RoarIssue 3 | November 2014

ROARstaffEDITORIAL TEAM:

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF | ART DIRECTOR| Prarthana Venkatesh Theresa Yang

EDITORS Parsa Ahmed Taing Eaindray Aung Chris Hong Dhruv Seth

WRITERS| Illustrators|Prarthana Venkatesh Raven Ye MaharChris Hong Grace WanDhruv Seth Shamyi LanjouwTaing Nandi Aung Ching ChingFatima Seck Niharika KonduriVidushi Kapur Hillary OoArden Reynolds Theresa YangPascal Swarbrick Amy WinParsa Ahmed

COVERART

BY: Nadi Aye Chan(12(

wrapped in

uncertainty

pg. 1

WHY DON'T MORE GIRLS TAKE MATH HL?

pg. 4

FATIMA SECK

SHELTER

pg. 8

CHRIS HONG

TO BE ANINTERNATIONAL

schoolSTUDENT

pg. 6

TAING AUNG

OUR MESSED UP

TOWNAMY WIN

pg. 10

PeopleOF ISY

PARSA AHMED

pg. 20

LAUGHINGOUTLOUD

DHRUVSETH

pg. 23

PRARTHANAVENKATESH

KAUNGKHANT

VIDUSHIKAPUR

PRARTHANA V.

PARSA AHMED

LAUGHINGOUTLOUD

DHRUVSETH

TABLEOF

Contents

ISYADVENTURES

KAUNGKHANT

pg. 29

let me takea selfie

VIDUSHIKAPUR

pg. 32

music inmy life

ARDENREYNOLDS

pg. 34

minecraftPASCAL

SWARBRICK

pg. 36

nine snacksin a mug

pg. 24

PRARTHANA V.

ROAR MAGAZINE

IS FOR

THE philosophers,

THE artists,

THE writers,

and THE poets

OF OUR GENERATION,

providing the PLATFORM through which

anybody with something to say can have their voice be heard.

First and foremost we are a

family,

one that celebrates creativity and the exploration of everything from

HUMOR, the CONUNDRUMS of life,

the PROBLEMS that trouble world leaders, to just an APPRECIATION for the human condition through our words and art.

ROAR aims to provide a stage for discussion of both global and personal issues, enter-

tainment for the student body, and a place where writers and designers can

explore the ends of their creativity.

ROAR carries the spirit of ISY Chinthes of the past, present and future whose

passion for writing and art produces

publications that evoke laughter, tears and intelligent thought

and reminds us all of the power that language and art hold in our lives.

FOUNDED BY | Phyu Hnin Lwin, Prarthana Venkatesh, Parsa Ahmed, Theresa Yang

wrapped in UNCERTAINTY

PRARTHANA VENKATESH

PHOTOGRAPHS by | Theresa Yang

Sixteen years ago, Burma was beautiful in its isolation. It is difficult—nearly impossible— to find entire cities, let alone entire nations, suspended in time. But that’s what Yangon was: a gleam of hope in the form of an almost anachronistic city.

Sixteen years ago, my parents found an escape from the confines of a society that trusted only tradition and from relatives who failed to understand the malleability of culture. Fresh out of medical school, they found each other. But when they realized that education, love, and burning ambition weren’t enough to carve a niche in this world, to be accepted into a narrow society that demanded the blind acceptance of tradition, they funneled their hope into a new beginning. The promise of Burma.

Today when we tiptoe back into our past, emotions are bottled. The fear, uncertainty, loneliness and hope from sixteen years ago, become teardrops threaded into the gauze that binds our memories. Today, a ceaseless stream of people trickle into Yangon, but most pass through without understanding the sheer fragility of Burma. Some seek to wheedle profit out of a nation that has already had too much stolen from it, others to tick yet another box on a list of Southeast Asian nations that have been dipped into poverty, dusted off with Buddhism, and polished with modernization. Most do not see that Burma reclines in a nook of time beyond simple limits. A fragile space. Historical maze.

WRAPPED IN UNCERTAINTY | PRARTHANA VENKATESH

They avert their eyes from the beggars sprinkled around palatial mansions, choosing to believe that corrup-tion will straighten itself out and the scars of the past will fade. They don’t see the nation we grew up in. A nation governed by fear of military crackdowns, where rebellion was manifested as hushed whispers in teashops, corruption was rife, and human rights violations were the norm. This country is proof that nothing can be taken for granted. Not education, for child soldiers are not a myth here; not healthcare, for hospitals are severely underfunded. Not democracy, for it remains a dream, not reality. And never stability, because it takes but a second for someone’s world to be undone. For a smile to be twisted into a scream. No, stability must be fought for. After sixteen years of threading Burma into my roots, I realize that I will never have any legal ties to this country. But I am irrevocably bound to these people. People who have left footprints in my mind and in doing so, folded my past into ambitions, creating the identity that I have learnt to own.

International school students. It is ever so easy to believe that we are entitled to opportunities. That we will always have a place in the world simply because we think we deserve to. All we really are, is lucky.Lucky to have parents or grandparents or great-grandparents who have managed to carve a niche for themselves, in a world where it is all too easy to have your dreams torn up by people who smirk at your failures.

I do not quite know how to twirl and squeeze and pummel the English language until it resembles the story in my thoughts. I can only ask that you take a second to reflect on the tales of those who have sacrificed so much for you. Thank them for letting their paths—your path - curl into Burma. Because Burma will always be wrapped in the essence of hope and uncertainty— if not a beginning, a beautiful middle.

WRAPPED IN UNCERTAINTY | PRARTHANA VENKATESH

Why Don’t MoreGIRLS

Take Math HL?Fatima Seck

The first day of Math Higher Level (HL), I was at once shocked and completely unsurprised to learn I was the only girl in a class of what was then eight students. While a school as intimate and diverse at ISY seems to be the ideal place for defying stereotypes, this ratio truly mimicked the lack of women pursu-ing science, technology, engineering and mathematic (STEM) fields in society. Although many girls say this is the case, it is unlikely that ability — or lack of ability — is the cause of the lack of girls pursuing higher level math; after all, ISY is full of bright and talented young people. Indeed, a Math Standard Level (SL)

teacher agreed some of his female students could certainly succeed in higher level math, affirming earlier suspicions. While ability is certain-ly something to consider, as some people are simply uninterested or inept in math, it can be agreed that culture is a significant contributor to this imbalanced ratio.There are two new students in the class of 2016; both are female. While neither student is a mathematical virtuoso, much like many of the girls who chose Math Studies or Math SL, both enrolled in Math HL. This con-trast gives various insights into the cultural motives for the lack of girls taking Math HL. While new students

see the Math HL curriculum from an entirely objective — and perhaps oblivious — perspective, returning students know Math HL primarily from the (sometimes exaggerat-ed) horror stories older students chronicle. Scary stories target both genders, yet it is primarily girls who refuse math HL. This is also cultural — both new students have roots in Asian and African cultures, but spent significant portions of their lives in western environments. This is in stark contrast to the fact that most returning students have spent much of their lives in Myanmar, or around this region, where perhaps STEM endeavors are not as supported

within the female community. This is not to say that the parents of returning female students want their daughters to be housewives — in fact, most of what I have been told indicates quite the opposite; howev-er, it can be said that STEM careers are often more encouraged in sons than in daughters, creating greater confidences in boys to pursue Math HL. It is an unfortunate fact that unbalanced gender ratios within the STEM community extend much further than ISY. In the United States, while women make up 48% of the workforce, they make up only 24% of workers in STEM. Closing this wide gender gap is becoming more of a priority in society, especially as the world becomes more technologically-oriented. While organizations like Girls Who Code (which sup-ports young female programmers) exist to “spread the message” on a large scale, equality in the STEM field

starts with changes right here, at school. The Middle School Math Club, which could provide a comfortable and non-competitive environment for younger girls to gain confidence in their math abilities has been com-pletely inactive this year — if this were changed, we’d start pointing girls in the right direction from the age when they’re most impressionable. Ladies need to find the confidence to join higher level math classes, and inspire younger female students, hopefully starting a cycle that will end in more girls in the STEM field.

It is unlikely that ability -or lack of ability- is the cause of the lack

of girls pursuing higher level math.

TO BE ANInternational School Student

To be an international school stu-dent is to be stuck on that blurry line, between a country and a much larger community, not knowing entirely which we belong to and which we must show our allegiance to. We are different from those with whom we share a district, a city, a nation as we have been exposed to a different school of thought and to a different type of people. And sometimes those differences may lead to misjudgments, between the two types of students one can find in most countries, the internation-al school students and the public school students. I have heard many Asian parents whose children attend public or private schools and the children themselves speak of the hardships and struggles they face each day, of the hours they must spend learning and memorizing the information given to them on a daily basis. I have heard of the nights they have had to

stay up and the hours they have de-voted to tuition, so that they may be of use—not only to their families and themselves, but also to the world. I did not, however, imagine that they would say they are more capable and smarter than us because they felt they had to learn more than we did. Perhaps it is true, that in terms of memorizing, they may have ‘more work’ to do but this does not give them the right to accuse us of having less work, and therefore being less knowledgeable and less capable. This would be parallel to an international school student making the assumption that memorization is merely a ‘shortcut’ as it does not al-low ground for ‘true’ understanding. Do not get me wrong, I have abso-lutely nothing against memorization. I have often boasted of my capability for it. However, I must admit that it has only ever been a tool for me, not the defining factor in determining my ability. In terms of education, it

is not only inappropriate to attempt to compare two different ways of learning, it is also impossible for one side to judge the other, to make comparisons where comparisons are not appropriate. If I, an international school student, do not have the right to judge, then they, as public school students, do not have it either. Humans tend to forget that despite belonging to different sides of a border, to different areas of the world and to different nations, we are still one species and we still belong to one world. And this is where inter-national school students are most important, in that we are able to constantly remind the world of this extraordinarily obvious fact as we have learned to see not only through a nationalistic perspective but also through a global one. Public school students have their part to play in this world, their part of the equation to solve. This is ours. And neither is more difficult nor important than the

By: taing nandi aung

other. But I fear that ‘being’ an international school student equates to being inferior, to be looked down upon by those who are not, sim-ply because we are, at the brunt of the matter, asked to memorize less information. If so, then let me say this. Work is not easy for us. The expectations, the pressure and the responsibilities we deal with on a daily basis are monumental. We do have sleepless nights, we do have to go to tuition and we do sometimes have to, if not memorize, then un-derstand the information given to us. And we do this all while we do other equally important things, like giving back to society, to the environment, playing sports, creating, being active participants of the community, being global citizens. Being an international school student is the last thing from easy, simply because the extent to which we are blessed is the extent to which we must give back. And how blessed we are. Because we use up so many resources, it is our duty and no one else’s to refill those resources or find new alternatives. So please, please, please do not let the public school kids tell you that they have it harder than you do. We are talking about two absolutely

dissimilar ways of learning that can-not be measured on the same scale, much less the same continuum. Just because we do not have to spend as many hours as they do trying to be number 1 in the class does not mean that we are less capable and smart. ‘We’ and ‘they’, in truth, are two halves of this country and of this world. The type of education any of us receive will not matter if we are able to, for the lack of a better phrase, make the world a better place. And making the world a better place is not only our responsibility. It is our birthright. And when I say ‘our’, I mean ‘us’ and ‘them’.

we are taught toask questionsto fight backto disagreeto create

to find directionsto a locationIF WE ARE LOST.

we are taughtwith our

eyes,heart

and headwide open.

SHELTERchris hong

ILLUSTRATED by | Hillary Oo

SHELTER

That one night,Childish fears muddled my mind,

Til traces of red light,Appeared on the sky behind.

Life commenced in the dark,Spiders smirked in their silvery snares,

Lizards slithered across shadows, Oh! Those hordes of ants!

Their footsteps sounded like those of a giant’s.

That night, sleep eluded me,From my fears I had to flee,

Hardwood floors froze my feet,As I ran to her sheets.

She stirred, and staredAt a little wreck with no piece to spare.

Her arms opened up wide,And into them I gratefully slid.

Finally.The darkness called its peace,

Not willing to besiege an iron castle,In which all troubles ceased.

The warmth of her body swallowed mine,She nuzzled my ear, and murmured a lullaby,

Now I knew everything was fine,As the void swallowed me with a sigh.

Like a thorn embedded in skin,This memory constantly pricks me,

Time has dragged me into manhood,But will I ever again feel as safe as I was that night?

our

messed up

towna short story

By: Amy WinILLUSTRATED by | Hillary Oo

“So, how’s that missing person case been going?”

“It’s been going fine. Sort of. Not really. We keep ending back up at square one,” you reply softly, with the shrug of your shoulders and the wave of your fingers. “Any leads we get turn out to be rubbish.”

“It happens, doesn’t it? When you’re a detective in a messed up town.”

“I guess.”

“It means more money for you, though.”

“Pros of being a detective in a messed up town.”

“And the cons?”

“The messed up town.” You rise from your seat, and momentarily stand to get rid of the numbness of your legs from sitting for so long. You wonder if you’ll be able to walk again, since your legs feel as if they’re being pricked by hundreds of needles at the same time. It hurts. “I better go now. Thanks for the tea though.”“No problem,” I reply, a smile painting itself upon my lips as I lead you out of my home and into the streets of our messed up town. “No problem at all.”

You wave promptly, the corners of your lips pulled up too, before swiftly turning around, and galloping to where a taxi stood, awaiting your arrival. You drop onto the leather seat, and pull up your sleeves to your elbows in order to feel cooler. It was a hot and dry summer morning, and you couldn’t wait to feel alive again. The radio’s on, mumbling and rumbling on about the curious case of the 10 people that went missing the other day. Although the frequency was horrible and the report-er’s voice seemed like that of a boring drone, you could already make out what had happened to those people. After all, that was the case you were working on.

“Horrible, isn’t it?” The taxi driver whispers to himself, shaking his head lightly. “Horrible what goes around here.”“It’s just life,” you blurt out, surprising the man in front of you a little, who gives you a bewildered look. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to butt in. It just- it just is life.”

“Are you a detective?” He asks, his almond eyes obvi-ously fixed upon your badge. “You’ve got a badge and a gun and everything.” You nod, in response, unsure of what else to say. “You know what happened to those people?”

“Only to one of them.” You’re fidgeting in your seat now, sweat caressing your cheeks as you attempted to roll down the window.

“Natasha Stone, right?” You attempt to hide your shock. “Yeah, I knew her. We used to go to school together. She was one of my classmates.” He pulls out a faded pho-tograph of a woman with dark, auburn hair, a pale face, and sparkling sapphire eyes. “I used to be in love with her. Heck, all the guys were.”

“I’m… sorry to hear that,” you sigh out, head drooped down. He raises an eyebrow. “N-no, not in that way. Not that I’m sorry you used to be in love with her. I mean, the fact that…Well, she’s dead.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.” He nods, eyebrows furrowed angri-ly. “It really is just a shame.”

The vehicle comes to a screeching halt, soon enough, and you find yourself out on the streets once more, your wallet slightly lighter than before. In front of you, looms a large, tall building that resembles a cathedral of sorts, yet is not a cathedral, and is instead where you work. The precinct; home to a few of this messed up town’s heroes. Its other heroes were down by the fire station, getting in shape for the next fire that would emerge and drag lives into the very pits of hell.

You like being a detective and a hero, because it means that you are respected and admired around town. Unlike when you were a child, no one would push you around and tell you that you were nothing. For being a detective is something- something very important, at that. And you enjoyed it.“Natasha Stone,” you mutter to yourself at your desk, fingers tangled in your hair. “Natashaaaaa Stoneeeeee.” You pull your fingers away to your face, and pinch the bridge of your nose in an irritated manner. “Natashaa the Stoneee. The Stone. The Rock? No. That’s…that’s someone else.”

There are pictures spread out upon the oak surface before you, all depicting different angles of the same location where they had found Ms. Stone. Ms. Stone, the beau-tiful, gorgeous, single woman that all the guys she had gone to school with were once in love with. Ms. Stone, the wonderful, helpful and kind member of the community that would help old ladies cross the street, and spray her love towards everyone and anyone. Ms. Stone, the one good thing left in this barren oasis. Now, Ms. Stone was only a corpse that had been brought to the pre-cinct to be under serious inspection, after they found her missing most of the meat and organs in her body, all cut out cautiously like a butcher with a sharp knife and a ripe pig. Maybe the killer thought she was a ripe pig, ready to be harvested.

Everyone else thought otherwise.

“All of the people that have gone missing, including Ms. Stone, Ms. Frost (a former classmate), Ms. Watson (a former neighbour), are of ages 18 to 24; all women, around 125 to 133 pounds,” you read aloud to yourself once more, in order to burn the information permanently into your brain. “Very pretty,” you allow their photos to suggest, as you scan your eyes over them and wonder what makeup they used for their skin. “Are these cases of rape?”

“No,” the file states, specifically mentioning that no foreign liquid samples were found inside of Ms. Stone. “No,” you repeat to yourself. “At least not for Ms. Stone- and whatever other bodies were found. They all died due to blood loss, with injuries being pre-mortem.”

You’re at home, suddenly, and you find yourself standing in the door-

way of your bedroom, wondering how you got there. Sometimes, there are leaps and gaps in your memory you very much do not appreciate, as you cannot remem-ber what happens during them. This makes you forget where you’ve placed your belongings or if you’ve accomplished your tasks. However, the doctor always reminds you to take your proper medication, and so you do; but it does not always help. And that is very, unreasonably irritating. No, not unreasonably. Just very.

Your feet are making their way up the stairs at this point, their toes lightly tapping against the ebony wood, almost inaudible. Subcon-sciously, your body drags you to the study room, where all your books, whether old or new, reside. There are journals ranging from your elemen-tary years to when you graduated from college. Slender fingers find

themselves pulling down one of the older notebooks, and into the lap of its owner.

There are scribbles in there that you fail to comprehend; scribbles and messy presentations of what happened that day, made in all different sorts of colour pencils. You notice a repetition of one of the scribbles; it is a group of symbols placed together to form a kind of tally marks? Two seven’s followed by an ‘I’, than a ‘>’, and finally another ‘I’; “77I>I”. You brush it off as something trivial and continue glancing through your diaries.

Finding nothing of interest, your legs lift you up once more, and lead you to your bedroom.

That night, you have a dream. The dream consists of one Ms. Stone walking up to you, and telling you that she knows you. You tell her that she

doesn’t, but she insists that she does, and pulls up photos of you and her together.

In the end, she gives in, looks down momentarily, and looks back up.“But you know me,” she says, and walks away.

You do not disagree.

“Why would someone kill someone in this manner? What would be the purpose?” You ask me, confusion clearly written in your eyes while your fingers tapped lightly against your chin. I shrug, not very comprehensive of why you would ask me out of all people. “I ask you as a colleague and a friend seeking for advice,” you add, as if having read my mind.

“From what you’ve told me and the way you’ve described Ms. Stone’s dead body; with missing organs and

meat, I’d say…” I pause, contemplating my answer. “Illegal organ trafficking; or cannibalism. I think she’s either too young or too old for the former, though.”

“Cannibalism?” You question, nose scrunched up, your eyes desperately seeking for an explanation. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that someone killed her just to eat her. Sort of like Jeffrey Dahmer; excluding the attraction part.” It’s hard to talk to someone as eager as you while attempting to prepare a meal for one of my customers. “People do it for grudges as well; or in some tribes, they do it when they believe the person to be magical or extraordinary, and potentially dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Someone like Ms. Stone? How so?” You’re asking a lot of ques-tions to the wrong person today.

“Dangerous in the grudge-y kind of way. Maybe someone was jealous? That’s easy to understand; Ms. Stone was very successful in life. Or maybe someone was once in love with her. Didn’t you tell me that even that random taxi driver said that? If she still was not married when she died, that means she probably rejected tons of men.” I’m getting a little frustrated with this distraction, and you can see it at this point.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, eyes drooped down jadedly. “I’m just absolutely stuck; I have no idea what to do.”

“Maybe you should eat some of my food- it might make you feel bet-ter,” I suggest with a grin and the wink of my right eye, which earns me you rolling yours. “What? This place has been voted as the best burger place in town, after all.”

“I’m going to stick with being vegetarian, thank you,” you reply, grabbing your phone and rising from your seat. “Thanks for the sugges-tion though.”

“I’m telling you, when you finally taste my food, you’re going to be even more grateful.”

“No, not the food suggestion. The cannibalism suggestion.”

“Yeah, yeah, I knew that. Now go be a hero and stop wasting my time.” When I realize that you are probably puzzled on whether or not the last line was in a teasing manner, I throw another wink and a grin your way. Instantly, a wave of relief washes over your demeanour and you smile in return, before heading back to-wards the precinct. A few hours there prove to be of no value, as there are no results from the investigation at all that day, and you return home empty-handed with only shame and guilt in your mind. Having felt that none of your co-workers had been as helpful as I had been, you decide to call me up and converse with me once again. This only leads you to realize that you do not have your phone, which you probably left at the precinct.When you get there, people claim to not have seen your phone. You fear this might be a case of immature, unnecessary bullying, but decide to use someone else’s phone to call me anyway.

“Whose phone are you calling from? ‘Cause I have yours right here, be-side me. I’m staring right at it,” I tell you immediately, my tone obviously perplexed. “You do? How?”“What do you mean ‘how’? Just come and get it already.”Once you arrive, I pull up a chair with you to start a conversation, since I knew that that was what you wished to achieve by calling me. “What did you want to talk about?”“Your cannibalism suggestion.”“What about it?”“What do you think it tastes like?”“Excuse me?”“What do you think human meat tastes like?” The innocence of your voice forces me to reveal my opin-ion, relunctantly.“I don’t think it’d taste very differ-ent from something like… veal. Or maybe pork. I’m not sure. Haven’t we already discu-”“Please elaborate,” you cut me off as abruptly as a knife does with ingre-dients.“….In my opinion,” there is a pause while I try to gather my thoughts and the specific words I wish to use to explain my theory on the taste of human. “It would taste mild without a very strong flavour, and the meat

would probably be stringy rather than tough and chewy. It would be sweet and tender, similar to veal. If cooked to perfection, it would be ab-solutely scrumptious and delicious, like any other meat would be.”

“Mild…stringy….sweet…tender,” your lips murmur as your pen dances across your notepad. “Thank you.”

“What are you planning to do with what I’ve told you?”

“Nothing. It was just out of curiosi-ty,” you assure me, prior to picking up your phone and making your way towards the door. “Thank you for the phone as well.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll see you later-”

“Actually,” I interrupt, disallow-ing you to take a step any further. “Were you telling the truth when you asked me ‘how’ your phone ended up with me?” You nod in re-sponse. “You really don’t know?” You shake your head.“No, I don’t. What’s your point?”“So, you don’t…” I frown slightly, eyebrows furrowed at the person

before me. “You don’t remember coming here after work?”

“What?”

“You came here after working at the precinct,” I begin. “You came here and asked me about how I thought human meat would taste like, with the same exact question. Then you left your phone here and told me to keep it safe.”

“I did? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I hold the door open for you now, in case it acciden-tally smacks you at the back of your head like it did once. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” your stance is rigid as of this point, with your jaw extremely tight and your eyes nar-rowed. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye to you too.”

It is in the middle of the night when you wake up to the sound of a dog crying its eyes out. Not literally crying with tears as a human would, yet howling at the top of its lungs in agony, as if it were dying. It is very

loud and annoying, and keeps you from going back to sleep. You decide to investigate and ignore the wet-ness you felt on your bed; you’re too exhausted to care for a minor thing.It is from outside your home that you hear this irritating howling; probably on the street somewhere. Perhaps it was a dog hit by a car? Most likely.In fact, once you perceive the fuzzy outline of a dog lying down on the ground in the middle of the road, you’re more than certain it was at the fault of a car. However, once you step closer, pure dread overcomes you and you feel sick.The golden retriever- the one with the violet collar- had a deep gash along the side of its belly, probably not at the hands of a car, nor a bite from another animal; no, it seemed to be a man-made wound. You decide to help it by calling a vet over for the next day while you kept the dog in your home under your care.When you reach your room, more dread overcomes you and you feel as if your stomach is squeezing itself into a tight ball, forcing your knees to the ground and barf to flow out of your mouth. In front of you lies the reason for the wetness you felt earlier; it was not

due to urine, however, like you had assumed at first.Instead, it was due to the red liquid that laid in a slightly dried puddle beside a knife, strands of blond fur of sorts, and a piece of violet cloth. And the strong, disgusting smell of iron.“Can you test these out for me? See what kind of hair or whatever it is? I can’t tell if it’s fur, or human hair, or whatever,” you tell that one forensic scientist you sort of know but never bothered learning the name of. He nods, hesitantly, prior to accepting the little zip-lock bag from you. “Thanks.”Then, you prepare yourself for the busy day you knew it was certain to be. Although there was not much new information discovered, from the theory you gained from me, you feel confident enough to attempt to find evidence supporting my theory. Even though you realize it will be difficult, some part of you agrees with me that it probably could be cannibalism; after all, as a detective, you are not meant to rule out any possibilities until certain that they are not possible.You are cruising through the same files for the fifth time in a row when

the chief calls you up and tells you to come to her office. You do as you’re told, and are informed that another victim’s body has been un-covered on a street you feel sounds familiar, but cannot quite place how. You get in the car obediently and sit alongside forensic scientists and policemen alike, tapping your fingers lightly at your knee as you wait pa-tiently during the drive.After a few seconds, you realize that the familiarity was due to the fact that it was indeed a street near where you lived. For some odd rea-son, being near home makes you feel calmer and more at ease, allowing your confidence to increase drasti-cally. This does not last long, as once you reach the crime scene, the tables turn and your confidence no lon-ger exists. At the spot, there laid a woman, around 20 years of age, with light blond hair and fragile, porce-lain-like skin. She was clothed in a violet dress- one that matched her light sapphire eyes perfectly. “May I have the case file for this?” You enquire one of the policemen politely, your hand held out to re-ceive the folder. “Thanks,” you reply before opening it up without delay

and scanning the words with your eyes. That was when you felt a vibration in your pocket- probably from your phone, after receiving a text message. Instantly you pull out the device, and check the message. Both the case file and the message, you realize, start off with something like this: “The body/hair matches the profile of….”And ends with: “Ms. Emily Frost.”This made you throw up instanta-neously.As soon as you were convinced that your mouth had emptied out what needed to be emptied, your legs took off immediately, yanking you towards your escape. At first, your co-workers are puzzled and con-founded; however, once they are informed of the situation, the chase begins.You are running; and then throwing up. Then running; then throwing up. Then running; then throwing up once more. Throwing up until noth-ing but liquid peeled itself from the bottom of your stomach and onto the cement ground. It hurts your throat but what hurts even more is fear.

itwasn'tmeitwasn'tmeitwasn'tmeitwasn'tmeitwasn'tmeitwasn'tmeit-

ididn'tdoitididn'tdoitididn'tdoitididn'tdoitididn'tdoitididn'tdoiti

The fear that you did kill her, even though you didn’t.

“Itwasn’tmeitwasn’tmeitwasn’tmeitwasn’tme,” you are screaming silently to yourself as you wipe the bile away from the corners of your lips. “Ididn’tdoitIdidn’tdoitIdidn’tdoitIdidn’tdoit. I couldn’t have.”

Yet a part of you knew that you could have, that it was a possibility not yet ruled out. And that scared you the most.

Suddenly, the scribbles began to make sense. Memories of your childhood, your drawings, the thoughts that raced through your head when you were 8 or 9 made complete sense to your adult self, and it made you want to secrete bile once more. The combination of the symbols ‘77I>I’ rapidly began having an explanation; it was the upside down scribble of the action you had wished to commit.

And that action was ‘KILL’.

“NO, I COULDN’T HAVE DONE IT!” Out of nowhere, you feel arms grasp at your wrists, and tug you towards the inside of a building- more specifically, my shop.

itwasn'tmeitwasn'tmeitwasn'tmeitwasn'tmeitwasn'tmeitwasn'tmeit-

ididn'tdoitididn'tdoitididn'tdoitididn'tdoitididn'tdoitididn'tdoiti

“Woah, calm down,” I attempt to calm you by forcing you to sit down at one of the tables, and to stop trembling. “Relax, relax, you’re safe now.”

“Am I?” Your lips are shivering slightly, and a wild fiery glint dances in your eyes; saliva escapes down the side of your chin but you do not care. I care, so I grab myself a paper towel and wipe your face.

“Calm down. Now tell me what’s-”

“I’m ready.”

“What? Ready for what?”

“To be a carnivore.” Your hands shove me roughly towards the kitch-en, where there awaited us a perfect burger with a side of fries on a plate. “Let me eat that.”

“Are you sure you’re ready? ‘Cause it seems like there’s more pressing matters going on. Shouldn’t we focus on tha-”

“No, just let me eat it quickly.” You seem to enjoy interrupting me, because you do it a lot.

“Alright,” I agree in defeat, prior to placing the plate down before you, and hesitantly waiting to witness your reaction to eating meat. Once

you place the first bite, and then the second, and then the third in your mouth, you begin to realize what it tastes like. To you, it seems to taste…

“Mild, without a very strong flavour, with the meat being very stringy instead of tough and chewy. It also tastes sweet and tender, similar to veal. And, because this is cooked to perfection, thanks to your amazing culinary skills, it tastes absolutely scrumptious and delicious,” you muse to yourself, a grin painting itself upon your lips ever so slightly, as you place the last piece in your mouth.When you look up, I am smiling.You are smiling too.

mild, without a very strong

flavour, with the meat being very

stringy instead of tough and

chewy. it also tastes sweet and

tender...

Football is something I grew up with. What I love about playing is that the moment I step into the field, there’s an invisible boundary between football and all the other concerns I have. It makes me forget everything else and concentrate only on football, which is really an amazing feeling.”

“

People ofisy

PARSA AHMED

“What’s your favorite thing about your friend?” “She’s really kind and polite. And honest. And friendly. She’s really nice to me.. Oh and can you also add that we’re best friends?”

“

Being a Chinthe is better than a med-al, although I’m sure we wouldn’t mind having medals around our necks.”“Yeah, being a part of this team is really amaz-ing. We’re a family and I’ll always have their backs on and off the field.”

“

I want to change the world because everything that I see is flawed. Whatever I’m doing, wherever I am, I always see room for improvement. When I look around, I see all these voids: people’s needs that should’ve been fulfilled, items that could’ve been designed better … the tiniest of details that should and could’ve been perfected and crafted with passion. I want to contribute to progress by leaving something for hu-manity before my time is finally up. Before I ultimately disappear. Forever.”

“

The all too famous acronym “lol” has become a colloquial part of urban cul-ture, used almost as frequently as “hel-lo” or “thank you”. Thanks to this word, wars on facebook can be averted and it is not too difficult to diplomatically criticize someone online. For example “you’re too stupid for this” and “you’re too stupid for this lol” are two very dif-ferent phrases and will thus have very different impacts. But I don’t simply wish to bore you with the etymology of this digital slang, instead, I write this article to show you what you’re missing out on if you don’t literally LAUGH OUT LOUD.We’ve all at some point in our lives heard the quote “Laughter is the best medicine” and this is no joke (pun intended). Being someone who laughs a lot, I find that I tend to encounter less stress than my less laughing counter-parts. Laughter adds joy to my life and improves my mood even if I have a heavy 20 sheet packet of math prob-lems staring back at me. I find that to be happy and humorous, the main in-gredient is taking myself less seriously.

As you grow up, people will make fun of you for any number of reasons wheth-er it’s your hair, dancing style or the clothes you wear but there’s no fun in crying or mourning about it. It’s always better to look for the humor behind these situations and simply laugh it off. This will give you a positive outlook on life and will improve your mood as well as the mood of everyone around you. Did I not mention this already? Well the best part about laughter is that it’s contagious. A smile, a laugh, a good mood spreads from one person to another until an entire group of people is just sitting there laughing. Laughing in groups helps strengthen relationships and is a powerful way to unite people in difficult times. So given the stresses of high school, I’d say that laughter is an absolute necessity without which even the best of students will crumble. Ultimately, I’ll say you don’t always need a reason to laugh or smile. It should be something that comes natu-rally and stays with you forever. Life is too short to be gloomy or serious. It’s important to live life to the fullest and Laugh out Loud. lol.

by: Dhruv Seth

LaughingoutLoud

NINE SNACKSIN A MUG

ADAPTED FROM A BUZZFEED FOOD ARTICLE

PRARTHANA VENKATESH

NUTELLA MUG CAKE

4 Tablespoons (Tbsp) self-rising flour 3 Tbsp Cocoa4 Tbsp sugar 3 Tbsp Nutella1 Egg 3 Tbsp Milk3 Tbsp vegetable oil

INGREDIENTS

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Combine all the ingredients in a large mug.2. Whisk well with a fork.3. Microwave on high for 1½– 3 minutes.4. Top with whipped cream or chocolate sauce, if desired.

BANANA BREAD IN A MUG

Non-stick cooking spray 1/8 tbsp baking powder3 Tbsp flour 1/8 tbsp baking soda1 tbsp sugar 1 egg 1 banana 2 tbsp brown sugar 1/4 tbsp vanilla extract1/8 tbsp salt 1 tbsp vegetable oil

INGREDIENTS

INSTRUCTIONS1. Spray a mug with cooking spray.2. Whisk flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, and soda in the mug. Add egg, vanilla, oil, milk and mashed banana and stir. 3. Microwave for up to 3 minutes.

INSTANT BLUEBERRY MUFFINS

1 oz. frozen blueberries 1/2 tbsp orange zest1/4 cup ground flaxseed 1 egg white1/2 tbsp baking powder 1/2 tbsp nutmeg2 tbsp pancake syrup

INGREDIENTS

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Mix dry ingredients together thoroughly, before add-ing egg, syrup and zest.2. Pour the mixture into a mug that has been sprayed with non-stick cooking spray and microwave for about 90

COFFEE CUP QUICHE

1 egg 2 tbsp cream cheese1 1/2 tbsp milk 1/2 slice prosciutto or hamSalt Fresh thyme leavesGround black pepper Dijon mustard1/4 Bagel

INGREDIENTS

INSTRUCTIONS1. Beat egg and milk together in a mug; add salt and pepper. Tear bread into dime-size pieces; stir in. Add cream cheese. Tear the ham into small pieces; add to mixture. Sprinkle with thyme.2. Microwave on high until done, about 1 minute 10 seconds. Garnish with mustard and fresh thyme/chives.

MAC & CHEESE

1/3 cup pasta 1/4 cup milk1/2 cup water 1/2 cup shredded cheddar cheese

INGREDIENTS

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Combine the pasta and water in a large mug or bowl. 2. Microwave on high for two minutes.3. Repeat this for at least 2 to 4 more minutes, stirring at 2-minute intervals. If the pasta needs another minute to cook, add one more teaspoon of water and microwave for another minute.4. Remove it from the microwave and stir in the milk and cheese. Microwave for another minute. Stir the cheese thor-oughly into the pasta and dig in!

CINAMMON ROLL IN A MUG

2 tbsp applesauce 1 cup flour1 tbsp vegetable oil 1 dash ground nutmeg1 tbsp buttermilk 1/4 tbsp baking powder1/4 tbsp vanilla extract 1/8 tbsp salt

INGREDIENTS

INSTRUCTIONS1. Combine all the ingredients in a mug and whisk to-gether using a fork until the mixture is smooth.2. Microwave on high for 1 minute (or until it is fully cookd)3. Serve warm with cream cheese icing.

CHEESECAKE

2 oz cream cheese 1/2 tbsp lemon juice2 tbsp sour cream 1/4 tbsp vanilla extract1 egg 2-4 tbsp sugar replacement

INGREDIENTS

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Mix all the ingredients thoroughly in a mug. MIcro-wave on high heat for 90 seconds; stir every 30 seconds. Refrigerate.2. Optional: top with fresh fruit or whipped cream

CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE IN MUG1 tbsp butter pinch of salt1 tbsp granulated sugar 1 egg yolk1 tbsp brown sugar 1/4 flour3 drops of vanilla extract 2 tbsp of chocolate chips

INGREDIENTS

INSTRUCTIONS1. Melt the butter in the microwave. 2. Add sugar (both types), vanilla and salt; pour in the egg yolk and stir.3. Add flour and stir again. 4. Add the chocolate chips; stir. 5. Microwave for 40-60 seconds.

CHOCOLATE FUDGE + S’MORES MUG

2 tbsp graham cracker crumbles 1 egg3 1/2 tbsp unsalted butter 1/8 tbsp baking powder2 tbsp granulated sugar Pinch of salt1/2 tbsp vanilla extract marshmallow1/4 cup whole wheat flour 1 1/2 chopped milk chocolate2 tbsp unsweetened cocoa powder

INGREDIENTS

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Combine 3 tablespoons butter and 1 ounce of choc-olate in a small bowl; melt in the microwave for 20-30 sec-onds. Set aside.2. In another bowl, combine remaining melted butter with 2-3 tablespoons of graham cracker crumbs and stir until moistened. Press graham crumbs into the bottom of the mug.3. Whisk egg, sugar, and vanilla until smooth. Add flour, baking powder, salt and cocoa; stir until a thick batter forms. Mix in the melted butter and chocolate. Fold in remaining chocolate chips. Add half of the mixture on top of the gra-ham crust and add a scoop of marshmallows (or marshmallow cream). Add the remaining batter on top and microwave for about 2 minutes.

chocolate peanut butter mug cake

2 tbsp butter 3 tbsp cocoa powder2 tbsp peanut butter 1/8 tbsp salt1/2 tbsp vanilla 1/8 tbsp baking powder1 egg 3 tbsp chocolate chips2 tbsp sugar 2 tbsp flour

INGREDIENTS

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Melt the butter; add peanut butter and mix well.2. In the mug, mix the vanilla, egg and sugar. Combine the flour, cocoa, salt and baking powder and add the mixture to the mug.3. Pour in the peanut butter and mix well.4. Stir in the chocolate chips.5. Microwave for 1-2 minutes (or more).

A long time ago, when I was but a little child, ISY was an adventure

waiting to be discovered. It was a place of freedom and mischief (but nothing too serious). For some reason, elementary during those times was never dull; ISY

was full of secrets and opportunities to be exploited. Most of the scandalous things my friends and I got up to would not be approved by the principal, and are

no longer possible. That’s why I would like to share three interesting events that have happened in ISY.

I hope these memories will be passed onto the future generation of ISY students.

By: Kaung Khant

Story 1The

SecretPassageway

When I was in second grade, there was an afterschool activi-ty called Saturday Soccer. About 20 2nd and 3rd graders would come to the ISY soccer field and play scrimmages. Security was pretty lax during those times be-cause there weren’t a lot of stu-dents yet. After every practice, we would roam around the school “exploring”. Now, “exploring” to a second grader basically means the same as “fooling around”. And that was what we did… af-ter every practice…when there was practically no one at school. One day, an adventurous 3rd grader, who already left the school, led our little group of de-linquents for an exploration. We

ended up going near the security guards office, where we discov-ered a rather peculiar thing. Be-tween the office and the entrance wall, there was a little passage way that turned left and disappeared behind the guard house. It was narrow, and looked perilous; there were loose rocks everywhere and a long drainage ditch was positioned directly in the center of the path. We were bold, daring kids and a little danger couldn’t stop us. It was in our nature to just go ahead and “explore”, regardless of the scraped knees and other injuries we would endure. It was a hard journey, especially because of my short legs. The rocks proved to be loose and there were nu-

merous times when I slipped and fell. Furthermore, the path was not flat; there were ledges and cliffs where you had to leap from one step to another, all the while avoiding falling into the ever-pres-ent ditch in the center. The path seemed endless. In our imagina-tions, we were traveling to a re-mote place no one had ever been before. There was no sign of main-tenance, and wildlife like frogs and small plants thrived. On and on we marched, until we came across the most thrilling sight in our brief time we have occupied this Earth. It was the Lower Court… but we were outside the fence (the fence that blocks one side of the court from an unoccupied area)! To us this fence was impenetrable. I have spent countless P.E. classes staring at that intimidating wall, wondering if there was ever a way to get to the other side. Now, we had found a way. I celebrated with my companions, whooping and shouting to the world our happi-ness. After we calmed down, we looked at each other and silently vowed to keep this a secret. It shall be a treasure known only to those of us that were there. And I have upheld this promise, until now.

I was not associated with this event personally, but one of my friends was… in fact, he was the ring leader of this “little” in-cident. I will spoil the ending now… the principal, who was Ms. Baer at the time, got involved. I was actually sitting next to the guy that started all of this in our fourth grade class-room, when he came up with this idea. He whispered to me, “Hey, wouldn’t it be cool if a ghost occupied our bathroom?” I stared at him incredulous-ly. “What the heck are you saying?” My words were not enough to stop the monster. The following week, he dedicated himself to spreading rumors of this so called “ghost” that had ev-eryone talking within a few days. “The ghost’s name is Bloody Mary,” people would say. “They say if you look in the mir-ror, you will see her behind you.” What started out as a joke quickly grew into a serious matter. Little kids began wetting themselves because they were too scared to go to the restroom. Cults and groups dedicated to eradicat-

ing this “ghost” were created. Ap-parently somebody said (probably my mischievous friend) that you could “kill” Bloody Mary by stick-ing Chinese Ghost Paper on her forehead. As more and more kids heard the news, the field during recess was filled with kids arming themselves with these papers. And they would run in the bathrooms, and then run out screaming. It was crazy. After a few days of this madness, our principal heard of this. She began track-ing down the culprit (my friend, who I really don’t know why I was friends with). She was like a de-tective. She started out with the small kids and worked her way up. Before long, she pounced upon our fourth grade class like a cat. I still remember that day clearly. We were working on something or other when the door suddenly swung open and the glar-ing face of our principal peered in. “I need to speak to ___(my friend’s name which I will not include)”, she thundered. By then we all knew what was going on, and we stared sadly at the guy, like he was a death row prisoner, who was

now going to be executed. Slowly and visibly shaking, he stood up and shuffled his way into her deathly grip. “Who else was a part of this ‘ghost’ business?” she boomed. Well, no one… He was the sole culprit. However, that wasn’t the case to “my friend”. “My whole table”, he gulped. There was a shocked silence and gasps of hor-ror from his victims. “Come with me,” Ms. Baer bellowed. In the end, the innocent were also sacrificed. That was the end of the “ghost”. Business returned to normal after a few days. But “my friend” was never the same. They had all come back shaken, one girl had been crying, but our principal had done something special to him. He was no longer lively and mis-chievous. He became dull, like a wooden dummy. To this day, he still hasn’t shaken off the effects.

BloodyMary

Story 2

ILLUSTRATED by | Ching Ching

Story 3

We will never know which genius invented “Wolf Hunters”, but the game has been passed down through generations of students. It tests the strength, speed, and cunning of ev-ery player in this game of surviv-al. The “wolves” must hide from the “hunters.” They must do everything in their power to not get caught, for if they are captured, they face some-thing even worse than death - be-ing turned into a hunter themselves. They will be brainwashed to turn on their own brothers and sisters with-out mercy. The hunters are a relent-less group. There is no winning for the wolves; only delaying the inevitable. I was first introduced to this game by being a witness to this hunt. I was in second grade, and had been strolling along the hallway minding my own business, when I had noticed a crouching creature near the lockers. It was barely moving, but I could hear his ragged breathing, and when I met his eye, I had seen the fear and adren-aline of being “the hunted”. Then something had shoved me aside, and right in front of me, a gang of hunters pounced upon the unfortunate wolf. He had let out a blood curling howl as he disappeared beneath the con-vulsing entity that was the hunters. I stared in horror as they devoured him and as the crowd dispersed there was no longer a trace of the wolf. Instead, there was a new addition to the piti-less group of people that had a glint of

hunger in their eyes. Then they darted away, off in search of new prey, dis-appearing as if they were never there. Ever since then, I longed to play the game. It was like a drug; I knew that I could never feel “alive” until I experienced a hunt. I knew the rules, everyone did, but I could nev-er find a group of kids willing to play. Worse, ever since the teachers banned this game for being too “violent” and “demoralizing”, only the brav-est and the most fool-hearted would dare attempt to organize a game. It was during my 3rd grade year at ISY when I had the chance. At a Saturday Soccer Meeting (yes, the after-school activity, which I joined again after second grade), we were all waiting for our coach. His son had told us that a famous soccer player was coming to train with us. We were stupid for believing this, but there we were, waiting earnestly for practice to start. But nobody came. It was then that I realized that we were almost the only people on campus. There were no teachers and the guards thought that we were supervised. This was the perfect time for a hunt. When I mentioned this to my teammates, there was a rush of excitement and then a silence as the enormity of this opportunity hit all of us. I could feel the palpable tension as one by one my friends made their de-cision. Yes! they cried. Let’s do that! “Well”, I said calmly, “Let’s get started.”

Since there were ten of us, we split into two teams of five. Both teams lined up in the center of the football field and faced each other. I was a wolf; my heart was thumping in anticipation and my whole body was tensed as I prepared to run. “Ok”, I said, “give us 3 minutes to hide.” Then, the game began.

It would take too long to describe exactly what happened, but many things occurred that would have to be censored if I had to include them. Let’s just say it ended both well and badly. Well, because it was an exhilarating experience. I will al-ways remember and treasure the memory of chasing, and being chased. During the game, I shared a mental connection with my teammates that could be achieved only in the most intense moments. Time slows down and you feel every drop of sweat rolling down your forehead. You hear the breaths of your teammates be-side you. You are no longer an individu-al but part of an entity that is your pack. These moments stay with you forever. It wasn’t all well in the end. Af-ter all, despite these connections and ex-hilarating moments, we were still sweaty pre-pubescent boys. And if you tell a bunch of them to wrestle in the mud in a physical game, all you get is a pungent mixture of sweat and dirt. After the game ended, we were covered from head to toe with mud and the sweat of others. Let’s just say, that wasn’t a nice experience.

WOLF HUNTERS

BUT FIRST#letmetakeaselfie

Vidushi Kapur

ILLUSTRATED by | Grace Wan

The #Chainsmokers (I will try to get rid of the delightfully intellectuall #hashtags, or maybe not) have aptly captured the reality that the social lives of humans have reached. We want to be at every event, we want to hang out with the “coolest” peo-ple, but in the race to climb higher up that imaginary social ladder, we have forgotten how to actually spend time with these people. I was scroll-ing through Instagram (because I too am a victim of the revolution of the social networking propaganda that having this app makes you an expe-rienced photographer.) while I came across a post that said the following words:

“Humans are start-ing to live for docu-menting life events with photos and on-

line posts, instead of actually living for

the event.”While I’m sure that #9gag (told you the #hashtags were inevitable.) is a very trustworthy source making claims about the human society and its marvelous characterisics, the post did get me thinking. I’m pretty sure that at this point in time, you too are thinking of certain people or events where all the interaction that took place was purely in your mind (especially if you’re an introvert very much like me) or with phones. Can you picture a typical party, where people are dressed well and have their “soft” drinks to accompany

them, but all they seem to be saying is “Hey, let’s take a picture (=selfie, since those words have developed a certain synonymic connotation) together” or “Hey, random person I never talk to, can you take our pic-ture, please?” The lights of the party soon get drowned out by the blinding white flashes of our camera phones and the conversation gets lost in the sea of superfluous Facebook posts. Now, if you have never done or experienced any such disturbing sce-narios, you might as well stop reading here. (and go back to whichever cave it is you came out of.)

It can be quite infuriating to realize that the people you’re talking to are actually not listening, but instagram-ming (new verbs that are establishing themselves) their latest selfie, or better yet, a picture of their dinner plate. The thoughts that immediately run through my mind are along the lines of A. Why do I even bother leaving my beautiful bed (spoken like a true introvert) and B. I’m sitting right here, who are these “people” that you are trying to talk to? I feel like most people spend so much time trying to portray themselves as

these uber-cool and ultra modern beings to a virtual and undefined audience that they forget human contact in real time. Who are these people that are more important than the person sitting right in front of you? What sounds like an innocent picture or post instead of a conver-sation, in the long term, it weakens relationship, boiling down the whole phenomenon to a mere wisp of su-perficiality. This wisp can really haunt you one day, when you sit down and think about all the people that you’ve lost by not caring enough.

The social media revolution may have made the world a smaller place, but it has taken its toll on how people conduct themselves in everyday lives. Before you too become a wave of this sea of superficiality, take a step back and evaluate your relation-ships with people. Turns out, people can be fun to talk to if they aren’t glued to their phones, or you aren’t too busy juggling your social life. (And yes, you can take a selfie once in a month to feed your unconscious sense of narcissism.)

How big of a role does music play in your life? Give it some thought: the answer might be more than you expect. Music can influence our lives in powerful ways. Personally, I didn’t realize how much mu-sic affected me until I started making it. I have taken piano lessons, reluctant-ly, since I was eight. Every time I moved countries, I would stop playing for a few months, search for a new teacher, and take weekly lessons that to me seemed to be ‘busy work.’ My heart wasn’t in it, and therefore I wasn’t improving at the level I wanted. I would get frustrat-ed, not practice, and in turn get even more frustrated. It wasn’t a good system.

But in January of this year, I came to ISY. I already knew that band was required, but I was dreading it. I had even written

to Ms. Powers asking her if I could take an alternative class instead: I told her I had no interest at all in learning to play an instru-ment and participating in band. I asked if I could do an on-line Latin class instead. She wrote back telling me that band was man-datory for all middle school students. I was dismayed and spent the weeks before our move worrying about my lack of musicality. I was expecting band class to be a disaster. I had band the first day of school. I walked into the band room and looked around at the assembly of instruments. What an en-semble (literally)! There were instruments of every shape and size. And when the band lifted their instruments at one wave of Ms. Reese’s hand to play a perfectly balanced chord, I was speechless. As I listened, all of my previous doubts and worries began to drift away. Suddenly, being part of the

band seemed like it could be stimulating and fun. I waited diligently through three more classes as I tried to decide what to play. Everything looked fascinating and all the instruments produced beautiful sounds. I finally let Ms. Reese decide for me, who said that she needed more French horn players. She gave me the horn and I took it home along with a beginner book.

When I opened the case that afternoon, my dread of learning a new instrument had dissipated entirely. Instead, I was now excited to get started. The French horn is a beautiful instrument, made of shiny silver, curved; that afternoon, it might as well have been pure gold. I took it care-fully out of its case, holding it the way I had been instructed. I sat down with it, held it to my mouth, and blew. I produced a sound that resembled an injured moose.

music in my

LifeBy: Arden Reynolds

ILLUSTRATED by | Raven Ye Mahar

“It was so bad, my dog started howling. Though for the next few days I could not produce any sound that even slight-ly sounded like what a brass instrument was supposed to produce, I kept at it, delighting in being able to play songs like Mary Had a Little Lamb and Row, Row, Row Your Boat. Every afternoon I would rush home, longing to play. I would sit for hours with my horn, prac-ticing and playing through our pieces.

I improved rapidly, and was soon able to play along with the band for most of the songs. I continued to practice, and con-tinued to get better. Over the summer, I went to band camp where I played for five hours a day. Now, nine months later, I am trying out for an international band, some-thing that I few months earlier I never would have imagined I would be able to do.

Ever since that afternoon that I first picked up my horn, I have been, in a way, transformed. I have never been so dedicat-ed to something, never wanted to improve as badly as I did (and still do) on my French horn. It has made me realize that it is never too late to start something, and that if you want something badly enough, you can do it. It gave me things to do, a goal of some-thing that I wanted to achieve. It was an at-tainable goal, something that I could reach if I worked hard enough. My newfound dedication to music has given a new struc-ture to my life, and I am working toward my goal of playing AMIS music. I am now aware that playing music is something that I can continue to do my whole life – some-thing that will bring me joy (and some-times frustration), will keep me on track, and will always present an exciting chal-lenge. It is only now as I reflect on it that I realize how much I have been affected by starting to play an instrument seriously.

I am now aware that playing Music is something i can continue to do my whole life - some-

thing that will bring me joy...

MINECRAFTBY: PASCAL SWARBRICK

When one thinks of Minecraft, one imagines the typical and obvious: simple, pointless, unrealistic (physics wise) and above all, 2-d. It is not just that though, true, in many ways Mi-necraft is unrealistic, and for example, when cutting down a tree, one would expect it to fall right? Well, that’s not the case in Minecraft for those of you who know. Minecraft, is simple, yet complex. It may have simple graphics that completely lack round objects and anything ‘realistic’, yet it makes up for simple graphics with complex concepts and technicalities. The primary and (arguably) only goal in Minecraft is to survive. This may sound simple, but after spending a Minecraft day, survival can actually be difficult. One has to juggle multiple factors at the same time, all of which are crucial to your character’s survival. For example, not only does one have to find a place to live, feed the character to prevent starvation (and death), be wary of heights, craft the right tools for survival and survive the night. It almost seems too much like real life, except for the fact that water isn’t needed for sur-vival (not directly anyway), water can be drunk to restore health, but unlike food, it isn’t meant to be ingested regularly. When seeing the sun setting in Mine-craft, one cannot help but be captivat-ed by its beauty, which is simple, yet eye-catching. As the sun slowly dips into the horizon, one realizes the beauty in pixelated graphics...for those you of that are newbs (new at Minecraft), you

will be too busy watching the sun set that it takes a moment for you to realize that it’s night time. For the first few seconds, it’s quiet…until you hear that low growl. What makes night time so dangerous is not the chance you will end up lost and being unable to find your house, it’s what the night spawns that makes it dangerous. Thanks to the graphics being simple and pixelated, the zombies, skeletons, spiders and (if you’re really unlucky) Endermen don’t look nearly as terrifying as they would be if Mine-craft was a 3-d graphic based game. Zombies in Minecraft, like their stereo-typical counterparts, are slow and move towards you with both arms extended forwards and, of course, are green. The amount of damage they do though, is enormous, but then again, the same applies with all monsters. Skeletons are even worse; unlike their stereo-typical counterparts, they have bows and arrows and thus can attack from a distance. Spiders…are spiders but worse. They’re massive in Minecraft, almost the size of your character, and often leap at you, causing extra damage. Endermen are among the most challenging of ad-versaries: tall, skeletal, dark beings from the Ender world, Endermen are beings from another plane, literally. When on the normal plane (that one that you start with when playing Minecraft) they often teleport randomly, often taking chunks of dirt, sand, whatever they first encountered. When attacked (or even look at squarely, apparently), Endermen

will not hesitate to strike back. In addi-tion to being able to teleport, Endermen can teleport quickly, often giving the player no chances to attack further. Lastly, if one is to talk about monsters, one absolutely cannot forget the Creep-er, a tall, green, rectangular monster that became Minecraft’s most iconic symbol. It’s earned its name (quite rightly) from its ability and tendency to sneak up behind players without making any noise and blowing up. When playing Minecraft, one of the many frequently asked questions is, “how do I do this?” “What is that?” and most frequent of all “how do I make a (insert item name here)” and the answer is: check the wiki (for those of you bothered to do it anyway). One of the more complicated aspects of Minecraft is well…crafting. When crafting items, complex and specific combinations of ingredients are required to make items, otherwise either nothing is made, or the wrong item is made. For example, to make a pickaxe, one needs two sticks aligned vertically and three blocks placed horizontally on top. I hope that this article encour-aged (or discouraged you) to see Mi-necraft for what it really is: a complex, worthwhile, simple masterpiece that brings joy and pain.