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Scribbles: Issue 5
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Scribbles Issue 5 Winter 2012
description
Issue 5 - Winter 2012
Transcript of Scribbles: Issue 5
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Scribbles
Issue 5 Winter 2012
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From the Editor
The Editorial Board
Welcome to the fifth incarnation of Scribbles, Chinese International School’s creative arts anthology.
This is the first issue to be wholly organized by the second generation of Scrib-bles editors, with support and guidance provided by the senior advisory panel which consists of the previous editorial board. I would like to extend my thanks to each and every one of them. They have supported me and have been invaluable in the creation of this magazine.
I would like to thank Dr. Ted Faunce, our headmaster, for helping Scribbles to grow and thrive, Mr. Brian Mulcahy for his eternally enthusiastic supervision and guidance over nearly the entirety of this magazine’s lifetime, Ms. Jenny Lee for her publishing expertise, and Mrs. Helen Parker in the English Department and Mr. Steve Megson in the Art Department for their continued passion and support.
Our artists and writers (not necessarily all students!), amid the pandemonium of everyday school life, have worked hard to produce the fantastic work in the pages that follow. Starting with this issue, we will include a featured artist and writer in every magazine. This issue’s featured works are a series of oil paintings by Mr. Steve Megson, and Claire Chee’s short story, “Golden.” These exemplary pieces set the tone for the rest of the magazine and, indeed, for school life in general: rich, temporal, extraordi-nary.
The Chinese International School community is full of wonderfully talented and creative individuals, and I am sure that this collection of the best of their contributions will not fail to astound and inspire.
Enjoy!
Bryce LimEditor-in-Chief
Art DepartmentShirley Lau
Writing DepartmentSusan Maginn
Layout DepartmentClaron Niu
Operations ManagerAspen Wang
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Contents4. featured artist: steve megson5. writing: alexander manshel - “memory palace”
+angelina wang - “spirit”
6. art: natalie lin, ashley wong7. art: justina yam, jonathan ho, year 10 collaboration8. featured writer: claire chee - “golden”
art: anastasia salnikow9. art: man hon ding10. art: anastasia salnikow, man hon ding11. art: anastasia salnikow, nicole wong12. writing: charlene phua - “standing on a bridge”14. art: zoe suen15. writing: susan maginn - “blackberrying”
+ cynthia huang - “let us fly”
16. art: shirley lau writing: bryce lim - “strings”
17. writing: claron niu - “we love the rain”
18. writing: sasha corr - “disinfect”19. art: claire chee, yasmine lai, alison wong20. art: angelina teng, nicole wong, amelia wong21. art: kaitlin chan, shirley lau, teresa chu22. writing: vivian gu - “tai”24. art: justina yam, wilhelmina shih, josephine wong25. art: shirley lau26. writing: kendra cui - “my provincial grandmother”27. art: yasmine lai28. art: IB art collaboration, annette kim, isabella
boyne, anastasia salnikow29. art: zoe suen, audrey hioe, man hon ding30. writing: claron niu - “marbles”
+ bryce lim - “serenade of scent”+ kate brashear - “cosmos”
31. art: claron niu
Above:Frosted, Anastasia Salnokow (11GL)
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Featured Artist Oil on CanvasSteve Megson, faculty
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memory palaceby Alexander Manshel, faculty
you told me once about some ways to keepmy belongings intact and one was mnemonics.think of the chrysler building tattooed on my rib cageyou said and you’ll never forget where the park used to be.
twist the first letters of your favorite shops and novelsinto a sentence like all these ducks are soup you saidyou can do this on the train.
i got locked out the other day and couldn’t figureif my keys were just lost or a device for somethinglike my brother’s name or a recipe for good bread.
lately i rely on the memory palace.imagine your childhood dog in a cookieinside a box of cookies in your kitchen.
place your trip to paris on the hallway tableand sweep up the hallway.
hang your grandfather’s watch in the backyardnext to your grandfather.
by the time you’ve tidied up it’s night and youwant to get out for a while leave your overcoatin the closet and your umbrella by the stairs.
Spiritby Angelina Wang, 7LZ
Cars honkBabies cry
People laughLights flicker
UnsuspectinglyTime freezesWe are here
Invisible footprintsSoundlessGliding,
Look at the monsters that destroy our EarthWe are here and it is us
No one knows what it isWhere it is fromHow it got there
Or even that is was hereBut it was
And we can’t deny itThis is us
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Clockwise from left:
Untitled, Natalie Lin (8KM);
Screaming Girl, Justina Yam - Mixed Media on Paper;(11NN)
Year 10 Media Experiments;
Untitled, Jonathan Ho (12YC) - charcoal, chalk and acrylic on paper;
Untilted 1, Ashley Wong (13LS);
Untitled 2, Ashley Wong (13LS)
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Goldenby Claire Chee, 12HFFeatured Writer
Top:Niseko, Anastasia Salnokow (11GL)
Across:Mountain Rocks, Man Hon Ding (13CQ)
Eyes glinting in the golden shafts of three-o’clock sunlight, sparkling with a hint of teasing wit; hair flying behind her like a cape of fluid mahogany, whipping across her cheeks as she whirled with breathless glee; this was how I remembered her.
I knew her from the house across from where my family would summer, and as the parents chatted about “how things were”, the children would be released into the capacity of freedom, and as our feet moved and our hearts started pounding, we knew that the holiday had started.
The first summer I met her, she was barely fifteen, dewy complexion and lithe figure, beckoning us to “run faster, faster!” as she tore through the field on the way to our swimming hole with absolute fractiousness.
One night, as I was passing by her house, I could just about see two figures swathed in the shadows of her porch. Hesitant to look for long, I quickly averted my eyes and concentrated on the fascinating crunch of gravel beneath my feet. Footsteps, however, barely masked the cacophony of giggling and heavy breathing that was gradually
fading into the darkness. The next summer, her hair was
short. She explained her new “punk look” as I nodded and smiled back. Playing Chinese Whispers with the younger ones, I smelled hints of smoke and brandy on her breath, but held my tongue. Perhaps I should have noticed her hems inching upwards, or the slow descent of her neckline, but in the moment, all that mattered was her presence.
Walking back to my room, I noticed her parents in our living room, eyes wide and fingers clutching glasses of champagne. Later, I heard my mother come into my room, but only to stand in my doorway and sigh.
The following summer, everything had changed. Going swimming was “Whatever”, playing with the kids was a “Hell no” and her once engaging blue eyes seemed like glaciers of indifference. Peering at everyone from behind purple bags under her eyes, snarling when touched; this was not the same girl I’d met so long ago.
I asked her once, when she wanted to die. Turning to me, her slender hands seemed crooked and weary as
she held onto me in a tight vice-like grip. “I want to die,” she replied slowly, “when I am still beautiful enough for them to grieve.” To me, it seemed like this had already passed, but perhaps there was still beauty in her youth, or some vestiges in her clichéd decline into an adolescent stereotype.
The next morning, as I walked by our old haunt by the swimming hole, I was unsurprised to see her lifeless body hanging from the old oak tree. I stood and stared as the wind swayed her torso and whistled through her hair, almost as if prompting her to get down and laugh.
Through the howls of her parents and the tears of both families, I realized that I only remembered her in all her childish glory, and that nothing that had happened in the consequent summers would change that. Cigarette smoke could only stay for so long, but she truly was a thing of beauty, and a thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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Clockwise, from above:Shoes, Anastasia Salnikow (11GL); Hannah Duggan 5, Anastasia Salnikow (11GL);
Untitled, Nicole Wong (13LS); Hannah Duggan 4, Anastasia Salnikow (11GL); Engrossed in Music, Man Hon Ding (13CQ)
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A man in an expensive suit took a deep breath and swung his legs over the railing. First, the right, wrapped in what looked like custom tailored silk pants with a custom crocodile leather shoe to match. Then the left; similarly clad.
He had assumed it would be easy; just step off and all his troubles would be over. But now as he stood looking down into the bottomless darkness, he felt his mouth go dry.
He swallowed and slowly peeled his fingers off of the frigid metal bar. The biting temperature of the bar was bare-ly even registered as he forced his limbs to march forward. All he could manage was a tiptoe.
His arms out for balance, the sound of the current was too loud. It was the sound of cymbals and jackhammers and the screech of the office door as he exited for the last time all rolled into one.
Blood pounding like his own per-sonal funeral march in his ears, he inched closer on the slippery metal beam towards the sound of the boats and fast flowing water.
Now he was right on the very edge, tips of his shoes peeking over it. It was surprisingly windy up there and his suit, custom tailored or not, flapped about like a deranged vulture. His knuckles were white as he clung on to the pylon for dear life.
A little ironic considering what he was there to do.
Inhaling for what might be the last time, he let go and leaned forward.
“Oi! What do you think you’re do-ing?”
His heart lurched to his mouth at the unexpected sound and instinctively wrapped his arms around the pylon’s beams.
“Don’t come any closer!” he called out shakily, voice almost devoured by the wind, “I’m going to jump off this bridge.”
The bum rolled his eyes, “Is that so? And here I was thinking you were just standing there for the fun of it.”
There was a silence between them as the bum hopped over the railing and settled himself down. The man in the suit shot him a look to see if the rag-clothed old man was going to stop him, but the bum simply sat there and stared at him, taking occasional mouthfuls from a dubious looking bottle. The man in the suit swallowed. As if com-mitting suicide wasn’t difficult enough, he was going to be forced to die with an audience.
The man turned back and tried to ignore unnaturally focused stare of the bum that could have burnt a hole through his chest. He stood there, one hand still on the pylon, as he tried to work up the courage to step off.
“So are you going to do it or not?”For the second time, the arms shot
out and wrapped themselves around the pylon before the old man’s clear carrying voice sent him off the bridge unintentionally.
“Do you want me to jump?!” yelled the man in frustration.
The bum shrugged. “Kid, I just want your shoes.”
“Are you serious?” Admittedly, they were really nice shoes.
“Oh come on. It’s not like you’re go-ing to need them in the next life.”
“Fine!” snapped the man. Carefully, he let go of the metal bar and made his way to the bum. Leaning against the railing, he began unlacing the lovely crocodile leather shoes.
The bum watched him in silence, taking contented swigs of the unknown liquid in his bottle. Then…
“What’s you taking so long?” “My fingers are near damn popsicles
alright?” the man bellowed in anger.The bum glared at him, fingers
firmly stuffed in his ears. “I’m not deaf you know,” he snapped, before picking up his bottle again.
There was another silence between them as the man wrangled with his shoelaces.
“So why exactly are you up here?” asked the bum curiously.
“I’m jumping and there’s nothing you can do about it,” the man replied fiercely.
“I’m not trying to steal your thun-der. Just kinda bored,” said the scraggly bum. True enough, the bum did look extremely disinterested. “If you don’t jump I’ll have to give you your shoes back. And why would I want that?” he scoffed.
The man had to look up in shocked disbelief to check if the bum was seri-ous.
Evidently at least one of them had come to terms with the suited man’s impending death. Pity it wasn’t the right one.
“Fine,” said the said man in a defeat-ed voice. He slumped down next to the bum. Then he began to talk.
He was a lawyer. A successful career man who had came from a severely destitute home. His father an abusive drunkard and his mother a sickly, bitter woman. He had chosen a good univer-sity far from home and from the day he left home till now, he had not seen ei-ther. He didn’t even they were still alive.
Fresh out of law school he had land-ed a job at a prestigious firm and stead-ily moved up the ranks, earning pro-motion after promotion. A few years down the line, he met a girl, married her and bought a house and car.
It seemed at that point that he had everything he could ever have want-ed. But then the financial crisis came and everything went to ruins. He was sacked, he lost the car, lost the house, his wife left him, and he was paying ali-mony through his nose… even his dog had died.
“I’ve lost everything,” mourned the man quietly. He buried his face in his hands. “I just don’t have anything to
Standing on a Bridgeby Charlene Phua, 11GL
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live for anymore.”“Eh? What? Speak up kid, I can’t
hear you.” said the beggar, cupping a hand to his ear.
“I just want to die in peace you stu-pid old man!” bawled the suited fellow. “I have nothing to live for anymore. Don’t you get it?”
The bum blinked. “I don’t get it.”“Of course you don’t get it!” howled
the man, throwing his hands up in ex-asperation. “You’re a bum. What would you know?”
The bum shrugged, “At least I’m not stupid enough to chuck myself off a bridge over something that insignifi-cant.”
“Excuse me?”“You may be excused.” Then he let
out a loud belch. The lawyer, or rather ex-lawyer,
glared at him. “You know what?” he said, stuffing his shoes on again, “Screw you. I’m going to jump.” Getting up, he stalked towards the edge with more conviction than ever.
“You sure you want to jump?” called the bum.
“Yes!” shouted the young man.“What if when you break your back
when you hit the water but don’t drown fast enough and someone saves you?” asked the bum. “Then you’ll be para-lyzed and suffering but you won’t be able to commit suicide because you’ll be in a home.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever!” snapped the suited man loudly.
“Says the man killing himself over a divorce and a dead dog.” retorted the bum. Then he pursed his lips as he wondered to himself: “If you’re already this bitter just ‘cause you’re broke, how bitter will you be broke and broken?” he took a swig from the bottle and giggled. “Geddit? Broke and broken?” chortled the bum giddily.
“Of course I get it!” he snapped. “I’m a lawyer. I was a lawyer. I passed the bar. I’m nowhere near stupid thank you very much.”
The two bushy eyebrows furrowed. “But if you are that smart and that edu-cated, why are you throwing yourself off the bridge?”
“Weren’t you listening at all?” growled the suit.
“Yes. I was listening,” said the bum. “In fact,” he continued conversation-ally, “people tell me I’m a really good listener.”
“Who would talk to a beggared old man like you?” scoffed the suited man in disbelief. Sensible people did not waste time on failures like him. That was why he had to jump.
The suited man stared out to the black waters.
He had to jump. He wanted to jump. He would jump.“A lot of people talk to me,” said the
bum in a guilty voice. “But then again a lot of people come by here and a lot of them don’t talk to me. You see?”
“No. I don’t.” answered the younger man curtly, completely certain now that it was the alcohol talking. You see? Others have ignored him and you can too.
You want this. Just step off. It’s that easy, and everything will be over.
“Most of the time, I don’t get to say anything. Sometimes, they hear me, but choose not to listen. Sometimes, I get here too late.” The bum sighed rath-er placidly, “That’s when I wish I didn’t get there at all.” He raised the bottle to his lips, only to find that it was al-ready empty. It seemed to take a while for him to register, his cracked lips still latched on as he searches for that last nonexistent drop. Disappointed, the bum set the bottle down.
It was then that with a sickening feeling in his gut, the man realized what the bum was referring to.
“You know,” said the bum thought-fully, “I don’t understand why anyone would pick this bridge to end it all. The last thing you’ll see is that awful in-dustrially grey smear as you drop.” His face scrunched, turning his piercing eyes into little beads, “Why wouldn’t you pick somewhere happier, like, the most beautiful waterfall in the world or something.” Then he shrugged, “Well then, I don’t understand why anyone would waste God’s gift.”
Then he shrugged again, “But it’s
your choice ain’t it? Can’t do a thing about it if you’ve got that notion of jumping stuck in your head as firmly as my beard to my face.”
The conversation was dead; it had dwindled into a monologue. A con-stant mantra thudded along with his heartbeat.
Just step off. Just step off.“It seems so easy doesn’t it? Then
you’re actually standing at the edge and your throat’s all constricted and you find you can’t tear your eyes off the water and you can barely hear any-thing over that annoying sound in your ears…”
“Hear that? That’s your lifeblood.” Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. Just step off.Da-dum.Just step off. “Ah. What some would give to hear
that sound in their ears,” inhaled the bum, “and here you are casually throw-ing it away. Jeez kid, I wish I had your years. I could have been a lawyer.” The old man rubbed his leathery palms to-gether and slowly got to his feet. You could almost hear his joints creaking.
“Well at least you picked a nice night to jump,” said the bum dryly as he stretched. At the lack of response and dead look in the man’s eyes, he added, “That was sarcasm kid, tonight’s as cloudy as it gets.”
The younger man’s actions had be-come mechanical as his clothes flapped around him.
Da-dum.Just step off.Da-dum.Just step off. “And so the Devil gets another one,”
the old man muttered to himself, shak-ing his head as he meandered drunk-enly off. “At least this one’s a lawyer. Maybe he can talk his way out of Hell.”
Da-dum.Just step off.Da-dum.Just step off. Da-dum.The man in the expensive suit took a
deep breath and stepped off the bridge.
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Let Us Flyby Cynthia Huang, 9WH
Let us fly, let us soar upon the horizon,And feel the sun in our eyes.
Let us fly, let us experience the joy,And for the first time in our lives feel the wonder of flight.
Let us fly, let us dance upon the candy-coated clouds,And know that a magical land exists, with wonder bursting at its seams.
Let us fly, let us slide down a magical archway,And find a pot of gold waiting.
Let us fly, let us discover a land of faraway,And things that once felt impossible can be achieved.
Let us fly, let the breeze softly guide us to where we want to be,And the sufferings in the world will cease to exist.
Let us fly, let us find hope in the wasteland of crushed dreams,And know that everything will be alright.
Let us fly, let us play amongst the feathers of eaglesAnd find happiness in the simplest of things.
Let us fly, let us sleep on the wings of angelsAnd know that a better life awaits us.
Let us fly, let us escape the chaos of humankindAnd find a place where no one is afraid to hide.
Let us fly,Let us breathe the sight of our world below in golden radiance.
Blackberryingby Susan Maginn, 12FZ
Late August and blackberry pickingWith baskets brim full and smiles even fullerPlucking swollen tenderness from its stemsFingers stained with black and red bloodShirts dyed in fermented juicesThe smell of summer fadingAnd grass beginning to die.
Late August and blackberry pickingThe children and ISkirts wide as hula hoopsDancing in the open fieldNimble feet trampling on the daisiesAnd the naked leg shining in the moonlightFlyaway hairs running over our sun kissed eyesAnd blackberries tumbling down the hillInto our ovens and into our piesSitting by the creek with a book and a candleTongues lusting for the taste of thickened wineSucking on blackberries big as my thumbAnd waiting for the sweetness to turn sour.
Opposite:Untitled, Zoe Suen (12FZ)
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It was deep in an old cardboard box, deep in a corner of the cramped room in the garage. The woman of the house had started yelling; empty the box! You have to empty the box. It’s full of junk anyway. So he went to empty the box.
It was a large box. He’d forgot-ten what was in it, so he called it junk too. He opened the pair of scissors as far as they could go and sliced, with one blade, through the flaking, fad-ing masking tape that kept the box from disintegrating. He paused. He didn’t know why he paused.
Crackling as it opened, the junk emerged from inside the cardboard. Old letters, pictures, notes, a sweat-er. Bygone items from bygone times, fragments of memories long forgot-ten but not quite forgotten. No mould, but fuzzy on the edges from the dry air. He filled the envelopes he had prepared earlier with the documents
and photographs and left them aside.He swept his hand inside the box,
in search of anything that remained. A sharp sound resonated, echoing off the concrete walls. He opened the box fully and saw an old guitar preserved inside. The strings had rusted slightly at both ends, and it was painfully out of tune, but it was intact nonetheless.
The man stepped into the car and tuned the guitar like he had done dec-ades ago. His muscles repeated an ac-tion he had performed many times, searching behind the headstock, and retrieving his old pick stuck on with Blu-Tack. He placed his fingers on the frets, raised his hand to strum, and hes-itated. He didn’t know why he hesitated.
When he did eventually let his hand fall, the notes fell onto his lap and bounced around the inside of the car, and words long ago sung came as naturally as a man walking the streets
of his childhood. With his guitar in his arms, and the car’s seat cradling him, he felt the urge to drive somewhere.
He backed out of the ga-rage and the sky was a deep grey. It was an hour to sunset, and he had nowhere to go, so he drove.
His soul had been taken out of him, an invisible hand had searched it for the knob that turned back the arms of his life, and had turned, turned, turned until an unstoppable force, long ago stopped, leaped out and back into his body, pulling him inexorably back.
He knew what he was doing, but not why, and not how to stop, and then he was on top of a hill below which the harbour exploded with life. But up here, alone, the only life that exploded was an old, repressed one within him. Searching for an-other to cling onto, but finding none.
He played, played through the sun-
Strings by Bryce Lim, 12YC
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We love the rainWhen it fills our shoesWhen it falls like curtains on the seaWhen everything feels fertile and humid
I love the rainWhen it washes down my windowWhen the tracks race each other over the carsWhen the raindrops ripple and beat on the street
The rain isUbiquitous, always sultryDark, kindbut Deadly.but when rain clearsThe sky is ringing and lucidAnd the air is crisp with lights..
set, through the deepening sky, the coming of night, the quickening of the wind blowing old scents into his head and heart. A ballad to the first blos-som of an eternal spring, a blossom that never died, a blossom once deep red but now white, still tangible, still there in essence, but never the same.
Back in the car. Driving home. You missed dinner. I know. She didn’t ask where he had been. It wasn’t important. He put the guitar back in the box, back in the corner of the room in the garage, back to be rediscovered again one day.
Above: Transfigure by Shirley Lau (11UQ)
We Love the Rain by Claron Niu, 12HF
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I. Tide SwellShe hated waking up with a hango-
ver. It had been an unbelievably stupid idea to drink, when she knew that there was an early meeting today. The pound-ing in her head was a dull background thud, a constant pressure on her skull, reminding her of her lack of self con-trol.
She pulled herself out of her pain-ful stupor, easing her body slowly out of her tangle of sheets. The side of her cheek met the caress of the soft carpet, the champagne fibres tangling with her hair.
She slogged into her shower, the dull pain of her headache rendering her in-capable of noticing the ice water putter-ing out of the showerhead. She barely dried herself, her wet mat of hair drip-ping over her silk blouse, and sticking to her pale back. She could not bring herself to care. Downing a handful of aspirin, she grabbed her sacred Black-berry from the charger and her notes from the kitchen island. Her briefcase in one hand and her sensible pumps in the other, she ran down the gray tar, which teared the toes of her nylon stockings.
She could have woken up thirty minutes later and taken an expressway but she preferred to take the ferry.
“In later news, one woman has jumped off the pier and into the water. Only-”
She was early. She put her briefcase down by the railing and stripped off her shoes and stockings, letting the spray of ocean water lightly kiss her naked feet.
The water was choppy today.She loved water. The way the light
refracted off even the most mundane object; a pen; an old, worn boot, even the tiniest smidgen of seaweed was given its own magical glow. She loved the way it made her drift and float, but also pushed against her muscles, forc-ing them to move.
A larger wave hit the side of the pier, spraying up onto the railing and over her.
When it ebbed, it took her with it.
II. Tide Ebb“Through the courageous actions of-”She lived in the Shadow.She felt suspended in a constant
flurry of motion. Everyday her ferry coasted by the lives of workers she would never meet or know. Their smil-ing faces and fitted suits were a picture so clean and pure to her that she felt like a foreigner looking in on a city that she did not live in. She did not really live in the Cloud.
This city she did not belong to was so processed, sugar coated, warped and twisted that not a single person on the planet could see it for what it really was. Compared to the disgustingly poor and tired characters that resided in the Shadow, those rich enough to live in the Cloud were perfect; eccentric, always funny, beautiful and never had any faults. Those who lived in the Cloud did not step onto the earth, for risk of breaking their little fantasy world where life was perpetually utopian.
The grime of the Shadow was at-tached to the plebeians like her; those who did not move in social standing, either way. She was eternally stuck in a sinking peat bog that was slowly suck-ing her in.
“- the captain, she was rescued and taken-”
The steady beep of the machines documented her life.
She didn’t open her eyes for a few moments, but finally succumbed to her overwhelming curiosity. She was in the hospital. Of course. The nurse left, per-haps to get a doctor.
She wondered if she’d stay the night. Anything was better than the sinkhole she called home, with its shingles in shambles and crumbling floorboards.
Its monochromatic colour scheme cre-ated aches and pains and sapped her last dregs of energy.
“-to the paramedics waiting on shore , waiting to take her to-”
The old apartment block’s elevator was too slow. It was covered in dust and cobwebs, as she and the building’s three other inhabitants hadn’t used it in years.
She took the rickety excuse for stairs, keeping to the edges. The frayed carpet runner had been sun bleached and worn to the wood, over years of use. She had sat down once, drunk, and had tried to trace the now indiscernible pattern of the carpet.
The flaking brass-coloured lock turned after a few tries and the door swung open. She hung her jacket on the hook, kicked her pumps off at the door, and quickly stripped, falling asleep swathed in threadbare blankets on her lumpy mattress, her mind broken once more.
“-hospital. Her condition is now sta-ble.”
Opposite, clockwise from top left:
Untitled, Claire Chee (12HF);Mildly Ill, Yasmine Lai (11UQ);Untitled, Alison Wong (9WH)
Disinfectby Sasha Corr, 10XA
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Clockwise, from top-left:
Untitled, Angelina Teng (13LS);Untitled, Nicole Wong (13LS);Untitled, Teresa Chu (12HF);Untitled, Shirley Lau (11UQ);Sad Geisha, Kaitlin Chan (13HK);Untitled, Amelia Wong (11UQ)
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I.In the lush green valley of Xiling
Gorge, Hubei, Shennong, the legend-ary herbalist, was in the middle of a meeting with two very important gods.
He stated simply, “This valley holds all the medicinal herbs known to man. If every herb outside this place died, it would not matter, for the herbs in this valley is sufficient. If the people de-stroy the land with farming, mining, or hunting, then the whole ecosystem would collapse.”
The Earth goddess nodded slowly, and snapped her fingers. Suddenly, there was a tremendous rumbling, as if the whole world was splitting in two, and three huge mountains erupted around the valley, sealing it off. The Earth goddess said, “That will keep them out as long as they don’t use the river.”
The River god stood lazily from his oyster chair, smoothing his wa-tery robes. “But what if they can’t get in at all? That would be a disaster,” he argued. The River god always argued with the Earth goddess.
Shennong agreed. “That is why we’ll create a gateway. The secret of how to pass will be passed down by my de-scendants, and they shall be the gate-keepers of the valley.”
The River god smiled, and used a finger to stir the river in a complicated pattern. When he pulled his finger out, currents marked the path his finger had drawn, and he pulled a large, sharp rock from the ground and placed it in the river. Glancing up at Shennong, who had a knowing smile on his face, the River god knew that there was no need for explanation.
II.Long was the eighteenth descend-
ant of Shennong, and naturally, he was also the gatekeeper of the Shennong Valley. Only he knew how to get in and nobody else was allowed inside. Every week he picked herbs, made medicine and sold it in the village market. This was how Long earned a living, and he had become one of the wealthiest men in Hubei.
But there was one major problem.
Long had no family, no children, and no one to share his secret with. The vil-lage had long forgotten their medicinal history, and the only supply came from the valley where Long picked his pre-cious herbs. He was now an old man, and when he died, the secret died with him.
Plenty of people had tried to whee-dle the secret out of Long, but not a single person had succeeded. Long was a stubborn, loyal believer in the gods. He knew it was his duty to protect the valley from people who would hurt it.
III.Tai decided to go fishing that day. The sun was burning hot on the top
of his head, but the water in the Yang-tze was refreshingly cool. Tai took his only possessions; a net he had woven from waterweed, and his father’s silver knife. Sandals squelching with every step as he walked slowly into the shal-low edges of the river, he threw the net with practiced expertise.
Then the orphan street boy climbed back out of the river and sat patiently, his sensitive ears straining to hear the sound of a fish struggling, eyes open wide to the slightest disturbance in the ripples of the water. It was not long before Tai heard the sound he’d been waiting for, so he leapt back into the river to rein in his net.
He could tell that the fish was large, and that it was very strong, as it pulled him a couple of meters into the river before he grabbed it by the tail, acci-dentally shaking the net free. The fish swum rapidly, struggling, thrashing a strong tail, to stay under the surface, and Tai, unwilling to loosen his hold on his dinner, was dragged even farther along- straight towards the entrance of the Shennong valley, where the cur-rents ruled. An alarm bell inside Tai’s head blared danger, and Tai, having just realised what kind of trouble he had got himself into, knew that it was already far too late to try and let go of the bucking fish and swim out of the current. He wrapped an arm around it, and with a spark of crazy inspiration, pulled himself onto its back, holding tightly to the fin in desperation. What a
strange fin it was, too, Tai thought curi-ously, not scaly or floppy like a normal fish’s fin.
What was this creature? It had smooth, muscular skin that was a soft, pearly gray and a long, thin snout. The tail was the shape of a crescent moon thrashed up and down instead of side-ways. He was a little scared of this strange creature, but there was noth-ing else to be done. The current carried them straight toward the rock in the middle of the entrance to the valley. Tai imagined his brains dashed out by the rock, and closed his eyes in fear, when suddenly the current made a violent twist, and Tai and the fishy beast were swept past the rock and into the valley.
The creature slowed down a lit-tle and steadily pumped its tail up and down, carrying Tai deeper down the now slow-flowing river. Colours as vibrant as the New Year fireworks splashed starbursts across his vision. He heard the musical chatter of birds and smelled the exotic perfume of flowers. This seemed so different from the bustling village, where the only wildlife was some trampled daisies, Tai thought, amazed.
“Oi!” The sudden angry shout startled
him. He looked up nervously and an old man snagged his wrist with an iron grip and dragged him out of the water.
Tai knew from the talk in the village that this was Long, the gatekeeper.
He whispered, “Thank you, Mr. Long, for saving me.”
“Mr. Long?” the old man laughed, “It’s just Long, boy. What are you doing here, with a Yangtze river dolphin, of all creatures?”
“I’m an orphan,” Tai explained, “I have no parents, and I live in the forest. I was just trying to catch some fish for dinner. I didn’t know it was a dolphin, I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“Well, no use staying here. Get of the dolphin then, and let it go. You can come and have dinner with me tonight, I suppose.” Long said gruffly, taking a shine to this polite child.
Tai obediently slid off the back of the dolphin and patted her gently on the fin. “Thanks… Pearl.” He whispered,
Tai by Vivian Gu, 8AM
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pleased with the name had made up. Pearl poked him gently with her snout and slowly swam off into the distance.
“She likes you.” Long smiled, as the unlikely pair made their way to Long’s cottage house. It was small and cozy and had four rooms and a thatched roof. Tai thought it was rather a waste that one lonely old man lived in a cot-tage house with four empty rooms.
Tai changed into dry clothes only a little too large for him and sat cross-legged in front of a small fireplace as his hair dried. He told Long truthfully about his orphan life, and taking pity on Tai, Long decided that he would take the boy in and train him as an ap-prentice.
It felt good to have a family, Tai thought, not knowing that Long shared the exact same sentiment.
Long was an herbalist. He knew every kind of herb, and every kind of poison, medicine, and how to make them. He knew what plants cats could not resist and which gave you a short boost of energy. Tai was so grateful to have a wonderful teacher and a glim-mer of a promising future that he worked twice as hard and tried his best to learn puzzling herb-lore and begin-ner’s medicine making.
All this made the pair closer than ever. Long took him on excursions to the valley to pick herbs, observe the animals and simply admire the beauti-ful scenery. In just a matter of months, Tai knew the names of all the flora and fauna that they encountered. Perhaps the best part of these trips was that Pearl always seemed to know when they arrived, and always swum out to greet them. Tai always jumped in and splashed around happily with the dol-phin, and they swam around chasing fish together.
It seemed that their happiness would never end.
IV.But then one day, Long became ex-
tremely sick. He was going to die. He lay in bed all day with a high fever and unquenchable thirst.
All of these years, Long had never revealed the secret of entering the val-ley, and had always steered the boat himself. Though Tai had protested many a years, Long had always stood firm in his decision. Now, upon his deathbed, Long knew that it was finally time. Taking a deep breath, he stared solemnly into his apprentice’s eyes.
“Tai, it is important that you lis-ten very carefully. I can sense that my time has come, and you must take on the role of the gatekeeper. Remember above everything your fidelity to the Gods.” He paused, grasping onto the bed railings and coughing violently.
“I will,” Tai promised, “Take your time to explain. I know it must be dif-ficult to reveal everything now after so long.”
The old man smiled feebly, and con-tinued, “You must go straight towards the rock. Do not waver. The current will carry you safely into the valley at the last second before hitting the rock. If you try to turn, you will capsize, and the currents will drown you.”
Tai nodded in understanding, and the old man gasped his final breath of air before sinking into the bed with a blissful expression on his weary face. Tai wiped the tears from his eyes, and sat beside the old man as his spirit flew to the ninth heaven to join the gods in afterlife.
V.And so there was nothing for Tai to
do but to try and follow Long’s advice. He gathered the herbs, and sold them to the village folk, and carried on the task handed down for generations after generations.
Yet, there was always a nagging feel-ing of guilt. Tai felt uncomfortable that he was in effect hoarding the herbs for himself, and selling them to the village folk who required these basic necessi-ties, whilst earning a profit doing so. He felt that it was unfair that only he was able to enter the paradisiacal val-ley and see the beautiful landscapes and pick the herbs. Tai knew that there ought to be another way, a better way.
If anyone was let into the valley, Tai realised, it would quickly be de-stroyed. The people would trample in, ruin the peace, and pluck all of the herbs. Tai felt a knife pierce his heart at the thought of any harm coming to Pearl, and all the other animals he had grown to know and love. It was wrong to keep this place secret, and if he had children, he wouldn’t be able to bear it if the weighty responsibility was passed on to them. They had a right to choose their own future. On the other hand, if he told everyone, then there was no doubt that they would completely de-molish the valley and start farming, mining, drilling, chopping, killing, burning… People had a hundred ways
to destroy things; people had the nasty habit of destroying anything of beauty, Tai thought angrily. It was too precious a place to place in the hands of just any-one.
Then – that was it! Tai had an epiph-any. He would find a method to ensure that all of the greedy or spoilt would not be allowed access to the valley, whilst all of the pure hearted and gen-erous would be allowed to enter and roam the valley freely.
Using his silver knife, Tai carved three large characters onto the rock. Satisfied with his work, Tai patted Pearl one last time, announced farewells to the village folk, and departed the cot-tage house that had become his home.
“I hope that I have done you proud,” he whispered to the grave of his old mentor, “I hope that you shall consider this true loyalty to the Gods, as I in-deed do.”
VI.In 1900, a foreign boat arrived at
the little village on the Yangtze, greedy for the treasures in the legendary Shen-nong valley. However, what they did not expect was for their path to be blocked by a shoal, crisscrossed with strange and dangerous currents. Bam-boozled by the words ‘Come to me’ that were inscribed on the rock in the centre of the shoal, it seemed that they were fated by the gods not to pass. In a terrible show of hubris, however, the foreigners attempted to maneuver by the jagged stone, by employing a local Chinese helmsman to steer the ship. The Chinese man, experienced as he was, aimed the boat directly in the path of the rock, knowing that this was the only way to enter the valley. The cap-tain, nonetheless, was ignorant, and seeing the rock loom ahead before them, tried in desperation to steer the boat around the rock rather than to-wards it.
The currents smashed them vi-ciously against the stone, crumpling the ship at once into tatters of wreck-age. Because of this accident, shipping channels in the three gorges section of the Yangtze were stopped for nine years. The wreckage of their boat is still in plain view; a clear sign of the fury and might of the gods.
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Clockwise, from opposite:Reverie, Shirley Lau (11UQ); Untitled, Josephine Wong (12FZ);
Untitled, Justina Yam (11NN);Noir Angels, Wilhelmina Shih (10SY)
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There could never be two more dis-connected strangers; my grandmother and I. We were never close or intimate, and although my grandmother took care of me for two years during my in-fancy, I never saw her much after that. The occasional meetings that took place every two years often lasted just a week or two, and these took place in the dry landscape of northern China. These were the compulsory Chinese New Year gatherings; the annual tra-dition of rapid dumpling-eating in the unsympathetic winter cold and chilly breeze.
Since then, my grandmother has moved to California, and so these compulsory meetings no longer be-came a frequent occurrence; rather, I rarely recall assembling together as a whole family unit and talk of visiting my grandmother became increasingly sparse over the years.
Roughly three months ago, my grandmother came to stay over at our apartment, and this is the last distinct memory I have her. Her flight had ar-rived late at night, so it was well past midnight when she arrived, accompa-nied from the airport by my parents. I was still awake, watching a movie in the darkness of my room, but as I soon as I heard her voice, I quickly slammed the laptop lid shut, threw the covers over my head, and, wanting to avoid an awk-ward greeting, pretended to be sound asleep.
However, the awkward greeting seemed inevitable as we both had to sit down for breakfast the next morning. I had expected her show some signs of ageing, but upon inspection, her hair was still youthfully dark and her faced permanently tanned. Wrinkles criss-crossed her cheeks and forehead, as if an amateur cartographer had tried to map the streets of Paris onto her face. There was a familiar aura of strength and life about her—not joie de vivre—
but vitality; the vitality of one that lives a simple life and enjoys it to the hilt.
“Lucille, my darling, how nice to see you again!” With strong, broad arms, she pulled me into a crushing hug.
“Look Lucy, at all the presents that I got you!”— And waddling over to two huge suitcases, she pulled out sacks of flour, buns and various other Chinese snacks. “This is the best flour you can find anywhere, from China, of course! And these buns, oh delicious, you just have to try one right now!”
Pushing away her large, round hands and the equally large and round bun she had shoved in my face, I tried my best to explain that I was on a diet. Besides, I had never liked the choking sweetness of these traditional Chinese snacks.
“Diet? What diet? Girls like you shouldn’t be on diets! Why, you must eat more, how else will you grow tall and strong?”
I did not reply, but stood dumbly like a lamppost, waiting for something to happen to break the stifling silence that had ensued.
Thud! It was this that signified my mother’s entrance—she had nearly tripped over one of the huge sacks of flour, and now stood scowling at the scattered bags that lay haphazardly around the floor.
“Why did you bring all this food again?” my mother sighed. “We still have all that you brought last time, and it’s just going to go to waste. You know Lucy doesn’t like to eat these kinds of things, and—”
“Not like to eat these things? All girls like these snacks. Isn’t that true, Lucy?” my grandmother retorted, prodding me furiously.
I responded with a glare and pursed lips of muted disapproval.
“Oh, fine, alright. If you don’t want them, then I won’t bring anything next time.”
This was how my grandmother and I communicated over the next few days; overly exuberant questions matched with silent stares and one worded an-swers.
Oftentimes, I would actively try my best to avoid her. I would either lock myself in my room with work, or dis-appear with friends outside, whilst my mother would take my grandmother out and around the city. Occasionally, I felt pangs of guilt and regret that I had failed in my duty as a host and grand-daughter, but how could a woman who had grown up in rural 1940s China un-derstand the intricacies of dining out, the beauty of urban life and architec-ture, or the value in museum exhibits? There was an unbridgeable gap between our two worlds.
During her stay, I also won two tick-ets to a ballet performance, and, out of politeness, offered to take my grand-mother to the show with me. I felt that my duty thus had been done, but my mother, fearing for my sake, pulled me aside and whispered, “Do you think your grandmother will be able to sit through a ballet show and appreciate it? It’s no problem when I go with you, but your grandmother grew up in an environment completely deprived of any artistic appreciation. Perhaps you should take your father instead.”
And so I did; my father and I en-joyed a great night out, and my grand-mother remained at home.
The last night of my grandmother’s stay, we decided to eat out—just the three females in the family: me, my mother and her mother. I expressed a wish to eat sushi, and whilst we waited for seating, my grandmother sauntered off to explore the mall.
Well, we didn’t have to wait long, and soon we were seated, waiting im-patiently for my grandmother to return
My Provincial Grandmotherby Kendra Cui, 12YC
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from her stroll in the mall. It was cus-tom not to begin ordering until every-one had arrived, but my stomach soon began to grumble with hunger and my chest bottled up with annoyance.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, my mother declared that we would order and eat without her. I chose my favorite dishes, my mother and I engaged in a debate about wasabi, miso soup, and the various sushi combinations that we had ordered.
The meal was pleasant, and the food delicious; the night seemed perfect un-til my grandmother decided to show up. Not only was she well over half an hour late, she was holding three gigan-tic ice cream sundaes from another store. Didn’t she know that it wasn’t re-spectful to carry bring from other res-taurants? My cheeks burned with con-demnation and shame.
“Wow, I’m beat! Here, have an ice cream! One for each of us.” Her cheer-ful, nonchalant face as she attempted to hand out the ice creams proved to be the final straw for me.
I could no longer stand her simple, unsophisticated mindset and behav-ior, her rudeness, and all the bottled up snobbery that I had tried to contain finally exploded, “Ice cream, in here! You do realise that the air conditioner is absolutely freezing! It’s also incred-ibly rude to bring food in from other
restaurants! Oh, I could die of embar-rassment—”
My mother pushed the ice cream away tiredly and said, “Let’s eat. We’ve already been waiting for you for half an hour.”
The rest of the meal progressed with my withering stare upon my grand-mother’s ignorant face as she munched, flecks of rice and soy sauce scattering the table.
That night, when we were at home and out of earshot, my mother pulled me aside harshly. Her expression was inscrutable, but her words were firm.
“It was absolutely unacceptable for you to treat your grandmother like that today. Although I agree that she shouldn’t have been late, and that she should not have bought the ice cream, you were the most embarrassing spec-tacle of the place that night. She can’t help it; she has never had the education that you’ve had the pleasure to enjoy. Whereas you, with all your schooling, should know better than to yell at your grandmother in public. How would you feel if your grandchildren had yelled like that to you, when you only wanted the best for them?”
As I looked into my mother’s un-happy eyes, a wave of guilt surged up inside me, and I realised then in the moment of panic that I had behaved
ten times worse than my grandmother had that night.
Looking in my mother’s eyes, I saw the eyes that belonged to the person whom I loved most tenderly, I imag-ined my children shouting at her in public and understood then, the inner turmoil that my mother had been going through. For my mother’s sake, I prom-ised myself to try and treat my grand-mother nicely.
In the wake of Typhoon Vincente, we sent my grandmother off to the se-curity checkpoint at the airport. As we said our last goodbyes, I found myself in a tight embrace with my grandmoth-er. It was neither intimate, but nor was it awkward. As I watched her waddle off to the checkpoint, two suitcases in hand, a myriad of emotions rose within me and my eyes filled with the tears that did not spill over.
Above:Hands, Yasmine Lai (11UQ);
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Clockwise, from top-left:IB Art collaborative painting;Untitled, Annette Kim (9TB); Untitled, Zoe Suen (12FZ); Untitled, Audrey Hioe (12HF);
Fight for Survival, Man Hon Ding (13CQ);Untitled, Isabella Boyne (8CS); Flying, Anastasia Salnikow (11GL)
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Serenade of Scentby Bryce Lim, 12YC
Some days in spring far from that placeThe breeze brings forth a sweet old scent
It shimmers lightly, leaves a traceOf beauty not given but lent
A door to old worlds and times pastFloating in and out of my head
To moments that flew by too fastThat left but nothing in their stead
Sometimes in it I smell the seaSometimes the wind caressing her
Sometimes my old peppermint treeSometimes her breath’s gentle whisper
But often I smell false storiesEternal blossoms, seas of wine
Another world where fate agreesTo let her world be part of mine
Marblesby Claron Niu, 12HF
I. The world in my palm
Perfect and clearI closed my eyes
Dissolved.
Grains trickled down my wristsGolden sands of powder
From the bottom of my knees,Like water
And oilBlurring.
Lines merged and coalescedWith shapes and light
Pooling togetherAnd for eternity
I held the world in my palm.
II. When the jewels
Had trickled to a dropAnd apathy inside a sphere
Had contained flickers of lightThere was an explosion
InsideOutside
And withinAnd time stopped, for a while.
No sultry life but always Illuminated and bright
Suddenly everything fadedInto grey
And it came to the deathOf the mastermind.
III. The death of a madman
Is sad.He lives a macabre life
Twirling in the shadows Evil of modernity
But even in hisHeart of expansion There flits a reality
Of beauty and truthLike marbles in the sand
And that is all that matters.
Cosmosby Kate Brashear, 12XN
I have been touched by starlightAnd had the Cosmos fill my soul
Been burned by the light of distant sunsAnd chilled by the wastes of space
And though I love this world so dearThis blue-green orb, this shining sphereStill flight throbs strongest in my veins
To leave its skin and fly beyondTo stand in the universe and taste Eternity.
Opposite:Cathedral, Claron Niu (11UQ)Charcoal and acrylic on paper
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ArtBen Chan
Jessica ChanKaitlin ChanClaire CheeTeresa Chu
Man Hon DingAnna Ginsburg
Audrey HioeJonathan Ho
Sabrina HoongCynthia Huang
Ciara JacobKieran KeilthyAnnette KimAndrew Koo
Stephanie LauYasmine LaiShirley Lau
Jane LeeMing Yan Lee
Natalie LinSteve Megson Josephine NgClaron Niu
Charlene PhuaFiona Rennie
Anastasia SalnikowWilhemina Shih
Zoe SuenAlison WongAmelia WongAshley WongJustina YamAngela Yang
Writing Kate BrashearClaire Chee
Leanne CheeSamantha Chong
Sasha CorrKendra CuiVivian Gu
Kameka HerbstCynthia Huang
May HuangMiyeon Kim
Jae LambYanna Lee
Bryce LimSusan Maginn
Alexander ManshelSheeren MaoStephanie NgClaron Niu
Charlene PhuaAngelina Wang
Editorial BoardShirley LauBryce Lim
Susan MaginnClaron Niu
Aspen Wang
Senior Advisory PanelJustin ChengYoon-Ji HanKenneth Lee
Tommy LiJade MallaboneYeung Bok Wai
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Printed on 100% recycled paper
