Teen Ink magazine – July 2023

Letter from the Editor

Dear Teen Ink Readers,

We’re back with another special edition and are super excited to share it with you! This month’s issue of Teen Ink magazine focuses entirely on books!

In case you didn’t know, Teen Ink has a book section for pieces that are 1,500 words or more. Because we know how much effort is put into these books, we’d like to shine the spotlight on those who have taken the time to write and submit their novels to us!

While reading this issue, you will find three amazing novels and many book reviews. This magazine also features the winners of our Tell a Story Writing Contest and our Only Colors Art Contest!

Want to keep yourself busy this summer? Read a book or two (or many, many more) and make sure to submit a review of it to Teen Ink! You may even be inspired to write your own book (don’t forget to submit that to Teen Ink, too)!

As always, we welcome your feedback! If you want to write a letter to an editor, respond to an opinion article, or just take a stab at creating a poem good enough to make it into our next magazine, visit teenink.com/submit!

Best wishes!

The Teen Ink Team

“Reality doesn’t always give us the life that we desire, but we can always find what we desire between the pages of books.”

— Adelise M. Cullens

Cover Art Contest

ART GALLERY

CREDITS

1. ARTWORK BY SICHENG SUN, BEIJING, CHINA

2. ARTWORK BY ERINN HUANG, SANTA CLARA, CA

3. ARTWORK BY ANOUSHKA RAY, CEDAR RAPIDS, IA

the intelligence test

PHOTO BY CHAO YU, NINGBO, CHINA

NOVEL BY JAMIE MICHALSKY, MOHNTON, PA

Told from the perspective of Amara, is the story of the mundane, melancholic lives of her and her two triplet brothers, Romeo and Francis, as they are threatened by the approach of their 13th birthday.

Chapter 1

I wake up to the sounds of someone screaming. It takes me more than a second to realize it’s me; I’m the one screaming. I lay back down, coaxing sleep back into my mind, trying to get as much rest as I can before I do the most important thing of my entire life. The thing is though, it’s not just my life on the line. It’s all of ours — Romeo’s, Francis’, and mine together. If I had to rate the aspects of being a triplet, there is no doubt this would come last. Having to take this test on your 13th birthday is bad enough, your first year of being a teen started off by taking a bullsh*t test, with the weight of your life balancing like a funambulist walking their tightrope. Soon enough, I feel the gentleness of sleep come and take me away, all thoughts gone with the wind.

After receiving a never-beforeseen perfect score on the national intelligence test, they are kidnapped and put to the test to see if they can use their newly discovered wits to break out.

I jolted awake for the second time today, this time waking to the loud blare of my alarm clock. It’s not really mine, though, is it? Everything in this house, in my life, all belongs to Enigma, the government that likes to claim that it’s not. The only thing in my life that truly belongs to me is Romeo and Francis. And even then, they don’t really belong to me. Like twin flames, they’ve always been mirrors of each other. I think they are more like each other than they are themselves.

I try to focus on getting ready, taking my time, and trying to enjoy the more mundane things of life, since this might be my last chance to ever do them. The thought paralyzes me, and I have to do everything I can to not keel over right here. A blanket of melancholy settled over the house, suffocating and smothering us, the elephant in the room towering six feet high over us all. Even mom’s not talking — nothing unusual about that — but you would think that if this was maybe the last time you would see all three of your kids together, you would have something to say. Or at least want to, if not held back by snot and sobs. I guess I’m really not that shocked, mom’s been depressed to hell and back ever since her brother died, killed as a punishment for rioting against the testing. Even so, deep down it still stings more than I would like it to.

As I watch the building come into view from the bus window, my first thought is one of awe. This place is huge, I think to myself, then immediately erase it, replacing it with thoughts of my promise to forever and always root against Enigma, along with the

test, and the consequences of anything deemed malicious. Even with my promise, I can’t help but admire the building, a pristine shade of white, bouncing the sunlight beautifully off into the bright blue sky, which then reflects off the lush green gardens and purple flowers in the midst of blooming. All in all, I have to give them this, I would kill to be able to look at this day in and day out. Too bad that will never happen.

I take one last glance at my life as it is, Romeo and Francis, Mom, the way the lack of clouds gives me hope that maybe today might not be so bad. I turn and walk towards the doors, in line with my two dimwit siblings, when suddenly Mom yells out, “Wait!”

We all turn in unison, a weird phenomenon proven true, we triplets do often move in sync without effort. She leans out the open bus window, pale flesh framed against icy blonde hair, and yells as loud as she can, “I’m so sorry, just know I love you,” with the bus pulling away as she finishes the sentiment.

“Amara, are you crying?” Francis questions, clearly a little shocked at how emotional Mom’s speech made me.

“Nope, what are you talking about?” I say while laughing, trying to play it off as if I’m not.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Romeo snaps, his nerves getting the best of him.

“May the odds be ever in our favor,” we all say, our collective favorite quote from The Hunger Games

Walking hesitantly toward the building, I look up at the crystal blue sky and beg any God who will listen to let Romeo, Francis, and I all pass the test.

Chapter 2

I walk into one of the five testing rooms, sitting down at an ugly beige desk, one of those old rickety ones with uneven legs, rocking back and forth at every weight shift. Focusing on taking deep breaths, I glance around at what would appear to be a normal

classroom, identical in layout to those of our schools, the only difference being the cost of them. The tottering desks look horribly out of place compared to the shiny, modern feel of the rest of the room. Almost like adding desks was an afterthought, as if a classroom was not the original intention. Just like the light reflecting off the building, this gives me a sense of hope. I guess right now I’m just trying to grab and hold on to anything I can before my life possibly comes crashing down.

The whole test blurs together into a mess in my head, and all I can see when I think of it is ink-smeared paper and the stains of tears everywhere. I’m the first out of the dozen or so people here finished, and I give Rome and Fritzy a wink before I am escorted out of the room by a uniformed guard with silvery Glocks stationed on her belt, their color popping out against the black of her uniform. Seeing them up close should, logically, give me a heart attack at my newly ripe age of 13, but it doesn’t. In fact, seeing the guard’s gun up close only encourages me, giving me enough confidence to try and strike up a conversation with her.

“So…” I start, “jobs must get boring quickly. I mean, day in and day out, all you’re doing is escorting a bunch of kids down a hallway.”

All I receive in response is a blank stare. Not surprising. I give it one more go, saying, “Really have a lot to say, huh?”

Once more, I receive only a blank stare. As we continue to walk down the long stone hallway, I’m hit by the sudden smell of peaches. I know how that sounds, the thought of smelling peaches in an eerie, gray hallway, devoid of any color, is insane. But I know what I smelled. And in smelling it, I’m hit with a memory. A memory I buried a long time ago, and one I haven’t thought about since.

February 2033

I remember this day so vividly, it’s like it happened yesterday. This is essentially the whole reason why we’re all here. Why I feel like I’m trapped in this

Everything in this house, in my life, all belongs to Enigma, the government that likes to claim that it’s not

A BLANKET OF MELANCHOLY SETTLED OVER THE HOUSE, SUFFOCATING AND SMOTHERING US ALL, THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM TOWERING SIX FEET HIGH OVER US ALL

building, stuck with no way out. Why there is a guard with a gun escorting me through it. Why I just took a test in which the score determines my fate.

I’m six years old, finishing up my first year of real school, kindergarten. The morning air is frosty, nipping at my nose and ears, turning my face tomato-red. Francis, Romeo, and I are racing through the school courtyard, trying to beat each other to be the first inside. Romeo made it first, me second, and Francis received last place. That’s been the order of athletics since the day we all came out of the womb. We all file into the classroom, when all of a sudden, lights start flashing red, alarms start blaring, and black spots float through my vision. Loud noises scared me then, and I retreated into the corner of the room and sank to the floor, fighting off the sudden tears threatening to fall. Our teacher, Mrs. Nelson, comes rushing in, comforting us and telling everyone that all is fine, though yelling could still be heard over the still-resounding alarm. Francis and Romeo then join me, all huddling together in the small corner. Soon enough, everyone is cramming into the corner, with Mrs. Nelson standing guard up front, laptop in hand. She’s whispering to everyone to keep quiet and still, begging everyone to stop crying. My hands are clutching Frankie’s and Rome’s so tightly I can see my knuckles turning white. I’m positive I’m hurting them both, but I don’t let go. I just can’t. The thing that scares me the most is I have no perception of what’s even going on.

For what must be at least an hour, we all sit on top of one another, no one daring to move, talk, or even breathe too loud. Finally, Mrs. Nelson takes a deep breath and turns fully toward us as her sobs finally break free.

“That was great everyone,” she says through compulsive gasps. “Go back to your seats please.” We do as we’re told, all of us returning to our assigned seats. Hysteric yawps break out, 10 times louder than they should be, thanks to having to repress them for so long. Along with them, conversations explode throughout the room, most of them supplying guesses for the cause of our panic-stricken hour.

“What do you think just happened?” I ask no one in particular with a trembling lip.

“I have no idea,” Romeo says.

“Neither do I,” Francis, very helpfully, adds.

I would find out later that day that a member of Congress had killed Juan Powers, the son of the leader of the strongest nation, Cargo. Reports and articles show him proclaiming his innocence, but there are videos and eyewitness accounts of everything. Not like I’ve ever seen the videos, nor do I ever want to. I’m sure that if I did, I would never sleep again, haunted by Juan’s maimed and mangled body. And though he was found guilty and convicted in the court of law, left

to die behind bars, in hindsight it really doesn’t matter. When you do the right thing for the future, it still doesn’t change the past. Nor does it guarantee that the future will change.

Chapter 3

The sweet, fruity smell of peaches dissipates almost as quickly as it started. And as it does, I snap back to reality. I glance around furtively, and the actuality of my current situation sets in. I’m no longer walking down a beige hallway, and there is no guard in sight. Truthfully, there’s not much of anything in sight. Darkness encapsulates me on all sides, and if I had to guess I would say I could see about 20 feet in front of me.

“HELLO?” I cry out into the darkness.

My shout echoes, indicating that I’m in a pretty large room.

“AMARA, IS THAT YOU?” someone else calls out, equally, if not louder than me.

I shriek and jump back, scared to death that I’m not alone in this room and that its other occupant knows my name.

Once I get my bearings, I realize with shock that Francis was the one yelling.

“Francis, are you in here?” I yell out again, this time preparing to hear an answer.

“Yeah, I’m here, and I think Romeo’s here too.”

“Rome, you in here?” I call out again, like a teacher taking roll call.

“Present,” he voices, obviously catching on to the teacher joke.

“Okay guys, both of you follow the sound of my voice, that way we know where each other is and we can figure out what the heck we’re doing in here.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Rome answers.

And with that, I hear the sound of weight against metal, like someone crawling their way toward me. I keep rambling on, talking gibberish, the resounding echo keeping the conversation alive. As my rant continues, the sounds of heavy breathing and the occasional curse word advance toward me. After about five minutes, Rome and Francis arrive at my feet, like a puppy begging for its owner’s attention.

“No one is hurt, right? We’re all okay?” questions Fritzy.

“I’m fine,” I reply.

“A-okay,” is Romeo’s genius response.

“Okay, now that’s out of the way, let’s think about what we’re doing here. First off, what did you guys do after the test? Any specific smell by chance? And did it have something to do with peaches?” I spew out questions, taking the makeshift role of the leader.

Francis starts us off, saying, “After I finished, I was escorted down this ugly tan hallway by this girl guard with a silver gun. And how did you know? Not even three minutes after we started walking, I got hit with this overwhelming scent of peaches. And then after that, all I could think about was when Juan got killed.” He lowers his voice for that last sentence, almost as if speaking about it is a sin, and that avoiding the topic all together will blink it out of existence. I, however, believe in the fact that “Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself,” in the wise words of my lord and savior, Hermione Granger.

“Then when the memory was over, I snapped awake and ended up here.”

“This whole thing is starting to really creep me out because literally, the exact same thing happened to me.”

ARTWORK BY EMBER WOODRUFF, SAMMAMISH, WA

“There has to be a logical explanation,” I declare, grasping for excuses and justifications, only to come up empty-handed each time.

“I’m sure there is one,” Rome agrees, though the uncertainty in his voice plainly opposes his statement.

I open my mouth, about to throw out another illogical rationalization to this mess, when all of a sudden an ear-splitting bang fills the once-silent room. Seconds after the noise, the room floods with scintillating light, blinding me instantaneously. I try to take a quick scan of the room, shielding my eyes, but the light is just too much.

Time passes by as slow as molasses, with my eyes adjusting to the sudden burst of light just as quickly. Once they do, I let out a tumultuous yelp and jump

back a good four feet. Standing guard at the room’s entrance is a man. And seeing anyone there would be terrifying enough, but when the somebody you see is a seven-foot-tall, jacked man, with what I could only guess are burn scars covering the better half of his face, terrified doesn’t even cover it.

Once he’s ensured he has all of our full attention, he cracks a vile smirk, as if he wants us to know that he is in complete control, and we’re just a helpless rag-tag group of kids, sitting at his mercy.

He begins talking, his rasping voice making my skin crawl like nails on a chalkboard.

“I’m sure you all are wondering why you are seemingly stuck here in this room instead of at home lying on the couch. I can assure you there will be none of that from here on out. However, back to the matter at hand, you

“BEAUTY OF THE SKIN”

three have been chosen to participate in Enigma’s state-of-the-art trials. They are designed to study and collect data on your brain waves and patterns. Every trial’s purpose is to create new groundbreaking technology which would allow us to control and thoroughly embed information into the community’s brains.”

At this, Rome tries to interrupt by shouting, “You’re full of lies!”

Instead of stopping to acknowledge and retort to Romeo’s comments like a normal person would, the freak of a man just continues to talk, gradually getting louder as Romeo continues to as well, always staying at least a decibel above him. It’s a sick battle of who can get the last word, and burn man seems to be winning. “These devices will allow us to rid society of its annual intelligence test, and ensure a bright future for the people Enigma calls its own.”

He finishes his speech, and an uncomfortable silence fills the room from floor to ceiling. It’s so silent you could hear a hairpin drop. I can feel the glass case holding the prophecy of my future shattering before me under the weight of the words the freak man has said.

Rome is the one to finally break the silence.

“No, I don’t care if I was chosen, I’m not gonna be some lab rat for your screwed-up excuse of a government!” The man’s wicked stare remains, all the while saying, “This is a very common response. Once the trials are in action and you are more thoroughly informed, you will be quick to change your mind, I’m sure of it.”

“You’re a real bastard, just an FYI,” Francis says nonchalantly, completing the harsh sentiment with a seemingly innocent shrug of his shoulders.

“I’ve been called a lot worse kid,” he says, maintaining his collected expression.

“Now,” he says, “if you ever want to get out of this room, I suggest you follow me before these doors close and you never see the sun again.”

With that, he turns and walks out of the room, into what I’m assuming is the same beige hallway I walked through earlier today. We all look at each other, unsure of what is the correct choice. It’s hard to decide what to do when both of your hands are tied.

I’m the first one standing, and I move towards the door as I tell Fritzy and Rome, “Realistically, what choice do we have? We can fight all we want, but if we all wanna live to see another day you know as well as I do we’re gonna follow this creep.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it,” Francis grumbles, but he gets up to his feet and walks toward me.

That leaves Romeo as the only one still sitting. He’s clearly against following this man, but he’s smart and I know he’ll realize it’s practically his only choice.

Hopefully soon.

“Dude, I love you but could you possibly move any freaking faster? Five seconds and we’re gonna lose him for good, then we’re really stuck here. What chance do we have of getting out and fighting if we’re trapped in essentially a jail cell with no windows? I’ll tell you right now, not a very good one.”

“I second that one,” my right-hand man France adds. Finally, he jumps to his feet, coming to his senses.

“Sorry about that,” he says sheepishly, shaking his head slightly.

“Apologize later, we have to go right now,” I call back behind my shoulders as I sprint to catch up with the burned face, just as I watch his arm disappear around a turn.

Chapter 4

The panting sounds coming from behind me indicate that my brothers are not far behind. Soon enough, we all catch up to the man and walk in step with him, the hallway just wide enough for all four of us.

Unsurprisingly, he gives no acknowledgment at our reappearance, not even a glance up from where his eyes are plastered to the floor. As we continue walking the long hall, a gray set of double doors come into view. I sneak a glance at Rome and Francis at the sight of them, trying to gauge their reaction to spotting an unlikely but possible exit. Their expressions are mirrors of what I assume are my own stone-cold features against pale, bloodless skin, devoid of any emotion except fear.

The swollen, blistered face of the man suddenly appears inches from my face, so close I can feel the heat from his breath splash against my cheeks and down my neck.

“Any one of you nutters make a move, especially you, don’t think I’m gonna hesitate to beat the rest of your life right outta you,” he sneers, flashing his horrid yellow teeth at me.

“Noted,” is my simple response, not trying to irritate him after he just threatened the lives of a bunch of 13-year-olds. Doesn’t strike me as the kind to take well to jokes, especially ones about him.

He snaps back around on his heels and pushes his way through the swinging doors with such force, I have to back up a foot so that they don’t knock the life out of me before he can.

I push out a quick breath, then make my way through the double doors as well, looking back to make sure both Fritz and Ro followed me. Once they’ve taken up either side of me, I take a second to look around. More than a second actually, because I’m immediately enthralled by the window-paned ceiling, encasing the room in brilliant white light. I follow the trail of light, and my eyes land and focus on what looks to be a series of tubes, much like the ones that superheroes such as Captain Man and Kid Danger travel through to help the community of Swellview. Subconsciously, I walk toward the tubes, while the sunlight shining through the ceiling seems to guide the way like a spotlight. Before I can get too close, however, unfamiliar hands reach out and pull me back. My fight or flight kicks in, and I start thrashing my body about, hoping to connect with something, a face preferably, all the while screaming a very appropriate, “Let go of me!” over and over.

My wish is soon granted, though not as comfortably as I would’ve liked. I’m being hurled to the floor before I can even register what’s happening, and I land facefirst. Whiplash from the fall sends my head soaring backward, so far and fast I’m sure I’m going to break my neck. Seconds later, my head is once more flying forward toward the concrete ground. A shooting pain sears through my head, splitting my skull in half as my head connects with the unforgiving floor. As I try to lift my head to catch a glimpse of who just assaulted me, my vision tunnels, and I feel my head hit the floor one last time before I’m knocked out cold.

movements, as he opens the top drawer and pulls out what looks to be a knife. The light from his TV, which I now see, displays a look into a third room, indistinguishable from France’s, which holds Romeo by the looks of it. A Romeo who looks hypnotized, and one who’s mirroring Francis’ every move. I watch in absolute horror as they both hold the knife in front of them, then turn in unison so that I am locking eyes

I wake up in an eerie, gray room, into an equally eerie silence. The bare room contains a bed on which I’m laying and a single dilapidated desk which is home to a TV. Weirdly, the TV seems to be brand new, with nary a single speck of dust on it, contrary to the rest of the room. I sit up to get a better look at my surroundings, when a shock of pain jolts through my head, reminding me of my little encounter with who I’m assuming are Enigma guards, much like the one who escorted me out of the testing room only hours ago. I roll my way out of bed, fighting the pain in my head telling me to go back to sleep, or better yet, back to black. I win the battle, stumbling my way to the TV and desk set. I search the TV for a power button, since I can’t seem to find a remote, and once I find it, I hold it down until the bright blue Enigma logo shines on the screen. The sudden light worsens my pulsing headache, but my curiosity overpowers it. Once the crest disappears, a room almost identical to mine appears in place of it. I put all my willpower into focusing my eyes, and to my dismay I see Francis lying on the bed.

“FRANCIS!” I shout at the TV before I can stop myself. As if he heard my cry, he shoots up out of bed and runs toward the dresser in his room, the only apparent difference to mine. I watch, entranced by his

with them both through the screen. I hold my breath, not daring to look away for even a second. Three seconds later, I scream in anguish as I watch both of my brothers take their knives and stab themselves in the gut. I sit and watch in agony, as the life leaves their eyes, and they both collapse on the floor in a position similar to mine.

I continue screaming, but the tears won’t come. I feel suddenly detached and devoid of all emotion like this is a nightmare and I know I’m about to wake up. I pinch myself just to double-check, even though this is a nightmare — one I know I won’t wake up from. The heaviness of feeling empty crushes me, and I finally collapse into heaving sobs, the sheer sound of them splitting my head open more and more, little by little. After I’ve cried all the tears out of my body, the numbness resides, making way for something much more dangerous than emotional paralysis: rage. All of my panic, anxiety, and fear seem to suddenly morph into blind hatred, making it so all I can see is red.

I make my way to my feet, using the desk for help, and start howling at the TV screen, saying the nastiest things that come to mind, each insult a little worse than the last. Curses and slurs make their way into my hysterical cries, things I swore I would never say. I guess all morals fly out the window when you watch your brothers, the only people in your life who seem to love you, kill themselves under the influence of something mysterious.

I obliterate my vocal cords until all I can manage to say in a hoarse whisper-scream is, “Enigma, I know you can hear me, so listen up. I swear to God, I’m gonna find out who did this to Francis and Romeo, and I’m gonna kill them, I swear. Mark my words.”

MY FIGHT OR FLIGHT KICKS IN, AND I START THRASHING MY BODY ABOUT, HOPING TO CONNECT WITH SOMETHING, A FACE PREFERABLY, ALL THE WHILE SCREAMING A VERY APPROPRIATE, “LET GO OF ME!” OVER AND OVER

BOOK REVIEWS FICTION

The Dinner

By Herman Koch

Review by Emily Fang, Pennington, NJ

Familial bonds are often thought to be the strongest connection to exist, as members are intertwined from the beginning. From the parental instinct of protection, to the hugs and kisses, these relationships last for entire lifetimes. However, they can also be much more complicated than portrayed in storybooks. When does taking a risk for a family member go too far? How can family dynamics and environment affect the actions and beliefs of the children? These questions are prevalent in The Dinner by Herman Koch, a novel that investigates the intricacy of family relationships as well as the issue of morality.

The story follows two couples, connected through the husbands, Serge and Paul Lohman, the latter being the narrator, who meet at a luxurious restaurant as they discuss an event pertaining to their sons. Although they begin the evening in a relatively friendly manner, as the night continues, tensions rise as secrets are slowly revealed on both

sides, creating a darker, strained atmosphere. Through the use of flashbacks and conversations, readers become intrigued as to how the complicated relationships between the two families will play out during the dinner, and how far each side will go to protect their own son.

The story gradually introduces an array of characters, all of whom have varying relationships with one another, both positive and negative. Serge Lohman, as a successful politician, has risen rapidly in political, economic, and social ranking. Paul Lohman, his brother, is considerably lesser in status and seems to be somewhat jealous in private. Even so, both are very well-off from a financial standpoint, and their children, Michel and Rick, growing up in a privileged environment, have become disdainful teenagers. As demonstrated through the “pranks” of the two sons, they look down upon the homeless, laying both physical and verbal abuse upon those they find in the street and viewing them as nuisances instead of human beings. This reflects the theme of class and status, because

When does taking a risk for a family member go too far?

within the bubble of wealth that they grew up in, Michel and Rick’s morals become skewed and twisted. They constantly feel superior to the poor, in part due to their money and status, which eventually lands them in a complicated situation that is slowly revealed through the luxurious dinner. They had been raised under the pretense that they could carry out virtually any activity they wanted without consequences. However, when they go too far, it becomes dubious whether or not this wealth can save them anymore.

This leads to a question of morality that presents itself as a constant throughout the story. Usually,

morality is portrayed as a debate between right and wrong or good and evil, however, the parents of Michel and Rick have to settle a new debate, now between personal responsibility and family loyalty. The idea of the parental instinct of protection weaves itself into the storyline as the two sets of parents attempt to determine whether or not the heinous crime their sons committed is worth sacrificing their morals for. Many of the parents’ rather dismal decisions come from an inclination to protect their children. For instance, after witnessing footage of their children committing an actual crime on TV, neither Paul nor Claire (his wife) acknowledge anything about it. Instead, Paul even mentions that he “would act the ignoramus, a rather naive father who didn’t think it was such a big deal that his son beat up vagrants and set fire to the homeless.” Even so, each parent knows that murdering someone is absolutely a ghastly crime, especially by a pair of teenagers. This demonstrates that morality isn’t always as clear as good and bad; it encompasses other factors and strings all weaved together into a mess of complications that cannot always be untangled as easily as many stories make it seem. In this

case, Paul and Claire prioritize family loyalty, blurring their perception of morality. However, another question arises from this situation: do the Lohman families even care about morals? It’s clear from the story that they do indeed care about their reputation and they most definitely care about their children. Yet it’s also plain that they feel that the situation pertaining to their sons is also an annoyance, a blip in the radar of their perfect, “happy” lives. Collectively, it seems that the issue, to Paul and Claire in particular, isn’t as much of a question of morality, as it is of maintaining a perfect little family.

Throughout the novel, there is no clear protagonist. Each character is imperfect, flawed, and awful in their own way. Yet, readers find themselves almost cheering on the narrator, Paul, since he’s set up as the “good guy.” Although he and Claire are undoubtedly vile people, he is able to defend their actions in his thoughts, saying that they only did what they did because it was necessary. Serge and Babette, the other couple, are depicted as questionable characters from the start, but with no perspective in their defense. With such an unreliable narrator, the story leaves

readers feeling largely unsettled. Herman Koch does a wonderful job of weaving together figurative language, flashbacks, and events through the dinner to keep the story moving just fast enough to leave readers on edge, but just slow enough to compel readers to consider the meaning of morality and the extent to which wealth has an effect on how people of different social classes are able to live their lives.

In one evening, one setting, and one group of people, an intricate web of relationships, imperfections, and themes is weaved together in order to show how different reality is from the way it may be portrayed in storybooks. The two families, in trying to cover up for their sons’ mistakes, show readers the thin line that lies between good and bad, while also depicting the difference in morals that people may possess based upon status, wealth, and parenting. The Dinner gives readers a chance to reflect upon their own lives while grasping the idea of disparities in society. No matter what kind of life you lead, this novel will allow you to explore the ambiguity of morality as well as the complexity of human relationships and behavior.

ARTWORK BY LULU YU, SAN MARINO, CA

SCIENCE-FICTION

book. Weir did a great job by taking a foreign environment and putting a character that is relatable in it to help the reader grasp the idea of

SCIENCE-FICTION

The Martian

By Andy Weir

Review by Colin Kipp, Sussex, WI

The Martian by Andy Weir, an extremely powerful story of a young American, and in this case, Martian hero, and his journey through colonization, exploration, and catastrophe, instantly caught my attention.

Mark Watney, against all odds, is making it happen. He began his Martian training on Earth at the NASA flight center, where from there he met his six-person crew and developed a family-like bond. These astronauts would be together for close to a year — or so they thought. A brutal desert storm came shortly after the crew arrived, forcing everyone to evacuate. As the astronauts fled to their departure rocket, Mark Watney was struck by the antenna of one of the communications stations, puncturing his suit as well as himself, leaving him on Mars, alone. Through the mixture of catastrophe and great success, Watney leads the readers through emotional highs and lows through his log

space travel. Mark Watney is talking to the reader through a Martian Log Book; however, he writes with obscene language and friendly verbiage. Watney’s communication with the reader made us sympathize with him when things went wrong and elated when he worked a major problem out. You, as a reader, learn and grow through the book alongside Mark, and quickly become a cheerleader for the colonizer.

Weir made this book easy to comprehend, and even easier to read and enjoy. The language and dialogue used helps the reader, who likely has no intelligence in space travel, understand what it may be like or feel as if you were truly there. Through his log books, Watney lays out the basics of how Mars works and the special machines that he has to use to survive, which no reader would have been expected to know. By supplying easy-to-understand knowledge for the reader, it gets the reader’s own head thinking about ways to solve the problems our main character is facing, ultimately hooking us even deeper into the book.

All in all, I do recommend this book to anyone looking for a fun, easy read that involves space travel and engineering, as it was very difficult to set this book down until I finished it.

Player Piano

By Kurt Vonnegut

Review by Grace Fitzgerald, Oconomowoc, WI

A player piano is a mechanized version of a craft. It takes out the human element of piano playing. Notes are never missed. Songs are always played as written. There are no mistakes. Perfection, right? If we push industrialization, what are we working toward? Is there an end? What happens to the general worker when they are competing with machines? Paul asks these same questions in a world where machines have removed human error, making life easier, but leaving millions jobless. This dystopia is explored in Kurt Vonnegut’s novel, Player Piano

Luckily, Paul was born to be an engineer, just like his father. In a futuristic New York, dominated by machines, he runs his factory, never crossing the bridge to the other side of Ilium. Paul is pushed around by his work’s politics, working toward his wife’s goal of his promotion. But Paul doesn’t feel fulfilled. As Paul tries to escape the bounds of society, he is faced with finding his place in

It gets the reader’s own head thinking about ways to solve the problems our main character is facing

the world — or moreso his place against it.

Vonnegut writes to give readers an omniscient point of view with his dual perspectives of Paul, the worker, and The Shah of Bratpuhr, the outsider. Americans reading this book relate to the American ideals that most characters have, but the outsider’s point of view gives us a new perspective to look at what the ideals have become. Although I think the book’s beginning is a little slow, the content makes up for it. As readers, we can widen our view of our society, just like Paul did.

Throughout his novel, Vonnegut expresses worry about the advancement of machines and where the American citizen falls if the advancement exceeds their ability. This book pushes you to think about the faults in our society in America today. A capitalistic society pushes innovation and competition, but where does it end? We pride our nation on individualism and freedom, but if people can’t keep up with the advancement of machines, is that the message of our nation? These questions hit us readers hard as they are also asked in conversations today. Since this novel was created, we may relate even closer to this topic as electronics have become integral in our daily lives. Vonnegut’s words push us as readers to relate the moral questions of this book to our own lives.

our achievements, but just for being alive at all.

YOUNG ADULT FICTION

lot of queer joy, which made me happy. Moreland discussed many pertinent queer issues that arise in the school setting in a graceful manner related to plotline. I’m not sure how realistic the mostly supportive school environment was for a charter school in the Midwest, but the homophobia (and biphobia) in the book was handled so well. I would definitely recommend this to an ally looking to learn about homophobia or biphobia in schools.

Overall, a piano player can’t compete with a player piano in accuracy. A machine will always play perfectly. But, as Vonnegut questions, why must everything be perfect? Player Piano helps us appreciate ourselves not only for

Something Like Possible

By Miel Moreland

Review by Fiona Bryant, Omaha, NE

Something Like Possible follows Madison, an aspiring campaign manager, as she turns a break-up and firing into an opportunity for victory and a bit of romance. I loved reading about Madison reaching her goals and fighting for a campaign victory without being painted as “bossy” or “overbearing.” The romance plot later in the book was also portrayed as respectful and loving, while simultaneously being adorable. Their relationship had me kicking my feet and giggling. Moreland did an excellent job of depicting Madison and the love interest as equals with their own set of strengths, even if the love interest could have been a bit more fleshed-out. They balanced each other out really well.

I also loved the sense of LGBTQ+ community and allyship throughout the book. There was a

I really appreciated the discussion of school and local politics in the novel as well. With an upcoming presidential election, highlighting local civic engagement and electing women into office is extremely important. Madison can’t vote, but she still involves herself in political volunteering and goes to city halls. Civic engagement is so vital and is an excellent way for teens to get involved before they can vote and I’m glad this book emphasized that. I’m unsure, though, as to how realistic the portrayal of the junior class president campaign was. All of the characters were referring to it like it wasn’t just a popularity contest. Same thing with the Jays Jigsaw pieces; they were portrayed as coveted items, but I doubt most high schoolers would care.

Ultimately, though, I really enjoyed Something Like Possible. The romance is super loveable and balanced; all of the friend characters are interesting, but are also honest with Madison. The conflicts are handled well and you root for Madison to keep finding empowerment. The plot dragged a bit in the middle, but you’re invested enough in the characters to ignore it. Something Like Possible is just a really lovely read.

A capitalistic society pushes innovation and competition, but where does it end?

follow the sunrise

STORY BY ANAHI FLORES-ZAVALA, SUMMERHILL, NC

ARTWORK BY YICHENG LIU, GUANGDONG, CHINA

It took a handful of frosted calendulas to get Jamie out of the church doors.

The mission was simple; pick the flowers and return before the nuns noticed. Or so it seemed. He had miscalculated how long it would take. The red-tipped flowers, like suns in their own right, appeared farther than what he expected. From his high room in the tower, he estimated a five-minute walk.

It edged onto 30.

It felt tedious now, so much effort for some flowers. He couldn’t remember what brought him out in the first place, but its fiery palette was engraved in his mind. They were beacons in the ever-so-graying forest. As the town headed toward winter, those calendulas were the only thing still vibrant, and he wanted nothing more than to linger in the summer.

Getting lost, however, wasn’t on the agenda.

The night chill began to sink into his fingers, feeling frozen. His body shivered with every step. Goosebumps pricked, all of him alert. Yet he continued through the forest, where the trees bowed in shame, and mistletoes leached into their sorrow. Either that, or they hung as if they were hiding something. Neither conclusion brought good thoughts. Jamie would rather be out as prompt as possible.

Without an idea of his location, he sludged back. He long decided to head home, but the obscurity and muddy, wet ice made it impossible. It got colder, dimmer, dangerous, and without flowers to show for it. By this time, someone had to have

noticed his absence. Perhaps a nun or an average churchgoer. Not so much his father. He doubted care from him, even in peril. A rejoice, maybe, to learn he was rid of his bastard son.

Dilemma aside, the chances of being found at the late hour were low. When the sun set, it took his hope with him.

There was a rustle to his left, in a bush.

Jamie stood paralyzed as he filtered through the possibilities of whatever was in there. A rabbit? Snake? Wolf? The options were endless. Something to eat him alive? To tear at him, his flesh, skin, and bones? Leaving no trace of him to grieve over.

Tumbling out was none of that. Instead, he saw a winged beast. Well, not a big one. Rather small and pudgy, with fat to show for it. Tiny enough to fit in his two palms. It had red skin and three horns atop its head. Sharp teeth to dig into meat. Buck legs and hooves like a horse’s; it resembled caricatures of the demonic figures Jamie saw in stained-glass windows. Worst of all was its giant, beady black eyes that enveloped its small head. Best? The calendulas in its hands.

The beast squinted at the flowers, sensing Jamie’s desire, then ate them in a single swallow.

“Hey!” Jamie reached out despite his fears.

It looked back at Jamie. “What? Did you want those?” He nodded with vigor, desperate to get them back. “Well, sorry, but if you can’t tell, I ate them.”

Huffing, he crossed his arms. “But I searched for ages to find them! I can’t go back empty-handed.”

“Tough luck.”

Jamie wanted to cry, but not in front of this thing. Still, he hadn’t a single clue on how to get back. Without a direction to guide him, he refused to put another foot forward. So he just stood there, dumbfounded and stuck, an idiot wading through dark waters.

The beast teased him, “Can’t find your way home?” Jamie didn’t respond, which said enough. It giggled, picking at its teeth in disinterest, “Where’d you come from anyway?”

“The church.”

It stopped. “The church, you say?” He nodded. It got closer. “You live there?”

He stepped back, “...Yeah?”

In a quick flash, its eyes flooded ill-intent before addressing Jamie with a grin, “I can get you those flowers.”

“Really!?” Jamie didn’t believe it.

“Sure thing, I’ll even lead you home.”

He still couldn’t believe it. “And you’ll do it?”

“Of course! Wouldn’t mind helping you out… but,” the catch, “...I’ll need something in return. It’s a lot of trouble for me to go out of my way for you,” it reasoned while gliding away. “I love a little mischief. Lots of fun. In leading you home, I want you to mess with the residents of the church. Poke fun,

“I hate the way MLMs, alpha-male podcasts, and crypto scams prey on vulnerable people by promising something greater if they just follow what they do. So I wrote something about that. Kind of. If you squint.” - Anahi Flores-Zavala

play pranks, whatever you want. Bring me proof of your deeds, and I will reward you.”

He would’ve hesitated. Should’ve, but no aversion kept Jamie from shaking on it. Only one question laid on his tongue: “What should I call you?”

“You may call me the Baby Devil.”

Alongside the Baby Devil, Jamie made his way home, upholding his promise to it.

And he sure as hell did.

That week, he put his plans into action. He tripped anyone walking down the hallways. He interrupted morning prayer. He taunted and tormented the nuns by playing ghost stories against them. He ruined their scriptures and Bibles, doodling image after image of demons on holy passages. He took to singing during mass and dancing while the choir played. When they should be seated, he’d stand. When they should be standing, he’d sit. So on, he displayed abhorrent behavior for a priest’s son. The grunt of it was mounted on the abbess.

She suffered his finest work.

He tormented her, casting powder into her clothes and marking her bedsheets in paint. He placed spiders in her bath and led a colony of termites to her room. When she’d least expect it, he’d jump around corners to frighten her. When she was vigilant and tense, he’d create noises, shoving books off shelves and slamming the doors, just to keep her on her toes. It came to a head when, at the end of the week, the poor nun returned to her quarters to find a markedout image of herself carved into the floorboards. By Sunday, she resigned, leaving her cornette behind and never coming back.

Jamie took the cornette. He ventured outside, hoping to stumble across the Baby Devil. They had never agreed on where to meet, but it seemed

the Baby Devil already knew where to find him.

Jamie recounted his horrific acts, and the Baby Devil laughed, “Wonderful! Wonderful work! As promised, your reward.” And it handed Jamie stones.

“This isn’t what I wanted!” he gaped.

“Those calendulas are hard to find, especially this time of year. For what little mischief you did, it wasn’t enough. So all I owe you are stones.” It picked its teeth, “Keep ‘em or leave ‘em, but I will offer you another deal.”

“And you’ll promise this time, right?”

“Hear me out first.” It took flight, circling Jamie. “With these stones, smash every window in the church. Bring back a shard, and I shall give you what you need.”

He tightened his fist around the stones and, with a nod, left to complete his second duty.

It took only a day and neglect from the patrons to shatter every mosaic. The details smashed to bits. The ground turned into a rainbow massacre. As such, the response to this was tenfold to his harassment. Admonished by everyone, Jamie expected punishment, but when word reached his father, all he got was a condemnation by a nun. At most, he expected to be grounded in his room until the following Sunday Mass, where he was to show his remorse.

On Sunday, he took his freedom to present the Baby Devil a piece of red-stained glass; the color resembling new blood in fluorescent light. In return, he got seeds.

He tried to suppress his disappointment. “Calendula seeds?” he said hopefully.

“No, vines. Plant them in the garden, let them grow all over — up the walls and wrangled over

your fields. Bring me a flourishing strand once it has been done.”

Jamie felt wary, rightfully so. The Baby Devil had tricked him many times already, but the chance of getting a bouquet, a small one even, kept him on his toes.

“And this time, you’ll get me the calendulas, right?”

“Whatever I can.”

Enough of a hook for him, Jamie brought the seeds to the church gardens. In their earliest days, he watered them. Giving them the nutrients they couldn’t get yet. Once the vines began to grow out of the soil, he left them to their will. Without prevention, they prevailed and attached themselves to every tree. To their stumps and barks. To the weak and strong, old and young. They took the water from their roots and then some. They thieved the sugar in their stems and hoisted themselves onto their branches. Once they depleted the

No one arrived for Sunday Mass. No one to scold Jamie; he wasn’t worth the trouble.

PHOTO BY ZHITONG ZHOU, SHENZHEN, CHINA

trees, they turned to bushes, then weak-willed flowers and vegetables. Within a month, they ruled nature’s hierarchy. They were rampaging everything until the garden was sheathed in vines. Soon, the lack of room on the ground had them crawling up the walls. By the time anyone noticed, it was too late.

The vines were parasites, later identified during the cleanup. It took twice the age of the vines to get them in control. By then, the garden had become a wasteland.

Jamie brought a wilting dandelion, covered in said parasite, to the Baby Devil upon the end of the fiasco. Plopped into his hands was mud.

“What’s this?” he freaked, dropping it on the ground.

“Mud. Isn’t that obvious?” It looked sad, almost, to see its gift discarded so carelessly.

The explanation provided no clarity, “But why mud?”

“To coat the inside of the church with sludge. I want you to drive everyone away. What better way than a mess? Return with your word only, and I’ll give you what your heart desires.”

He knew the drill by now.

Jamie took the mud, then took more, as much as he needed, until he had surplus storage. From top to bottom, he took it upon himself to wipe each room in mud with his own palms. Corridors became dangerous to cross. Many slipped on mire as they passed by. After a few days, it began to stink as well. The smell sifted through the air. It intoxicated every breath, pinched faces, and drove everyone out and away. Even janitors refused to enter, leaving the mud to wallow and mold corners.

No one arrived for Sunday Mass. No one to scold Jamie; he wasn’t worth the trouble.

Jamie stood in front of the

Baby Devil, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, a habit he’d grown in the past week. Living in the building made him bitter. “I’ve done what you wanted! I’ve broken; I’ve mangled; I’ve believed you would get me the calendulas, so where are they?” It handed him matches. “What do I need these for?”

It beamed, “To burn your father with.”

He gasped, “I don’t want to do that!”

“I’m sure a part of you does, no matter how deep. Do this, and I’ll mark the end of your trials, and you’ll earn what you long for–” “No!” he screamed, startling the Baby Devil from its spiel, “Promise me this time you’ll get me the calendulas. Say it! No more roundabout riddles or vague phrases. Say you’ll get and give me calendulas. Loud and clear, then we will shake on it.”

It shrugged to the side. “Fine. I promise to get you calendulas like you’ve asked.”

Struck by the deal he did, Jamie’s walk back home was grim — dark. Not a sound or cricket chirping by. Complete silence in his mind, all focused on the mission. In passing thought, he noted the blooming of buds on trees. Spring now grew, getting closer. Flowers by the dozen will soon flood the valleys, and birds will announce their return in musical chords. Jamie imagined the forest would look less sinister, less bare, and more warm.

But he couldn’t think about that now. All focus was on the mission. The box of matches scrunched in his hands.

He trooped through the forest. He trooped through the church doors.

He trooped through the hallways and climbed the stairs.

He arrived at his father’s office. The head priest, his residence at the top and farthest from Jamie’s room. He pushed the doors open, and he trooped inside.

Upon the sound of creaking, his father glanced up, seated behind his front desk. A plaque sat on it. A display to show his status, the difference between him and the visitor. He had been filing papers, a single hearth to light his view. “It’s you.” With a nonchalant wave, he spoke as if the conversation was over before it began. His attention returned to his work, not sparing a second on his son, and that was that. He said nothing more. Affection was sparse, as ever.

Jamie did not care a bit. Not now.

Small fingers reached for a match.

He struck it on the box. One try, two tries, three tries, and it’s lit. Small and inconsequential, a tiny blaze flickering and preparing for what it’s worth. All he had to do now was throw it.

He regretted it a little, if his meek apology was anything to go by. He whispered so quietly that a passing fly would’ve brought more attention to itself.

His father didn’t respond. With a flick of his wrist, his father was aflame in a second.

The disregard passed over as quickly as the fire consumed him. He screamed and thrashed, grasping at the wall and books, any items, whatever he could hold. The smell, like cooked meat, came about in pillars of smoke. Combustion scorned the air, cornering every area. The fire caught onto wood, paper, and

PHOTO BY NATALY LOPEZ, SANTA ANA, CA

flammable objects. The skin melted off his face; all that was under it scalding into dark charcoal. No longer burning, but burnt; no longer a person, but a mush skeleton, and it spread the longer no water doused him.

He almost grabbed Jamie in his hysteria, but Jamie backed away. A step and 10 later, he ran out, closing the door behind him.

The reminisce of his scorching father’s agony echoed in the corridors; it bounced on walls and in his memory. A bright fire, a burning man, and with it, he found a sense of ease in the calamity. A violence in him had been delighted, thoroughly pleased. The Baby Devil had been right, he realized. It had been right all along.

to catch his breath before proclaiming, “I have set my father on fire like you asked. He burns as we speak.” Huffing, he points behind him, “As you can see, his window glows.”

Satisfied indeed, it said, “Well done. You’ve burned a lot more than I expected.”

Confused, Jamie turned around. Astonishment would be an understatement. Wild without control, the fire had spread farther, that much he could tell. An entire wing was already lost; it was a catastrophe. The church had been a mess, but now it was in ruins. From the contaminated air to the dullness of its yard, surely now, it could never be saved.

In the corner of his eye, Jamie saw the Baby Devil reach for something, and instantaneously, he forgot the chaos. He awaited his reward. His fervor jumped in his heart.

The Baby Devil, his messiah, placed the prize in Jamie’s outstretched palms.

Revealing some yellowviolet pansies.

a half-read book

POEM BY SABRINA GROSSMAN, PORT WASHINGTON, NY

i have this problem with half-read books i start it during school break and then half-way through i discard the book to its nook to go back to school back to crunched time and stress stuck in my world that is fantasy-less but the problem with a half-read book, you see is that from the edge of my desk it keeps calling to me

His father’s screaming got louder. Soon enough, someone will investigate, and Jamie won’t be the one to get caught.

Not yet.

Sprinting away, he went out through hallways and stairs.

Out through the church doors.

Out into the forest.

And outside, the Baby Devil perched itself on top of the church gates. It seemed eager to hear the news. Its grin went unmatched, so wide and baring, Jamie felt fear to be the bearer of such a smile. He took a moment

He threw them in the Baby Devil’s face. “No… no! I wanted calendulas! Calendulas! You said you’d get me them. You said so! You promised — word by word, you promised calendulas! Why do you keep bringing me useless junk?” The petals of the pansies laid on the ground. Jamie crushed them with his foot. The Baby Devil cackled. Jamie jutted a finger into its chest, “Don’t laugh! Explain!”

Wiping at its tears, its face morphed sinister, “I lied. It’s as simple as that. I needed a way in, and you were right for the tricking.”

Without another word, it flew into the blaze, ready to feast on unfortunate souls who couldn’t escape the fire.

And Jamie? On his knees, watching the incineration.

i scribble my notes calculations on my sheet eyes keep drifting ‘til my half-read book they do meet the unfinished story the paths left unfollowed it gives me this feeling that feels sort of hollowed tucking my homework away for a spell i find myself inching over to dwell right by my book itching to be read 1 hour 2 3 and a half half-read book fully finished at last

Its grin went unmatched, so wide and baring, Jamie felt fear to be the bearer of such a smile

It’s National Tell-A-Story month, and we’re excited to hear yours!

The prompt stared insistently at Jenna, her cracked screen unblinking.

There is no specific genre for your story. So go ahead and get to writing.

Get to writing.

Come on, Jenna, she kicked herself. It’s not that hard. You’ve done it before — many times. Telling stories is what you do. Weave something magical out of lines on a page, and capture an audience with little ink blots. Make judges fall before you with letters laced together as words stitched together as sentences.

Make art. Get to writing.

Tell a story.

“Jenna!” Her mother’s voice called from below, but her usual heavy footsteps told Jenna that she was coming up.

Quickly, Jenna switched the tab on her laptop to Spotify, slid off her patchwork covers, and grabbed a

Weave Something Magical

heap of clothes from the stained carpet, preparing to make it seem like she was stuffing them into one of the cardboard boxes her mother had commanded her to fill. Her mother appeared in the doorway, her flowered apron splashed with tomato sauce. “Hey, honey. I see you’re starting to pack.”

“Yup,” Jenna said, smiling. Tell a story.

“I was just wondering if maybe we could go out later and get some paint. I think my new bedroom will be a touch too pink for me.”

Her mother nodded, “Sure.”

Jenna could not care less about the wall color of the new bedroom she was supposed to be moving into. It was more the fact that she was moving into a new room at all.

Her older sister had gotten a job a few weeks ago and moved out, and her parents were demanding Jenna moved into her old room, thus granting them a guest bedroom.

She was not upset by the whole ordeal per se, just uncomfortable with it.

That room was not hers. Jenna doubted it could ever truly be hers.

“Anyways,” Her mother rolled a strand of deep brown around her finger. “I need you to come downstairs in a few minutes and help set the table. Your dad’s gonna be home on time tonight, so I want to have a nice family dinner.”

Nice family dinners felt awfully empty without Jenna’s sister around to make them, well, bearable.

Jenna placed the cardboard box on her bed as if she had spent all evening filling it. “Alright. Cool. Good to know.”

STORY BY REBECCA METHOD, BORDENTOWN, NJ ARTWORK BY ANNE ENGELBRECHT, LAFAYETTE, LA

ART GALLERY

CREDITS

1. ARTWORK BY JANNAT BAHTIAROVA,BISHKEK, KYRGYZSTAN

2. PHOTO BY VIANNEY MARTINEZ, CHICAGO HEIGHTS, IL

3. ARTWORK BY ELLIE BRUBAKER, HOUGHTON, NY

4. ARTWORK BY ANANYA GUHA, BHOPAL, INDIA

ARTWORK BY ABBIE BARROWS, JUPITER, FL

NOVEL BY LAURENCE LY, NORTH YORK, ONTARIO, CANADA

Dr. Raymond Hanh, a mycologist from South Korea, travels to Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, on a research trip by himself. Due to the large variety and vast amounts of fungi that populate the area, he sets his sights on discovering something unfounded. Something to shake the science world.

Click. “This is, uh, audio log number one of Dr. Raymond Hanh,” said a voice duller than the spine of a knife. “I am on a research trip to conduct various experiments and studies on fungi from SNU. After moving out into the forest, I understand why Kennett Square is considered the mushroom capital of the world. Fungi cover every square inch of land within my field of vision, and I’m sure I would see an ocean’s worth if it weren’t midnight.”

There is an extended silence of heavy breathing. Upon closer listening, through whistling winds, were coyotes causing dissonance in the melody. Deliberate steps rustled through the shrubbery, obscuring nature’s metal music — or is it an audience? Raymond holds his breath every few steps, with something hefty being dragged subtly behind him.

“I have mapped out an area of where I will be conducting such research on mycelium, spores, and the like. A goal every biologist has is to discover something new. Something monumental that will shock the science world,” he said, a tinge of excitement slipping through his droning voice. Just a tinge. “In such a densely populated area of fungi, it’s possible it may house a phenomenon yet to be discovered. A new parasitic species? A unique mutation? Shrooms to be used for nefarious purposes?”

Unfortunately, only a few days into his research, Dr. Hanh ends up breaking his leg. He tumbles down a rabbit hole, physically and scientifically, as he finds himself surrounded by a colony of sentient mushrooms.

It was said as a joke, but his voice held no humor.

“For now, a night’s rest will be essential. I have been traveling for about 16 hours now, and I want to begin early tomorrow morning.” He paused for a moment, his steps faltering. “Although, a bit of stargazing wouldn’t hurt. Look, right there is Ursa Major, and there are Mizar and Alcor, and– ah, wait, you can’t see. Well, it is lovely tonight. Pitch black with specks of glimmering splashed paint. Nothing like the sky in Seoul.”

“I hope you can see them too,” he mumbled, before clearing his throat and beginning his trek once more. “I’m almost at the cabin, and my arms deserve a break. Who knew a month’s worth of clothes could weigh so much? Mother, you can’t keep convincing me like this.” Click

Click. “This is audio log number four. Today is the day I travel to the location I’ve waited so long to visit. I have all my essential equipment with me,” he lightly smacked his bag, “and my adventuring spirit is, um, high? The call for adventure awaits me…? Yes, something like that. Is this what kids say? I’m not very good at this.” He groaned. Click

Click. Before his voice appeared, a loud

wheezing and dragging of limbs through leaves preceded it. He managed to croak out, “Why the hell did I decide to build the cabin so far away?”

“The scenery is so nice! It’s close to the main road!” he mocked, heightening his voice. “I didn’t need any of that. Why did I say yes? I’m such an idiot. That damned architect selling me all their mumbo jumbo... Wait, was this on the whole time?” Click

Click. “Please disregard anything you heard up until the introduction to this log. I realize keeping this PG is a bit harder than expected,” he sheepishly said under his breath. “After two long and treacherous hours of walking through forests denser than a portobello mushroom, I have finally found what I was searching for,” he said, pausing for dramatic flair. “Fairy rings.”

“Now, don’t get it twisted, I don’t believe I will be transported to the ‘fae realm’ if I accidentally step into the circle. I don’t believe in such mythology at all. I’m a man of logic and science, and my only desire is to study this strange and sporadic occurrence. Collect data, run some tests, figure out how they naturally materialize into circles.” A deep silence flowed through the air, with the whispering of tree leaves far above dancing in the breeze.

“Although, stepping into the ring for science is not out of the question. I highly doubt anything of note will happen, but,” he scratched the back of his neck, “between you and me, recorder, my true intentions aren’t as pure as I would like them to be. Yes, I am out here in

out of it. Seoul may not have been the best place to conduct such grueling research, but the USA is. I– wait, what is that?”

The recorder fell with a light thud, strands of grass threading into open slits, obscuring the audio quality into jumbled sounds and excited gasps. Swift footsteps sent tremors into the ground, causing crickets to chirp from impact. Speeding up the tape does not do much. The audio zipped through 30 or so minutes’ worth of pure white noise.

Rapid steps coming toward the recorder got louder with each passing second, before a harsh panting from Raymond appeared. He fumbled, picking up the recorder, amateurishly brushing his fingers over the microphone, causing the sound of muffled bees against your eardrums.

“There is an abundance of fairy circles here. A large variety of shapes, sizes, and species. Some are patterned by species, some shifting from smallest to tallest, others perfectly encircling trees. There was even a tiny ring made entirely of Marasmius, which are unbelievably rare, purple pinwheel mushrooms!” That tinge of excitement was back in full swing. “More importantly, I discovered a fairy ring the size of a car while examining the area. I didn’t get a good look, but the pure size of the fungi looming in the shadows is worth investigating. It’s deep within the forest, where barely any light seeps through the trees’ leaves. Just tiny spotlights here and there. That will be my starting point.” Click

this overwhelmingly large forest alone to study all the fungi my grant money allows, and I intend to follow through on that. However, my true motive lies within the supernatural. I believe there is something more than just the common white button mushroom. A scientific anomaly lurking around somewhere.”

A creak from the force he gripped the recorder with slipped out, and crescent moon-shaped indents littered the durable plastic. “This… this could be my big break. A chance to prove to my professors that my speculations are correct. A chance to prove to my mother this wasn’t a waste. It is statistically impossible for there not to be something, and I intend to dissect the ever-loving God

Click. “This is audio log number five. I am currently setting up a few lamps and cameras on the surrounding trees, a few fungi leeching off the trees, serving as convenient hooks. It’s a hassle to navigate due to my poor judgment. Not only do the trees practically encase the ring like an envelope, but I severely underestimated the size of these Armillarias. I would have guessed the size of my hand, but look at these!” he exasperatedly ranted, the audio moving closer and farther away from him. “The caps are the size of dinner plates, and they’re pushing two-thirds my height. The beautiful burnt yellow can be viewed so clearly. I can’t believe a five-inch mushroom can possibly grow to the height of a 30-year-old man.”

Heavy-duty boots trod mindfully against plush-yetdense stems, and sighs of relief echoed around the thick casket of trees. “Right, that’s the last one. Now begins the collection process. As time-consuming as it may be, it’s relaxing, especially in what is basically an insulated room. Far quieter than the labs at SNU. Oh, and safety first, kids. Being unsafe is not cool,” he overenunciated a few words.

I BELIEVE THERE IS SOMETHING MORE THAN JUST THE COMMON WHITE BUTTON MUSHROOM. A SCIENTIFIC ANOMALY LURKING AROUND SOMEWHERE

A goal every biologist has is to discover something new. Something monumental that will shock the science world... In such a densely populated area of fungi, it’s possible it may house a phenomenon yet to be discovered.

The recorder is placed down on a soft surface. A moment of silence passed before an abundance of metal and glass equipment clunk onto the ground. Thankfully, nothing sounded broken. There’s a harsh snap of goggles and rubber gloves before Raymond explains a thorough step-by-step process on how to properly collect fungal samples, droning on and on. Not a lot of information was retained. Something about using a knife to cut off small pieces so it won’t affect the fungi, and then immediately disregarding that rule and cutting off a large chunk for “science purposes?”

“The honey smell is intoxicatingly sweet. Perhaps it’s just the size of them.” He takes a deep whiff. “A light salty scent as well. Most interestingly, when you squeeze them, a clear liquid pours out. Almost like water. This is begging to be tested on.”

He roughly grabbed the recorder, his voice booming through the device, “Something like this could be worthy enough to appear in a science magazine. Perhaps my name could even be displayed in a natural history museum alongside my newest fungi discoveries, just like I always said. You’ll see one day, Mother. If I ever have kids, they could conceivably see my discovery in their textbooks one day and be proud to have a cool dad.”

A deep sigh escaped his nose with a subtle whistle, “I shouldn’t get too excited. Dr. Heinrich could be right, and there isn’t anything here. This might be a waste of time and resources. I might not even have children. God, this is already taking up too much of my attention.” He dropped to the ground with a frustrated thud and scoured through his belongings — the recorder getting the brunt of it — tossing the wildly expensive equipment around. “Where did I — oh, there it is. In the middle of the fairy circle. Conveniently out of my reach. I suppose I knew I had to satisfy my curiosity one way or another. Did not expect it so soon.”

Raymond jumped to his feet, smoothing out his lab coat and shoving the recorder into his pocket. “It’s now or never — for science!” He took a confident step into the hulking fairy ring and swiped the apparatus off the ground. He bounced on his heels, the grass under his soles squishing. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t expect this. At least I have more space to–”

He spat out vulgar words that could taint a child’s innocence. It sounded like an eternity before any semblance of noise could be heard again. That noise being a thud and a nasty snap of a bone bouncing around the walls.

“I was right!” He hissed triumphantly. “Suck it, Dr. Heinrich! Always telling me my theories were “too fantasy” and “statistically impossible.” Look who’s impossible now! Haha… Am I bleeding?”

There is another, less horrific thud. The rest of the tape is silent other than the sounds of thick droplets splashing against the ground and labored breathing; speeding the tape up all the way to the end revealed the powerful, yet peaceful sounds of whales. The recorder shook due to its pure force. A clear, low hum came close to the microphone. The tape ends. Click

Click. “Hello,” a scratchy voice wheezed, “This is log six. After falling through the circle, I woke up here. Didn’t expect to break my leg four days into my research, but I can’t say I’m not above that. I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep, what day it is, or whether I’m hallucinating, but where I am feels so real. Though, I suppose that’s what someone hallucinating would say.” Raymond’s chuckle quickly turned into a painful cough.

“The, uh, surprisingly cushiony bed made entirely of dead leaves under me is… warm. Toasty and soft. Like sleeping in a bed back at home.” He shifted, pulling the recorder close enough to hear his rapid heartbeat. “This room that I’m in — more like a cell than anything — looks entirely made of dirt. Similar to how humans in early India and Africa would construct huts from mud, manure, and clay. The light source, cleverly, is a bundle of phosphorescent mushrooms growing upside down.”

“My only hope is that I was taken in by a secret colony of people. If I really did travel to the fae realm, I’m going to have to do some deep internal evaluation …or go to a therapist.” A sudden rumble interrupted his words. The same symphony of whale noises filled the room as crumbling rocks fell around him.

“Holy shiiii-take mushrooms,” he whispered, “you are not humans.”

A rumble responded.

“Giant mushroom people,” a mix of fear and fascination was present in his tone. “Did you take me in?”

Another rumble in response.

“I’m going to take that as a yes.”

There is shifting once again, his heartbeat faster than a woodpecker. Weighted steps grew closer, the light jingling of something hollow following along.

“Who are– Oh, is this for me?” He asked, taking a suspicious sniff. “Thank you, but what is this soupy concoction? The swirling yellow doesn’t look quite appetizing, and are those little brown spheres of… Ah, for my leg? This must be medicine, then.” He hesitantly took a sip before swallowing the whole thing in one gulp. “It’s sweet. I feel better already.”

A series of pleased tremors shook his entire body. Presumably, these mushroom people retreat out of the room, leaving Raymond the opportunity to pick the recorder back up.

“Giant mushroom people, medicines, architecture,” he muttered under his breath. “Wait until the world sees this.” Click

Click. “This is audio log number nine. The mushroom people, whom I dub Myconids, have visited me every few hours to give me a bowl of medicine. Going off taste alone, it’s overwhelmingly of honey and aloe

vera, and it fuels my body with energy; a rush I have never experienced. Is this what pure adrenaline feels like?” He smiled through his words, dragging his fingers across the ridges of the speaker. “The Myconids are lovely. They’re a very passive and extremely compassionate village of humanoids. They resemble honey mushrooms, which does clear up a few things. The sickly sweet honey smell, the beige skin, the pacifist behavior. People tend to mistake decomposers as hostile.”

“My theory is that the false ground surrounded by giant Armillaria is an entrance. The trees keep them protected and undisturbed. Perhaps they value privacy, explaining the windowless and doorless rooms. Inconvenient to have to destroy and rebuild the doorway, but I’m in no place to ask why. I was the one that stumbled upon them, which must have upset them — hard to say since they have no faces. Just large, stumpy limbs and a seven-foot-tall figure. Imagine if the Michelin man wore a huge sun hat. No, that’s a stupid explanation,” he grumbled.

“THE HOUSE OF THE FAIRIES”

ARTWORK BY CARISSA CAMPBELL, ATHENS, PA

insulating any sounds.

“I still have much to discover about the Myconids. When I get back on my feet, I will invest endless amounts of money and time into studying them. They may not be ready to enter the human world, but I’m ready to enter theirs and gently nudge them out.” Click

“I tried asking, but they just gave me a look. They don’t even have eyes. What could it mean? A celebration? A ritual? I’m not about to be sacrificed, am I? It would be foolish of me not to say goodbye to my mother before I died.”

Click. “This is audio log number 10. The medicine I’ve been given by the elder Myconid is truly like magic. I can feel the medicinal properties coursing through my veins. The bleeding even stopped leaking through my bandage,” he hummed, “Well, not a bandage. A ripped piece of my lab coat. The elder Myconid seemed satisfied with it.”

“The browning underneath their cap must be full of wisdom. The various animal bones around their neck must tell a story, and their deep hum causes your brain to bounce around your skull. Something like this could be a miracle worker in the medical world. I wonder if they’ll ever tell me the ingredients?” Click ***

Click. “This is audio log number 12. The Myconids are setting something up.” He said, a hint of paranoia slipping past his teeth. In the background are overlapping tremors reflecting off each other and things being dragged around. The room is shockingly good at

A silence louder than a thunderstorm carried on for a few heavy seconds. Only the scratching of nails against dried leaves was audible.

ARTWORK BY JANE DOE, XX, XXX

“God, no, that’s idiotic. If they wanted me dead, I would be dead. Why go out of their way to be nice to me? One of the mushroomlings even visited me yesterday to show me how to weave a doll from grass,” he crushed the leaf grinding it into small pieces. “I’m sure whatever they’re doing, it’s none of my business.” Click

Click. “Turns out it was very much my business.”

The crackling of fire and symphonized pulsating played throughout the tape. Hollow clattering, rattling, and rhythmic stomps accompanied the music.

“I can’t understand the story they’re telling, why they keep throwing flowers at me, nor can I read the tree bark they handed me. Their language is of etched swirls and circles, like the rings of a tree. I–” He is interrupted by being pulled away. The singing got louder, more excited, before a heavy thunk stopped them.

The music started up again as he crawled his way to the recorder. “It’s now very obvious they’re telling stories through body language and sounds, but I have never been artistically inclined. That includes dancing.” He coughed.

The music died down a notch. The hollow clattering slowly approached Raymond, a low hum directed at him.

“I think they want to take me somewhere.”

Strained steps next to bulky ones moved further from the excitement and into a long, echoing corridor.

“Oh, wow,” his hand smoothed over the rough dirt walls, “These are paintings. They tell your story, don’t they?”

They replied with a short tremor.

“Incredible,” he murmured, taking a staggered step back. “I see. This is the story of the first human down here. The little red figure in the middle is, well, us, isn’t it? The rest of the bulbous ones are you.”

Raymond took the time to meticulously describe every part of the paintings. It first began with a human woman falling down the fairy circle, just as he did. She landed

ache. The Myconids say, or imply, that this is normal. In all fairness, I have never broken a bone before. Never even sprained an ankle. My mother never let me go out much, so I’ve never experienced the healing process.”

“The days grow longer and shorter simultaneously. Light and dark begin to swirl together. I believe the phosphorescent fungi grew brighter, but so did the shadows in the corners.” Raymond lets out a weak cough. “I’m disappointed to say I haven’t made much progress. Those paintings have really caught my eye. Perhaps I should study those or attempt to decipher their language.”

“This broken leg isn’t doing me much good,” he patted his leg. “I can’t blame them for trying their best. They don’t heal the same way humans do.”

The thunder of falling dirt boomed through the room.

“Oh, hello. Is it time for my medication already?” Click

Click. “This is audio log number 13. Recently, I have been finding it difficult to walk straight. My legs buckle and twist at random intervals. The Myconids have been helping me walk from place to place. Incredibly strong for something made of chitin and spores. Their village is built like a cave system, with twists and turns that lead to the same place. Some to dead ends. They advise me not to wander too far.”

“I asked them to take me to the paintings again. Interesting how they can understand English or any human language in general. Fungi tend to “speak” through electrical signals through their hyphae. It’s like if I sent Morse code through the strumming of a single string we both held. Did the first human teach them English, or was it gradually learned through consistent human interaction?” His words slurred near the end.

upon a small group of mushrooms at the bottom of the pit, glowing a honey yellow. Instead of eating the mushrooms, she imbued magic into them. It looked more like green slime than anything, but he digressed. The mushrooms sprouted arms and legs. She was praised for giving them life. A crown on top of her head with glowing lights and sparkles surrounding her. The paintings ended there.

“Is that what the celebration is for? Me?” He asked in disbelief.

The elder Myconid hummed.

“For every human that falls, a celebration is due. What a fascinating ritual.” Click

Click. “This is audio log number 13,” he said, taking the final sips of the concoction. “I believe it’s been a week since I’ve been taking the medicine. It’s been making me queasy as of late; every bone in my body has begun to

It was silent for a moment; light breaths and a faint heartbeat flowed through the speaker. Raymond roughly slumped down the wall, jolting awake right before he hit the ground.

“Oh, God, did I just fall asleep standing up? Being down here is not helping my internal clock.” Click

Click. “This is audio log number 13. I don’t know how I missed this before, but there are other paintings that have been covered by dirt over the years. I have been spending the day unearthing them to hopefully uncover the full history.”

He glided his hands across the walls, making quick work.

“Damn my arms,” he cursed, “stiffening at the worst possible times. First my legs, and now this? Ridiculous. It’s like my body is actively working against me.”

Slower but equally as desperately, he pushed away as much dirt as his body could physically handle. With a few grunts and pained breathing, he finally halted.

THE DAYS GROW LONGER AND SHORTER SIMULTANEOUSLY. LIGHT AND DARK BEGIN TO SWIRL TOGETHER. I BELIEVE THE PHOSPHORESCENT FUNGI GREW BRIGHTER, BUT SO DID THE SHADOWS IN THE CORNERS

“What the hell?” He whispered. “They move. The paintings, they move.” He shuffled backward until his back hit the other wall. “They scream and dance and sing.”

“The human that fell, she wasn’t praised. At least not for long. The crown, the white stars, and the holy light, it’s sickly sweet. Like medicine. Spores.” His voice grew in fear, the realization dawned on him like a car crash.

“It’s hot. Burning. Her blood dries; she’s decomposing. Black mold spreads throughout her body. She was… she was eaten by them. It gives them energy. Her screams are so loud.” He stuttered through the sentence, “Armillaria are parasitic. Saprophytic. Will eat anything dying… am… am I dying?”

There is a strained wheeze. “Looks like my body shows mercy today. I haven’t checked up on my leg in a while. Let’s see if it healed at all.”

The sound of fabric unraveling and uncomfortable shifting is soon replaced by a confused noise. “No bleeding, which is good, but my bone is still sticking out. Sharp, fresh, but decaying. The skin around the pierced flesh is moldy, black, and spreading like wildfire. It’s covered my entire leg at this point. Is this what that smell is?”

Raymond binded the wound back up.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have left you, Mama. You were right, this was a waste of time. I can’t do research, I can’t prove

A CHORUS OF HUMS AND TREMORS SHOOK DOWN THE WALLS OF THE ROOM, ALL MARCHING SIMULTANEOUSLY, CREATING THE ILLUSION OF AN ENORMOUS HUMANOID

“No, that can’t be right,” he muttered, a deer in headlights, “No. They’re peaceful. They’re helpful. My mind is playing tricks on me. Hey, hey! Stop it! Don’t get any closer, you stupid cave paintings! I– God, why can’t I move? Stop! NO, PLEASE!” Click.

MUSHROOM CREATURE

my professor wrong, let alone change the science world. I can barely move anymore. Barely speak or eat. Is this what’s going to happen to you when you turn old? God, I’m so sorry I left. I didn’t even say goodbye to you.” He sobbed through his words.

He breathed in deeply, but started sniffing around, “Is… that human brain on my shirt?” Click

Click. A long coughing fit preceded the introduction.

“This is audio log number 13, I think. My memory gets foggier every day. When I woke up, my clothes were covered in dirt and paint. What was I doing yesterday?” His voice squeaked with every word.

The familiar rumbling appeared once more, followed by heavy steps and hollow bones.

“Ah, thank you,” he trailed off, “What exactly is this again? Oh, yes, medication. Looks a tad redder than usual. Chunkier too.”

He received no response. The Myconid simply left.

“This must be a new ingredient. Squishy, pink. Crevices that look like entangled worms. Disturbingly familiar.” He weakly clinked the wooden bowl, nails scratching absentmindedly. The bowl bounced off the dirt ground, the liquid splattering across the recorder. He held no reaction. Just silence for a very, very long time.

“This is audio log number 13. I think my condition is getting worse,” his voice suddenly picked up again, unaffected by the event that just took place, “Walking, speaking, simply moving my fingers hurt. I can barely press the record button. I don’t think my leg has healed much, but my bones physically stop me from bending forward.”

Click. The tape is barely audible, a few words slipped out here and there. Words like pain, medicine, can’t move, and Mama. A chorus of hums and tremors shook down the walls of the room, all marching simultaneously, creating the illusion of an enormous humanoid mushroom creature. They surrounded him, inching closer and closer to the recorder.

The humming ceased. It turned to distorted croaks and haunting whispers.

The dreadful sound of Raymond’s weakening breath, wheezing, and coughing, is overwhelming. He grew sicker by the second. Decrepit. Exhausted. Skin cracking, blood spilling, a muttered farewell. Click

You turn off the recorder and chuck it back into the box full of fungi samples, research papers, and dozens of tape recordings. You shove the box off your lap and into the open suitcase of untouched clothes. You scrunch up the autopsy report on your coffee table, the words “PRION DISEASE” circled in red marker, and throw it into the pile. Tenderly, you pick up the torn lab coat next to you, holding it close to your chest, careless about the dried blood and dirt that littered the once snow-white fabric.

“Oh, my dear son.”

FANTASY FICTION

REVIEWS

finish a truly spectacular ensemble. Never have I read a book that kept me guessing until the very end, but that made perfect sense after each twist was revealed.

Foul Lady Fortune

By Chloe Gong

Review by Abigail Sterner, McLean, VA

Chole Gong has once again cemented her place as the queen of Shakespearian retellings. This time, the Bard’s comedy As You Like It takes center stage, now set in 1931 Shanghai as China is invaded by Japanese imperialists. These Violent Delights’ Rosalind Lang enters the spotlight, now an immortal assassin tasked with

One of the best parts of this novel is the characters. Readers have already been introduced to Rosalind, but believe me when I say that Foul Lady Fortune took her to a whole new level. Watching her deal with the trauma of her past and understanding it from her perspective was crucial to character development, and the author handled it marvelously well. I liked that she wasn’t another version of Juliette: charging ahead and taking life without remorse. Rosalind was complicated, and the author never ignored nuances in her character in favor of the plot. Orion was just as well-developed; though he started rather shallow, each chapter continued to reveal hidden depth, and his humor balanced Rosalind’s gloom wonderfully. His relationship with legacy mirrored hers in a way that allowed both characters to work through their trauma together while still maintaining separate backstories.

The supporting characters were developed just as well. Especially after how the first duology ended, it was so fun to see Celia as she truly was, and Oliver’s protective streak was as touching as Celia found it annoying. Seeing Alisa grow into an adult still processing everything that happened with Roma drove home the point that these

infiltrating a Japanese newspaper alongside Orion Hong, a wealthy playboy turned Nationalist spy. The two must pretend to be husband and wife, but as the danger intensifies, real feelings start to develop. The characters are joined by figures from the previous duology, as well as new faces who

characters were affected by the past, and while they now have stories of their own, the events of 1927 have left an impact. Phoebe and Silas were great additions to the secondary characters, especially the more information that the reader got on them. Phoebe especially was well-written, and I’m

NEVER HAVE I READ A BOOK THAT KEPT ME GUESSING UNTIL THE VERY END, BUT THAT MADE PERFECT SENSE AFTER EACH TWIST WAS REVEALED

sure Juliette would approve. The casual queerness of many characters was exceedingly well done, normalizing gender and sexuality experiences in a way that was important to individuals without overshadowing personalities. No character was just a stereotype.

Foul Lady Fortune executed every element well, and it’s clear how much Chloe Gong has grown as an author between series. While I love These Violent Delights, I must admit that some of the long

NON-FICTION

the other hand, is more deliberate, logical, and analytical.

According to Kahneman, these two modes of thinking work together, but they often lead us astray when we rely too heavily on fast thinking. One of the key takeaways from the book is the idea of cognitive biases, which are systematic errors in thinking that can affect our decision-making. For example, the availability heuristic is when we rely on the most easily available information rather than considering all the evidence. Confirmation bias is when we seek information confirming our preexisting beliefs rather than being open to new evidence. The sunk-cost fallacy is when we continue to invest in a failing project because we’ve already invested so much time and resources.

Thinking, Fast and Slow

By Daniel Kahneman

descriptions got a little repetitive, and more detail than necessary was often included when describing a scene. That didn’t happen in this book. Every word felt intentionally and carefully placed, with each detail foreshadowing a future event rather than repeating information that the reader had already been told. The dialogue was amazing (to the surprise of absolutely no one), and the witty banter created much-needed humor in dark situations without disrupting the tone.

It’s not at all surprising that I’ve gotten this far into my review without even mentioning the plot because every other aspect of Foul Lady Fortune was just that good. The plot was amazing. There were fewer action scenes, with most of the story focused on subtle espionage with enough danger to keep the audience invested, and it worked. I never found myself growing bored, and I liked that every fight scene served a purpose beyond shock value. Suffice it to say, I loved Foul Lady Fortune and can’t wait for the next book.

Review by Judy B., Tyrone, PA

Do you ever feel like you’ve made a decision that seemed right in the moment, only to regret it later? Perhaps you bought something impulsively, voted for a candidate based on a single emotional issue, or said something hurtful without thinking it through. It’s easy to get caught up in our fast thinking, but what if we could learn to think slower and more deliberately?

That’s the premise of Thinking, Fast

By understanding these cognitive biases and being mindful of them, we can make better decisions in our daily lives. For example, if we’re considering buying a product, we can research it thoroughly rather than relying on the first review we see. If we’re trying to form an opinion on a political issue, we can try to consider all the evidence rather than just the information that confirms our preexisting beliefs. If we’re angry or upset, we can take a deep breath and think through our actions before reacting impulsively.

But the ideas in Thinking, Fast and Slow go beyond just personal decision-making. In the broader world, the book has important

and Slow by Daniel Kahneman. In this fascinating book, Kahneman explores humans’ two modes of thinking: fast and slow. Fast thinking is intuitive, automatic, and often emotional. Slow thinking, on

implications for areas such as politics, economics, and marketing. In politics, for example, politicians often use emotional appeals and fast thinking to sway voters, rather than relying on a more deliberate

I NEVER FOUND MYSELF GROWING BORED, AND I LIKED THAT EVERY FIGHT SCENE SERVED A PURPOSE BEYOND SHOCK VALUE

THINKING, FAST AND SLOW IS AN INCREDIBLY INSIGHTFUL AND THOUGHTPROVOKING BOOK THAT OFFERS VALUABLE INSIGHTS INTO HOW WE THINK AND MAKE DECISIONS

and rational approach. By understanding the power of cognitive biases, we can be more discerning in our political choices and avoid being swayed by emotional appeals.

In economics, the book sheds light on prospect theory, which explains how people evaluate gains and losses. According to prospect theory, people are more sensitive to losses than gains, which can lead to risk-averse behavior. This has

YA FANTASY

want to put something down. The plot, the characters, the writing style, and the meaning of a quote make this novel the best ever written.

important implications for areas such as investment and retirement planning. By understanding this theory, we can make more informed financial decisions and avoid common pitfalls.

In marketing, the book highlights the power of framing, which is the way in which information is presented. By framing information in a certain way, marketers can influence our decisions without us even realizing it. For example, a product might be presented as “95 percent fat-free” rather than “5 percent fat,” even though these two phrases are equivalent. By understanding the power of framing, we can be more critical of the messages we receive and make more informed choices.

In summary, Thinking, Fast and Slow is an incredibly insightful and thought-provoking book that offers valuable insights into how we think and make decisions. By understanding the two modes of thinking, cognitive biases, and the broader implications of these ideas, we can make better decisions in our personal lives, as well as in the broader world of politics, economics, and marketing. It’s a must-read for anyone who wants to improve their critical thinking skills and make more informed choices.

Six of Crows

By Leigh Bardugo

Review by Falon Hepola, Cannon Falls, MN

Ketterdam is a place full of notorious criminals. During the 17th century, six of those criminals would be renowned for attempting to pull off one of the deadliest heists known to man. When 17-year-old Kaz Brekker is offered a chance to a mission that would make him wealthier than the man that once took away his childhood, he takes it in an instant. Then, he forms the “Six of Crows,” compromised of four

This book is a young-adult fantasy novel that will take you on a wonderful journey. Throughout the book, readers will go experience magic, backstories, romance, and even attempting to break into a maximum security prison. Since all of the characters are still teenagers, the readers will relate to the book a lot more; it’ll make readers think more about what they would do if they were in the crows’ shoes. Plot twists make books more interesting, and this one has a lot of them. It is so brilliant how Leigh Bardugo incorporated every little detail to play a role throughout the book, and every single detail might evolve into one of her plot twists. For example, a sweet loving letter from the runaway’s father does not turn out to be what it’s supposed to be, and if the others knew what the letter really meant, the entire book would be completely different.

Though the plot is amazing, the best aspect of this book is its characters. First, they all have their own unique personalities; since every single character has a very different story to tell, they do not all act the same. For example, Jesper is the witty and sarcastic character that everyone gets to love in this book. Though his mouth does get him into a lot of trouble, he protects the ones he loves and cares for, including all of his guns that he’ll never be found without. A large part of this book focuses on the

criminals and a runaway who will all help Kaz complete the mission. Together they have one task, to break Bo Yul-Bayur out of an impenetrable prison. Six of Crows is the book to read when you don’t

backstories of these characters. It tells flashbacks for almost every character, showing how they ended up to where they are today. For instance, Nina and Matthias find themselves together on a ship.

A MUST-READ FOR ANYONE WHO WANTS TO IMPROVE THEIR CRITICAL THINKING SKILLS

NOT ONLY IS THIS BOOK HARD TO PUT DOWN, EVERYONE WILL FALL IN LOVE WITH EVERY DETAIL THAT LEIGH BARDUGO HAS TO OFFER

While Nina is locked in the cage, Matthias is the one keeping her locked and guarded, making sure she doesnt use her powers to escape. Their unexpected romance for each other is another one of Bardugo’s plot twists that no one is expecting when the ship sinks, leaving them both as the only survivors with Nina’s powers and Matthias’s strength. These flashbacks really allow the readers to appreciate every single character more and fill hearts with love for the criminals. She has a way of writing all these incomparable characters with all of the readers still wanting to know more about them.

This book is based back in the 17th century; nevertheless, the book never tells us this, it is just Bardugo’s proficiency that places us in the early modern period. She does a stupendous job envisioning the details of that time to the readers. The details she includes about the city, the clothing, and the way the people act and function make the audience feel as if they are part of the mission. Bardugo has won and been nominated for many different and well-deserved awards. She was nominated for the Goodreads Choice Award for Best Young Adult Fantasy and Science Fiction for Six of Crows. She also won the Germany Fantasy Award for Best International Novel, which was a great accomplishment. She also placed top three in Best Fantasy Books and The Best YA Books of 2015. Her creativeness should win her more awards and more nominations. Bardugo is also very imaginative with a certain quote used throughout the book, and it is one of the many reasons she won many awards.

“No mourners, no funerals” is the quote that readers will hear all six of the crows say. This is a way to wish everybody luck and wish for no deaths. While that is what it says, it also alludes to a sad reality for the six of them. Back home they have no family and nobody to hold their funerals or mourn their deaths. All they have is each other, meaning the only people that will care or

even notice if they get hurt, or worse, if they perish, will be themselves. There will be no expensive burials for people like them, and no special place in a cemetery with a tombstone for people to remember their names. All of the crows are just teenagers, and some of the worst things are already happening to them. Knowing the meaning behind that quote stabs all beloved readers in the heart.

The plot, the characters, the writing style, and the meaning of the best quote from the book makes this script one of the best young-adult fantasy novels out there. Not only is

this book hard to put down, everyone will fall in love with every detail that Leigh Bardugo has to offer. Every plot twist, every character, and every chapter gets better and better as the book progresses; furthermore, Six of Crows cannot be put down after the first 50 pages. Every single chapter and page will keep the audience up all night from the first page to the last page. The city of Ketterdam holds mysterious people and magic from all over the world, and the six criminals will have your heart from the moment you meet them. Open this book to uncover one of the greatest heists of all time.

ARTWORK BY ANONYMOUS

What can you create without grayscale shades?

BY ANELYA TUREBEK, ALMATY, KAZAKHSTAN

BY ALEXA ROBERTSON, GLADE HILL, VA

BY AVERY-GRACE PAYNE, HOUSTON, TX

BY LOTTIE D., HEREFORD, ENGLAND

BY CAMERON COOLEY, MATTHEWS, IN

ART GALLERY

CREDITS

1. ARTWORK BY QINYI LI, NANJING, CHINA

2. ARTWORK BY JURI KIM, MARINA DEL REY, CA

3. ARTWORK BY ZHILE ZHOU, BEIJING, CHINA

ARTWORK BY SARAH NICHOLSON, WOODBRIDGE, VA

NOVEL BY GAVIN LACY, CHATHAM, NJ

a chance to be perfect

Luck is a measurable force that exists, akin to time or gravity. It has many effects on the world. Some people are born with good luck, and some with bad. Bad luck is treated like a curse, while people with good luck propel society forward, leading to scientific breakthroughs and technological achievements.

Part 1: A Dark City

My equally spaced footsteps sounded from the pavement, landing one after the other and echoing as the singular sound in the slumbering city. Hands slumped into my jacket pocket, I squeezed my most prized trinket: a double-sided coin. It’s a quarter with both sides showing heads. I could flip it a million times, and it would always return the same. No matter how hard I work, there is nothing I can do — and yet, I hopefully flip the metal into the air. The routine gives me solace, epitomizing my struggle and comforting me with the simplicity of it all. It condenses my strenuous efforts into something simple: I cannot alter many outcomes because fate is perpetually out of my hands. The disadvantage determines me to seek perfection and do as much as possible because the odds are never in my favor.

This protagonist suffers a life of bad luck, and supports himself by completing nefarious jobs in the criminal world. His work requires him to achieve perfection, because anything less means death. He soon makes an unsettling discovery and is left to uncover a continuously unraveling and intriguing plot by a mad scientist, all the while dodging the hurdles that his bad luck throws at him.

Vigilant, I carried on down the street, eyes peeled and head on a swivel. In my line of work, you have to be perfect. There are too many uncontrollable factors, so everything within my control needs to be perfect. Perfect. That word lingered in my mind as I continued down the dimly lit street. The intricacy of my planning surrounded me. It was at the precise hour when the moon emitted only enough light so that I could see, but not so much that my presence was eye-catching. I existed as the singular pedestrian, a little sign of life. Planned for perfect solitude. No one else walks the streets at this hour. I checked my boots. They were neatly tied and double-knotted, not loose, but perfect. However, no matter how much time I spend calculating the circumstances, perfect is hardly enough for a guy like me.

Perfect is as close as I can be to security, and even then, the next moment is unpredictable. Living is like a loaded gun, a second away from misfiring, ricocheting off a wall, and happening to penetrate my skull. At any given second, a brick may dislodge from a nearby building and plummet onto my head, or a rabid dog may rush from an alley and attack me. I’m constantly surrounded by the unexpected, so surviving requires expecting everything else. But like I said, even that’s not enough when you’ve got bad luck.

Just as gravity, time, and space exist, there exists luck. Fortune, fate, chance, whatever you call it — it’s a quantifiable force in the world around us. Luck exists within people, and like a magnetic attraction, good things are drawn to people who possess it. I would bet money that, throughout history, the

people who have found success have been lucky: the leaders of the government, the victors of war, the thriving empires — it’s all come down to luck. The progression of humanity has depended on society’s lucky bunch; think of the major scientific breakthroughs, the profound discoveries, and the groundbreaking inventions. They’ve all been driven by those blessed with good luck. The world moves onward, and the lucky ones are at the forefront. While they still needed to work hard, luck guided the hands of the world’s most famous spearheads, directing their influence on mankind.

On the opposite end, there are guys like me. The ones who are born and screwed from the start because, by some cruel odds, we have bad luck. Life is obviously difficult when you have a measurable number determining the likelihood of bad things happening to you. Outside of random and somewhat dodgeable mishaps, bad luck dominates our life. It plagues our souls and follows every interaction of our existence. Nobody wants a relationship with someone that has bad luck, and what job would hire such a liability?

We become outcasts, rejects, the shameful counterpart to the lucky pioneers of civilization, and through the debilitating mistreatment, what part do we play in society? I’m sure many of them simply wish

presidential seal. The symbol motivates my fight to live outside the confines of this unfair world and its rules, unattached to the negligent government which cares so little for me. I don’t matter to them. Who am I but another sorry soul destined for failure and eventual death? The newspapers don’t write about us. We’re just another inevitable casualty of bad luck, one of the many choking accidents, tragic slippings, contractors of deadly diseases, and victims of circumstance… except it’s not simply circumstance that kills us. Bad luck chases us down, hunting and killing in unexpected ways. In every situation, we’re faced with uncertainty. Living feels like an unstable light bulb, capable of popping and scattering into millions of pieces at any time. That’s why people don’t care for us, because they see our births as a curse, bound to an unpreventable death from infancy like we’re just waiting to pop.

As we live and breathe, it’s only a matter of time before we succumb to the deathwish flowing through our veins, so why should they care? The force of bad luck is acute, striking precisely and randomly — almost unavoidable if you don’t know what to look out for.

Once again, the only way to escape is through perfection. And what is perfection? I’m not it because I have bad luck, which is the complete opposite of

that our bad luck succeeds in killing us. They hope our self-threatening misfortune keeps us as an inconsiderable component to the greater population, but some of us only survive by achieving perfection. That’s the only way we manage to live on, through sheer excellence. People like me find ways to persevere. We learn to operate outside the society that shuns us, to think quickly on our feet, and be ready for anything. In committing crimes, we can succeed, and in our crimes, we must be perfect.

That’s why I find myself at a quiet hour such as this one, in a slumbering city full of my rejectors. I planned for the silence, for the emptiness, for the isolation; it’s all I’ve ever known, and it’s the only option I have. My acts of crime aren’t wrong, but they’re reimbursement, repayment for my suffering. What reason is there to abide by the laws of this world, which renounces me for the inconvenience of my birth? And so I proceed, calculating, flawlessly executing, giving my utmost effort to live my life the only way I can.

I squeezed my quarter harder. The double-sided token lacking a tail-end, missing the big bald eagle — the

perfection. However, I am perfect in my preparation, my planning, my skills, and my cleverness. The most likely scenarios are accounted for, the unlikely ones prepared for, and even the impossible, I consider. This level of uneasiness, this scrutinous devising, it’s necessary. I’m intensely aware of my surroundings when walking down the dark street before me, avoiding anything worth caution. No matter how negligible, I do not take chances. So, I side-step the rusty sewer grate and distance myself from the swaying streetlight, but it’s never enough.

Out of thin air, a crow abruptly soared from the corner at the end of the block. Dangerously low to the ground, it flapped past the storefronts. A chill went down my spine as it charged in my direction — I shivered in the presence of death’s manifested messenger. It shot towards me, forcing me to duck beneath its roaring path, and then I heard a chain break. I had no time to react, but I was ready. Instinctively, I dove away, and a metal lantern plummeted into the ground behind me. It smashed into the concrete, shattering shards into the vicinity. I turned around, and the crow was already gone. This is

LIVING IS LIKE A LOADED GUN, A SECOND AWAY FROM MISFIRING, RICOCHETING OFF A WALL, AND PENETRATING MY SKULL. AT ANY GIVEN SECOND, A BRICK MAY DISLODGE FROM A NEARBY BUILDING AND PLUMMET ONTO MY HEAD, OR A RABID DOG MAY RUSH FROM AN ALLEY AND ATTACK ME.

the dangerous uncertainty I am forced to live with. These unaccountable events are always just around the corner, and that’s why I must be perfect.

Part 2: There I Stood

There I stood, outside the building I intended to rob. From an outside glance, it looked normal, but my mission suggested otherwise. The organization that hired me seems to believe there’s crucial intel inside. However, it was just a basic convenience store with an LED sign reading “Closed,” flickering to face the exterior and a solitary light dimly shining from within. The building was medium in height, but the store seemed to pertain to only one floor of the structure. I knew little about what I was dealing with but decided to act cautiously, considering my cosmic misfortune. The front door was locked, of course. Around the side of the building, deep into an alleyway to the store’s left side, was a black metal door. The alley was as desolate as the city streets as if life cowered from the surrounding area.

While I planned for the job, the block and the city itself struck me as peculiar. It was slightly underpopulated, and the businesses and residents of the area suffered from random and devastating occurrences. I had seen newspaper headlines of building collapses, floodings, fires, and bouts of illness that seemed to stretch across town. Even with all that, the news reports seemed scarce, and financial records unimpeded. Somehow it remained unnoticed and unaffected by the catastrophes. Next to it, there was a ladder. I scaled it after confirming its integrity, and quickly I was at the top of the building. I pondered what could be on the floors above the store: apartments, offices, something malicious? The city was a tame place, not a suspectable location for anything hostile. If there really was valuable information in this neglected brick building, then I suppose it’s a pretty good hiding spot. I began to doubt the people who hired me since the location was inconspicuous, but something unnerved me; it was unsettling. As someone who’s spent years ascertaining the harmless from the threats, I thought this building was absolutely not normal. Whether this was another aspect of luck’s force running through my body or a skill developed from constant and necessary judgment, my instinct pleaded with me to get as far away as possible. And yet, there I was, searching for a way in.

I scoured the roof. It was unattended and untouched as if no one had ever been there. There was a fire escape down the far side, and I carefully scaled its scaffolding. The closest window was dusty and closed shut. Peeking through the dust-tinted glass, I saw an utterly uninhabited room. There was some furniture and basic decor but no indication of a living person: no food, no cans, nothing. I picked the lock of the window and budged the resistant frame open. It took the shove of a shoulder, which split the stubborn wood and shoved the unwilling pane upward, but I managed to budge a foot of space. I had to squeeze my way into

the dull and barren apartment. It was like a shell of a real home, a husk, an imitation of a living space. It lacked the presence of life, and a pit sunk in my stomach as I delved deeper. I tiptoed to the vacant apartment’s door. Coming out revealed an equally uninhabited hallway. Not a whisper radiated from the rooms along the hall, each door as unlively as the last. The abandoned apartments made the hairs on my back stand. It was like the entire thing had been put up for appearances, like some sort of plastic doll house, a charade intended to keep a secret; a secret I didn’t even know, and once again, I walked into the untold darkness because of a duty. I have to because this is my only option. This is the only work I can fulfill, which always seems to leave me with the short end of the stick in my business deals.

I found a staircase and made my way down. There were a couple of flights before I reached the convenience store floor. This was the only part of the location that was used, and the entrance from the stairs creaked open as I pulled the door. Unquestionably closed, I made my way into the dark store, but down at the far end, the flickering light bulb remained illuminated. I made my way toward the light, which shone from an open closet. As I approached, a mechanical whirring hummed from below the floor. It was the faintest sign that I was making progress. I entered the little closet, and my gut told me something was worth looking for here. I looked up at the candescent bulb above me, pulling on its chain, causing a click. A wooden square panel on the ground squeaked open, and at the same time, the bulb above me popped. Glass rained over my head. The burst of shards shocked my core, and I managed to shut my eyelids just before they pierced. The tiny pieces stabbed my skin, but I prevented becoming blind. I picked the bits from my skin, which hurt, but I still had my vision. However, when I opened my eyes again, it did not seem so important that I could see. I stood in complete darkness and shook the rest of the shards off my clothes and face, continuing blindly.

The unsealed wood panel beneath my feet lifted with the glass-breaking chain tug. I slithered my fingers under it and urged the trapdoor open. I could hardly see after the breakage of the bulb, so I headed into a pit of darkness. I prayed that the shattering was not heard by whoever may be waiting wherever this door may lead. Down the trapdoor came an unlit tunnel where my feet glided across its hard metal surface. The cold tunnel spanned for some time, eventually exposing my eyes to a light shining around a nearby corner. The mechanical whirring became louder and louder as I approached, and I continued despite the goosebumps on my arms and the pit in my stomach. I poked my head around the corner of the edge of the tunnel. There was a basic room with a man sleeping inside. He looked like a security guard, sitting on a rolling chair and surrounded by monitors from a camera system, with his head craned back and snoring. One of the screens flickered from being on to

blackness. The rest of the monitors appeared to survey a large facility, with industrial machines, moving devices, and multiple workers traversing their areas. It seemed I was in for way more than I had planned, but I was far too deep into it now. The intel I was looking for was supposed to be in the admin office of the location, wherever that may be. I just needed to get to the rest of the facility, which I strongly suspected was behind the locked door at the end of this security room. For a guy with bad luck, everything seemed convenient. So, I made my way down the room and passed the guard; and as I reached the door at the end, my heart sank as a noise came from behind me... “Ah-choo!”

Bad luck again. The guard’s eyes were now wide open. The buffoon sneezed himself awake, and after realizing his lousiness for sleeping on the job, he immediately checked the cameras. His eyes darted from each monitor, and then he sighed in relief. Before he resumed his work, he took a glance around the room. He made eye contact with me as he swiveled in his chair, and like a deer in headlights, I stared back at him. His eyes shot open, and he rushed out of his chair, his hand hovering over his holster.

Infuriated, he shouted, “Who the hell are you?”

Almost instantly, I spat out, “I’m the technician. Are you serious? C’mon, first I walk in here, and you’re dozing off; now you’re acting like you own the damn place? I was sent to fix the broken screen, you fool,” I pointed at the flickering monitor. His face reddened, and his hands came away from his holster.

He stammered, “So sorry. Um, go ahead. Sorry,” the embarrassed guard sat back in his chair, face half covered by his palm. I nodded. I suppose the shock and embarrassment of the situation prevented him from noticing my completely unofficial outfit, but now I just had to play the part. I walked toward the screen, attempting to hold my composure. I tapped on the glass and pretended, nervously proceeding, knowing I

was losing my cover-up. As I fumbled with the monitor, the guard’s eyes returned to me. I began to feel his gaze, his stare like intensifying laser beams on my skin.

Breaking through the tense air, I cleared my throat, “So, how long has it been like this?” I gestured towards the screen.

He stood back up, eyebrows furrowed, responding, “Mm… A couple of weeks.”

“Hmph,” I sighed, “Interesting.” His stare did not falter.

“Yeah. Interesting. Anyways, do you have some kind of ID you can show me?” He looked suspiciously. Whether it was an attempt at recuperating from his damaged pride or legitimate skepticism, I had to think of a response fast.

ARTWORK BY MELE BARTON, RANCHO SANTA FE, CA

I glanced at him, then back at the computer and feigned concentration, “Um, sure. It’s in my back pocket. Go for it.”

I pretended to analyze the monitor’s right side. He smugly strutted behind me, and as he extended his hand to my empty pocket, I fired my elbow backward. His nose cracked, and he stumbled back, completely stunned, blood leaking before him as his eyes widened in shock. I delivered another fist to his face causing him to fall to the floor. He reached for his gun. I slammed my foot on top of his hand and grabbed it first. I pointed the weapon at the dumbfounded man, who held his gushing nose, and I cocked my fist one more time.

The unconscious guard was slumped beneath the computer desk, stripped of his weapon, clothes, key ring, and dignity. With my new outfit, I made my way toward the facility’s door, which opened to white walls and hallways at the turn of one of the keys. I took a deep breath and stepped from the room and into the hallway. It was time to be perfect. The facility was bustling like any typical workplace, a couple men were walking in each direction, but none seemed to mind me. I need to pass as one of them. Now the whirring was louder than ever, and I could see a spinning cannon-like, futuristic machine through a glass window in the hall. Men surrounded its structure, working in dark hazmat-like suits. Its whirring rang through the building, but the employees who walked back, forth, and around me didn’t seem to mind its resonating sound. In fact, they seemed invigorated by it. Without a clue where to look, I took a guess and walked left of the room I came from, closing the door behind me. Above the doorway, it read “Security Office.”

I walked as composed as possible, receiving a few glances but not appearing overly appalling to the people who walked by. Their white coats starkly

on end, and my nerves skyrocketed. I did not like that man, but it didn’t matter. I had to keep going for my job, my life, and everyone who wanted me to simply die from an accident. I had to prove that I was more than my bad luck. And finally, I found a door that read “Admin Office” above it. This was proof that I was capable, the evidence that I could co-inhabit this world. It was time to prove myself.

The room was a medium-sized personal office. There was a computer inside. I walked to it and sat before the screen, preparing to scour whatever files and data I may find. But of course, as I turned it on, it asked for a passcode. I needed to find a way in, and as some sort of divine intervention or cosmic joke, the door knob to the room also turned open. I cocked my head up, and my heart became full of dread as I saw who had come before me. A man wearing glasses stood straight at the center of the doorway, the same employee who passed me in the hall with his wicked grin. The light reflected sharply off his lenses, keeping his eyes from meeting mine, but I didn’t need to see them to know what they looked like. I knew from how I felt, completely exposed in an office chair, caught and trapped like a mouse. The dread I felt told me he knew it too, his head angled down at me and his smile unfettered. It was like I was a piece of injured prey, unable to prevent whatever came next. He slowly placed another foot into the room, stepping out of the door’s shadow and into my field of view. Now I could read his nametag — “Dr. Richards.” The way he stood told me everything I needed to know, and as he stepped in and closed the door behind him, I felt like I was stuck in a cage with a lion. My instincts screamed.

“And what’s a security guard doing in here?” He seemed like he was stifling a laugh. I didn’t respond.

“You know, I expected someone would try to break in eventually. I guess now I know we need to upgrade our security, don’t I? I suppose I should thank you for

contrasted my blue security uniform, making me stand out far more than I would like. I walked until I could find the admin’s office but continued without knowing its location. Walking around the corner of the hallway and further down the complex, a man in glasses and a coat passed me. As I brushed by him, he looked up at my straight face, side-eying me briefly with a questioning look. Then he grimaced and kept walking by without saying a word. Like before, I got an immense feeling of distrust in my gut. My hair stood

informing me, but now I’m wondering, what are you doing here? Stealing our research? Hah.” It seemed like a joke to him. I didn’t respond but stood out of my chair and looked back at him. I tried to appear confident, like he wasn’t holding all the power, but the tightness of my grip on the coin in my pocket told me the truth. I was terrified.

Standing up didn’t phase him either, and he uttered, “So, what’s in the pocket?”

Now the whirring was louder than ever, and I could see a spinning cannon-like, futuristic machine through a glass window in the hall. Men surrounded its structure, working in dark hazmat-like suits. Its whirring rang through the building, but the employees who walked back, forth, and around me didn’t seem to mind its resonating sound. In fact, they seemed invigorated by it.

Sheepishly, I pulled out the double-sided coin and presented it on my palm. I finally said, “A coin.”

His smile grew, and his eyes lit up under his glasses. He chirped, “I’ll tell you what, flip that in the air. If you win, I’ll let you leave. If you lose? I’ll call more guards and no one will hear from you ever again. I’ll let you call it. Sound fair?” Despite his obvious joy, his intense gaze didn’t falter, either. This was a resoundingly demented game he wanted to play, but for once, I had the advantage.

“Okay,” I said with a smile of my own. He still didn’t know the nature of my coin. Its double faces had to guarantee me a win if I showed it to him, right? I placed it on top of my thumb and called heads, launching the coin into the air and going to catch it, but as it descended to me, it slid through my fingers and landed on the ground, rolling before the doctor’s feet. The coin stayed in place without tilting over, vertically standing on its side. This was, possibly, my most unlucky moment, with the only chance being to win and still having the coin land sideways.

Dr. Richards inspected each side of the coin from its position by his feet, looking at each headed end. “Aww, how neat? And you still managed to lose.” He extended his foot, placing his leather boot on top of the upright coin. “Do you know what we do here? Do you know what kind of research we do? Do you know the danger of tampering with the most unpredictable force on Earth? We control luck, fate, chance — whatever you want to call it. The measurement of likelihood, the ability for something tremendously fortunate or unfortunate to occur, we have mastered it,” he gestured to the hall in the direction of the whirring machine, basking in its low hum, “Mastered it!”

Suddenly everything made sense: the coin flip, my gut feelings, the spontaneous disasters around town, the financial success of the area, the high pay I was offered, and the empty shell of a building above. My jaw dropped in astonishment. He suggested that they had discovered how to alter luckiness, that they had made the force malleable to their desires. They found a way to control it, and this man has clearly used it for his own power.

Dr. Richards took a step closer. I drew the gun from my holster and pointed it at the man. He faced the barrel with his unwavering grin. Hating that it had come to this, I pulled the trigger. Click, and again, click.

Click. Click. Click.

I stopped, shocked. I was helpless now. I knew the gun had ammo, so what happened? Dr. Richards was practically exploding with excitement. Amused by my crippling odds, an ear-to-ear smile developed across his face. He teased me, “How unlucky for you.”

The gun must have jammed — but five times in a row,

five? It couldn’t be possible. Yet, he had all the luck in the world, and I had none. As I played these games with him, every chance I had became more and more unrealistic. How could I win against a man like Dr. Richards? Men like him don’t need precaution. They don’t doubt themselves because the world bends to their will. They don’t require perfection like I do. But how could I be perfect? Truthfully, how could I be perfect when Dr. Richards could defy any odds, crushing me, like taking candy from a baby? As he took a step closer, everything seemed insurmountable against me, and I had to think of something quickly. How could I possibly defeat him?

There was only one strategy that could work. I needed to speak to him like I had the upper hand, with the utmost confidence and faith in my words. That was the only way I could threaten him, and the only way I could even the odds. I just had to make him believe.

“I would be careful if I were you,” I warned, taking a flash drive from my pocket. I planned to use it to copy the computer data for my job. I now clutched it like it was the ace up my sleeve, like it was the key out of here. All I needed was for him to believe it.

I threw the flash drive to my feet and hovered my boot over it, nearly mimicking the way he stepped on my coin. At first, he was confused, analyzing my actions and trying to understand them.

He asked, “Why do you think I should be scared of that?”

“Because,” I told him, “this is all that is left of your precious research.”

He didn’t believe me, but he held an engrossed gaze. I had to sell him, “Right before I came here, I took a little trip to your server room, and I wiped every single thing there. It’s all gone, except for what I copied on this little hard drive…” I moved my boot closer to the drive. His mind seemed to race as he reveled in the absurdity of what had occurred before him.

He was clearly in disbelief, but I held my intensity. The sincerity of my threat had to be enough to convince him; otherwise, I had nothing else. I motioned my foot

DR. RICHARDS TOOK A STEP CLOSER. I DREW THE GUN FROM MY HOLSTER AND POINTED IT AT THE MAN. HE FACED THE BARREL WITH HIS UNWAVERING GRIN. HATING THAT IT HAD COME TO THIS, I PULLED THE TRIGGER.

towards the drive threateningly. At long last, the doctor cracked. “Don’t! Fine! What do you want?”

I was calling the shots now. “Well, Doctor. Before you interrupted me, I came here to gather the last thing I needed from this computer. If you wouldn’t mind, could you log in for me?” I gestured to the seat and smiled at him.

His eyes remained glued to the little piece of hardware just beneath my shoe. I spat, “Do this, and you keep your work.”

Bitterly, he sat in the chair. I moved the blank flash drive to the desk and kept the butt of the gun over it. If it couldn’t shoot, I’d find a different use for it. “Now do it,” I demanded.

His eyes darted between me, the screen, and his little device. He seemed to forget the incredible luck in his favor, and his mental state shifted to anger and resentment. My complete confidence clouded his mind, and he was hatefully doing what I wanted. “You will regret this, I’ll make sure,” he warned as he logged in.

I cocked the gun back and in the direction of the flash drive, “Now open every important file, document, email, and scrap of data. I want it all.”

His hate-filled eyes continued their glare, but he reluctantly did what I demanded. Through the fear of losing his work and his power, he couldn’t even see he’d been played. I was now holding back my own laughter. I had created leverage from nothing, and it made me want to howl. I kept up my commanding and confident appearance, but now I felt ecstatic as the lucky Dr. Richards had just felt moments ago. The man who wickedly smiled at me, this undefeatable man, was now at my mercy. He could beat me in every single way because he possessed the one thing I lacked, but now he bent to my will. My life had led up to this moment. My entire struggle had led to this longshot victory. I felt lucky for once, but I knew this was not luck. It was my demeanor, my confidence, and my perfection that got the job done. I conquered my bad luck.

He finished his last few computer movements and then looked up at me. He hissed, “I did it. Now move your filthy hand and give back my research.” Along with anger, I saw hope in his eyes as he stared discontentedly.

I slowly lifted the handgun away from his work. Then, with a quick jolt, I swung the butt end at his head. He blacked out quickly. Maybe it was his luck that helped him go down fast, to ease the pain of receiving more blows. The once unbeatable doctor lay limp in the chair, shamefully. I wished I could have destroyed his research, but now, I had to do what I came here for. I plugged the unused flash drive into his computer,

copying all the research, reports, and information he opened for me. Before leaving, I grabbed my coin from the floor. I kept my head up on the walk back to the security room, walking briskly and with newfound confidence. The confidence I felt now wasn’t pretending; it was earned through perfection, planning, and victory. I returned to security, checked the guard’s unconscious body, and grabbed my hidden clothes. I found Dr. Richards on one of the monitors, and he was already rubbing his head, regaining consciousness. I knew I had to leave fast,

and dashed from the room. Before anyone but Dr. Richards and a singular guard knew about me, I was already gone. I exited the tunnel, out the hatch, and into the convenience store. The key ring from the guard had one for the black metal door into the alley, which I opened and exited through. I was out.

I ran for five blocks, far from the husk of an apartment, the convenience store, and the hidden underground laboratory. I left with some special information in my pocket, the very answer to the thing that has controlled my entire life. The answer to luck; the equations, the hypotheses, the evidence, every trial and calculation, the struggle to achieve power over the world’s nature. Here it was, in my pocket, next to my coin. Everything I had ever fought for, my struggle to keep breathing, to be perfect, to find work, to coexist with everyone else, and I had just stolen it. The power I held felt invigorating, but it was also scary. What would happen when I return this to my employers? Would luck’s force be completely demolished, eradicating it from reality and halting human development? Or, would luck be given to every member of society who wanted it, propelling mankind forward? Maybe my employers will keep it for themselves, abusing it just as Dr. Richards had. Or maybe, I could finally rid my body of the bad luck coursing through it. Without bad luck, I could be anything, do anything. I could live a normal life as no bad luckers have before. My life could be perfect. This was my chance to be perfect. This was my chance to get rid of my misfortune.

And it was all in my palm.

HERE IT WAS, IN MY POCKET, NEXT TO MY COIN. EVERYTHING I HAD EVER FOUGHT FOR, MY STRUGGLE TO KEEP BREATHING, TO BE PERFECT, TO FIND WORK, TO COEXIST WITH EVERYONE ELSE, AND I HAD JUST STOLEN IT.

banning books: my hot take

POEM BY TY GETZ, HARTLAND, WI

This may be a hot take, but banning books would be a mistake.

Books teach us about the past. We obtain knowledge from them. Knowledge that will outlast, even the shiniest gem.

Of Mice and Men: John Steinbeck tells the truth, about companionship in the fen. We have to teach the youth, to always believe–”Amen.”

Fahrenheit 451: Montag ain’t having fun, he had to go on the run, because Beatty wanted him done, all just because he wanted to read some.

All the girls love the lawyer look, just like Atticus in the To Kill a Mockingbird book. Witnessing the coming of age of Scout, never made me doubt; these court decisions make me shout.

They call me great, like Gatsby. They be banning books only cause they hate. I just want to read while at sea, to escape the hater’s weight.

Captain Underpants: All the parents freaking out, like they’re wearing hot pants. The book is just a silly tale, no doubt. Yall acting like Mr. Krupp. Y’all parents need to chill out.

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn: All these people yelling about Jim. In the 1840’s, Jim’s education looked grim, just because he has different colored skin. It was just different back then.

I’m done with my hottest take. Hope y’all don’t call me a snake, For showing the high stake. Books are truly a special craft. Don’t kill the creative stem, just because you don’t agree with them. I hope these ideas will last.

PHOTO BY SEAN QIN, MERCERSBURG, PA

BOOK REVIEWS

values based on their practicality and rareness. In the postapocalyptic world of 2049, animals almost went extinct, which makes the remaining ones extremely valuable. Although electronic animals prevail in the market, people still see owning an authentic animal as a sign of status.

Under the morbid environment, people developed advanced androids to serve their depraved needs and desires; being more than merely robots, rebellious androids who can no longer take this exploitation and humiliation rose in revolt against the humans. Humans sent their police forces, special units known as blade runners, to “retire” and hunt down these androids.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

By Phillip K. Dick

Review by Eason Yang, Ontario, Canada

As the world gradually becomes more and more dependent on digital technology, people’s lives are also transferred into online storage spaces in the form of data strings. In the near future, this digital wave will soon sweep over our remaining dry lands. In Phillip Dick’s novel, this happened in the year 2049, a surreal time where humans and androids are so like one cannot tell them apart, and mankind is already colonizing Mars and traveling in space.

Irregularly exuberant development always comes with a price, and the price people pay in that fictional world is the home they live upon — Earth. The truth is, the planet was so devastated that people had to move to Mars for a living. The remaining humans are either in asylums, exiled and discriminated against, or in tall skyscrapers, esteemed and affluent.

Objects have no intrinsic value, but we as humans assign them specific

The “flesh superior to electronics” ideology also applies to the relationship between humans and androids. Some people can discriminate between “flesh” and “metal,” treating the former with common manners and standards, while the latter with utter disrespect and utilization, almost like a tool instead of a sentient life. However, there are also people who see the androids as brothers and sisters of a different origin, and this brings up the debate between the “authentic” and “counterfeit.” When androids are more sympathetic and humanistic than people who only care about their interests, does that make them human or a mere pile of metal? Some people developed an authentic relationship with androids; should that relationship be denied from its origins?

It is hard to define sentient life, just like it was hard for the protagonist Richard Deckard, a police officer and blade runner, to distinguish androids and human beings. Is the demonstration of empathy a common standard for sentient life forms? If it is, what if the “thoughts” behind that friendly façade are merely a collection of meticulously running codes? At the end of the day, there is no definite answer; we, humans, decide whether we see things as authentic or spurious. People can choose to immerse

themselves in sweet virtual reality, but they can also choose to face the harsh reality. Reminiscent of the red and blue pills in “The Matrix,” it is upon the individual to decide. What will you choose at the end of the day?

HISTORY Women, Race, & Class

By Angela Davis

Review by Rainey Reese, Chicago, IL

Women, Race, & Class by Angela Davis is a work that describes the never-ending cycle of the divisions of Black American women: race, sex, and class, which trap them in positions that mimic slavery.

In Davis’ introduction, she makes the point that Black women are strong because they were born into the legacy of slavery, a system that forced black women into a position of “equal” oppression with domestic and manual labor. On the contrary, there were problems only Black women faced throughout slavery, like sexual violence.

The next part of the book focuses on abolition campaigns, like Seneca

Falls in 1848, headed by the powerful white voices of the era. This convention failed to push an anti-racist narrative, which unfortunately embedded the same attitude in the organized fight for women’s rights. This vulnerability in the movement gave Sojourner Truth her platform, in which she asks, “Ain’t I a woman?” to drive home the fact that deserving, honorable women are Black too. Black women are situated in the lowest class of society. Often, this fact is overlooked under the same attitude of the Seneca Falls Movement: that feminists are not obligated to fight against racism.

In describing the white abolitionist attitude, the reader can see that white abolitionists either defended industrial capitalists or didn’t have a sense of class loyalty whatsoever. Angela Davis then adds a Marxist viewpoint to her work, where she uses the quote by Karl Marx, “(L)abor in a white skin can never be free as long as labor in a black skin is branded.” She stresses that white abolitionists often glanced over this view, especially when this point could fuel liberation.

A quarter of a century after slavery, Davis makes the connection that Black women were in conditions no better than slavery. These “economic opportunities” Black women were given still chained them to the divisions of race, sex, and class. The domestic labor forced upon Black women made them subject to further sexual violence and racism in the workplace, a unique form of oppression that their white counterparts would not know. The fact that Black women are subject

book a critical read.

Further in this work, the reader sees the conclusion that white women are notorious for erasing Black women from their conversations, conventions, and movements, trapping Black women further into the shackles of white supremacy. This connection further develops the fact that erasing Black skin and Black struggle only demeans the fight against racism, upholding white supremacy. Many activists were silent against racism, underestimated the power of institutional racism, or were misinformed. For example, at the Equal Rights Association’s first meeting, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, a pioneer in the suffragette movement, argued that it was far more important for white women to receive the vote before black people.

About the rise of racism in the suffrage movement and how Susan B. Anthony encouraged her members to stay silent on the subject of racism, Davis states that “It was not women’s rights or women’s political equality but, rather, the reigning racial superiority of white people that which to be preserved at all cost” (Davis 126). These unacceptable attitudes towards black liberation made their programs fall short and left black women in inescapable situations similar to capitalism or colonialism, or essentially, eradicated egalitarian values to save face. White women had earned their place in the public sphere at the expense of Black women. This noncommittal stance on Black equality created

to their own kind of oppression is overlooked and undermined. Angela Davis pays careful attention to this misconception, making this

a reluctant acceptance of racism and was counterproductive to the impact that white women tried to make.

ANGELA DAVIS CONTINUES TO STRESS BLACK WOMEN’S STRENGTH AND COMMITMENT TO SUPPORTING BLACK LIBERATION

Certain activists who created sisterhood between Black and white women are highlighted, especially through education. Plenty of White women stepped up and taught Black women, despite violent hatred and public outrage, and did not let these extreme situations deter them from standing up for their values. However, the white men crafting legislature had the power to do so much more for equality, but failed. Elaborating on the race issue of the suffragette movement and stressing the ignorance of those in the highest place of society — white men — further develops Davis’ argument. This complexity and highlight of authority make this book an insightful read.

Toward the end of the book, Davis continues to stress black women’s strength and commitment to supporting Black liberation. She highlights black women in the club movement, stating that the women involved “were manifestly committed to the struggle of Black

Liberation.” Unfortunately, elitism plagued their clubs and caused an obstacle to their goals. Mary Church Terrell, Anna Jones, Ida B. Wells, and Josephine St. Pierre Ruffin were monumental in their endeavors, yet they were betrayed by white women’s “activism” every time. All of these women’s separate goals

are monumental, but the refusal of white women to stand in solidarity with their Black counterparts stopped them from further change. White women often pitted these powerful Black activists against each other. While reading, this inspired the question: If you could

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imagine the wide-scale change of their efforts, what would our society look like? And would it be further progressed than where we are now? Women, Race, & Class is a thought-probing work that forces readers to imagine change beyond one circle. In having this effect, Davis’ work is complex and inspiring at the same time, which was life-changing in putting politics into perspective. Davis circles back to the fact that working-class women and black women were not accepted in the suffragette movement. In an attempt to expand the suffragette movement, Susan B. Anthony opened it to working-class women. However, she failed to realize that working-class and black women are fundamentally linked due to class exploitation and racial oppression and that capitalism was their common oppressor. Upper-class white women propped up white supremacy because of their racism. They actively fought for women’s rights within the narrow sphere of their immediate interests, further entrenching their roles as irrevocably female, nurturing, motherly, and nothing more.

In conclusion, the standard of white supremacy was counterproductive to the advancement of equality for women, and Davis makes a point that white supremacy was the leading factor that allowed sexism and classism to operate. Angela Davis has a distinct, engaging writing style that is not only inspiring but will change the way you analyze history. Davis’ work and research are reflected in today, and this exclusionary practice can be seen in all modern movements. This call to be active in feminism, including every woman, regardless of race, is critical to the movement and social change to advance society as a whole. Overall, Women, Race, & Class is an eye-opening and necessary read. It established connections that not many would think about and offers a necessary analysis of Black women’s oppression through the centuries.

DAVIS’ WORK IS COMPLEX AND INSPIRING AT THE SAME TIME, WHICH WAS LIFE-CHANGING IN PUTTING POLITICS INTO PERSPECTIVE

Hatchet

By Gary Paulsen

Review by Ben Johnson, Pewaukee, WI

I had high expectations for Hatchet by Gary Paulsen before even picking up the book. Hatchet had been highly recommended to me by my Grandpa, who is an avid reader and enjoys the outdoors like me, so I was eager to take it off the shelf and begin the thrilling survival story. You aren’t just “along for the ride,” as Brian Robeson, a 13-yearold boy, experiences a horrific plane crash, leaving him stranded in the Canadian wilderness with nothing but a hatchet… You are Brian Robeson. You taste, hear, and feel everything Brian Robeson does. You are exposed to the elements, going through natural disasters, starvation, animal attacks, and more. You learn Brian’s emotional pain when he witnessed his parents’ divorce. While reading this book, you become so focused on one thing, and one thing only — survival by any means necessary.

Written by Gary Paulsen and published in 1986, Hatchet took the world by

storm, winning two

awards (John Newbery Medal in 1988 and the Dorothy Canfield Fisher Children’s Book Award in 1986). Paulsen is by far the most qualified person to create a survival

progression of oneself entering their teen years, searching for challenge and independence. Brian slowly learns how to survive by himself, creating a stable means of

MAKE THE BOOK AN AMAZING READ

book like Hatchet, as he was an Army veteran, field engineer, trapper, dog musher, and a proud Luddite. This allowed Gary Paulsen to easily paint life’s harsh realities honestly and without speaking down to his audience, giving an out-of-body experience to the reader. Hatchet is often referred to as Paulsen’s greatest work and one of the best books for young teenagers to read. You won’t find many people who say they haven’t read or (at least) heard about Hatchet.

Hatchet is a well-crafted book that includes survival tricks, such as fieldcraft tips, firebuilding, and lean-to building tactics. The book also has intense moments, including a tornado and moose attack. But the protagonist’s fight for survival isn’t just about the unforgiving weather and dangerous animals; it’s about surviving one’s youth.

It’s that greater truth that makes Hatchet so memorable. Paulsen ran away from home in his youth to join the circus and later joined the army. Once finished with the army, he opted to live deep in the forest with only a couple of dogs. Gary Paulsen, having often ditched the “normal life” and choosing to escape the cage that is society, is shown within the essence of Brian — the want to be a teen again and explore.

As the book progresses, Brian matures quickly, and what seems like fear at the start of the book slowly transforms into resolution. The book represents the

life that lets him survive for over 60 days and overcome challenges, such as wolf attacks, tornadoes, starvation, and disease.

Paulsen’s way of writing is short and sweet. His sentences add up to tiny chapters that give the reader a quick sense of accomplishment, so much so that you feel as if you finish the book in a matter of seconds. The character progression of Brian Robeson as he evolves from a boy to a man is mesmerizing; there’s no better

author to have created a character like Brian other than Gary Paulsen. Hatchet’s plot, various themes, and extremely descriptive (but short) chapters make the book an amazing read. The book more than exceeded my expectations, and I would surely recommend this book to someone else. All and all, I would give the book a solid four out of five stars. Hatchet is truly a one-of-akind book.

...I WAS EAGER TO TAKE IT OFF THE SHELF AND BEGIN THE THRILLING SURVIVAL STORY.

HATCHET’S PLOT, VARIOUS THEMES, AND EXTREMELY DESCRIPTIVE (BUT SHORT) CHAPTERS

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CREDITS

1. PHOTO BY LAUREN JURIC, ALLEN, TX

2. ARTWORK BY ERINN HUANG, SANTA CLARA, CA

3. ARTWORK BY ANELYA TUREBEK, ALMATY, KAZAKHSTAN

4. ARTWORK BY I AN RYU, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

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