2024 | Tabula Rasa

TABULA RASA

[front cover]

THE PINK PALACE | Emma Hwang ’24 | Procreate

TABULA RASA

Vol. VIII | 2024 | Pinewood School | Los Altos Hills, CA

Editor-in-Chief

Emma Hwang

Assistant Editors

Esha Joshi

Makena Matula

Violet Negrette

Josephine Tu

Sophia Yao

Managing Editor

Sophia Yao

Web Editor

Kathleen Xie

Advisors

Holly Coty

David Wells

A NOTE FROM THE ARTIST, EMMA HWANG ’24, ABOUT THE FRONT COVER

An elegant blush pink jutting through a deep blue sky, this architectural feat called me to capture its beauty in a painting. I sought to replicate its mesmerizing feel, carving out the beautiful building in Procreate. From the jagged strokes of the palm trees to the smoothness of the pink walls, this piece is an exploration of texture and experimentation. Original reference photos were used.

Vol. VIII

Pinewood School’s Literary Arts Magazine 26800 W. Fremont Road, Los Altos Hills, CA 94022 (650)-209-3010

tabularasasubmissions@pinewood.edu pwtabularasa.org May 2024

TABLE OF CONTENTS

2 PROTESTOR , Rishi Chen ‘27

3 ANCIENT , Davin Ternus ‘ 28

4 WORTHLESS , Josephine Tu ‘25

5 FACE , James Chang ‘ 25

6 ADJACENT , Jonathan Detkin ‘25

9 THE TRUTH OF GLOBAL WARMING , Diana Natsev ‘29

8 MORRO BAY , Makena Matula ‘24

10 PERFECTION , Esha Joshi ‘26

11 FORGOTTEN , Arianna Wessel ‘25

13 SCHOOL DANCES ARE LAME , Josephine Tu ’25

12 KALEIDOSCOPE , Gabby Yang ‘ 25

14 TALKING TO THE MOON , Kaitlyn Maier ‘27

16 INDIGOS OF TWLIGHT , Max Rees ’26

17 NO EGRETS , Makena Matula ‘ 24

17 BOAT AND THICKET , Josephine Tu ‘ 25 18 SHADOWS , Sophie Saibi ’27

20 DIGGING TOO DEEP, Aaron Xie ‘27

21 SUMMER , James Chang ‘25

22 JOSE HIGUERA ADOBE , Michael Bradley ‘25

25 GRAVEYARD SHIFT , Josephine Tu ‘25

26 ICARUS , Alisha Ramani ’27

27 SPRING , James Chang ‘25

29 TURKEY VULTURE , Michael Bradley ‘25

29 A BLEAK SKY , Davin Ternus ‘28

30 DEAR OVERARCHING FEELING , Derrick Harris ‘27

31 TOMORROW , Josephine Tu ‘ 25

32 AN OLD MAN REMINISCES , Rishi Chen ’27

32 AUGUST IN THE BACKYARD , Karina Aronson ‘24

34 A SANCTUARY OF HIDDEN WORLDS , Ella Kim ‘ 28

35 ED LEVIN , Michael Bradley ‘ 25

36 CHILDHOOD HAMARTIA , Kelly Anne Tu ’27

37 FLORESCENCE , Gabby Yang ’25

38 GREEN-CROWNED BRILLIANT , Makena Matula ‘ 24

40 GOOD GIRL , Esha Joshi ‘26

41 BENEATH THE SURFACE , Rekha Seiber ‘27

42 BLEED , Michael Shtrom, ‘25

42 FOUNTAIN , Emma Hwang ’24

44 BRIDGE WITH DAD , Brandon Ge ’24

45 BUGATTI , Alexander McCormick ‘24

46 I'VE FOUND MY HEART'S A BEEHIVE , Max Rees ‘26

47 AÑO NUEVO , Makena Matula ’24

48 I COULD SIT FOREVER , Michael Shtrom ’25

49 SAND & SILLHOUETTES , Kathleen Xie ’25

49 PACIFIC GROVE , Michael Bradley ‘ 25

51 ON WHY WE WRITE , Josephine Tu ’25

50 FIVE GUYS , Michael Bradley ‘ 25

51 FOXGLOVE TEA , Bridget Rees ‘ 24

53 SAVANNAH'S ENTERTAINMENT , Michael Bradley ‘ 25

54 NO CAMERA , Sahana Inumpudi ’29

55 THE ELEVATOR , Emma Hwang ’24

57 INCENSE , Marley Thornson ’25

58 SUN AND MOON , Violet Negrette ‘25

59 HALO , Josephine Tu, ‘25

60 DEAR MY PAST SELF , Tiffany Au ’27

61 WINTER , James Chang ’25

62 SCROLLING THROUGH MY CAMERA ROLL , Sophia Yao ‘ 24

63 YESTERDAY , Josephine Tu ’25

64 A BRIEF DICTIONARY FOR BRIEF FEELINGS , Kathleen Xie ‘25

65 DAHLIA , Emma Hwang ‘ 24

67 JUNO'S POLAROID , Emma Hwang ‘24

66 AUGUST, STILL IN THE BACKYARD , Karina Aronson ‘24

68 DEATH IN THE FAMILY , Ian Hsiao ’26

69 RAYS , Davin Ternus ‘28

70 GLACIER , Kathleen Xie ‘ 25

73 FALL , James Chang ‘ 25

75 TYBEE ISLAND , Michael Bradley ‘ 25

76 HER REBIRTH , Lara Parikh ’26

76 OVERGROWN , Davin Ternus ’28

79 WHY DO YOU ALWAYS COME BACK? , Addison Parenti ’26

78 DESOLATE , Davin Ternus ’28

80 MY CRIMSON COAT , Alisha Ramani ’27

80 FLAME LINED CHITON , Makena Matula ‘24

82 THE WORST and RED , Elizabeth Liang ’27

83 A MEMORY'S SCENT , Emma Hwang ‘24

84 A LOVE LETTER TO PEARS (AND MY MOM) , Emma Hwang ’24

85 TOMATO SALAD , Emma Hwang ‘24

85 EGGU SEASONING BOXES , Jake Lee and Emma Hwang ‘24

86 TARANTULAS , Arjun Ari ‘25

86 SPOODER , Emma Hwang ‘24

88 BLACKOUT POETRY

89 BLACKOUT POETRY , Claire Wu ‘27

90 CRYSTALIZE , Jia Lee ‘28

92 COMPETITIONS

101 UTENSILS , Emma Hwang ‘24

102 CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

106 STAFF BIOS

EDITOR’S NOTE

The true marker of the school year coming to a close is the publication of another fabulous volume of Pinewood's literary arts magazine. Welcome to the 2024 edition of Tabula Rasa.

You may notice the theme of green in our magazine (and our submission flyers), representing the growth of Tabula Rasa, the number of contributors, and the confidence we’ve kindled to reach new heights this year. From the illustrations of “Bleed” and “Tarantulas” to the uniquely formatted “scrolling through my camera roll” and blackout poetry pieces, I hope you can feel the courage we’ve had to be rule-breakers, to be unconventional, and to share the illimitable nature of the arts.

This year, we received a record number of submissions, each one stunning and original, and I thank every student who submitted to our magazine. Even if your pieces haven't been featured in this volume, I encourage you to keep finding your voice through your work and to submit again in the future.

I’d also like to shout out my wonderful editorial team who have put in many hours learning the tricky program that is Adobe InDesign to make our magazine a worthy home for the works of our community. It was an honor working with you and I will miss you all very much next year.

Finally, thank you very much to our advisors, Ms. Coty and Mr. Wells, for making this literary arts magazine possible, and our readers for your continual support for the arts.

On behalf of the editorial staff, it is my honor to present to you this year’s edition of Tabula Rasa.

Emma Hwang '24 Editor-in-Chief

PROTESTOR

Rishi Chen ’27

Sir, how did you do it–All of your gashes, they've gone inside-out–and your rosered blood–it’s flowing into the gutter–Sir, the wounds in your spine–they’re shimmering with the onset of night–the thorns no longer drip but they dig–I can almost see the nation you've flipped on its side–Sir, your eyes are dilated–there’s a film over your pupil–and it's gone coffee-brown–and the people are flooding by to guzzle it–Sir, can you hear me–are your ears plugged–with the rubies of their choke-chains–I can't–I can’t hear–over all the cracklings of the flames–I can't–I can't hear–over the gusts of wind in your diaphragm–Sir, are you with me now–Do you feel the tug–of the silver-tongued masters–and their shrill analogies–Do you feel their fingers–calloused and cracked–around your metal-enhanced throat–Sir, are you with me now–can you understand the gravity–of the reality–you’ve created–Sir, are you feeling better–you may release the tension in your knuckles–they’ve gone white–as the beginning you’ve set loose–Sir, was there anyone around when it happened–slack-jawed and effervescent–a story for the ages–Sir, do you know what took place–a war of the books–the crack of a bullet–a feeling of relentless indifference–coupled with deference–Sir, you've lost lots of weight–Has it been donated to the needy–with your courage and the rogue society–that formed of your pus–Sir, are you feeling light-headed–did the help of time and the aid of movement–push you past your unforseen limit–Sir, we will get you to safety–the security of a home–and the security of a future–or the ending of a long-winded novel–Sir, you were being very brave–and did you know–that they couldn't make out any of the details–and that the battle is all but over–Sir, are you there–Sir–Sir–is your ambrosia-and-nectar concoction–lethal to all but you–is that why–why–why you float–above the peonies and dahlias–Sir, are you there–they could barely make out your silk-soft infliction–but I could–and I told them–I did–Sir, are you there–your arms still move with the ebbing–and fading– of the normal–but your torso–as limp as your torn eyelids–Sir, are you there–your revolution has begun ------Sir-----------Sir------------------Sir-------

WORTHLESS

Josephine Tu ’25

look around. we’ve learned to consume ourselves from the inside out, split a soul sometimes, hollow it out for rent. As wholes we are worth less than shells of former selves. The heat of it all was unbearable so we burned our bodies first. became effigies of ourselves, composed elegies, for ourselves we eulogized and apologized for our sins. I used to swallow myself whole, I think, (a pathetic attempt at autophagy,) until I was encased in sticky membranes. a pearl is just expensive sediment. a glorified bullet lodged in oyster flesh. cover your deformities and suture up your gaping abdominal wound. dilute your sorrows. compress your existence into a singular point: I’ve heard that crushed dreams turn to diamond under pressure structural integrity can be sacrificed to make for a quick flip—

FACE | James Chang ’25 | ink on watercolor paper

ADJACENCE

Jonathan Detkin ’25

Sidewalks.

A collection of feet from the past.

Memories in dirt specks.

Longing in the cracks.

Desperation in the seams.

This is not just a sidewalk.

This is my walk.

THE TRUTH OF GLOBAL WARMING

Diana Natsev ’29

Our carelessness and ignorance kills

Kills who, So many And why

Because of laziness

Simple procrastination that turns from “I’ll help soon” to Let the next generation do it

Because we won’t be here

But what if we were Witnessing the slow decay of our home

Our rotting spirit and soul

So

Our neglect kills

Kills more and more Every year, every day, every second

Our indifference causes death Soon to be ours

PERFECTION

Esha Joshi ’ 26

I never hated perfection until it looked like you, and then I hated you too.

I never hated perfection until you held it in your hands, as strong and sure as the earth carrying us all.

I never hated perfection until the way your arms swung wide as if you deserved all the space you take up, until the way your smile brightened as if you deserved all the praise they give you, until the way your voice rang out as if you deserved everyone’s gaze and their eager eyes.

I never hated perfection until it made me wonder why I want to take it from you.

I never hated perfection until I wanted to crack your marble skin and mine the gold sparkling in your eyes and siphon the honey from your throat, until I wanted to steal the treasures I swore you had no right to own.

I never hated perfection until it made me question if I had the right, either.

I never hated perfection until you made me feel this way, the twisting in my stomach and the burning in my chest, until I hated you more than ever, but you always said my name when we saw each other in the hallway.

I never hated perfection until I realized that I’ve been chasing an illusion, and that even your hands have been dry and cracked and bleeding, until I realized that I’ve been fighting a phantom, and there is nothing wrong with your face or words or mind.

I never hated perfection until I wanted to be like you, and then I knew I hated myself.

FORGOTTEN | Arianna Wessel ’25 | photography

SCHOOL DANCES ARE LAME

Josephine Tu ’25

The dance floor is blue. A kind of ultraviolet blue, that paints radium on white shirts and teeth. Strobe lights, lasers strike opposite walls, flickering neon signs and spotlights like a pack of highlighters, a psychedelic fever dream, if you will (you’d think it were a light show, a retro sort of fourth of july). bass reverberates from deep within the belly of the earth, and i feel the seismic activity of bones despite the viscosity of the slow moving / blood in my / veins rushing to the brain / can feel the record / scratches on my back / taste of burning rubber / acid rain / just swirl it all inside my guts have you / heard about the / teens high on adrenaline disintegrating / in glow sticks & lukewarm moisture (sweet spit tastes hot in my mouth) / sweat is evaporating & recondensing on walls / reach vapor liquid equilibrium / & / pulsating heat & sound waves & solar flares sweating / teens jump in crooked / undulating waves watch heat & light & sound & teens stack up in an equalizer only to find out you. cant? time lapse the slow motion picture like an ocean of red solo cups & streamers & smoke bubbles strewn on chalk floors covered in fingers sticky with spit collecting inhale cheeto dust & exhale shirts damp with sweat & sticky soda spit sweat weak sticky spit sweet slowly slowly / slowly / sinking in jello & swimming upside down backwards through time & hourglass bodies & appendages starring as waving inflatable men did you know bathroom walls / are surprisingly noise canceling? sinks overflowing in like fish bile like stagnant liminal wet out in-out inremember to slow down and / breathe? / this song is lame & this song is lame but is this song (am i) ur mom is lame i feel like bass & snares & hi hats make for a good jackhammer & maybe like my eyes are on fire & inhale a right hand like a two-fingered gun ready to blow out the speakers now exhale sweaty palms into a skull instead pressurized close to bursting on its one spinning axis one two three two threee ttwo gonna h(–URL) CAL!FORN!FORN!A GURLS! ARE UN FOROFORGGETTABLE ARe you. ok headphones (i forgot) at home no italy water air water air-gonnahurl-three-two -almost (one)

TALKING TO THE MOON

Kaitlyn Maier ’27

Inside the frame of the moon, a pale woman stretches her body into a crescent, lengthens her spine and extends her fingers, pops a few knuckles with cracks that mingle with the crickets’ hums her eyes twinkle like the stars and her cheeks flush with blotches of nebulas and all around her is the bright white cutout of a spotlight which she reflects back onto the earth

That light makes my skin seem warbled and my hair look wild, like she’s hoarding any beauty in this moment for herself

I see her yawn and flip over to the other side dragging her light like wax across an old wooden table, her sarong weaved of shadow rippling in the evening breeze behind her.

“The moon is so pretty tonight.”

I’m so much farther away from her than from the friends I’m with, but I think she heard me better than them.

I think I said that out loud, but . . . only the moon and the crickets respond.

“It’s a waning gibbous,”

I add because I don’t know what else to say I’m so distant from the conversation, swimming through space, the space between the ground and me and the clouds, sputtering wondering when I ran out of air my throat rough like a cricket’s and suddenly, I think I know why no one but the moon wants to listen.

INDIGOS OF TWILIGHT

Max Rees ’26

You are what is now a thicket of trees

Golden, evening light filtering through branches

Earthy sage of evergreen leaves and faded jade

Puddles reflecting worlds of deep wisdom and melancholy

And, somehow, childlike awe and creativity

You are what was just a crash of rain

A shiver of wind, a crack of bark and wood grain

Weathered swathes of gray with heavy eyelids

Whose arms gave out to relentless downpour

Muted tones, washed in stone and cement

You are what will be the infinite purples and indigos of twilight

Chromatic shining stars, in silver crimson or baby blue

Prismatic planets swimming in a galactic wash of ink

A system of roots anchored in rich and solid soil

A crown of branches reaching to the worlds just out of grasp

There’s wonder in its mundanity

Or nostalgia in its temporality

You are a place I have never seen before, but you are home nonetheless

BOAT AND THICKET | Josephine Tu ’25 | photography

NO EGRETS | Makena Matula ’24 | photography

SHADOWS

Shadows dance around. Prancing in nooks light can’t reach. It envelops me.

Sophie Saibi ’27

SHADOWS | Sophie Saibi ‘27 | Procreate

DIGGING TOO DEEP

Aaron Xie ’27

The light buzz of conversation reached Zach Walker as he headed toward his boarding gate. His head felt light for the first time in half a year. His boss had finally let him take a break from his job as a gravedigger, so now he was heading to Hawaii for a week to relax and take a hiatus from work.

Suddenly, the speakers blared, and a female voice spoke, “Good afternoon, passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for flight HA118 to Honolulu, Hawaii. We are now inviting passengers to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Thank you.”

“Finally, a break from this scummy job. After a week, I’ll have to go back to gravedigging; what a pain…” Zach muttered bitterly.

Upon reaching his gate at last, he noticed a man reading a magazine furtively. He was standing by himself, wearing a large Hawaiian shirt that stood out among the other people at his gate who were wearing casual clothes.

The man glanced up at him, his eyes lighting up with interest.

Zach looked at the man closely and realized he was carrying a small briefcase. Why was the man eyeing him?

Zach sat on one of the seats next to his gate and pretended to ignore the man’s stare. Zach held his breath as the man stood up from his seat and approached him.

“I need you to do something. We should talk about it in private,” the man whispered.

Zach looked frantically around to see if anyone else had been disturbed by this message, but everyone else acted normally. He thought about declining the strange man’s offer, but curiosity nagged him until he stood up and followed the strange man away from the gate.

The strange man had his small briefcase with him. Why would he need his briefcase? Does he want to give it to me? What for?

The man finally stopped walking. They weren’t far from his departure gate, but people had already begun getting up to stand in line near the reception desk. Once they scanned their visa, they could get on board the plane.

Zach began to get impatient when the man didn’t speak. He had somewhere to be, and didn’t this man also have to be on the flight?

“I need you to bring this on the plane,” the strange man said, holding his briefcase out expectantly.

“Wh— What? You want me to take whatever is inside that briefcase?” Zach was so confused that his words stumbled over each other.

| graphite

SUMMER | James Chang ’25

“What even is in that briefcase? How would I know it is not something dangerous? Why can’t you just do it yourself?”

Zach expected some kind of reaction from the strange man, but nothing came. Instead, he responded in a calm voice.

“Well, it passed through security, so it’s not dangerous. I’m not going on this flight because I have important things to do, and I’ll give you five hundred dollars if you assist me. My friend will be waiting for you at the end of your flight. I’ll call him to let him know who he should look for if you accept this deal. And don’t look inside the briefcase because it’s personal stuff,” the man explained.

This quickly caught Zach’s attention. He didn’t have much money, since digging graves gave him the minimum wage. Five hundred dollars was what he could get in a whole day of work, and all he had to do was accept a deal. And this money would certainly help him enjoy his trip more. Without much other thought, he agreed, drawn by the prospect of money.

The man grinned and gave Zach the brown suitcase. He glanced at the line to his flight, which was rapidly diminishing, and rushed to get in line.

Once he sat down on the plane, Zach shook the briefcase. The briefcase rattled, and it wasn’t that heavy. What could be inside? The man told me not to open it, but what harm could that do?

The briefcase looked like a small version of his suitcase. It was light brown and less than half the size of his. It didn’t have any lock, just a zipper. He decided that, with everyone awake, it was probably not the best time to open the briefcase, in case anyone else saw. He tucked it under his seat without a second thought and dozed off.

Curiosity nagged him until he woke up. There were still two hours left on the three-hour flight, but it was dark outside. The plane had departed just after sunset, and he guessed it was still a few hours before midnight. Snores sounded from everywhere around him, letting him know most people on the plane were asleep. Now, he could check what was inside the briefcase. It surely won’t be that bad, will it?

He took the briefcase out and carefully unzipped it. Zach felt curiosity driving him on until he looked inside. There was a carefully wrapped bag. Meticulously unwrapping the bag, he saw a smooth, white outline.

Bones? He quickly zipped the briefcase back up. They definitely were bones. And at a glance, they seemed in good condition. Yet something made him uneasy about this discovery. Since he was a gravedigger, he knew how to handle bones, and putting them in a plastic bag was certainly not the way to go. They needed to be kept in a cold and dry place. The briefcase was certainly a dry place, but not a cold one, so he called a flight attendant to ask for a cold towel. A few minutes later, with

his new cold towel, he carefully inserted the towel into the bag, below the bones to act as a cushion and to cool them down.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint his misgivings about the bones, but he realized it as he was about to fall asleep again. Those bones look like human bones! Don’t be silly! Why would that strange man ask me to bring human bones onto an airplane? Were those the bones of someone close to the strange man, or could it be something worse? Could this be the remnants of a murder? But why would he tell me to bring it to someone? If I murdered someone, I would surely bury the body, not give it to someone else, right? And why would I give it to a relative? Why wouldn’t I just come myself?

Zach admitted to himself there was nothing he could do, and as long as no one else saw what was inside the briefcase, it would all work out. There were only two hours left, so he decided to sleep to clear his mind, but his dreams were full of blood and bones. He woke to a rotting smell and realized that, although he did close his briefcase, he forgot to wrap the bones and now they were starting to smell. Perhaps the bag had some sort of odor containment inside, so it masked the scent for the first hour on the plane. Looking around, he saw others looking at the briefcase in disgust.

Thinking fast, Zach grabbed his briefcase and walked to the bathroom, but someone was inside. The flight attendant who was sitting next to him glanced at him apologetically. Then, her nose wrinkled as she smelled the sweet scent of death hanging in the air.

“Sir, may I ask what is in that suitcase? It does not have the most pleasant smell.” She stepped away, and Zach grew hot as he decided to make a hasty retreat back to his seat. He quickly wrapped the bones back up, surveying his surroundings twice to shift the briefcase away from prying eyes.

Sighing out a breath in relief, he sat down to think. If people find out I’m carrying a dead body, rumors could spread like wildfire that I murdered someone, but I didn’t! So, how do I respond to that accusation… The sound of lightning and thunder awoke him, and there was a voice announcing something in the plane. With a jolt, he realized he had dozed off.

“… We are experiencing turbulence because we are flying through a storm. This storm will delay our landing, so it will take approximately thirty minutes to land. Thank you.”

Lightning storm? In Hawaii? Now I have to wait longer!

He grabbed for his briefcase to make sure it was still there, but his fingers felt air. He quickly felt around again. He thought he had put it under his seat before he fell asleep, but it wasn’t there.

Frantically, Zach got up and looked around, feeling every corner under his seat, but it was gone. With an icy dread, he realized it had been taken.

By who?

Suddenly, he realized it. It must be that flight attendant! She asked what was in it before, and I didn’t respond! But how do I get it back without looking weird?

Looking around the plane, Zach couldn’t see the flight attendant anywhere. This was bad. If word got out that he was carrying a bag of bones, accusations would be thrown at him, and the truth would sound flimsy.

Thinking fast, he decided it was better to consult the flight attendant and explain before the whole plane knew. Right as he was about to get up, a flight attendant walked out from the captain’s area. It was the flight attendant! She motioned for him to follow, and he reluctantly did.

“Why exactly do you have bones in your suitcase?” That was the first question the flight attendant asked Zach as they reached the captain’s area. No one else was there, but with a sigh of relief, he saw his briefcase on a shelf nearby.

“Well, someone gave it to me and told me to deliver it to someone once I got off the flight,” Zach responded. He expected doubt or skepticism in the flight attendant’s voice, but there was none.

“Do you know who to give it to?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, I guess you can keep your suitcase. There’s nothing against the rules about transferring bones, but… ”

Zach felt she was going to accuse him of murder any second now, so he quickly took his briefcase and fled back to his seat.

He would not see that flight attendant during his flight again.

Zach waited as the final minutes of the flight ticked by, checking the briefcase to see if any of the bones had been touched or moved. That was a close one! I hope that flight attendant didn’t tell anyone else. Or else I’ll be stuck on this plane answering questions.

As the plane’s landing announcement was broadcast, everyone, including Zach, got out of their seats.

He quickly put the briefcase on top of his normal luggage and walked out with the rest of the passengers. Yay, I made it.

After stepping into the Hawaii airport, he began to look around for… someone. Zach hoped that someone could find him easily because he was lost in the crowd of someones in front of him. He didn’t even know what the person looked like.

A Hawaiian shirt caught his attention as he was about to exit the crowd to search elsewhere. It was that same Hawaiian shirt as the man who had given Zach his briefcase!

Zach quickly rushed toward him, confusion driving him onwards. If the person who gave me the package was going to travel here anyway, why ask me? Or is that his friend? Then why do they have the same shirt?

The man’s eyes brightened as he saw Zach. “So you’re the man my friend was talking about.”

Although this man sounded different from Zach’s mystery person, the man dressed the same. Perhaps he dressed similarly so that Zach could recognize him more easily. Without a word, Zach handed the briefcase to the man.

“You shouldn’t have put the bones in a plastic bag. They could get hot in there, and bones are best kept cold, so I added a cold towel to help preserve the bones— ” Zach realized that the man wasn’t listening and, instead, had broken into a wide grin, and then responded.

“Excellent, you passed the trial. Now, you must help me to bury this dead body, since I’m sure you know how to better than I do.”

ICARUS

Alisha Ramani ’27

When I fell to my death, I laughed.

Perhaps it was my infatuation with the sun that would be made an idiom for the ages. But how could one not, when given the chance? The golden, menacing, ethereal orb seemed to get closer with every flap of my melting wings. It seemed to know me better than the world I was now above. I knew what I was doing.

And one could see the moment as miserable. But the breeze was in my hair and my arms were swimming in silk and the sky was a glorious blue, the color of my own eyes. And the air was so salt-kissed, each breath a reminder of what lurked below. And the clouds were so full, extending endlessly, like the ones you see in Rococo paintings.

What do you think of in your final moments? What was I falling into? Who had I become?

I thought about how I grew up in a village that stood by my word, protected me in the dark, and hoisted me in the light. About all the dulcet smiles, shimmering with their pride in me. I thought of their prayers, their whispers of Hermes, and most of all, their loyalty.

The dangerous dog days and contemplative nights by the fire flickered in the clouds, along with the moments when all your free-will followed you down a grassy hill, and then everything and everyone was everywhere in my periphery. And nowhere at the same time.

And then I thought about the “I love yous” I had heard and said and spent like spare change, and the “I love yous” I had wanted to say and then bit my tongue, and I thought that the world would be better if we all professed our love purely and sincerely.

How three words could hold you in a fall from the sun.

And that when you would eventually fall and find your last thoughts with the birds, you never think of the things you didn’t do, only the things that you braved. My mountains, my skeletons, my ghosts; they seemed to fade away in my descent. The broken bones and biting pains and bruises became my battle scars, the proof I had overcome. The world was in perfect equilibrium of triumph and defeat, and I was tiptoeing on top of the scale.

| James Chang ’25 | graphite

SPRING

And I thought about my father’s eyes, ones that the English Poets could think of a million words to describe but none that would suffice. And so they would resort to all the golden things in the world, honey and silica and ambrosia and saffron— no word could ever hold the feeling of my father’s eyes. He was oak bark, scratched with a million memories. But in this last moment, I didn’t think of his disappointment or warning.

And I didn’t think about the waters that might be shark-infested or the fears and fights and the desperation of drowning. How the water might consume me and close in and how my lungs would not give up until they were doggy-paddling in quicksand.

And then I was coming Down Down Down

Into the world whose arms were outstretched and ready to catch me. Physics will tell you that the longer things fall, the faster they accelerate. I was getting faster and faster and the wind in my hair was at a speed that light would envy. And stories will tell you that I was too boisterous, that I had hubris, that how could I go so close to the thing that would kill me? But. I didn’t accelerate with pride. I accelerated with the defiance of not having a single drop of fear. There is great power in believing you’re flying when you’re falling. I was the highest man in the world. So I laughed.

A BLEAK SKY | Davin Ternus ’28 | photography

TURKEY VULTURE | Michael Bradley ‘25 | photography

DEAR OVERARCHING FEELING

Derrick Harris ’27

Dear Overarching Feeling,

I don’t know you

I never will

But you’re always there

I can’t catch you I can’t understand you I’m baffled by your presence

You’re the voice in my head

The shaking in my hand

Yet no emotion defines you

Sadness Happiness Jealousy

I know them

They are no mystery

But you are

You're a force that rivals Amelia Earhart’s disappearance, Cleopatra's Tomb Stonehenge

Please let me know you

Let me into your chamber of secrets

I have so many questions

How have you survived countless internal wars?

Returned home unscathed?

Why am I the one with wounds?

Please let me under your wing

Teach me your ways of survival

I try to hunt you down

I shoot countless arrows

laced with the most extreme toxins

I thought I almost found you

But you don’t exist?

You don’t live here

No records

No proof

The vacant sign remains over your door

I can still hear you

I try to silence you,

You’re too loud.

I can hear your clamor from upstairs

Your eternally whistling kettle

No one to smother the flames

Like an abandoned baby

Not a soul to end its cries

An uproar that

The loudest silencers

Could never deafen

But you’re not there?

No amount of stabbing or cutting

Can erase you

An endless doom spiral

My wounds don’t show

Yet my field notes still read, Punctured

Lacerated

Scratched

You kill me

You define me

You thrust me in an inescapable labyrinth

Talk soon, Derrick

AN OLD MAN REMINISCES

Rishi Chen ’27

The old man speaks:

“Seems the whole city’s on a stroll tonight By nobody bats an eye

But still I prefer it to gasoline fires

And billboards bulleting the sky”

But I am deaf and dumb in my hands

My interpreter helps me know pain

So it is with his help that tonight I may feel

Felled swallows and acid rain

“Speak, my dearest friend, speak; So that I may feel nothing again

You cannot feel and you cannot know

But you may still hear the deafening din”

I know he speaks of the words that formed last night's dinner

“Towers now rule the land

Leaving behind peat smoke and rubble I left the city of angels It used to harbor no trouble”

He is rambling of a time

Before I was born

Though I could hear before

My body’s now far too worn

I wish I knew what he is saying now.

“Green was the centerpiece of my life Cursed naivety roamed amok Then black-and-white mottled men came And relieved us of all shock”

“These masks we wear tonight Hide us from each other Let me pry your hands awake So we may see your mother”

He makes a lunge for my face

But no less, I am far too slow And he finds a newfound muse That allows the wind to blow

“Can you see it? Can you see it all? The colors, the sky, this life? They pilfered a planet from under our noses; Subjected us to a debt of strife!”

Two old men were delirious.

“The entity that implored the air to warm Is out for dreams and now Look beneath the topsoil Take what I’m too old to endow!”

Time is hotter with every second I know now what I must do

And though I am old indeed, I know you are ready too.

A SANCTUARY OF HIDDEN WORLDS

Ella Kim ’28

A myriad of feelings enchants my senses as I wander through the library, millions of hidden worlds immersing my mind. My fingers graze the intricate spines of each book, caressing every crack and crevice as if each holds its own untold story, a world entirely apart from the pages it binds together. A small corner of bookshelves bearing pixie dust and potions captured within pages surrounds me like a warm embrace. The slim windows that line the edges of the ceiling bear nothing but the gift of a muted white light sourcing from the lazy clouds of the gloomy sky. To illuminate the dark room, dimly lit candles of quivering yellow and warmtoned antique lamps of the deepest orange flood the atmosphere with a soft golden glow, the gentle lighting only adding to the drowsy ambience.

A cozy old sweater adorns my shoulders, wrapping my torso in a blanket of warm butter and puffy clouds. My headphones gild my mind with euphony, the melancholic press of each piano key pumping dopamine into my head as I wander through the bookcases. I feel afloat within these walls, between these cases. My mind is up in the clouds without a care of what could possibly knock it down in this moment of nothing but peace and the anticipation of rising higher into a world far from this one.

Each tiny element of this library is elegantly woven together to create the illusion of a poetic tale unfolding before me as I enter the fantasy aisle. My hand comes to a halt on the smooth backing of an old mythical novel. The book is gently removed from its place between its brothers and sisters and falls perfectly into my grasp. A tragically fated war occurs in mere seconds as the soothing scent of cinnamon whispering prayers through the air is overthrown by an oddly solacing whiff of fresh book pages. In an instant, I’m ascending, rising into a haven of magic, love, good, evil, anger, and euphoria, all within the linear ink words printed across crisp pages tinted blonde with age.

All within these peeling old walls set alive with wooden bookshelves, antique portraits, a candlelit glow, an aroma of pastries, and a sea of beautiful worlds far, far from our own.

ED LEVIN | Michael Bradley ’25 | photography

CHILDHOOD HAMARTIA

Kelly Anne Tu ’27

Have you ever gone to a national park or zoo that had one of those coin press machines? The one where you insert two quarters and a penny, and happily crank the arm until your freshly squashed penny pops out?

You can find a scar exactly the size of one of those smashed coins on my right knee.

Where does it come from, you ask? Why is it so special?

It really isn’t, and just came to be from a classic tale of hubris and the downfall that ensues, the incident happening not in Greek tragedy, but in my own life.

I was a competitive kid back when I was eight-years-old, willing to knock down anyone and everyone in my way of success. Triumph was a rare feeling back then, when my physically and intellectually superior sister would absolutely annihilate me in basically anything I did. I wanted to play a word game? Her vocabulary was exponentially larger than mine. I wanted to play thumb war? Her thumb would come crashing down on mine in a matter of seconds. If I acted even remotely annoying, she would pulverize me. I would be reduced to dust! You don’t understand, do you? I might have actually died.

I had no younger siblings I could bully into giving me those victories I so desired, so I figured if the situation ever arose where I had an advantage over my opponent, I would take the opportunity to win. That’s why I used to hate when adults playing with children just let them win. They couldn’t possibly understand the pain I went through to secure a single victory? I worked so hard, and a child, a literal baby, can come and take it away? I couldn't accept it. I made it my mission to teach children the harsh realities of life. And this one day in third grade, I had the opportunity to do just that.

My sister played cello, and her Tuesday cello class happened to take place at the same time her teacher’s son should have been picked up from kindergarten. My mother, having nothing to do at the moment anyway, volunteered to walk her son home. She just brought me along. Whatever, I was fine with it. Not like I had much to do either.

My mother and I walked to his school, and after we arrived, I saw the boy next to the model train. I had a full discussion with him before my mother pointed out I had the wrong child, and that we needed to go. (I insisted that I actually knew that and was just trying to make friends with a random child half my age that I may have never seen in my life ever again.)

FLORESCENCE | Gabby Yang ’25 | photography

On our way back to the teacher’s house, I tried to strike up a conversation with the boy. He didn’t read anything I read, nor did he enjoy any of my hobbies. I couldn’t remember what I did when I was his age. Did I scribble on walls? Cry for food? I really don't know. We didn’t talk much.

It was incredibly awkward.

I tried not to let that disturb me and steered the conversation towards my final point: we could race to see who got home fastest! Isn’t that a universal enjoyment, racing? He agreed to my suggestion. I couldn’t wait. I was going to offer a dose of reality, crushing his spirit! Someone could finally experience what it’s like being a younger child, and I could finally feel triumphant, Olympians defeating Titans-triumphant, Michelangelo finishing The Creation of Adam-triumphant. The race commenced, and we shot off.

Of course, there was nothing he could do. His little dachshund legs simply couldn’t compete with me. I was a good thirty feet in front of him when I saw his house and felt a vicious joy settle in. You fool, who did you think was going to win? But then—I fell.

There was no crack in the concrete, no pebble in my path, no sudden movements from my surroundings distracting me. I was simply running and then, a few seconds later, I was almost eating concrete. My blood stained my leggings, which stained the ground, and I just lay there, pathetically, like a fallen leaf. I was so close, so close. I was deprived of my victory now; luck must hate me.

As my mother tugged me inside and covered my knee with iodine and a bandage, I thought about my life. I felt like I had been wronged grievously; what did I ever do to deserve such a fate? I wanted to demand another chance, but I was too embarrassed. I stayed home on Tuesdays after that.

Looking back in retrospect, what a jerk I was. I paid for it, too, as though it's been years, I still have that scar, this ugly knothole of tissue, on my right knee, a testament to my childhood stupidity and desperate wish to win at anything.

GOOD GIRL

Esha Joshi ’26

be a good girl, okay?

smile and smile and smile until your cheeks hurt and your lips crack and lick away the blood before anyone sees

because everyone knows that good girls don’t cry.

laugh and laugh and laugh until you feel dizzy and empty and gaping pretending that your stomach isn’t turning

because everyone knows that good girls don’t talk back.

wash your empty plate in the sink with all the rest, as if you need to scrub away the ghost of the food you never ate,

because everyone knows that good girls aren’t greedy.

wash your long-sleeved shirts and fold them with everyone else’s, as if you need to wash away the ghost of what you want to wear,

because everyone knows that good girls don’t show off.

give away your voice, pour it out like hot coffee that burns your throat—

give away your body, wrap it up in layers and layers like a forgotten gift—

give away your mind, mold it like the dough sticking to your fingers—

give away your heart, carve it out, fill the cavity with their words, their desires, their needs, their dreams, and strap on a bandage until you can pretend it doesn’t hurt.

because good girls don’t want anything of their own.

good girls

stretch themselves into thread and weave together the broken bonds and the careless rips.

good girls curl themselves into the pillow that absorbs the torn screams and the broken sobs.

good girls

shatter themselves into sugar that always goes down easy and dissolves in an instant.

good girls let their dreams flutter away with the wind, because they tend to the clothesline of everyone else’s.

good girls shove their pain down into the earth, because they tear the weeds out of everyone else’s garden.

good girls build walls to stop their thoughts from flooding, because they swallow everyone else’s doctrines down like water.

good girls are a wall of distorted mirrors, made only to show them what they want to see.

so be a good girl, okay?

BLEED

Michael Shtrom ’25

I wrote so late into the night I stabbed myself with pen But couldn’t have imagined What would soon unfold from then

It all happened so suddenly ‘Fore I could even think I realized as I looked down That I was bleeding ink

The ink flowed uncontrollably And stained the notebook page While forming words and stanzas That, with drama, took the stage

I slowly felt lightheaded Likely due to loss of blood For now the ink that trickled Had begun to turn to flood

And thus I lay and I bled out I had no tears to cry For long the ink would flow and flood Until the pen bled dry

BRIDGE WITH DAD

Brandon Ge ’24

Hearts or clubs? I had to decide which suit to play.

The ballroom filled with 336 players was so eerily quiet that I could hear the sound of cards gliding across the table. After two grueling days of bridge, we’d made it to the final hand of the last round–and my partner and I were in second place. If we outperformed our opponents, the prestigious “Red Ribbon Pairs” title would be ours.

Dubbed the chess of card games, bridge is played with a standard 52-card deck. Much like chess, bridge requires precise calculations, scrupulous logic, and attention to detail. But unlike chess, bridge is a team game. Four players form two competing partnerships with the objective of winning as many tricks as possible. Yet players are forbidden from speaking or using facial expressions to communicate; instead, they rely on the language of cards.

As I sat there in the ballroom, studying my options, I looked up at the partner whom I’d trusted throughout my bridge career: Dad. From the moment he introduced me to bridge when I was nine years old, I was hooked. Bridge is a game of probabilities, and I quickly gravitated toward studying why players took each action and the underlying odds that guided their decisions. But as I started playing competitively with an array of partners, it felt unnatural to trust someone whose cards I could not see. I wasn’t playing bridge as a partnership game. I was playing by myself.

Yet all this changed when I played with Dad. As his partner, I allowed myself to enjoy moments of blissful ignorance, because trusting Dad was easy. He had always been my strongest supporter and, at every basketball game I’ve played since fifth grade, the loudest voice in the bleachers. Stepping onto the turf for my first-ever soccer game, I felt nervous because he was traveling and I missed his presence on the sideline. But as I stepped up to take a penalty 10 minutes into the game, I caught a glimpse of a man in a blue jacket dragging two heavy suitcases behind him, running towards the field. It was Dad, who had rushed from the airport to catch a glimpse of me playing. I can always count on Dad being there.

Bridge was no different. Through the thousands of hands we’ve played together, we’ve strengthened our bond enormously. We often start our mornings discussing interesting bridge hands while wolfing down eggs and toast. During lunch between two bridge sessions, we bury ourselves in the record of the hands we just played, scrutinizing the smallest details. To play in competitions, we’ve traveled the world

together, visiting new cities and countries while chasing our wildest bridge dreams. Through all of this, we’ve developed a firm sense of trust at the bridge table and beyond.

The last hand came down to a simple question: did Dad have the king of hearts or the king of clubs? Looking at my own cards, and the cards that had been revealed on the table, it seemed unlikely that he would have the king of hearts. However, I knew Dad discarded a low heart earlier in the hand, a signal that suggested he liked hearts. I knew what I had to do. I confidently placed my last heart on the table. I was right.

A sense of relief washed over me, thankful that I had made the right decision. As we rose up from the table, our friends and opponents gathered to congratulate us. I soaked the moment in, basking in the glory of winning my first-ever national championship. Yet it was so much more than that. In the long line of winners of this event, Dad and I were different–we were the first partners to win as father and son.

BUGATTI | Alex McCormick ’24 | photography

I’VE

FOUND MY HEART’S A BEEHIVE

Max Rees ’26

I’ve found my heart’s a beehive

With catacombs that circle labyrinthine

In fear, the soldiers fly in flee or fight

The buzzing through my blood relents in time

Firm, you break a wax and brittle cage

Like smoke to stingers brandished in my veins,

You gouge and feast the honey of my heart

I’ve kept it sweet, so please, brave beating dark

The butterflies that beat on stomach’s line

Are caught in hesitation, steeped in acid

They stick like wads of gum in body’s brine and toil, bruised and muted, live and rancid

With steady hands, you tear the seams inside

You melt the flesh cocoons that knot in ties

Kaleidoscopic wings and light combine

The iridescent blues reflect your eyes

There’s matted nests of webbing in my mind

The graying pulling strands restrict inside the dragonfly that starves and dries with time

It’s eaten slowly by the gnats and waiting flies

In gentle touch, you pry into my head and pull the sticking, distant neural webs

You fill my brain with living hues instead

Lobotomize me, love; I’ll live again

I COULD SIT FOREVER

Michael Shtrom ’25

I could sit forever by the night’s dying flame

And look at our yellowed photographs

Your radiant smile, framed and immortalized Forever above the fireplace, Would watch me watch us

Get older as they got newer Every wrinkle and every fold

In the paper and skin

Another memory

I could sit forever by the sea’s crashing waves And reminisce

About every time you’d point out

To the sea, eager and excited still

After so long

I’d bring our box of photographs

And watch our decades pass Over the ocean’s orchestra

I will sit forever by your side

When I reach the world’s whiter skies

Where even death can’t do us part And in the sky we’ll live forever And watch as ours follow us there

And we will feel each other near Eternal as the night’s dying flame

SAND & SILHOUETTES | Kathleen Xie ’25 | photography

PACIFIC GROVE | Michael Bradley ’25 | photography

FOXGLOVE TEA | Bridget Rees ’24 | gouache

FIVE GUYS | Michael Bradley ’25 | photography

ON WHY WE WRITE

Josephine Tu ’25

Why do we write?

My truthful but lazy answer is, I don’t know. My thoughts are as vast as they are nebulous, and there are so many words that I could string together into dainty necklaces, so many combinations and permutations that even this sentence I am forming is wrong. Every phrase I have ever uttered is wrong, and I am human. So what?

My first reflex is always to say that writing is a way to express oneself. It’s a classic response embedded deep within me, a primordial memory imprinted in the backlogs of my mind (I am Pavlov’s dog). It is and always will be an ever-changing amalgamation of generic thought, diluted with every recollection, mixed with stomach acid and instinctually refluxed from my throat. As an introvert thrust into a world of small talk, I have learned through trial and error and observation that some strung-together words make for half-decent answers. Cheap necklaces are nice, and acquaintances do not care about you enough to criticize your taste in jewelry: I’m good, how are you, writing is expressing yourself. So what if I tell you that writing simultaneously commentates on, conforms to, changes society, that it is both predictable and not, in the most comforting way possible? Like people. So what if I’m basic, you are too.

Sometime this summer, I was told by a poet that a writer’s voice is a desire. Because what else are we doing, when we are writing or thinking or expressing or vomiting up words, besides being driven by the only force we know. Perhaps this is the same as my previous answer, perhaps it is slightly different (and I hope that it is the latter, wouldn’t everybody?). Maybe, in a religious or secular way, we are all desires disguised as voices: when we write, we speak ourselves into being, projecting our deepest wants onto paper. To write is to be is to want is to sin. We are all the same.

I was told, by the same poet, that it is as impossible to write a complete lie as it is to write a complete truth. We are simultaneously narcissists and cowards (or perhaps we just do not know better). Does this anger you? Quite frankly, I am relieved. I may be self-centered and weak and a fool, but that is all there is to it, and I am glad. (Sometimes saying things does not make them right. Neither does it make them wrong. Sometimes saying things and not saying things produce the same result, but really that’s the fault of the listener. I am told this is deflecting, but it is also the truth.)

But why do I write?

I also do not know. Because I am an egotist, blissfully self-indulgent, rightfully so, and well aware of it? So full of myself, and so self-conscious that I write what I cannot bring myself to say.

I write because I have too many problems, because I don’t have any; because my problems are too big and everything is a problem and there are not enough for me to complain about. I write because living life hurts, and sometimes I wish I knew why. I write because I have too much to do, and because of that I have nothing else to do than write. I write because I am tired and rabid and achy all the time, and I write because I like it when it is sunny outside. And I don’t want to forget it again, even if I inevitably will.

I write because I want the friends I left to know I am grateful for them, and I write because I don’t want to burden them with the hurt I am feeling without them, sometimes. I write to reveal to myself what I conceal to others, and vice versa, to scream nonsense into a void knowing that at least I tried. I write because I know too much and don’t know even more. And I don’t know if what I’m doing is ok, or if I’m doing ok. I write because I am unique and the same as anyone else, and it’s a damn miracle that I can write just as well as a monkey with a typewriter. If the universe collapsed in on itself, well, I’m not sure what I would do about it. But these days, I’m deranged, and scared, and anxious and ashamed, and I am currently lying in bed, typing this with my two thumbs at two AM in the morning. I procrastinate and wish I weren’t so terrified of the future, and so I write.

I used to store all my feelings in my ribcage. Sometimes it would grip at my stomach and sucker punch my heart. Sometimes it would rise up my esophagus until it comes bubbling out of my eyes and throat. And when I write, I cannot make it go away, but I write in hopes that maybe one day, I will not be so stupid as to be a fool and unable to do anything about it, anymore.

(That is evidently not true. I write to move on. As my friend used to say, “I remember so I never forget.”)

NO CAMERA

Do you ever Wish you had your camera

Sahana Inumpudi ’29

When your vision’s presented with grace But can’t keep the memory safe?

I remember them like yesterday, And I hope the future will stay. So these scenes don't leave my head And I’ll miss a camera instead.

...

The instructor claimed, Let’s not care for our looks Let’s create a bond that goes Beyond what our eyes show!

But sight is a primal sense. That’s what our ancestors said. Spot a prey for a meal, Find a mate that appeals.

Two girls sat Between me and a campfire. They wore cottony rose jackets And fuzzy hats.

The campfire’s glow created glistening paths, That lit up the fabric fibers. A neon blaze, ombré from red to white, Outlined the silhouettes, making a captivating trail of light.

But in my mind, I knew I couldn’t,

THE ELEVATOR | Emma Hwang ‘24 | Procreate

No camera, no camera

No camera, no camera.

Rain pitter-pattered on the grass. Droplets were fairies Who made the world real, Who enchanted the fields.

A bystander stood away from the chaos, Overtaken by curiosity. Minding their own business, But seeking new interests.

Their hand was reached past the awning’s edge, To catch a few raindrops. So their hands would be decorated with water-beads That sparkled like a pair of diamond earrings.

Their gaze wandered off To a special place, Which some would call nowhere, But I’d call Elsewhere…

But then, I had to resort again to: No camera, No camera No camera, No camera.

Although one’s beauty was from bond Or from the physics of light, And the other’s was of candidness, Curiosity, and innocence,

I have to think, At the end of the day,

Maybe the flash drive’s absence Adds a special presence?

Then I notice how the senses add so much To every single experience, Possibly the aroma of fire and the sting of smoke in the eye Or the smell of damp earth with the wind’s mellow chime. With these elements, I don’t even realize; If I’d taken a photograph, I still couldn’t relive the past…

Sometimes I wish I had my camera. But then I’ll remember The memories are what matter.

INCENSE | Marley Thornson ‘25 | photography

SUN AND THE MOON

Violet Negrette ’25

Upon a silent raging sea

A light is birthed from deep below

Rising slowly, not yet free

Whispers of amber beginning to show

Whorls of darkness moving around

A storm of hurt felt deep inside

The embers of light make no sound

But the tempest moon cannot hide

Wings flutter on the wind to the west

The golden glare finds a shape

Dusk dims down to dreary unrest

Light hugs the sky like a cape

Rebirthed hope now sits atop

The rolling hills and ocean blue

But nothing can be done to stop

The old darkness from replacing the new

HALO | Josephine Tu ’25 | photography

DEAR MY PAST SELF

Tiffany Au ’27

Dear my past self,

I still remember the gentle winter breeze, Brushing past my face like a long-lost friend.

I still remember when the wind’s gentle kiss Meant freedom and liveliness. When each gust was a reminder of innocence. Of wonder.

You were a girl brimming with naive hope, Unburdened by life’s troubles. Your voice rang boldly, Itching to share every thought that filled your mind. You were confident, Unbothered by others’ opinions, Marching to the beat of your own drum.

Part of me longs for the time when you thought the world was perfect, Free from conflict and tragedy. Part of me longs to revisit the simpler times, Before the weight of the world burdened my tender heart.

Though years have passed, In this breeze, I find you again.

But this winter breeze now holds a new meaning. It connects me back to the girl I was, Reminding me how far I’ve traveled, How much I’ve grown.

The wind whispers my past, Even as it gently blows toward my future.

In time, Tiffany

WINTER | James Chang ’25 | graphite

SCROLLING THROUGH MY CAMERA ROLL

Sophia Yao ’24

bruises in dirt kneeling between the bars i see myself pigtails, paperclips and a tricycle.

true blue sky sea salt screen small smile swoop no, not like this, like this, how? i do not know how do i look? even smaller.

sheer black, chevron stiff cotton pleats looking away stand still slipping away smile, it is the first day.

i turn, watching.

big girl, warm glow butter leaves, sparkling right here, how do i stand still? right here with my heart outside my body right here bruising, tender. my life unfolds in layers, upon layers, before me.

YESTERDAY | Josephine Tu ’25 | photography

A BRIEF DICTIONARY FOR BRIEF FEELINGS

Kathleen Xie ’25

D#

n. The beginning note to the one song that feels like you’re floating over a field of sunflowers. Your arms are open to let the sun soak your entire body in warmth while the wind is brushing your sun-kissed cheeks and caressing your tangled hair. Your eyes are closed. The note hangs softly in the air like a wind chime, suspended in time, as your whirl of thoughts comes to a momentary pause. At once, you feel a rush of calm fill your lungs and permeate every part of you from head to toe. For a moment, you pretend you’re a kid once again, frolicking on idyllic hills, blissfully detached from the world. As the note wanes into a whisper, your eyes flutter open to the mundane but now it smells like the air after rainfall, light and refreshed.

burn

v. To allow a memory to disappear in an instant. Perhaps they weren’t who you thought they were, and you realize you can’t keep deceiving yourself. Perhaps you know you can’t move on until you forget. To picture scrunching that memory of them into a wrinkled paper ball and tossing it in the fire, watching it erupt in flames and unravel itself piece by piece until it vanishes. To feel a flicker of freedom at every crackle of a flame. Pearls of water roll down your cheeks but they are droplets of relief and you let them fall off your chin. As you watch the glowing embers fade by the second, you let a small breath of air slip from your chest. A scar, invisible, remains forever.

look up

v. To see that everything is bigger than you could ever imagine and that you are so vanishingly small. The redwood trees: a twig. The skyscrapers: a ceramic tile. The mountains: a forget-me-not flower. Suddenly you become aware that the last conversation you had was but a mere ripple in the ocean. That you yourself are a simply a point in an immense network of human connections. You realize that to most, you are just a stranger, a random passerby, a car driving far too slow on your left. You imagine watching yourself in third person and zooming out until you can see the whole world, like a movie but you’re the green cap at 00:34:55. Just for a moment, you wonder that if the sky had eyes it would be seeing you the same way you see a grain of sand.

daffodil

n. The golden yellow petals you notice beside a sidewalk one random day in March, letting you know the days of bleak skies are nearing its end. Soon, the world will be painted in vibrant hues, the ice will thaw and the trees will come to life. As you exhale, your breath forms a cloud of mist, but you see it disperse into the air like tiny crystals and sparkle for just a second. You smile because, as cliche as it is, you’re excited to hear the birds sing and watch the butterflies dance. Once again, you feel winter slide into a memory. You are reminded that everything repeats itself in an endless cycle, wilting and blooming all over again. In an instant, you feel the first rays of sunlight wrap around you like a silk blanket. You know that everything, for now, is good.

DAHLIA | Emma Hwang ’24 | gouache

AUGUST, STILL IN THE

JUNO'S POLAROID

Emma Hwang ’24

Dear Juno,

I keep a Polaroid of you and me on my shelf. Its colors are faded yet still recognizable. You are wearing a blue bucket hat, so large that it seems to spill over the edges of the Polaroid like an overfilled porcelain bowl, like the bowls we used to eat ice cream out of while our sidewalk chalk-dusted fingers counted the number of cars driving by, both of us seeking refuge in the shade while July beat down on our heads and our tongues licked the strawberry and mango off our lips; your eyes sparkle, just as they did when we taped flyers to telephone poles for lemonade stands or when we saw minnows darting in the water, rainbow scales flashing in the last golden drips of sunlight falling from the sky; your cheeks glow pink as if we had run down the shore of the beach, two tiny pairs of footprints pressed onto the wet sand like stamps.

Juno. The Polaroid only tells half the story. Are your porcelain bowls collecting dust somewhere in a forgotten corner of your attic? Did you see the rain wash away our artwork on the sidewalk and the ink on our flyers, and the myriad of colors pooling into a muddled gray mess on the concrete? Juno. The minnows have gone and the sunlight isn't so pretty filtered through leaves or dripped from the great blue bowl of the sky. The heartbeat of the waves sweeps away our footprints.

You look at me from the Polaroid, your image frozen in time, frame forever young and eyes indefinitely happy.

Somewhere, deep in my soul, I hear a porcelain bowl shatter.

Can you hear it, too?

DEATH IN THE FAMILY

Ian Hsiao ’26

Location: New York, United States

Time: 4:45 pm

Date: 17 November 1950

“Oh my!” The shrieks of the lady with golden locks and rich ocean eyes rang out through the entirety of their cottage home. Her name was Elena Bianchi, the future wife of Frank Moretti.

The doctor and the detective arrived on the scene; the doctor at 5:00 pm and the detective at 6:00 pm. Dr. Antonio Romano, Moretti’s personal physician, marked his close friend’s death at 4:40 pm. Dr. Romano noted a single peculiarity in his report — a single deep slash at Frank’s throat. The detective, Giovanni Marino, a second-generation cop was at the height of his career when he avenged his father and took down the infamous mob boss, Al Capone. However, years later his fame died down and he was in desperate need of a case. So, on a favor from a family member, he stood in the center of the room jotting down the doctor’s observations as the cut appeared to be absurdly precise, one done by a professional. In the building, at the time of death, there were only 7 people recorded beside Frank Moretti:

Ren Aoki: A Japanese exchange student who very likely would have the swordsmanship to make a precise cut of this nature; his motive, however, was unclear. He had a pocket knife among his possessions, along with a family picture of Ren, his mother and his father standing in front of a cherry blossom tree.

Dr. Antonio Romano: Moretti’s personal physician who might possess a possible motive of revenge and whose belongings included a scalpel and pills.

Elena Bianchi: Frank’s lover whose primary potential motive could be rooted in loss of love or jealousy coming from how their friends noted a distance growing between the two; at the time of the investigation, no possessions were recorded on her.

Lorenzo Bernardi: A trusted friend and veteran who possessed a revolver and whose potential motive could be linked to power over Frank’s businesses.

Caterina Smith: Moretti’s hearing impaired maid with no obvious motive. Her belongings: one hearing aid.

Matteo Accardi: Moretti’s bodyguard who possessed an automatic gun, but whose motive was unclear since he has been a trusted employee for 20 years .

Mrs. Francesca Moretti: Moretti’s mother whose belongings consisted of a hand-

kerchief and kitchen tools which include a whiskers, spatula, and cutting knife; Frank was near only son and she loved him dearly.

Giovanni made note of the odd surroundings and items of the murder scene. Among them was a broken wooden cross on the floor which previously resided in Moretti’s desk drawer. A pistol left untouched within the same desk drawer—a firearm he carried at all times for safety. Giovanni grabbed the pistol with his handkerchief and checked if it had ammunition. To his surprise, it had a full cartridge. His mouth gaped open for a second, but he quickly recovered himself and continued to observe. Nearby, was a pushed-over full suit of armor used as decor. The knight’s sword was pierced into the wall but with no trace of blood on it. Out of the corner of his eye, Giovani caught sight of a burned handkerchief in the fireplace with the initial B embedded in the top right corner. Scattered papers were strewn across the floor. Giovanni glanced over their contents which were all related to Moretti’s business. He gave a final glance and nod before leaving the room.

Marching to the gate, Giovanni allowed no one to leave or enter the building. He marched to the gate and locked it using his own customized lock, made out of titanium. He then led the suspects to their very own rooms and let the guard take watch in the hallway to ensure that none of them would escape. One by one he called them to his chamber, which he picked at random.. In the middle of the room, there was a big stocky table which Giovanni pushed away to the corner. From the closets, Giovanni found two comfortable-looking armchairs which he brought out into the middle of the room. It was perfect! He thought. Interrupting his thoughts, Francesca, Moretti’s mother, strutted in and sat leisurely in the armchair.

“How could one love such a monster?” Francesca snarked. Giovanni's jaw dropped to the floor.

“A monster…How could you call your own son that?” Giovanni questioned.

“Have you seen him and Elena? Disgusting. I did not teach him to go around chasing girls. He disgraces the Moretti's name!.”

“Enough to kill him?”

“No, never. I could never. I love him too much,” Francesca said while her lips trembled.

“Where were you at 4:40 pm?” Giovanni said with a hint of annoyance.

“I was in the kitchen making lunch. It was almost lunchtime. Caterina can vouch for me. We were preparing lunch together.”

“I see you are discontent with Elena. Motherly love is an unpredictable thing. Sometimes motherly love can drive a mother to horrendous actions because she thinks she is protecting her child, but it only hurts them,” Giovanni leaned back and casually crossed his legs as Francesca clenched the leather handrests.

“You do not understand my love for my child. I raised him alone. His father was never there for him, always out drinking. I would never lay a hand on him. This interview is over!” Francesca Moretti hissed angrily.

Well, that went well, Giovanni grimaced to himself. When Francesca Moretti lashed out, Giovanni noticed a glimmer of protectiveness in her rage. Giovanni’s mind was filled with theories and uncreatinities; he was desperate to uncover the hidden emotions behind the suspects’ facades.

Next, Ren Aoki, the Japanese exchange student, strode in with his arrogant stride. Giovanni and Ren greeted each other indifferently before Giovanni started the interrogation.

“Mr. Aoki, where were you at 4:40pm?”

“I was drinking tea in the kitchen.”

The lobby? But Francesca had said… “Are you sure you were in the kitchen?”

“Positive.”

“May I inspect your pocket knife?”

“Of course.”

The pocket knife was clean except for a few chocolate stains. Giovanni handed back the knife.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Please return to your chamber.”

“I am sorry detective but, I must depart now. I have an urgent meeting on the other side of town.”

“I am sorry but that is not possible. No one leaves until the murderer is caught.”

Ren chuckles and brings out a wad of money. “Are you sure?”

“Your money will not get you out. My rule stands. No one comes in or out.”

“I do not care for your rule. I will leave when I please. After all, who’s going to stop me?”

“Watch your tone, Ren!” Giovanni threatened as he stood up.

Giovanni had a naturally burly build. Ren knew well not to mess with him. Giovanni led Ren back to his room and locked up the door from the outside. Giovanni slipped the key into his pocket.

“Keep a special eye on him For me,” Giovanni told the guard.

Giovanni knocked on and entered Antonio Romano’s office. Antonio Romano, Moretti’s personal physician, sat on the edge, shivering. Giovanni put a hand on his shoulder. Antonio jumped. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course, for now,” Antonio replied with fear.

“What’s on your mind?”

“No, it was just that Moretti was the only person keeping me alive. All his subor-

dinates hated me and always thought I was a snitch.”

“Are you?”

“No god no, imagine what they would do to me if I told the police about their illicit activities.”

“Were you close with Moretti?”

“Yes, awfully close. We grew up together. We split up however because we had different goals. I had big dreams to have my own clinic and Moretti wanted to continue the family business. ”

“Then why work for Moretti?”

“I had no other option. He offered protection for me and my family in return for my loyalty. The Irish gang kept messing with my clinic by driving customers away and stealing my instruments. You’ll protect me right? ”

“I give you my word. I’ll send some law enforcement to your clinic right now.”

“Thank y—,” Antonio thanked the detective with a hug.

Giovanni sat there and wondered if Dr. Romano’s fearful manner hinted at his vulnerability or a deeper motivation.

His thoughts, however, were interrupted by the guard’s shout from the hallway,“MONSIEUR MARINO! Come at once.”

Giovanni and Antonio rushed to Ren’s room. His own pocket knife struck from his back into his heart. Antonio gave Giovanni a frightened look.

“Matteo, my trusted guard, did you see anyone enter Ren’s room?” Giovanni clapped a hand on Antonio’s shoulder.

“No. I only unlocked his door when I heard a loud scream and thump. I was out in this hallway the whole time. Francesca can confirm. We were chatting. How could the murderer get in? The door was locked,” Matteo rambled in a panic.

“I am sure there is a logical explanation. Please return to your room Francesca you have caused enough damage. Everyone else please do the same and do not panic,” instructed Giovanni.

Giovanni pushed everyone out and closed the door behind him. How? How? How? The audacity of this murderer. On the table, a note was left with the word “cretino” (dumba—). Giovanni couldn’t help thinking that someone was watching and taunting him. So in a furious tone that shook the room he shouted, “BRING ME THE NEXT SUSPECT!”

Elena Bianchi, longtime lover of Moretti, walked in looking frightened. She shivered at the sight of Ren’s corpse. Giovanni’s muscles were clenched and the veins in his neck were looking as if they were going to burst.

“You killed Ren! You killed Frank!” Giovanni’s voice was full of raw emotion.

“Look at Ren’s dead body. YOU did this.”

“No, I didn’t!” Elena said as she backed up into the corner of the room. Her eyes were swelling up.

“Don’t you act dumb! I know it was you. You snuck out your window and murdered Ren in cold blood.”

“Lo no. Amavo Frank. Inoltre, parlavo continuamente con Caterina attraverso il muro quando eravamo nelle nostre stanze. Lei può garantire per me. I didn't. I loved Frank. Also, I was talking to Caterina the whole time through the wall when we were in our rooms. She can vouch for me.” Elena burst out in tears.

Giovanni noticed that Elena's distress didn’t merely seem like fear, but held a deeper sorrow. He couldn’t quite put a finger on why yet. Giovanni’s demeanor softened, maybe he was jumping to conclusions. “Please let me escort you to your room,” Giovanni said guiltily, holding her hand gently. Elena flinched causing Giovanni to pull away.

Giovanni and Elena left Ren’s murder scene and entered Elena’s room. The room had a heavy-disgusting scent from Frank’s rotting corpse in the adjacent room. Giovanni opened the window. Huh? No sound. All buildings had an alarm system as it had risen in popularity, but if the cottage also had one why hadn’t it sounded? Any doors or windows opening would make a beep. It had been disabled.

Giovanni went back to Ren’s murder scene. He opened up Ren’s bag and saw gold jewelry. He also saw a love letter written by “B”.

Giovanni called for his next suspect, the maid, a long time employee, but the guard informed Giovanni that she had declined to be interviewed because she could barely hear as her hearing aids were damaged. So Lorenzo, Frank’s longtime friend, came to his office instead. Lorenzo was a burly fellow, like Giovanni, with a leg injury from battle causing him to have an irregularity in his step. When seeing Ren’s corpse, Lorenzo spat:

“That boy got what he deserved. He was arrogant and acted like he owned the house.”

“Sir, it is dishonorable to disrespect the dead,” Giovanni spat back.

“Why did you drag me into this? I had just come back from a business meeting at 4:00pm. Ask the guard.”

Giovanni ignored his defiance and continued with his line of questions. “Let’s talk about the golden jewelry. Did you know about it?”

“How do you know about the golden jewelry?” Lorenzo, suddenly hostile, pulled out his revolver and pointed its tip toward Giovanni’s head. Giovanni raised his hands slowly.

“Easy, General. I only saw the jewelry when inspecting Ren’s bag,” Giovanni stated calmly.

Lorenzo cursed under his breath, “That scumbag. I knew something was off about that fellow, always creeping around. He must have been stealing from our bedrooms.”

“General, what is your relationship with Elena Bianchi? Romantic in any way?”

“God no! Never cared for her. Never was into smart-mouthed women, she was always talking back. I prefer a housewife. How about you?”

“Let us save this conversation for a more appropriate time. You may depart back to your room. Thank you, General. Can you call for Matteo the guard?”

“Don’t bother. The boy got a screw loose. Brain damage caused when he was a baby. Can’t do nothing but stand outside and look intimidating,” Lorenzo snickered as he left the room.

Giovanni thanked him again and went to his drawing board. Giovanni brought out a big bulletin board and walked around it aimlessly, recounting his thoughts. The time marked 4:00 pm. Moretti was murdered while Caterina and Francesca sat in the lobby chatting. Ren was also in the lobby. Matteo was outside and Lorenzo had just entered the house. As Giovanni paced, a madness of events swirled in his mind — Ren's murder, a locked door, a guarded hallway and Elena’s alibi with Caterina. I was talking to Antonio, leaving only Lorenzo in the equation. Then, only the insulting letter was left and what to think of it. Suddenly, like a wild jaguar chasing a gazelle, the solution dawned on him.

Giovanni called everyone into the original crime scene, Moretti’s office room.

“An almost perfect crime was committed today, but the murderers’ arrogance betrayed them. Let me present to you where each of you were at the time of the death of Frank Moretti. Madma Moretti and Caterina were in the lobby. Is this correct Madam Moretti?” Giovanni stated proudly.

“Yes,” Francesca responded, confusion in her voice.

“And was Ren Aoki with you in the lobby?” asked Giovanni.

“Not that I recall..”

“Precisely. So the burning question is, where in the hell was Ren? Well I’ll tell you. He was a thief, trying to steal whatever jewelry or food he could. Ren had gone to the storage room to steal some chocolate candies, evident by the chocolate stains on his pocket knife when I interviewed him. During his rush back to the lobby so as to not arouse any suspicion, he inadvertently had seen the murderer red handed in their act. The murderer consequently noticed him too.

Fast forward a bit. I am interviewing Doctor Antonio and the murderer strikes again. This time the victim was Mr. Ren Aoki. How did Ren get murdered in his room if it was locked? This I will explain. He was simply not murdered. He took

his own life. So what caused this horrible act? Blackmail. The murderer, fearing that Ren would reveal their act, had to come up with a strategy and fast. Even though Ren had witnessed the murderer’s secret, the murderer saw Ren’s secret as well. So during the lockdown, the murderer climbed out their room through the window, went over to his room and threatened to expose his thieving if he did not kill himself. By exposing Ren’s thieving, he would be sent back to Japan where he would cause dishonor to his parents who had sacrificed all their money to send Ren to the United States. Ren chose honor in death over dishonor in life. Ren took out the pocket knife, placed the handle against the wall and the blade perpendicular to his back, and pushed himself backwards, ending his own life.

And how did the murderer climb out the window undetected even though the building has a state of the art security system? The answer is simple. The murderer had access to the code to disable the system. Their mistake? Leaving a mocking letter “cretino” since only one person in this house knew fluent Italian. Her mistake was detrimental. Yes, ladies and gents, the murderer is a she and she is called Elena Bianchi,” declared Giovanni argumentatively.

Francesca Moretti gasped, immediately lunging at Elena. Matteo held her back but not before Francesca had managed to land a nasty punch.

“Please allow me to explain how it was her doing before you jump to conclusions. When interviewing her, Elena told me she knew Italian indicating that she could have written the Italian mockery note. Only she couldn’t have murdered Frank Moretti because Frank had a pistol that was fully loaded in his desk and could have easily killed Elena. However, his passionate love blinded him and instead he pulled out the cross next to his pistol, praying for her love. Instead of receiving love, he received a brutal slash to the throat. A rather precise slash which leads me to believe she studied autonomy and was a nurse in World War II which is how she knew how to kill in one precise slice. Her weapon: the knight’s sword. She was all too smart about getting rid of the evidence. Elena used her handkerchief to wipe the blood off of the sword and then threw it in the fireplace. She forgot, however, that the initials of her last name were carved on the handkerchief. I thought the “B” was for Ren but then I realized it was “B” for Blomberg. Ren, however, was a foreigner and foreigners don’t use handkerchiefs. At least from what I’ve seen.

Consequently, the handkerchief could not have belonged to Mr. Lorenzo Bernardi since he is a cold hardened man of war and need not use any handkerchief after all, it is useless in war. Only a woman of high standing would own a handkerchief. Et Voila! But no, I am not done with my fabulous story. I still have loads to go. See, Elena had an alibi when I asked where she was at the murder, she claims she was talking to Caterina. However, later when I asked Caterina for an interview, she

claimed that she could not hear. So how can someone who can’t hear have conservation? Therefore, I reason to believe Caterina Smith was part of this murderous scheme. So what were their intentions? Love.

What turns a lover to kill her destined husband? Love does. Elena had fallen for her maid. My proof lies in the letter that I found in Ren’s bag. A love letter from a secretive “B” talking about running away together and how they would start over together. She was caught in a forbidden love relationship that would be found out if they did not run away with each other. So they tried, but something, no someone, stood in their way: Frank. That someone was Frank. With Frank alive, they could never run. Frank would always find them and bring them back. Nowhere they ran would be safe.

Moreover, Frank had uncovered Caterina’s theft and planned to oust her. Their solution? To eliminate their problem. Elena never intended to murder him, but the helping hand of Caterina pushed her towards the unthinkable. Caterina loved Elena, but without this job she would be homeless. As a disabled worker with a lack of education, she would never get another job. Desperate for money, her fury intensified. And that concludes my story.

The police will be here shortly to arrest Elena Bianchi for first degree murder and Caterina Smith as an accomplice to murder. Meanwhile, Matteo please detain them to make sure they don’t get away,” And with that Giovanni crossed his arms and grinned to the shocked room of onlookers.

TYBEE ISLAND | Michael Bradley ’25 | photography

HER REBIRTH

Lara Parikh ’26

her tears were like diamonds. rare, but still there. precious beads hidden from public eye one time, one time, she gave her diamonds away. one time more than enough. those sparkles turned dark. her diamonds were never to be shown, but this time she slipped up, she had exposed herself. she had lost her spark. her layers. she promised herself that it would never happen again, but she slipped up. her layers had protected her from the outside world; nobody had ever been able to breach that wall, yet somehow, twenty-feet thick concrete crumbled. she gave her heart away, she gave her trust, her love. what a stupid mistake. now she doesn't know how to make her heart stop ache. her empathy was her superpower she tried to make them feel worthy, loved, but her efforts were all in vain. what did she receive instead? nothing but a fistful of apathy. those words were a punch in the face. slowly, she started to bruise. not just her supposed thick skin, but her heart too. soiled with black and blue it began to wither. first it was her heart, then, her head, finally, her soul.

this time, she allowed them to disrespect her not purposefully of course, but she kept clinging onto the idea of them friends. when she looked into their eyes she expected to see some remorse, but all she saw was cold indifference. with each blow, her heart started to give. last time, her skin was impenetrable. nothing, nobody could say or do anything to hurt her she was too strong. maybe a bit too much. she pretended that friends were simply frivolities, that they would cause her too much pain. she could have been more forgiving. she should have given them another chance. she gave them what they wanted. 1 chance became 3. 6. 9. they took advantage of her. day by day, their red flags passed her like a blur. her layers were her own and hers only. first, her skin. then, her head. Finallyfinally, her soul. she became nothing more than an empty shell, bones. but look, Look closer. There’s a flicker.

WHY DO YOU ALWAYS COME BACK?

Addison Parenti '26

why do you always come back? right when i feel cleansed of you thoughts enter my mind creeping, crawling, invading my mind skewing my vision transforming me into a monster why do i do this? i tear myself apart scraping away every last ounce of my soul forcing me to forget who i am creating a mutation of who i was but then it appears a glimmer of hope reaching through the umbrage obliterating the terrifying creature reminding me of who i was who i am until you come back why do you always come back?

MY CRIMSON COAT

Alisha Ramani ’27

I first wore my crimson coat on a frigid night. November flurried around me, anxiously, yet full of hope. Dressed in mahogany boots and a train conductor’s cap, I was a streak of scarlet. My partner in crime, Sofia, was spinning concentric circles like a budget figure skater. We snuck out to catch a glimpse of the stars and the snow. As we held hands and twirled endlessly, our laughter wove itself through the starry night sky. Then we fell. My back carved into the powdered ground, but the pain lasted for less than a second. As I found Sofia's eyes, I wondered what I did to deserve a life like this. A life that my laughter would carry me through. A life that even in the darkest moments, one thing would give me hope; the warmth of the people around me.

The next year was a blur of magic and memories. We steeped hours with sunshine and mist, and sat back to watch the rainbows form. We strung together words until they held meaning that was just for us. A secret language with the haze of a memory. A legacy we didn’t think about, until it died out. And the smiles — so many smiles — that I tried to trace, and memorize, and then wear too. I lived a life in a storybook; the kind that ends happily ever after.

But everything that comes up must come down. Some time when I wasn't looking, gray clouds flushed a once purple-pink sky. Adding time to a mystical winter wonderland only leaves behind a barren, slushy cityscape consumed by ash. The dream girl in me became trapped in her dreams. Did Sofia remember that November night? Who could expect that the silver thread connecting me to my past would snap?

But in these claustrophobic moments of solitude, I put on my crimson coat — I relived these faraway daydreams and rewore my distant grins. The small moments, little wonders in time, became a layer around me; to protect me. With this coat, I could bear the coldest winter. Maybe one day I’ll live a life where new moments will become my new guiding stars. But for now it’s just me and my crimson coat.

Makena Matula ’24

THE WORST

Elizabeth Liang '27

If worst becomes worse, Then hate me how I love you Tear my soul apart.

RED

Elizabeth Liang '27

With countless untruths, Your kisses stained my forehead red.

the

A MEMORY'S SCENT | Emma Hwang ‘24 | acrylic on canvas

This piece won a gold key for

2024 Scholastic Arts & Writing Awards

A LOVE LETTER TO PEARS (AND MY MOM)

Emma Hwang ’24

When I was younger, my mom taught me how to cut a pear.

She taught me to peel the little globe in my hands,

To divide the milky white flesh from its skin a spray of juice peppering the cutting board

To cut the blank sphere into four planks,

The planks into slices, a ring of liquid pooling around it

To carefully place each slab on a plate,

To arm me with a small fork,

To send a love letter to her daughter

When words wouldn’t taste as sweet.

Now that I am older,

When I want to apologize but I can’t find the words, I’ll retrieve a pear

And slice it how she taught me to

Arrange the reward of my efforts in a pretty way

A useless endeavor when it disappears from the plate

But not when emotion melts away And forgiveness lingers on our tongues.

media:

EGGU SEASONING BOXES | Emma Hwang ’24 and Jake Lee ‘24 | Adobe Illustrator and Dimensions

This piece won a silver key in the 2024 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards.

TOMATO SALAD | Emma Hwang ’24 | mixed

gouache, acrylic, colored pencil

TARANTULAS

Arjun Ari ’25

Spiders: An Arachnaphobe’s Worst Nightmare

They say never judge a book by its cover but c’mon, have you seen tarantulas?

Their hairy legs and pathetic need for more than two eyes

Tarantulas are fat losers and have disgusting brown fur

Why couldn’t they be better like other spiders?

At least black widows have their cool red emblem and another even created Spiderman

Tarantulas were probably God’s failed attempt at making dogs

Which is why some weirdos have those freaks as pets

But why would anyone want to keep one?

They are scary to look out and everyone hates them

While I’m sure that some have a great “personality”

That doesn’t change the fact they are still just hairy freaks.

Tarantulas are probably just as hated by other freaks as they are by humans

They probably don’t even have other friends

Do you think tarantulas ever question why they are hated so much?

Or why are they so lonely?

If I was a tarantula I would question if being alive was even worth it

I would “fall off” my web or purposefully get squished by a scared Indian auntie

I would lie on the tracks of an impending train and even crawl into the path of a moving car

I would rather die than be one of those freaks.

I saw it once in my dream

Its presence, however, turned it into a nightmare

How dare it?

It has the audacity to invade my mind with its luscious fur and horrific stench

I ought to teach it a lesson

I stabbed and punched and kicked and jabbed and choked and fought but nothing

It simply reflected my own blows back at me and knocked me to the ground

Eventually suffocating me in the fur I despised more than anything else

My death woke me up and paralyzed my sweat drenched body

The shadows in my room morphed into different versions of it

I couldn’t go to sleep without calming myself down in the mirror

But my reflection only scared me more

I saw the regular scared little boy, who hid from his own insecurities

And then I saw the two-legged freak, whose “four-eyes” were too lazy to read the beautiful words beyond the cover of a book

But worst of all, I saw a tarantula

BLACKOUT POETRY

/ˈblakˌout pōətrē/ noun

1. A form of poetry in which the poet takes an existing text and erases or rearranges words to create a new work from the remaining words.

BLACKOUT POETRY

Claire Wu ’27

or

CRYSTALIZE

Jia Lee ’28

the eyes turned into a number of crystals with a shadow of the world

*Original text taken from Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury Written and illustrated with highlighter and pen

COM PETIT IONS COM PETIT IONS

Every year, Tabula Rasa holds a few competitions, encouraging Pinewood writers and artists to expand their creative potential. This year, we chose more unconventional prompts to explore the realm of uncertainty and found uniqueness and inventiveness in every piece.

1.

3. Write a concrete poem "Home"

A concrete poem is one in which the poem's physical structure or typography is uniquely arranged for emphasis. The shape that words on a page create may be reminiscent of the poem's subject. Write a concrete poem in the shape of something on any topic.

2.

"Home" can mean many things: a physical place, a community, a feeling of togetherness and comfort. Show us a piece that reflects what home means to you.

Write a journal entry

Journaling is a form of writing that reveals the vulnerable, truthful, perhaps scattered state of the writer. Write a journal entry and show us a window into your mind.

COMPETITION #1 CONCRETE POEM

1st PLACE

THE LIGHTHOUSE | Sasha Solomatin ‘29

The Lighthouse

Heralding safety, glowing with light; bringing ships home from the raven-black night. The waves aren’t cruel, but they play fast and rough; and waiting near land is a sharp, sleeping bluff. The waves toy with boats as with puppets on strings; the clouds in the sky look like swooping gray wings. But out beams a light like the sun, bright and true, guiding back ships with their captain and crew. Now they’re at home, with their families near, recalling the light that had brought them back here. Outside, in the dark, whisper fidgety waves. They patiently wait for a bright, brand-new day. Tomorrow, they’ll shower the bluffs with their cheer; the cliffs and the waves are like home, all so dear.They carry reminders of hope, joy and might. They’re part of my soul; they shine true, like the light.

2nd PLACE

WITHIN AND BEYOND | Soha Budhani ‘26

Peace lives within it knows no names beyond those that we give Faith lives within. All those rules and laws you fear are controlling you, you say? Or do they make you the best version of yourself

You misunderstand My Friend, this is not a rule to to be broken, not a law to be circumvented but a love so pure only a mother could understand it

I live knowing that there is good everywhere and evil everywhere. I live knowing that the right things are often gray and we do only as we know best. Within every light that glows and star that sparkles: Faith 786

Note: This shape is a minaret, a tower from which the call to prayer is announced.

COMPETITION #2 "HOME"

1st PLACE

THE NURTURER| Anavi Bharambe ‘29 | colored pencil

2nd PLACE

HOME | James Chang ‘25 | graphite

JOURNALING

COMPETITION #3

1st PLACE

JOURNAL ENTRY 3.30.24 | Sophia Cheng ‘24

Journal Entry 3.30.24

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the book we’re reading in lit class, A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki. The narrator talks a lot about how there isn’t really a now, ever, because once you recognize the now it’s already become then. I feel that way a lot of the time. I sit in my car or in my room or in class and feel time slipping by, like I physically feel time passing by my static figure like the wind rustling a grassy plain. I don’t really know how else to explain it. Sometimes it’s a nice, gentle breeze that makes me feel calm and grateful for what I have now even though I know it’ll be gone soon and is already gone. And other times it feels like I can’t breathe because it’s not then anymore, it’s now, and now it’s not even now. That doesn’t make any sense, but the gist of it is that I know in a few months nothing in my life will be the same, none of my relationships or habits or surroundings. Nothing except me will be the same, except I’ll also be different. Everything will slip away like when I’m standing on wet sand at the beach and my toes are digging in deep and it seems like the sand beneath my feet is mine, forever, and then a wave sweeps in and for a moment I’m not standing on anything and my heels are only touching air. That feeling has scared me since I was little; maybe that fear is the only constant thing I’ll ever have. Also, I don’t know why I keep using nature metaphors when I write.

Continuing the theme of how I can’t let go of anything, I’m also keeping a tally of all the last things I’ll ever do. So far, I’ve got: last time my mom picks me up from school, last math test, last time I hike the Rhus Ridge trail. When I list it out like that I truly do feel how stupid and small my life is, and yet how much each of those things means to me. For a really long time I wanted to be one of those people who has a big life, who does things and has impact. Sometimes I still feel that yearning now, but mostly I think I’ve realized that I will not be one of those big people. I think it’s okay, because that’s just the way things go.

Someone said to me a while ago that it’s sad how practical I’ve become, and I think it’s because I expedited and condensed my daydreaming so that it ended sooner.

Oh my gosh, I need to stop thinking about sad things. I need to stop starting my sentences with “I think” because I think thinking is actually killing me. My life is great!!!!! (It’s embarrassing that I needed to use five exclamation points for that sentence.) But really.

One day when I am older I will rediscover this journal entry and I will laugh at myself and how ridiculously angsty I sound. I will feel a lot more empathetic and protective compared to how I feel about myself right now, and I know that because that’s how I feel about who I was in elementary school and eighth grade and one year ago. It’s funny because you’d think that’s comforting for me to know, that one day I will love who I am right now, but really I hate how self-conscious I am. I wish I could be like the Romantics and achieve transcendence and discard my brain and just be. UGH!!!!!! I just need to stop thinking.

Addendum: I can’t believe the entire school is going to read this because I am voluntarily submitting it. If you’ve gotten this far, please don’t be too mean. Actually you can be mean it’s fine I get it. This piece, if you can even call it that, is not literary, and it’s not art. But that’s fine, because it’s how I feel, so I suppose I shouldn’t feel bad about it. If you also feel crippling self-consciousness and doubt all the time, hit me up!

JOURNALING

2nd PLACE

SATURDAY, FEB 17, 20 24 | Emma Hwang ‘24

Saturday, Feb 17, 2024

I have too many things I want to tell you. The music I listen to. The show I’m watching. This book I'm reading about how our bodies store our hurt. The full moon I saw yesterday and the way it looked like someone came and hung it in the night sky like an ornament. Do you think the moon feels lonely? A single pearl glowing by the light of the sun, enveloped in a glittering, dark robe? I want to tell you how it feels to be surrounded by constellations of people, yet feel miles away from them. I need to tell you the regret I feel for turning independence into habit, for growing up so fast and forgetting who I am, how the emptiness rings so loud in my ears, how I miss you so much it hurts and that every time I see the stars smile I can’t smile back without lying.

But I don't tell you anything. I just note how prettily the rain drums against the pavement and how beautifully the red street lights cascade their dancing reflections into the water, outlines painted by that great big hand in the sky. And I tell you "I love you", and I can only hope it captures everything I cannot put into words.

This piece won a gold key for the 2024 Scholastic Arts & Writing Awards

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

Arjun Ari ’25

Arjun Ari is a junior who enjoys tackling players on the field, singing in his school's musical, and is curious about alternate ways to express his emotions. Arjun has found great interest through journaling, poetry, and creative writing.

Karina Aronson ’24

Senior Karina Aronson is honored to have her photographs featured in Tabula Rasa . Her favorite part of photojournalism is capturing small, intimate moments. Outside of harassing her sister to pose and begging her newspaper editor to let her photograph farmers markets and parades and concerts, she loves to try new restuarants with friends, throw pottery, and tend to her Japanese maple garden.

Tiffany Au ’27

Tiffany is a freshman who spends most of her time on debate and loves to express herself through her writing.

Anavi Bharambe ’29

Anavi loves art and draws anywhere and everywhere - on paper napkins while waiting for her order to arrive, on cell phone covers. She's been learning ballet since she was three, and she's very dedicated to it. She's a competitive dancer who loves to improve her dance style and technique. She also just started playing volleyball and really enjoys it. She is honored to have her art selected for Tabula Rasa and hopes to write for it in the future.

Michael Bradley ’25

Michael Bradley is a junior who enjoys exploring his creativity through photography. Aside from photography, he loves swimming, biking, listening to music, and procrastinating on schoolwork.

Soha A. Budhani ’26

Soha is a cheerful sophomore who strives to embrace diversity and inclusion in her writing. She is museum-obsessed and a foodie, often structuring her very limited free time to incorporate both.

James Chang ’25

James Chang is a junior. He is happy to be once again submitting his artwork for Tabula Rasa. Outside of school, he draws a lot and enjoys sleeping.

Rishi Chen ’27

It is very hard for anyone to exactly pinpoint the breadth of the Rishi Chen operation. Known to some as the "Enigmatic Enigma of Suffolk," you can find freshman Rishi Chen frolicking or (modestly) basking.

Sophia Cheng ’24

Sophia Cheng is a senior who is fascinated by language. Some of her favorite things include cloudy weather, deep conversations, and milk chocolate. She is honored to be featured in Tabula Rasa again and hopes you enjoy her rambling.

Jonathan Detkin ’25

Jonathan is a junior who enjoys experimenting with his art style and expressing himself creatively.

Brandon Ge ’24

Brandon Ge is a senior who is happy to have his writing published on Tabula Rasa for the first time. He loves playing bridge, basketball, and golf. When he's not doing any of those things, he's probably hanging out with friends or being incredibly unproductive.

Derrick Harris ’27

Derrick is a freshman who enjoys expressing different ideas through poetry. When not listening to music or writing, he spends his time running or hanging out with friends.

Ian Hsiao ’26

Sophmore Ian Hsiao believes that art and expressive language are the most effective ways to convey a meaningful message. Ian explores his passions in art through writing creative novels, 3D modeling, and taking design classes.

Sahana Inumpudi ’29

Sahana is a 7th grader who has always had a natural love for expressing herself through poetry and music. Sahana spends her free time playing musical instruments, such as the piano or harp. Friends describe Sahana as a very creative and thoughtful person.

Ella Kim ’28

Ella is an 8th grader who enjoys writing fictional stories and watching movies. She also likes baking and listening to music. When she is not doing these things, she is probably sleeping.

Jake Lee ’24

Jake Lee is a senior and former barista who enjoys graphic design, photography, and stage managing productions. He detests photos of himself. In his free time, he enjoys teasing his friends and channeling sarcastic energy.

Jia Lee ’28

Jia is an 8th grader who often enjoys doing art. Her favorite art mediums are pen, clay, and charcoal. She spends her free time reading and listening to music. She has been playing the viola for more than seven years.

Elizabeth Liang ’27

Elizabeth is a curious freshman who loves to stargaze, dream chase, and rock climb. She also loves to find new hobbies and learn new skills, travel to places she has never been, explore distinct natural landscapes, write poetry, visit museums, as well as illustrate artworks of various media in her free time.

Kaitlyn Maier ’27

Kaitlyn is a freshman who loves reading and writing poetry. She brings a book with her everywhere she goes and spends her weekends at museums and bookstores.

( contributor bios continued on the next page)

Alexander McCormick ’24

Alexander is a senior who enjoys photography, taekwondo, and playing the bagpipes. He’s a fiend for grilled cheese, and spends excessive amounts of money modding his car. He’s excited to show his work in Tabula Rasa

Diana Natsev ’29

Diana is a 7th-grade, passionate young writer who heartily indulges in poetry, frequenting darker, more artful themes. She additionally enjoys volleyball, Daedalian puzzles, abstruse, challenging questions, heteroclite music, and collecting exquisite, hyaline trinkets or sculptures.

Addison Parenti ’26

Addison is a sophomore who loves venturing through different forms of art, mainly creative writing and musical theatre. In her free time you can find Addison singing, playing guitar, and reading.

Lara Parikh ’26

Lara Parikh is a sophomore who loves writing poetry and short stories and uses it as her means of self-expression. Lara also enjoys playing tennis, reading, cooking, and writing for The Perennial . She is thrilled to have her works published in Tabula Rasa again!

Alisha Ramani ’27

Alisha is a freshman who experiences new facets of life through her writing. She spends her free time dancing, playing the piano, spending time with friends and family, and daydreaming.

Max Rees ’26

Max is a sophomore who deeply enjoys writing poetry about nature and other beautiful things. He can most often be found playing the guitar or talking to his friends, and he is so excited for his work to be featured in this edition of Tabula Rasa.

Bridget Rees ’24

Bridget is a senior who's happy to see her artwork in Tabula Rasa . She likes character design, impractically tall platform boots, and drinking concerning amounts of iced coffee.

Sophie Saibi ’27

Sophie is a freshmen who enjoys creating art in a plethora of different forms. In her free time she enjoys painting, playing volleyball, stargazing, and cloud gazing.

Rekha Seiber ’27

Rekha is a 9th grader who enjoys doing both digital and traditional art. She is often found drawing on Procreate, homework packets, assigned books, random school notebooks, or any other paper product she has access to.

Michael Shtrom ’25

Michael is a Pinewood junior who loves exploring the world through poetry. When he isn’t furiously scribbling his ramblings into his journal, he is drowning in Adele’s music, usually because it is blasting at full volume from his speaker. He hopes that you enjoy his writings and all of the work in the Tabula Rasa.

Sasha Solomatin ’29

Sasha is a 7th grader obsessed with nature and books. Whenever she has free time, she is either reading or outside. She also plays violin and occasionally writes poetry. She's very excited and honored to be featured in Tabula Rasa.

Davin Ternus ’28

Davin Ternus enjoys taking pictures of everything he can as he has a terrible memory and needs them to remember his trips.

Marley Thornson ’25

Marley is a junior who likes pretty things, taking pictures of pretty things, and writing about pretty things. She hopes that you find the same amount of joy in her photos as she did.

Kelly Anne Tu ’27

Kelly Anne is a freshman who enjoys working with ceramics and writing exaggerated stories.

Arianna Wessel ’25

Arianna Wessel is a junior who loves capturing uncharacteristically beautiful things through the lense of a camera. She loves riding horses, track and field, mountain biking, and watching TV shows.

Claire Wu ’27

Claire is a freshman who's found delight in writing since her early years of stapling ten sheets of printer paper together to create a "book." Aside from her authorly pursuits, she also enjoys obsessing over the MBTI personality test, cooking (and eating), and playing musical instruments.

Aaron Xie ’27

Aaron is a freshman who has a passion for creative writing and reading. He enjoys playing tennis, hanging out with friends, and listening to music.

Gabby Yang ’25

Gabby is a junior who is passionate about photography. She loves expressing her emotions through her artwork and expanding her creative lens. In her free time, Gabby enjoys playing basketball, traveling, spending time with friends and family, and drinking boba.

STAFF BIOS

Editor-in-Chief, Emma Hwang ’ 24

Emma is a senior and is honored to be featured in Tabula Rasa again. She enjoys experimenting with writing, baking, and painting gifts for friends. As this magazine is finished, she thanks you for reading and will promptly resume her sleep.

Managing Editor, Sophia Yao ’ 24

Sophia is a senior who is thrilled to have her work featured in Tabula Rasa for the fourth year. She loves reading and writing, especially nonfiction and poetry. In her free time, she enjoys spending time with friends and listening to music.

Web Editor, Kathleen Xie ’25

Kathleen is a junior who loves writing poetry, listening to music, reading, and traveling. She is honored to be featured in Tabula Rasa again and hopes you enjoy reading her work!

Assistant Editor, Makena Matula ’24

Makena is a senior who loves nature photography, photographing various organisms from their outings. They love spending time in nature and take a lot of inspiration from it.

Assistant Editor, Josephine Tu ’ 25

Josephine is a junior who loves rock climbing, sleep (deprivation), internet wormholes, Hozier, and a tiny frog in Brazil. In her free time, she overthinks.

Assistant Editor, Violet Negrette ’ 25

Violet is part of the Tabula Rasa staff for the second year in a row. She loves reading every genre of book, playing soccer, and hanging out with friends.

Assistant Editor, Esha Joshi ’26

Esha, a sophomore, is so excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa ! She loves writing about anything, from flowers to clothes to the confusing tangle that is teenage emotion. When she's not writing, you can find her eating various kinds of fruit.

Advisors, Holly Coty & David Wells

ABOUT TABULA RASA

Tabula Rasa , established in 2016, is an annual, award-winning publication showcasing literature and art by students of Pinewood School. Tabula Rasa accepts prose, poetry, art, photography, music, and cross-genre 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 Holly Coty and David Wells and edited by a small group of high school students who love the literary and visual arts. Any questions or comments regarding the publication may be directed to the email address tabularasasubmissions@pinewood. edu. Feel free to also check out our website at pwtabularasa.org and our instagram at @pw.tabularasa.

The magazine’s next submission period will open in February 2025. Students may submit through an online portal that will become available at that time. Students may also submit pieces to our quarterly themes, which will become available starting in September 2024.

Thank you for reading the 2024 edition of Tabula Rasa

– Emma Hwang ’24, Sophia Yao ’24, Makena Matula ’24, Violet Negrette ’25, Josephine Tu ’25, Kathleen Xie ’25, Esha Joshi ’26

EDITORS EMERITI

2022-23

Samantha Hsiung ’23

2021-22

Prithi Srinivasan ’22, Emily Takara ’22

2020-21

Eva Liu ’21, Micaela Rodriguez Steube ’21, Prithi Srinivasan ’22

2017-20

Sarah Feng ’20, Reilly Brady ’20, Katherine Chui ’20

2016-17

Priya Sundaresan ’17, Zarin Mohsenin ’17

COLOPHON

Tabula Rasa is set in EB Garamond, Futura PT, and Acumin Variable Concept typeface.

The magazine was produced on Adobe InDesign and printed by Folger Graphics, and the pages were designed by Emma Hwang ’24, Sophia Yao ’24, Makena Matula ’24, Violet Negrette ’25, Josephine Tu ’25, Kathleen Xie ’25, and Esha Joshi ’26.

COPYRIGHT © 2024 PINEWOOD SCHOOL