was her obligation. We fist bumped. I didn’t cry at his funeral. Others did, and in fact it was and still is to date the wettest funeral I’ve ever attended, but none of those tears were mine and frankly watching everyone else cry was more heartbreaking than his actual death.

I reread the note twice. Then I looked up at the painting. I saw the bowl of chips. I found Tom and Jerry. And ‘sesquipedalian’. And I curled into a ball and cried. Following that one and only emotional outburst, I packed my feelings into a neat little box and tucked it away in some corner of my mind where it gathered dust. Whilst I still remember where I put my Pepper-box, I have thankfully forgottean where my Salvador-box is. And though this may make me seem cold and heartless, just as there was no point getting close to a person I could never truly relate to, I didn’t think that there was a point in shedding tears over a matter that I couldn’t change. Certainly I believe Salvador would have agreed with me.

“You can cry you know,” my dad said, looking at me. We were the two dry-eyed people at the ceremony, “There’s no shame in grieving.” “I know. I just don’t want to.”

“Alright then.”

Eventually I did cry, and when I did, it was completely unnecessary but entirely cathartic. Some three days after the funeral, three dignified looking people turned up on my doorstep with the award-winning painting Salvador and I saw at the exhibit. With much ceremony, I was informed that the artist himself had given them my address and told them to give it to the “pale, skinny, black-haired girl you saw with me at the exhibit”, along with what might have been the scruffiest envelope I had ever seen. So I was given the painting and I carried it up to my room, leaned it against the wall, sat on my bed and stared at it. Then I opened the envelope. “I know you hate it,” the note said, “so it’s yours. It’ll be better appreciated by a cynic than some blithering fool who considers Picasso superior to Dali and Pollock superior to them both.” 17

Clockwise from top: Jessica Eu, 11HZ; Star Zee, 11UQ; Vivian Li, 13TY; Anny Teng 11HZ Page opposite Clockwise from top: Gary So, 13HK; Daphne Ng, 13HK

The Cry of Two Mothers

Vicodin

And on that day was heard the cry of two mothers.

The shallowing, slowing, stopping of my breath Ease me in, drip me out My eyes seem to be pulled from all corners Yet this lightness in my mind Blurs my brain to a close Steady my heartbeat before my skin turns blue I am burning trapped in this cold clammy flesh The itch is spreading There’s a tightness in my throat I want to dance until the floor stops swimming I’ve never been this happy before

by Jimin Kang, 10HT

One mother woke up with a spitter-spat-spat to ﬁnd her children in the heart of another. A heart, she found, to be much warmer than the metallic womb of her nurture. She cried because her children had left and ceased to remain in her bodice. And when she stopped crying, the spitter-spat-spat too stopped; all her children were gone.

by Susan Maginn, 12FZ

Meanwhile, the other mother woke up that morning to wail upon ink upon paper. When young, in mud he had loved to play; now the ink said he never got up. She thought of her Tommy, his tousled hair and the shimmer of his green eyes. And then she cried because she missed him so and because he was with his papa. His papa died two years ago. On this day it rained. Rain fell both on the ﬁeld where one mother lay, silent amongst dying bodies. Her children had scattered and it was too quiet. On a mourning mother did it also fall. In the rain she stood, silent with a blue picture frame. In a pitter patter did her heart drip for a dead son named Tommy. The rain couldn’t wash him away.

Sculpture by Yan Ling Liu, 13ZZ

The Old Lie

by Joshua Hung, 10SY Shells and grenades erupt from all angles, the unsettling screech and unrelenting sound of metal artillery and machinery deafening the atmosphere around him. The barren souls and hollow corpses of his fallen comrades lie unwavering and peaceful; the creases on their foreheads and the frowns on their faces slowly fade away. He hears the thumping on the ground as each domino falls to the soil, the desolate and waterlogged fields littered with splotches of crimson acting as a mirror to the vermillion sky. He watches the barricade topple and the enigmas behind it fall in exasperation, their perpetual voices beating in cohesion with the perennial bullets liberated from the unrelenting barrels. His vision blurs as imploding explosives and muffled decries of life and death bristle beside him, his conscience escaping from within… Lifting his eyelids slowly, the penetrating white light debilitates his temporarily impaired perception and clouds his vulnerable eyesight. The obstreperous cries of patriotism continue to echo within his brain, increasing in continuous increments every single second he remained immobile on the rough, patterned bed sheets. He begins to grow accustomed to the uncomfortable linen of the sheets, the bland beige sheeting, infested with a stale, sour odor courtesy of the fawn lice colonies, which left blotchy red bite marks all over his skin while traversing the inhabitable confines of the interconnected tents. Having bed sheets was a privilege in any case, particularly compared to the potential death beds of his fellow countrymen, the metal infrastructure of the brass bed was the only object separating their susceptible bodies and the blood-tinted grass on the merciless field. Slowly, he begins to grow adapted to the intolerable surroundings – the blood that weaves like silk work embroidered on the grasslands, the unqualified nurses that run around in stupefied panic and horror, the public amputations of lost limbs and the shrieks of dismay and selfloathing from the lost souls that succeed it, and all the while he continues to see the version of events play in recurring fashion within his brain. The horrific spectacle remains engraved within his misguided mind, the yells of his fallen brothers in arms arousing his suppressed guilt - guilt for surviving, for not falling to the gunshots and shackles that stole his loyal companions. He reminisces about the times of joy and laughter in the heat of the war. The times of happiness in the middle of the conflict, the times that they all knew would never last. The days when they sat and talked between them, the disruptive detonations of shells and bombs in the near distance only a minor deterrence to their friendly festivities. Fears of death and loneliness diminished in those faithful times, the flag of their motherland supplanted within their mind. He remembers the disillusioned games of Poker and Blackjack and the almost transparent images on the crumpled, 22

wilted and drenched slips of card. The same crippled cards that now lie scattered on the blood soaked field beside its departed owner, spills of scarlet tainting its enduring surface. The periodical laughs of victory had been a welcome opposition to the ferocious cries of war that constantly occupied his mind. And yet, these dispersed proclamations of delight and renewed hope seem empty to him now. Now, he is the only one still left standing. Still watching the events unfold in front of his eyes, the repercussions of patriotism debunking itself to him as he awaits the day he can slip away from this perdition he is living. There was a time that he would clasp his palms together and stare longingly at the sky above, saturated by descending shells and artillery, begging for survival, pleading for a chance to see his family one last time. But now, he could not bear to see the look on their faces if they saw what he had become, he could not endure their bewildered masks of acceptance that concealed something rawer and truer inside, something so very different. He had seen it all before, so why would he be the exception, the anomaly? He attempts to console the legless soldier beside him. A dark red substance occupies the area below the man’s knees, the man’s attempts to quell the pain unsuccessful as the agony continues to creep up his tortured spine. He stares at the man’s face of denial and disbelief, his mind constantly replaying the scene he had seen just moments before. The doctors had failed to find an Operating Room; so instead, they had dismembered and amputated the man’s leg from the knee down, right in front of the prying eyes of the other soldiers. The collective screams of realization within the tent surround the air around him, suffocate his mental capacity. The violent tossing and turning continues into the night, the combined noises pounding constantly into his head. The nurses arrive, attending to the empty body beside him. The comrade had passed during the night; his wound had continued to bleed out, the amputated leg having been exposed to the infectious atmosphere. The doctors simply moved on to the next patient, oblivious to the dead body that used to inhabit the bed. Another soldier was placed on the bed only moments later, the blood-drenched sheets unchanged. The body of the dead soldier was simply tossed into the accumulating pile, waiting to be dealt with later. Patriotism had served him well. To the surrounding comrades, dignity was a lost cause; replaced by the simple hopes of ending the eternal suffering they had each be condemned to. The scene of the crime was much too overwhelming – the huge explosions and eruptions of the recurring shells, the constant recalibration and rounds emitting from the machine guns, the pools of mortal blood that flowed like a river on the barren ground – all of which shocked them to the core, the names of their murdered brothers piercing into their lost innocence.

Now, as he rests motionless within the confines of the iron frame, he sees reality without the veil of hope and fabricated illusion. He sees the maggots swarm around cuts and amputations, infecting the wounds of his comrades. He hears the tortured screams of intolerance and pain due to the lack of anesthetics reverberate among the firearms and shouts at the front lines. He watches as the hopeless souls slither away from their anchors to the natural world, leaving only hollow corpses lying on the uninhabitable bed. He feels the innocence of his youth abandon him. No longer does he pray to stay alive. No longer does he wish to continue witnessing life run this unnatural course. It was only a day later when he saw his chance, his chance to escape. He picked it up from the ground, his decision made. And in that moment, everything felt silent. It was only a few minutes later when the Nurses came, Another body stacked on top of the pile.

Artwork by Robyn Houghton, 13LS 23

Clockwise from top: Oriana Catton, 13TY; Sabrina Hoong, 11SH *Honourable mention: Mr. Tsang*; Melanie Ng, 13LS; Letitia Ho, 11NN Page opposite Clockwise from top: Jackie Shin, 13ZZ; Jennifer Ho, 13LS; Kaitlin Chan, 13HK; Jade Ng, 13CQ;

Of Poetry, Hoarding and Elderly Homes by Ming Yan Lee, 11UQ

It is an underlit staircase, papered with unseasonal chun-lians and pink notices, spilling fatly into a street in Tin Hau. As I am about to find out, this first impression of decrepitude belies the cold modernity of the building’s first floor occupant: Wah Chung Elderly Home - living space for the elderly, but not quite their home. Inside, overly bright lights flood the room, the same colour as the whitish floors. Modern grey furniture surround modern glass tables. The air molecules seem to hang in a tranquil stupor. The whole place has about the same atmosphere as a wilting greenhouse. A blur of energy, clad in flowery print, loudly proclaims itself. “Late again, as usual.” It is my grandma, who possesses a vitality the force of a Mack truck. She’s always moaning about my family’s sense of punctuality, and on this visit to my grandpa, we are – as luck would have it – late by a grand margin of two minutes. I watch her furiously destroy a spontaneous hint of a smile into a stony frown. She totters into a corridor to fetch my grandpa. We all follow and congregate outside his little cubicle. We hear the neighbouring man, a shrunken figure propped on a wheelchair, croak to himself. Grandma doesn’t seem to notice. Brusquely, she yanks the blanket off grandpa’s sleeping body, and hollers, “Wei! Your son’s family is here. Hei sun! Wake up!” Immediately, she manhandles him into a wheelchair, not leaving him much time to resist. Poor Gramps, I think. Almost as repressed as the French peasants of the 1700’s. In the corner of his room, an eclectic pile of garbage overflows, a yellowing picture of them as a young couple on a desecrated street perched on top as its crowning jewel. It was taken after the Japanese occupation in Hong Kong when grandma lost her whole family to the war and days were starved and sad and hard, but it was OK because she found grandpa, who the war did not take. I groan. I have heard this story enough times to repeat it backwards. For some reason, grandma’s meticulousness with housekeeping never extended to grandpa’s hoarding. Her favourite boast, repeated unfailingly: “You will never find my house untidy before I am dead!” Any unfortunate soul who did not place an object in their allotted coordinates was reprimanded hotly and banished to another room. And yet, the teetering collection of newspapers, bills, ads, envelopes, light bulbs and wrappers stashed in my grandpa’s study was strangely allowed to stay. My parents, though, hated the junk. They wanted to throw all the damn crap out. In these times, grandma transformed magically into a champion of choice, clacking distastefully, “It’s Yeye Grandpa’s stuff. Learn to respect his will; if he wants to hoard, let him hoard! Your generation is so disrespectful all the time.” As usual, my parents lost these, and we had no choice but to suffer this as an odd quirk in their marriage, as marriages are wont to have. 26

She hoards, too. Memories are gathered like a refugee clutches her children, and never let go of. By now, she has wheeled grandpa into the living room of Wah Chung, and with us seated around as an esteemed jury, launches into a recounting of his past crimes: “What would you do without me! Do you remember the time you couldn’t control your arm and broke the flowerpot? And when you lost your job, who stood by you? I did! Did your kind friends come? No, I did! Family is always first! When you went to the hospital, I didn’t sleep for three days!” She is an irate Cuban dictator, the waves of her voice riding on spikes of indignance. But grandma is careful to let only the valueless words tumble out. She hoards the painful sentences, refuses to let sentiments be squeezed from her tight lips. She doesn’t part with the “I love you’s,” doesn’t verbalize tenderness. No, grandma is pinched and unyielding. Grandpa does not mind more than a few husky grunts. He blinks in passive acceptance. A cheery nurse interrupts, bearing a tray of food. Grandma is not appeased. She scoops up a spoonful of mushy rice onto a metal spoon, ferociously pulls down grandpa’s jaw, and jams it down his throat. He swallows it slowly. Undeterred, she bends down to hitch up his pants, pointing at his shriveled yellow ankles. “You see?” She jabs forcefully at them. “Emaciated! The doctor says his blood circulation is terrible. Look at his skin. So unhealthy. Dying git.” I can’t help but notice her hand resting on her own painfully thin thighs. Bony and weary. “Gui la ngo. I am so tired. Everyday I come here to feed him his food, wash his hair, clip his toenails, and change his diaper. I’m old too.” “Why not have the helper come instead?” My mother asks mildly. “Bah!” Grandma had been waiting for this opportunity, and she flares up enthusiastically, vehemently. “All you pampered folk know is helpers. Do you think the helper would take care of him properly? Relying on helpers – gong siu…What a joke. Pah!” She takes a tissue and swipes dribbling rice off grandpa’s mouth. “You are so useless now,” she blazes, “Can’t even do the littlest of things.” Out of nowhere, a tear falls out of her angry eyes. “When I was naïve and nineteen and married you, I never thought there’d be a today like this.” She begins to cry. This is grandma, the Stalin of the Lees, the self-made dictator. “You get sick from everything. You trip over yourself. Your heart is bad, your lungs are bad, your legs don’t work. You could die any day!” She revels in all this with a missionary zeal, as if charging head-on towards the face of death could stop it from coming. Grandpa just sits there like the Buddha, docile and tolerant. We all wait. We don’t break the moments of silence. In any case, she seemed to be talking to herself more than to us anyway. As the sky dims, the conversation lightens. “I’ve been going to poetry class,” she proudly proclaims. “We’re learn-

ing haikus - the conservation of words. They get straight to the point, zhui gun yiu qing sik. No wishy-washy, always crystal clear. The teacher is handsome and brilliant too.” She pauses. “Unlike you,” she adds cuttingly, looking at grandpa. When we stand up to leave Wah Chung Elderly Home, I hear the croaking neighbor gripe with unfriendliness, “Your grandpa is a lucky bastard.” I don’t really understand. After the inevitable happens, my mother and father conducted all the necessary business. It is strictly professional. As the people arrived to clear the house, they carted all his things away - his newspapers, bills, ads, envelopes, light bulbs, wrappers – grandma stood, vacant, glassy-eyed, watching. She didn’t protest. Shortly afterwards, she was put in an elderly home too. When we moved her in, I found a crumpled piece of paper buried deep in the pocket of her flowery-print shirt: Homework #2 HAIKU: HUSBAND In my dreams, magpies Nest forever with their prize Scared of losing you.

Artwork by Yanna Lee, 13LS 27

Clockwise from top: Stephanie Cheung, 13ZZ; Christy Lee, 13ZZ; Hyo Ju Sohn, 13LS; Mayan Braude, 13TY

Page opposite Clockwise from top left: Justina Yam, 11NN; Ashley Law, 13HK; Hyo Ju Sohn, 13LS; Stephanie Cheung, 13ZZ

I want to go to the place where I am nothing and everything

The Development of a Dangerous Idea by May Huang, 11NN

by Rachel Lee, 9CC i. We build barriers And fortify our secrets Then we wonder Why we feel so alone. ii.

They say Silence is infinite, But they never mentioned that It would scratch away our memories With the tip of a knife And we would drop to the floor like Rusted pennies. (I can taste bitterness on the tip of my tongue.)

Mother of Misconduct, Why did you select The untainted nucleus of my head To lay your sticky, mucus-like eggs? Your little devils, wild with zest Are splitting their shells and stretching their legs They plan to exit their erroneous embryos I hear them hatching in the nest. Now they occupy the rooms of my brain A company of imperfections dwell in the kitchen And a flock of flaws sit next to the window pane My mind a terrain aflame, I suffer migraine after migraine Offspring of deficiency, leave me I beg Every thought that I have now reeks of bad eggs.

iii. They drew maps on my skin And told me that I was not alone, But when the rain began to fall, The ink bled through my paper hands. iv. When we rub our eyes We blur the lines between Our thoughts and reality And eventually we canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Tell the difference between the two. v. Sometimes I wonder Why a room full of people Is just as lonely as an empty one. (It is a disease that follows us wherever we go.)

Artwork by Shirley Lau, 11UQ

Front Cover: Photo by Georgie Reading, 12XN Back Cover: Artwork by Daphne Ng, 13HK

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