2019 | Tabula Rasa

EDITOR’S NOTE

Featuring over thirty-five students from grades 7-12, the pieces featured in the 2019 edition of Tabula Rasa whirl from desert to battlefield to sunset-limned shore, excavating from each location–-and some of these settings, indeed, lie within the heart rather than in nature–-a pulsing kernel of identity, love, or perseverance, and a part of each Pinewood student’s unique story.

We are thrilled to present these works of creative writing and visual art, which underpin our mission: to provide an enjoyable reading experience while showcasing the diversity of Pinewood voices.

These pieces lift the quotidian into the magical––simple depictions of houses, fruits, fountains, and barren landscapes serve as entry points for our imagination to dive into lush landscapes, dystopian worlds, and wildly creative narratives. But these students are also unafraid to do the opposite. The magical becomes the norm as angelic healers take the stage and digital media hypnotizes a society.

Finally, these works remind us that there will always be magic in the everyday details, in the ephemerality of sunsets flickering from the horizon, in one-of-a-kind grandfathers who buy us ice cream, in accepting mental illness as a part of us, in the little gestures passed from grandmother to mother to daughter. We hope you will remember this in your day-to-day life, to search for the ribbons of beauty wedged in the crevices of mundanity.

Thank you to our advisors, Ms. Strand and Mr. Wells, for making this possible, and thank you to the Pinewood community for sharing your stories with us. It is our honor to present them so that each can be exhumed, relived, shared, and loved.

–– Sarah Feng, Katherine Chui, and Reilly Brady 2018-19 Editors

6 WORTHY OF RETURN , Ela Diffenbaugh

9 SUBCONSCIOUS , Katherine Chui

10 HOMEWORK , Ajay Krishnan

10 ZENTANGLES , Makena Matula

12 SLEEPSWIM , Sarah Feng

14 RICH WHITE WOMAN IN CHINA , Aimi Wen

17 MASQUERADE SERIES , Aimi Wen

18 GRIP , Katherine Chui

21 JUST FACE IT , Katherine Chui

22 ANGEL , Florencia Rodriguez-Steube

22 CONTRASTING THOUGHTS , Kiley Haberkorn

22 REACH FOR THE STARS , Bridget Rees

24 THE FOUNTAIN , Katherine Han

24 JELLIES , Katherine Chui

25 ARMY OF 1000 MEN , Sam Kavich

27 RED , Ellery Mitchell

27 UP IN FLAMES , Olivia Page

28 BOB THE NOT A WEED , Magnolia Lemmon

28 TATOOINE , Annika Duan

30 GUILT , Maya Zhan

30 STRINGS ATTACHED , Bella Fuller

31 INEVITABLE CAPTURE , Reilly Brady

32 KREED , Peirong Li

32 STILL LIFE , Michelle Chen

34 I AFFIRM THE RESOLUTION , Srinivas Balagopal

34 IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE , Michelle Chen

37 JAPANESE SCHOOL , Michelle Chen

38 MUSIC , Cecile Smith

41 HAMMERED , Kiley Haberkorn

43 EFFECTS OF TIME , Reilly Brady

44 REMNANTS , Hailey Alexander

44 LOTUS FEET , Aimi Wen

45 SUNSET AT WELLINGTON POINT , Emily Takara

45 SUNSET AT WELLINGTON POINT , Ben Mulder

46 AN OPEN LETTER TO MY ANXIETY , Tasha Epstein

51 WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER , Yonu Oh

50 FELLOW TRAVELER ,Elizabeth Peters

52 I HOPE IT’S OK TO LOVE MY MESSED-UP GRANDPA , Eva Liu

54 FIGURE , Micaela Rodriguez-Steube

55 RIPPLE , Olivia Page

56 IT’S MY DUTY , Makena Matula

56 INSIDE YOUR HEAD , Austin Farhoudi

58 SUMMIT , Carter Brady

59 OVERGROWTH , Elizabeth Peters

62 THE GATE TO HOME , Olivia Page

65 MIRRORED , Olivia Page

65 MEREDITH AND OLIVIA , Janet Liu

66 THE GOOD BROTHERS , Sarah Feng

67 ALL TIED UP , Reilly Brady

68 RETURN OF A FRIEND , Sophia Cheng

69 SHELLS , Anna Kokorich

71 BUTTERFLY POND , Nicole Mineatis

71 MIDNIGHT MOON , Sahana

72 AND I LOVE YOU SO , Reilly Brady

74 METAPHOR POEM COMPETITION , Will Ahrens, Marco

Calia, Lulu Diffenbaugh, Sean King, Owen Terry, Alea

Budge, Peyton Chui

78 NON-HUMAN PERSPECTIVE COMPETITION , Natasha

Moretti, Nicole Maneatis

WORTHY OF RETURN

By ELA DIFFENBAUGH, 12

Yucatan Peninsula, 300 B.C.E: stones echo as Mayans ascend ziggurats. Rapa Nui, 1500 B.C.E.: grass bends as tribes congregate in front of moai. Old Kingdom Egypt, 2300 B.C.E.: displaced sand races to fill ephemeral footprints as the route to the pyramids appears... Civilizations like these fascinate me. You can tell a lot about their people by their well-worn paths. The places I return to paint a picture of who I am.

Below the ethereal mist of the Santa Cruz mountains and the intoxicating incense of the Hanuman Temple stand guard an army of Christmas trees, planted each year by my family. These triangular silhouettes interrupt the horizon -- nature’s Terracotta Warriors, at once uniform and unique. Deep believers in the power of learning and developing through spirituality, my grandparents founded Mt. Madonna, an intentional community centered on the idea of selfless service.

Overlooking Christmas trees resides the temple honoring Hanuman, Hindu deity of lifeforce and service, the values that fuel the place. Against this multicultural tapestry, I have grown up with a Jewish dad raised in a Vedic tradition and a mom with a Christian background. When it comes to religion and culture, I have never been shepherded into one lane. Celebrating Advent, Yom Kippur, and Guru Purnima, I have learned that dissonance can harmonize. This openness invites me to develop my own opinions and find familiarity in complexity.

On the rail of my maternal grandmother’s houseboat, Sal the Seagull perches, patiently awaiting his hand-delivered treat. He ignores the chaos that is a dock in the morning: fog horns bellowing, crab traps clanging, and less sophisticated avians screeching. Business as usual for Sal. To supplement his muscles, we offer him a hard-boiled egg -- enough to keep him coming, but still a wild bird. With Sal by my side, I lie on the splintery dock, plunging my arms into the Pacific. Collecting vials, I evaporate water to determine salt content and delight in treasures that show up. Moon jellies pulse in my jar -- orbs of clear, glittering epidermis and mesoglea. Soft, squishy, seraphic. After conducting complex (or so I thought) experiments on water characteristics, my grandma, the newspaper, Sal, and I rock to the lullaby of the soft waves lapping

against the hull of the boat. As much as Sal enjoys his Continental Breakfast, I like to think he comes for the company as well.

Dwarfed by intricate pillars and a gilded dome, I once again marvel at the architectural palette of the Royal Alcazar of Seville. Here, Gothic mingles with Baroque, Renaissance, and Mudejar. With each empire, a different religion and style has been incorporated into the palace. As an art history enthusiast studying abroad in Spain, I make it my mission to immerse myself and my visitors in the blend of cultures that layer Andalucía. Luxuriously lost in the Gothic labyrinth of gardens, I inhale Márquez’s Doce Cuentos Peregrinos and soak in all that has come before this moment. Far from home, I am drawn to this coexistence of cultures because I come from one myself.

Layered with artifacts and rituals, these places communicate my passion for culture, learning, and adventure. While I have appreciated growing up alongside verdant Christmas trees, Sal the Seagull, and curvilinear arches, I recognize that other paths will beckon and become part of my story. In college and beyond, I will make my own path too, contributing my commitment to diverse backgrounds, curiosity about the world, and quest for new frontiers.

Mount Madonna, 2001: spruce saplings soar as incense floats. Sal’s Perch, 2003: docks creak as moon jellies undulate. Real Alcazar of Seville, 2016: boots click against marble as jaws drop... Past, present, and future, these places to which I return speak volumes about who I am.

BY KATHERINE CHUI, 11

BY KATHERINE CHUI, 11

HOMEWORK

BY AJAY KRISHNAN,8

A problem that is perennial With no solution in a vial

Throw yourself into this muddle Without any team huddle

Relinquish civility, unleash the savage No more soul to salvage

All types of homework, always hated Even by students not opinionated How to efface this problema How to be rid of this dilemma

Looking through your bag of debris With no joy or glee

Something to admonish Know when to finish

Deadlock with your brain and hands

And get into a working stance

Begin this cumbersome task For which you never asked

Circumspect, your grade depends on this What the system expects

They commandeer your soul

It takes a toll

For any breach

A detention in reach

Spasmodic

The load is erratic

Anything you say, no matter how furious Is declared spurious

You cannot refuse No matter how diffuse

Ambition unbridled Stolen by the brigand Of homework ^ ZENTANGLES BY MAKENA

MATULA, 7

SLEEPSWIM

BY SARAH FENG, 11

Around this time, Yvonne X starts to slip. I’m not complaining. She’s gaudy and unoriginal, and I’ve had enough of her. (She wears knockoff necklaces for their thrifty aesthetic, even though her 40 minutes on the Stream probably earned her enough to buy a dozen houses. She even smokes her pixie dust like another rapper from Hour 4 –– looping the crumbly shoestrings into an infinity symbol. Tacky. Copying’s just about the cheapest way to go.)

Still, I take meticulous notes on her and graph the curve of her Stream engagement data. She rose fast: 27 seconds on the up-and-coming, and then straight to the upper echelons of the Stream. That’s passing the three-billion-threshold in 27 seconds. You do the math. The public liked it.

On her current livestream, where she and her boyfriend are smoking in a recording studio, her viewer count ticks down six thousand.

To be honest, I’m relieved to be done monitoring her. I leave her page to find someone more relevant.

5:31

While I let the week’s up-and-coming videos babble away on my wall projection, I sift through queries in my inbox. The most recent ones include a violinist who started a foundation for other violinists, a radical feminist, and a slew of indie dessert stores with ice cream rolled into physics-defying styles.

The violinist gets deleted. The public only cares so much at a time, and there is already a community service kid right now. Then I delete the ones about food and the ones about workout products. To successfully weed out submissions, you have to realize that the Stream has no room for excess.

While scrolling through, I pause on the email of a graffiti artist. Her art samples are good: bright, galactic spreads of spray paint on walls. Her sample video is good: a skinny, freckled Chinese girl saying how she wants to destigmatize street art, how it’s her form of expression, and explaining the hierarchy behind the graffiti community.

The pF––phenomenon factor––is high enough; I find the information about the community fresh, which means the public would too. It’s worth looking into. I can gamble on something like this.

I call her, wait for the fuzzy static of the line connecting. It comes. “Renaissance Consulting speaking. Is this”––I pause, glance down at the name of the sender––“Elliot Zhang?”

“Yes.”

“Ms. Zhang, I believe your Stream profile has potential.” And on, and on. “Would you be available for a quick interview so we can determine whether you’re a suitable client for our services?”

5:34

“I’m Elliot,” she says, “as you most likely already know.”

“Right,” I say, shaking her hand. “Theodore Newark, from Renaissance. It’s nice to meet you.” I can feel callouses on her fingers, maybe from pressing on the sharp ridges of nozzles.

It took me three minutes to get to Lower Alta when it should’ve been two and a half. There was a pedant-rights protest in the Tick station, and my bag was jostled off my shoulder, costing me the 5:32:30 ride. I’m late –– and to our first meeting. Embarrassing.

I apologize, and she tells me she doesn’t mind, she understands. We sit down, and I flick on my recording device. “Let’s start off with stating your name and background.”

“I’m Elliot. I’m a graffiti artist. I like re-defining art and the way it works. There’s a common misconception about street art, how it’s for delinquents,” she says, softly.

In-format answer. “What’s your favorite subject matter to depict, and why?”

“The resilience of humanity.”

She’ll have to go deeper than that.

It must have shown on my face, because she begins adding more details. The graffiti community. Living in Lower Alta itself, the stigma surrounding it.

“That’s good, thank you,” I say. Elliot bites her lip. “Can you show me some more of your art samples and talk me through them?”

She pushes her tongue into her cheek, now. She’s going to need to slim down her repertoire of idiosyncrasies –– she just bit her lip. “Sure. I have photos of them. I’ll go grab them.” She disappears into her room.

RICH WHITE WOMAN IN CHINA

BY AIMI WEN, 12

While waiting at the table, I hear Lina Trostyukov’s distinctive voice bobbing from somewhere in the house. I follow it, peer through the narrow slit of a doorway.

A short woman is watching the window-television above the sink, rhythmically applying layers of jelly to bread. She’s compact, hardened, like Elliot, her hair coarse grey wires.

“…What? Too scared to kiss me?” taunts Lina on the window-television screen, her hair whipping around her latex mask.

Lina is a classic actress, like the ones that adults laugh about over wine and poker, from two days ago. In this movie, she acts a superhero who’s fallen in love with the villain. But this particular story is original, because one of them isn’t white, and the background visuals are better than its predecessor’s.

Elliot’s mother relaxes under the leathery hum of Lina’s voice. I relax, too.

I’ve worked on movie sets before; I know the real reason Lina sounds so good is because of audio-smoothing technology that manipulates her sound waves to release serotonin in the audience. It makes your eyes half-lidded, your mind one-tracked.

A gutting scrape sounds. Elliot’s mother bends down, tries to pick up the knife she dropped. Her fingers sag and scrabble against it.

Awkwardly, using only the muscles in her palms, she scoops white pills from her pocket and downs them. Some slip through and clatter to the ground.

Pill bottles are a trademark of self-prescription, which means she knows what disease she has. The public would consider her a pedant. She’s part of the old generation who attended physical school and worked to become an in-person human doctor. Now the Azalea Education Code allots every child over the age of 12 one (1) rudimentary EdUSB to be inserted into the surgically-fitted mesh in the nape of the neck. I wonder which route Elliot’s mother chose for her daughter.

In a few moments, Elliot’s mother is able to spread her fingers. She reaches into a cabinet and carefully re-stocks her pockets.

Then she returns to her work, sliding the knife back into the thick black jelly, Lina still crooning above her. I feel invasive. I look away.

5:37

When Elliot returns with a fistful of low-res photos, I look for the

flash of metal in the skin underneath her ponytail, of her EdUSB port. It’s there.

While I look at her art samples, just to fill the time, my phone pings with an approval message from the aesthetics department, which determines whether someone’s objectively beautiful enough to make it on the Stream. It’s a 92% match to previous Chinese Stream entrants.

I set the photos down. “I just have a few more questions for you, and then we’ll be good to go.”

“Ask away.”

I can’t tell if her earnestness is part of her act, or if it’s really her. Though there isn’t much of a difference between the two nowadays. “What are your biggest challenges?” I ask.

“Family,” answers Elliot. “My mother’s a pedant, my father’s janitorial staff. Low income.”

“Pedant mother,” I say, as if surprised. “Really. How might you respond to those who question whether or not you’ve been influenced by the often elitist worldview of the pedant class?”

“I haven’t.” She pauses and fixes what she thinks is her mistake, watching my face. “I love my mother, but I am my own person. I’m heavily influenced her in all other aspects, but I am someone who forms her own life philosophies.”

She draws a breath, ready to continue, gauging my reaction, my silence.

“That’ll be enough,” I say. “Thank you for your time.”

Elliot sits back. She makes her nervousness show. “Really? Have you made your decision already?”

“No.”

She pauses. “When will I be notified of your decision, then?”

“In––thirty seconds.”

Closes her mouth, still staring.

If she was plunged into the shallow, faceless waters of the Stream world right now, she would know what to say. Maybe blindly, like everyone else, a tadpole pushing against the soft slime of its membrane. Who knows. The possibility of the alternative is what makes me want to sign her.

I fish out a contract from my briefcase and slide it across the table to her.

5:40

There is a Japanese woman with marigolds coming out of her hairline. Our videography team examines the alley wall. Under the woman’s

^MASQUERADE

BY AIMI WEN, 12

SERIES

neck lies a fat slab of garbage.

Elliot re-sprays a her hair while the videographer jerks the camera up and down, shifting the focus in and out, while our actors hiss, swear, clink glass cans of beer. The edited video looks tastefully trashy. It’s exactly what the public wants.

A few seconds after we upload it, Elliot’s on the up-and-coming page. They like her badass, they like her graffiti flower punk, they like her pastel soft swan disadvantaged emo. Her mother also keels over that minute.

5:47

Our agency’s van drives Elliot and her unconscious mother to the hospital. When we get there, a flurry of white-clad nurses spirit Elliot’s mother inside, trading medical diagnoses over the gurney. Her disease is acting up, and it isn’t the first time, according to Elliot.

As the rest of my videography team turns to drive back home, I stay. Elliot and I walk to the waiting room. “How are you feeling?” I ask her.

“I could be better,” she says.

“You really are something,” I say.

GRIP BY KATHERINE CHUI, 11

“Yeah.” She flashes a smile and then lets it slide off her face. I calculate, briefly. I could touch her cheek right now. I could coldly storm out and let her chase after me. I could lay my hand over hers, like a tender, shy schoolboy. There are multiple ways I could carry on this cheap romantic subplot. It’s how I’d test if she realized what we had all become.

5:52

We spend too long in the hospital. Elliot had a real shot at getting on the Stream. I gambled right. It was the unexpected occasion of her mother’s medical activity that cost us the time necessary.

In the waiting room, a girl comes up to Elliot and asks for her autograph. She’d seen Elliot on the up-and-coming. Elliot signs her notepad with a quick flourish and grins.

After the girl leaves, I tell Elliot she’s going to drop.

“Why?” she says. “I thought I was doing well.”

She’s either still acting like she’s in front of a camera or she’s just naïve. “I’m sorry, Elliot. It’s the Stream.”

She sighs like she’s trying to fit as much air into her mouth at once. “Damn. I wanted to get my family a better house.”

I wince. Public cameras in the corners of the rooms are still swiveled towards the two of us, but I know they’re trained on me, not her.

5:55

I do it then, as we’re standing by the hospital’s sole vending machine. She bends down and grabs the bag of chips she bought. She’s talking about how she knows her mother will make it through.

When she stands up, I kiss her. Elliot steps back, and she looks like she actually believed it, and that’s how I know it didn’t work.

I knew you would do this, you’re the Stream consulting agent who makes a move on all the girls, she says, you’re in the tabloids every day, how could you betray me like this. (and on, and on.)

A stiff crinkle of aluminum bag in her palm. She is flustered and convinced that I like her.

She thinks: rich Stream consultant boy in love with his poor girl client. This story is original, though, because one of us is not white.

“I can’t do this, Theodore,” she says. My mind’s already running permutations of the possible things she’d say, the selections from the script that we follow.

I consider telling her but decide against it. It would be cruel. While driving home, I masochistically flick my radio station to the Stream.

6:00

They try to make the Hourly flush subtle. Now the radio blasts about the breakup of the Jyrion family and Lina Trostyukov’s old costar, Dimitri. The pixie-addict rapper from last Hour has been replaced by a Korean immigrant named Hanla, giving commentary about the notes of aged Orwellian alcohol in some slab of meat. Then a Lower Altan political scandal, and then Theodore Newark lost and doesn’t know his role in the grand scheme of things. That’s fair. I have to give them that. The real meat

of the Stream is the visuals, which are programmed to be projected ahead of me in the windshield. Looking at them makes me sick, but it’s my job.

My tears, embryonically stubborn, don’t want to be straightforward. Elliot is texting me, maybe trying to give me a second chance.

The car lurches to a stop. I get out, never wonder where the car came from, and stare at my office building, trying to recall where exactly the entrance is.

The ambiguity is one of the pitfalls of Upper Altan architecture. All of these pixie steel buildings roll and curve, one single optical illusion that makes you feel like you’re always moving so fast, all the time. Really, you’re probably just kicking in your sleep.

RUNNER-UP FOR THE 2018 ADROIT PRIZE IN PROSE, PUBLISHED IN THE ADROIT JOURNAL

FINALIST FOR L. RON HUBBARD WRITERS OF THE FUTURE

SUBCONSCIOUS BY KATHERINE CHUI, 11

BY FLORENCIA RODRIGUEZ STEUBE, 7

My loafers slipping in the mud, I did my best to hurry to my next appointment. As a healer, every moment is spent either saving the lives of people, or feeling them slip away as you take a break. Since the Captain had passed an act to build new paved roads in efforts to expand trade, the flow of patients hadn’t slowed. Our neighbors were not peaceful states, after all, and they spread diseases of which they knew neither name nor cure. Living in the mountains, my people had hardly ever been exposed to new populations, so the new influx of passing merchants had done less to strengthen our economy, and more to weaken our citizens.

Though getting in and out of Elodin had never been easier, the muddy slopes at its heart remained as dangerous as they had ever been. Lost in thoughts of the future of my home, I almost slipped right past my destination, a humble, colorfully painted cement house, ringed in roses. Check-

REACH FOR THE STARS> BY

BRIDGET REES, 7

< CONTRASTING THOUGHTS

BY KILEY HABERKORN, 11

ing that I had indeed reached 175 Corona, I tapped softly on the front door with my fingertips, and a haggard man holding a bundle in his arms greeted me. His wild brown eyes, sitting above two bags of deep purple, looked into mine with the familiar burning of desperation, and his cracked lips needed only to say two words: “Help us.”

Gently plucking the bundle from his arms, I gazed at the beautiful baby within. Her face contorted as she coughed violently, spattering blood on my clothes and on her thoroughly-stained blanket.

“It was another disease, Miss. The baby is the last of my family left. It’s already taken my husband, my children, but I-” choking back tears, his voice caught in his throat.

“It’s okay, I understand,” I reassured him. Strange how we blame ourselves for everything unfortunate in our lives. “I can cure her.”

Not pausing to hear his insistent gratitude, I looked down at my small patient, no older than a full rose, covered in stains of the same color. Touching my thumb to her delicate, burning forehead, I felt the familiar shock go through my body, and then her temperature immediately began to cool. I watched as the red of her blood on the cloth seemed to transfer now to her cheeks, a small, healthy rose once again. Closing her eyelids, the baby girl drifted off to sleep, peacefully dreaming of her now bright future.

“She will sleep for about one hour,” I informed her father, setting his child down into her crib carefully. “Once she wakes up, she should be fully healthy, but if she is still exhibiting symptoms, go directly to the Helm and talk to one of the Secretaries of Health and Wellness.”

Turning back around to face the man, I realized that he had fallen to his knees and was sobbing silently onto the floor. “Thank you,” he choked out, “thank you so much for saving her. You truly are an angel as they say you are.”

“It is my pleasure, sir. Until our time here is done.” Though this saying is typical in our small community, it always felt strange on my tongue after a healing, as if I was saving a life just to foreshadow its inevitable end.

Pushing the uneasy thoughts from my mind, I painted a content smile across my face, and then I turned and strolled back to the front door. Before I even reached the rusted doorknob, I heard a thump of a man hitting his bed, and deep snores from behind me. The smile on my face softened, and I stepped across the threshold and back onto the steep path I had travelled just moments before.

the FOUNTAIN

BY KATHERINE HAN, 11 JELLIES

A black cube of granite. A little bubble of water. Rings of silver silk spreading And pouring over the edges. Sliding, and overlapping. Splashing across the smooth surfaces Of gray stones. Revealing the red and brown Underneath. Then it slips back under the granite, And returns back to the top To start over again. A black cube of granite. A little bubble of water.

BY KATHERINE CHUI, 11

ARMY OF 1000 MEN

BY SAM KAVICH, 10

The mirror reflects a girl, just a couple of soft cheeks away from being a woman. She fiddles with the silver chain dangling from her neck, running her fingers over the warm ruby pendant’s smooth surface. Slowly, carefully, her fingers find the necklace’s clasp; she unfastens it, gripping the pendant so hard she can feel the jagged edges threatening to cut into her palms. She listens to the ever-present voice in the back of her mind begging her to let go; the necklace goes onto the silver tray, beside her hairbrush. In an attempt to soften the sudden pangs of vulnerability, she slips off her flats and begins to untie her corset. With every pull of the strings, she can breathe again. It’s a feeling that almost makes up for the loss of her pendant. She tosses the corset to the side, and spares a smile at her reflection in the mirror. That’s better.

Slipping out of her plain grey dress and into trousers and white shirt was like changing skins. The girl’s nimble fingers fumble as she laces up her boots, tying neat bows. Double-knotting. Her armour quickly follows; another glance into the mirror afterwards nearly provokes a hysterical giggle when she sees the Tin Man standing in her place, and she cringes at her failure to control her nerves. Now, all that’s left of her to hide is her hair.

Her hair. Tangled and cascading down to her waist, choppy and uneven in places where she’d been forced to cut it after rougher battles had left it charred. When she was younger, her mother had said her flaming locks made a statement about her to people without them needing to know her; she was bold. A born fighter. She had taken pride in the fact that this was the aura she gave off, and that confidence took her all the way to the front lines of war. If only she was supposed to be there.

She braids her hair to the side as swiftly as she had put on her armour, and pins it up, so when she puts on her helmet, it is hidden.

Her soft cheeks and girlish features, hidden, and her bright eyes overshadowed. When she turns to the mirror again, a figure stands in her place that could have been any one of the men in her army, and she is unrecognizable; she is safe. And it feels wrong.

Her helmet comes off again, and she pulls the pin from her hair, so the braid falls over her shoulder, the exact color of the fire the enemy’s dragons soon will breathe at her and her men. Well, this is her fire, and she isn’t going to hide it. Not anymore.

Her tent flap is pulled aside, and her second-in-command stands in the doorway, his eyes wide in shock when he sees his trusted commander for the first time: a woman. She gives him a smile that dares him to ask the questions she can tell he desperately wants to, and watches him swallow, blink, and shake his head as if to clear his brain. And then, shockingly, he smiles too.

“Commander, your troops are prepared and ready to move. We leave at your word.”

She releases the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She turns her head, only this time, instead of looking into the mirror, her eyes linger on the amulet whose magic had disguised her just so she could get here. For the first time, she feels no need to pick the rock up again. She holds her head high and accepts her sword when her second hands it to her.

“Good. Let’s move out.”

With those words, she strides out of the tent to meet the army of a thousand men that awaits her on the other side.

UP IN FLAMES

BY OLIVIA PAGE, 11

RED

BY ELLERY MITCHELL, 11

a smile that opens hearts and touches souls speaks with a soft, raspy unforgettable voice the kind of voice pain lingers at the end of each self truth

a face too precious to reveal to some her features are unappreciated and rugged yet ethereal and entrancing the angel dropped gently on the tainted grounds of earth by god’s saintly hands a genuine heart with good intentions but a tortured soul with sin in her bloodline

Bob the Not a Weed

BY MAGNOLIA LEMMON, 9

It is a simple thing, really. A flat surface with round edges. A neutral grey with specks of white and black. Made to fit perfectly in my palm. A stone. Dull by nature––but not to me.

The dust does a dance of swirls and swoops through the dry air, like it has for many months now. The powerful Mexican sun beams down on the arid ground, but there is still hope for summer––when the rain will drench the earth and life will rule again. But for now, the ground only holds the most resilient of life: the weeds. Thick winding ropes of coiled roots sit just out of view, leaving only rough foliage in sight. My mother and I push blunt shovels into the compact soil and lift the unwanted bodies from their lifesource. An expanse of mangled corpses lies across the nearby sidewalk. We work until almost all the bodies have been removed from the soil, but something catches the corner of my eye. I see a cantaloupe–sized, scraggly weed, with little, smiling yellow flowers. “But, is it a weed?” I think. Suddenly, I am filled with overwhelming guilt that I cannot quite place, but then it comes to me. “A weed is not a weed if it is wanted.”

Looking for a way to resolve my blind sins, I decide that this little plant will be wanted, and with that, I name him Bob.

Bob has arms like wet, wrinkled feathers and legs like frozen yarn. I kneel and run my hand against his leafy side to feel the coarse blades graze my skin. My fingers cut through the ground, like worms, and my palms follow. I cup my hands in an attempt to pry Bob from the earth. But the Earth will not relinquish him, so I reach for my metal liberator and dig furiously around him in an effort to free him.

When the ground finally surrenders, I lift him, bring him close to my chest, and feel his frail body against my skin. Bits of soil still cling to him, and his stiff hair is jostled from the trip up. He sways back and forth as I walk tentatively to a clear patch of soil. I place Bob in a dimple in the ground so that he stays safe while I build his home. I push the wood chips

TATOOINE BY ANNIKA DUAN, 11

GUILT

BY MAYA ZHAN, 9

He manages like someone trying to shoo away a small girl at his doorstep.

When she confronts him he tries to ignore her, but she never leaves. She stays behind his door and knocks incessantly. He tries to fight her off but

soon she comes back and pounds on the door even louder than before. He spends days and sleepless nights trying to drown out the knocking and shoo her away, but she is always by his doorstep without fail. One day he punches the girl until she is bloody and beaten, but she soon recovers and still thumps on the door softly. Now he realizes that no matter what he does, he will have to live with the girl tormenting him forever.

INEVITABLE CAPTURE

BY REILLY BRADY, 11

STRINGS ATTACHED BY BELLA FULLER, 11

KREED

BY PEIRONG LI, 11

Soda bottle in one hand and two slices of orange in another, Phoebe wanders aimlessly around the town of Kreed. People around here are always like this: hands occupied by all kinds of food, mouths incessantly chewing, throats forcefully gulping down chunks. They eat not for joy, nor hunger, nor survival. In reality, they aren’t even sure why they eat all the time. There just seems to be an innate order telling them: Stuff! Swallow! And again! Everyone acknowledges that it is of utmost urgency

to stuff food into one’s mouths. True. From norms there comes the resistance. Time after time, a young, reckless soul with bright eyes wonders ever so slightly about what will happen if she quits eating for short intervals. Some, others will regard with consternation, even believe that quitting their routine and settling for an intermittent one will result in no harm. For the people of Kreed, these two types of people are not to be feared; instead, they have merely been led astray, by a reckless youth from the neighboring town, of course. What the wise elders of Kreed have to do is to simply lead these restless youngsters back on track and give them valuable guidance that will help them make proper decisions in the future. Constituting an even smaller part of the population and being the most dangerous group of people are those bright-eyed lunatics who try to convince the residents that their eating habits are unhealthy. According to their “research,” eating continuously results in the human body being very round and soft. The limbs will be bloated like a balloon blown to its absolute limit. The skin appears almost transparent, strained by containing the flesh. Eventually, the balloon-like appendages collapse under the weight of the body, leaving the person immobile. Everyone knows that this will eventually happen, yet only due to old age, not their dietary conventions. Thus, when these “scientists” published their important “findings,” they were promptly exiled. Kreed is known as the town that welcomes every perspective, as long as it agrees with established customs. Thus, these outliers ought to be ostracized, so that Kreed can become the peaceful little town again.

Meanwhile, Phoebe has finished eating her slices of orange and is half-way done with her soda. She reaches into her bright red bag for a granola bar. Her pale, stubby arms reflect the sunset off the distance, and she strolls––or somewhat rolls––toward Kreed.

IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

BY MICHELLE CHEN, 9

I AFFIRM THE RESOLUTION

BY SRINIVAS BALAGOPAL, 11

A common ending for an affirmative speech in a debate round is “Thus I am proud to affirm the resolution.” Although this is only regarded as a formality, I had the opportunity to discover my own meaning for this phrase during one of my very first debate rounds, two years ago.

My opponent walked inside. He was extremely tall, well past six feet, with muscles that stretched the sleeves of his neat, ironed shirt. He had short, bristly, black hair and a scowl attached to his face.

My first thought was “What is he doing in the Novice division?” I made a small noise inside my throat, which sounded like a parrot’s caw.

My opponent intently surveyed the room, regarding the lights, thermostat, and the arrangement of desks, which were haphazardly strewn everywhere. Had it not been for his professional debate attire, I might have mistaken this Goliath of a student to be the school’s custodian. As it was, I was hoping against hope that this would be the case.

Finally, the Goliath fixed his bulging eyes upon me. I stood, frozen. I kept telling myself that I would only be debating the Goliath, not

wrestling him. Then, his scowl suddenly broke into a grin. I was not expecting it - but the smile did seem, if not genuine, at least courteous in this setting.

“Hi, I’m Jaiveer,” said Goliath. He had the deepest, most powerful voice I had ever heard. I was strongly reminded of Barack Obama.

“I’m Sr—Srinivas,” I replied, my voice quaking slightly.

“That’s a cool name,” Jaiveer remarked.

I wondered if that was his standard response to every debater he had encountered. Nonetheless, I replied, “Thanks,” a bit shortly.

Then Jaiveer began setting up his materials. The scowl had returned to his face. He pulled out his MacBook Air and the largest briefcase of papers I had ever seen in my life. That briefcase obviously contained the evidence he would use to barrage me (hopefully not literally).

The door opened, and three people walked in. They were obviously parents. Jaiveer and I went to shake hands with the judges. The parents shook hands with plastered smiles, gleaming in sharp contrast to their half-open, bagged eyes. Jaiveer was engaging the judges in some polite, small talk, trying to display an aura of warmth before a hairy debate round.

I tried forcing myself to dislike Jaiveer. After all, I was debating him! I needed to attack him, sink my teeth into his argument, and shut him down.

A few minutes later, we were ready to go. I was the first speaker, affirming the resolution; I would be supporting the designated topic for the tournament. I stood up.

“Everyone ready?” I asked. Everyone nodded.

I started my speech. “I affirm the resolution, ‘In the United States, national service ought to be compulsory.’ Here are my definitions . . .”

Six minutes later, my speech was done. I was feeling good: I had eloquently enunciated every syllable of my speech effectively; I had made excellent eye contact with each of my judges; I had varied my tone inflections as I spoke. It was now time for cross-examination, in which Jaiveer would ask me tough questions to poke holes into my argument. The allotted time was set at three minutes. Jaiveer started the timer.

“So,” he began brazenly in his deep, Obama baritone, “I don’t see a plan in your case. Why should our judges” — at this, he gestured at our seated spectators — “even consider voting for you, if you can’t even give them a plan?”

That question completely threw me off. I was expecting something simpler, like “what is your first contention?” Quick, just say something

“I don’t — I don’t need a plan,” I managed to utter.

“What?!” Jaiveer exclaimed dramatically. “Why on earth would you not need a plan? Are you asking our judges to believe your hypothesis” — he emphasized these words — “about national service?” Not too aggressive, not too soft, just right. The Goldilocks principle for asking questions — just be firm and in control.

“First of - First of all, it’s not a hypothesis. Also, I don’t need to give you a plan. I read so many cards to you. Take the Penn State card, for exa—”

“Can you please —” Jaiveer paused, “answer my question?”

Dead silence.

I tried to find some choice words in my brain to get out. All I got out were a few stammers: “Look, um — I don’t — you’re missing my point . . .”

Not only had I lost my train of thought, I had also lost saliva. My mouth was completely dry, my tongue flailing madly inside that desertified cave, in search of moisture. By contrast, my palms and upper lip were damp, beaded with droplets of sweat.

I stared at the timer. Two minutes left. How is that possible? I thought. It’s been, like, ten minutes already. I glanced at Jaiveer. His eyes flashed like a bull’s, as if to say, Noooo, I’m not done with you yet.

His questions rained down on me like a whip.

“That card about the net benefits of national service. Was that empirically proven, or is that just another guess?”

Crack!

“How feasible is a nationwide service program, anyway?”

Crack!

“In that case, why should the judges even vote for you in this debate?”

Crack!

“Can you please answer my question?”

Crack—Crack—CRACK!

JAPANESE SCHOOL

BY MICHELLE CHEN, 9

I was writhing in pain. My captor was unrelenting, yelling a war-like cry. Goliath was massive, cunning, and knew all of my weak points. I screamed in despair as my arguments kept dropping like dead birds all around me.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

That was the timer. The torture was over. Jaiveer said, “Thank you” calmly and sat back down. My knees shaking, I unsteadily took my seat. As the feeling started to return to my face, my nose began to smell the sweat beading on my upper lip. My hands felt very cold against the desk, offset by the burning red sensation in my face. My armpits were drenched. I took a sip of water, but the cool moisture did not soothe the bitter realization of imminent defeat on my tongue.

MUSIC

BY CECILE SMITH, 12

I stared at the three judges. The middle judge, a bespectacled man probably in his fifties, looked straight back at me. His bulging eyes, which were further dilated by the lenses he wore, seemed to be clawing at my saturated brain, trying to figure out where I was going with this debate. I would have loved to have known that as well.

OBAMA AND GOLIATH HAD MORPHED INTO A SINGLE BEING, A DEMON WITH INCREDIBLE SKILL AND CONTROL OVER THE SUBJECT

It was Jaiveer’s turn.

He drew himself to his fullest height, towering above six feet, and commenced his speech, opposing the resolution.

“I negate the resolution. For the educational value of today’s debate, I would like to clarify some key terms. . .”

I stared in awe. Just as Goliath had reigned supreme during cross-ex, now Obama was at the podium. Slow, clear, articulate, composed, the Commander-in-Chief was in control of the debate, and we were his constituents.

“Turning to the affirmative case,” Obama enunciated, “we can clearly see that his case is not backed with a substantial plan. Let’s look at the first contention . . .”

Obama and Goliath had morphed into a single being, a demon with incredible skill and control over the subject. Every word hit me like a powerful storm, every fact was thrown at me like a boulder, every bit of rational thought consolidated into a mountain of logic and reason, and the demon stood at the top, cool and collected, as he displaced every pebble of my sanity.

Cold fear and hot anger toppled over one another in my brain.

Anger screamed, I worked hard prepping for this argument — how dare this giant crush it like a fly?!

But Fear whimpered, I worked hard prepping for this argument — how is this giant able to crush it like a fly?!

And so it went on.

I remember, during my final speech (which paled by comparison to Jaiveer’s well-executed rebuttal), babbling something like, “So, we should — we should look at the status quo. The — the status quo is majorly flawed! You shouldn’t — shouldn’t vote for Neg because he isn’t giving you any — any substantial, concrete evidence. He isn’t giving you any empirical evidence!”

I was aware that I was repeating myself throughout the speech, but I couldn’t go back in time to change it. I kept staggering forward — staggering and staggering up the mountain.

“Thus, I am proud to affirm the resolution,” I finished lamely.

I don’t remember much of the judges’ feedback. The decision was, to no one’s surprise, 3-0 for Jaiveer. Compared to his targeted choice of words, the judges’ banal comments, peppered with pitying platitudes, simply bounced off me.

“You spoke very well; maybe you could try to work on beefing up your rebuttals. Other than that, great job,” said Judge #1.

“Your delivery was good; maybe you could try to work on attacking your opponent’s contentions. Otherwise, I thought it was a good round,” said Judge #2.

“Your speech was very nice; maybe you could try to work on finding more loopholes in your opponent’s arguments. That aside, I liked this debate,” said Judge #3.

I forced myself to smile at the end of the round.

Outside the room, I began walking silently to tell my parents that I had lost the round. But then, Jaiveer called out to me.

“Hey Srinivas! Dude, that was a sick round.”

“Oh thanks. Congratulations. You really are an experienced debater — I was honestly helpless,” I added with a wry chuckle.

Jaiveer looked pleased but also a little confused. “You practically ripped through my case. Your evidence was so solid. I had to keep faking it for the judges, but I was stunned. I really was.”

I was astonished. I studied his face for any signs of flattery or consolation. All I saw was honesty and, to more surprise, a bit of admiration.

Jaiveer extended his hand. “Honestly, thank you for a great debate round. I definitely learned a lot. Hope to see you at some more tournaments! I’ll have

HAMMERED BY KILEY HABERKORN, 11

high expectations.”

My perspective on Jaiveer had changed. I shook hands, not with Goliath, not with Obama, but with a friend.

The mistake in my debating boiled down to one idea. I had done what I despise about American politics today: I had made the debate personal. Rather than arguing in favor of national service, I had forced my mind to slam the person, not the idea.

Jaiveer had done the opposite. Rather than entangling his emotions, he had debated in an objectively balanced fashion. He had risen above the psychological chaos and had instead chosen to engage in a constructive dialogue. I had shaped Jaiveer as a demon, as Goliath, who was dismantling all of my hard work like pebbles. I had not realized that he was, in fact, just another human being who was advocating for an ideology.

What I needed to win was not more evidence or more attack lines. What I needed to win was to separate the person from the argument. What I needed to win was to have an open mind.

Before that debate round took place, whenever I would listen to others state viewpoints that differed from mine, my first thought would be “No! That’s not right. You’re wrong.”

After that pivotal round, I have strived to never become prey to my emotions, both inside and outside the debate context. Now, when faced with different ideologies, my first thought is “Why? Why do you think in that sense? I would like to understand where you’re coming from.”

I have learned that I should be confident when stating my perspectives; but it is equally, if not more, important to acknowledge the other side of the debate and to have respect for its proponents. That is a higher level of maturity. That is what a democracy needs. That is how we become more educated in a debate.

That is why I should have been proud to affirm the resolution.

2018 SCHOLASTIC ART & WRITING HONORABLE MENTION

THE EFFECTS OF TIME

BY REILLY BRADY, 11

REMNANTS

BY HAILEY ALEXANDER, 9

As the sun sinks below the distant horizon, the sky comes to life. Full of oranges, pinks, yellows, and blues, the colors swirl together like a flame igniting the sky. The warm water runs between my toes as I wander further into the grand waters. Other tourists are far behind me now. I continue to take in the layered and extraordinary view. I watch transfixed as the painted sky reflects down and dances in the water below. Engrossed in the remnants of this magical sunset, I realize how it translates to life. Every day is like a sunset, full of different colors that are emotions and moods. Full of thoughts coming and going like clouds passing by. Then there are the remnants, the parts of our days that might not be as bold and prominent as its ending, but those parts––those memories––could be what we remember forever.

INSPIRED BY “SUNSET at WELLINGTON

POINT” BY BEN

BY EMILY TAKARA, 9

MULDER

Two nearly identical worlds chase each other to the horizon, racing to the thin hazy distance. The two endless, mirroring realities, one in the sky above and one in the sparkling water, disappear into a gray streak, lining the rim of the earth. Fiery clouds burn across the sky and ripple through the water, their glowing embers spreading through the deep blue above and below. The pure blue sky mixes and swirls with the burning clouds, creating emerald green, glowing in the distance. The blazing bonfire in the sky reaches its charred fingers towards the shore and its trees cut from shadow. The vibrant blue sky shines through the gaps of the clouds, like a waterfall quenching a forest fire, slashing through smoke and ashes. Meanwhile, the same battle clashes below, distorted on rippling glass that folds the reality above. The golden stained water draped across the sand illustrates every vibrant scene above. Night approaches and the two worlds, sky and land, and the two elements, water and fire, fight on as shadows, gray as smoke, begin to sneak across the sky.

SUNSET AT WELLINGTON POINT courtesy of Ben Mulder, news.redland.qld.gov.au

AN OPEN LETTER TO MY ANXIETY

BY TASHA EPSTEIN, 10

Hello there, old friend.

I haven’t called you “friend” for long—it has taken us some time to reach this agreement, hasn’t it? But now… I suppose you are my friend, and someone—something, I suppose most would say—that I can always count on.

Ever since I was little, you and I have been together. You’re a part of me. It’s been a while since I noticed you, and a while since I accepted you.

It’s been about a year of us getting along. Before that, you took about six months where you really made yourself known. I was crying in a corner, I was out of school, I was in a program to try and subdue you. And it worked.

I have a few questions, queries really, for you. Well, now that I think about it, only one.

Why? I have asked myself this, I’ve asked my parents this, and I’ve asked you this. I’ve accepted there isn’t really an answer I can get. I’ll never know why you’re with me in everything I do, tainting all I touch. Why me, out of 7.5 billion humans on this green Earth? Why am I the one stuck with you?

In truth, I’m not the only one with an anxiety buddy. General- ized anxiety affects 6.8 million people. But that’s only 3.1% of the world. That’s a minority. And we’re in the closet. There’s such a stigma. Anxiety makes people weak, it seems. And it’s true. I have my weak moments. But I’ve learned to love you.

I’ve asked myself what I’d be like without you. Would I be cool, confident, and popular? Would I have been a theatre geek to whom the whole world’s a stage? Who would I have been? Who would I be? What would my personality be like, if I didn’t have you?

I can’t know—I never could. But I don’t care anymore. Because I can’t change it. I’m still going to be anxious, at least a little, no matter how many therapists I go to, medications I try, and strat- egies I use. I’ll still get the occasional panic attack. I’ll still curl up and cry sometimes. But that’s fine, because I’m me. And as cheesy as it sounds, being me is being the best person I can be.

And I love you, now, because you’ve stuck with me. People have run, people have shifted, people have come, and people have gone. But even in my lowest moments, you’re there.

And now that you’re not so blaringly loud, I think we can enjoy each other’s presence. I’ve learned to separate the Anxiety Tasha from Actual Tasha. And I can see my own personality now. I am my own person, albeit with a little screaming sidekick who

thinks all planes will crash and all food will make you throw up. But I can ignore you when you get out of hand, and comfort you when you get scared.

And you’re right about some stuff! Some people and places are scary! Some planes crash! And some food makes you sick. But you’ve never been on a plane that crashed, and you only throw up when you eat shrimp because you’re allergic to it. I can talk back to you now. The world isn’t perfect, but it’s not that bad.

I’m able to see me and my personality now. I realized that I can change myself at any point. So I did. I cut my hair short, after 15.5 years of long hair, and I plan on dying it purple this summer! I started wearing only dresses. I started my own cat-sitting business. I applied for leadership roles in a variety of clubs and extracurriculars and jobs. Now I’m an officer in two clubs, and trying out for an editorial position on the school paper. I got a job tutoring a young child in English. And I lead the NAMI club.

I don’t want anyone to go through the rough stuff I went through with you, all the fighting between us. I want to be a psychologist when I’m older. I want to help people discover who they are, not without their mental illness, but with their mental illness working for/with them. I gave a TEDx talk on the effect of social media on mental health, and I want to help people understand how to help themselves.

The personality I’ve found myself with is a very nice one, if I do say so

myself. I’m confident, calm, kind, and perky (tired a lot too!). But I’m careful to be sensitive, and I love you so much for mak- ing me the person I am today.

I feel like my personality goes so much deeper than it would have without you. I’m mature and unshakable. I love you, and I love me.

Life can be hard at times, but I’m not dealing with it alone. With you, life is a two-player game. And the life we’ve built for ourselves now is so much greater than anything I could have imagined and you could have disasterized. I’m so passionate, and I love being alive. It really does get better.

Thank you, for everything. As always,

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER

BY YONU OH, 8

Foggy mornings cloud the day

As nature’s desire wants damp, cold, and gray; From green to red and orange and brown, The leaves lay themselves gently on the ground; Crackling fires furiously pop.

As my eyes fall upon the kitchen table, Naming the seats with slips of white label; A bundle of sweaters crowds the street, Rushing to whomever they want to meet. And the hum of soft laughter never seems to stop.

With a wave of cold, The lazy leaves roll; Christmas strings its lights, Filled with colorful delights; Daylight is declining fast, my friend. Unlike the long sunny days

When Summer had such laze, Autumn makes way for winter’s reign, As the warmth begins to wane; We must bid farewell until we meet again. <

FELLOW TRAVELER

BY ELIZABETH PETERS, 12

HOPE IT IS OKAY TO LOVE MY MESSED-UP GRANDPA

BY EVA LIU, 10

In a world of my design, He is not my first pick for Grandpa

Not a wartime hero with legendary stories to tell And no glorious shiny badges that I can brag about

He smokes, an addiction as crazy as the fidget spinner

The cigarette leaves are engraved in his rumpled shirts

His heart, a reservoir of laziness, forces him to watch television all day No wonder the lenses of his spectacles are thicker than a dictionary

Impatient, dependent, mean Who wants a Grandpa like mine?

He yells at Grandma with indignation and shattered her iron heart

When he wasn’t at the hospital for my father’s birth

He can be impatient, He can be dependent, He can be mean, He is my Grandpa.

BACKGROUND ART BY SARAH FENG, 11

I

No surprise: he was not a supporter of my aunt’s medical degree

And he stole all the sweet fruit from his children in an era of starvation But let me tell you, even the underdog can beat the number-one draft pick

Grandpa is highly underrated, not appreciated by my family

Buying me ice cream after school on the sidewalk

Poring over my math homework late at night

What a stubborn old man he is, Insisting on walking me home from the bus station

He struggled to keep up with my jolly walk

As he lurched and tottered over the pebble path

I already threw my backpack on the sofa

While he was still across the threshold

My indolent Grandpa walked me home

For 2190 days, 72 months, 6 years but He refused to walk after the surgery; he lost his motivation

I am no longer a little kid holding onto his calloused hand And he lives in a lonely nursing home now, 7233 miles away from my high school

No one likes him, maybe only Grandma

Whom he stabbed with his harsh words

Dad is too busy to visit bring him fresh fruits

My uncle doesn’t even bother to ask about him

Aunt June gets enraged in her daily conversation with him

Grandpa has early stage Alzheimer’s, He forgets my cousin’s name Can’t recognize my uncle’s face But he remembers me, encrusted in his soul just like the cigarettes

A moment when love overrules science:

How can he still memorize those math formulas I struggled with?

How can he still remember the redolent smell of my baby blanket? How can he still recognize me, my everything?

I hope it’s okay to love my messedup Grandpa

FIGURED

BY MICAELA RODRIGUEZ STEUBE, 10

Inspired by the one sentence story “The Last Voyage of the Ghost Ship” by Gabriel García Márquez

The figure looked back, not speaking but reflecting the gestures; only movements suggested any sign of life, no emotions corrupted the face, no thoughts passed through the mindless brain, only twists and imbalances of the color spectrum met the tears in her eyes; a disconnection from her own reflection; the call sounded and was ignored at first, a subtle hint at change, a tap, an idea floating in space, solely giving an option to connect; but it wasn’t loud enough, it wasn’t ready; there was more to see in the mysterious figure, lines and shapes and colors and crevices, all that did not belong to her, yet, they moved with her, it followed; a whisper, only a small airy shiver calling through the air, unmistakably present, yet incomprehensible; it beckoned to no avail; a clueless face met the figure, mindless as its own reflection, cocked to one side, uncomprehending; silence; a step back, one forward, both followed meticulously by the spectre; at the third call she turned, it was not the figure behind her but her trust; he began to speak, no words escaped his mouth, but she felt it; burning through her cheek, quaking through her bones and shivering down her spine; with each fleeting moment, the vertebrae began to jut out, protruding almost through her graying, translucent skin; it was tight, painful, but did not crack, yet; nobody could see the trust as he slipped away, nobody saw the torn skin he left behind; she wasn’t heard as she called his name, wanting him back; nobody saw him, nobody believed; without a trace left behind, there is nothing to be believed; as he faded into dust, his incorporeal touch lingered on her shoulder, and the call was back; the siren called with a sweet song, drawing the figure closer, almost within reach, but still farther than the eye could see; from afar the figure whispered, a song wisped through the air, one of loss through gain, one of happiness through pain; she did not see the change; she did not feel it; the steps forward and backward perfectly mirrored by the figure were no longer hers, but that of the figure; she was a puppet, a marionette of the immaterial; yet she was so drawn in by the sweet song the contortions were but small movements, barely changing her; until they did, until there was change; she called out for herself; the figure looked up, eyes the color of the drip-drop-dripping that meandered down the porcelain, the singing of the siren no longer soothing but torturous

and tormentingly tearing at what was left; a single scream; a switch flipped; a candle lit; light shed; and the figure faded back into its frame, once more following the forward and backward, once more emotionless, once more mindless, once more a manifestation of nothing.

BY OLIVIA PAGE, 11

^ RIPPLE

IT’S MY DUTY

BY MAKENA MATULA, 7

Emmett Till

A regular kid, even though his skin wasn’t the same color as mine. That boy is dead

Isn’t it my duty to do something about it?

Oscar, Aiyana, Trayvon, Rekia, Michael, Eric, Tamir, John, Ezell, Sandra, Freddie, Alton, Philando. The messed up part? There are so many more

< FACE BY AUSTIN FARHOUDI, 11

Isn’t it my duty to do something about it?

The issues of white supremacy and racial terror... are still at play

The struggle for equality and justice is far from over

I’ll not shudder

I’ll not flee

I’ll never be quiet

I’ll never give up

I promise

The following resources were used in the creation of this found poem: “Truth”

“A Memorial Sign to Emmett Till Was Defaced With Four Bullet Holes”

The Hate U Give Excerpt

Mississippi Trial, 1955

SUMMIT

BY CARTER BRADY, 11

The bright morning sun shone on the smooth granite of the mountain, piercing through the trees along the sloping path and illuminating the barren peak with a radiant glow. The fresh smell of trees and a faint aroma of open water, coming from the lake not a half a mile away, washed the area in comforting scents. In the breaks between quick trills of intermittent birdsong and recurring jokes and laughter from the hiking group, an almost holy silence surrounded the trail, focusing one’s attention towards the pristine off-white stone of the enormous chunk of granite erupting out of the Yosemite soil with majesty and grandeur.

The whole scene before me had almost a heavenly aura about it, one that could not more strongly contrast with the sheer dread that was running up and down my body. I was standing at the base of Half Dome, the next item on a weeklong to-do list that had spanned an entire week’s backpacking trip through Yosemite National Park. Over the last three days, I had woken up at sunrise, hiked eight to ten miles per day, and eaten light, portable meals designed to maximize calories and minimize bulkiness. Along with my father, three uncles, and a cousin, the last three days of trail hiking and camping had been spent in preparation for the upcoming climb, one I was terrified to make. The steep granite slope seemed to me an impassable wall, rising straight up into the clouds and presenting an impossible challenge; the support cables, visible even from the base, outlined a seemingly vertical trail cutting directly up the famous dome to the top of the mountain. My legs, already worn out from the rigorous activities of the last 72 hours, began shaking at the mere thought of ascending such a difficult peak, and all at once I felt all-too-familiar voices of doubt sneak through my mind, speaking in voices alternating between worry and cynicism.

This looks impossible, the worrywart whispered. Are you sure you can do this? The cynic took its turn too. Of course you can’t. You’re no Schwarzenegger to begin with, and seventy-two hours of hiking is wearing you down. I wouldn’t be surprised if you slipped on those cables and cracked your skull open up there.

“Shut up,” I mouthed inaudibly, mentally attempting to force the negative thoughts to the back of my consciousness, with little suc-

OVERGROWTH

BY ELIZABETH PETERS, 12

cess. Even the friendly, excited chatter and jokes of our six-man hiking party barely managed to put off my concern as we began our trek up the sub-dome with a long series of switchbacks, each consisting of huge flights of stairs cut straight out of the mountain. The stairs alone proved a demanding enough task, and once the near-9,000-feet altitude and my personal fatigue were factored in, I was both disheartened and exhausted.

About halfway up the switchbacks, we stopped our climbing and sat down on some rocks for a brief rest and snack opportunity. Reaching into my day-pack, I found the two food items I had packed in anticipation of the morning’s climb: a pouch of applesauce and a Snickers candy bar. I briefly considered my options before grabbing the applesauce. I promised myself I would eat the Snickers if I managed to reach the summit. A celebratory award for an accomplishment I wasn’t even sure if I could do yet.

The rest of the switchbacks passed by rather quickly in my mind, stair after stair fusing itself together in my memory so that, looking back, the rest of the hike, while substantial and time-con-

suming, seems to slip through my memory like water from a sieve. However fast or slow the next walk passed, my perception of time snapped back to normal speed as I conquered the last stair and found myself on a wide plain of granite rock. It gently sloped in a small dome-like shape itself, gradually curving down to all sides and breaking off into a sudden drop to the left and right, plummeting several hundred feet to the forest below. I felt a jolt in my stomach as I registered this fact, and I readjusted my stance with a sense of nervous caution.

It was still early in the day, but it appeared a few hiking groups had beaten us to the summit, as I could spy a few small figures in the distance. And behind them–a shiver crept down my spine as I watched the slope come into view, looming over my surroundings and seeming at this angle to ascend vertically as guide cables fed hikers into a straight path right up the side of the mountain. I was taken aback by the sheer intimidation I felt at this granite monster, and in my moment of fear the worrywart and the cynic once again crept into my consciousness.

You see that, don’t you? interjected the representation of my fear. If you take a wrong step you’ll go sliding back down that slope, and if you can’t catch yourself in time you could even find yourself falling ten stories off the side of a cliff!

Face it, you don’t have the guts to make that climb, echoed my inner skeptic. Even if you could do it physically, you’ll make it maybe fifty yards and then what? You’ll get too scared to continue, too scared to climb down, and you’ll make a complete fool of yourself. If you’re stupid enough to think you’ve got the muscle for this, then at least consider that.

I found myself unconsciously heading for the cables, searching in my pack for the rubber work gloves I’d packed for this very moment. I slowly tilted my head back, ignoring the accompanying dizziness to take a moment and gaze at the huge outcropping before me. In that moment I made a choice. I wasn’t going to let fear, doubt, self-criticism, or any other emotion I might feel before, during, or after my climb stop me from achieving the goal I had been working so hard to reach for the past three days. I put on my gloves, slowly walked towards the metal cables, and put my hiking boot on the first step.

The first fifty yards were challenging, but I tackled them with

relative ease. I could actively feel my doubts fading, and a sense of relief washed over me. This wasn’t so bad after all. The cables had a sort of thin four-inch platform at every pole they ran through, so I pulled myself up the slope with my arms until I could maneuver my feet into a relatively flat space created with the intersection of the platform and the rock. The path was slippery, but I made quick progress.

The second fifty yards got more intense; gaps widened between platforms, and one even appeared entirely gone. Each step took more and more amounts of strength until every step was an agonizing effort. Each movement propelled me a mere three, maybe four feet closer to the top, but the sheer physical effort of pulling myself forward with my arms and scrambling my feet up, desperately hoping to gain momentum, made each step feel as though it were several miles long, chaining together and together in a seemingly unending cycle as I scaled the impossibly steep slope and felt my energy slowly begin to drain.

I was about halfway up the cable line when I first felt a real sense of foreboding. I gripped the cables tighter and tighter, feeling the friction between my hands, the gloves, and the metal burn calluses into my palm with stinging heat. I could feel the ancient, well-trodden rock beneath my feet get slipperier as I desperately navigated from platform to platform. Suddenly, I realized with a jolt of fear that the next stretch I was about to climb did not have a platform at the standard interval. A significant lip in the rock would force me to navigate over a nearly foot-tall obstacle while both maintaining a strong grip on the cables and preventing myself from falling headfirst down the several hundred yards of granite below. With great effort, I pushed back the creeping tide of doubt I could feel rising inside of me, forcing myself to focus on the obstacle ahead.

I lunged forward in an attempt to use my momentum to propel myself over the lip, taking one–two quick steps with my boots and lifting a third to approach the space just before the ledge. Before I could set that foot down firmly, my planted boot lost footing with the slick granite, and I slid backwards, desperately grabbing at the cables to slow my movement. I felt the palms of my hands screaming in effort and pain as the cables cut through the gloves, burning into the skin and rubbing it raw as I slid backwards, my feet dangling

behind me. The pure, unrestrained fear I had been repressing over the last few minutes all came flooding back in, and I was unable to suppress the rolling waves of panic that crashed against my system, undoing my mental stability and physically shaking my frame as I braced myself against the rock, somehow finding enough footing to reach a crouched position.

While my white-knuckle grip held fast to the two cables on either side of me, my body began uncontrollably quaking, waves of sheer terror wracking me as I tried and failed to find motivation to keep moving. That had been a close brush with disaster, and I could even feel the muscle memory of my near-fall lingering in my leg and arms. Why should I continue to climb, and risk another disaster? I hadn’t even made it over the lip of rock yet, and to turn back now would not be easy, but it definitely wouldn’t be more difficult than a continued ascent. I squeezed my eyes closed and gritted my teeth, straining my arms from the effort and attempting to calm my shaking with little success.

As I crouched on that mountain, 8,800 feet above sea level and several hundred feet over the surrounding area, paralyzed with fear, doubt, and hesitation, I felt something deeper come up from within me. It was like my earlier sense of determination, but it felt more...profound. I somehow knew that I was physically and mentally capable of overcoming this challenge and summiting my first mountain, despite the physical effort and mental intensity of the task ahead of me. Maybe I didn’t have the energy or strength to confidently pull myself up the cables with ease and calmly approach the summit, but there was no way I was turning back before I was done.

The gray-white stone seemed to gleam again as, with intense effort, I forced my locked muscles to pull me up and over the lip, practically crawling to the next platform. The hot morning sun beat down on me as I continued my efforts upward, but I felt a sense of satisfaction at the uncomfortable heat it brought and the ache of my arms and legs. I knew I could make it. Outside discomforts were nothing. In that moment, it seemed inevitable to me that I would summit, and I knew what I had to do to make that happen. I continued to climb.

After what seemed like hours, maybe days, I felt the slope start to even off. My calves felt like liquid, my arms locked as stiffly as the rock I was climbing, and the newly forming callouses on my

hands stung with a sharp pain, but I forced myself up and over the last set of platforms and staggered onto the summit. I had done it. I immediately reached into my bag and pulled out the Snickers bar I had promised myself, fumbling with stiff fingers to undo the plastic wrap and taking a huge bite. The sweet taste of chocolate, caramel, and peanuts mingled in my mouth, but it wasn’t as satisfying as the feeling of victory gloriously washing over me, carrying away the rough sea of doubt and replacing it with gentle waves of confidence and joy.

My ascent of Half Dome only lasted around four hours. During that short time period, a stubbornness and determination with which I set my mind to things made itself evident, breaking through my mellow and easygoing exterior to reflect inner toughness. I conquered the physical challenge and the mental one, overcoming fear and doubt to achieve my long-term goal. I was imbued with a new sense of confidence, and I knew that, despite the physical pain rippling dully through my exhausted body, I would safely make it down and continue on my way hiking back out of the backwoods for three more days.

After spending some time resting my legs, then walking around the rounded peak to take in the full, incredible view the mountain offered of Yosemite Valley, I walked back to the cables, preparing myself to make the journey down. This time, it appeared as though I would have to make my way down a near-wall, sliding down slippery granite and navigating around swarms of tiny day-hikers gathering below the path like ants. The challenge looked daunting, but somehow I only felt smooth confidence standing atop my achievement. Instead of the worrywart and the cynic, I heard a new voice: a voice of confidence.

This might be difficult, the voice murmured, but it won’t be impossible. And as I realized I couldn’t even hear the cynic or the worrywart anymore, I couldn’t help but agree.

I stood atop Half Dome and looked down on my climb. In my mind, the terrifying experience shifted from a source of utter panic to a reassuring reminder: I could do whatever I wanted to, and no challenge was too great for me as long as I learned to overcome my fear.

MIRRORED BY OLIVIA PAGE, 11

MEREDITH AND OLIVIA BY JANET LIU, 9

the good brothers

BY SARAH FENG, 11

The clock is as sharp as blood, its minute hand peeling like a brittle peso from my throat.

Dalí should be here, I said, but nobody was there any longer to listen. I tried to unstitch myself from the hours, but instead they yawned. Thrashing wild in the bleached bone of your repentance. All the good brothers know that this is how it works.

The only thing that will make me soft, I said. Gaudí’s trencadis above us starting to shake. I couldn’t move without lead minutes slicing into my stomach.

You spilled out of me like oil and tanqueray. The good brothers crouched under butter-yellow eaves & struck matches against the hooks in their mouths.

2018 FOYLE COMMENDED YOUNG POET OF THE YEAR SCHOLASTIC ART & WRITING SILVER KEY

RETURN OF A FRIEND

BY SOPHIA CHENG, 7

“Buddy . . . it’s the crack of dawn . . . I can’t play fetch with you right now,” moaned Scarlett as she was licked by a wet, rough tongue.

As she opened her tired eyes, she saw her energetic golden retriever giving her his signature puppy eyes. “Fine,” she relented. “Wait by the door.”

After Buddy trotted down the stairs happily, Scarlett threw on some shorts and a T-shirt, grabbed Buddy’s tennis ball and leash, and stepped outside into what she liked to call the “morning glory”: a period of time where the sun had not risen yet, but the sky was a light shade of cyan.

At the park, Scarlett threw the tennis ball again and again, laughing each time Buddy came back to her with the ball covered in spit. This time, she decided to chuck the ball as far as she could, which, apparently, was very far. The ball rolled into the street with Buddy leaping after it, and suddenly, a speeding car emerged. Immediately, she knew what was going to happen—she sprinted as hard as she could, calling out her dog’s name—but the only thing she received in return was a front-row seat to Buddy’s—

Scarlett woke up, drenched with sweat, bile rising in her throat. Struggling to keep it down, she got out of bed and stared at herself in the mirror.

“Buddy is gone. He is dead. Accept it. He’s in a better place now,” she told herself firmly. “And besides, it’s been five years already. Get over it.”

Well, she sighed, I might as well get dressed for school. She put on some clothes lifelessly, brushed her teeth, and grabbed a banana and her backpack. As usual on this type of morning, she drove extra slow to avoid running over anything.

At school, the usual happened: she finished her homework in class, listlessly spooned food into her mouth, and tried to hide in the back of the class to avoid raising her hand.

Finally, school ended; however, a new torture appeared. Her chatterbox friend Maria had forced Scarlett to come to the animal shelter—the same animal shelter where Buddy had been adopted— because she was an “animal expert” and could help Maria choose the “best” dog.

^ SHELLS BY ANNA KOKORICH, 7

At the shelter, she watched halfheartedly as Maria cooed to every single dog she saw. Deciding that she was wasting her time and could be doing much more productive things, Scarlett walked out the door and saw something she would never forget.

A panting German Shepherd stood in the parking lot helplessly, his leash tied to a metal pole and wrapped tightly around his neck. Judging by the way he limped while pacing and how his thin coat of fur was unruly and matted, Scarlett could tell that he had suffered many harsh injuries.

The first thing she felt was stress—what if, trying to save the animal, she got in trouble with the law? What if the dog bit her? As these frantic thoughts ran through her, something else chilled her soul. The dog, seeing Scarlett, had begun to bark. The mere sound of it brought back countless memories and brought a wave of nostalgia onto her. Buddy—the best dog in the world,

with the most beautiful bark.

“Bear . . . it’s the crack of dawn . . . I can’t play fetch with you right now,” moaned Scarlett as she was licked by a wet, rough tongue.

As she opened her tired eyes, she saw her beautiful German Shepherd giving her his signature puppy eyes, reminding her of a certain golden retriever. “Fine,” she relented. “Wait by the door.”

After a content Bear trotted down the stairs happily, Scarlett threw on some shorts and a T-shirt, grabbed Bear’s tennis ball and leash that she had saved, and stepped outside into what she liked to call the “morning glory”: a period of time where the sun had not risen yet, but the sky was a light shade of cyan.

At the park, Scarlett threw the tennis ball again and again, laughing each time Buddy came back to her with the ball covered in spit. This time, she decided to chuck the ball as far as she could. Subsequently, the ball rolled into the street with Buddy leaping after it, and suddenly, a speeding car emerged. Immediately, she knew what was going to happen—she grew dizzy, rooted to the spot.

“No—no! Buddy!” she cried. This couldn’t be happening, she thought. I’ve already lost a dog. It can’t happen again. It just can’t.

Then, something happened. Whenever she told the story to her friends and family afterwards, nobody believed it. They all came with excuses and said that she must have been dreaming; after all, Scarlett was the only witness.

Bear stopped. He turned.

And, leaving the ball in the street, in the gutter for all he cared, he trotted back to her and looked up adoringly.

BY NICOLE MANEATIS, 9

< MIDNIGHT MOON

BY SAHANA ARNIKAR, 8

AND I LOVE YOU SO

BY REILLY BRADY, 11

Grandma, I remember so much.

I remember holding your hand to cross the strange, diagonal street to the library. I remember trudging up the hill to our favorite breakfast restaurant called Eat n’ Park, which we always made fun of, because shouldn’t you park your car before you eat?

I remember sneaking to the neighbor’s backyard only to glance back at the house and see you in the window, making sure I’m safe. I remember how you looked so sad after mom went to the hospital while I mostly felt confused, clutching her teddy bear close to me.

I remember just this morning, you texted me a note, saying, “A grandmother always thinks about her grandchildren day and night even if they are not with her and will love them in a way they will never understand.”

And that’s when I remembered all the times you’ve taken care of me. Every time I’m sick, you make a couch bed and an ice water. Each time I’m up late doing homework, you’re right there next to me, sometimes falling asleep while you’re quizzing me for a history test. Whenever I’m frustrated with someone, you threaten to go give them a piece of your

mind yourself. You somehow know where I’ve misplaced something, when I need a pumpkin cookie, when I need a reassuring text.

And Mom, I remember so much, too. I remember you handing me a fourth Oreo to eat, because three is an unlucky number and should be avoided at all costs. I know that you like filling up water bottles all the way to the top with ice and that you aren’t very good at making decisions. And that you really like potatoes.

I remember visiting you in the hospital and being confused that you couldn’t talk, so I tried to write a message back to you, but you could hear me the whole time. I remember being puzzled when people gave you a second glance when you had to wear your breathing machine. I remember you giving up your wheelchair for me and letting me sit in it while I started throwing up at a tourist spot in France. I realize how far you’ve come. And I was with you to the end.

And to both of you, I remember an old song, the one grandma loves. But I couldn’t really remember the lyrics, so I looked it up. Love me tender, love me sweet. The music was playing softly, so I fumbled to find the volume button. Never let me go. I turned up the music, closing my eyes to appreciate the comforting voice of the singer.

And I love you so.

COM PETI TION

Tabula Rasa challenged the Pinewood community to respond to the following competition prompts. We received a slew of wonderful submissions, but we ultimately selected the following pieces for inclusion in the magazine. For individual contest prompts and guidelines, please see their respective pages.

METAPHOR POEM COMPETITION

Winner - Will Ahrens, 9

Runner-up - Marco Calia, 9

Finalists - Peyton Chui, 9, Sean King, 9, Alea Budge, 9, Lulu Diffenbaugh, 9, Owen Terry, 9

NON-HUMAN PERSPECTIVE COMPETITION

Winner - Natasha Moretti, 8

Runner-up - Nicole Maneatis, 9

COMPETITION METAPHOR POEM

PROMPT: Write a metaphor riddle using clues such as imagery and figurative language to guide the reader.

INSTRUCTIONS: Fill in the blank with your guess for each metaphor poem’s title. The answers are listed upside down underneath each poem.

1st PLACE

RUNNERUP

BY WILL AHRENS, 9

They pull me out of the box

And tear me away from my friends

Then soak me in boiling water

Until I meet my end

Then pull me out by my string

And throw me in the bin

That dark and scary place

Where all the other corpses live

Then add the milk and sugar to my blood

Then sip my remains with their pinkies up

ANSWER: TEA BAG

BY MARCO CALIA, 9

I’m always being pummeled

For 90 minutes straight

I tumble around a vast green sea

Splatting into metal bars and heads

Getting trapped in a binding white net

For the enjoyment of my abusers

Then being thrown in a bag

With many other Dalmatian-spotted me’s Only to be kicked back out with a deafening chirp

ANSWER: SOCCER BALL

BY SEAN KING, 9

With its deep, wide stomach and gaping jaws, it is always hungry for more It can’t talk, but it still cries out For some kind passerby To give it food

Waiting in silence to be fed With the dregs of the world

ANSWER: :STAPLER

BY OWEN TERRY, 9

I sit still all day and night until you turn my head. I spit to keep you alive, Or to keep your things clean. When your stomachs can’t take any more, My stomach takes the rest, And I digest it loudly.

ANSWER: SINK

BY PEYTON CHUI, 9

A mechanical alligator sits on a desk

Under pressure it shows its metal teeth

Sinking them into its prey

Before opening its mouth once again

ANSWER: STAPLER

BY ALEA BUDGE, 9

Plastered on the wall it waits

Nothing moves except for its three long fingers. The red finger dances around in circles, never stopping The long black finger glides slowly as if on an ice skating rink, The short black finger trudges through a thick blizzard for hours.

As the fingers move in circles across the white stage they run into black painted figures. The show never ends though, They just keep dancing.

ANSWER: CLOCK

BY LULU DIFFENBAUGH, 9

I sit on the silver stand, still and silent but my friend Ms. Summers keeps me useful all day long. My kids leave me open and my brain slowly fades away, my mind leaking from my skull like a pool of blood, but Ms. Summers always finds my top hat and places it gently back on my head.

ANSWER: WHITE BOARD MARKER

NON HUMAN PERPECTIVE

COMPETITION

PROMPT: Write a piece from a non-human perspective. An animal, a tree, a piece of homework, a Roman statue in the MET, a peach hanging from a courtyard -- give a human voice to something that doesn’t have one.

1st Place

The FLOORBOARDS

BY NATASHA MORETTI, 8

The cotton blinds tremble, blinks of pearly moonlight flickering in the drafty darkness. The planks sleep in a sheet of glistening silver, dreaming. They remember when she first arrived, her skin youthful, her eyes gleaming naively as she pushed heavy boxes across them. They remember when she sat at the flimsy table, her tired eyes absorbing text in thick books as she slurped curly strands of pale yellow who’s broth spilled and burned their wooden skin. They remember when he entered her world, armed with a suitcase that left them etched with narrow scratches, and a charming mask that had fooled her into innocent love. When the

tree’s string of white lights dotted them with glowing stars as he clutched her ringless hands. When the glowing screen illuminated them with funny scenes, as he wrapped her in a gentle embrace, their happy giggles echoing against the walls. They remember his feet stumbled over them crookedly, the room smelling of whisky, and her purple arms dragged him to bed. When her world crumbled because of two pink lines, salty tears dripping onto their scarred boards while they listened to her shocked sobs and angry screams. After that, they remember lively laughter stopped filling the room, the familiar shoes of friends stopped scuffing against them, and she was left. Alone. Believing his lie that solitude was better for her and the tiny human inside of her. They remember when the little infant’s soft feet tentatively took her first wobbly steps across them, and her lips finally spread into a radiant grin, her eyes crinkling as she beamed. They remember when the flames on the striped sticks of wax glittered, as the baby’s fragile hands stuffed satiny cake into her rosy cheeks, and their smooth surface caught sugary frosting falling from her mouth. They remember when the woman collapsed on top of them, barely breathing, dark marks from his pointed shoes on her pink silk blouse. And the wailing lights arrived, casting their blue and red shadows onto them as she disappeared on a plastic board, their wounded oak stained with cranberry.

Now, the dark floors feel the shiver of his snores. A wooden door creaks open, splinters of cold light flood the kitchen. Two pairs of quiet feet float over them, a suitcase trailing behind. The toddler grips a disheveled stuffed sheep and presses it against her chest, as the mother pulls her in the direction of the door. The soft footsteps stop. The woman’s bloodshot eyes turn for one last time. Her bony fingers twist the brass doorknob, her heart fills with uncertainty and then relief as she crosses the threshold and slips into the night. Their polished boards will never forget her.

RUNNER-UP

THE SOLO SNEAKY SNAKE

BY NICOLE MANEATIS, 9

Earlier today, I had left a trick unfinished, and I could still feel the sting of the whip that the tall instructor had beat me with as punishment. The throbbing pain started on my middle back, but has now spread like rough ocean waves to every corner of my body. Even when I was lying down, I could feel the tremors vibrate down every vertebrae of my spine like an earthquake. There I was, staring blankly at the blood stained wall––the only home I knew––but then I pushed myself to look a little farther to the edge of the open animal garage, which allowed my perception of that area to change from the impossibility of escape to the possibility of freedom and the hope of a better life. At that moment, something sparked in the empty abyss inside of me, something I didn’t know existed. I felt like something important was missing from my life––and the empty space needed to be filled. My longing for freedom started earlier this year, and it took the full duration of restless nights, undoubtable pain, and incredible loneliness for me to realize I needed to leave!

I looked at my small food dish, which had been lacking in rodents for some time now, and only containing a disappointing amount of washed out grain in an unkept, berry-stained, fly-infested dish. If my brain truly were the size of a walnut, like many of my instructors said, then explain to me how I figured out how to open my cage. That was all I could think about when

I plucked the lock from the bolt by using a stick I produced from the bottom of the cage. It all happened so fast; the stick only dangled from my mouth for half a minute while I sorted out my positioning. The actual action only took ten seconds. They chime of the lock disconnecting from my cage sounded like my heart actually starting after all this time. I was finally going to have a life. I slithered out of the animal garage, pushing my way through the cold metal bars of the shady area. I broke free with a beeline for the forest, pushing my head up and thrusting my body forward, to unmarked territory through the damp soil, spotting the occasional mouse and losing it in the approaching night. I snapped at the fifth vole I saw only to discover him beneath my head, a couple inches under the soft soil, and then he was gone.

I flicked my tongue in defeat only to smell the precise pheromones my instincts have trained me to crave, from my Jacobson’s organ. The taste of the wilderness was so incredibly intoxicating and superior to anything I have ever tasted before, that I slithered on even after that calamity. I felt the fire of my ancestors when they hunted their own voles and mice, fearlessly running into the sunset; I was finally unchained and unlimited in my potential! I slithered and slithered, reaching my top speed, and chasing mice to oblivion, until I reached the end of the sunlight, and I was fully emerged in the eerie night. I still did not have a meal, and all the rackets of nocturnal birds and ground dwellers sent alternating shivers across my spine. Would I make it in this new world?

Sophia Cheng ’24

Sophia Cheng is an energetic seventh grader who is thrilled to be featured in this issue of Tabula Rasa. When she is not stressing over math homework, Sophia enjoys re-reading Harry Potter an alarming number of times, playing basketball, watching Grey’s Anatomy on Netflix (and sobbing), and listening to country music. She also enjoys being the only seventh grader on The Perennial.

Bridget Rees ’24

Bridget Rees is a seventh grader who loves cartoons and anime and is still procrastinating on starting animation. In her free time, she likes to play video games, draw, read manga and comics, watch cartoons, play four-stringed instruments, and be sarcastic. Scratch that, she always likes to be sarcastic.

Florencia Rodriguez Steube ’24

Florencia Rodriguez Steube, a current seventh grader, submitted to Tabula Rasa for the first time this year. She loves to write both in school and in her free time. When not putting pen to paper, Flo can be found reading, singing in the shower, or spending time with her dogs, Mimo and Hamilton.

Sahana Arnikar ’23

Sahana Arnikar is an eighth grader. She enjoys drawing, annoying her dog and friends, making mediocre puns, and binging Netflix. She is perpetually on a hunt for food, whether it be chips, candies, or boba.

Natasha Moretti ’23

Natasha is an eighth grader who likes playing the clarinet, figure skating, chocolate, and binging Netflix. She also enjoys spending time with her friends and reading. She is excited for her work to be published in Tabula Rasa for the first time!

Yonu Oh ’23

Yonu Oh, an eighth grader, is delighted to be part of this year’s Tabula Rasa community. Other than being a prolific writer and an aggressive reader, Yonu loves to exercise whenever some time is given. Through Pilates, she hopes to spread the importance of body maintenance in her society.

Hailey Alexander ’22

Hailey Alexander is a freshman at Pinewood, and she is stoked to be featured in this year’s Tabula Rasa. Hailey loves watching sunsets, writing, taking pictures, exploring the outdoors, and wakeboarding.

Will Ahrens ’22

Will Ahrens is a freshman who is excited to be part of Tabula Rasa for the first time. He enjoys drawing, dogs, and stage managing the high school plays. He absolutely loves the TV show Friends.

Alea Budge ’22

Alea Budge is a Freshman and loves to write. She has been writing since she was in kindergarten and is super excited about Tabula Rasa. She can’t wait to continue to excel in the arts.

Marco Calia ’22

Marco Calia, a freshman, is psyched to have been chosen for this year’s Tabula Rasa. He enjoys writing in his [private] blog, where he has written about everything from escape room tips and tricks to delicious açaí bowl recipes. Marco’s hobbies include playing tennis, acting, and hanging out with his four goofy dogs and two companionable horses (and his awesome friends, of course)!

Michelle Chen ’22

Xiaotong (Michelle) Chen is a freshman originally from Beijing, China, but most recently from Hong Kong. She has one adorable three-year-old brother and a really annoying fourthgrade brother. She started her art journey at the age of five when her parents needed a break from her and enrolled her in art class. Fortunately, she took to it. In her spare time, she loves listening to depression rock, reading, hanging out with friends, and watching detective movies.

Peyton Chui ’22

Peyton Chui is a freshman who doesn’t like to write biographies, especially about himself.

Lulu Diffenbaugh ’22

Lulu Diffenbaugh is so excited for her work to be shared in this year’s Tabula Rasa! She loves all reading, writing, and art classes and can’t wait for more throughout high school!

Sean King ’22

Sean King is a freshman at Pinewood who is excited to be featured for the first time in Tabula Rasa. He has been at Pinewood since kindergarten, and as a result, has been writing since he can remember. He is also a copy editor for The Perennial. At any given moment, he can be found getting tricked into eating a spicy pepper by his friends. In his free time, he enjoys mountain biking the mountains of the American West or playing tennis.

Magnolia Lemmon ’22

Magnolia Lemmon, a freshman, is so excited to be part of Tabula Rasa. In her free time she loves to sing, dance, bake anything sugary, and hang out with her best pal, Arthur (her dog).

Janet Liu ’22

Janet Liu is a ninth grader who loves spending her time drawing. She has been going to art class since she was 4 years old. She has also become a TA for art. Besides art, Janet Liu loves to listen to Taylor Swift music, travel and hang out with friends.

Nicole Maneatis ’22

Nicole Maneatis is a freshman who owns way too many geckos. If they could talk, they would say she is often out of the house running track, playing tennis, or staring up at the sky, thousands of light years, away wishing she was there. She additionally enjoys painting, studying astronomy, skiing, reading and designing in her free time. Last year, she was published twice in Stanford Anthology for Youth.

Emily Takara ’22

Emily Takara is a freshman who enjoys drawing, sleeping, and eating. In her free time, she likes to draw, sleep, and eat.

Maya Zhan ’22

Maya Zhan is a freshman who loves playing instruments, singing, and finding inspiration through music. She also enjoys exploring different types of art. In her free time, she enjoys watching Family Guy and switching between the same five apps on her phone.

Tasha Epstein ’21

Tasha Epstein is a current sophomore who loves writing and runs a cat sitting business. She thinks everyone can make peace with their mental issues and aspires to be a psychologist. By writing about her own experience with mental illness, she hopes to decrease the stigma around mental health. In her copious free time, she listens to pop and Broadway music and plays with her four cats.

Sam Kavich ’21

Sam Kavich is currently a sophomore and is overjoyed to be featured in this year’s Tabula Rasa. Outside of reading and writing, you can find her onstage or behind a camera making short films for fun. Sam is a huge fantasy/sci-fi/superhero nerd and aspires to be a screenwriter for those genres someday.

Eva Liu ’21

Eva Liu is a sophomore and is thrilled to be part of Tabula Rasa again. When she is not writing poems at midnight, Eva spends her time playing tennis, watching political TV shows, and investing her money in buying more vanilla lattes at Starbucks.

Micaela Rodriguez Steube ’21

Micaela Rodriguez Steube is a current sophomore and is thrilled to be a part of Tabula Rasa for the second year in a row. When not on stage, she loves to write and does so in her free time. Micaela is the biggest chemistry nerd and hopes to pursue forensic science.

Srinivas Balagopal ’20

Srinivas Balagopal has a variety of interests, including developing science projects, prepping for Lincoln-Douglas debates, regularly practicing competitive Kung Fu, contributing to The Perennial, and watching political TV shows. Srinivas believes in the power of being receptive to new perspectives and situations. He is grateful to be featured in Tabula Rasa!

Carter Brady ’20

Junior Carter Brady is honored to be featured in Tabula Rasa this year. Other than reading and occasionally writing, Carter enjoys theatre, participating in the a cappella group Take Note, running cross-country and track, and playing soccer. He is also the News section editor for The Perennial.

Annika Duan ’20

Annika Duan is a junior who enjoys photography and art as hobbies. Her inspiration comes from a variety of music genres, and her favorite artist at the moment is gnash. In her free time, Annika enjoys the ever-so-soothing experience of wasting her life away on Netflix.

Austin Fahoudi ’20

Austin Farhoudi is a junior who enjoys making art sometimes. He is also an aspiring entrepreneur that is looking to take his affinity for design and build a clothing brand in the future. He is excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa this year!

Bella Fuller ’20

Junior Bella Fuller is excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa this year. She loves art and is currently enrolled in the AP Studio Art: Drawing and Painting class. In her free time, Bella enjoys painting with watercolors and sketching with charcoals.

Kiley Haberkorn ’20

Kiley Haberkorn is a junior who enjoys creating art. She encourages her viewers to push their own imagination to new limits, and she focuses on surreal and minimalistic artwork in hopes of sparking thoughts in her viewers’ minds.

Katherine Han ’20

Katherine Han is a junior who enjoys filming and listening to music in her free time. She has a bunny, Skip, whom she absolutely adores. Katherine is a very talkative and energetic person, and she is the Media Director for The Perennial. Katherine also has an unhealthy obsession with the TV show Jane the Virgin.

Peirong Li ’20

Peirong Li is a junior who enjoys writing and reading. She is also interested in the STEM field, especially biology, and strives to be a well-rounded scholar. Finally, her de-stressing activities mainly consist of web-surfing on Youtube and binging C-dramas.

Ellery Mitchell ’20

Ellery Mitchell is a junior who uses writing as a creative outlet and as a way to reflect on experiences. She is very excited to be featured in the Tabula Rasa for her first time this year! She is a passionate softball player with a goal of playing in college as well as studying American Literature in college.

Olivia Page ’20

Olivia Page is a current junior who has taken to developing her artistic skills over the last few years. Her favorite mediums include charcoal, paint, and graphite. See one of her works on display at the Los Altos Rotary Fine Arts Show. Olivia also enjoys being an editor on The Perennial and playing club and high school soccer.

Ela Diffenbaugh ’19

Ela Diffenbaugh is a senior that enjoys stargazing, pumpkin muffins, mitosis, and cats. She is so excited to try something new by being published in Tabula Rasa this year!

Elizabeth Peters ’19

Elizabeth Peters is a current senior and mac and cheese enthusiast. In their free time, they like to pet their cat, play video games, and draw. At Pinewood, Elizabeth participates in technical theatre for plays, musicals, and showcases.

Cecile Smith ’19

Cecile Smith is a senior who likes programming, playing piano and guitar, drawing, painting, and doing backstage for the musical. In the fall, she will be attending the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. She is excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa one last time!

STAFF BIOS

Katherine Chui ’20 - Editor

Katherine Chui is a current junior who enjoys painting, drawing, photography, and animation. She’s obsessed with transparent things like jellyfish and likes listening to the same songs over and over. Outside of Tabula Rasa, she also serves as creative director of The Perennial. She also loves the movie The Imitation Game to an unhealthy degree.

Sarah Feng ’20 - Editor

Sarah Feng is a student and flower lover. She finds inspiration for her poetry in Californian poppies, sweeping dovetails, and the language of Steinbeck, Atwood, Faulkner, and Morrison. She’s co-editor-in-chief of The Perennial. Find her work in The Adroit Journal, the 2018 Foyle Young Poets Anthology, and Gigantic Sequins. She also loves running track & field, eating dark chocolate, and listening to lo-fi music.

Reilly Brady ’20 - Editor

Junior Reilly Brady loves the arts—from journalistic writing to painting and sketching, she involves herself in all aspects of it. In addition to being a Tabula Rasa editor, Reilly participates in student council and sings for Pinewood’s a cappella group Take Note.

Sabrina Strand - Advisor

David Wells - Advisor

ABOUT TABULA RASA

Tabula Rasa, established in 2016, is an annual, award-winning publication showcasing literature and art by students of Pinewood School. In 2018, the magazine received a ranking of Excellent from the National Council of Teachers of English as well as a Second Place award from the American Scholastic Press Association. Tabula Rasa accepts prose, poetry, cross-genre, and art submissions from Upper Campus students, who are in grades 7-12. All types of work are accepted during our submission period; we simply ask for the best, most honest creative work that each student has to offer.

Tabula Rasa is advised by Pinewood English teachers Sabrina Strand and David Wells and edited by a small group of high schoolers who love the literary and visual arts. Any questions or comments regarding the publication may be directed to tabularasa@pinewood.edu.

The magazine’s next submission period will open February 2020. Students may submit through an online portal that will become available at that time.

Thank you for reading the 2019 edition of Tabula Rasa. We hope you enjoyed your stay.

–– Sarah Feng, Katherine Chui, Reilly Brady

EDITORS EMERITUS

2016-17

Priya Sundaresan ’17

Zarin Mohsenin ’17

COPYRIGHT © 2018-19

PINEWOOD SCHOOL