Frisson 5

Frisson. October 23, 2014

fris•son [frē sōn′] *A moment of intense excitement; a shudder. **Means “ friction” in Latin and “shudder” in French, according to the Merriam Webster Dictionary. “Frisson” describes the emotional shiver experienced when listening to music, viewing artwork, watching a film, or writing. It is suspense, it is love, it is creation. It is the emotional response to art. It is proof that magic does exist; it is a non-scientific reaction of the soul to the bustling world around it. Just as any good stew needs that extra kick of good flavor, every story needs a little bit of frisson.

Staff Editor-in-Chief. Clara Chin Editors.

Claire Schermeister Kaleb Davies

Cover Art Yukie Kim Mission Statement To provide a platform for young artists to share their work with others.

*Design notes: Word 2011. Table of Contents/Credits Page/Illustration on p. 6 by Clara Chin. * All writing and art is the intellectual property of their creators and the writers and artists retain all rights. *The views expressed are those of the author/artist and do not necessarily reflect the views of the editors of Frisson: The Literary Magazine.

MESSAGE FROM THE EDITOR Hello everyone, It’s been a while since we last released an issue; we took a summer break, but we’re back with our biggest issue yet. Aside from being discovered by first-time writing submitters, we also have more visual artists. This year, I was unexpectedly put into Art 2. I was pleasantly surprised because, not only am I having tons of fun in that class, but I discovered many great artists who wanted to share their work. What better way to do that than by publishing it in an online magazine? Our theme for this issue is Flow. You’ll notice a lot of the pieces have to do with water, oceans, and the flow of nature. Happy reading, Your editor

Table of Contents

1. En Route (Outta Babylon) 1 JAMES HODSON art by Robbie Pintado

2. Eggs 2 DINAH MOHAMMED

3. The Powerless 3 TAMARA SAPIEN

4. art by Yukie Kim 5 5. How to Be and The Qualm-Maker 6

KALEB DAVIES 6. The Art of Concentration 7

GEORGINA CHIOU art by YUKIE KIM

7. Happiness 9 TAYLOR SEDOO

8. Forgive and Forget 11 JENNY SHODA

9. art by Vania Gunawan 15 10. Patchwork City 16

CLARA CHIN 11. Molto Vivace 17

CLAIRE SCHERMEISTER 12. art by CLARA CHIN 18 13. Bios 19

This is cause for celebration, I mean you gave

me your attention Third time lucky relations won’t even make it to

detention My inhibition lacks retention but for the sake of

the mere mention Of your name I’m ashamed of the truth can’t

even deal with this sentence 25 ta life that’s what I strive to find as I lie face

down on a dining table dark room dying situation

It’s all a bit grey, wipe the slate clean I may have done

Yet it’s still just a setting sun I chose to stain the slate straight with a crayon

Where do you stay when you can’t escape the tide?

Where’s good to lay low before your mind divides and escapes your pride?

Memory lane becomes boring and tedious Provoking the seriousness spread wide open

necromancy Whatever tickles your fancy is good progress,

En Route (Outta Babylon) James Hodson

I’ll assert the role of me, you be Noah One day we’ll build a boat on an ocean together The crash of the waves they thread yet they

dissipate Can’t get me irate due to ocean wave emotion

simmer Walk a thinner line, thinner more than a spider

weaves Show me your inner child, shine brighter than

tigers teeth Clocks chime when it’s time to eat, pine daily with

a mind to preach My hunger feeds itself for the sake of mind release Lease prophets out as liars meat, the state of the

world can’t drown my peace A piece of me seeps onto you please sought relief

before the end you meet But let me reiterate I cannot get irate, two places

distant only with love cause to separate Got more on your plate than I dare to question, a

messy situation with pressure on gyration

1

“I wore the stench of chlorine like a

personal Chanel Nº5.” But all good things come to a bitter end as solitude morphed into a way to indulge in my antisocial tendencies. The days grew wearier and wearier and I fell deeper and deeper into an abyss of darkness and depression. I sympathized with Esther Greenwood as I too felt trapped in a bell jar of sorts, gasping for air when oxygen was aplenty. Vaguely familiar faces and odd voices would greet me with overly enthusiastic smiles and awkward embraces. Relatives would come and go pinching my cheeks and telling me how much I have grown. But I remained stagnant, still, silent. Oh, I tried to get the words to come out but that in itself was an incredible feat. When I looked into the mirror, I saw a shell of myself, some foreign spirit inhabiting my flesh. I saw a ghastly, pale complexion, sunken in eyes, and I wondered, who is that girl? That poor, poor girl who’d mistakenly thought she could handle it. That she could keep it together. That she wouldn’t crack. Crack. Hiss. Sizzle. Eggs. Today I feel okay. Today I feel okay. -Eggs, Dinah Mohammed

I was forced to learn to swim.. My mom’s reasoning was a waterfall of what if’s—what if there’s a flood, what if your airplane crashes into the ocean, what if you get pushed into a pool? So, I complied, begrudgingly. And for years I smelled of pungent, salty chlorine no matter how much detangling spray I put in my hair or how hard the sickeningly sweet smell of kids’ 2-in-1 shampoo tried to permeate. But I tolerated it; I even grew to like it, as I wore the stench of chlorine like a personal Chanel N°5. Eventually, the pool became somewhat of a second home, stench and all. I would swim for solitude, for sticky tears and ice cream, for “Happy Birthday!”s and “We regret to inform you…”s, for a place to call my own.

2

T H E P O W E R L E S S Tamara Sapien

The night was like every other night–light rain pattering down on the English cobblestone, fog banks rolling down the Thames, and men bustling about beneath umbrellas. The corner of King’s Way and C Street was nothing special, with town houses on each corner and a phone box next to the curb adjacent to the bus stop. That was where It sat. Everyone here knew about It. It was a person after all, but It wasn’t really real. Looking back I remember people saying It was going through a phase, It was just confused, and some even thought It was the devil. But on that night there was only one thing on my mind–the horrible day at Uni I just had. It was as if everything that could possibly go wrong did, I failed my Statistics test, didn’t finish my English paper, broke a beaker in Chemistry, and to top it off had to deal with everyone thinking I’m a lesbian. And now this. It was sitting at my bus stop, waiting to take my bus. With a heavy sigh I crossed the road, my eyes looking at anything but it. It must have been watching me because it slid all the way over giving me plenty of space to sit down if I wanted to. I glanced over and saw that It was nestled up underneath an umbrella and was looking pointedly ahead not acknowledging my presence. I hated it’s indifference to me, I was only a girl, but I was still more than It. “You’re a freak,” I said standing next to the bench, “I’ve heard about you, what you truly are, and you know what, you’re absolutely disgusting.” It hissed, breathing in sharply before saying, “Look I’m just here to take the bus Amy-” “Don’t say my name!” I screeched,

“You bastard, you don’t have any right, you don’t even want to what I’ve gone through today!” I unleashed all of my pent-up anger in a soothing yelling match. “Your problems?” It scoffed. “Do you even understand what it’s like to get continually harassed by people like you? Calling me a he-she, or telling me I shouldn’t exist, or trying to rape me to turn me back into a ‘real girl’?” It visibly shook with anger and looked at me lividly. “I’m glad that people do that because you deserve it. You just want attention. I bet you’re just a dirty lesbian slut.” It felt so relieving to pass off the insults I received to it, like I was regaining my humanity by proving my superiority. “I AM A MAN!” It shouted throwing down it’s umbrella and standing up, “And I’ve heard what they say about you. You should be on my side against them instead of spreading more hatred.” It spoke pleadingly looking into my eyes. I looked at it’s face which was utterly crushed and overly emotional, then smiled as I heard the bus approach. I thought about what I should say in response as I got out my bus pass and stepped up to the bus. I turned back to it and mockingly said, “I’d rather have to suffer being called a lesbian then know that people like you…” I looked it up and down disdainfully, “exist.” “Couple trouble, miss?” The bus driver asked as I stepped inside. “Not even close,” I said walking past the middle aged slightly obese man. Perv, I thought as he watched me a bit too closely

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as he watched me a bit too closely as I took a seat. Then it came on and the bus driver greeted it with a quick, “Good evening, sir.” “That’s not a man,” I called out. “I’m sorry,” the bus driver corrected quickly. “No, you were right,” It corrected almost as quickly. The bus driver shrugged obviously not caring and closed the doors, pulled out and started driving down the road. “What is it? Are you scared of me? Is that why you’re like this? Do you think I have more power than you?” She laughed sardonically. I sat there opposite from it for the next twelve minutes of the bus ride seething with anger and melting in my hatred. The ride was bumpy and only aggregated my mood. We were entering my neighborhood and my stop was coming up. I wanted nothing more than to get out of this claustrophobic bus so I could get inside my own home and take a cleansing shower. Then It pulled the stop cord for my stop. This was far too much, but I just stood behind it at the door. The bus stopped and the doors swung open far too slowly for me. I pushed my way out of the bus knocking it down into the gutter. I stepped over it in my haste to leave but heard the squealing of tires and a sudden thud and turned around in horror. The buses tires had ran over the broken body. Blood spattered the pavement, and the buses wheels. “NO! STOP! PLEASE NO!” I screamed at the bus. The bus chugged on running over the corpse once more. I couldn’t stand to look at the mauled body with blood spurting from the crushed chest and trickling from the spared face. “ARRRRGHHHH!” I yelled in frustration ,dropping to my knees and beginning to sob in the soft rain. The rain fell peacefully onto the body washing away the blood and mixing with it creating red swirls. It was so surreal, and I was all alone with the corpse. It wasn’t that late at night, but no one had come to help. The bloody rure.

rain started to flow towards me, staining my knees and my hands when I placed them into the liquidly mixture. “Conscientia mille testes,” I whispered remembering what one of my teachers had told us once, it meant ‘Conscience is as good as a thousand witnesses’. “Well now you’ve won,” I told the scene angrily, fighting to hold back tears. “I’ve committed murder, my hands are just as bloody as that coward bus driver.” I looked down at my hands which were covered in blood. I choked on a sob. “What irony is this?” I wondered aloud. I picked up the body and carried it to the side of the street arranging it so it lay on it’s back where it would be found the next morning. I walked along the sidewalk until I came to the river. I walked without thought, lost in the despair of my actions and uselessness of my words. The rushing sounds of the river was calling to me. I walked out on the bridge above the river. It looked so beautiful from above during a rain. I could hear the thunderous rushing of the water as it went into the dam just downstream. There was only a small railing and I climbed up onto it and leaned towards the water. I could feel so much power coursing through my body as I stood on the edge. It was enticing to be in such a dangerous position. I wanted to find out what would happen if I leaned out just a bit farther. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the water and leaned forward even more. My feet slipped suddenly on the wet stone and I fell.

C O N S C I E N T I A

M I L L E

T E S T E S

4

Yukie Kim

5

I’d like to start over, Like the sea,

The tide has a new chance, On every shore and every beach,

And a new opportunity, Perhaps I’d be cold,

And perhaps I’d be warm, I may be a man, set on fire by a

woman’s scorn But I wouldn’t be him,

For he is friends with me, I’m just hoping, if things were different,

I’d be happy. Or at least, just learn how to be.

The horrible feeling is back again,

But now with vengeance, Churning in the pit of my stomach, Crawling in the back of my throat,

It now seeps to others waiting, Making qualms,

Making rights wrong, Turning the night into a beast,

And the day into a revealing light, The qualm-maker is back again,

Now with vengeance, After me,

But already gone to my ‘friends’.

H o w t o B e T h e Q u a l m – M a k e r

-Kaleb Davies 6

Yukie Kim

It was this conversation I had with a psychologist that eventually led to my diagnosis of ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder), something I initially didn't understand. There was nothing wrong with me. I was just full of quirks. Daydreaming? That's a quirk. Restlessly talkative? Simply a character embellishment. But you can only have so many quirks until you become a Zooey Deschanel type that is neither realistic nor reasonable.

Having ADHD is like walking up a downwards escalator. You work twice as hard as

everyone else, and you look like a complete idiot in the process. Not that it would faze anyone. We were ADHD children who were expected to fail. Most lived up to these expectations, letting themselves decay in their own mediocrity.

I would not let myself fail. I was smart. I was capable. I was different. I analyzed the

concept of "focus" and forced it onto myself. I was trapped in my room, studying for hours at a time before I was released. I separated myself from all external stimuli to perfect the art of concentration. I turned my brain into a funnel, gathering my thoughts and putting them together. I worked with equal parts determination and desperation. I was looking for something to disprove those four letters that followed me wherever I went. I was trying to give myself hope.

The Art of Concentration Georgina Chiou "Are you listening to me?" "Hm?" "Can you repeat what I just said?" "No. Sorry" "What were you thinking about?" "My birthday party." "How old are you turning?" "Ten." "When's your birthday?" "June 15th." "June 15th? That's over eight months away." "I know." "Well then why were you thinking about that instead of what I was telling you?" I shrugged.

7

I still am. Over the years I've been tutoring children with ADHD. Every week a group of

morose children greet me, looking defeated by life at such a young age. Some are looking at me with glazed eyes, others find that their heads are slowly becoming too heavy for their necks, and a select few express their feelings with Oscar-worthy eye rolls. This seems about right. I start the lesson. Five minutes into it, I turn around to see eight limp bodies draped over their desks. "Focus," I say to them with a clap of my hands. Four students slowly prop themselves up on their elbows, their faces covered with various indentations from whatever they were resting their cheeks on. I clear my throat. Three more awaken from their slumber. One remains in hibernation. I make my way to her desk as the other students curiously watch. With all the force I can muster at 8:30 am, I slam my hand against the edge of her desk and a loud crack reverberates through the room. Her head snaps up so quickly, it's a miracle she doesn't have whiplash. "Focus", I say again. I try to ignore the stinging crimson in my palms as I return to the board to continue the lesson, keeping a close eye on the class. I will not let us fail. We are smart. We are capable. We are different. We are giving ourselves hope.

8

Why have you done anything that you’ve ever done? Why do you do anything now? You might know, or you might not, and if you’ve forgotten amidst the nonsensical yet conformist nature of human values, I’ll remind you: Happiness. Everything we do, we do for happiness. Whether short term, long term, personal, or collective, it seems to be all that humans care about. It’s why we go to school, it’s why we work, it’s why we have families, it’s why we read, write, play, and live. We wouldn’t want to survive if life didn’t give us pleasure, and the same goes for all of those other actions. By now you might be thinking, be careful of absolute statements, exceptions are easy to find in massive generalizations. Well here’s something to think about: saying that absolute statements always have exceptions is itself an absolute statement. Besides, why would we do something that doesn’t carry the intention of making someone happy? We wouldn’t. The only instance I can think of is an arbitrary action stemming from not thinking, and I believe that in this case the subconscious still acts for the best interests of the individual. An example of such behavior can be found in a common phenomenon surrounding swimming pools, wherein one might whimsically push another into the water without first considering whether or not any pleasure will be derived from the act; in this case, the pusher's subconscious likely has happiness as an end goal, but the action is too swift for the notion to be fully registered. Happiness is pleasure, and pleasure is what we see as the sole purpose of our existence. You may be religious, in which case you might argue, “Well my purpose in life is to serve the divine being(s), not to be happy.” I would

respond to that by saying, “Ask yourself why you do this. If praying, attending church, and not sinning didn’t win you eternal bliss in paradise, would you still do it?” One of our essential means for obtaining pleasure is money, because what better way to achieve happiness than by owning large quantities of material goods? If spent on the right things, money can undoubtedly make almost anyone happy. The problem is that most people treat money as an ends, when really it is a means. By spending our earnings on things we don’t value, we’re losing at our own game. That said, the American dream is nigh on impossible to attain. Life is too complex to placate only one emotion. That doesn’t mean we can’t reserve all of our resources for trying. Though cash seems to be a common goal, it is not the only means by which humans attempt to acquire happiness. I would imagine that having children brings about quite a different form of pleasure; having kids assuredly won’t make you any money. There are other pleasures that can’t be bought as well, but these number very few in our consumerism-plagued country. The message sent by producers is “buy our products,” the deeper message being “money buys happiness,” but the deepest

T A Y L O R S E D O O

H A P P I N E S S

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message, the one that many people don’t consciously notice, is “happiness is all that matters.” I mentioned above that there are several different kinds of happiness. This is where individual values vary. Some people advocate “savoring the little things,” while some want to live a long life with the hopes of lasting success. However, even after establishing a balance of when you want your pleasure, there’s the whole battle of personal versus collective happiness. Humans are stuck in an awkward phase of evolutionary development, or halfway between apes and angels, depending on what you believe. We possess enough instinct to have many self-serving qualities, yet enough perspective to be aware of these qualities. Therefore, the act of serving others is somewhat of an enigma. It feels good to help other people, and you have probably experienced this pleasure at some point in your life. Yet, whether morality is a Darwinian adaptation or a deeply engraved artificial lesson is a mystery. Is this internal sense of helping others the only thing that makes us do it? Do we only help others because it gives us pleasure? In most cases, this is probably true, but not in all. I believe there are some people who care more about the happiness of others than the happiness of self, and because a common definition of the word “good” is synonymous with “empathy,” these people are heroes. But even if you sacrificed all of your happiness

for someone else, you would still be doing it for happiness, just not your own. Being a good samaritan makes you no exception to the happiness rule, it just gives you a bit of a broader perspective. So I’ve attempted to established that everything is done for happiness. If you still disagree, present your arguments in the form of emails to the editor-in-chief, and she will forward them to me. If you do believe me, it seems that the question “why are we here?” has been answered. Yet, I can’t help but think that human happiness isn’t the end-all. If a sophisticated alien race were to visit, they would throw off our entire moral existence, more than one might think. How would alien happiness play into our system of ethics? Unless the aliens knew all the answers, we would have no idea how to live our lives with this unexpected arrival. Think about it; if human happiness provides all of our incentives, and the aliens had a completely different set of goals… we’d probably be scared enough to try blowing them up. It’s not until the arrival of an exterior intelligence that we realize just how fragile we are. I’m not going to pretend to have all the answers, but hopefully reading this inspired you to look for something beyond human happiness. I would certainly like to think that there’s something more to life.

10

I stand up and stretch my back, wincing as it crackles loudly. I leave my nets on the small dock, and take my bucket haul with me. It’s a decent catch. I’ve

had worse. I walk along the beach to keep my brine-soaked fur from stiffening in place. Sitting and

waiting for the fish without anyone to talk to makes one think. Of course, the mind tends to dwell on unpleasant memories. “You certainly have your fair share, Khagi. Heh…know anyone else with a torn ear? Or even

another otter?” I shake my head, pushing the memories to a dusty corner in my mind. I probably just need a

drink…or two. I soak my face with seawater. I need to make a hat. All this sun is getting to my head.

Talking to myself—if I don’t watch out I’ll find myself with a pet rock next. I find her washed up on a beach, still as the sky of noon. She is a young mouse, wearing a

simple tunic and boots. A single gold hoop rests in her ear— the mark of a pirate. I check her pulse; she’s still alive. I carefully pick her up in my arms and glance both ways across the shore. Nobody else is on the beach today. I don’t have a better plan, so I carry her down the shore to my little hut.

My gaze wanders to the ocean; a ship sails off towards the horizon. I open up the wooden door, set her down on my worn cot and close the door. I take some fruit and coconut, grind them up, and pour the mixture into a wooden cup. I set the cup near her head, just in reach, and turn towards the pot over the fireplace. I start a stew, add some of my special spice and wait.

My thoughts drift as I watch her stir. Waves sound in the distance. Water slowly rocked the ship. “Captain Khagi! Sir!” I looked up from my desk at the flustered goat. “What is it, Gapaci? I’m busy!” “Sir, the crew wants to know why we—” “FOR NEPTUNE’S SAKE, I KNOW!” I slammed my fist and stood up. “Why didn’t we raid

that last village sir, why didn’t we kill those rich aristocrats sir, why didn’t we sir, why didn’t we?!” “Sir—” “Because…because there’s no point to it all! I could’ve stayed in some remote village, had a

normal life! I’d be a fisherbeast, you’d run the letter service, Iroto there would be a blacksmith…!” I clenched my teeth and sat down, clutching my head in my paws.

But no. I had decided to leave home in search of adventure. A bitter smile spread across my face. I was so foolish. But aren’t we all? From my crimes on land, to my inducting into the crew of the Leviathan, I had never been

able to shake off this sense of longing. But longing for what? At first I thought it was adventure. I had about ten lives’ worth of adventures. All I got was

some ruined clothes, burned fur, and a bounty on my head. This pirate business—if you could call it that—wasn’t nearly as glamorous as one might think. The adventure was not enough to satisfy my hunger.

F O R G I V E A N D F O R G E T – Jenny Shoda

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But hunger for what? I take no joy in killing. Well, I took no joy in killing. In fact, I was quite reluctant to be promoted to captain. I always made sure that the crew was

safe. They thought I was soft. Until mutiny broke out. I soon realized that sometimes, bloodshed is necessary. They were raised to believe in strength, not wisdom. Survival of the fittest, some said. I had to use my skill with a sword to show them I could still be strong. To show myself that I

could protect them. Protect them from the elements, the law, and, most importantly, themselves. Let’s just say I got a little carried away.

I had a tendency to snap at the crew when I was irritated or tired. Today is one of those times. “Captain Khagi…?” “Yes?” “Are you…?” Gapaci’s voice trails off. “…I’m not crying. Don’t speak of this to anyone.” “Yes, sir.” “Well? Why are you still here?” “Sir, you’ve been much more stressed lately. Are you feeling well?” “It doesn’t concern you.” I inhale deeply. “A captain’s first duty is to his crew. Tell them to

meet in front of my cabin at noon.” “Yes, sir.” Gapaci left the cabin. As soon as he closed the door I sighed and let my head rest on my desk. Are you sure of this, Captain Khagi? My eyes idly trace the rim of my red captain’s coat. Red. It was everywhere. The fire, the blood, the moon, my fur. Villagers screamed, children

cried, the fire snarled, I opened my mouth, nothing came out. Wordless screams pierced the sky, blood-red clouds, the dirt, fire.

What was I doing? What happened? A blur of red, lunging, swinging, slashing— “STOP!” Small fox, red, glaring eyes, fire— “Don’t hurt my son!” Son, bundle in his arms, yes, red, blood, screaming— “PLEASE!” Please. Please. Stop. Kill. No. Don’t. Kill. Wait. No. Stop. Bloody sword—Yes, stop, don’t

move, only a child, just a child, father, tears, don’t leave me, fire burns, blood, please red red red— “Please.” Red gone, what is it, don’t cry, rain, father, don’t die— NO! I jolt awake with a start. I look down at my trembling arms, so small in the red coat. Ugh. Nightmares again. I break out in a cold sweat. Tears run down my cheeks. Well, at least nobody heard me. Oh, shoot—the time—

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I looked out the window. No, not quite noon yet. I sigh in relief. So foolish. How had I managed to completely ignore the panic in innocent faces, the death I

caused? I killed him, with red in my eyes. The poor father, with his son wrapped in his arms. His

blood on my tainted soul. I couldn’t wash it off, simply forget that night and his face. I twist the cloth of the red coat in my paws. I was such a fool. No, that isn’t right; I still am. A small taste of enlightenment sent me into nightmares. Was that what morals took? I

already had very little sleeping time. Pathetic. What would they say, seeing you like this? But the crew remained unaware of their actions. They’re all like children. Why didn’t they see that those villagers had done no harm? Well, all of them except little Hanri, the cabin fox. We took him in out of pity, really. After all, it was my fault he was an orphan. But he had good potential—I could see it in him—and understood my ideals. He had real

spunk. The makings of a good captain. Unlike you, I tell myself. I smile. At least I know the crew will be in good paws. I stood up and mentally prepared myself for the meeting. I looked out of my cabin window

and watched the waves. I had been planning this for a while. Gapaci would be a good mentor. I didn’t tell him; he’d worry.

I didn’t want him to be captain; he had killed before. He didn’t ravish in it, unlike some; I had seen it. Still, I want to be safe…no, I want the crew to be safe.

A captain’s first duty is to his crew. I take out the old, faded parchment in my desk. Pirate’s Oath. They needed something to understand. If I couldn’t do it, then they’d learn by themselves. Yes. Today… “Why do we even call ourselves pirates? We’re disgraces!” Noon. I looked at the ferret Iroto. “A pirate is a disgrace, really. Isn’t that the definition of one?” “No, we need you! But what’s gotten into your head?” They aren’t listening. This entire time, we hadn’t done anything useful in our lives. Nothing had changed. All right…now. “I resign,” I said. Dead silence. But only for a moment. “WHAT?!” “You heard me. It’s time for a new captain. I’ve taught you all that I can.” I took off the captain’s coat and tossed it to Gapaci. “This is my choice,” I said decisively. I took off the captain’s tripoint hat and put it on Hanri’s head. He looked up at me in

confusion. “From now on, Hanri is the captain. Gapaci, I trust you to tutor him.”

13

I looked up at the rest of the crew and took in their shocked faces. I threw the boots on the floor. My back was to the ship’s railing. I climbed on top of it and tried to look confident.

This is for their sake. I let myself fall backwards. “CAPTAIN!” Gapaci lunged forward frantically. I could see the terror in his eyes. The best, most loyal

First Mate a captain could ask for. Loyal to the end. I smiled at him. You’ll be fine. I know you will. I hit the water.

My face is wet; I rub it clean. “Wha…?” Her voice brings me out of my memories. “You’re awake.” She blinks slowly and sits up. “Who…are you?” “Just an old fisherbeast. You can call me Khagi. Who are you?” “…Nagumi.” We sit in silence, looking at the stew over the fire. “Do you remember what happened to you?” She frowns and closes her eyes. “No…” Silence. I wait. “Do you know?” Amnesia. “No. I just found you on a beach. You were sleeping and I brought you to my hut.” “Oh.” She still hasn’t had any of the drink yet. “That drink, there—feel free to drink it.” She does. Slowly. “Thank you.” I smile at her. I don’t deserve any thanks. I’m just selfish. But this time, maybe I can try again. The tide gets to start over.

It’s time for me to do the same.

14

Vania Gunawan

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P a t c h w o r k C i t y

There’s an Emerald Enclave here Smoothies, totes, buildings.

Ombré hair fading to kelp green Bobs along the street into a shop

Moss door opens Blender moans, liquid kale ready to go

Two pairs of sneakers march The women chat, smoothie in hand

Navy Blue Square houses

Scruffy bearded men Women wearing sweaters in Beatnik Black

Both have Jeans tight like scuba diving suits

Skinny Jeans Couple sits on a bench Their eyes shining. They are

Dandelions swaying to the beat of Tranquil guitar and hand clapping Eating chili-covered watermelons

Grey Street is rough, like gravel Puffs of smog slug about the sky

6:00 pm, two teens sit at the bus stop Sharing marigold colored French fries

Flexing their spaghetti arms Sighing with relief

The sound of spluttering turbines still whirring in their ears

The Silver Line Is not silver

It is a bus, patchwork thread Where grey, green, blue convene

We, patchwork people, are stitched together Foie gras meets French fries

Blue nurse coats meets cratered jeans Beethoven meets The Strokes

Spanish meets Arabic I meet you

In L.A., The patchwork city

-Clara Chin 16

I was a piano student. But wasn’t everyone? It seemed to me that in third or fourth grade all of my friends were seized by the irresistible

desire to tickle the 88 keys and enrapture their fellow classmates by playing “Chopsticks” or

“Heart and Soul” on any piano they could find. Needless to say, they all quit after a year or two of lessons, but that’s beside the point.

The point is, everyone has been a piano student. Including me.

Of course, I wouldn’t be writing this story if I had been one of those try-it-for-a-year-and-stop kind of students. I journeyed on, often participating in small youth music festivals and exams, but with all of the indifference my loathsome middle-school self could muster. I often look back in amazement on how I could have been so careless with such an art for so many years, and one of the most important things I overlooked was my teacher. He was a funny old man, Mr. Kraus. He would always greet me with a smile and shake my hand while somehow managing to be as awkward as I was. However, as many a time I came to my piano lesson fearful because I had not practiced, the calm environment that was created in his quaint little studio with two grand pianos was enough to make me relaxed and confident in my abilities, at least for a little while. Praise from him did not come often, and when it did my eyes shone with gratitude and reverence. What did come often, however, were stories. He served in the military for much of his life, hence the deafness in his left ear. There were stories about playing on a piano missing two octaves at the top. There were stories about performances and funny mishaps and even about seeing a piano hanging from a crane 200 feet in the air over the Pacific Heights district of San Francisco. There was a great deal of work to be done in the studio, however, and when I became more passionate about the piano in high school he worked with me for hours and hours on end. Even though I paid

for a 45-minute lesson, I would be there upwards of three hours, working and reworking a piano concerto or listening to a story about a performance gone wrong in Boca Raton, Florida. He always held a special kind of care for me, and he thought I could go far. Even in my first lesson he had confidence in my abilities, even when I did not. “At the rate you are going,” he told me, “you could go to the San Francisco Conservatory when you are 18.” I never forgot that, and I often traveled back to that moment when I felt discouraged about my practice habits or technical abilities at the keyboard.

I once competed in a contest that I spent months and months preparing for, and he guided me every step of the way. I practiced for hours and hours each day, and when I encountered a problem I would call him and we would spend no less than half an hour discussing how to fix it. When I received the letter informing me that I had won the competition, I called him to inform him of the good news. He cried on the phone with me. “I’m so proud of you, Claire,” he told me over and over. “I’m so, so very proud.” But perhaps I am no different than my Chopsticks-playing friends in the third grade, for I, too, came to the end of my career as a pianist. When I told my teacher of my decision, he was shell shocked and begged me to reconsider, but I was set. As a naïve freshman in highschool, I knew what was right for me and no compromises were to be made. So I walked out of my last lesson one day in early August, reflecting on my experiences as a pianist. Perhaps my journey has made me better, I thought. I have learned many skills and life lessons from playing this instrument, but everything has it’s time, and my time for piano has come to an end. But I never contacted Mr. Kraus. I had vowed to come to his house and play something, anything on the piano for him, but a year went by and I never bothered to call him or simply ask how he was doing. I figured he would be

M o l t o V i v a c e – C l a i r e S c h e r m e i s t e r

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alright, but with the onset of Alzheimer’s he may have fared badly without my knowledge. Still, day in and day out, I carried on with my daily life, thinking nothing of the keyboard and nothing of the person who helped me get to know it inside and out. Time passed, and I forgot about Mr. Kraus altogether. Out of sight, out of mind. And then one day when I was a junior in highschool, my bus route changed. No big deal, I thought. But on the first day of the route I was surprised to find it traced through the neighborhood where my old piano teacher lived, not ten minutes

away from my house. As we passed the street he lived on, I glanced up it and saw his house, perched up on the hill like it always had been, warm and welcoming and ready to spend hours and hours at the keyboard if I ever wished to. But out of the corner of my eye, just before the street whizzed out of sight, I saw something else in his beautiful, perfectly groomed front yard. Just a flicker in the wind, but the sight of it made my stomach drop to the floor as my world came to a screeching halt. It was a flag at half-mast.

Clar

a Ch

in

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B I O G R A P H I E S

Clara Chin is 17 and attends West High School (Torrance). She loves listening to Bright Eyes and the Bill Evans Trio. She also enjoys posting on her blog, clarajournals.wordpress.com.

Kaleb Davies is 17 and goes to West High School. Aside from writing, he also enjoys playing in his band, Yousef. Their album “Couch Conversations” can be found on Spotify and SoundCloud. James Hodson is 22. He is a music producer and enjoys spoken word. He is a fan of poets John Cooper Clarke and JB Barrington. Vania Gunawan is a sophomore at West High School. She enjoys drawing and playing video games, especially Pokemon. Yukie Kim is a 17 year old junior at West High School. She likes reading and writing books and fanfiction. She also likes animation and is currently working on several projects. Dinah Muhammad is 17 and goes to UC Riverside. She is a fashion, art, literature, photography, music, and architecture enthusiast. She loves trying new things and meeting new people. Robby Pintado is 16 and goes to West High School. He enjoys playing his guitar and painting. He is currently working on several art projects. Tamara Sapien is 18 and goes to University of Denver. likes “Doctor Who,” “Torchwood,” “Star Trek,” and “Star Wars.” She also likes science fiction, philosophy, and listening to soundtracks. Claire Schermeister, 17, is a junior at Connections Academy of Visual and Performing Arts. She enjoys composing, science, and filmmaking. Taylor Sedoo is 17 and goes to Sonora High School (Sonora). He enjoys thinking, hiking, playing music, reading, and writing. Plato is his greatest source of inspiration. Jenny Shoda. is a junior at West High School. She enjoys drawing anime and writing. She also enjoys reading.

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