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Washington High School Literary MagazineFall 2011

TABLE OF

CONTENTS

Arianna Mahan

Epitome of PainProse

S.C. Lynch

EnchantedFiction

Alice Pham

SilhouettePhotography

Vox Poppuli

ImminentPoetry

Anjali Suthar

A Tribute To FriendshipPoetry

Rae RedI’m Just Another Chemical Kid, Minus the Mechanical LimbsPoetry

Matt Nowzari

Zephyr Cove BridgePhotography

Editor-in-Chief: Amelia Chu │ Layout Editor: Kenneth Chang

Aethestic Advisor: Tamsin Kennedy│ Cover Design: Amelia Chu

Special Thanks to: Teri Hu, our Club Advisor

Designed using Windows Vista/7 Photoshop CS5.5, Indesign CS4/5.5

Printed by: mBrosia

Janet Liang

StorytalePoetry

Audrey Doan

Into the Depths of HellDigital Art

PonyDan

Welcome to the HerdDigital Art

Austin Miller

Growing UpCeramics

Hannah Eugester

Black and WhitePhotography

Alice Pham

The DescentPhotography

Brick Wahl

One Hour SouthFiction

Dominique Dizon

The Power of PowerEssay

Amelia Chu

Lighthouse to the SkyFiction

Meilin Liang

Mathematics in A Beautiful MindReview

Amelia Chu

Eye to the FuturePhotography

Stephanie Zee

Walking AwayArt

Kenneth Chang

The Black DotFiction

Matt Nowzari

WildfirePhotography

Matt Nowzari

Lonely PineconePhotography

│14

│1 │3 │4

│5 │6 │8

│9 │9 │10 │11

│14│12

│15 │17

│18 │18 │19

│20

│20

│20 │21

Enchanted

As the steady rumble of the engine was cut short, the dripping on the roof of the car became more pronounced, as did James’ scowl. He sat in the car for a minute, watching as beads of water raced down the windshield, joining with each other to form miniature rivers and streams. They disappeared off the bottom, but were quickly replaced with more, as the steady rain became a steady downpour. All of ten years old, James glared at the rain from the front seat. With a sigh, he put on his baseball hat and slammed the door shut, jogging into the house. He threw his cleats and hat into his room angrily; it was the championship game. Who ever heard of a thunderstorm in the middle of August? The weather reporters and scientists were in a panic over the sudden storm; words like global warming were being tossed around, but to James, all it meant was that he didn’t get to play baseball today. Too annoyed to bother with finding the remote, he plopped on the couch and glared out of the window at the rain. James mildly noticed that the gutters were packed with leaves, and a small flood was creeping its way up the street. Still fuming over the cancellation, a dot of red caught his eye across the street. It was that old lady, who had to have been at least ninety, and

who never talked to anybody and only left her house to walk around the garden. Her red flannel dress was long, like a nightgown, and beneath it her feet were bare. James frowned; the old lady really was crazy. He’d never talked to her, but she’d yelled at him in some different language when he had stepped on her grass one time. He watched as she started to spin around, dancing as her silver hair became heavy with moisture. She was oddly nimble for somebody who should

S.C. Lynch

“...it felt like her life was being given

to her again, drop by drop in the

downpour”

be in a nursing home, James thought, and the more he watched, the more elaborate her dance became. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and James frowned at the woman in her nightgown. Surely that couldn’t be healthy for somebody that old. Then again, the old lady was crazy. The first peal of thunder broke the sky, and she stood, watching in wonder as the water bounced off the pavement. It was all familiar, all too familiar. It hadn’t rained like this in nearly a hundred years, and she would know, because today was her hundreth

“she now knew, staring at the rain, that it would all be

over...”

birthday. Today was the day, she now knew, staring at the rain, that it would all be over. As a human, she was as healthy as it got, her hundred years only showing in the lines on her face and the sliver of her hair, but she was not a human, and she could only live on earth for one hundred years. She passed the mirror in the hallway of the ancient house, but she didn’t stop to look. Vanity was one of the many vices she had long ago done away with, and the sliver that had taken over her hair no longer gave her pause. She could feel it now, the ache in her bones and the pounding in her heart. The sweet smell of Enchantè was in the air, a smell so pressed from her mind by the stench of the city that it was a moment before she even recognized the delicious scent of magic. Along her back, dormant muscles were finding their livelihood, for they too recognized the magic and were waking to it. The feel of it was indescribable; a century of sleep, and finally she was to be awake. The first drops of rain that touched her splashed against her hair, and it felt like her life was being given to her again, drop by drop in the downpour. Overwhelmed by the sensation of Enchantian senses after murky human sight, her feet remembered the court dance and they beat it out in spectacular rhythm. The driveway before her was a vast expanse

1

“The little girl stared in wonder as fairies flew from the nearby woods to bestow the

Queen’s scarlet crown on her head”

of gray pavement, but she was too preoccupied with the sky. Arms spread wide to welcome the rain, she spun like a gleeful child. Her hair, soaked with watery magic, whipped behind her. Steadily, the gray melted, dripping away with the water, a rich, luxurious brunette with bouncing curls in its place. As the drops fell down her face like an onslaught of tears, they smoothed the lines and returned the shimmering glow of youth. Her dress swirled around her, and the plaid flannel faded away, replaced with delicate, shimmering scarlet satin and tulle. Her dress matched her lips, bright red amidst a world of gray. Finally, the rain brought out her wings. More delicate than her dress, and in shades of violent red, soft orange, magenta, and, if you looked at them just right, iridescent purple, her wings unfolded in a ripple of fiery color. Her body was light and sparking with Magic, and the rain, having done its work, no longer touched the Enchantain Queen. Another rumble of thunder brought with it a flash of lightning that split the sky, and in gentle strokes she swirled upward into the black clouds. Another streak of lighting ripped a jagged line, and she flew eagerly to it. Through the hole she saw the bright Enchanté sun, and her soft slippers landed on the meadow grass of her land. Now, after a century of imprisonment, she was home. James watched the old lady dance in the driveway, and a shock of lightning lit up the sky. She had a smile on her face, and he wondered if she had ever smiled before. Her hair was soaking wet, and for a second it looked darker, brown. Another flash of lightning, closer this time. There was something odd about the way the old woman danced, something surreal. Her skin was shooting off sparks, raining glitter on the ground before it was swept away by the rain. This time, the lightning struck and it held. The

flash that was only barely longer than the others, but it illuminated the old lady for about a half-second. James looked at her, eyes wide, because the woman wasn’t old. A beautiful girl, no older than twenty, with a petite frame in a bright red dress, was standing there, perfectly dry. Her lips were a shock of color on her face, her hair a rippling and curling chocolate waterfall, cascading down her back. Then the world was dark again, and the driveway was empty. The old woman was gone, and so was the beautiful girl. James rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe the image the lighting had burned into them away. He was probably going crazy; he had to be, because from the back of the girl had sprouted stunning red wings. No, the lightning was messing with his sight, and his life was busy enough without witches and beautiful fairies. The rain was receding, now just a light drizzle gently hovering over the ground, and James tossed his ball in the air a few times. The sun came out suddenly, reflecting off the soaking pavement. He looked back at the empty driveway, wondering what became of the beautiful girl. After looking speculatively at the glistening asphalt for a moment, he shrugged, went to the phone and called Tommy, asking if he wanted to play catch now that the rain had mostly stopped. Magic was thick in the air; she could feel its gentle weight as she took in the scene of her sun pressing toward the dark horizon. The Magic welcomed her, sparks of eager enchantments kissing her skin and darting away like naughty children. She sensed a presence nearby, and turned to see a tiny girl, maybe four years old.“Lady Queen,” she said, her voice quiet as she stared resolutely at the ground, “Lady Queen. I’ve got… I’ve got…”“Yes? What is it?” She asked, kneeling down to be level

2

with the child. The little girl pulled something from behind her back, a small stick. “Queen Charlotte, I’ve got…” The girl tried again, this time with a brave attempt at her name, but there was no need. Queen Charlotte took the small stick in both hands reverently, gazing at it with wonder. As it rested on her dainty fingers, the sparks in the air flew towards it, like moths to flame. As each one briefly kissed the wood, it got larger and larger, until it reached its full size. The little girl stared in wonder as fairies flew from

the nearby woods to bestow the Queen’s scarlet crown on her head, and she watched as Queen Charlotte stood to her full height, staff in hand and her crown resting on her brow, silhouetted against the setting sun. For an instant, her figure was dark against the sunlight, then the moon threw itself into the sky to greet her Queen, silver beams lighting up her wings, and the luminescence of the scarlet cast a vermilion glow on the child’s face.

The Enchantress Queen had returned.

Medium Used: Canon EOS 60D, 50mm f/4.0 lens

Black and WhiteHannah Eugster

3

Just two more years, you’d think we could do it

But the truth is there’s a lot more to it

Yea, people say our generation is useless

But not all of our problems can be deemed stupid

Some people really hurt, and we all know pain

Some of us are screwed over, and kicked when we’re down

We can’t even stand straight

I’ve been told that the world rests in the palm of my hands

I may be foolish but I believe it

Maybe there are some things my generation doesn’t understand

But are we the only ones?

Pretty soon we’ll all be gone and going our own ways

And pretty soon we’ll be new people

No one can stay the same

We’re all bound for change

But sometimes you can’t just future trip

And at the same time, who wants to be in the here and now?

The present can be really idiotic

And we’re too young to know what the world is all about

I don’t know about you but I’ve never road on a plane

I’ve never had a long relationship, I’ve never been out

ImminentVox Populi

of this state

I haven’t driven a car or tasted alcohol

I haven’t taken the SAT’s or had a job

And I’m more than eager to try it all

I’m more than eager to get to the top

Like the Red Hot Chili Peppers said, I’ll get to the moon if I have to crawl

You better believe I could never stop

But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to try

When it’s this hard to walk

I’m being weighed down by a lot of things

Things like relationships, stress, and gossip

Things like pot, vodka, and a lot of other stupid shit

Then there’s the problem with my self esteem

People tell me I’m beautiful but sometimes that’s some-thing I can’t see

You can tell a blind man it’s a beautiful day

But he can’t magically be cured by the words you say

So all these things just drag me down

My ankles might as well be turned to ash

And you know the thing that truly pushes me past it all?

I promised myself I couldn’t commit suicide until I graduated high school

I made that promise when I was probably fourteen

And do you know what’s the most beautiful thing?

Here I am two years later and I have no need

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Medium Used: Canon A-1, Canon FD 35-70mm f/3.5-4.5 lens, Kodak Gold 200 film

The DescentAlice Pham

To end my life, that’d be a waste

I’m too young to die

I’m so close to the finish line

I can taste that diploma

And even through the tears in my eyes

if you look deeper..

You’ll see that glimmer of lingering hope

And that hope will grow

I’ll water it every day

I’ll never shut up, even if no one wants to hear what I say

I’ll push it out through my mouth and not through my skin

I’ll speak out instead of cut

Because my immaturity and laziness has gotten paper thin

I say that because, for me, cutting is lazy

It’s the impulsive and mindless way out

And afterwards I find the pain will still phase me

It used to work for me but I’m growin’ up now

Don’t care how long it might take

The world is in the palm of my hand

I’m young enough to say I want it all

And when I said it before I meant it:

I’ll get to the moon if I have to crawl.

5

Brick Wahl

One Hour South

Rochester Road is practically the only street in the whole town of Lakeville, and around this time of year it’s full of every family in the general vicinity, maybe even every family in Michigan. The streets are lined with corpulent men dressed in vibrant lobster-red who think people trust them with their children, and ebony streetlamps that are all united by bright flashing garlands and scarlet ribbons. There is an excess population of idiots lobbing snowballs at one another, and tone-deaf howler monkeys attempting to carol. Everyone is enjoying the winter wonderland. Personally, I’ve grown to detest the holidays. Holidays have this unwritten statute that the entire family tree ought to be at the same location, all at the same time. For the Amherst and Quallop families, my families, the whole process is virtually unbearable. There was a time we were one content family: Momma, Daddy, my big brother Kayden, and me, or as everybody else refers to me, Riley. We were your ideal white-picket family, living the perfect apple pie life. Naturally, it all had to end; of course it had to be Christmas time, 2009. Kayden had been sent down south, to Harper University in Detroit. I had originally thought this a bit odd; he was only fifteen-- besides, I didn’t remember any fancy ceremony with dresses or cake. Only later

Inquisitive child that I was, I brought up the subject with my parents, on one of those rare occasions when they were within earshot of each other. They just stared blankly for a while and muttered in unison, “Don’t worry Ry, it’s not your fault.” Well, I knew that, I was

would the true reason behind his deportation dawn on me. This was all two long years ago; I have long since outgrown my safe cocoon of naivety. In conjunc-tion with Kayden’s absence, Daddy moved out of our homely cottage into a puny apartment closer to where he worked, at the Robert J. Karas Dentistry Offices.

“We were your ideal white-picket family,

living the perfect apple pie life.”

perfect, and everyone knew it too; brilliant, sweet, loving and downright adorable. Admittedly I owed part of the “brilliant” to Kayden, he used to create intricate tales using words from the dictionary, and I copied him. Then I thought for a fleeting moment it could have been Kayden’s fault. He’d been gone for two months, about an hour south, and hadn’t even both-ered to call. It hadn’t occurred to me that he couldn’t. It’s a shame that we have to drive down to Detroit all together. Life would be so much simpler if we could go separately. An hour is too long to drive to Kayden, and this dress makes me feel like a fish; with sequin scales, who had the misfortune to be caught in an oil-spill. This year, I want them to leave me in De-troit, with Kayden. I don’t ask for much for Christmas, just more time with Kayden. Life’s no fun without him. He taught me crucial life-lessons: it really is possible to tip a tricycle over, never eat raw eggs, you should not skate on thin ice, and ice cream tastes just as good upside-down as right-side up. My favorite though, never to play hockey in the house, mommy will tear you to shreds and devour you for her midday snack. I have to tie my own shoes, play with Lego and steal Mr. Cracker’s paper all on my own. And I would love for less time with my par-ents, if it gave me Kayden back. They are incapable of real conversation with one another, just arguing. It’s always over money, or who did what wrong to turn me into the little girl that only writes about cemeteries in English. If they asked me, I could have told them the answer. It is, and always will be, both of their faults,

“...brilliant, sweet, loving

and downright adorable.”

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they should have stayed strong for me after Kayden was gone. They should have let me know that he was leav-ing, so I could be strong too. Instead, the atmosphere around us is so stressed and dense I could cut bricks out of the air and build a house. I wouldn’t do that though; the whole structure would be far too depressing. On the bright side, we’re going to go visit Kayden. For the past two years I’ve only been truly content standing above him in that wide-open space. Kayden was indestructible, and he was fear-less. He wasn’t scared of the Purple Dragon-Rats that came out whenever I shut my eyes at night. As brave as he was he didn’t mind having a little girl that barely came up to his knees follow him around everywhere. He used to call me Ducky. His friends thought that was a stupid nickname; I thought his friends were lacking in matter between the ears, so what they said didn’t matter much to me. Kayden roared with laughter when I shared my thoughts on the subject, he agreed with me. He always agreed with me, unless, of course, I was wrong, which rarely happened. I loved him for all of that. We swore to always protect each other; together, nothing could stop us. I thought he was going to be there for me forever, and that we would one day conquer more together than merely the monster maple tree in the backyard. My memories of blissful childhood would always be marred by one experience that burned itself into the depths of my memory. It had finally come time for me to pay a visit to Harper University, to Kayden. We rushed into the medical ward on Harper Univer-sity’s campus with a gust of chilled air, and up into Kayden’s room. My final memory of my brother was of his fists clenched, his entire body rigid with pain. I wish he had not left me the way he did, vulnerably lying atop the gurney, in obvious, yet irremediable agony. It was impossible to see him like this, my Purple Dragon-Rat slayer, my invincible brother. Yet, there he was, his whole body contorted with agony. His desperate eyes telling me what he was now incapable of even whispering: “I’m so sorry Ducky, I know I promised I’d keep you safe, but I have to go, and I don’t want you follow me.” I’m ashamed of it now,

but then I hated him. I loathed him for breaking our promise, and was furious that would be going some-where I could not follow. If I can’t follow him anymore, where am I supposed to go? Kayden Amherst died at age fifteen, on Decem-ber twenty-fifth in the year 2009. He endured sev-eral months of suffering, months of surviving off the contents of a plastic bag, before leaving the doctors at Harper University baffled. They never could figure out what could have killed the seemingly robust teenager, and with so little warning. When Kayden died, he left a permanent wound on our already fracturing family, broken down by constant disagreement and drained by the loss of hope. Maybe ice cream is the same right side up as upside down, but turn a family upside down

and you’ll watch them shatter. We were all haunted with the knowledge that we could never be happy again. We would never again live inside that white picket fence. Since then, mother has decided that I have to visit the doctors every week, and I simply must be injected with all the vaccines available. I am not allowed out-side if it is raining, hailing, snow-ing, or below forty degrees. She seems convinced that Kayden

was killed by some sort of virus from that is only car-ried in the cold. I, on the other hand, am completely convinced she’s lost her marbles. She thinks that by protecting me twice, it’s acceptable that Kayden wasn’t. That by sliding two scoops of ice cream into my bowl, it’s acceptable that Kayden doesn’t get a bowl anymore. Now every Christmas we drive down to Detroit and visit with Kayden. We endure hours of company with people we cannot stand, all to be reminded of what we once were. His grave is rather magnificent. A white and black marble slab of stone inscribed with:

KAYDEN L. QUALLOP AMHERSTAugust 29 1994-December 25 2009

Don’t forget us That final line was my contribution. I think that, if he had to go, the least he could do is to remem-ber us. Every year, to make sure he does, I hide a little rubber duck among the flower offerings. I am aware that I was only six when all this hap-pened, but it would have been so much simpler if

We swore to always protect

each other; together, nothing

could stop us.

7

anybody had cared enough to explain everything to me. A casual, “Your mommy and daddy loathe each other, and your brother is awfully sick” would have suf-ficed, for a bit at least. They didn’t have to pretend like everything would be okay, ever again. I don’t need to be protected, I don’t want the extra scoop of ice cream. I would have understood, and when everything I ever knew came crashing through the sky to smother me, I would have been better prepared. I used to think Santa Claus was a cheery, generous man; who brought pre-sents to all the deserving little children. Two years ago, I didn’t get any presents, and I learned that real people

don’t get that “happily ever after”. In a way, learning that the perfect ending did not exist hurt more than it would have if I had never believed in the first place.

Matt Nowzari

Zephyr Cove Bridge

Medium Used: Nikon D60, 18 mm f/3.5 lens

Now I’ll always walk Rochester Road

alone.8

Suppose there were a hundred people placed in a room and wouldn’t be allowed out until they came upon solid ground. There would be fighting, argu-ing, and quarrelling happening all at once. Without a leader, many average people would be clueless. For example, the papal conclave is where the College of Cardinals gathers to choose the next pope. They would not leave until a new pope has been chosen. They do this to ensure order and without organization like this, many would fight to be pope, and without a pope, the Catholic Church would fall apart. If there were no ruler, chaos and destruction would occur. Equality, in this case, would turn out to be a bad thing. No one would listen to each other because they

wouldn’t care. There would be no authority to control the angry citizens. The outcome of all this must turn out to be division. What then would be the solu-tions to all these problems? The answer: power. There are many intentions that come with power as well. If they have power over one another, one may think they could get away with anything at any time. Another intention is for reform and to exchange the

old ways with newer and better ones. Which ever the reason might be, people will fight for power, and they will die for power. Power brings respect, and in return, respect brings power.

People, they have a tendency to stick together, but for what reason? Is it instinct that’s tied to survival that holds the bond between the people of this world? Could it be fear of being alone? What if it’s love or the need to rely on those around you? Whatever the case might be, there must not be chaos, because “A house divided against itself cannot stand,” (Abraham Lincoln) If you look into a house, there will most likely be a family living inside. Zoom-ing out a little bit, you might see other houses surrounding them making a neighborhood. Zoom out a bit farther and you will find yourself in a community. It then goes on into a city, a state, and finally a country. People now and people then have grouped to-gether to rely on each other and help one another. Although it may look like they have a perfect bond at first, there are flaws that make small rips slowly but surely in the link that holds people together. Everyone is unique in their own way. They have

Dominique Dizon

The Power of Power

“Equality, in this case, would turn out to be a bad

thing.”

SilhouetteA

lice Pham

Medium Used: Canon A-1, Canon FD 35-70mm f/3.5-4.5 lens, Kodak Gold 400 film

different perspectives like on the way things should be organized. All is well until one has a slight disa-greement with another. This then will inevitably lead to arguments and fighting. Everyone should know that violence isn’t the answer, yet when two people don’t meet eye to eye, everything becomes oblivious to them. It will almost be as if they were blind, except nothing but the target will be visible to them and once that prob-lem is solved their vision will return.

9

I’m Just Another Chemical Kid, Minus the Mechanical Limbs

Rae Red

Baby earthFresh eyed lifeNo broken bonesStill I cryNo open woundsStill I find I’m running in a circle like a bloody race horseAnd I’d rather be occupied with something moreAm I lazy or is this just me?Am I crazy or just fucked up chemically?Now if I’m fucked up chemically, do you think it’s just me?Because I doubt it, the way I see it we’ve all lost our sanityWe’ve lost our fucking mindsAll we do is waste our timeThe lot of us just argue over stupid shitAs for the rest...Our pride is so big we can never seem to get over itNow I’m not tryin’ to stay no one gave or gives a damnI’m just tryin’ to say we need to make a planI find it pretty pathetic that we just don’t get itAnd yes I’ve fallen victim tooBut I’m more than willing to stand up for onceI’ll stand up for me and I’ll stand up for youLife is more than what we’ve made itWe’ve turned this earth to shit but who says we have to take it?The biggest change starts with subtle effortYou know our evolution could never happen over nightBut we simply can’t ignore this any longerWe have cosmic power and we need to fightFor half of the whole, we’re all fucked upWe’re only concerned with our own well beingWe’re greedy bastardsWe’re killing each otherOur ignorance like hands wringing our necksOur stupidity like pillows meant to smotherOur only focus is who’s cool...

This generation is made up of foul mouthed fools

10

Into the Depths of HellAudrey Doan

Medium Used: Paint Tool SAI

11

“I’m the King of the World!” His arms were out-stretched. It felt so good to be free. The waves crashed against the cliff and roared.

“I’m the King of the World!” Chause laughed, unusu-ally hollow. The wind sliced his body, his hands were numb, his cheeks flushed red and raw.

“I’m the King…”His knees gave in and collapsed. “I’m the…I’m the…” Tears streamed hot against his frozen cheeks. He couldn’t stop them. The world lies, life isn’t fair, all so true. Easy to accept, so hard to believe. But is there really no trustworthy, safe or dependable per-son in the world? Seeing that his very own father just betrayed the family and fled. It really does seem so. Not that he had a close bond to the man. The closest thing to express-ing affection to Chause and his sister Clairbel was a biannual check, $100 each; One for Christmas, the other for their birth-day. It had been this way ever since Chause’s fifth birthday, when the fam-ily’s company required his father to transfer to an overseas department. Meetings with his father, if there were any at all, were always short, awkward and brief. Losing his father was not the worst part. It was real-izing that the people that had been closest to him, the people that were his home had lied. They knew about the brewing hatred his father held for this family, how he was given a puppet job by the family overseas be-cause he felt shadowed by his wife and the mysterious dislike for his very own children. They knew what was going to happen even before it did. But they lied, they schemed, they did everything in their power to hide this imperfection and they did nothing to stop it. How

could you trust someone who lied to you? How could you continue to stay in a place when it no longer felt like home? How could he ever go back? The grass and dirt beneath felt so hostile, scratching his exposed legs and feet and dew intensified the slicing of the wind. For a few seconds, he forgot to breathe, and he gasped like a fish out of water, tasting the crystal sea-salt in the air. The sun started to fade in the distance, painting the ocean red. Someone lit the lantern in the old lighthouse and it began to make its rounds. Chause’s body was sprawled on the grass. With his watery eyes gazing into the darkening, clouding skies. The light penetrated the clouds and fog and re-flected the specks, mist and motes. You could never see the end of the beam. Out on the sea, this was the light that guided. This was what said “Come home”, this was the light that saved—but at the same time the lighthouse, the Guardian, shone its beams into the distance as if it, too, was calling for help. It shone its light toward the sky, calling, hoping for someone, anyone, to save him. But there was no one and no one would ever come. Be-

cause when the lighthouse shone to the sky, there was nothing there but infinite space. About 200 feet away, another man was star-ing at the lighthouse. Jeremy knew this was where Chause would be. A huge sign in reflec-tive neon orange shone “DANGER! Unfenced Cliff Ahead STAY BACK” and “¡PELIGRO! Acantilado Vallada por delante

QUEDARSE ATRÁS.” Jeremy marched forward, as if the sign was nonexistent, with a staid expression. Chause’s body was like one of those dead body chalk tracings in a crime scene. Jeremy’s eyes softened as he proceeded to bend down and lay on a soft patch of grass beside the little boy. “What’s up little dude?!” Jeremy slid in casually, put his arms behind his head, crossed his legs and tried to pull off a smile. Chause turned away from him and continued to stare lighthouse. Jeremy tried again. “So I heard you mother is stable now… She’s eating again.” Chause started to curl himself into a ball, per-

Lighthouse to the Skyby Amelia Chu

“Because when the lighthouse shone to the sky, there was nothing

there but infinite space.”

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haps in response to the chilling reality of what Jeremy had just brought back to life or perhaps just because of the exponentially decreasing temperature as the sun continued to climb below the earth. Jeremy knew he had to continue his prodding, despite the pain that was already circulating every vein of the boy. He needed to release the turmoil that was churning, cycling within him. He needed to come home. “He, your father… I mean, emptied all the Switzerland accounts, didn’t he? The money. It’s gone isn’t?”At those words, Chause exploded. “That’s you guys ever care about don’t you. The Money. The goddamn money! You guys make me sick.” The volume of his voice was drowned by the deafing winds, but no longer were he convoluted emotions caged within. “And YOU.” Chause raged, springing up onto his feet. “Stop pretending that you care because you don’t. I know how much you get paid for this. Fifty dollars an hour. Fifty! Someone like you could never make that much money! Anywhere!” Jeremy did not mind being the target of Chause’s attacks. He knew that the catalyst of these venomous words was released due to his father recent abandonment and the subsequent revelation of the fragility of the beautiful world that his family painted. He cared for the child, more than the family, or The Company as he called it, ever did. In his five years as the caretaker of Chause and Clairbel Wolfe, he had dis-covered the family was entrenched in so many secrets, so many lies, and now their father is gone for good. Yes, Jason Wolfe had finally cracked, taken what he could withdraw from the accounts and fled the coun-try like the true blood sucking bum he was. There was little that Jeremy could say about the man that was not a pejorative term. Chause had been shouting, continuously, the entire time, his words lost with the wind but as the wind died down it was evident that his tone had changed. “I will get away…away from this.” Chause hic-cuped. “This is not home anymore. If you catch me, I’ll just run again, and I’ll…I’ll keep running and you’ll…you’ll never catch me.” His voice was now hoarse and hollow, sadness

penetrated every word and his eyes grew watery with the tears that he had been holding back. He no longer seemed to be talking about Jeremy. “You never loved me or Clairy. You were never here. You never cared. It was right for you to go. JUST GO!” With all the strength and anger Chause had left in him, he kicked Jeremy on the shin. Jeremy winced, then pulled him-self up from the ground and for the first time since he arrived, Chause and Jeremy’s eyes met. Chause’s eyes widen, the rage that had clouded his mind was finally cleared and the fists that were once clenched, loos-ened. “Clairy…”Jeremy whispered almost inaudibly. He had found what he needed to bring Chause home. “Do you know what would happen if you ran away and never came back?” Jeremy there was no trace of anger in his voice, instead there was an en-ticing quality to every single syllable that he uttered. “Yes, there are more than a few scumbags in this fam-ily. Even if your mother can never be here to notice your absence. There is one person that you will be hurting; a person that probably feels as alone as you, and needs you the most right now.” “Yes, everyone else lied, there are more secrets in that house than you and I can ever uncover. But if you run away, then you are as selfish and cowardly as your dad. Because if you leave, not only will you be home less, you will be destroying someone else’s home. Clairy needs you, Chause. Your sister needs you. You know she is innocent. For Christ sake, she’s only seven! You’re the only one she has. Even if you don’t care about anyone else, stay. Stay for her. You are her home, and she is yours.” Chause howled in sorrow and in shame, to the now moonlit sky and allowed himself to fall into Jeremy’s arms, defeated and his sobs now muffled by Jeremy’s shoulder. Jeremy held the little boy close and leaned his cheek on Chause’s soft, fluffy hair. “It’s time to come home.” In the distance, a tiny boat approaches the shoreline and the lighthouse realizes that he served a purpose. He was not alone.

He was not alone.13

Arianna Mahan

Epitome of Pain Hot, searing pain tore through my body like a burning iron dragging down my back. The last thing I had seen was the lazy river beside a picnic blanket and a beautiful scarlet tanager. Now I saw nothing but darkness, like a cloudy night. My mouth cracks to utter a cry but I hear no scream. All I hear is continuous, loud buzzing, like that of a million common houseflies compacted around my head. My side hurts like hundreds of needles heated to impossible levels, despite the fact that the grass I must now be laying on is luscious and fluffy. I cringe at the needle-like feeling of tears sliding down my face. I wish I would just die, end this painful, endless torture. I want to sleep forever if it would stop this agony. I cannot endure. Blotches of red begin to invade the dark scene and I feel the blood, hotter than all the rest, begin to roll down my face and into my mouth. I gag, repulsed by the pungent, bitter taste. I shift in an at-

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tempt to ease this tormenting, but I feel like an ice cube frozen in the desert at the height of noon, unable to melt, unable to move. That is, right before my stom-ach begins convulsing. I start to heave uncontrollably, coughing up my lunch and blood alike. A new pain erupts, one of losing all of the air in one’s lungs. I find it impossible to breath between the stomach contrac-tions. As all of my lungs’ air is exhausted, my head aches. I know I am about to die. I even welcome the concept. I gasp, out of instinct, not choice, for the crucial oxygen as my stomach stops churning. I know what is coming next and I accept my fate with mixed feeling. With air to feed my brain’s everlasting hunger, the migraine subsides. The piercing pain wanes to a dull throb. My blood stops flowing from raw wounds. I open my eyes to see that pretty little bird staring at me with almost worried eyes. My eyes close in an effort to end everything because I know I will hurt again. The question is, when?

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A Beautiful Mind is a remarkable and touch-ing biography by Sylvia Nasar. In this biography, Nasar takes the reader on a gradual journey through John Forbes Nash Junior’s life, starting from his solitary childhood in the quiet town of Bluefield, West Vir-ginia, to his burgeoning rise to genius in Princeton and MIT, followed by a harrowing battle with schizophre-nia for three poignant decades, and ending with an un-foreseen Nobel Prize in Economics in 1994. Stunning and eloquent, A Beautiful Mind is a wonderful master-piece with a beautiful story that captures the essence of the heart. John Forbes Nash Jr. was born on June 13, 1928 to John Forbes Nash Sr. and Virginia Martin. Com-pletely opposite from his sister Martha, who was extremely gre-garious and vivacious, Nash was eccentric and lacked childish pur-suits for he was interested in education at a young age. Nash tasted his first sip from the endless mathematical fountain at age thirteen when he read Men of Math-ematics by E. T. Bell. As his high school years drew near an end, Nash entered in the George Westinghouse competition and won a full scholarship with nine oth-ers. Soon, Nash was accepted to the Carnegie Institute of Technology with a plan of becoming a chemical en-gineer but that plan quickly dwindled as his interest for mathematics spurred. At the end of Nash’s junior year at Carnegie, he got accepted by Harvard, Princeton, Chicago, and Michigan, but evidently chose Princeton due to its generosity in accommodations. At Princeton, Nash spent most of his time sim-ply thinking. One of his notable behaviors was pacing in the hallways whistling Bach. He was intellectually independent and gained most of his learning through conversations in the Tea Room and by attending

lectures given by visiting mathematicians. During his Princeton years, Nash contributed to the game theory, which rests on two theorems: von Neumann’s min-max theory and Nash’s equilibrium theorem. Nash’s equilibrium theorem states that interdependence is the key feature of games of strategy. The outcome of the game for one player depends on the actions of the other players and vice versa. This theorem liberated from the two-person zero-sum game, which states that someone’s win is someone else’s loss. Furthermore, in the theory of games, Nash devised a model of negotia-tion between two parties that the players could use to determine what threats they should use in the process of negotiating. It became known as “The Bargaining Problem.” There were four stages in this model, and it was shortly published in Econometrica. MIT was interested in hiring Nash as an in-structor; and since Princeton was not eager to offer Nash a job, he accepted. He was twenty-three at that time. As in Princeton, Nash was well known for pac-ing in the building’s hallways whistling Bach. If math was like running, Nash was a long-distance runner.

He had the determined abil-ity to work hard and work for long periods of time. Nash thrived in the quintessence of challenging problems such the Riemannian thesis, which asked: Is it possible to embed any Riemannian manifold in a Euclidean space? Through brute mental thinking, Nash

unfolded his embedding theorem, stating that every Riemannian can be isometrically embedded into some Euclidean space. Nash was a good-looking man who attracted a number of women. He fathered a child with a woman named Eleanor, but he never married her due to her low status in the social hierarchy. During Nash’s rela-tionship with Eleanor, Alicia Larde, a gorgeous ex-stu-dent of Nash, was extremely fond of Nash’s charming looks and fell madly obsessed with him. Alicia courted and stalked him to the extreme, such as getting a job at the library where he always visited and sitting in the science fiction section where he frequently sat. Nash soon noticed her elegance and asked her out to numer-ous mathematical parties. Nash was not a gentleman. He was infatuated with himself and considered himself superior to everyone, even his girlfriends. For example, at a dinner party, Nash wanted to show everyone that

Mathematics in A Beautiful Mindby Meilin Liang

“...allowing the reader to vicariously witness

his dramatic life.”

15

he was the master of the beautiful Alicia by throwing her on the ground and placing his foot on her bare neck. Despite that experience, Alicia agreed to take Nash as her husband, and together they had a baby boy, John Charles Nash, who turned out to be math-ematically gifted and would be diagnosed with schizo-phrenia in his teen years. After a promising rise, Nash’s mathematical ca-reer came to a brisk halt, falling from eccentricity into madness, when he started becoming delusional. For instance, Chicago offered a prestigious chair to Nash but he declined that offer for he believed he was sched-uled to become Emperor of Antarctica. In addition, he called himself the Prince of Peace. There was always a new identity for Nash. It was like peeling the layers of an onion; there would always be a new layer under-neath. Before long, Nash thought that the foreign gov-ernment was communicating with him through subtle messages in publications such as The New York Times. Accompanied by Alicia, Nash tried to deliver classified letters to foreign governments by dropping them off into mail slots of embassies. When Alicia realized this, she called a psychiatrist and placed Nash into a number of institutions ranging from locked facilities to crowded state hospitals. In the end, Alicia and Nash divorced in 1963. After the divorce, Nash grew aloof and con-fined in his neighborhood in Bluefield, but in his mind, he was traveling to the most remote places of the world such as Mongolia, Thebes, Cairo, and Bangui. Saved by his mathematical friends at Princeton, Nash roamed around Princeton’s Firestone Library and scribbled mathematical messages on blackboards, earning the nickname “the Phantom.” He became a transient, ghostlike figure who some people questioned was still alive. Moved by pity and loyalty, Alicia took Nash under her wing once again. With her help, Nash be-came less of a recluse. At age sixty-six, an unexpected remission of his illness occurred, allowing Nash to slowly, but progressively, come out of his shadows. In 1994, Assar Lindbeck and Ingemar Stahl bitterly argued whether Nash should deserve a Nobel Prize, with Lindbeck favoring and Stahl opposing. The main issue was Nash’s mental illness. Despite Nash labeled as “mad”, Lindbeck prevailed and the majority of the

committee voted the prize to be awarded to Nash. Nash’s life was resurrected from the pits of darkness, and the King of Sweden graciously handed Nash the Nobel Prize in Economics in 1994. A Beautiful Mind is a breathtakingly written biography. It portrays the burgeoning rise and mete-oric fall of John Forbes Nash Jr. brilliantly, allowing the reader to vicariously witness his dramatic life. The writing is powerfully written, and it is evident throughout the book that Nasar, who is an economics correspondent for The New York Times, conducted thorough research about Nash’s life story. All of Nasar’s arguments and conclusions were well reasoned by sup-porting evidence and I strongly agree with her state-ments. Nasar may have written this book due to Nash’s roller coaster like life, in a mission to portray Nash’s astonishing triumph as well as his intellectual achieve-ments. Nasar achieved her purpose of giving me, the reader, a broad amount of knowledge of Nash’s years. The book’s particularly strong quality is that Nasar

emphatically explained the background of each event, person, and place, knowing that the reader may not have learned needed information. For example, I was perplexed at what McCarthyism was but Nasar included a sufficient amount of

information about McCarthyism, which I learned to be an idea where accusations were thrown onto people of being communists, that allowed me to grasp the basics of that concept. I also appreciated that Nasar included background information on various people, allowing me to learn about them and how they had an impact on Nash’s life. A miniscule aspect that I did not like about this book is that the first few chapters were rather bland and slow, with Nasar discussing Nash’s family history and World War II. Another feature I did not like is that Nasar rambled excessively about mi-nor characters that did not need so much disclosure, adding to confusion of who each person was and their importance. This book helped me acquire a broader and understanding view of Nash. I did not like Nash much in the beginning of the book since he was very ego-centric, and I despised the fact that he thought that he was unquestionably superior. As I progressed through the book, I became sympathetic for Nash because his

16

“Nash’s life was resurrected from the

pits of darkness”

passion in mathematics was dreadfully halted when he developed schizophrenia. I soon exuded admiration for Nash because he continued to pursue mathematics even after his tragic downfall. It’s amazing that Nash had the courage to continue his research after three poignant and mentally painful decades. Also, I devel-oped respect for Nash because when he was given an offer of thirty thousand dollars from the Princeton University Press in 1995 to publish his work, Nash de-cisively refused. Nash didn’t refuse because the amount of money was too small but rather because he did not want to end his future work by acknowledging that his lifetime work in mathematics is complete. Nash wanted to continue as a mathematician. He planned to continue in taking on challenging problems and in engaging in mathematical research, the primary plea-sure of his. Math is endless; there is always something new to discover that a lifetime cannot accomplish.

Although Nash may not be as intellectually stimulat-ing as he was decades ago, he is still an admirable and respectable person. In the words of Alicia, Nash be-came a “very fine man.” I highly recommend this book to everyone because it teaches a lesson that life may be hard at times for you may be confused, depressed and lonely; but in the end, through determination and strong will, there will be a gleaming star in a night said to be devoid of stars. A Beautiful Mind is a moving book inter-twined with heartbreak and warmth as it guided me through John Forbes Nash Jr.’s stages of genius, mad-ness, and reawakening. The book left me understand-ing that everyone has a story to tell, that his or her life is a history book. It is a powerful biography that gives the reader insight into how strong a man uncondi-tionally loves his passion – mathematics.

Eye to the FutureAmelia Chu

Medium Used: Olympus Stylus Tough - 6000, 7mm f/6.3 lens17

The Black Dot The goo takes shape, and then transforms into a child. The face looks like it was created by a drunk sculptor. Eyes where the mouth should be, ears where the nose should be, and a mouth where the forehead should be. A mouth filled with nothing but razor sharp canines. The child like creature stumbles slowly forward toward me. It must be hard walking when there’s no flesh on the legs. It takes a final step, before exploding into a fine red mist. It lingers in place. The mist must be alive, as it surrounds me slowly, taking its time. It pulsates as though a heart beats within it. The mist disappears, and leaves the images in its place. People suffering, cities burning, the entire world aflame. I can feel their pain. All of it. Every single person that is on that world. As if I have somehow taken the burden of the planets pain. It burns inside of me like an inferno, blazing and

I stare ahead. All I can see is darkness. Not a glimmer of light remains in front of me, no hope or happiness, nothing. It is absolute despair. The shadow starts moving, sinisterly, like a snake, slithering around me. It soon surrounds me, and soon the shadow engulfs my world. I begin to see images in front of me. I must be hallucinating. They morph into images of grotesque horror. I see a man, his body contorted in pain, he is writhing on the ground. He is missing all of his limbs. I see another, this time it’s a woman, except theres a hole where her stomach should be. Its dripping out a ghoulish yellowy goo.

Kenneth Chang

WildfireMatt Nowzari

Medium Used: Nikon D60, 35 mm f/1.8 lens18

Lonely PineconeMatt Nowzari

searing my body. My organs must be soup by now. I’m half expecting my brain to drip out of my nose. I close my eyes. Then I hear the screams. They are bloodcurdling screams of horror. They are all around, and I can’t seem to block them out. The screeches and the howls. They pierce into me like ar-rows. Then there is the crying and sobbing. Maybe they are mourning. They are without hope though, I can tell. Every last drop of despair and sadness I feel. I then here something else. It is a baby. It is bawling, as though it has just lost its mother. I open my eyes. The images of horror are gone. I am standing in a knee-deep ocean of blood instead. It stretches out beyond the horizon. It’s too much for me. The storm of sorrow is too much. I feel dizzy. I think I’m losing conscious-ness. The blood freezes over. I begin to feel the shad-ow touch me, it’s cold fingers wrapping around me. The flames have stopped. In their place is a freezing chill,

colder than anything I have felt before, grasping me in its frosty embrace. It saps away life slowly, almost as if it is toying with me. And suddenly I don’t feel anything at all. I am cold. Dead. Completely unaware of what’s around me. I am numb and unflinching. I have no energy. I can’t even find the strength to move my eyes. I can only stare ahead into the darkness, the void that has surrounded me, and robbed me of all feeling and form. Perhaps Death has claimed me. Perhaps this is what the abyss is like, a darkness darker than black, a world without light.I guess I should be expecting it. This isn’t my first trip. Stay too long with the darkness, and the darkness will stay with you. “Mr. Elliot, staring at the black dot on your paper won’t turn it into a masterpiece. Get back to work please” I simply smile back.

Medium Used: Nikon D60, 35 mm f/1.8 lens

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Storytale Janet Liang

but days passed, weeks passedno one camemonths passed, a year pastand still, everything stayed the sameher faith lowered, her hopes began to slimmerthen she heard the clickity clack of a stallion’s gaitShe looked out the window and her eyes began to shimmerher knight has come and she knew it was fatethe dragon roared, the witch bellowedtogether they crashedblood shed and the dragon slainthe witch cut up and the gate slashedinto the room he camesweeping her off her feetknowing she’ll never be the samefrom the first time they meetwith their hands intertwinegoing to live their happily ever afterleaving that malicious castle behindfor a life filled with love and laughter

Once upon a time, in a faraway placelived a princess, locked up behind castle gatesShe began to wander around, ponder and pace“Will I ever get out? No, maybe this is fate.”imprisoned in the tallest towertaken captive by an evil witchwatched by her dragon and his ferocious powerthe princess’s curiosity began to itchShe waited all day and all nightday dreaming by the windowfor her prince in shining armor, her dark knightto rescue her from the castle’s destructive glow

“...and still, every-thing stayed the

same”

Anjali Suthar

You are my friend forever,I shall lose you never,Friends like you are dear to me,And I shall never let them free,Bound to my heart with a golden cord,We shall be friends forevermore.

Welcome to the HerdPonyDan

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Walking AwayStephanie Zee

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