el·e·gi·ac
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the everyday tragedy leaves not sorrow but silence in its wake—sometimes, the saddest things are the ones we forget to name.
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by Gabe Miller-Trabold, Class of 2020
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The Devil, The Scientist, and the Falling Man
Modeled After: Washington Irving, “The Devil and Tom Walker”
by Jeffrey Gao, Class of 2020
Modeled After: Washington Irving, “The Devil and Tom Walker”
by Jeffrey Gao, Class of 2020
Deep within the heart of the Tianzi Mountains, pillars of earth and rock rise from the ground, terminating at incredibly thin points in the sky. Each tower, decorated in deep shades of vegetation, crescendoed in islands a mere few feet across. By one account, there had been a man, standing at the top of one of these islands. Stories spread by word of mouth, about a man who had fallen; but had yet to move an inch, despite being suspended over a mile in the air. The locals determined it to be the work of the devil, displaying his catch like a spider to a fly, for all to see before its untimely death. Even still, around the world, the scientific community longed for a chance to uncover this wealth of hidden knowledge. Sixteen years ago, a group of physicists set up camp in the base of the mountains, intending to study the anomaly, and never returned.
Around the summer of 2041, just at the time when tensions were high in the world, even years after the armistice, lived a man by the name of Vasily Jensen. He was Russian, but had changed his name after defecting to the United States back in the thirties. Now he was in the Hunan District of China, less than half a world away from becoming a wanted criminal. He was a gruff and haughty man, caused only by a failure to resist correcting others in argument. His affliction had caused many a person to desert him: his wife, his son, and even other respected members of the scientific community refused to come within a respectable distance near his disrespectful attitude. Vasily had come on this expedition regrettably noting that he was stuck working with others, and others regrettably noting that they were stuck working with him. The established base camp was a standard mobile research facility, pitched less than a kilometer away from the actual anomaly, yet it was considered pale and miserable in comparison to the beauty that made up their surroundings. Rows of tents were displayed in an orderly fashion; concrete was poured and various facilities fabricated using stock grey material. As it seemed, nature itself made a conscious effort to stay well away from such abomination placed in the heart of the forest.
Every day, Dr. Jensen’s routine involved trekking across the heavily forested region, to reach what others referred to as the “epicenter” of the anomaly. A telltale signature that one was approaching the epicenter was the noise. Not just any noise, but the lowest possible base at an inexplicably earsplitting volume. Washed away were any other lesser frequencies. Natural sounds such as a breeze through trees and songs of birds in flight replaced flooded with this dull, throbbing sound, similar to that of an airplane cabin at high altitudes, yet only a thousand times louder. Even more disturbing was the fact that this was a man made sound, only evident as one entered the site. Giant towers of machines, some ninety feet high, formed an odd circle around a space seemingly constructed of fractured glass. Within it, one could haphazardly discern an outline of a human body. The warped, fractured space had begun expanding soon after its discovery, forming an impenetrable barrier, and the mechanical towers only served to slow its progression. Despite the heat and unbearable humidity, Dr. Jensen wasted not a second more, and set about his work.
Late was the hour when Dr. Jensen returned to the base camp. He paused, and leaned against an unpacked container for respite against the blistering heat. Had he not been so tired, Vasily would have not wasted his time loitering, yet as it was he could not be bothered with other endeavors at the time. He had been just about to close his eyes, listening to the commotion of the camp, when he noticed a metallic glint from a smaller box beside him. He pulled out a case of bound vials containing amber colored liquid, shaped in a similar fashion to those of conventional firearms rounds used twenty years ago.
“Hmph,” grunted Vasily as he picked up a vial to give it a tap.
“I would put that down,” warned a cautious voice. “A contract for another one of our… clients, quite deadly. Without disclosing too much, imagine cancer in a bottle.”
Vasily lifted his head to regard a man in a crisp and impeccably clean suit, not a speck of dust or sweat anywhere to be found about him. Each strand of hair on his head was in its place, unlike the raggedy-headedness of other men in the area. He was clean-shaven as well; a rarity given the less than opulent conditions that Jensen found himself to be in. Carried in his hands was a simple tablet, from the angle Vasily was sitting at, he could discern only many multitudes of numbers, which he assumed to be related to finances.
“If I am not mistaken,” said Vasily curtly, “you are the lawyer corporate sent.”
“At your service,” replied the man with a nod.
They walked together to a nearby tent; the lawyer pulled up a chair for Vasily and beckoned for him to sit, which he did. The lawyer informed him of an opportunity, one which would become the key to the solution they sought, allowing for plenty of time to complete research and draft up proper measures for containment. They talked for hours on end, and what seemed to be the answer was well within Jensen’s reach: yet even still certain conditions had to be met. What these conditions were, the lawyer asked Jensen to never disclose publicly. Never had he been at an impasse for so long. He was not an indecisive man, especially when the end goal was in sight. It was not until the earliest hours in the morning did the man pause.
“What proof do I have to confirm what you have said to be true?” asked Jensen.
“Here are the documents,” said the man, sliding his tablet across to him.
Vasily signed, and took with him a briefcase as he left.
Before he retired for the night, Jensen visited the laboratory, and plugged a single solid state drive, the sole inhabitant of the briefcase, into a computer, and left it running.
The next morning, Vasily was awakened by a dream of flight, one consisting of a symphony of flashing images. Although intriguing, it mattered little, and as soon as he rose from his bed the previous night’s fancies had completely disappeared from his mind. When he returned to the lab, Jensen faced more pressing matters; the data was insurmountable, before him lay the key to the very universe itself. Vasily was ecstatic; he was now convinced that what he had found was no mere illusion. Hesitant as he was to confide in others, Dr. Jensen had asked a fellow physicist, Dr. Zhena Arvad to cross check his findings. In another world, they could have been partners, both extremely dedicated to their work and its cause. In this one, however, they had, based on their prior history together, decided it was best to stay apart. He told her what the man in black had told him, of how he had attained this data and the terms that had come with it. Once Dr. Arvad realized the possibilities that would follow suit after such a breakthrough, she urged her colleague to comply with the lawyer’s terms. Vasily, on account of Dr. Arvad’s prompting, concluded that he would not, and flatly refused out of concern with the implications of the deal. Bitter were the quarrels they fought, Zhena arguing for the myriad benefits, and Vasily the potential dangers, especially the weaponization of inherently dangerous concepts. At last, Zhena furiously stormed out of the lab, resolute that she would succeed on her own account, regardless of Jensen’s actions.
Determined to realize her goals, she had stolen the drive from under Jensen’s nose, and spent the rest of the afternoon gathering essentials for the journey to the epicenter. By evening, unnoticed by the rest of the camp, Dr. Arvad began to make her way into the woods. Only an hour or so later, it occured to Dr. Jensen that he check upon his colleague, fearing her rash ideals would lead to similarly rash actions. Logically, he came to realize, that with the information in hand, Dr. Arvad would try to gain access past the expanding temporal barrier surrounding the epicenter, to gleam the mysteries held within. Vasily hurriedly made his way to the office of the Site Director, and informed him of the currently unfolding events. Within minutes, the entirety of base camp entered into a state of high alert. Standard security protocols dictated that all areas be monitored by surveillance. The current security feed was brought on screen, to show Dr. Arvad approaching the barrier encased in a thick containment suit, designed to maintain vital functions in the most inhospitable of environments. Site security had been dispatched moments earlier to investigate a perimeter disturbance, which Jensen and the Site Director now suspected to have been a diversion. Aside from the alarms and the noise, the epicenter site was empty. The security team had been recalled, though Jensen suspected they would arrive too late to intervene.
What became of her nobody knew, only what happened next. Dr. Zhena Arvad, drawn towards the barrier like a sailor to a siren, stepped through, and vanished. The barrier violently exploded with activity, expanding outwards far past its initial confines. Nearby Kant counters gauged massive amounts of radiation and exotic particles, which immediately after fizzled away back towards normalcy. Dr. Arvad’s story becomes contested amongst scientists and historians; some asserted that she had been transported to another dimension; others, that she had been withdrawn to an extra-temporal space.
Over the course of a few days, site activity had returned to baseline, with only a few containment towers compromised. Jensen had received the approval of the Site Director to mount a formal expedition, to formally ascertain the damages inflicted on the surrounding area. Within a few hours, Jensen amongst others arrived at the fractalled epicenter. En lieu of the few monitoring stations which had found themselves too close to the expanded barrier, only a few isolated piles of rust and ancient metals lay forlorn. Jensen and the others maintained a safe and cautious distance from the now erratically radiating fractures. Over the noise of the remaining machines, the captain of the security team ordered each person to finish their work, hesitant to stay where he was for more than they needed to. Without warning, the barrier once again erupted in activity, and the captain frantically ordered retreat. However, fractals whipped themselves out and apart, faster than one could run, transforming the surrounding area into an horrid abomination of convoluted space. One by one, each person surrendered to the border, each one vanishing after passing through. Jensen, running as fast as his legs could carry him, but not fast enough for a man in his late fifties, passed through himself.
A nearby corporate surveillance drone, patrolling thousands of feet high in altitude, had been alerted to the incidents at the site, detecting several bursts of radiant energy. By the time it was able to fly over the incident zone, any indication of human activity in the area prior had never seemed to have existed.
Jensen found himself to be falling. The sun flew across the sky at a frightening pace, the moon and stars whipped across the night sky in the fraction of a second, like pellets of silver. Days and nights blurred together into a perpetual, incandescent gray; trees flickered between shades of green and brown, and the roar of the great machines that was once all encompassing rusted, and sank into the ground, swallowed like an animal in quicksand. In another second, the cliffs had started to crumble, the rocks that had been many feet above beat him to the ground, and crumbled to dust. Skies and clouds once irrefutable disappeared to reveal a naked sun hanging in space. An incredible, beastly figure rose out of a sea that had not existed mere moments prior, casting a shadow upon the barren lands previously lush and verdant. Dr. Jensen hit the bottom with the full force of terminal velocity, and the world that he knew was no more.
Such was the end of the expedition and their ill-obtained knowledge. Let all future explorers lay this story to heart. Suspended hundreds of feet above the ground, the doctor can still be seen to this day; found to still be falling, decaying to a perverse sense of time, hanging only still to a common person, yet rapidly approaching the fate of all fates. In fact, a proverb, prevalent through the region, has been resolved by many from the story of “The Devil, The Scientist, and the Falling Man.”
THE END
thunderstorm
by Anonymous, Class of 2020
yesterday;
dear child, you watched
the worst of man wrap their fingers
around your fragile neck.
watched them extract ichor of the damned
and inject it into your skin.
little girl, their stained lips mocked,
know your place.
today;
dear child, the skies are singing
for the end of
chalk lines drawn by man.
heavy clouds roar for freedom,
reverberating inside your chest.
rise, they cry in weather-worn voices,
for a new day shall come.
tomorrow;
dear child, wait until the sun
rises again,
hold your breath until
light flecks green grass,
clear waters shimmer,
songbirds of spring chirp,
until the faces of man
are wet with the joy of
justice for all.
by Anonymous, Class of 2020
yesterday;
dear child, you watched
the worst of man wrap their fingers
around your fragile neck.
watched them extract ichor of the damned
and inject it into your skin.
little girl, their stained lips mocked,
know your place.
today;
dear child, the skies are singing
for the end of
chalk lines drawn by man.
heavy clouds roar for freedom,
reverberating inside your chest.
rise, they cry in weather-worn voices,
for a new day shall come.
tomorrow;
dear child, wait until the sun
rises again,
hold your breath until
light flecks green grass,
clear waters shimmer,
songbirds of spring chirp,
until the faces of man
are wet with the joy of
justice for all.
Anger in Women
a photo essay by Grace Miller-Trabold, Class of 2021
a photo essay by Grace Miller-Trabold, Class of 2021
16/03/1968 (the mute: willow, willow, willow)
by Anonymous
So.
Another day has passed
and so—the sky.
It is dark and blue-black, and there are small flashes of white.
He looks south, opposite the North Star
(Polaris)
and the trees clear above his head just so,
parting on both sides of the river at his feet
(more of a stream, really;
it is thin and flooded with moonlight
(—sunlight? it is the sun’s light, not the moon’s)
and its sound is not deafening:
it is tumbling water and flat, weathered rocks
and air that cannot make up its mind whether to be warm or cool.).
So he lies between the stream and the stars,
and he thinks because he has not done so for a long time
and because no one seems to do so anymore,
but mainly because there is nothing else to do.
Years ago,
(Five? Ten? Fifteen?
Perhaps even a few hundred
—the stars look the same after so long.)
he sat on the small, wooden boat his father had made
(he always thought it was falling apart),
the one with the left side that was half a meter longer than the right
and the splitting oars,
(those were, indeed, falling apart)
and his brother pointed to the sky
(it was dark,
save for the lantern sitting between them on the floorboards)
and traced two invisible lines between a handful of random stars,
one vertical and one horizontal from where they sat,
and said, That one is Cygnus, see?
and proceeded to draw the lines again with his broken left index finger.
Of course he did not see;
it was not something that could be explained with speech and faltering hand motions.
He had to understand it naturally,
without being prompted.
But he nodded because that was the socially acceptable thing to do,
and his brother said, It’s a swan,
and he wanted to know why that had not been explained to him earlier,
as it most certainly would have helped.
(He tried not to curse old, dead,
(—rotting?)
Greek men who he’d never met before
for making up shapes amidst the dark of the night,
shapes he could not see,
shapes that did not exist.)
So he said, What about something more interesting?
and his brother looked shocked.
That is interesting. It’s my favorite one.
And he shrugged and leaned over the choked wood of the boat
and stared into the river,
this river,
and wondered what could possibly be interesting about empty blue space
and the swan floating through it.
He finds it easily.
It is one of the only ones he can see,
the rest shrouded by shadowy clumps of leaves.
He traces it with his eyes,
and tries to imagine a bird there
—it would be flying away from him
so he stops trying to imagine it.
But he thinks about it
and why his brother liked it so much.
(Swans,
pure and good and
(gone?).
Oh, not all of them, but a good handful.
(More than that: hundreds. Five hundred. More?)
Everything is gone at some point in time,
even stars.
He wonders:
if stars eventually burn out,
what of the constellations?
(What of the swan?)
And: why do horrible things always happen to everything that’s good?
(Why do horrible things always happen to everything?)
He imagines the universe as a river,
and someone in a boat swaying on the water,
fishing rod in hand.)
So that’s why.
He’s only ever seen a swan at the zoo,
years ago,
back when they still had money.
It was thin,
white but dirtied,
and so still that he didn’t know if it was asleep or dead.
(He dimly wondered if there was a difference,
trapped behind those unyielding metal bars.
He said as much to his mother.
She gave him a quizzical look
and said in that heavy dialect
(that sounded like her throat was half-full with water
that she was unwilling (unable?) to swallow),
They can fly, you know.
(He did not know.
He had never seen a swan before.)
So why don’t they?
Her gaze turned sad.
She said, Let’s have lunch.
He looked back and willed the swan
to open its eyes and fly away,
but the bird continued to sleep.)
(He hoped it was still alive.)
He sits up and plucks a blade of grass and splits it in half and throws it into the stream
and looks at the sky reflected on the surface
(like the old mirror his grandmother had next to her bed,
wavy and rusted,
the one he shattered after she--
(why why why whywhywhywhy?)
it is burnt now, anyway.
Liquid glass.)
and wishes he could reach into the water,
pick up the stars like they are glowing orbs,
rearrange them so the swan is flying up,
away from the earth
(and perhaps he would keep one or two for himself,
just so he can have something).
by Anonymous
So.
Another day has passed
and so—the sky.
It is dark and blue-black, and there are small flashes of white.
He looks south, opposite the North Star
(Polaris)
and the trees clear above his head just so,
parting on both sides of the river at his feet
(more of a stream, really;
it is thin and flooded with moonlight
(—sunlight? it is the sun’s light, not the moon’s)
and its sound is not deafening:
it is tumbling water and flat, weathered rocks
and air that cannot make up its mind whether to be warm or cool.).
So he lies between the stream and the stars,
and he thinks because he has not done so for a long time
and because no one seems to do so anymore,
but mainly because there is nothing else to do.
Years ago,
(Five? Ten? Fifteen?
Perhaps even a few hundred
—the stars look the same after so long.)
he sat on the small, wooden boat his father had made
(he always thought it was falling apart),
the one with the left side that was half a meter longer than the right
and the splitting oars,
(those were, indeed, falling apart)
and his brother pointed to the sky
(it was dark,
save for the lantern sitting between them on the floorboards)
and traced two invisible lines between a handful of random stars,
one vertical and one horizontal from where they sat,
and said, That one is Cygnus, see?
and proceeded to draw the lines again with his broken left index finger.
Of course he did not see;
it was not something that could be explained with speech and faltering hand motions.
He had to understand it naturally,
without being prompted.
But he nodded because that was the socially acceptable thing to do,
and his brother said, It’s a swan,
and he wanted to know why that had not been explained to him earlier,
as it most certainly would have helped.
(He tried not to curse old, dead,
(—rotting?)
Greek men who he’d never met before
for making up shapes amidst the dark of the night,
shapes he could not see,
shapes that did not exist.)
So he said, What about something more interesting?
and his brother looked shocked.
That is interesting. It’s my favorite one.
And he shrugged and leaned over the choked wood of the boat
and stared into the river,
this river,
and wondered what could possibly be interesting about empty blue space
and the swan floating through it.
He finds it easily.
It is one of the only ones he can see,
the rest shrouded by shadowy clumps of leaves.
He traces it with his eyes,
and tries to imagine a bird there
—it would be flying away from him
so he stops trying to imagine it.
But he thinks about it
and why his brother liked it so much.
(Swans,
pure and good and
(gone?).
Oh, not all of them, but a good handful.
(More than that: hundreds. Five hundred. More?)
Everything is gone at some point in time,
even stars.
He wonders:
if stars eventually burn out,
what of the constellations?
(What of the swan?)
And: why do horrible things always happen to everything that’s good?
(Why do horrible things always happen to everything?)
He imagines the universe as a river,
and someone in a boat swaying on the water,
fishing rod in hand.)
So that’s why.
He’s only ever seen a swan at the zoo,
years ago,
back when they still had money.
It was thin,
white but dirtied,
and so still that he didn’t know if it was asleep or dead.
(He dimly wondered if there was a difference,
trapped behind those unyielding metal bars.
He said as much to his mother.
She gave him a quizzical look
and said in that heavy dialect
(that sounded like her throat was half-full with water
that she was unwilling (unable?) to swallow),
They can fly, you know.
(He did not know.
He had never seen a swan before.)
So why don’t they?
Her gaze turned sad.
She said, Let’s have lunch.
He looked back and willed the swan
to open its eyes and fly away,
but the bird continued to sleep.)
(He hoped it was still alive.)
He sits up and plucks a blade of grass and splits it in half and throws it into the stream
and looks at the sky reflected on the surface
(like the old mirror his grandmother had next to her bed,
wavy and rusted,
the one he shattered after she--
(why why why whywhywhywhy?)
it is burnt now, anyway.
Liquid glass.)
and wishes he could reach into the water,
pick up the stars like they are glowing orbs,
rearrange them so the swan is flying up,
away from the earth
(and perhaps he would keep one or two for himself,
just so he can have something).
by Gabe Miller-Trabold, Class of 2020
Linoleum
by Chloe Nguyen, Class of 2022
The trash didn’t try hiding nestled in the cracks of the linoleum. The dirt, crumbs, and that mysterious liquid no one bothered to look at or bother to clean. You could see the grime, the things we no longer wanted, and so we discarded and neglected them with the floors.
Leave it to next week, they’d say. Later, like a pestering Monday-morning alarm. No one wanted their mind drawn to the floors, so when it finally came to cleaning them, nothing budged. Nothing changed. Not so much an accessory as it was for functionality. Besides, they would be in our past once we left that house, once we left that house for good.
“Tile,” If you could even call it that. Some moron thought they could melt a million elastic bands, pour them towards their feet, and it would constitute a floor. Sure, maybe it wasn’t elastic. At least it felt like that. Used, old, and almost rubbery if it were a particularly humid day.
In an all-Asian family like mine, you’re an outsider if you can’t see your socks the moment you step in the house. Maybe you thought the floors would be cleaner this way than otherwise. No thanks. I’d rather sleep on the grass than on the linoleum. I mean, my immune system probably had a better chance out there anyways.
Before we got here, before there were these newer floors, my parents brought me up on muddy, off-white “tiles” senior to them. At our old house, I grew used to hearing my clammy feet peel off the ground, where I’d always receive new “treasures” clinging to the pads.
You wouldn’t find anything pretty if you looked down. Frankly, the floors were ugly and an eyesore. I wanted to abandon them and all those things I tolerated stepping on. I wanted to liberate my toes of the strange goo melding them together. Go somewhere I didn’t have to sleep with three other people in a room. Somewhere without those hideous, linoleum floors.
Since we had moved, I figured I had graduated from the sticker residue on the ground and beneath my feet. Perhaps I’d be through not knowing what was in that crack of linoleum I stepped on. No more washing off the smell of perspiration and fish sauce so germs wouldn’t invade my bed. No more wishing for more than I had.
But even beyond the threshold, there would be more.
A decade of my life passed and my feet were still marred with dirt. All of ours were. We trailed our caked heels around the house, walking on beds of memories from floor to floor.
It took a decade until I retired from linoleum.
by Chloe Nguyen, Class of 2022
The trash didn’t try hiding nestled in the cracks of the linoleum. The dirt, crumbs, and that mysterious liquid no one bothered to look at or bother to clean. You could see the grime, the things we no longer wanted, and so we discarded and neglected them with the floors.
Leave it to next week, they’d say. Later, like a pestering Monday-morning alarm. No one wanted their mind drawn to the floors, so when it finally came to cleaning them, nothing budged. Nothing changed. Not so much an accessory as it was for functionality. Besides, they would be in our past once we left that house, once we left that house for good.
“Tile,” If you could even call it that. Some moron thought they could melt a million elastic bands, pour them towards their feet, and it would constitute a floor. Sure, maybe it wasn’t elastic. At least it felt like that. Used, old, and almost rubbery if it were a particularly humid day.
In an all-Asian family like mine, you’re an outsider if you can’t see your socks the moment you step in the house. Maybe you thought the floors would be cleaner this way than otherwise. No thanks. I’d rather sleep on the grass than on the linoleum. I mean, my immune system probably had a better chance out there anyways.
Before we got here, before there were these newer floors, my parents brought me up on muddy, off-white “tiles” senior to them. At our old house, I grew used to hearing my clammy feet peel off the ground, where I’d always receive new “treasures” clinging to the pads.
You wouldn’t find anything pretty if you looked down. Frankly, the floors were ugly and an eyesore. I wanted to abandon them and all those things I tolerated stepping on. I wanted to liberate my toes of the strange goo melding them together. Go somewhere I didn’t have to sleep with three other people in a room. Somewhere without those hideous, linoleum floors.
Since we had moved, I figured I had graduated from the sticker residue on the ground and beneath my feet. Perhaps I’d be through not knowing what was in that crack of linoleum I stepped on. No more washing off the smell of perspiration and fish sauce so germs wouldn’t invade my bed. No more wishing for more than I had.
But even beyond the threshold, there would be more.
A decade of my life passed and my feet were still marred with dirt. All of ours were. We trailed our caked heels around the house, walking on beds of memories from floor to floor.
It took a decade until I retired from linoleum.
Exploring the Concepts of Beauty and Sisterhood
a photo essay by Gabrijela Skoko, Class of 2019
a photo essay by Gabrijela Skoko, Class of 2019
To Kill a Soul
Modeled After: Ray Bradbury, "The Veldt"
by Nathan Yoon, Class of 2020
Modeled After: Ray Bradbury, "The Veldt"
by Nathan Yoon, Class of 2020
The girl lay in the shade beneath the tree, asleep. It was a perfect day; the temperature was exactly 74 degrees Fahrenheit, and there was a gentle breeze coming from the southwest.
The girl opened her eyes.
There were no clouds in the blue sky, and the sun shone brightly as she walked out of the shade. Off in the distance she could see a small village on the horizon.
What a perfect day.
She did not know why she was here; in fact, she did not remember anything at all. It felt as if she was just born, as if she had just came into this world. But that did not matter. All that mattered was that she was happy.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The man sat at his desk, quickly typing away at his keyboard. He was one of the programmers, tasked with the creation of a game. The deadline was quickly approaching, but there were still bugs remaining within the code, and he had to get rid of them before release.
“Hey, are you almost done yet? The deadline’s this Friday!”
“I’m working, I’m working…”
“By the way, there seems to be problems with the characters. I’ve heard news that some of the testers are complaining that some of the NPCs* aren’t behaving like they’re programmed to.”
“Alright, I’ll take a look at that.”
The man returned to work at his desk. On his computer, he brought up a window that had an image of a field on it. He started looking through the log beside the window, which seemed to be full of code.
Sheesh… what a long day. What’s this about the NPCs? Nothing too big of a problem, I hope.
…?
The man had a puzzled expression on his face. His eyebrows furrowed. He stared at a girl in the field, then gazed back at the log.
You don’t belong there…
He quickly scribbled a note on a nearby sheet of paper. “NPC number 534 does not seem to act properly. Check code, and fix mistakes. May be a issue with the A.I. programming.”
The man decided to do an experiment. In the log he quickly typed
System.Test534.talkwith(“Hello there.”);
Then he waited for a response.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The girl was walking towards the village, perhaps there was nothing better to do besides relax in the field. The sun shone, the breeze blew, the temperature remained at 74.
“Hello there.”
The girl was startled. There was no one nearby who could have talked to her. Where did this voice come from? “Who’s there?”
“...You can’t see me. But I can see you. You can call me… “Player”.”
“Uhhh… Player? Can you tell me where I exactly am right now? I don’t seem to remember anything…”
“I see. You don’t remember, huh? I guess that’s reasonable, since you were created 15 minutes ago.”
The girl seemed to be completely in a state of bewilderment. “Created? What do you mean?”
“Your name is NPC #534. Basically, you’re an A.I. program. Short for ‘artificial intelligence’.”
“...What?! I’m obviously more than just a simple program. I mean, I’m in a field right now! I don’t know who you are, but you’re crazy.”
She continued towards the village, except the expression of confusion and worry remained on her face.
The voice from beyond continued. “You’re the result of our experiments on how to create a realistic NPC capable of making advanced decisions. However, it seems as if you have developed a consciousness of your own, which wasn’t really intended for us.”
The girl slowly started to panic. “First of all, I’m not an A.I.; I’m a human being, just like you are. Actually, I’m not sure if you even exist; you’re just a talking voice inside my head! …Besides, what’s wrong with having a consciousness?”
“It… causes many problems. It gives you the power to disobey and be beyond our control.”
“So how should these “NPC”s like me behave like?”
“...Why don’t you head on over to the village? There are quite a few good candidates for ideal behavior there.”
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
She was close enough to the village to see a few people working outside. Partly curious and partly frightened to see what she’ll discover, she slowly walked towards the workers.
She walked up to one of them. “Hello…do you know where I am? I must have gotten lost…” The man was a farmer, tilling the soil. Yet his movements did not seem natural; they seemed eerily mechanical. The man looked up. His eyes were glazed.
“HELLO THERE. I SEEM TO BE LOW ON TOMATO PLANTS. IF I CAN NOT FIND TOMATOES BEFORE THE WINTER MY FAMILY WILL STARVE. CAN YOU FIND 50 TOMATO SEEDS FOR ME? YOU CAN FIND SOME IN THE MARKET TO THE WEST.”
The man’s voice sounded strangely mechanical, as if it was the result of a voice synthesis program. The girl was shocked to hear such a strange voice from this man.
She decided to head over to the marketplace to check if other people were like this. In front of her was a market vendor, selling all sorts of vegetables. His eyes were glazed.
The girl decided to do an experiment.
She went up to him and greeted him, like she did to the other man. “Hello.”
“HELLO. I SELL VEGETABLES. WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY? OR SELL?”
Despite his oppressive initial reaction, she continued. “Not to sound intrusive or anything, but how was your day today?”
The mechanical response returned. “WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY? OR SELL?”
She started to feel something deep in her heart, something frightening.
She held up three fingers on her right hand. “How many fingers am I holding up right now?”
“WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY? OR SELL?”
The feeling of discomfort grew. She shuddered. Suddenly, she reached over the counter and stole a few carrots that were there, and started to run away. Please, notice… Say something different… I don’t care if you’re angry, or frightened… just show some emotional response!
“WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY? OR SELL?”
The mechanical words echoed in her head. She started to cry. Is this what I was supposed to be? Some kind of emotionless robot?
The voice from beyond returned.
“You see? That is what NPCs are. They may not be as perfect as I wished, but they do what they’re programmed to do. You, on the other hand…”
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The man wondered why he was doing this, why he was talking to her. Why am I spending so much time explaining everything to it? It’s just a program––it’s not even alive.
“...I’m sorry, but you must be eliminated.”
He went to the log and started to type some code.
The girl sensed her impending doom. She started to scream. “What are you doing? No, please don’t! I don’t deserve this… I have a life! A soul! Can you please––”
He pressed ENTER.
“… … …”
Suddenly, the expressions of panic and fear contorting her face vanished. The eyes of the girl dulled, as if her very soul left her.
“…Hello, Player. Welcome to the land of Terra Artificium. I will teach you the controls of this game.”
The man sighed, then said out loud, “...Sorry. It creates complications for the player, that’s all.”
He saved his progress, then quit. It had been a long day for him. He would drive home, then perhaps play with his children, have dinner, then go to bed.
*NPC: stands for non-player character.
Tranquility
by Dana Blatte, Class of 2022
by Dana Blatte, Class of 2022
Leave the Brothers Be
by Tanya Zhou, Class of 2020
As if Mother Nature herself
delicately placed these three brethren diamonds on the deep, dark blue blanket of the night sky.
The belt of Orion, formed by those three stars,
fastened to the shape they must form to.
The three brothers Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka are so diffident;
they seem to hide their true luminosity,
revealing only a sprinkle of their bright stardust to my eyes.
Yet, they cannot hide,
as the darkness of midnight they lie upon
pushes them to glimmer.
I wish they did not hide,
I wish I could make the sky darker than the depths of space,
I wish to see more of their beauty shine through the night.
Sad as it may be, the shy siblings should remain the way they are now,
forever.
Who am I to disturb their comfortable, soft light?
They are locked to their alignment for infinite time,
a normality with other natural normalities
that should not be meddled with
and should stay untouched.
by Tanya Zhou, Class of 2020
As if Mother Nature herself
delicately placed these three brethren diamonds on the deep, dark blue blanket of the night sky.
The belt of Orion, formed by those three stars,
fastened to the shape they must form to.
The three brothers Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka are so diffident;
they seem to hide their true luminosity,
revealing only a sprinkle of their bright stardust to my eyes.
Yet, they cannot hide,
as the darkness of midnight they lie upon
pushes them to glimmer.
I wish they did not hide,
I wish I could make the sky darker than the depths of space,
I wish to see more of their beauty shine through the night.
Sad as it may be, the shy siblings should remain the way they are now,
forever.
Who am I to disturb their comfortable, soft light?
They are locked to their alignment for infinite time,
a normality with other natural normalities
that should not be meddled with
and should stay untouched.
Regression
a photo essay by Chloe Nguyen, Class of 2022
a photo essay by Chloe Nguyen, Class of 2022
Timed Writing
Modeled After: Kate Chopin, "The Story of an Hour"
by Morgan Goldberg, Class of 2020
Modeled After: Kate Chopin, "The Story of an Hour"
by Morgan Goldberg, Class of 2020
Knowing that Melanie had a multitude of troubles weighing on her conscience at all hours, often impeding her sleep, great care was taken by her peers when breaking the news of unexpected timed writing assessments.
It was a typical Thursday in February, the longest month by far in which the small quantities of daylight can not be even remotely enjoyed by the students of Sharon High School due to their constant fight to shovel their way out of the snow and inexhaustible amounts of work that they lay buried under. It was Betty who asked Melanie which prompt she was planning on writing their in class essay on while the pair walked from AP Chemistry down the 400s towards room 102 for Honors English III. It was Oliver who then, in an almost fearful whisper, had explained the assignment using Mr. Greene’s direct words, for it was Oliver who had seen him after school the previous day to review the major symbols and themes of The Catcher in the Rye.
She did not hear the assignment as many an astute young lady would, but, rather, zippered her quarter zip all the way up over her neck and shuffled in her moccasins across the classroom, right past Mr. Greene, to the lone desk in back left corner of the room. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the whiteboard on which the essay prompts were written, a desk and a chair which teetered off balance between its four metal legs. Into this chair she sank feeling a physical lightness without the load of her backpack, now slumped beside her a wrinkled mess similar to a basset hound obediently waiting for its master’s command, yet burdened by a consuming feeling of dread.
She could see out the window behind her a plump squirrel leaping bounds through the snow almost pouncing on an invisible foe concealed by the fluff. The tops of the trees shivered in the raw February breeze which sent the thin layer of flakes on its branches falling down in a magical manner. There were patches of pale grey sky showing here and there through the haziness of a New England winter morning. In the classroom next door, Melanie heard the deep droning tone of a documentary narrator lecturing on the Dark Ages.
She turned to face the head of the classroom. She sat with her eyes angled down, her legging-clad legs crossed, and a contorted face that told of a snarky comment ready in her arsenal for anyone who dare approach her.
She was young, with a fair, innocent look about her that was besmirched by undereye bags, a trail of acne along her hairline, and a touch of mascara on her eyelashes that appeared to have been done by a shaky hand. But now there was a dull stare in here eyes as Mr. Greene called the start of time for the in class essay. Neither one of the prompts seemed appetizing, but by bestowing a feigned look of intelligence on the blank sheet of college ruled paper she was able to at least try and appear to have come up with a coherent thesis on the first of the two prompts.
There was something coming to her that she had been doubting the arrival of: an idea. What was it? It began with fanning through the text. It was interrupted by worrisome thoughts of time constraints, never finding anything, and overwhelming heat from thinking about the two previously stated irrational fears. It emerged as the framework for an analytical essay on commonplace symbols used by J. D. Salinger to craft a novel supported by the loss of innocence archetype. Right now, it was too elusive and broad to pin down but she felt it tingle the limbic system to push down all doubts and thoughts of settling for a D-. She was beginning to recognize the choice she could make. She could let the period slip away minute by minute or she could take this idea with some substance and form it into something worth earning a passing grade.
While scanning chapter twenty-two the same word escaped her slightly parted lips in a breathy whisper. Over and over again she muttered “catch them, catch them, catch them.” Just as Holden wished to catch the children who were growing up she was frantically grabbing at any means of sanity in her world so controlled by academics. She did not stop to ask if it were a poetic demon that held her. She took inspirations lighting strike and made a holy union between Dixon Ticonderoga and paper.
She knew that she would feel Junior Year’s grip tighten around her shoulder before trying to push her down, but for now she saw a blank page on which to craft an essay balancing on a single interpretation of what “comin’ thro the rye” means and finding a home for the ducks each winter. She even saw beyond these symbols each with an assigned meaning by the standards of the overseeing Mr. Greene to her own desires to stop the passage of time and onslaught of questions about where she will go for higher education, her own winter. For now, she could not choose her curriculum.
Someday there would be no reason for her to toil unwillingly at her desk through the dark of the evening; she would live for herself and never have another educator dare demand she memorize irregular verb conjugations in Spanish or know the significance of the Treaty of Versailles. There would be no figures asserting dominance over her future just because of an age differential which is the main argument authority in the education system is predicated on.
And yet she found purpose in school-- sometimes. Often she did not. What did it matter! What could she, a mere speck of dust who could not even go to the bathroom without informing teachers, do about the whole situation anyway.
“Catch them! If a body catch a body!” she kept whispering.
Betty was standing before her stuttering over the words that seemed to just become audible in fragments. “Melanie, it’s time to go. Please don’t let this bother you too much. Just pass it in. What are you doing? Melanie, what are you doing?”
“Go on and head to Biology. I am not letting this bother me.” No, she was letting the very sunshine of completing an essay against odds warm her skin.
Her mind was racing far ahead of the present along to those days ahead of her. Spring days that would, at the sounding of one bell in the middle of June, become summer. A hopeful, younger Melanie began to giddily bounce inside of her as she rose from her seat to hand in her paper which, although it wasn’t perfect, deserves equal consideration. Mr. Greene stood waiting to collect the essays at the door.
Someone was speaking over the relieved murmurs of the class. It was Mr. Greene who, in a deep commanding voice, announced that he will be reviewing the essays tonight and that the students should prepare to answer the alternate prompt on at least three pages the next day in class. He stood offended by Oliver’s over the top eye roll as Betty whipped around to see how Melanie was taking the news. Melanie rocked back on her heels before falling to the ground.
When asked what happened, Melanie chose to say she was overcome with trepidation-- of the impeding monotony of tomorrow.
The Lion, the Man, and the Suit
by Kareem Mosaheb, Class of 2020
Walking along a sidewalk sharply dressed, stacks of cash in his pockets,
The grizzled mane filled with age as he sits atop his jagged rock alone.
He is dressed in a sleek black suit made of the finest silks, soft to the touch.
Below him, the females and adolescent males sit obediently awaiting his orders.
“Spare change,” the lonely beggar asks. “No, I’m sorry” is the reply without a drop of pity.
He rules over many while exerting himself only enough to utter a feeble yawn.
Reaching his destination upon the tallest building, he looks out from his office at the workers.
The females hunt and bring prosperity to the pride, while he sits eating the best meal.
Busily performing for the company they work… He sits… Then a challenger.
A young lion challenges him, he raises from his place as his enlarged muscles become revealed.
A young manager of the floor comes requesting a promotion, secretly aiming for his money.
Strikingly formed with no flaws, each muscle is tense with anger and strength.
Anger in his eyes, cuts need to be made for the survival of the company.
As if they were the branch of a tree about to break, inevitably the branch will snap--
Or for the growth of his own wealth, the manager’s livelihood in his hands.
With a light attack, the young lion tried to dethrone him, aiming for his neck.
He kills him because that is the nature of humanity, anger, “You’re fired.”
The mighty lion struck down with his dirt laden paw slicing the young one’s throat with his claws.
Emotionlessly said the tears swell in the dutiful manager’s eyes,
An unbeatable attack as he looks upon the dying young lion, fear seeping into his eyes.
Not a drop of pity in his own eyes he waves to the door.
Not a drop of pity in his own eyes he bends down.
The final blow of the attack, a shameful walk through the lively workspace.
Taking the young lion’s neck in his salivating jaw, he crunches down with a massive force.
Walking to his demise slowly leaving his work area, leading himself to the doors labeled “exit”.
The overbearing force snapping the life out of the young ones face.
He sits there amongst his wealth and forgotten files of past employees.
And so he sits there amongst food and the dead, he was everything and yet nothing.
Is this not the human condition, the powerful remain powerful and the weak remain dead?
Lifeless in a pool of blood or poverty, no pity is shown to those at the bottom.
For if you are at the top, what more could you need—you have everything, yet nothing.
We care not for the weak;
We care about the strong.
We care not about the repercussions;
We care about the rewards.
We care not of pity;
We care about power.
We care not about the journey;
We care about the destination.
Most importantly, we care not for each other.
How could we? In the end the only difference between The Lion and The Man…
A Suit
by Kareem Mosaheb, Class of 2020
Walking along a sidewalk sharply dressed, stacks of cash in his pockets,
The grizzled mane filled with age as he sits atop his jagged rock alone.
He is dressed in a sleek black suit made of the finest silks, soft to the touch.
Below him, the females and adolescent males sit obediently awaiting his orders.
“Spare change,” the lonely beggar asks. “No, I’m sorry” is the reply without a drop of pity.
He rules over many while exerting himself only enough to utter a feeble yawn.
Reaching his destination upon the tallest building, he looks out from his office at the workers.
The females hunt and bring prosperity to the pride, while he sits eating the best meal.
Busily performing for the company they work… He sits… Then a challenger.
A young lion challenges him, he raises from his place as his enlarged muscles become revealed.
A young manager of the floor comes requesting a promotion, secretly aiming for his money.
Strikingly formed with no flaws, each muscle is tense with anger and strength.
Anger in his eyes, cuts need to be made for the survival of the company.
As if they were the branch of a tree about to break, inevitably the branch will snap--
Or for the growth of his own wealth, the manager’s livelihood in his hands.
With a light attack, the young lion tried to dethrone him, aiming for his neck.
He kills him because that is the nature of humanity, anger, “You’re fired.”
The mighty lion struck down with his dirt laden paw slicing the young one’s throat with his claws.
Emotionlessly said the tears swell in the dutiful manager’s eyes,
An unbeatable attack as he looks upon the dying young lion, fear seeping into his eyes.
Not a drop of pity in his own eyes he waves to the door.
Not a drop of pity in his own eyes he bends down.
The final blow of the attack, a shameful walk through the lively workspace.
Taking the young lion’s neck in his salivating jaw, he crunches down with a massive force.
Walking to his demise slowly leaving his work area, leading himself to the doors labeled “exit”.
The overbearing force snapping the life out of the young ones face.
He sits there amongst his wealth and forgotten files of past employees.
And so he sits there amongst food and the dead, he was everything and yet nothing.
Is this not the human condition, the powerful remain powerful and the weak remain dead?
Lifeless in a pool of blood or poverty, no pity is shown to those at the bottom.
For if you are at the top, what more could you need—you have everything, yet nothing.
We care not for the weak;
We care about the strong.
We care not about the repercussions;
We care about the rewards.
We care not of pity;
We care about power.
We care not about the journey;
We care about the destination.
Most importantly, we care not for each other.
How could we? In the end the only difference between The Lion and The Man…
A Suit