By teens, for teens
PLUS, we shine the spotlight on performing arts!
Heartstrings & Healing
The Many Faces of Love
Letter from the Editor
Dear Teen Ink Readers,
Welcome to the latest issue of Teen Ink magazine! This time, we’re all about love and everything that comes with it. You’ll find stories exploring all kinds of love — from heartbreak and past relationships to learning how to love yourself. Plus, we've got a poetry section that fits right in!
We’re also shining a spotlight on the performing arts! We’ve dedicated a section to dance, theater, and music, celebrating the creativity and talent behind it all. Whether you’re a performer, writer, or just a fan, there’s something for you here!
Not really into love or the arts? No worries! We’ve got a book review section to give you new recommendations, and we also announced the winner of our What It’s Like Being a Teen Today contest.
As we head into 2025, we’re excited to share this journey with you and can’t wait to see what amazing things you’ll accomplish this year. We hope you enjoy this issue as much as we do, and don’t forget, we’d love to hear from you! If you want to write a letter to the editor or respond to an article, visit teenink.com/submit!
Best regards,
The Teen Ink Team
Cover Art Contest
Submit your photo or artwork for a chance to appear on the cover of Teen Ink magazine! All art and photo submissions are eligble.
Acceptance
ARTICLE BY HARALD KEIJSER, VOORBURG, NETHERLANDS
PHOTO BY EUNSEO KIM, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA
I do not feel deserving of love. That enigmatic four-letter word. Every hug, every kiss: I simply stand, still as stone. Occasionally, even turning away. Not against them, but myself.
Rationally, I understand that it must have something to do with my childhood, but I am not exactly sure what. I was not treated particularly poorly.
I was surrounded by love all my life, my mother loved me, my father loved me, even my siblings loved me. Perhaps it is because I build up expectations for myself: subconscious ones, never
IS THERE ANYTHING MORE PURPOSEFUL, THAN THE ART OF SELF-IMPROVEMENT?
fully established so that they can never be fulfilled either. Only a small nagging feeling in the recesses of my mind going on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on — in perpetuity.
It says things; whispers in the dark alleyways of abandoned civilizations long past, yet still somehow present. The words are irrelevant, faded by Father Time’s inescapable hands, both caressing and choking in equal measure.
The words may be imperceptible, yet the intent lingers on. The intent says more than a thousand words, yet can be encapsulated in a singular phrase: Not. Good. Enough.
I am not accepting of love because I do not accept myself. I see all these imperfections and potential improvements, yet I have so little time to do anything about them. All I can do is continue the daunting march of improvement.
Constantly progressing, yet never reaching any closer to the end. Therefore, the only course of action to follow with these unbearable flaws is to stew in them, marinating in the subtle revulsion of my identity and actions.
Why do I continue to push myself, knowing there is no end of this journey to perfection? I suppose it is just not in me to remain content. It is probably something I picked up from my father. My mind is constantly searching for new things to learn and earn. Do not misunderstand me, I quite enjoy this, actually. If I am not improving upon myself, what else is there to do? Is there anything more purposeful, than the art of self-improvement?
I see it as a lifeline of sorts. In this harsh universe of ours, with no true guiding hand or ultimate consequence: what could be more imperative than bettering oneself?
Yet I fear this defining directive of mine all the same. On second thought, fear is not adequate enough to describe it. I have seen what such ambition does to others. Its forewarning presence haunts my every step, seeping into my very bones.
As mentioned earlier, my father has it as well, this constant need for improvement, this inability to accept anything other than perfection. But the thing is, nothing is ever perfect. So where does that leave us; simply unaccepting of everything and everyone? To forevermore live ill at ease in this world of imperfections?
I truly hope to find acceptance one day. Not only of others, but first and foremost of myself. I doubt my father has as of yet. I cannot imagine living with this, all my life.
I am not sure whether I could.
ARTWORK BY LYDIA VAZ, SAN JOSE, CA
BUMPS
ARTICLE BY ANONYMOUS
This isn’t about a bump in the road or your perfectly slicked-back ponytail. This is about my great-grandparents — Grandpa Bumps and Grandma Bumps. My family has always called the Heitman grandparents Grandpa Bumps and Grandma Bumps. That was because whenever they would hug and kiss goodbye, they would also gently bump our foreheads together. They both passed away a few years back, yet I still have so many vivid memories with them. There are memories that connect to certain objects and mostly their importance in my life.
For the first long 8 years of my life, it was just my sister and me. My sister, Jada, is three years older
than me, and we were always close growing up. We were the only children my parents had and the oldest grandchildren of my mom’s parents. During these years, my sister and I got all of the attention, and I would be lying if I said that I didn’t miss it sometimes. Now, we have two younger brothers who seem to always steal the show. Back when we were younger, Jada and I would have sleepovers at our Grandma Norma and Grandpa Mike’s house almost every weekend. Our Grandma Norma also babysat us during the summers and after school each day until our mom picked us up. To keep us busy while we were with her, we would visit her parents, Grandpa and Grandma Bumps.
Going to Grandpa and Grandma Bumps’ house was always so fun, and there are so many things that come up in my daily life that remind me of them. Random objects like strawberries, hens, bubblegum, dominoes, woodwork, Werther’s Original candy, and cows are things that I correlate to my grandparents and their home. They didn’t live too far out, but they lived in a very small and rural town north of O’Fallon called Josephville. Their cute, small, farm-style house came with a large yard, which gave us plenty of room to play. Their neighbors had cows that would hangout on the fence line and moo at us while we were running around.
Grandma Bumps had a good-sized garden, and Grandpa Bumps had a huge shed. My Grandpa Bumps was a farmer and woodworker throughout his whole life, so he made and sold beautiful wood work. Anytime I see wooden yard ornaments around the holiday season, it reminds me of his art and all of the extra inventory that he would hang up in his shed or put up in the yard. Speaking of his profession, it makes me think of his thumb. While working with wood, he accidentally cut half of his thumb off in a table saw. This would always scare me when I was younger, and he never failed to make sure that I saw it.
Grandma Bumps had a garden from which she grew all of their fruits and vegetables. Almost every time we would visit, she would have us help her pick strawberries from her garden. It would take up a decent amount of our time, and we would get to talk and laugh our whole way through it. Anytime that I eat strawberries now, it reminds me of my Grandma Bumps. This is not only from the memories that I have from picking them with her but also because she was so sweet. She was always doing her best to make us happy and had the sweetest compliments to give us. She would always say, “Your hair is perfect, darling,” and “I would love to have beautiful blue eyes like you.”
Grandma Bumps was the most thoughtful person I know. She had seven kids total, and the majority of them also had grandchildren. She would host holiday gatherings every year in their super unique split-level basement and made sure to get every single person a gift that they
would love. Sometimes they were even handmade. She loved to sew, and she was very good at it. I would ask to sit on her lap and “help” Grandma with sewing stuff in her free time. She had a fake hen pin cushion that was a realistic size. My mom ended up calling dibs on that item when she passed, and we use it now when my mom is sewing. Grandma Bumps also always kept a huge bucket of the Double Bubble Bubblegum and Werther’s Original candies. The first thing I remember doing every time we arrived was running to grab a piece of bubblegum.
Other times, instead of sewing or picking strawberries, we would play dominoes. She loved playing dominoes, and it was the first game I had ever been taught. Grandma Bumps loved to bake and sell cakes her whole life. While we waited for things to bake in the oven, we would kill time playing dominoes. It was so simple, but she made it so fun. We also got dibs on her dominoes set when she passed, and we still use them to this day. I will never bake without thinking of her. She taught my mom all of the secrets, and now my mom bakes and sells cakes and cupcakes as a side job. Grandma Bumps was really the best.
They have also influenced my music taste. In the background, they would always have old country music playing on their stereo. Anytime they felt like it, they would find each other and slow dance to the song. This painted a picture of true love. They loved each other so loudly, and now I only try to do the same. Now, I love country music, and certain songs with a certain beat remind me of them and their dances together.
Not a day goes by that I don’t miss Grandma and Grandpa Bumps. They were truly an inspiration. They were the people that I looked up to as a kid. All of their hobbies and side hustles have made me a hard worker as a reminder that you’re never doing too much. I wish that my younger brothers could have them to grow up with as well. There are so many things that remind me of them, and I’m so thankful that I have items of theirs to hold close. I wish that they had more time here to watch me grow into the young adult that I’ve become, but I know that they’re always watching over me and dancing together in Heaven.
Pieces of Us
ARTICLE BY ANONYMOUS ARTWORK BY ANONYMOUS
Last night, as I lay in the comfort of my bed, something inside of me finally shifted. It was as if a switch had finally been flipped, or maybe it was the fact that it had now been long enough for it to stop hurting when I looked at all the pictures. But I realized I had truly let you go. Not in the way I used to say it to appease my friends, but in a way that felt real. For the first time since August, it no longer hurts to see you in the halls. When I look at you now, I no longer trace the memories of that night or even the memories we once shared together. Or even feel the weight of what we once were. I had really let you go.
I've always had this urge to help people — maybe it's just how I'm wired. Even after everything ended between us, that instinct didn't fade. I still wanted to be there for you, to offer whatever support I could. I remember hearing from one of our friends about everything that had happened to you since we last spoke. At that moment, all I wanted to do was reach out — send you a message, and remind you that you'll always have someone who cares and is there to listen. It took more self-control than I'd care to admit to hold back from sending that message. I knew that reaching out would only add more to your plate, and that was the last thing I ever wanted to do. And if I'm being honest, I don't think you wanted to hear from me either.
The truth is I knew we weren't meant for each other or even to last—nothing does, after all. But the real question that still lingers in the back of my mind is why I allowed myself to fall for someone I knew would hurt me, even if it was never his intention. I've spent the last four months trying to answer that question, but no matter how many times I ask myself, I know I'll never find the answer. I was chasing someone who was running from me, glancing back just often enough to make sure I was still behind. I know it was for the best — finally letting you go, I mean. And I know deep down, it was what you wanted, too. Still, I find it difficult to let go of things. But more than anything, I struggle with letting go of the people I once loved. Everything I ever let go of has claw marks on it. Everyone I've ever loved has taken a piece of me with them as they walked out the door.
That's exactly what you did — took a piece of me with you. When I met you I thought I was ready, ready to fall in love. I wasn't looking for much but
that's right when you happened. I am so tired of writing about you, and here I am again, doing just that. Every "On My Mind" and almost every prompt has somehow circled back to you. Every page that I wrote you were on it.
If this was your plan all along, I wish you wouldn't look at me like you could maybe love me again. Like the thought of children that weren't my own — having the brown eyes of the boy I loved at 17 didn't rip my heart out. Like I didn't drive to your house when things were falling apart on my end. Because, honestly, when I was with you, all the chaos in my life faded, and for a moment, I knew everything would be okay because at least I had you. I still remember spending hours running my fingers through your blonde hair while you rested your head in my lap because I thought you were the best thing that had ever been mine. I don't understand how all the moments we shared together turned into longing glances in the hallway. Was it all just a waste? No, it wasn't — because loving someone is never a waste. And you definitely weren't.
Every moment with you felt like a breath of fresh air in a world clouded with smoke. Each moment we shared was never wasted — whether it was sharing both of our first kisses together, meeting each other's families, or even watching you talk about football with my dad. Even in the bad moments when all we had was each other. I just enjoyed being with you, because you were my best friend and that was the worst part. When my car got hit last night, you were the first person I called, and you came right away to make sure I was okay. I don't understand it either, but the first thing my mind went to was you. It had been a while since we'd spoken, but in that moment, I knew you still cared enough to make sure I was okay.
I know we'll always care for each other, but it's best for both of us to let go. Letting go of what we were, and more importantly, my best friend, was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. But deep down, I know you deserve more than I can offer. And someday, I'll be everything to somebody else, too. I'm terrified to fall for someone again because I know I'll compare every person to you. Every time I look into brown eyes, see someone wearing the same glasses you did, or hear a song you used to play with me, I'll be transported right back to you.
ARTWORK BY LUCY LI, MIDDLEBURY, CT
THE CHALLENGE OF BELONGING
“Belonging” - the feeling of security, sense of support or acceptance. Throughout my life, I have never exactly fit in. I was constantly changing myself or my appearance to feel like I am liked by others. I didn’t have many friends, and spent most of my time playing with my family, grandparents, or just alone. The emptiness of not having anyone haunted me. I did all the things
normal kids my age did. I played soccer, basketball, and I was a good kid, yet somehow I struggled to make friends or ever have a best friend.
On the first day of kindergarten, I was very nervous. I was pretty shy until I knew someone, but here, I knew no one. I spent almost the whole
ARTICLE
BY ANONYMOUS
day alone. When recess finally came, I decided that I would try to make a friend. I saw another girl on the playground who had the same Smurfs shirt on as me. I went up to her and happily said “We’re matching! I’m Peyton, what’s your name?”. She told me her name was Desiree, but before I could get out another word, she ran off with her other friends. I was upset and I didn’t understand why no one wanted to hang out with me.
At five, I started playing soccer. My mom had played professionally, so I practically had no choice. I was never as good and will never be as good as she was. I enjoyed playing soccer because I got to have fun with other kids my age. Along with the fact that I loved the competitiveness of playing a sport. One of the girls on my team was named Macie. She had pretty blonde hair, she was cool, and she had bright pink cleats. Immediately, I became friends with Macie. Everything we did, we did together. If we needed partners, mine was Macie. If I got to pick who was on my team, I picked Macie. Until one day, another girl joined the team and suddenly all of the things that Macie and I did together, became things that Macie and the new girl did. I knew this feeling before and it made me upset because I still didn’t understand why I wasn’t enough and could easily be replaced.
In middle school, I started hanging out with two girls who played soccer with me, during the previous season. Looking back, I should’ve understood that trios never work. I was the friend that was always left out of plans, the friend constantly talked about in secret, the friend that had to walk in the grass when the sidewalk wasn’t big enough for three. I would go home crying on nights that I spent with them because I felt so terrible, being the butt of the joke. Eventually, they stopped being my friend because I wasn’t popular enough. My mom asked ‘if they make you feel bad about yourself, and then why would you choose to be around people that make me feel inferior?’ The question made me feel confused. Mostly about myself and why I still cared about people who definitely were not worth my time.
The constant feeling of never fitting in was building up. I felt like I was annoying and weird. It was like no matter what I did, I would never have a real best friend. I longed for the feeling of
someone who enjoyed being around me. I wanted someone who made it feel okay to be me. I wanted to share similarity in style, beliefs, and opinions with someone. Being lonely was my worst nightmare come to life. I started to become self conscious and depressed. It felt like there was something wrong with me. I was always missing out and was never invited to sleepovers, hangouts, or birthday parties.
Finally, in my freshman year of high school, I met my best friend. Ronnie Butler was a name I had heard before. I first met Ronnie in a class we both were placed in. Ronnie and I are complete opposites. Ronnie is quiet and reserved, while I am outgoing and spontaneous. Ronnie’s favorite color is green and mine is yellow. He makes me believe that opposites attract. While we are so different, we are so alike, in so many ways. We both love going out and doing things together, we both love wrestling, and we have the exact same sense of humor. Ronnie seriously completes me, and he is the first real best friend that I’ve had. He never makes me feel less than worthy, or left out. Ronnie makes me feel loved, included, and listened to. There’s no one I’d rather spend my time with. I could never get bored of being with him. On days I spend just laying in bed or going out to see a movie, I want it to be with him. For the first time, I’ve felt like I’m someone’s first choice. Ronnie treats me better than anything I could’ve asked for. He does little things to show his love for me. For example, Ronnie orders for me in public because I get nervous, he will go to church with me, and he goes to family events that are important to me.
I’ve prayed for someone like Ronnie to come into my life. He is my best friend, in boyfriend form. No matter what happens, I think that Ronnie and I will always be friends. Ronnie makes me feel like it’s okay to be myself, which no one has done before. I’m so grateful to have met someone who loves me as much as I love them. Even though I love him more, despite what he might think. Knowing how it feels to be on my own, has made me cherish every moment we spend together. I believe there is no better feeling than being embraced for who you are, and with Ronnie, I have that. Belonging- A word I used to be afraid of because I never felt like I would be accepted for myself. Ronnie makes me feel like I finally belong.
REMNANTS OF LOVE
ARTWORK BY ANN TSAI, TAIPEI, TAIWAN
ARTICLE BY HAILEY DIEZ, ANOKA, MN
I couldn’t wear my jacket anymore, it smelled like the sweet, nauseating smell of death and decay. I held her against my jacket and it became ruined. It became tainted. I swore I was going to be sick. While my mom buried her, I threw my jacket off in a panicked haste, threw it onto the wet ground with heaving breaths, disturbing whatever peace the morning had to bring. I hate my jacket. “It smells like her, it smells like her, it smells–” I’d repeat like a mantra, voice shattering and wavering as I held back the bouts of nausea that overcame me while I sobbed. I thought it wouldn’t hurt so much to bury her. I felt weak, like I couldn’t function — it felt like every single fiber in my being had been torn apart and ripped away from the once stable structure I called my composition.
In that moment, I lost it. Going home and having to bottle it all up, felt harder than it had ever been. I was so used to locking my feelings up and throwing away the key, yet something about this feeling I had wouldn’t shake me, it refused to go away without tormenting me a while longer. I grew up with her, I got older, as did she. Her name was Sophie, she was a small, ivory colored cat with sapphire eyes and no hearing, which was usual for her breed. That didn’t matter though, she possessed the most love I have ever seen a tiny animal hold. I could’ve sworn it was impossible for her to be so affectionate, solely because I couldn’t fathom how something so small could hold so much compassion. Sophie loved to cuddle, she loved being held and she loved the attention. If you hadn’t pet her in at least five minutes, she’d yell at you until you did — her meows louder than any other cat I’d ever heard, yet I didn’t care. That was just part of loving her.
I hadn’t seen her in over 5 years, having moved to Minnesota, leaving her and
other family behind. When I returned she was frail, an old little thing. That love never wavered and that volume certainly never lowered. She still loved all of the attention, it felt like she actually craved it more than ever. I miss her, I miss her more than I’ve ever missed something that has been lost, more than any stupid piece of clothing or useless object that got thrown under my bed. It’s funny how I miss something I forgot I had, isn’t it? Missing something I didn’t even know would hurt me so much had it been taken from me is like some cruel force of nature tearing my heart from my chest and throwing it to the ground, like it was just some useless mound of muscle.
Days turned into weeks, weeks full of grief and mourning – of wishing, thinking, “maybe if I had done something about it sooner, if I had been more adamant on getting that stupid house clean, that maybe she’d be around for a little bit longer.” I had to remind myself that it wasn’t my fault, that I couldn’t have prevented death, it’s inevitable. My mom has to emphasize that fact to me every single day, that she was hurting, she was just old and that’s what happens to everything and everyone — it still didn’t make the hurt any less loud as it screamed at me relentlessly.
I tried to wear my jacket again today, it felt like being suffocated in an aura of discomfort. Nevertheless, I persisted. I went to school like normal, and after a while it felt a little less like I was being smothered and it began to feel more like a comforting embrace instead, for how could I project how I felt onto an inanimate object? My jacket was no longer the tainted, ruined subject of my life as I believed it to be — it was me all along.
the PASSION of a THEATRE KID
ARTICLE BY ZACH BRUHN, HARTLAND, WI
PHOTO BY BARRY WEATHERALL, UNSPLASH.COM
Passion is something everyone has or will get at some point in their life. For me my passion is for the performing arts, theatre, but not the usual acting side.
No, I love to be in the background, never seen, but still working like an actor. My passion is for the behind the scenes, all things like lights to sound to moving set pieces to even building and painting those sets.
I've been doing backstage work for seven years and still going, as I go through life I've been learning more and more about tech and how much I'm hoping I get to do it everyday for the rest of my life.
I love the saying “if you love what you do you’ll never have to work a day in your life”. I’d say it’s true, as people I've seen and talked to, people who have all been doing their dreams as jobs, they all have this passion, like mine, whether its through facial expressions or how they walk or talk.
I love talking to people who have done tech for theatre or movies who have been doing it much longer than me and seeing how much they know and how much they can teach me about problems they’ve encountered.
Like a piece of the set breaking during a show or having to change the color of a set piece because the director wanted to have it in a different color. I love listening to soundtracks of popular broadway shows and how much it can make me feel. It’s like when reading through the poem “The Sky Is an Elephant”. In class it made me feel very sad, especially the last line of the girl's skeleton and the moon shining over it.
I get that same feeling from listening to different soundtracks, especially when it's a musical, especially if they’re about touchy topics like in the musical Hair. It’s all about these hippies and their thoughts, feelings, and moods towards the vietnam war.
Another musical, Dear Evan Hansen, is all about mental health of high schoolers, really anyone in general. But they really can also be about anything they’re ones about the 50’s-60’s era and their music,
one about the revolutionary war and creation of america, there are even some about fairy tales while others are satire and trying to make fun while still in good faith to what they are making fun of.
That's who I am. I love plays and all things theatre. It makes me happy and I'm glad to have found it.
One thing I will always do while watching a show is to look for little things like paint textures or miniature lighting or props. Virtually anything I know could happen from behind the scenes.
While still enjoying the performance. I love and enjoy talking with people about theatre whether they have a background in it or not.
I am theatre and theatre is me.
MY PASSION IS FOR THE BEHIND THE SCENES, ALL THINGS LIKE LIGHTS TO SOUND TO MOVING SET PIECES TO EVEN BUILDING AND PAINTING THOSE SETS.
A SPIRITED DANCER
POEM BY RILEY SMITH, TOLEDO, OH
A follow through the heart,
A star in the wings,
For I never know what this dance will bring,
Following goes through the floor,
When your a dancer told to dance no more,
A turn just once follows the story to be told,
All the movements we faced have drawn us old,
All the criticism we take have to unfold,
The many times we dance are a few too much,
The many times we leap are grand in a lunge,
Calling our names,
While our backs are in a hold,
All the pain in our spine,
Is a story that's written in gold,
To the child I know, Once soft and bold,
To what you became to be,
Has yet to unfold,
Once a dancer always a plan,
When a dancer there's no turning back,
Different times make a special place,
Special people take a difficult pace,
To be a star,
One needs to shine,
If another takes the light,
A new spirited dancer forms,
And we learn through the night,
A dancer recognises new storms.
ARTWORK BY SUSANNA HUANG, MERCERSBURG, PA
FINDING YOUR PASSION
HOW DANCE BECAME AN INTEGRAL PART OF MY LIFE
ARTICLE BY VISMITI IYER, BANGALORE, INDIA
Sometimes, I have these urges — to do something simply because everyone else around me is doing it.
In more intellectual terms, this is known as the "bandwagon effect."
But yes, at the distinguished age of eight, I attended my first kathak class because I didn't want to feel left out in my new apartment with my new set of friends, who had all simultaneously joined this dance class.
Four years and two institutions later, I positively hated Kathak. Maybe it was because of COVID-19 that made everything online; maybe it was the seeds of self-doubt that planted themselves and grew their gnarly roots. Maybe it was just the one-step chakkar, which felt as daunting and unachievable as climbing Mt. Everest. I cannot be certain what caused this enigma, but I was struggling to understand why I was dancing.
My mom pushed me to attend the classes, I became equally determined to push back, and blamed her for my failures. In retrospect, if she hadn't intervened, I would not have continued to dance and my life right now would be colorless and dull, much like your average corporate job.
I reached 9th grade; now I had bigger things to worry about things such as my sleep schedule and the fact that I had to actually talk to people face to face. Kathak took a step down on my list of things to worry about, and somehow, during those months, it started getting easier. I looked forward to dancing, and I wanted to be the best at it. Not to mention, I could now do ten one-step chakkars.
As I danced, the sound of each tabla beat resonated deeply within me. My body swayed naturally to the
melody of the sitar. The jingle of my ghungroo bells drowned out any anxious thoughts and feelings. My mind was fully engrossed, and it felt exhilarating. It felt serene.
Once I experienced it, it was a high I couldn't leave. I worked harder than ever, but most of all, I enjoyed every second of it.
I WANT TO SAY THAT FINDING A PASSION CAN TAKE TIME. TAKE IT ONE DAY AT A TIME. IF YOU DON’T GIVE UP, YOU’LL DEFINITELY PERSEVERE.
Now? I procrastinate chemistry worksheets by dancing to my heart's content. And guess what? Those group of girls that I joined Kathak for, most of them left a long time ago and I don't talk to them.
Well, what I intend to convey with this isn't that you should do something purely because of parental pressure and societal acceptance. I want to say that finding a passion can take time (...and sweat, blood, tears, and maybe even a mental breakdown). Take it one day at a time. If you don't give up, you'll definitely persevere. Try whatever you can — quit if you want to — but give your best in whatever you do, and you'll figure it out.
TAKE A DEEP BREATH
I did not expect so many people to be here. Over five hundred men, women, and children are seated in rows that overflow the chapel and extend into the open gymnasium beyond. The accordion doors that usually separate the two rooms are wide open, creating a cathedral-like hall that makes me feel microscopic. I can hear the occasional sound of a cough or a child trying to stay quiet, but it’s all muffled as if I’m under water. Deep under water, and sinking further with every passing minute. The pressure squeezes my chest.
I can’t breathe. What am I doing?
I should have practiced more. I should have asked my brother for a few more sessions before we left. I was so confident back then, but now that I’m here, it feels all too real.
Every night for the past two months, Ethan and I practiced our duet fervently until my voice would become hoarse from all the singing and his fingers would become stiff from the piano. Although we were just kids, we were invited to perform at a regional music concert. It was a rare opportunity for us to shine, so of course we wanted to give it our all. Every runthrough we did, we’d fix a few mistakes but always find a few new ones in exchange. Two steps forward and one step back — it was a perpetual cycle of critique and correction.
“Hey, Ethan, this beat was too short. Make the pause a little longer so I can have more time to breathe,” I’d say. “Elise, you should make this part louder. It’s the climax and we need everyone to hear you,” he’d say back. Sometimes I found it difficult to swallow my ego and listen to his advice. As siblings, any form of criticism I
ARTICLE BY ELISE TAMANAHA, TOKYO, JAPAN
PHOTO BY KEVIN SCHMID, UNSPLASH.COM
received from him, even if constructive, kindled my competitive spirit to rebel. “That’s just the way my voice is. Would you rather I sing so loud that my voice cracks and I sound like a teenage boy going through puberty?!” It felt so easy when I was with Ethan in a controlled environment. I may have even acted arrogant. We practiced our song a thousand times and it was perfect.
It’s time. Ethan walks slightly ahead of me and the two of us emerge out of the safe anonymity of the audience and up onto the stage. I can feel a thousand beady eyes following my every move. The air is perfectly still. Ethan settles in behind the grand piano and I take my position in front of the microphone. I start the count in my head.
One, two, three, four.
As my brother hits the first keys, the cavernous hall springs to life with the rich, colorful melody I’ve heard so many times during practice. I can hear the thock thock thock-ing of the piano keys and pedals behind me as my cue gets closer. The lights feel hot on my face. Are they supposed to be that bright? The audience is staring right at me. Thousands of eyes.
Five, six, seven, eight.
I take a deep breath in and fill my lungs with air.
Now.
I open my mouth...but nothing comes out. In a flash, my mind disappears.
Oh, no.
Ethan slows the piano down for a beat as he looks over at me. He knows something is wrong, but he continues onward as he’s been trained to do. The cue that I should have caught is now relentlessly marching forward without me.
One beat past, two beats past…
My eyes dart around the darkness. I don’t know what I’m looking for — maybe I’m hoping the lyrics will magically appear in the air like the captions of a karaoke song. I frantically look from person to person. The beady eyes are penetrating me now. What should I do? What should I do?
Then, all time stops. My whole consciousness lands on a familiar pair of eyes I’ve seen countless times in the past.
“It’s okay, Elise. I know you can do it.”
During our practice sessions, whenever Ethan and I would bicker over each other’s “constructive” criticism, she was always there to restore our confidence. She was always with me at my best times and my worst. She understood everything about me, and remarkably she still believed in me. Though I never realized it until now, Mom’s familiar eyes had become my saving grace.
I fix my attention on Mom. Everything else fades away and only the two of us are in this room together. She must be able to see my obvious desperation, but her face shows no sign of nervousness, only warmth. Even at a distance, I can sense her gently mouthing the words to me as she has always done whenever I’d forget my lyrics.
I know this song. It’s not too late.
I take note of where Ethan is, calculate my next cue, and take one more deep breath.
Let’s go.
My voice flows into the microphone and the amplified sound echoes throughout the whole hall. Pitch perfect. Immediately, I can feel the tension focused on me begin to dissipate. Verse after verse, Ethan and I flawlessly ride through the rest of the song until we reach the end. His last note and my last syllable linger in the air.
A moment of reflective silence. Then, the entire audience rises to their feet in applause. I spin to look at Ethan. He grins at me. Collectively, we think the same thing.
We did it.
A month later, I feel like I’m under water again. A muffled announcer calls out, “Fantaisie Impromptu, Op. 66.” I walk onto the stage. I turn to face the audience and bow as I’ve rehearsed. As I look up, seated in the middle of the front row, I see a familiar face. She watches me patiently and gives me a reassuring nod. Gradually, the pressure on my chest melts away and I feel like I can breathe once more.
I am not alone.
I’ve done this before, and I’ll do it again.
PHOTO BY ABBIE PRICE, BRYANT, AK
ARTICLE BY DEONNAH RICHBURG, MANCHESTER CT
ARTWORK BY BETHAN POWELL, KINGTON, U.K.
WHY WE SHOULD STOP CUTTING PERFORMING ARTS
Schools shouldn't cut performing arts because that’s taking away an opportunity to be social and bond with people around you. Cutting performing arts could also minimize or remove a potential career path for many students who are passionate about performing arts. Some kids go into school and performing arts is the only thing that keeps them enjoying school. That's the only time they can see their real friends or even learn about something they are actually interested in.
STUDENTS HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO ACTUALLY ENJOY SCHOOL AND MAKE NEW CONNECTIONS WITH THEIR COMMUNITY
I feel like taking that away can cause so many issues in a student's personal life. Say you come to school and the only thing that's going to make you happy that day is your PA class of any kind, whether it's singing, dancing, acting ect. Now it's gone. My school for example has a performing arts academy. Imagine if they took that away. People whose passions are based around that wouldn't have any support for their future.
Think about it. You're in a musical where you have practice every single day for hours at a time with a big group of people. Walking into this you dont think you’ll talk to anyone or even become friends with that many people at once. The truth is you will. There's almost no way that you won't. Schools normally cut programs due to cost and budget. It's known that most public schools can barely afford to run. An article from Penn State blogs said this “So why not cut funding equally to all programs to keep them”. I agree because
instead of cutting just the arts and cutting them first, I feel that if the schools were to take some of the funds away from all the programs then they can all be kept. No, they probably won't run the same but at least they will still be there. At least some students will still have something to look forward to in school.
So if a school really has to cut something, I feel like there are definitely other things that can have less of a priority. Like PE for example. My school makes it required to have gym class 3 out of the four years of high school. While the Connecticut General Assembly states “the high school graduation requirement law specifies that each student must have earned a minimum of one credit of physical education during high school in order to graduate”. I personally don't think we need PE and I don't think we should be spending as much as we do on it. 1 or maybe 2 years of gym class is enough. We still have health like most schools do and I think that is a class where they can tell you how to take care of your body. I do not think it is necessary for schools to “keep you in shape”. If it was just 1 or 2 years of gym, then teaching about staying healthy in health class I'm pretty sure the schools would save money, which then can prevent whole programs getting cut.
Keeping the performing arts program available, we know that students have the opportunity to actually enjoy school and make new connections with their community. Whether it's acting, dancing, singing, or playing an instrument , these programs provide something for students. When it comes to performing arts programs let's think about making them an afterschool program instead of fully taking them away from students with the passion.
BOOK REVIEWS
ROMANCE
Maybe in Another Life
By Taylor Jenkins Reid
Review by Marjorie Arend, Nova Petropolis, Brazil
In "Maybe In Another Life" by Taylor Jenkins Reid, we are introduced to two parallel universes, both unfolding from a single pivotal moment. With a light and engaging narrative, the book prompts us to reflect on the impact of everyday choices — even the seemingly insignificant ones.
The story revolves around Hannah, a 29-year-old woman drifting through life without clear ambitions.
Constantly
moving from city to city, she longs for stability and a sense of purpose. Hoping for a fresh start, she returns to Los Angeles, her childhood home, where she can count on the unwavering support of her best friend, Gabby.
Gabby, or stay out with Ethan? From this moment, the narrative splits into two parallel storylines, exploring the repercussions of each choice.
"Maybe In Another Life" is built on the intriguing premise that infinite versions of ourselves exist, shaped by the choices we make. Reid skillfully immerses readers in Hannah’s diverging realities, encouraging us to ponder where our own lives might have led had we chosen differently.
Despite some slightly forced and occasionally irritating points, such as the protagonist's obsession with cinnamon rolls, which the author feels the need to highlight every three paragraphs, this story develops coherently. Although the premise leads us to conclude that it will be an overly repetitive writing, we don't feel that while reading.
We feel a genuine interest for the story and how it is going to unravel. Hannah is a relatable protagonist: Mistakes, flaws and failed attempts. While the romantic subplots add charm, the heart of the novel lies in the deep, unconditional friendship between Hannah and Gabby. Their bond is authentic, unforced, and profound. Through their relationship, Reid beautifully illustrates how life’s sorrows can be bearable when faced with the right person by our side. One of the book’s most special moments is when Hannah, desperate to find her purpose, fails to recognize that she has already found it, and it's Gabby.
WE WILL END UP WHERE WE SHOULD END UP
One night, at a reunion with old friends, Hannah crosses paths with Ethan, her high school boyfriend. She faces a simple yet defining decision: should she go home with
Overall, the author provides us an enjoyable and introspective read. There are so many possibilities and choices we could have made, so many places we could be, but the author achieves to send her message: We will end up where we should end up. There is something greater ou there leaning us in the right direction, towards our destiny.
EPIC
The Odyssey
By Homer
Review by Finn McCathy, Wyckoff, NJ
"The Odyssey" is one of the greatest Greek epics, resonating with readers for millennia after being written in ancient Greece, by the poet Homer. The epic details a timeless tale of adventure, loyalty, and perseverance, offering a lasting exploration of human nature. Its themes and characters remain as relevant today as they were in ancient times, speaking to the universality of human experience.
"The Odyssey" is an intriguing adventure, with each episode contributing to the grand journey of Odysseys, the protagonist. After the fall of Troy, Odysseus embarked on a perilous voyage to return home to Ithaca, where his wife Penelope, and son, Telmachu s, awaited him. During his journey, Odyssey confronts countless challenges, from the terrifying Cyclops Poluphemus to the tempting yet deadly sirens. Each trial tests not only his physical strength but also his intellect, courage, and resilience. These challenges, through fiction, mirror real human struggles, making
Odysseus’ journey a metaphor for life’s trials and tribulations.
Odysseus is a complicated protagonist, whose intelligence, bravery, and resilience make him a fascinating hero. However, his flaws, such as his occasional overconfidence, make him a deeply human character. His triumphs are hard-won, and his ability to adapt and outsmart his enemies sets him apart as a hero of adaptation and intelligence, rather than brute strength. The journey he takes is not only a physical one but also an exploration of his values and beliefs, reflecting the philosophical questions that underline the epic. How does one define loyalty, courage, or justice? How much of our lives is shaped by fate, and how much by our own choices? These questions are woven into Odysseus’s story, making the Odyssey a classic of philosophy as well as literature.
Penelope, his wife, is another compelling character who represents what the Greeks believed a noblewoman should be. She exemplifies patience, intelligence, and fidelity, skillfully navigating her own challenges while awning Odysseus’s return. Her cleverness in fending off the suitors, such as by weaving and unweaving Laertes’ shroud, depicts her strength and resourcefulness. While Odysseus faces physical dangers, Penelope’s trials are more psychological, and her endurance is just as heroic as her husband’s
The epic itself is not told in a linear structure but instead unfolds through a series of flashbacks, intertwined with present events. While this narrative style enriches the story, offering multiple perspectives and layers of meaning, it can be challenging for readers. The abrupt transitions, from a divine conversation on Mount Olympus to the mortal struggles in Ithaca, can demand careful attention, This structure, while interesting, can sometimes feel disjointed, making it harder for readers to follow the timeline. I found this approach frustrating, as it requires constant shifts in focus, and can distract the reader from
the immersive experience.
Nevertheless, "The Odyssey" remains a masterpiece, not only for its rich storytelling but also for its exploration of timeless themes. It is a work that challenges readers to think deeply about the complexities of human nature, the power of one’s strength and bravery, and the enduring importance of home and family, Despite its difficulties, the epic rewards those who engage with it, offering insights that continue to resonate with readers across generations.
By Andy Weir
Review by Stacy Peng, Manhattan, NY
"Project Hail Mary" follows Dr. Ryland Grace, a junior high school science teacher who ended up aboard the Hail Mary spacecraft on a mission to save Earth from sporadic life called “Astrophage.” Throughout the novel, Ryland has flashbacks that ultimately illuminate his past and prior experiences, as he forgets nearly all he knows after he was put into
Project Hail Mary
a medical coma. On his journey, he meets Rocky, an “alien” hailing from the planet 40-Eridani, who is on the same mission as him: to find a solution to the astrophage problem and save their stars.
Throughout the book, I found myself thoroughly hooked. Some scientific concepts were harder to grasp without prior knowledge, but most points were easy to digest and added to the story’s depth. The novel is written in a lighthearted, casual tone, perhaps to enunciate Ryland’s easygoing personality. I also thought the introduction of Rocky was fluid and well done. The existence of such a life form seems very viable because the author thought out almost every minute detail. It also added more “meat” to the bones since it allowed for character interaction and development, as opposed to a single character talking to themselves for numerous chapters.
I found the most striking and engaging scene to be the interaction between Ryland and Rocky, the alien he meets as he is traveling through space. The scene is well thought out and realistically depicts what an interaction between a human and an alien might be like with language and environmental barriers taken into account. It would also be the beginning of a blossoming friendship — one that steers the book onto not only a purely scientific path but also one of emotional connection. Rocky is not just a specimen to Ryland, but also a companion that he cares about.
In the end, I found that a lot of the problems in the story were redundant, such as the Taumoeba
Ryland joining Rocky on Rocky’s home planet and living out the rest of his life as a science teacher for young Eridians, just as he was on Earth. With all this said, "Project Hail Mary" offers an engaging blend of scientific intrigue and heartfelt connection, making it a memorable journey of both survival and friendship.
SCI-FI/GRAPHIC
NOVEL
Review by Shreeya Soma, Mount Laurel, NJ
two teenagers attending a private school slowly fall in love. On the other, we follow a maintenance crew as they travel through space and repair ancient structures. How the stories connect and come together is the main plot of the graphic novel.
Whenever I find myself mentally exhausted, I find myself picking up this book. I feel like graphic novels have a bit of stigma of not being “real books,” but I believe that they can carry just as much meaning as traditional novels told in text can. The huge, sweeping illustrations in "On A Sunbeam," convey so much in their silences, that it’s hard not to consider this book as real literature. It has a particular vibe to it that reminds me of the old Amar Chitra Katha comics my relatives used to bring me from India. Despite the futuristic and void-like concept of space travel and rocketry, this book still manages to feel so, so warm. Walden’s artstyle simplifies the human form, but uses elaborate detail in depicting the backgrounds and scenery of the comic. Her mastery of color and shadow is such a treat to the eyes, while still being calming enough that I can read it when I’m tired.
(the special amoeba that Ryland and Rocky discover) breaking loose over and over again. It got a bit monotonous, but overall the story rounded out well and gave us a phenomenal conclusion, of
I feel like whenever people think of comics, they immediately think of superhero franchises, like Marvel or D.C. Or if their taste is a bit more alternative, maybe they’ll think of Japanese Manga. However, there’s a niche of independent Western comics that are severely underappreciated in the larger reading community. I came across "On A Sunbeam" while browsing my library’s graphic novel section two years ago, and picked it up because of its pretty cover design. Safe to say, I’m glad I did.
"On A Sunbeam," by cartoonist Tillie Walden, depicts a gorgeous space opera through two parallel stories. On one hand, we watch
Walden’s worldbuilding is fantastic as well; the spacetime depicted in this book is wholly unique and different from any other space opera I’ve ever read, mixing elements of folktales and ancient history with high-level science fiction. The characters in the story feel painfully human as well. The relationships depicted are so realistic and intimate, despite the absurdity of the setting.
No matter how many times I reread this book, it feels like a breath of fresh air. I always end up staring longingly at the sky, feeling hopeful for my future, a little less afraid of growing up. This book is a great introduction to independent graphic novels, a supremely underappreciated medium in my opinion. Check it out if you’re into space fiction and coming-of age stories.
On a Sunbeam
By Tillie Walden
ART GALLERY
CREDITS
1. ARTWORK BY EUNSEO KIM, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 2. ARTWORK BY YUE PAN, SARATOGA, CA
ARTWORK BY LEILA KOPLAN, BROOKLINE MA
POETS’ CORNER
ARTWORK BY KETHAKIE YASODARA, KURUNEGALA, SRI LANKA
Our
They say, people can be immortalised in writing,
Then, my friend, this poem is dedicated to you.
You, who is dearer to me than fame or reputation,
You, whom I shall live, kill and die for.
The unseen ideal that is a dream for artists,
Upon glancing at you; my world, suddenly, was full of colour.
Yes, of course, admiration and true friendship,
That is the only way to describe what I feel.
Your eyes which speak to me a million words,
Your smile that conveys your fondness for me.
I must say, our friendship is akin to Achilles and Patroclus,
Like Apollo and Hyacinthus, in the most tragic way.
I wonder how many stories have died in the name of friendship,
Perhaps we are doomed to simply be the artist and the muse.
I shall take my secrets, things I cannot even share with you, to the grave.
We will meet again in another life and hold hands as true friends do
In the end.
BY ANONYMOUS
Antique Plate
the heart is like antique plates decorated with stories and memories of those who used to own them
gifted to others just to be mistreated.
broken. their fragility constantly tested to its breaking point.
the owners never notice how truly beautiful they were until it's shattered
the ceramic like the heart
when you break like those antique plates, i hear your sweet cries i see what you yearn for to be taken care of like a grandmother with her antique plates
fragile as her aged bonesbones
BY ELENA AAGESEN, WACO, TX
Beneath the Waves
She's careful when she meets his eyes,
Deep as the ocean, many secrets they hide.
A quiet current pulls her near, But she's afraid of what she'll hear. The waves of him, they crash and sweep,
A world of feelings buried deep. She longs to dive but stays ashore, Wondering what lies beneath his core.
Each glance, a ripple in the tide, A silent pull she cannot hide.
She wishes for the courage to dive, To know the truth, to feel alive.
But still, she waits and keeps her place,
Torn between the waves and his embrace.
For in his depths, she longs to see, What secrets lie beneath the sea. Like Apollo and Hyacinthus, in the most tragic way.
I wonder how many stories have died in the name of friendship,
Perhaps we are doomed to simply be the artist and the muse.
I shall take my secrets, things I cannot even share with you, to the grave.
We will meet again in another life and hold hands as true friends do. In the end.
BY OLIVIA RUONAVAARA, WOODLAND, WA
Unpredictable
Unpredictable, you were very much so,
You would always say one thing,
But yet you’d do the complete opposite of it,
Yet for some reason I still trusted you.
Unpredictable, Every time I think about you,
Your words were like glass cutting me deeper with each lie,
To be honest your silence is better, Because then I wouldn’t have to get hurt.
Unpredictable, My emotions for you were,
Every smile, every word, and every lie,
Made me lose who I was inside, Till one day you made me cry.
Unpredictable, I was when tears ran down my cheek,
My feelings for my myself, my family, and for you were bleak,
No longer did I hold myself accountable,
For your actions that made you an animal.
Unpredictable, you may have been,
But caring you were so very much, I just can’t go through that again,
So it’s time I left you in the dust.
Unpredictable, The future of our lives,
Whether we’re in each others or not,
We will both survive,
For I believe we will prosper on our own…
Predictable, We’ll make our separate homes.
BY ARIE ASAD, DANVILLE, KY
Without You
I still picture you at the back of my mind
It feels like yesterday when you walked out of my life.
I'm trying to forget you
Trying to forget us
The memories we shared
And the jokes we laughed Now feels like a big mistake
Should I really have let you in my life?
I think it really started when I slept on your shoulder
I really thought that you were the one
Until I said I'm done
I know you may hate me for this
But I realized that it's not my job to fix anyone
I realized that the person I thought you to be was just in my head
I really thought I could fix you
Not even realizing that I was draining myself
Maybe I should have told you this sooner
But I didn't have the courage
You told me it has been "so easy for you"
After knowing everything that I had gone through
But I smiled and said nothing
Hoping that one day you'll regret everything
BY AKANSHA AHUJA, AMBALA, INDIA
The Anchor of You
In this world, painted in gray
A restless mind, broken and lead astray,
People all around me, yet I stood alone
Until I found you, my heart, my home
Your touch was warm and kind
Like a gentle flame in a winter night,
Your voice a song, soft and sweet, Your love a heaven I long to find
You are the ground beneath my feet
Keeping me safe and steady
You are my boat in restless waters
You are my home with you I am known
You are my breath amongst these heavy lungs,
The rhythm that carries my heart along.
No matter the distance, or where I am,
You are my everything, you are my home
In this world painted in gray, Where I believed in no color, You painted a rainbow across the sky
You are the color that stained my canvas BY ANONYMOUS
Unsent
A willow tree blows, why can't I confess to her? A text left unsent.
BY FREDDY ARGUELLES, MIRAMAR, FL
Tip of My Tongue
On the tip of my tongue it rest, Laying in wait patiently Eagerly waiting to spring forth through the cracks of my teeth Into your ears.
On the tip of my tongue, it lays dormant yet keen
Patient but spurred on by your every word and beautiful gesture
The swelling urge to break through my lips
Into your ears Grows.
On the tip of my tongue
It grows restless
As time ticks by The urge to convey the truth Is compounded with every breath you take.
On the tip of my tongue It grows violent
Wanting to be sent free, free to make passage
To your ears with sweet serenity
It bangs on my teeth, Presses at my lips
Like a volatile animal fighting to be let loose.
On the tip of my tongue It breaks free
Because I can't restrain it any longer
The words spring forth and take flight: I love you
BY ANONYMOUS
Callie.
Dear Callie,
When you died I was broken, December 19th Cancer took over.
I still grieve
Nothing we could do You were weak.
Our life was broken You still remain in Our hearts
Our minds, forever. Still healing.
So many pets but None like you, You weren't like rest. You were the best. Your green eyes, Spotted tan, black Small paws, And white body Will be missed.
BY ESSIE SMITH, EDOMOND, OK
I Love You
I love you.
I don’t just act like I love you, I do. I miss you.
I don’t just say I miss you, I do. I need you,
I don’t just think I need you, I do.
I mean it, I do.
I speak from the deep, A promise that I’ll hold and keep.
ARTWORK BY SHANWILL WANG, JACKSONVILLE, FL
It’s not just words, but all I’ve shown, A love that’s yours, and yours alone.
I mean it in the quiet of the night, when darkness falls and stars burn bright.
Through joyful laughter, through tears that flow, In every high and every low.
BY ANONYMOUS
Is This What Love Is?
Is this what love is?
The rush of dopamine hitting my head,
With so much as breathing a thought about… You.
The clarity I feel when you draw near,
How it feels like the world simply stops.
When you’re here.
When it’s just the two of us.
Is this what love is?
The warmth I get from every glance my way.
My heart fluttering, With every movement you make.
The joyful nervousness, From a single daydream about you.
Is this what love is?
My head spinning, Finding different ways to keep you close,
Keep you taking,
Keep you laughing, Thinking about all the different things I like– Love about you.
From the simplest mole by
your nose.
To the text messages you send. Is this what love is?
It must be...
If this is not love, Then I’m not sure I’ll ever find it.
If this is not love then I could never find,
Someone I love more, Than the someone I love now.
BY EMILIA CARR, AURORA, IL
If You Were Here Again
I didn’t realize how much I needed you, until you were gone.
And I hate myself because, I thought of you as a friend, as a distraction.
I thought of you as a distraction from him, because he was the one I thought I loved.
You were always there for me, when I cried.
You talked me down saying, “It’ll be alright," and “I’m always here for you.”
I took you for granted, assuming you’d always be there.
And I didn’t realize how much I needed you, until you were gone, until I lost you.
I love you, I whisper it over and over again, until I can scream it at the top of my lungs, I love you!
And I miss you.
And I hate myself because, I’m the reason you’re gone.
BY ELIZABETH WASHINE, LAKE ARIEL, PA
Constellations of My Love
Your moles are the stars the astrologists missed
Each one scattered is another kiss
That I would've given you in our last life
And in the next life
I'll make sure you have an abundance of them
If the apple in the Garden of Eden
Was as compelling as your eyes
I would be casted out from everything I'd known for just five seconds with you
If your smile was the light of the gates
I'd begin to understand the devotion and prayers
I'd count every strand of your hair if I could
Just so I could know every detail about you
My heart has waited for someone to lead it home
And if your moles are the stars the astrologists missed
My hear maps it's way back
Through the constellations of my love.
BY CHEYENNE HOWERY, ROANOKE, VA
ART GALLERY
CREDITS
1. ARTWORK BY XIANXU LUO, WUHAN, CHINA
2. ARTWORK BY SOFIA HUANG, NEW TERRITORIES, HONG KONG
3. ARTWORK BY MAIDA LIU, SAN BRUNO, CA
CONTRIBUTORS
THANK YOU!
Love, Loss, & Everything in Between
Harald Keijser, 6
Anonymous, 8
Anonymous, 10
Anonymous, 12
Hailey Diez, 14
The Performing Arts
Zach Bruhn, 16
Riley Smith, 18
Vismiti Iyer, 19
Elise Tamanaha, 20
Deonnah Richburg, 22
Book Reviews
Marjorie Arend, 24
Finn McCathy, 25
Stacy Peng, 25
Shreeya Soma, 26
Poetry
Anonymous, 28
Elena Aagesen, 28
Olivia Ruonavaara, Arie Asad, 29
Akansha Ahuja, 29
Anonymous, 29
Freddy Arguelles, 30
Anonymous, 30
Essie Smith, 30
Anonymous, 30
Emilia Carr, 31
Elizabeth Washine, 31
Cheyenne Howery, 31
Art Gallery
Yena Park, Front Cover
Eunseo Kim, 6
Lydia Vaz, 8
Anonymous, 10
Lucy Li, 12
Ann Tsai, 14
Barry Weatherall, 16
Susanna Huang, 18
Kevin Schmid, 20
Bethan Powell, 22
Eunseo Kim, 27
Yue Pan, 27
Leila Koplan, 27
Kethakie Yasodara, 28
Shanwill Yang, 30
Xianxu Luo, 32
Sofia Huang, 32
Maida Liu, 32
Alina Xu, Back Cover
Editorial Staff
Managing Editor: Kylie Andrews
BY ALINA XU, PRINCETON, NJ
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