Frisson. Issue 2- Hourglass

February 2014

Laney  Martinez  

         

       

S t a f f Editor-in-Chief/Creative Non-fiction Editor. Clara Chin Editor of Short Fiction. Claire Schermeister Contributing Editor. Kaleb Davies. Writers. Short Fiction Poetry Creative Non-

Fiction Claire Schermeister Clara Chin Marenda Bie Kaleb Davies Haseeb Khan Austin Olson

Tamara Sapien

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.

*thefreedictionary.com  

 

Visual Art. Laney Martinez…..cover art Elle Cheung…..4, 13 Omar Rivas…..6  

MESSAGE FROM THE EDITOR Hello readers! We are pleased to present the second issue of Frisson, a non-profit, independent magazine featuring teen writers. Our first issue received 2476 impressions , including several readers in Italy, Greece, and Brazil. We received many complements on the variety in topics and genre, so hopefully we were able to reproduce that this time. It’s always a challenge to raise enough funds because it is expensive to print, so any and all donations are appreciated. We would like to thank Mr. Chin, Ms. Nguyen, Mr. Davies and Ms. Davies, Mr. Schermeister and Ms. Schermeister, Mr. Evans, and Mr. Comparsi for their generous donations.

The second issue is entitled “Hourglass.” The writers were not given a theme, but upon assembling the pieces, we realized that they all dealt with the pressure of time or reminiscing about the past. If you are interested in submitting or donating, email inkgriots@gmail.com.

Happy Reading!

Your editor

Short Fiction Excerpt from The Sweetest Immortality, Claire Schermeister

Poetry “Converse,” Clara Chin

“Of the Boy I Made Myself,” Kaleb Davies Creative Non-Fiction

“Losing Fate,” Haseeb Khan “Time,” Austin Olson

“Life’s Locations,” Tamara Sapien “My Most Precious Treasure,” Marenda Bie

An Excerpt from The Sweetest Immortality, Claire Schermeister This is an excerpt from a novel I wrote about Beethoven and someone he loves very much named

Maria. They have known each other for about 10 years at this point. Beethoven was very sick during his lifetime, and this excerpt takes place after they have just visited his doctor together to try and take care of his serious health problems. He has just been diagnosed with Hepatitis and is feeling very stressed, overwhelmed and worried. She tries to comfort him, but nothing she says seems to make him feel any better. In the previous installment, the both of them share a few bottles of wine, and presently he gets drunk. Despite her admonitions, he drinks too much, vomits and loses consciousness. Panicking, she carries him upstairs and runs to get the doctor.

She ran downstairs, out the door, and down the street. When she reached the doctor's office, breathless, she knocked on the door. He answered. "Why, Maria! I have already seen you once today. What brings you here again? And where is Ludwig?" Maria breathed hard. "Ludwig - he was drinking - he had 3 bottles, although I... told him not to. He vomited and then passed out - his liver is enlarged, but he is still breathing and has a pulse, although he will not - respond to me in any way." The doctor's eyes widened. "Ah. I'm glad you came to fetch me. We'll see what we can do for him." He motioned to his two assistants, grabbed his bag, and together the four of them ran down the street to Beethoven's apartment. Once they reached it, Maria led them upstairs to where Ludwig lay, still unconscious. The doctor set his kit down and got right to work.

"Vitals, please," he said to his assistants, and they did their job. They checked his pulse, breathing, and other things Maria was not so sure of, and recited some numbers back to the doctor, which he wrote down in a logbook. Then, he rummaged around in his bag and brought out a small vial and a knife. "Now Maria, I am going to measure his blood alcohol content, so that we can determine what needs to be done." He took Ludwig's hand and was about to cut it when Maria cried out. "Oh, please, no, not his hand! Anything but that! Can you cut his foot?"

"Why?" asked the doctor. "He is a pianist." He sighed. "Very well." He took off Ludwig's sock and made a small slit on the side of his foot,

from which he collected a bit of blood to put in the vial. Then, he mixed a bit of powder into it and studied it carefully. "His blood alcohol content is far too high, so high as to be dangerous to him. We have to bleed him."

"Oh." Maria whimpered. Without further adieu, the doctor took off Ludwig's coat, rolled up his shirt and made a giant

slash across the middle of his arm, severing the three veins that ran through it. It welled up red for a moment. A trickle, and then a stream of blood ran down Ludwig's arm and into the bucket the doctor had placed below. Maria said nothing, but her face turned as white as the sheets he was lying on. "I do this," the doctor explained, as he checked Ludwig's vitals again, "because his blood has so much alcohol in it, that when we let it out, his body will produce more blood that is free of alcohol, thus allowing him to recover faster." Maria said nothing, but stared at Ludwig's arm and watched the river of blood flow down it. She then took his hand and buried her face in between his body and his arm, and sighed.

 

 

 

After a minute or so, she looked up to see that Ludwig's arm was still being emptied. She also saw that it was starting to turn a more pale shade, and so was his face. She looked up at the doctor and pointed at Ludwig's arm. "Could you stop that? I think he has had enough."

"I think a bit more should do," the doctor replied. Maria panicked. "Oh, please, could you stop? He is turning white!" He turned to her. "Are you married to him?" She shook her head. "No."

"Then, legally, I have the authority to make medical decisions for Ludwig, because I am his doctor." Maria became frustrated. "Anton, I beg you to stop! He has no living immediate relatives, he is in no position to make decisions for himself, I am the closest person alive to him and he would want me to make a decision for him. Stop! In the name of god, STOP!" The doctor looked at Ludwig and sighed. "Very well. I shall do as you ask." He tied a tourniquet around his upper arm and started to stitch up the wound. Maria breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much, doctor." He nodded. He finished sealing Ludwig's wound and wrapped a bandage around it to catch any extra blood. "Now," he said to Maria, "We must wait about an hour to see if he will wake up. If he does not, we shall have to proceed with further treatment." Maria panicked. "What treatment?"

"Well, we would have to cut his stomach open to drain out any alcohol he might have left. You see, if we did not do so, any bleeding we did would be useless, for when he digests the wine, his blood alcohol content will rise. We would also fill his stomach with water, which would hydrate him and help flush out his system."

"Ah." Maria bit her lip. "I did not imagine something like this could happen to him. Will he be alright?" The doctor sighed. "If his body responds to our treatment, he has a good chance of recovering. However, I will not lie to you, Maria: He is in critical condition. Alcohol poisoning is very dangerous." Maria could not take it anymore. The sight of Ludwig's white body lying motionless on the bed was too much. She broke down into sobs, and the doctor reached out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

And so they waited. Maria lay next to Ludwig and held his hand, and every few minutes the assistants would check his vitals. He remained stable, but still unconscious. Every five minutes or so, Maria would shake him and say, "Ludwig, wake up!" But he would not respond to anything she did, and she would lie back down next to him and sob.

After an hour of nervously checking his watch, the doctor stood up. "I'm afraid we must empty Ludwig's stomach now." He got his bag and took various tools out. A sheet. Scissors. A scalpel. "You may not want to stay in here." The doctor said to Maria as he emptied his bag and unbuttoned Ludwig's coat and shirt to lay the sheet on him. "This operation can be quite gruesome.” She shook her head. "No. I wish to stay with him no matter what." He nodded. "Very well then, but you will have to move over a bit so we can reach his stomach. Feel free, however, to hold his hand." He smiled. "In fact, I recommend you do so. I think he knows you're here." Maria gasped. "Do you think so?" The doctor nodded. "I think he'd know your presence any time of the day or night." She smiled.

Then, the doctor said, "Alright. I am going in. We may need your help later, Maria." And with that, he brought his scalpel down and made a slit in Ludwig's abdomen, and the edges of the sheet around it turned a crimson color. Maria cringed and shut her eyes, but squeezed his hand. After a few agonizing minutes, she heard the doctor say, "Ah, yes. He did have wine left in his stomach after all, would you fetch me the pump?" Maria got up and found a rubber ball with a long hose attached to it. She brought it to the doctor, and half-watched as he inserted it into Ludwig's abdomen and squeezed the end. The liquid flowed through the long tube and emptied into the bucket next to the bed that still held much of Ludwig's blood. After a minute or so, the doctor said, "Maria, can you fetch me some water?"

Maria hurried downstairs and got two glasses of water and brought them back to the doctor. He poured them, one by one, into Ludwig's stomach. Finally, the doctor stitched up his stomach, and then the incision in his abdomen. Then, he stood back and sighed. "Well, we have done everything we can

possibly do for him. Now, we can only wait for him to wake up. We will stay here with you, Maria, until a definite result has been achieved."

And so the assistants cleaned up from the surgery and checked vitals every five minutes, while the doctor sat in a chair and Maria laid on the bed next to ludwig, holding his hand. "And now we wait." sighed the doctor. "Yes." Maria replied. "And now we wait."

After that, Maria believed it was the slowest time that had ever gone in the history of the world. She would roll over and shake Ludwig every few minutes, until the doctor finally said, "Maria. I think you could check him less often. Let him rest." She sighed. "Should he have woken up by now?" She asked. The doctor checked his watch. It had been 15 minutes since he had closed up Ludwig's stomach. He sighed. "I don't know, Maria. We just have to wait and see what happens." She rolled over and started to cry. The realization of what was happening had just set in, and she sobbed uncontrollably, making a wet spot on Ludwig's coat. After a few minutes of this, the doctor walked over to the bed and rubbed her back. "Maria, I'm sorry. We just have to wait." "Oh," she cried, "What if he doesn’t wake up?" The doctor sighed. "Maria, I can't say what will happen for certain. We've done absolutely everything we can. And whatever happens, I give you credit for giving him the most care and love possible." That did not comfort Maria. She sobbed even harder. "I couldn't... I couldn't go on if he was gone. Anton, if he doesn’t wake up, I want you to have me go with him." "No." said the doctor. He was trained to handle this type of situation, but this was too much. A tear slid down his cheek. "I could not do that to you, Maria. You are strong, and you are smart. The world cannot afford to lose someone who is so caring and loving to their partner. It would be a foolish decision to do that, and he would not approve. Besides," he said, getting up and walking around the bed to check Ludwig's vitals once more, "We don't know that is going to happen. He is still very much here. Come, Maria." She got up and walked to stand beside the doctor. He motioned for her to touch him. "Feel his pulse." She reached in to touch his neck, where she could feel the faint throb of his heartbeat through his skin. "He is still here." The doctor said to Maria. "His heart still beats. He could very well be just fine." "But he is still unconscious." Maria said. "Ah, yes." The doctor replied. "And for that, we must wait." So Maria walked back and resumed her place on the bed next to Ludwig, the doctor sat back in his chair, and with the operation twenty minutes behind them, they waited.

Elle  Cheung  

Converse, Clara Chin The girl with the brimmed hat Her words have arrived, Sparkling, dressed in glitter, Once half formed, now full beauties Yearning to cascade in torrents Yearning to twist and twirl and loop and whirl Yearning to mesh with his words and to tumble and play But the boy with the Chuck Taylors His words have left They are stubby fragments Roamers overwhelmed by dust Tarnished windows opening momentarily As a gentle wind passes His patience for silly games And for love shrouded in hate Has evaporated She wants their words to mingle like vines shooting to the sky To form waterfalls of rollicking syllables To tango in a linguistic duo of sentences To weave a blanket of words To watch the sentences approach timidly and eye each other in awe— A fierce battle or tryst of the minds Finally her words have arrived But his? His have dried They have died

 

 

 

Of the Boy I’ve Made Myself, Kaleb Davies Of the boy I’ve made myself: His neck hurts His wrists are sore And he’s not sure What he’s here for He’s in the bathroom In the stall Waiting for beautiful topless women to heed his call He’s young and drowning Wanting to be what he’s not But he is everything and more, Mad, crazy, filled with foolish, bleeding thought And I’ve pushed him, and tortured him, To be that boy I want so badly to be me. Of the boy I’ve made myself: I’m so sorry

 

Omar  Rivas  

Losing Fate, Haseeb Khan

They say it’s darkest just before dawn, but you don’t realize just how right they are until you discover it for yourself. The Pre-Dawn Darkness crept around me as I inched forward. The concrete structures in front of me seemed to be engulfed in an ocean of shadow, with only the street lights giving way to the path I stood on. But perhaps the most menacing part of it all was the air. With each breath I took I could feel myself falling to pieces. It was as though it was slowly killing me. I could hear him taunting me, “Brilliant, Haseeb. First you think it’s a good idea to stop taking your Thalassemia1 pills for three straight days. Then you decide to sneak out of your house to go run at 4 am. No pills means means no iron, no iron means deformed blood cells, deformed blood cells meant no oxygen intake. That, plus the harshly cold air around you, is a recipe for success. You know, if your plan is to end up dead on the street.” Now I’m not suicidal, stupid, or crazy, but I am brash. I like to remind myself that my life isn’t scripted, that fate doesn't always dictate me. That I can choose to break patterns and the monotony of it all. But sometimes “defying fate” screws me over. Something snapped. I started coughing, and it turned into a fit. I bent down, both hands covering my mouth. It felt as though I had daggers in my throat. I sturdied myself and looked down at my hands, painted red in blood after my bout with the toxicly cold air. I need to get home, now. I started running. Bad Idea #2. I started off fine. It was a regular sprint and I was making good time, but my good friend the air wasn't going to allow that. I started coughing, again. Ignore it. Keep going. I kept pace. More coughing. This time I saw a red glimmer. Ignore it. Keep going. I sped up. Now I was coughing profusely. Ignore it. Keep going. And then it hit me. My lungs couldn’t take anymore abuse. Fate threw me a well-timed blow. I tripped and fell. Hard. My head crashed on the sidewalk first, and the rest followed suit. I screamed. No one came to help. Screams dont mean anything if no one is around to listen. “Look at you, even the sidewalk is kicking your ass.” I stopped coughing. I guess the air decided I had enough. The sidewalk had been merciful however, only a cut to the temple, which had taken over the job of wasting whatever blood I had left. I looked up, the night sky above me, but it was blurred, and I couldn’t tell if it was fog or my newly received concussion that was causing it. “This must be what hell looks like...” And then I saw it.

 

 

My eyes widened. My heart raced. My mind filled with rage. I started laughing. Loudly. I must have looked crazy. To random passersby, I was just a 14 something year old boy laid across a sidewalk in the middle of nowhere at the dead of night, with blood on his clothes, dripping from his mouth, and slipping from his skull. And he was Laughing? I spoke to the nothingness around me. “You think you’re funny, don’t you? A Shooting star? Really? Thats the best you could do? A police car? An Ambulance? At this point I would settle for some dude who actually goes for runs at this hour. Instead of all that. You give me a shooting star? In all of your divine wisdom, this is the best course of action?” And then it came to me. This wasn't a blessing. It was an insult. “You’re nothing more than a child”, he was saying, “and this is what children wish on right?” “So go ahead. Make a wish. Lets see what good it’ll do you.” No. No one was going to come save me. Not a police car. Not an ambulance. Not some dude who actually does go for runs at this hour. And certainly. Not. God. I got up. It didn't matter that I couldn't feel my legs. It didn't matter that I was still losing blood. It didn't matter that my lungs refused to revive me. It didn't matter that every force in the Universe kept screaming at me to get back on the ground and fail. I made it happen. I blazed forward. I shook the Earth with my might and I didn't look back. You think you can mock me? You think you can insult Haseeb Khan and get away with it? You’re wrong. I got home safely that day. And I’ve gotten home safely every day since. Because I don't wait for shooting stars—I make them myself.

1- Thalassemia (thal-uh-SEE-me-uh) is an inherited blood disorder characterized by less hemoglobin and fewer red blood

cells in your body than normal. (Mayo Clinic Definition)

Time, Austin Olson Why must we keep time captive? Why do we fantasize about traveling through the fourth

dimension? What is the point of learning the dates of events that have already passed? The word ‘time’ is the most common noun in the English language. Clearly, humans spend a good amount of time thinking and talking and writing about just that. What does our obsession with the temporal element reveal about the human race?

The first calendar ever found was from Scotland, made about 10,000 years ago. Ever since those ancient Scots wrote down that first lunar year, we have been getting more and more preoccupied with time. Every early society had their own calendar; the Greeks had twelve months, the Romans had 304 days, the Mayans had two calendars cycling through at the same time with different rates, the Scandinavians had two seasons. Still, it wasn’t enough. We had to get more precise. The first clocks, both water clocks and sundials, were created in Egypt around 2000 BC. The first pocket watches were introduced in the 17th century, allowing man to track time wherever he ventured. Quartz oscillators led to the atomic clock, now accepted as the most precise way to keep time in the universe, accurate to thirty billionths of a second. But why? What is the purpose of this superfluous specificity?

Time travel has been a pop-culture phenomenon since H.G. Wells published The Time Machine in 1895. Now, Time-Turners, the TARDIS(s), telephone booths, and Deloreans have carried an array of characters (wizards, aliens, stoners, teenagers) through the fourth dimension. They travel in both directions—into the exhilarating future and backwards into the () past. What is it about these types of books, movies, and TV shows that captivates audiences around the world? The goal of going back in time, it seems, is to change the past, to take something bad and erase it from history. It never works out, due to paradoxes, but the aim is always to make things better. Venturing into the future allows the travelers to experience a time period when their corpses will be buried in the ground, possibly allowing them to learn something about their own futures and change them. Audiences are obviously mesmerized by the idea that we can experience different eras by simply stepping into a machine and pressing some buttons. Even though it takes some of our precious time on earth to watch and read these fantasies, we happily oblige, ever watching the clock with the other eye.

Why must we keep time captive? The answer is found in time travel movies and books. Humans are naturally discontent with their lives. Sure, the present time period is fine, but what would make it better? What can we change in the past to make it better? What can we learn about the future to make it better? How can we cure inbred human melancholy about the current trends, events and technology? This lack of satisfaction, this absence of fulfillment cannot be cured. Scientists and artists have accomplished incredible things over the course of history. We now control chemicals, train animals, tell plants where to live, wield paintbrushes and electric guitars and make works of art. Humans control everything—except time. Like instincts instruct us, if there is anything stronger than us, control it. Control it and punish it for being so tough. Control it and dissect it until we find its weakness. Control it and let Hollywood beautify or vilify it. Control it. The problem is, even after lifetimes of experimenting and hypothesizing and trying to manipulate time to our liking, we’ve come up empty. We must pretend to keep it captive, for time is really our master. It tells us when to start kindergarten, when to graduate high school, when to interview for a job, when to attend our retire party, when to lie down in our beds under the dirt. We are captive to time, and there is nothing we can do about it but pretend otherwise.

Life’s Locations, Tamara Sapien In a lifetime full of interesting and diverse experiences at equally amazing locations, it is hard to

choose a favorite, just one place that makes me feel pure unbridled happiness. First I must consider all of the different places I’ve been to and analyze my thoughts, actions, and emotions that those places caused. I could think of my room where I feel pride because I designed it, and now organize and upkeep it to my standards. I could think of Cortina d’Ampezzo, Italy, where I went on a band trip and thought it was the most beautiful place in the world with steep alpines, a laughing rushing creek, and a serene mountainside town lost in time. But my thoughts turn to somewhere else instead; somewhere most people see as mundane—a football field, or as I like to call it, a marching field. As a member of my high school marching band I have spent over 1,600 hours over the past 4 years on a marching field. Each year I’ve worked my hardest at band camp, Monday night practices, and zero periods to learn and perfect field shows. I started as a freshman unsure of what to do or how to do it, but eager to learn from the upperclassmen. I learned how to control my body to perform attention, parade rest, and dress center dress. Marching came next in the quest for perfection, it required that we keep our legs straight, roll our feet, hold our upper backs at attention, and stay in step. Hours were dedicated in the sweltering heat of summer on the field to marching. After practices, turf would be stuck in our shoes, the metronome’s beat would still be clicking in our head, and sunburns starting to make themselves known. Then the time came for us to perform our show. Suited up in uniform, we took the glistening field lit up by the towering stadium lights.

The field show is a spiritual experience. I am not alone in performance on the field. I know that there are 250 other like-minded individuals who are out there giving the show their all with me. The experience is like no other as the love and passion we share is palpable in the air we gulp down between notes. It is on the field that a group of 250 high-schoolers become more than just that become a cohesive emotional unit that puts our hearts on the line in the most vulnerable of ways. Each person experiences the show is slightly different ways, but we cannot deny the bonds that are present when performing as one.

To me the field show is a struggle. It is always a compromise between performing stoically, attempting to perfect the techniques we use, and performing emotionally, giving into the passion which fuels the theme. The field show is a great opportunity to showcase all that we have learned, but still bring us joy. The field is the canvas upon which we display our masterpiece and it brings meaning to each of our lives as we come to realize our place in the show and, ultimately, in life.

My Most Precious Treasure, Marenda Bie Creatures will do anything to protect their most precious treasure. A mother bear will sacrifice

even her life to save her cub from the hunter. A tiger will kill anyone unlucky enough to trespass into his beloved territory. Even I have something to protect: a dilapidated suitcase of memories from my adventures across the world.

It is one ugly, faded container of useless tokens. However, it rescued me from an otherwise monotonous life: on darker days, I bury my head inside it, drowning myself in bittersweet recollections to avoid daunting reality; on happier days, I bravely tear open that ramshackle luggage to recount my adventures to others.

Dancing barefoot on China’s sun-baked streets to the undying beat of children’s laughter—sprawling out on a Kentucky grass hill facing a dusky sky dotted with fireflies—sliding down a snow-covered hill on a crisp Canadian morning... These are some of the precious images that will stay with me forever. These are the memories I cherish and hope others can appreciate: the countries I have visited—the people I met—the lives that touched me—the breathtaking individuality of each country, their different cultures, and their beauty.

Why would I need to protect my treasure? What is there to protect them from? It is inoffensive…and beautiful in every way… Nothing can hurt it—or so I thought, until reality struck me across the face.

Today, on one wet Californian morning, as I daydream through Biology class, the words on my assignment do not look like words. They look like raindrops. Raindrops! It almost never rains in Torrance!

It did though, relentlessly, in this other place… I am content in my suitcase of memories, buried deep under those impenetrable layers—until a

voice pulls me out. “Ching chong chin chang!” My sweet daydreams disperse. “Ching chong! Ping pong! I’m a Chinese-uh! Ha-ha!” His rude laughter stings me with every

coarse, ugly syllable. “Stop it!” I mutter under my breath, eyes glued to my assignment so he could not see the hot

flames of annoyance burning my pupils. “What? I’m kidding.” “Real funny,” I throw my response offhandedly at his feet, trying to appear as if I couldn’t

possibly care less. I am not too convincing. He guffaws a bit more, relishing my aggravation, before sauntering off to bother someone else.

Across the room, I heard that same, impertinent voice. Meanwhile, I slink back into my suitcase, drowning myself in a memory of when I was six and

had just left China for Kentucky. At the time, I spoke no English, but had moved to a town where everyone else—mostly Caucasians—spoke only that language.

Like today, that memory pitter-patters with fresh rain… “Angeline’s coming!” my seven-year-old cousin’s ecstatic laughter echoes in my ears. “Who’s she?” I asked her in Chinese. She opened her mouth but my mother’s angry words shoved my cousin’s response out the

window. “Stay away from Angeline,” Mom frowned. “Oh come on! She’s fun!” my cousin reassured me and dragged me out of the room, far away

from my disapproving mother.

The doorbell rang. My cousin flew to the door and escorted in a tall, haughty, eight-year-old girl dressed in a pink, lacy dress and wearing an expression that turned sour whenever she gazed in my direction. Nevertheless, I was excited, too: she was Chinese and my thoughts soared in hopes of making a new friend in this lonely place.

Angeline unknowingly flattened my wish after uttering her first sentence…in English. She and my cousin babbled for an eon in a language that sounded like cotton candy to my ears.

Words flopped back and forth. Each syllable was soft, slurred, incoherent. Nevertheless, I tagged along like a lost puppy, tongue virtually lolling around in hopes of impressing this Angeline.

I continued stalking them like a fool until she spoke a handful of words I could actually understand:

“You look like a sick dog.” And she was finally talking to me. …Not that I appreciated her words. I fled to my mother in hopes of consolation, but there was none. She had warned me and I had so

willingly leapt into the ditch I dug for myself. I cried alone in bed. The other kids at school had treated me like a green, slimy alien, but I expected Angeline to be

different. She was Chinese! However, she found me contemptuous because I spoke no English and obviously deserved to be crushed.

This is the result of ignorance… The pain of falling victim to prejudice.

Slinking back into reality with the pain of that memory still lingering, I call out to the boy with the fake Chinese accent, “That’s really unkind of you!”

He snickers back. But I do not give up. Some day he’ll learn. One day he will realize that a foreign language is not just a string of funny-

sounding syllables. Every culture is exquisite. Every language is beautiful, and despite the obvious differences, they all serve the same purpose. They express joy and sadness. They create stories and memories. “Love and understanding” has the same meaning in English or Chinese.

As I hide inside my suitcase, again, I reach back to the six-year-old me and give that memory of her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m here to protect you.

Artist Bios Marenda Bie, 14, is a freshman at West High School (Torrance, CA). She enjoys writing

and playing the piano. Elle Cheung, 16, is a sophomore at Peninsula High School (Palos Verdes, CA). She

enjoys drawing and dancing. Clara Chin, 16, is a junior at West High School. She enjoys playing the piano, writing,

and watching Wes Anderson films. Kaleb Davies, 16, is a junior at West High School. He enjoys music and running. Haseeb Khan, 17, is a junior at West High School and enjoys pole vaulting and running. Laney Martinez, 16, is a junior at Connections Academy of Visual and Performing Arts

(Sonora, CA). She likes philosophy as well as modern abstractions on classical art and literature. Austin Olson, 17, is a junior at West High School. He enjoys playing beach volleyball

and wants to become an aerospace engineer. Omar Rivas, 18, is a senior at West High School. He enjoys drawing, running, and sports. Tamara Sapien, 18, is a senior at West High School. She likes “Doctor Who,”

“Torchwood,” “Star Trek,” and “Star Wars.” She also likes science fiction, philosophy, and listening to soundtracks.

Claire Schermeister, 15, attends Connections Academy of Visual and Performing Arts. She enjoys composing, science, and filmmaking.

Elle  Cheung