Scribbles: Issue 8

P H O TO G R A P H Y S H O RT S TO R I E S P O E T RY A RT

SCRIBBLES ISSUE8

SUMMER‘14

TH S SSUE 03 Editor ’s Letter

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The Creatives

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Featured Writer BORIS BUT

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Featured Artist

DANIELLA SABNANI

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A Year in Haikus SUSAN MAGINN

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Unequivocal SOPHIE LI

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The Woods

ADRIENNE ZHANG

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Construction of a Table CHLOE BARREAU

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Midnight

BRIGITTE NG

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Familiar

CHARLENE PHUA

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Pull Time Apart KATHERINE YANG

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Monotonous Sighs CYNTHIA HUANG

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A Book of All the Names SASHA CORR

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Antelope Dreams VANESSA CHEOK

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Tight Rope RACHEL LEE

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PHOEBE CHAN

EDITOR’S LETTER DEPUTY HEAD EDITOR Late one night, a friend and I were having a conversation about the importance of art in our everyday lives.

I may not recall the full extent of that wonderfully arrayed conversation, but the consensus of our online rendezvous is forever imprinted on my mind: logic and numbers may make our world spin, but the arts make the world want to keep spinning.

In a similar sense, as you read this issue of Scribbles I hope you encounter that mind-dizzying sensation of realizing how significant arts are in our lives. Whether it’s a beautiful poem or an entrancing story, an elaborate painting or a simple sketch, I hope, dear reader, you will truly realize the extent of talent here at CIS and the wonderful things that can be created when our resident artists harness this talent.

As the upcoming Editor-in-Chief of Scribbles for next year, I am absolutely psyched to continue CIS’ artistic tradition and continue the great work the preceding editorial teams have achieved. In particular, I’d like to thank Angela, May, Kate, Doroty and Shirley for being awesome mentors in the transitioning process, as well as Sophie, Chloe, Nicole and Cynthia for being a fabulous team, really, and giving me hope for what is going to another wonderful year for our artists here at CIS. JIMIN KANG (UPCOMING) EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

First let me express my gratitude to you for picking up issue number eight of Scribbles magazine. I hope you will take a break from that last minute reflection or that latest episode of Game of Thrones to read, to ponder and to be inspired.

Over the years Scribbles has been a little intimate space where artists’ voices can be expressed and heard. The magazine has quietly and persistently brought the best of our best to the table, and from its birth to now, it has slowly widened its scope in terms of style and form — which has never been more apparent than in this issue. For this issue the team has worked hard to truly showcase a range of works from different year groups and really make us realize that fascinating insights can come from people of any age level.

As graduation caps are tossed, summer looms closer and another year comes to an end, I, along with my fellow editorial board members, leave Scribbles to the very capable hands of Jimin Kang, Sophie Li, Chloe Barreau, Nicole Choi and Cynthia Huang. As always, I'd like to thank Dr. Faunce for his continued support of this magazine, along with the Art and English departments for their unfailing assistance and guidance, without which this magazine could not be a reality.

To May, Shirley, Doroty and Kate: I am so happy and thankful to have been able to work with you talented and passionate individuals. To all the writers, artists, photographers who were in this issue, who weren’t in this issue and who are to come in future issues: thank you for continuing to dazzle us with your art and talent - never stop.

So readers, feast your minds and eyes on the magic that is contained within these pages; you won’t regret it.

ANGELA YANG EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

HEAD EDITOR Angela Yang DEPUTY HEAD EDITOR Jimin Kang WRITING DIRECTOR May Huang DEPUTY WRITING DIRECTOR Sophie Li ART DIRECTOR Shirley Lau DEPUTY ART DIRECTOR Chloe Barreau LAYOUT DIRECTOR Doroty Sanussi DEPUTY LAYOUT DIRECTOR Nicole Choi OPERATIONS DIRECTOR Kate Wang DEPUTY OPERATIONS DIRECTOR Cynthia Huang WRITERS Adrienne Zhang Brigitte Ng Boris But Charlene Phua

ARTISTS Alisha Tang Alison Wong Anna Ginsburg Anne Lau Audrey Hioe Beatrice Chia Chloe Barreau Chloe Mok Christina Lee Daniella Sabnani Emma Chan Jacqueline Tam Josephine Wong Mary Chu Melinda Ma Rachel Lee Scarlet Cheung Serena Ren Sheila Zhang Sophie Li

THE C R E AT I V E S Chloe Barreau Cordelia Lam Cynthia Huang Erica Qiu Jimin Kang Joshua Hung Katherine Yang Marcus Wong Oliver Hsu Phoebe Chan Rachel Lee Sasha Corr Shana Li Sophie Li Susan Maginn Vanessa Cheok

Teresa Chu Zoe Suen *Cover page artwork by Alisha Tang, 13R1

PHOTOGRAPHERS Alison Choi Doroty Sanussi Jacob Wong Jessica Eu Nicole Choi

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FEATURED

“

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PENCIL I write.

For her.

She is long and sharp.

When the day is bright and calm, I caress her slim body in the arch between My thumb and my finger.

The lead is hard and the color is black.

When I write with her, The lines Are hard and black as well.

The words scrape coarse and brittle, Rattling my mind and darkening the soul.

I brush my arm against the scraped words whilst The grey drips and stains me, Verses slip and brain seizes, She leads me onwards to the scratched Fluorescent night alight with the moonshine Of a tabletop lamp.

And when no one is peeking, She shrinks and dulls, Reduced to mere wood-ash.

I pick it up, Throw it out, And sharpen the next one the morning after.

�

WRITER Boris But 12Y2

INCOMPLETE Rain roll down windows, Gatsby floats On champagne bath, fast cars, You can spell a lot of words without ‘U’: Paint splattered dresses, beautiful messes, Black keys pedaled, overlooked views, You can spell a lot of words without ‘U’: One shadow, two feet planted firmly On a frosted marble floor, cold feet, You can spell most words without ‘U’: Empty spaces, misprono nced words, F ll stops, come and go with no ending, You can spell words without ‘U’: I’m st ck.

F ck.

You.

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FEATURED ARTIST Daniella Sabnani 13B1

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A YEAR IN HAIKUS Susan Maginn, 13Y2

January: A Daily Reminder The ugly scars of Silence stretched across your wrist Will not protect you

March: Diary of an Artist

February: But When? And How?

Just a paint of pain It is me but me gone mad Swirls of confusion

The last thing I want To hear from your mouth is this: You could be happy

September: Looking Back Most of all I miss The fresh dirt under my nails From long summer nights

July: One Midnight Confession Of late night boredom And conversation I am No stranger to tears August: For Everyone Who Tried To Say I Was Not Fat I am not fishing For compliments so save your Old and wasted words

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May: Springtime Blues My name means lily But I am a flower that Has refused to bloom June: Sunset Boulevard The sky is a scream Piercing through the bloody sea With drowned anguish

April: The Human Cage Flesh covers but bone Carved on the edge of disease Scrambling to be seen

November: Unsent Letter An itch of the throat Trapping the depths of regret With words left unsaid October: Autumn The smell of dying And carnage upon the leaves In the dimming light

December: Famous Last Words That’s not how love works You don’t need to kill yourself To show that you care

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UNEQUIVOCAL Sophie Li, 10R2

Lately I guess I’ve been living in loneliness.

Iktsuarpok, is what the Inuits call going outside to check if anyone is coming, and I must admit to being constantly guilty of this-or maybe just guilty.

Until the sun bursts and the Earth dies and the last vestiges of the human race disappear like a sunrise into the ether I will be wanting-My bones will be old ash and my life will be cold time yet there will remain a voice, my voice, an echo in the valley, that goes: I’m hungry. I’m hungry. I’m hungry.

Tell me I am not the wreckage.

I guess I’ve just been feeling like a ghost town, a cracked boat on a burning river, make me believe that humans can be good to one another, listen, do you know goya? The moment of transfixion where you forget your disbelief and allow fantasy to seem like reality?

Look, I know humans are terrible but I’ve got to believe in the good in us.

I’ve got to believe in komoneki, which is to say, sunlight, hitting the forest floor, filtering through the leaves of trees.

Here are our linked arms, here is where our wrists meet, here are our joined fingers, here are the illuminated cities of you and me!

We are not islands but connected terraforms look at our corners kissed to each other our landlocked shoulders twined with all the veins touching!

Tell me we’re better than our secret shames, tell me we’re better than our mistakes...

In our hearts the right atrium the bright light of sweet weather, In our hearts the left ventricle the ash lightness of spring rains Sometimes: Sorrow wears the skin of you.

Grief hollows the shape of me.

Tomorrow comes, Like a terrible dawn...

I’ll cover my ears. I’ll blind my eyes.

I’m not afraid. I will not hide.

Alison Wong 10P1

If your sister glows atomic in her new blue dress I believe you should tell her!

I’m learning to open the door when happiness comes knocking even when it looks like darkness hands Because this is the way towards that square of radiance at the end of all this negative space: You, rootless on the ends of the green like an only tree-Me, dissolved on the loam like a tide going east-My many fingers stretching towards you, your silver breath drifting back to me...

Even if these days wear heavy boots Even if we got a loneliness like its our bad pillow Even if the world has eyes like fifty thousand attack dogs on a leash

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Haphephobia. You terrify me, but I’m hungry.

Jacob Wong 10B1

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Beatrice Chia 13Y2

Alison Wong 10P1

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Teresa Chu 13R1

Teresa Chu 13R1

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Nicole Choi 11G2 21

The day we trekked into the woods, it was crisp, cold and bitter. The mid autumn leaves had come down in spiraling streams of brilliant scarlets and golds.

fro on their own accord. Feet, forward.

Forward. Forward. My hands and head hung flaccidly. I could almost taste the bittersweet of defeat defeat upon my tongue.

She assured me she was familiar with the way, her haughty expression accompanied by an indignant flip of her white-gold hair, but it didn’t put me completely at ease. My heart jumped and skittered against my ribcage, with excitement and with fear. I followed, for I was young and naive, unsure of the present and hopeful of the future.

The paths were smothered in a carpet of bright foliage and the trees were so dense that looking backwards was like looking back into a dream, barely there and barely here.

I could not feel my feet as they stumbled and staggered past rocks, tripping on crevices. My body screamed in protest.

The hill was steep and its terrain unforgiving, but I was on fresh muscles and lungs. It wasn’t much of a challenge.

She chatted amiably, and when my feet grew slightly sore, she ameliorated my discomfort by quipping witty remarks and giggling - whether to me or herself or the trees, I still don’t know.

It was bearable, if not enjoyable. The trees were bundled matchsticks lit alight by ambition and ardor. Passion vines snaked their way around the woods, reviving weary grandfather oaks. Sparrows twittered enthusiastically. They were encouraging me to continue on. But as the saying goes, “the higher you are, the harder you fall.”

As we went on, the mountain grew steeper. She flounced on, unperturbed by the arduous nature of the climb. And though my limbs were now burdens, I dragged myself forward. I had this notion that the view on the top of the world would be so beauteous it would take my pain.

She had given up on ignoring me, and began taunting and teasing, prodding me with her nimble, pointed fingers, knife-sharp quips and scathing comments.

THE WOODS Adrienne Zhang, 9P2

I wanted to turn back. I needed to turn back. A rest. A seat. Cool water trickling down my throat. My mind was numb. I knew all it would take was a moment’s hesitation. She wouldn’t wait, instead bounce ahead, and disappear within the thick foliage, gone in seconds, and I could turn back and put an end to the torture.

Then the edge of the mountain came into view. It was a sheer drop, a plunge into the tumbling river below. An emerald forest lay beneath, and beyond, soaring clouds and a sky that was blue like crystals. It was beautiful and devastating. I did not feel any surge of energy or confidence.

We neared the precipice of the cliff, and I collapsed in relief. But she didn’t stop.

Backtracked a few steps. Ran. Jumped.

Leapt. And flew.

Flew over the wide, empty chasm, and onto the neighboring peak. Windchime laughter spilled from her lips as she went on twirling and twirling, starry eyed, skirt flaring like the petals of a strange, exotic flower.

I did not notice how far we had gone or how close we were to the heart of the trees, but we trudged deeper and deeper still. She shouted no words of encouragement as she frolicked in high spirits, while my legs shook like saplings in rough winds and my lungs threatened to burst. Her pale, lithe limbs twisted like ribbons in a mad, taunting dance.

I stood up wearily. All it would take was a jump. Just a moment, and it would all be over. A leap of faith . . .

Had we been there for hours? I could not make myself move any further. I did not need to. My arms swung to and

I opened my mouth to explain, but no words would come. I turned back and started the slow, bitter descent down.

I couldn’t do it.

She stood, hands akimbo, head cocked to one side like a curious little bird, impatient and disapproving.

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CONSTRUCTION OF A TABLE Chloe Barreau, 10P1 From the woods catch a tree, Take one whose skin is rough and body lean.

Once slicing its back, reveal the raw flesh.

With the pure skin exposed, wrap your arms around the trunk and take it home.

It’s yours to keep.

Find your saw, Hold it tight.

Cut through its shell, dissect the tender body.

Go from the spine across to its thin crisp leaves.

Form panels, any size will do.

When you wake up, take your poised planks, line them up in a row and sand down the rings in their belly.

Now, without a wrinkle to hide, compose the shape of its body.

Two legs turned to the left, Two legs turned to the right.

As you bind them tight with bolts and nails, tears of laughter might flake on the side, brush it off with much care and set your structure aside.

Now it stands, grey and white, letting mold consume its corpse.

With loose joints and a shaking structure it waves for help.

The legs don’t sway, but tremble.

Without a sign of company, the indigent body drops to ground.

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Zoe Suen 13Y1

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MIDNIGHT Brigitte Ng, 13R1 When you ask why some stars are unnamed, my answer is in your eyes.

I would give the skin on my bones to live lost in my head over you with this wine spilling out of my veins gravity is undeniable in this empty place.

But maybe tomorrow you’ll wake up to find that I never touched the sky.

Or you might come home with flowers ones I’ve never seen before.

You could steer my heart into craters, over cliff-edges and tonight when I fall asleep you could be packing a suitcase so filled with you that there’d be no room left for me.

(If I could, I would only ever grow my own flowers and throw them in the sea)

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Nicole Choi 11G2

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Alisha Tang 13R1

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Teresa Chu 13R1

Chloe Mok 13Y2

Jacqueline Tam 12P1

Chloe Barreau 10P1

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Zoe Suen 13Y1

<Hello, friend. Long time no see. > You’re taller, somehow, and tanner (I’m impressed). You’re wearing glasses – stylish black framed ones that make you look all mature and sophisticated. You catch my eye, and look like you want to say something.

If it were anyone else, if it were anyone but you, I would have beaten you to the punch. I’d have waved perhaps, or nodded or smiled to greet you, maybe. But you’ve seen me fake ill and helped me forge report cards and bootlegged everything from answer sheets to McDonalds with me, so to offer you plastic enthusiasm, I feel, would be more an of insult than courtesy. You were the best partner-in-crime I’ve had, so I guess out of fond remembrance of those halcyon days, I’ll try not to lie to your face (try).

You have the same awkward stiffness to your shoulders as you did back then, and the same unfortunate stricken visage. You look good in a suit! Just kidding. You would look good in a suit, but your expression ruins the look.

“Gr-” is all you get out before “All rise for the Honorable…”

Out of my peripheral vision, you stare at me with wide eyes. I take it you’ve processed the situation. Finally. <Oh don’t look so horrified. > Yes, yes. Surprise! It’s a surprise for me too, ok? (If you’ll believe that.) But you don’t see me ogling you.

It’s unattractive. Stop it. That face was not made to accommodate bug eyes. <Stop. >

You try again, “Gra-” You have to be yanked to your feet as the doors rumble open. Look to the front, silly boy. Pay attention. Don’t you know you can be fined for contempt of the court? You were always a little slow on the uptake, but I don’t remember you being stupid.

I refuse to look at you. The judge is walking in. It’s almost time.

“Grace,” you say, loud enough that heads swivel.

Be quiet.

“Grace.” <No. > “Grace!”

“What!”

We both flinch as the gavel slams against the sounding block.

“Does the prosecution have something to say to the defendant?” The question is dripping with sarcasm but I’m still looking at you and you’re still looking at me in a way that I really don’t like because what. <What. > <Aren’t you going to say anything? > <No. > <Why not? > <What do you want me to say? I’m sorry, Your Honor, but on the account of the fact that the defendant and I briefly attended the same high school and ran a quasi-legal enterprise together for the span of about 8 months I wish to recuse myself? You didn’t even know my conjugal name.> <Something. Anything. > I’m about to prosecute you for first-degree murder, <you vapid moron>. <Don’t be childish. > <I’m about to prosecute you for first-degree murder.> “Counselor– ” <Please. > “– Do you have something to say?” “<No>, Your Honor.” <I don’t. > “Then let us proceed. State versus Lewis Jeremy Clarke. This court is now in session.”

FAMILIAR Charlene Phua, 12P1

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Mary Chu 13P1

PULL TIME APART Katherine Yang, 9G2 pull time apart / you and me, always / together, or not at all / girl and centurion / waiting, waiting At seven, she is luminescent on the playground. All we know are wind and fun and as I’m pulled along before she’s gone, her head—hair—heart are fiery like the sun.

At eighteen, she knows all things but my heart.

It beats a rhythm in her name until tired, I run. She follows, like an art, then with a word—a touch—she melts the chill.

At twenty-five, there’s nothing. Anger, doubt, frustration, desperation, anguish, then— just cold and empty spaces not filled out.

Cracked plaster is the only sign, again.

The monsters go, but this light does return.

And for each other, we fall. We burn.

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Audrey Hioe 13R2

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MONOTONOUS SIGHS Cynthia Huang, 10Y2 6am, heart thumping, fingers beating on the imaginary drum.

Sitting at an office chair, in a cubicle, that you call your own; your home.

7am heart beating, fingers thumping, making imaginary sounds.

Laughing languidly at the silence your life has become.

8am, heart wrenching, fingers tapping on the pristine desk.

Feeling the world pass by in a monotonous sigh.

9am heart tapping, fingers wrenching on the stack of documents.

Wondering where your life has gone: wondering what it has become.

10am, heart pumping, fingers speeding greedily on the keyboard.

Feeling the caffeine jolt you awake, as your eyes turn large and hungry.

11am, heart speeding, fingers pumping as the typewriters spit the last word out.

A lazy grin building on your face, which abruptly ends when you see the pile.

12am, heart stilling, fingers searching, for a form of comfort.

Walking in the empty streets of cold ghosts of people youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve once known.

1am, by the sea, filling your lungs with its salty breeze.

A salty breeze, like no other, keeps your heart searching, and your fingers stilling.

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credits

Melinda Ma 13B1 34

Josephine Wong 13Y2

The first time, I puked as soon as I hit the park. I can’t remember the job, I can’t remember the blood, I can’t remember why we had to park so far away. I remember the bile in my throat and the recoil of the gun in my hand. I remember feeling nothing. I got halfdigested carrots on my shoes.

The second time, it was easier. My hand shook; the shot was slightly off. It took two rounds. The next time, just one.

Sometimes I mixed it up- a switchblade, a garrotte, bare hands. I hate it when they grab my tie, it’s very rude.

They stretch the silk. They all go down anyway. Micah is very good about this.

He’s been going out longer than I have.

He’s not Pete’s best friend. I think he’s a robot. He doesn’t disagree.

I don’t know what it is about Pete.

Something in him is very magnetic.

He just gets you to love him with

I KEEP A BOOK OF ALL THE NAMES Sasha Corr, 11G2 every inch of your heart. Pete’s a good Catholic name, like all of ours, but he’s never been into the whole God thing. I suppose its easier when you’re the head of the Family. Pete feels too much to be the head of the Family.

I remember when he graduated (two years ahead of me, leaving me to rot while he went off to art school) and never expected to have to do this. It’s not like he didn’t know he’d have the Family. He thought if he ignored it he

could escape it. Instead, his grandfather died and he was suddenly all too young and all too responsible.

“Have you chosen your Consigliere yet?” Pete didn’t look at me. He hadn’t talked in weeks. He hadn’t showered until I manhandled him into the goddamned bathroom. I had to break down the door and find him fermenting with crappy vodka in the same suit he had worn to the funeral. It was one of his good ones, too. Now it would go back to blood duty.

“You should think about it. Cortez is stepping on your toes here. They don’t like it that you’re not fifty million years old.”He didn’t scrub his scalp properly and his black hair just smelt like a bad mix of vodka and fake strawberry. I combed it anyway. “Come on, man!

You can’t wallow here forever. You

have the whole family to think about; come on, Pete-” “Stop it.”

“Pete, please-” “I said stop.” His voice was low. I stopped. He stepped away from me and grabbed a tie and his jacket, slinging the tie around his neck. “Bring me coffee in ten minutes and lunch at twelve. I’ll be in my office.”

I left. You didn’t argue with the boss.

Pete didn’t let on that there was any serious trouble until I got shot. “Goddammit, Pete! You can’t goddamn lie about this! I- God- you could have been hurt!

You’re lucky I was there so you could-” “You didn’t need to take the bullet. I’d have been fine.”

“Now that’s bullshit! You’re lucky I’m a whole load shorter than you and it only got me in the shoulder!”

“There’s a list.”

“A list of what?” I hissed. He could have been hurt, could have been killed.

He shouldn’t have gone out, I could have handled it. It wasn’t too many, maybe five on one. I could have taken them. Sandy was there- we could have taken them.

“A list of the guys we gotta check out.”

I stared at him, worried.

“I think Cortez and his guys are trying to do a bit more than step on my toes.

There’s nothing solid, but it looks like it might be some of the older guys. Back there was- that wasn’t meant to happen.” A hit, then. That wasn’t a bullet that I was supposed to take, but there was probably another one with my name on it.

“Are you loyal to me?” Pete asks.

Jesus. I’ve got a bullet in my shoulder and he’s asking if I was loyal. I didn’t look at him.

“Of course.”

“Are you sure?”

I looked at him in the eyes. He seemed like he was going to flinch, but then he remembered his place and stared right back. “I’m loyal to you. You know me, man. This is my Family.”

It was maybe three months after I graduated when my dad stopped by the crappy apartment I was sharing with Frank and handed me a suit.

“Do something with your god-awful hair.” I glared at him and said a few choice words. “Scrub up and take a

shower. We have a meeting in two hours. Look nice.” He parked himself on my kitchen table. I could have done my eyeliner in his shoes. I managed to comb what was then my half blonde fauxhawk into something resembling I refrained from smudging on eyeliner like I did usually. Where my dad wanted to take me was probably different to the punk rock shows I normally left this place for. I left my lip ring on the kitchen table.

I didn’t do much other than look pretty standing behind my dad but I knew the meeting was a place to show me off and make people know I was ready. I hadn’t seen Pete in years. His features were schooled in a dissociative apathy like they usually were. He could never quite dim the sparkle in his eyes, though.

They goaded me the entire time I was there. I wanted to laugh something awful. He was awful. This whole thing was awful. I loved it.

My hands shook on the list and I forgot to breathe.

“I’m sorry, I’m-” Pete looked it, he looked genuinely sorry but I didn’t say anything. What do you say? “You’re not, I mean not gonna go-” “Can I make a call?” It wasn’t right of me to say that to the boss but he let me get away with it. I could have cried, but I don’t. I didn’t. You can’t cry when you do this for a living. Don’t cry.

“Get out. Get the hell out of this goddamned country and don’t come back.

I’m giving you this one chance and get the hell out and don’t ever mess here again.” My voice didn’t shake. I was loyal to Pete.

My father wasn’t. “He’s too young-” “Shut. The hell. Up.” I was loyal to Pete.

“Does your family mean nothing to you anymore?”

“The Family is everything to me.” He knew what I meant. I was loyal to Pete.

“I’m giving you this last chance. I never want to talk to you again.” I could hear the shake of my father’s hair against the receiver. I didn’t say sorry. He didn’t either.

“Goodbye, Anthony.”

“Bye.” I didn’t hear from him again. I was loyal to Pete.

Pete grinned at me. “I’ve decided on who I want as my Consigliere!”

“Cool beans, man.”

“So will you?”

“I can’t tell ‘em, man, that’s your job.”

“No, I want you!” I looked at him. He was serious. Oh. “I don’t think… maybe… I’m a bit young…”

“I’m like, two years older than you, man. I think it’ll be okay.” I looked at his face. You couldn’t tell that this was a man who’d kill. This was the cheesy cartoon nerd who had a secret love for bad video games.

“Well, someone has to chase after the children.” I mock-sighed and he slapped me playfully. We were alright.

Pete came with me on the hit. We were almost clean. Almost. At the last moment, there was a bullet and then there was a body on the floor and it was mine.

Another followed soon enough. We completed the job. We had the Family.

“Pete-” “Don’t, don’t man, we’re gonna get you out, you’re gonna be fine, we’ll call Will, don’t, Tony, come on, man-” “Give me a hug, come here.”

“Don’t, Tony, don’t you dare-” “Gimme a goddamn hug, you asshole.”

He hugged me. It felt warm. “I love you man, love you.” I was loyal to Pete.

“Tony, no, I love you too, don’t leave me, goddamn it Tony-” Pete’s eyes were hard as he stared at the man.

“M-mercy, please, mercy,” the man begged, on his knees. Pete pointed his gun at him.

“Do you think I know mercy?” Pete’s voice was a monotone.

“P-please, I- I- I’ll-” Pete shot his shoulder. It clipped, dug in enough to draw blood but not enough to bury itself in the knot of muscle.

“I trust you won’t mess with the Family again. We are not fools, you know.”

“O-of course, I wasn’t thinking, I was stupid, thank you-” “You shouldn’t be thanking me.” Pete sheathed his gun and walked off. “Micah.” He nodded at his associate before leaving the apartment.

There was another lifeless body on the floor as Micah joined him for a cigarette.

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ANTELOPE DREAMS Vanessa Cheok, 10B1 The rain washes away the rain.

This year is a distance that I’ve mapped in circles: Mapped in dreams of antelopes galloping the earth, The pounding of hooves and the pounding of rain, Falling and falling and never touching ground.

When beetles die they leave fossils three feet beneath the soil When my mother died she left a willow tree on my back, Left my spine dotted with leaves remembering wind Remembering dancing, left my shoulder blades shifting under the weight Of branches heavy with a secondhand loneliness, a secondhand longing.

The willow tree is thirty years old and still growing.

The antelopes have run for miles and are still going.

This is the cartography I believe in: A communal earth, a communal skin, Imprints left so deep that no matter the washing, No matter the scrubbing, they do not come off Because they are inside.

This morning, the bluebirds sang: ‘Do’ for twig, ‘re’ for leaf, And ‘mi’ for the six o’clock sun That I open my mouth and try to swallow.

I open my mouth to swallow the sun, Open my mind to the sky within the sky, Try to consume a world consuming me, And the day walks in and stays for years.

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Nicole Choi 11G2

TIGHTROPE Rachel Lee, 10G2 Night cradles me in its arms and I watch Nebulas explode on the back of my eyelids. I am Falling- my feet catch on the edges of dimpled clouds And I know no home Amongst the stars.

I have made a habit of collecting twenty dollar bills so I can Take the skyline with me wherever I go; But no matter how many cities are tucked In my back pocket, I will always choose to tightrope walk across Orionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Belt if it brings me back To you.

Cracks have opened up on the side of the road and The Earth smells like nostalgia.

Doroty Sanussi 12B2

Once I asked a seismologist to measure the frequency of the Tremors running through my heartlines So I would be prepared for the next time I started Missing you- And now I am standing at the stationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s platform with Dates and places stamped on my eyelids; But today, I will not run.

I can hear every shade of your voice dancing along the Sides of the tunnel.

Jessica Eu 12R2

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Alison Choi 12Y2 40

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Melinda Ma 13B1

All you need to see the colour gold is a ray of sunlight resting on a patch of yellow, orange, or beige, just like a leaf during autumn, a flag pole without a flag, or a strand of hair turning gold at the blink of an eye.

GOLD Phoebe Chan, 8B1

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