EDITORIAL BOARD

Co-Editors-in-Chief Michi F. and Chris Kevin O.

Layout Editors Mahek T. and Bernice H.
Poetry Editors Aurna H. and Anthony G.
Fiction Editors Matt B. and Cindy C.
Non-Fiction Editors Young Sun P. and Yihua L.
Visual Arts Editor Zaina A.
Public Relations Officers Kaye K. and Stevii M.
Advisor Wendy D.

EDITOR’S WORD
A t the beginning of the school year, Liham was warmly welcomed by
the ISM community as a young member of its family of publications.
Now presenting our second issue, we once again thank you for all the
interest, support and effort that you have invested into making this mighty
endeavour possible. Having achieved enormous milestones thus far, Liham
looks forward to its status as an official publication in the following school
year. We hope to usher in an era in ISM where creativity is the norm, not
the exception, where writing is a joy, not a chore, and where all individuals
can be recognised for their desire and ability to possess the spirit of crea-
tion. However, more importantly, we wish for Liham to take you to places
you’ve never seen, to take you on journeys to other worlds, to make you
feel a satisfying release—even for a moment—and to make your soul feel
alive once again. Enjoy Liham’s second issue!
Michi and Chris
Editors-in-Chief
TABLE OF CONTENTS
2 FICTION
Burning Six Feet Under (Contest Winner)
The Thoughts of an Ace Student
Lilly
‘Le Retour d’Alpages’ at Annecy
Sssverygood! (Contest Winner)

16 NON-FICTION
Does God Exist?: An Exposition
Weathering the Storm
Living With the Scars of Beautiful Reality
Is the Red Apple Really Red? (Contest Winner)
Manila (Contest Winner)

24 POETRY
The Veiled Intent of War Elevator
Blow Your Precious Tears Away The Chair
Drastic Measures The Storm
Continuity Diet Drinks
Carol of a Woman Marshmallows
New Interlocking Shapes (Contest Winner)
Eine Villanelle de Asuka (Contest Winner) Not Your Average Stereotypical Guy

35 VISUAL ARTS
La Mesa Dam
CUUUTE!!!
Day in the Life
Let’s Go Green
1
 FICTION

Writers for this section

Burning Six Feet Under by Camille ‘Le Retour d’Alpages’ at Annecy by JiWan

The Thoughts of an Ace Student by Deionte Sssverygood! by Juha

Lilly by Young Sun

 BURNING SIX FEET UNDER
They always said it was
calmest before a storm.
W
alking back through that
old house, my memories
haunt me. Its rickety old
floors screaming teasing jests at every
step. ‘Catch me if you can! Catch me if
you can!’ The same passageways, as
dank and black as I remember, with
their illuminating yellow flame long
since extinguished. My eyes usually
gloss over past the cupboard door, but
today I glare at it. That coffin of a cup-
board stands vertical, forever a source
of pain, despair, helplessness.
Nothing has changed. Nothing
other than a sense of belonging. This
isn’t my home anymore. It hasn’t been
for a long, long while. Not since the
dark and stormy night the bloodstains
came to be…
She grinned at me, her smile
teasing and her eyes bright, “Catch me
if you can!”
With that she bounded away
through the darkness, her candle flick-
ering dangerously as she ran.
“Allie wait!” I called and raced
after her, my five-year-old legs no
match for her eleven-year-old ones.
Allie was my cousin. She was my best
friend. We played this game rather of-
ten, sneaking out of our rooms at late
hours of the night and meeting in the
underground tunnels of the house. The
game was simple, modeled after a
3
-CONTEST WINNER-
dream she had recalled to me.
In the dream she was standing in a dark hallway, much like the
one we were in. But she was alone, and she was frightened. Then she
saw a bright, flickering yellow light in the darkness. She ran towards it,
but it remained in the in the distance, unwilling to be caught. The faster
and harder she ran, the further it seemed to become. The closer she was
to giving up, the smaller and further the light was.
But she always woke up before the light flickered out, before she
lost hope.
“Allie where are you?” I yelled after chasing after her light for
what seemed like hours. I couldn’t see the candle anymore, and I was
getting frightened.
“Gotcha!” A voice whispered in my ear, and I screamed before
laughing. I turned around to face my Allie. She was shielding the light
of her candle with one hand and motioning for me to be silent with the
other. “You don’t want to wake our parents do you, Bumble?” she
asked, calling me by my strange little nickname.
“No, Allie,” I replied childishly, trying to smother my grin.
“Come on you little rascal.” She chuckled, leaning over so I
could jump on her back. She and her candle carried me to the door of
my bedroom.
The next day was darker than usual. I leapt down the stairs as
fast as my little legs could handle and bounced into the kitchen ready to
face a new day, learning new things with Allie. But nobody was smil-
ing.
It wasn’t as if smiling was particularly normal anymore. My fa-
ther had told me stories about the Japanese army. They were in the Phil-
ippines and parading all over our country. My father would get calls
daily, about the latest news and the latest bombings. But I was only five.
I felt like they’d never reach us. We were immune. We were too happy,
too whole and beautiful to be affected by the atrocities of war.
It was Allie who concerned me the most that morning. Her usu-
ally smooth, smiling face was pulled into a frown and her silky black
hair hung, forgotten, limply to her shoulders. I stopped in front of her.
“What’s wrong Allie? Did something bad happen today?” I
asked.
“No. It's too early. Come.” She let me clamber onto her lap as
she played with my hair.
She seemed to be troubled all day that day. While we were
 playing outside in the garden, she kept missing the ball and her mind was constantly elsewhere.
Suddenly my father ran out and ordered us to come inside, his tone frantic and clipped. I was put
out that he had stopped the fun, so I ignored him for the rest of the afternoon.
If there is one thing that I did in my life that I wish I could change, it was those last few moments
with my father. My last words to him wouldn't have been “Go away! You’re the worst father ever!" If I'd
changed that, my last memories of him would not be his crumpled face: the wounded expression with
which he had reacted to these words.
Nearing nightfall, Allie and I were sitting in the living room, playing with our dolls and she looked
up, her eyes vacant of any emotion.

“It was gone today.” She said.
“What was?” I asked, slightly irked by the
vagueness of her statement.
“It was there. And I was running. And
then it was gone. And I didn’t wake up,” She
looked at me, her typically warm, brown eyes
dull and almost unseeing. “I saw it die out.”
Her expression was scaring me. “Saw
what? Saw what!” I demanded in fear.
But she didn’t answer. It was her father
that did.
“Run! Celia get the children! Robbie and I
will hold them off! Run! RUN!”
And with those few words, my world was
submerged into scalding white flames of terror
and inhumanity.
My mother was screaming directions at
Allie and I while my aunt scrambled around the
room trying to grab everything she could. I
started to bawl and I could feel Allie trying to lift
me off the ground. At that moment, I heard the
front door break and shouts floated toward us.
Japanese soldiers surrounded us. My fa-
ther and uncle ran to the front to hold them off
and all that could be heard were the shots of guns
and the cries of my family as one by one, we fell
apart.
Allie was the first to react. In our living
room there was a secret space. It was hidden be-
hind a camouflaged door, which was covered by
a smooth mahogany cabinet holding china. It was
like a strange little closet that we used to hide our
treasures in when we didn't want others to find
them.
In seconds, Allie had pulled away the cabinet
and shoved me through the door of the secret closet.
I was screaming as she shut the door, told me to be
quiet and pushed the cabinet back against it.
With that, I was surrounded by darkness. My
hearing was my only working sense. And how I
wished- how I still wish- that it was the only sense
that didn’t. I would rather have gone deaf for the rest
of my life then heard what came next; I've spent the
rest of my life trying to block out those memories.
Loud barking orders in sharp foreign
tongues were given, but in my silent panic and con-
fusion, I couldn’t make out what was said. And then
the sound of a body being thrown against the cabinet
was heard and I jumped backwards instinctively. As
I moved closer to the door, loud, painful sobs got
louder and louder.
I pressed myself up against the door and
heard my mother and aunt screaming at close range.
The sobbing, I recognized, came from Allie. My best
friend Allie. My cousin Allie. I could hear them hurt-
ing her on the opposite side of the door. Suddenly a
loud, heart wrenching, guttural scream pierced my
ears and I felt the very tip of a blade, already soaked
with blood, poke my stomach where it lay flat
against the door. The scream stopped short. The can-
dle had burnt out. It was there. And I was running. And
it was gone. And I didn’t wake up. I saw it die out.
I cried for her. I cried for Allie. I cried for my
mother. I cried for my father. I cried for my aunt. I
cried for my uncle. I cried for everyone who has lost
anyone in this way. I cried for every family that has
been torn apart, every person that has been torn
apart…

4
 …and now I cry for my family and I cry as I slowly rekindle the flame, using my fire to guide it, using
her fire to nurture mine.
A chilly wind blows softly through the rickety old house, whistling through the banisters, lifting up
the curtains like women’s skirts. It whispers cries in my ear, cries, screams, laughter, teasing jests. ‘Catch me
if you can! Catch me if you can!’
The house seems to breathe with old life, with old deaths, with old pain. The wind turns cold and
piercing, trying to waft through me as I stand in the living room with my palms open, my eyes closed and
my face to the ceiling. But I can’t feel it. A drop of rain from outside seeps in slowly through the open win-
dows, but I can’t hear it. A new storm is evidently on the horizon, but I’ll never see it.

The saying was wrong.

The calm is during the end of the storm, when the debris is settling and you know that it will be over
soon. After all the panic has dispersed. Before you realize what has been lost; who has been lost. No, the calm
is during the end of the storm, when everything you believed to be normal is everything you expect to come
back to. When returning to a new reality is the dream.

And when all you know is

what should be…
...when all you see is the
candlelight, forever out of
reach…
...but continuing to burn
through my darkness.

Camille, Grade 10

5
 THE THOUGHTS OF
AN ACE STUDENT
I
remember that day. Worst day ever during school.
I felt like I had failed at life that day, but after it
ended, I realized how stupid I had acted.
It all started the way my days normally started:
I wake up to my television playing some late-night
adult movie on the screen because I forgot to change
the channel after I got done watching a movie. I think I
was watching The Incredible Hulk the night before. I
fell asleep on the part where he jumped out the helicop-
ter. Crap. Continuing on, I switched off the television
and took a quick shower. There was no hot water that
morning so I took a cold shower. I was freezing after-
wards. I put my clothes on, only to realize that I had
unintentionally gone commando, so I had to take my
pants off, put on some boxers, then put them back on. I
ran out my room and downstairs into more trouble.
"Did you walk the dog last night?" my mom
pestered.
"Yea."
"No you didn't. He pooped in the house."
In all honesty, I hate it when someone tells me
what I did or didn't do. Anyway, I argued with my
mom for about five minutes before cleaning up the
poop that she intentionally left sitting out for about
three hours for me to clean up. After that, I asked her
where my homework was--a five-page essay on the im-
portance of World War II, how it affected the world's
economy, and how it impacted the world today--and
she looked at me, dead serious, without a crack in her
face and said:
"The dog ate it."
Wow. How the heck was I supposed to explain
to my teacher that my dog ate my homework? That's
the oldest trick in the book! I stormed out angrily,
caught the bus to school, and sulked all the way there.
When we got there, I stepped off of the bus and into a
puddle of mud. My brand new jeans and sneakers had
gotten mud all over them. After screaming obscenities
into the high heavens, I walked into school and begun
my day.
It did.
In each class, something went wrong; in
math, I failed a pop quiz. Totally bombed it. In
English, I forgot to read the specified chapters and
I was asked to give an oral assessment on it. I got
an F for participation that day. Chemistry went
well until I accidentally created a compound that
expelled eerie looking green gas around the whole
room. The entire hallway was evacuated and eve-
ryone made it out that I almost blew up the
school. I even failed lunch, which isn't a class. I
dropped my lunch onto a bully's lap, got smacked
into the wall, and kneed in the genitals, all while
the teachers weren't looking. I had a study hall
and that went well. Then history.
"Mr. Johnson, I don't care if you don't be-
lieve me, but my dog ate my homework. All five
pages of the assessment."
"Oh. You didn't get my email? I made it so
that it won't be due until Friday," he spoke to me.
That was a Wednesday.
Greatness. My whole day basically goes
down the gutter and just when I think my world
is about to end, I find out that. So, happily, at the
end of the day, I go home, hop on my computer
and smile gleefully. I read the email, chuckle to
myself, and open Microsoft Word.
I forgot to save my assignment.
Deionte, Grade 11
6
 LILLY

W
hether it was Tuesday or Wednesday Lilly didn’t know. In fact, 42 years had passed without her
knowing the date, or rather, without her caring. Since the age of 30 life had become a mundane

Lilly lay in repose on her black leather chair. She heaved in and out, struggling for some air in the
choking thickness of her house. She spotted the decaying white mug she had received on the Paris tour of 1950
on a small wooden table beside her. Painted on the mug was a faded silhouette of a ballerina. Struggling, she
stretched her arm out for the mug but stopped herself at the sight of the crinkled folds on her hand. When had

Lilly was never one to ask so many questions, yet she seemed to be doing so of late. Perhaps, she
thought to herself, old age had changed her into the many things she was not: depressed, longing, and feeble.
Lilly grabbed the small wooden table and made a slow attempt to climb out of her chair, but in the process
misplaced her arm and knocked the old white mug off the table, sending it falling to the wooden floor. With a

Lilly looked down on the broken mug, knowing she would never be able repair it to its original glory.
Even so, this was not the reason her heart suddenly sank. It was something about the quiet crack with which
the mug broke that sent painful shockwaves of nostalgia through her veins, reminding her of her final per-
formance.

My heart pumps behind the velvet curtains as I hear the audience restless with excitement. In a matter of
moments I’m up on stage in front of hundreds of faces. Decisively I bury my worries and spin and leap, exuding
all life that is within me. I am in a celestial place, for nothing could be closer to heaven than being en pointe.
Amidst these thoughts I hear a subtle crack that drags me down to earth. A sharp pain engulfs my knee
and a sweeping blackness encroaches my head. The completeness in me breaks apart.
I wake up in a hospital bed to the ‘fortunate news’ that with correct attention and rehabilitation my knee
would recover in three years time. My dance instructor, on the other hand, informs me that I can no longer tour
with the company and bids me farewell.

At that time, this farewell was not filled with too much sorrow for Lilly didn’t understand that dance
throve on the entity of youth. After her recovery she could walk—an activity she later found could never substi-
tute for leaping. As she bent over to pick up the broken pieces of the mug she thought about all she would give to
re-experience one minute of her youth. Her back stiffened and ached when she stood back up and Lilly realized
how time had hardened her. She laid the broken mug pieces in a container, hoping to preserve what little memo-
ries she had left. She knew now that memories were indeed all she had left, and carrying that thought she made
her way over to the atrophied CD player. Although it had been a while, her fingers automatically made their way
to play track number three—Strauss’s Blue Danube Waltz—and Lilly was carried away into a deep pool of memo-
ries for an encore performance.

Young-Sun, Grade 10

7
MANILA
L
ooking out my car window, my attention was
captured by two bony children in torn up
clothes, zooming towards the Pasig River like
flies attracted to the reeking foul stench of the river. I
thought they’d be about eight, yet their frail bodies
moved along the riverside like the frightful images of
malnourished five year olds. The only trace of human-
ity could be found in their beady eyes sparkling with
joy through the holes of their skeleton faces. I ob-
served them as they excitedly flung their fishing rods
off the banks and into the river, and finally hoisted the
large catfish they had caught onto the riverside.
I watched them depart from the bank, proudly
carrying their bacteria infested dinner. This was a
daily routine that many would find revolting. How-
ever, were their actions truly sickening, or was it more
distasteful that the privileged remained nonchalant to
their needs?
Their incessantly empty stomachs could not be
filled by anything else but by a dead river, perhaps the
Pasig River is truly the river of dreams.
I fell asleep silently in the back seat of my car
only to be awakened by a sudden knock from the win-
dow.
A familiar blind man stretched out his wrin-
kled hand, feeling for the window of my car, and find-
ing it, opened his rough palms asking for a penny or
two. I examined his faint smile worn out by the harsh-
ness of time and watched it fade away as he shook his
feeble camel-back body through the road and drifted
away from my car.
Perhaps the tinted glass windows of one’s car
can be blinding visors, shielding reality. The man’s
shut lids, however, saw the world in a clearer perspec-
tive. He could see the suffering of the people around
him, and he could see the strong need for action in the
society he lived in.
The stoplight turned green and I turned
around to watch the man’s figure become more dis-
tant. He would still be there next time, walking
through the humid heat and the chaotic traffic. How-
ever, how long before his eyelids completely shut him
away from society? How long before he finds that his
destiny in life is to stray around to no avail?
The tang of alcohol and the neon lights flash-
ing through the sidewalks of P. Burgos Street pene-
trate one’s car window and leaves one drunken by a
seemingly glittery life.
Everyday I see the faces of young female vic-
tims in this street finding no other refuge from pov-
erty except through prostitution. I observed them
moving flirtatiously through the clubs in their short-
cropped skirts and their pole-like legs, batting their
eyelashes at the old men who were waiting anxiously
for their belle de jour.
As I watched a girl of about nineteen enter a
bar with a man of about fifty, I wondered if they too
had dreamed, if they too wished to be a lawyer or a
doctor or a record company executive. Had poverty
truly killed the souls of these dreamers? Had poverty
murdered the future of our nation by forcing despera-
tion to rule over the innocence of these poor girls?
Because of their hardships, their morose pea-
cock feathers remained in the ground where they be-
longed, and behind the glitter and booming pleasures
this street seemed to give, there lay the hearts of
women who long for a better life. Could they not
transform their earthly wings to fly luminously in the
grey skies? Could they not see their faces in the stars
above them? Perhaps the question is not “could”, but
rather “would”.
Just as the women in the 19th century, these
girls allow themselves to be exploited in order for
them to survive. Just as the women in the 19th century,
these girls will one day rise above the impoverished
state they live in and find their voice.
Mariella, Grade 9
8
 « LE RETOUR D’
ALPAGES » AT
ANNECY
T
he celebration started at the beginning of the
busy Carrefour in the small, crowded city cen-
ter of Annecy where the market place began,
and from the start, my family and I loved the city as it
is. As I passed by the food stands, the odor of freshly
baked bread met my nose, and then the aromatic,
creamy mocha coffee-smell followed, waking me up
softly. The vermillion market tents ran along the sinu-
ous street until the far seemingly endless end, and the
pale azure sky covered up the whole area above me,
and there was not a single sight of clouds.
I walked along the shops for a while holding a
cup of pulpy orange juice with my left hand. Having a
little, fresh and fragrant sip of it, I thought, ‘this mo-
ment cannot be better in any way.’ I started tapping
my feet on the checkered brick paths, colored in yel-
low and brown, which made me feel like the little girl,
Dorothy, whom I read about a long time ago; only if I
were on red shoes and owned a tiny dog named Toto,
the girl could have been me. Thinking the day was
going so perfect, I drank the last bit of my fruity cup
of juice.
The paths led me to a small church with a dark
silver bell. Near the church was a huge crowd on each
side of the main road and the crowd’s eyes and all the
cameras were facing a single direction where there
was a large door open and an old, tall tree. The church
bell began ringing, making a fluted, melodious sound.
Soon afterwards, my ears were interrupted by ca-
cophonous sounds; trumpets started blaring, cows
followed by bellowing –moo-moo-, chicks opened
their throats chirping and cackling and geese quack-
quacked inharmoniously with them. ‘Oh, god,’ I
thought, but my hands seemed to have already
started to take pictures. The leaders of the animal
band were the eye-lined cows, and believe me when I
say eye-lined, because their eyes looked so pretty as if
a famous make-up artist drew black lines around
them to make them look so big. ‘Moo-moo-,’ they con-
tinued to bellow out loud. A group of snow-white
9
geese were next; they came closer twitching their
hips. The color of the feathers was highlighted by
massive ribbons around their neck; pearly jade, pale
cyan, orange-amber and clear-lilac ribbons harmo-
nized with their dazzling white feathers which must
had been washed the whole day before the celebra-
tion. Then, the romping goats ran over fast towards
the geese. Each of them was chewing grass, possibly
to make them quite, but the tiny bells around their
neck made even louder rhythmic sounds as they ran
faster and faster. Followed by the goats were twice a
dozen of black and white sheep looking extremely
fluffy like X-large teddy bears. Half of them had their
eyes closed and another half were having problems
listening to the shepherd boys. Next were a group of
farmer couples dancing round-and-round and they
made me feel like watching dozens of alive spinning
tops in iridescent colors with the music, backed up
by flutes and accordions.
For about a few more minutes, the animal pa-
rade continued, but did not seem to end soon, so I
turned around and walked to near stands where I
saw a small Yorkshire terrier yapping at me so
weakly. I walked towards the little dog and fetched
my hands to pat it -it felt like a bunch of knitting
wools. A lady came over and offered me a cup of
wine; I said no, but she said, “C’est juste comme le
jus de raisin.” I believed her and let a tiny sip run
through my throat. It felt sweet, but a little bitter, vel-
vety, but a little sour. I looked up at the crystalline-
azure sky shimmering brilliantly and saw a cottony
but wet cloud flowing freely. Soon, I heard my mom
calling, “Come here right now, it’s starting to rain.”
“I’m coming,” I answered. Feeling a drop of rain on
my nose and the remaining sip of the wine on my
mouth, I thought, ‘You’ve had a little too much
sweetness today.’
JiWan, Grade 11
 SSSVERYGOOD!
-CONTEST WINNER-

I
t was a cold, foggy night in the hills of Tus-
cany. The thick fog masked the landscape
and hugged the grape vines and olive trees.
Newlyweds Bob and Hannah Smith were travel-
ling along the narrow gravel roads that snaked
through the hills. Bob was enjoying the drive in
their rented Fiat 500 while Hannah was silently
getting more and more worried. “Bob, are you
sure you know where you’re going? I booked us
in hotel Trip-pooh-lee or something that sounds
like that. Wasn’t it supposed to be right after the
freeway exit?” asked Hannah.
“Didn’t you notice the exit was under
construction? I took the next one. Don’t worry
honey, I always know where I’m going,” bragged
Bob.
“Are you sure? It seems like we’re lost,”
insisted Hannah.
“Can you please just relax! We’re on our
honeymoon, for Pete’s sake! Just enjoy the ride
and treat it as an adventure,” Bob replied.
“But I can’t see a darn thing! This fog is so
thick! At this rate we’ll never find Thrip-hole-
lee,” complained Hannah.
“Okay, it’s almost 9 and I think you’re
just hungry. We’ll stop at the first place that
seems to have some sort of food. I read that
grilled meats accompanied by fine red wine are a
specialty of this region of Italy.”
Before Hannah could say anything, Bob
was already signaling to turn right into a long
driveway. Down the path they could see a white
arch that stretched across the driveway with the
words Hotel Tuscano e Restorante Italiano painted
across it in the colors of the Italian flag.
“Finally, we’ve found civilization again! I
mean, it’s not hotel Trip-hole-ly, but for a mo-
ment there I felt like we were in one of those hor-
ror movies we watched on the plane. If there is a
room available, maybe we can just check in here
after dinner. It seems like such a wonderful and

10
 romantic place,” suggested Hannah.
“Well of course honey, anything for you.”
After parking their car in the empty parking lot, the couple walked into the hotel and they were greeted
at the front desk by a tall bald man in a dark suit. His eyes were deeply set and he spoke with a low, husky
voice. “Buona sera signor e signora. Mi chiamo Claudio. Siete Americano?” asked Claudio.
“Um, yes we are Americans. Do you speak English?” Bob asked.
“English? Uhh, not so good. But I speak a little bit. Howihelpyou?” said Claudio.
“We are looking for a place to eat. Is your restaurant still open?” inquired Bob.
“Si señore! We have special dinner prepare by chef Paulino! We have grill coniglio, bisteca, agnello, e
cinghiale! Sssverygood! Especiality en Toscana. Sssverygood!”
“Well it seems like we’ve hit the jackpot honey! Claudio says; Sssverygood!” joked Bob.
Hannah seemed a little reluctant about the place since it looked like they were the only guests in the res-
taurant and hotel. But since she was so hungry, she put that thought aside and walked towards the restaurant.
The couple was greeted by a large dining room. There was already table for two set with a candle that cast large
shadows across the dim room. The whole place had looked like something out of a travel guide; cozy, beautiful
and romantic. After Bob and Hannah were seated, a plump man in a chef’s outfit flamboyantly entered the res-
taurant through the twin kitchen doors. His black hair was curly and peeked out from under his hat. Chef
Roberto struck them as the type of chef who doesn’t chase after Michelin guide stars, or one who would always
seek to prove his culinary skills to others. He gave the air of simple man who had grown up in some far-away
Italian province. He cradled a pair of menus in his right arm as he walked towards the couple. After a short

introduction, he proceeded to take their orders. Bob
bravely ordered the grilled rabbit and a truffle risotto to
share. Hannah wasn’t feeling so adventurous so she chose
the steak instead. Chef Roberto also offered them a bottle
of Chianti Classico Riserva from the cellar. The honey-
moon had finally begun as the two had the most romantic
dinner of their lives. They joked, laughed, and flirted out
loud. They had the restaurant all to themselves.
The dinner was fabulous and they ended up spend-
ing much more time at the restaurant than they had ex-
pected. It was quarter to 12 when they finally finished, and
the couple decided to spend the night at the hotel.
“What a magical dinner sweetheart. Maybe we
should just spend the night here, instead of driving
through the thick fog to hotel Tripoli. Besides, we’ve al-
ready finished two bottles of wine and you’re in no condi-
tion to drive,” suggested Hannah.
The couple walked unsteadily toward the front
desk, and asked Claudio if there were any rooms available.
Claudio exclaimed “Si signor! We have the very big
room special for you! Best for couple! Uhh.. Danilo come
here we have guests!”
“This evening seems to keep getting better and bet-
ter!”Bob uttered excitedly.
A man came out from the door behind the front
desk. He was of average height, but he large arms and a
rather muscular build probably earned from carrying so
many bags. He turned to the couple and introduced him-
self as Danilo “Buona Sera Signor e signora. Mi Chiamo
Danilo. Posso portare i bagagli?”
“What did he say?” questioned Bob as he turned to
Hannah.
“I think he’s asking about our luggage honey.”
“Oh.. No no no. No need for that, we are only stay-
ing for the night and we have our backpacks with us. Just
take us to our room please” answered Bob.
“Si prega di portare alla loro stanza” Claudio in-
structed Danilo to bring the couple to their room.
After ascending three floors they walked through a
creaky, dimly lit hallway lined with 19th century oil paint-
ings of young couples. At the end of the hallway, a large
door greeted them. Danilo pulled out a large key and
opened the door. The large wooden door moaned as it piv-
oted around it’s century-old hinges. As Danilo flicked the
light switch next to the door, a cavernous room revealed
itself in all of its majestic luxury. It was where the owners
of the villa slept before it was converted into a hotel. Han-
nah decided she wanted to be the first to experience the
exquisite bathing facilities, and without waiting a second
more, she waltzed straight into the bathroom. Bob on the
other hand was stuffed from the dinner and his thoughts
were a little clouded from all the wine that they had he

11
room as the alcohol flowed through his veins and clouded
his thoughts. Bob found a coat hanger next to one of the
windows and hung his leather jacket on it. He was warm
all over and his face was as red a tomato. He reached for
the TV remote and turned it on only to discover that all the
channels were in Italian. Feeling a little disappointed, he
eyed the bookshelf in the corner. In it were several un-
marked VHS cassette tapes. He thought to himself “Hmm,
what could possibly be in those tapes? I mean that guy in
the reception said it was the honeymoon suite so, that must
mean those are dirty tapes! Hahaha! Perfect.” Bob took one
of the tapes and fed it into the mouth of the VHS player.
On the screen, a large four-post bed appeared with
lavish sheets and pillow cases. From the right of the scene
appeared a woman. She had a hourglass body and was in
her late twenties “Wow!” Bob said “This looks exciting!”
As she slowly crept up onto the bed, an attractive man that
was also in his late twenties was coming into the scene. As
Bob watched the two crawled into the bed, Hannah came
out of the bathroom with a cloud of steam following her
out. “Your turn in the shower honey! Oh, I see you’ve got
the TV working. What’s that you’re watching dear?”
“Oh nothing dear,” Bob replied thinking how sexy
she would feel once he got out of the shower.
While he was scrubbing behind his ears, a deafen-
ing shriek rang out from the bedroom and after only a split
second silence, another followed. Bob launched the soap in
his hands towards the bathroom mirror and managed to
split it down the middle with a single fat crack. Bob paid
no attention to the crack as he hastily grabbed his towel
and barged out of the bathroom door while trying to cover
himself up. “Hannah, are you alright?! I heard you
scream!” shouted Bob. Hannah practically leapt ten feet
into the air with shock.
“Bob! What was that for!? Are you trying to give
me a heart attack! You put on some super gory movie to
scare me out of my skin! Then, you bust out of the bath-
room and start yelling at me!” snapped Hannah. Still
breathing heavily from his explosive entry into the bed-
room, Bob took a deep breath and began to explain the
situation to his new wife.
“What? What are you talking about? That’s not
supposed to be a horror flick! Let me have a look, OK? I’m
sure it’s not that bad.”
He re-wound the tape from the part where he left
off. As soon as the two people had stepped into bed, the
lights went out and the screen turned black. Bob could
hear them speaking, obviously puzzled as to why the
lights had gone out. Bob could hear a lock being un-done
and the creaking of a door. With a click, the lights were
back on and approaching the foot of the bed were three
men. The men were facing the bed, and the camera was
recording from behind them. They were all in some sort of
white lab coat. One was very tall and had a bald head that
shone because of the light. The second was shorter, slightly
overweight and had black hair. The third had large arms
but was otherwise of average build. Behind their backs,
they were holding large machetes. Without hesitation, they
moved towards the two in the bed and butchered them
without a word. The screams of terror that accompanied
the satanic scene were unbearable. The video was so vivid,
so real. Bob felt very uneasy, because the video not what
he was expecting. Something else was eating at him. Eve-
rything in that tape, the people, and the room, all seemed
so familiar. It was like he’d seen it before. Looking around
the room, it dawned on him. He froze for almost an entire
minute as the thought of dying on his honeymoon sunk in.
“Hannah, this is the room in the
video,” said Bob with a pale, blank
face.
“What are you talking about dear?”
“This is the room! Hannah, this is the room in the
video! Didn’t you notice that the chef, bell captain and the
receptionist were the ones doing the killing?”
“Are you sure? Or is this another one of your scary
jokes?”
“No. No this isn’t a joke. We have to go NOW! Those sick
bastards won’t have any victims tonight! Hurry!” In-
structed Bob.
Frantically, the couple was packed up in a moment
and was already wrestling the heavy oak door open when
suddenly; the lights in the room went out. This injected
even more adrenalin into their bodies. Everything slowed
down for them, their senses were heightened, and their
primal instinct took over. All they could think of was to
run, run as away as fast as possible. As they reached the
end of the dim corridor and rounded the corner at full pelt,
a tall figure was visible at the end of that hall. Bob slid to a
halt with Hannah close behind. The figure was approach-
-Author, Grade
ing them while buttoning up its lab coat. The mysterious
12
man shouted from the end of the hallway preoccupied
preoccupiedwith withthethe recent
recent near-death
near-death experience notice the
experience notice the officer’s
officer’s
in a low, raspy voice; “Signor, signora! stare.
stare.They
Theywalked
walkedupup toto
the
thedesk and
desk begged
and beggedhimhimto to
getget
thethe
other police-
other po-
Why you leave so fast? What is zee mat- men to investigate the hotel. The officer did not speak
licemen to investigate the hotel. The officer did not speak a word ofa word of English
ter?” It was Claudio. Without a moment and he signaled
English and he told themtold
signaled to wait
themintoone
waitofin
the chairs.
one of theThrough an inter-
chairs. Through
wasted, Bob started running down to the esting exchange of sign language and simple words,
an interesting exchange of sign language and simple words, the officerthe officer estab-
other end of the hall, giving Hannah a lished that nothat
established onenoelseonewas at was
else the station at that moment
at the station and an and
at that moment English
an
shove in that direction when he passed speaking detective would be there tomorrow. The officer
English speaking detective would be there tomorrow. The officer as- assured them,
her. Bob and Hannah were both quite in- they would
sured them,be they
safe in the police
would station.
be safe in theThe policeman
police station.agreed to let them
The policeman
toxicated by the wine and were putting sleep on the
agreed couches
to let in theon
them sleep waiting room.in the waiting room.
the couches
their tolerance and coordination to the The next morning, Hannah awoke from her sleep to a flurry of
test. Hannah looked over her shoulder activity. Bob was sound asleep, still exhausted from the last night’s es-
and almost tripped from the sight Clau- capade. People were coming into the station to start the day’s work.
dio, Chef Roberto and Danilo. Sprinting Seeking some serious help, Hannah was able to locate the senior detec-
their way down towards their car, both of tive. She convinced him to investigate the hotel, but the officer kept say-
them nearly took a tumble down the ing that he had never heard of a Hotel Toscano in the area that fit the de-
stairs. When they finally reached their car, scription she gave. The detective was not very busy, so he decided that
Bob was fumbling and patting his pockets he would accompany these crazy tourists and just do what they said so
like crazy to find his keys. When he fi- they would shut up. Anyways he remembered that he needed to pick
nally did, it took him a leisurely time to up some meat from the deli on the way back from the hotel. It was a
get the tiny Fiat 500 unlocked and out of convenient excuse to get out of the office since there weren’t any cases
the parking lot. As Hanna was closing her that needed his immediate attention. Hannah woke Bob and they lead
door, She heard that low raspy voice in the officer to the hotel site.
the distance “Whereyougoing! Come back When Bob, Hannah, and the detective reached the site, they
here!” The small 69 horsepower midget were greeted by a large villa that looked just like the hotel. But there
of an engine strained as it pulled the pair was no arch over the driveway, the wrought iron gate was overgrown
and their belongings to safety. with vines and was chained shut. The building itself was in ruin. The
After nearly driving off the road roof was virtually non-existent and the walls, which once had a won-
several times the couple spotted the lights derful cream façade, were nothing but crumbling ruins overgrown with
of a small town in the distance. The fog vines. The whole place looked like it was untouched since the 16th cen-
had cleared up by then and they were tury and had been left to rot away.
able to reach it without any further trou- “See! I told you. Nothing here. Maybe you drink vino little too much e
ble. Bob decided that the best place for you imagine. I have important work to do at polizia station. I have to go
them to go would be the police station. now. Ciao” said the officer as he poked his head out of his car window.
Luckily, it was right on the street that He was soon gone and only Hannah and Bob were left standing in front
they were on and they had no trouble of the imposing gate.
finding it. Bob slotted the car with quite a “Maybe he’s right, I mean we were drinking last night and you
bit of un-coordination under the sign that know what that can do to your mind” said Hannah.
said Polizia. The inside of the station was “But that can’t be. I mean, it all seemed so vivid! Besides, alcohol
bare of people, except for one man at the is supposed to make you forget things right?” replied Bob in a dis-
front desk in the waiting room. The lone tressed voice.
policeman was at the desk with his head “I don’t know honey. Why don’t we just get back in the car and
buried in that day’s newspaper. When the forget about all of this” answered Hannah.
couple stumbled through the door, he
lowered his reading material and gave an Admitting defeat, they walked back to their car. Hannah got in
annoyed stare, then got back to his news- first, but Bob took a final look at the building before getting in the car.
paper. Both Bob and Hannah were too He looked at where he thought their room had been last night.

13
The walls were falling apart and through a gap in the wall he saw something that rocked his soul. Up on the
second floor, between the vines and crumbling concrete, was his leather jacket hanging right where he put it
the night before.

By Juha, Grade 10

BUTTERFLY
-VISUAL ARTS WINNER-

Krizia, Grade 12
14
-VISUAL ARTS WINNER-

Shanika, Grade 12
 NON-FICTION

Writers for this section

Does God Exist?: An Exposition by Nicole Living With the Scars of Beautiful
Reality by Nikki
Weathering the Storm by Sam
Manila by Esther Is the Red Apple Really Red? by Nicole
~23
DOES GOD EXIST?: AN EXPOSITION
T
he answer could only be one of two: yes or no. Yet
there has been a great schism between the two camps
who support either answer for the vehicle of thought
that humans ride nowadays – of reason and science – spurn-
ing from the Age of Enlightenment that begun in the 17th
century, can neither prove nor disprove the existence of God.
It is acknowledgeable that the camp of the ‘Yes’ answer re-
sides under the banner of Religion, and the camp of the ‘No’
At the outset, both camps must agree that both answers can-
not be both right. I cannot reconcile in my conscience the no-
tion that an entity can simultaneously exist and not-exist.
This is unless some metaphysics scientist tried to debunk my
statement and prove that entities could both exist and not
exist at the same time. Hence, it is either “There is no God” or
While religion bases its belief in the existence of God on faith,
science bases its disbelief in the existence of God on the cur-
rent lack of scientific evidence supporting God’s existence.
Whereas the definition of faith is to believe in something
even without hard evidence, the definition of evidence is
anything that can be touched, felt, smelled, seen, or heard by
humans or their instruments. Evidence is basically physical
things that can be examined, measured, and analyzed by hu-
However, there lies the inherent incompatibility of science
and God. Science is the study of physical phenomena. God is
a spiritual phenomenon. Thus, there is a great abyss between
Since science can only explain physical phenomena, how
then is it a practical tool for establishing the existence or non-
Therefore, I find that science has no grounds to declare the
non-existence or existence of God for it is totally beyond the
Since science is no mode to answer the question of God’s ex-
istence, where can humans look to for answers? Let us back
track from science, and seek out its predecessor. Before hu-
mans set out to understand the universe’s laws through ex-
perimentation, they did so only by thought. The collective
method of using pure human thought and reason to explain
the universe is called Philosophy. And it is from Philosophy
Since, Science stems from Philosophy, and Philosophy stems
from pure Reason – I ask myself where does Reason come
from? All I know is that it happens in our brain, our mind,
where electrical pulses pass from the synapses of neurons to
17
other neurons. My
new question is:
“How does some-
thing of the con-
sistency of cold
oatmeal (the
brain) capacitate
to comprehend
the workings of
by Julia, Grade 10
Thus, only after
that questioned is satisfied can I continue my dig for the an-
swer to “Does God exist?” Along those lines, I must also ask
my self, “Do I exist?” for it is almost the same question. Reput-
edly, this fundamental human question has already been an-
swered: “I think, therefore I am.” So, is that how we solve the
problem – the way Descartes solved his own question of self-
existence? Thus the available answers to the question “Does
God exist?” would become “I believe, therefore God is.” or “I
I come to the conclusion that the only way to finally find the
true answer to this question is death. In the end, we all die.
When humans pass death, there lies the answer to another
question: “Will we all enter eternal oblivion or will we face
either eternal life or eternal death or will we simply reincar-
In the end, science and religion establishes no absolutes for the
universe for they are both merely extensions of human curios-
ity and human uncertainty. When we raise the question of
God’s existence, we find no definite answers but merely shine
more light on our human un-omniscience. Do partially con-
scious beings even have the capacity to determine the exis-
tence of a supposedly omniscient being? Is the ant capable of
discovering how a whole human being looks like? (I’m sure
ants are only able to see fragments of us. And germs will per-
haps question the existence of a whole human altogether.) The
only possible way we can get an answer regarding the ques-
tion of God's existence while we are still alive is for God, if
indeed he does exist, to one day show up in the sky for all
Reaching no definite answer in the course of my argument, I
thus conclude by quoting myself: “Doubt is the beginning of
deep contemplation.”
Nicole, Grade 11

WEATHERING THE STORM
T he Philippines is used to being battered by typhoons. Heavy
rains are expected during monsoon season. It seemed, then,
based on past experience, the typhoon that made landfall on
September 25th would be nothing out of the ordinary. That’s how it
seemed.
Typhoon Ondoy slammed into the main island of the Philip-
pines, Luzon, with a fury in the form of flooding and mudslides.
What seemed like just another storm proved to be anything but, as
the capital city, Manila, suffered damage unparalleled since the Sec-
ond World War. The majority of ISM students and faculty enjoyed
the luxury of safety while the poorest areas of the city began to un-
ravel. The seriousness of the situation quickly became apparent. The
Metro Manila area, home to some fifteen million inhabitants, was
crippled; 80% of Manila was left under water after having received
almost a month’s worth of rain in under 12 hours.
Late into the day, the government declared a national state
of calamity and ordered all schools in the Metro Manila area to close
for the following day, Monday. Many schools would actually be
transformed into evacuation centers that week. Many ISM students
assumed that, despite its track record of resilience in the face of ex-
ecutive decrees, ISM would indeed follow suit and remain closed
too. When it was determined that no major structural damage had
been incurred by the school and that class would be held on Monday
there was a mixed reaction among students. Social networks like
Facebook made it apparent that a lot of students were upset over the
development as they felt that it was inappropriate to go on with
“business as usual,” while over half of the city remained under water
and hundreds of thousands were homeless. However, vexation
quickly turned into motivation. Students came together and decided
that the school remaining open was in fact a blessing, as it would
serve as an excellent hub for coordinated relief efforts.
Many in the ISM community were severely affected by the
storm. Although most of the families of students and expatriate fac-
ulty emerged relatively unscathed, a significant number of the
school’s support staff, especially those living in the worst affected
areas such as Marikina, had their homes inundated.
In an emergency meeting on Monday morning, ISM’s ad-
ministration determined that ISM’s disaster relief fund would be
aimed primarily at helping fulfill the immediate needs of those in the
ISM community (custodians and support staff, over a hundred of
whose homes had suffered considerable damage) and two of its ser-
vice partners, the Philippine Community Fund (PCF) and Papaya
Academy, with remaining funds to be invested in more long-term
sustainable reconstruction efforts.
PCF is a community development organization that works
in the squatter communities at the infamous Pier 18 Dumpsite in
Tondo. It has an excellent reputation for offering direct help to those
most in need. The group’s mission is “to permanently improve the
quality of life for the poorest Filipino communities, through educa-
tion, nutrition, health, medical and family enhancement programs.”
PCF, also ISM’s waste management partner uses recycled trash to
make jewelry, bags, and other products that can be sold abroad for
high returns. The income generated by these items is used for a myr-
iad of community development projects. The poor communities l
living on and around the dumpsite communities of Pier 18 and
Payatas were absolutely devastated, with many families losing what-
LIHAM
ever few posses-
sions they had,
along with their
homes. However,
ISM’s dedication
to the partnership
with PCF and Pa-
paya Academy (a
similar beneficiary
wo r k i n g wi t h
squatter communi-
ties) ensured that
the immediate
health concerns of the community at Tondo and Payatas were swiftly
met, with PCF reporting a return to status quo within a few weeks.
With the funds raised by ISM, supplies were also bought for medical
missions that took place during the weeks that followed. The spread of
disease caused by the flooding was (and still is) a huge threat. PCF also
has a school in Baguio, so when typhoon Pepeng hit on October 4th,
devastating many communities in northern Luzon with landslides, it
was able to divert aid to those communities too.
More remarkable than the incisive decisions made by the
school’s administration though, were the efforts exemplified by ISM
students immediately in the wake of the destruction. By Monday lunch
break ISM’s Battle of the Bands core had rallied together some 40 vol-
unteers and performers to plan a charity rock concert to be held that
Friday. The ambitious idea, like so many others, came together through
conversations over Facebook and quickly developed into a community-
wide project, incorporating the support of student and teacher bands,
cultural clubs, the environment council, and ISM’s administration, as
well as parental connections, which ensured high profile food stalls.
The theme was simple: resilience and brotherhood in the face of adver-
sity – the concert’s name, ‘Singing in the Rain,’ embodied just that
spirit. All said and done, the concert that began with humble expecta-
tions raised over 8500 U.S. dollars in just a few hours. As one teacher
remarked, “[this event] just goes to show what students are capable of
when they mobilize.”
The devastation caused by typhoon Ondoy was, in many
ways, a wake-up call. Like 2005’s Hurricane Katrina, Ondoy pointed to
many of the inadequacies of the current government disaster relief sys-
tem. Moreover it served as a grim reminder that climate change is dra-
matically influencing weather patterns. If Ondoy revealed anything
about the Philippine people it is that we are a resilient bunch – some-
thing CNN newscasters pointed to when reporting on the recent passing
of typhoon Santi – the fourth typhoon to strike in a month. Indeed, it
showed to many of ISM’s students that ‘the bubble’ our elite class
community seems to exist in, is not impenetrable.
Obviously, more work needs to be done, but the immediate
response seen from both administration and students promises to herald
an emboldening of the spirit of brotherhood and empathy that ISM has,
for so many years, tried to foster.
Sam, Grade 12
18
NON-FICTION

LIVING WITH THE SCARS OF

BEAUTIFUL REALITY

I
’m the luckiest person in the entire face of the
world.
Everyday I walk to school with a metal struc-
ture strapped on me and people ask, “What
happened to you?” Sometimes when I don’t feel like talking,
I say I hurt myself, other times I cut the story short because
there are so many things that have happened that even
words themselves cannot portray.
It’s a story that changed my life.
In May I went to Jakarta for a Touch Rugby Meet
with two perfectly fine knees. I never had a knee problem
and for two games they were fine until the third game. Dur-
ing the third game, I passed the ball to the other team be-
cause it was our turn for defense and while I was running
backwards to get into position I spun my self to the right
side and then blacked out. I’m not sure what was going on
just that I felt this surge of pain seep right through some-
where. Lying there on the grass, I experienced the most
tragic seconds of my life. It was as if knives were cutting me
alive. The pain was unexplainable, how I could feel each of
my muscles taken apart yet become numb to the sense of
touch. I could feel the pain but I couldn’t point out where it
was and then out of no where I started to cry and scream. I
have only twice in my life cried because of sport-related
injuries. I get hurt so often that I am practically immune to
the pain but I knew that this was not the same and that it
would hurt even more if I kept it to myself.
I was sent to the best clinic in Jakarta and they said
nothing was wrong but inside I could feel something was
different.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
That was May.
Everybody, including my parents, thought I was
making a big deal out of everything and even until today, I
don’t blame them. I fell down by myself with no whatsoever
physical contact. Even if I was the one watching myself I
would have thought crying and screaming was over-
exaggerating. I could walk, I could run, I could dance, so
there was really nothing wrong. But I could feel it. I could-
n’t figure out what it was but something was wrong. My
parents, for the sake of trying to do something about it,
made me get acupuncture. But nothing changed. So I kept
by Shanika, Grade 12
on complaining until even I, myself, felt that I was just
overreacting. I eventually stopped.
Then one day during summer school, I played
basketball and the same thing happened but this time I
was warned before I fell down: I felt my right knee buckle.
This time when I fell down I didn’t cry. I just lay there
thinking, “I told you so.” The health trainer took me in
and told me my Medial Collateral Ligament was just torn
and that MCLs can heal on its own. He told me that if I
followed exactly what he said it would be all right. So for
five weeks, all I did was bike for 10 minutes and lift
weights for two hours. Finally, I was convinced that I
could play basketball again.
But it happened again, and the summer school
decided to make me take an MRI.
When the results came out—ACL and meniscus
and MCL all completely torn—I was speechless. I stared at
this long sheet of paper typed up in the ugliest font I had
ever seen. I didn’t understand it. I told my doctor, “I don’t
want to know what happened, just tell me if I need to
have surgery or not.” My doctor just said “Yes”—at that
moment I knew everything was going to change. He said I
would have to tell my parents about this and that it’s not
something that I can hide like last time. So I told my dad, I
was afraid though, afraid of the fact that he might get an-
gry with me for basketball even after he told me not to.
But he didn’t and it is because he didn’t I cried. I cried that
day because of everything. I cried because I knew I would-
n’t be playing sports or dancing for a year or two. I cried

19

because I knew surgery hurt. I cried because I never expect
After summer ended and while everyone else was
back in school, I had surgery. Before they put me on anes-
thesia this woman told me, “You’re a brave kiddo, the
youngest one I’ve ever worked on.” Then they talked about
anesthesia whether to do a half or a full and when they de-
cided on full I was overjoyed because I wouldn’t have to
hear what was going on. She said, “Sleep well” and I closed
my eyes.
I was wrong.
When I woke up, everything was done but my
throat was burning as if flames were inside. I moved around
signaling the nurse that I was awake and that I needed some
water. I weakly said “Water.” She replied “No, you can’t
have water for the next 8 hours.” I was struck.
When I was wheeled back to my hospital bed it
was the beginning of living torture. Nobody would give me
water and on top of that I had practice this breathing proce-
dure. Even worse was having to spit out green stuff (I still
don’t know what it’s called). If I didn’t follow these rules I
would potentially have heart problems so it was critical.
Everything was blurry that day. People kept hitting my face
trying to wake me up. They asked me if I wanted to watch
T.V. or do anything and in my mind I kept on saying,
“LEAVE ME ALONE.” Then in the 4th hour my leg was sud-
denly streaked with insurmountable pain. I started scream-
ing and then a nurse came in and she started getting mad at
me, and my dad kept on trying to tell her that I was only a
kid and to please understand and she said “You’re already
14. Suck it up.” And I started to cry trying to prove to her
that saying that wouldn’t make it any better. Eventually she
got the point and gave me morphine. By the 5th hour I told
my dad, “Dad, I don’t care if I throw up just give me the
damn water.” and he said no. I needed to wait for 3 more
hours.
I wanted to sleep. I wanted time to pass by, to get
this over with. The pain was so traumatizing that I kept
thinking “somebody ease this pain.” The thing is, nobody
did. It was my first taste of reality.
Eventually time passed and with a sore throat I
went through rehabilitation everyday. I met soccer players,
volleyball players, old men and women. All with their own
stories, all older than me. My health trainers asked me
“What did you do to yourself? It’s as if you put your life on
the life for sports. Not even athletes come with knees like
yours.”
I was being backed up on work. Mr. Brown told
my parents that it wasn’t my brain that was hurt and there-
LIHAM
fore my school work could be done. This was true, yet for
many weeks I didn’t do anything but sleep, because I just
wanted time to pass.
Then I came back to ISM and from there the real
story begins.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
I was on a wheel chair for 6 weeks. In those 6 weeks I
gauged on who were real friends and who weren’t. I gained
different perspectives of life.
Everyday I try to catch up with work I’ve missed.
Everyday I have less than 4 hours of sleep. I have such a hard
time at school because people don’t know who I am and I
have difficulty becoming friends with new people because I
can’t be the over energetic and spontaneous person I used to
be. I have such a hard time moving from class to class, I have
such a hard time dealing with rehabilitation, I have such a
hard time fitting everything in one day, I have such a hard
time trying to make people understand why I put my bag in a
wheelchair, why I can’t use crutches and I have such a hard
time waiting for the year to pass.
I used to wonder and sometimes I still do, why this
happened to me. Why out of all people, me who loved sports
to the extent that every season I would do 2 sports and every
day after school I would be running, did this happen to me? I
used to cry every night because so many things have changed
because of this. My dream of being this well-rounded person
was fading. Even more than that, the most dominant factor of
my life was lost, spirit. Today, I remind myself that it hap-
pened to me because I deserve a break. I deserve to come
home at 3pm, I deserve not to be all sweaty at the end of the
day.
I remind myself that what happened made me realize
how much my family meant to me. Throughout everything,
my family, especially my dad, was there through the whole
run. Through this incident, I’ve seen both my mom and dad
cry because they were sorry for not noticing earlier, for being
so stupid to just leave things, for not being able to afford a bet-
ter country to live in. I understood. I love my parents, and
even through all my complaining, my tear-filled nights, my
typical teenager attitude, they were still there for me. My little
brother, who had to deal with my bossing around, never com-
plained. As a family we cried, as a family we felt pain, as a
family we are facing difficulties, as a family we savor every
part of life. My family members are the three people that are
always there to catch me when I look back or fall back. I want
to say thank you for everything.
20
NON-FICTION
I know that if I never got hurt I would have never
gone to the hospital and met so many people all with their
own life stories. I would have never learned that disease can
be a beautiful thing when you look at it in a different way. I
would have never learned the importance of good health
without this experience. I would have never cared about dis-
abled people.
It is now my 8th week since the operation.
I wonder about all the people that have to live with
this for their whole life. I think about how hard it must be for
them, living unnoticed. When I see high steps, or no ramps, I
think to myself, “If only they made it less steep, if only they
built a ramp,” Is it really that hard? I think about how selfish
our society is and how it has no consideration for the minori-
ties. I wonder about the pain that these people have to face
every moment that they are alive knowing that there will be
no second that they don’t fight their disability, trying to love
it more than hate it. I respect them for being so strong. I re-
spect them for dealing with it. I also respect who ever takes
care of them. I respect those who support them. I respect
them for being who they are.
I am currently trying to get myself to swim again
and hopefully go to swimming IASAS. I joined MUN and I
would have never realized such a rewarding opportunity to
learn and to travel if not for my inability to play soccer. I am
trying to focus more on my studies.
I have had an experience that not many kids my age
have and in that way I believe I am special. I am waiting for
that day that I can tell every one of you my whole story but
for now, my story ends here.
I want to thank those who shared this pain with me.
Thank you to the trainers, the doctors, the strangers who
have opened the door for me. I want to thank my best friends
for being there for me. I want to thank my teachers and my
counselor for dealing with me and my situation; thank you so
much. But most of all, I want to thank my family and thank
you for having the endurance to read up to the end.
I truly am the luckiest living human in the whole
world.
Live to love and laugh, because life is too short for
anything else.
Nikki, Grade 9
21
IS THE RED APPLE
REALLY RED?
-CONTEST WINNER-
To understand some-
thing, we need to rely on
our experience and culture.
Does that mean it is
impossible to obtain
objective knowledge?
uman diversity is an amazing fact. Despite being of the
same species, human beings around the world are so
different from each other on many levels of knowledge
that each person adds colors to the palette of human existence
even without the deliberate intent of doing so.
Across the globe, there is the phenomenon of people
having mixed cultures, dissimilar life experiences, diverse races,
and contrasting social-political backgrounds. People from differ-
ent places display distinct characteristics. ‘Zooming-in’ from
continent-wide to neighborhood-wide lenses, the stark contrasts
between human opinions, beliefs, and attitudes towards any
given subject can be observed, formed on the basis of individual
past experiences and cultural backgrounds. Thus, an Indian
woman would think differently from an Australian aborigine as
regarding food, clothing, science, religion, and many other
things; but also, the same Indian woman would think differently
from another Indian woman living across her street. In other
words, a unique paradigm around which every person almost
unconsciously builds his or her ‘world-view’ or ‘perspective of
what is real’ filters all information received and influences one’s
understanding. Therefore, we come across the question, “Does
that mean it is impossible to obtain ‘objective knowledge’?”
In the face of celebrating our rainbow of cultures and
experiences, this question is most especially important given the
modern-day trend of globalization. People nowadays consider it
normal to come together on a daily basis under common eco-
nomic interests, environmental goals, social tolerance, cultural
appreciation, etcetera that we begin to wonder whether or not
those deeply-imbed cultural and experiential dissimilarities in-
deed stand as a ‘huge unassailable barrier’ to creating (or discov-
ering, whichever way you view the process of attainment)
knowledge that is universal. Or will knowledge always be some-
thing different in the brains of different people?
 NON-FICTION
The answer to the quoted question, if giving myself no time
for deliberation, is immediately ‘no’. On the surface, it seems absurd to
think that objective knowledge cannot be possible (taking into account of objective, is still actually subject to the minds of the scientists
that ‘objective knowledge’ is not an equal translation of the word who decide which theories to keep and which to throw, is the hu-
‘truth’, a concept of deeper, more profound connotations). We know
that there are things about which two culturally and socio-politically
different people (provided they possess a sufficient degree of sanity)
would not dispute heavily – such as the existence of the sun, the neces-
sity of food to survive, or that sexual intercourse potentially produces off-
spring. For the most part, such ‘indisputable’ claims of knowledge are
established by common sense, shared human experience, or the scien-
tific method. So I answer, “Yes, objective knowledge is indeed possi-
ble.” (And it is, might I say, such a convenience to establish.)
How I wish I could say it ends there and that I’m done an-
swering the question. But delving deeper into the case, one discovers
that the establishment of objective knowledge, especially by the three
mentioned ways, crosses the border into ‘subjective knowledge’ terri-
tory. For example, in history we read that in Galileo’s time it was
‘common sense’ to ‘know’ that the earth is flat. But knowing that the
earth is round now, does that make the ancients’ view of a flat earth
objective or subjective?
A red apple: it is red. That ‘pre-schooler’ fact is established by
our shared human experience. But does everyone really see the ‘red’
apple as red? What if color-blind people (or even absolutely blind peo-
ple) do not see the ‘red’ apple as red (or do not see the apple at all)?
Does that mean color-blind and blind people are wrong? Does the gen-
eral human population have the right to claim they are right about the
apple’s color? Even a dog will see the color of a ‘red’ apple differently
from a butterfly. Does the apple have no absolutely objective color?
Does that mean color is subjective knowledge? (It seems like it.)
What about science – is it entirely objective, as it is purposed
to be? Even with the merciless tools of the scientific method which aim
to obliterate human subjectivity, throughout the centuries scientific
theories have been disputed over, constantly modified, thrown away,
and/or salvaged due to the progressive steps of scientific discovery
and analysis. Does that mean the validity of scientific theories is sub-
ject to the minds of scientists? I guess so.
So if even science, which we all hail as the supreme tool
man attainment of objective knowledge then impossible?
My answer is ‘yes’. Yes, it is almost impossible to for the
entire human race to have one objective bank of knowledge.
“Almost impossible” I say, not “impossible”; because otherwise, if I
use absolute terms, this essay would invalidate the whole point of
the human pursuit of knowledge – which is to arrive at the ‘truth’
some time or later. Thus it is a given that objective knowledge is
not impossible. At the moment, the universal truth seems ungrasp-
able, but humans are adamant about pursuing knowledge.
(Indeed, the theoretical physicists are still grappling over the The-
ory of Everything.) The pursuit of truth is an inescapable, in-bred
trait of the human race. The accumulation of doubts and an expo-
nentially heightening pile of unanswered questions which result
from centuries of pursuing knowledge have no power to discour-
age us from continuing our journey of discovery and understand-
ing. The human will is still frenzied over pouring in passion and
energy into the worthy quest of the indomitable truth – that ocean
of truth, wherein the lines between subjective knowledge and ob-
jective knowledge and the many other existing types of knowledge
can sigh their last and fade away
.
I end with this quote by Isaac Newton:
“I do not know what I may appear to the world; but to
myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore,
and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble
or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay
all undiscovered before me.”
~ From Brewster, Memoirs of Newton (1855)
Nicole, Grade 11
by Shanika, Grade 12
22
 NON-FICTION
NON-FICTION
MANILA
-CONTEST WINNER-
A
gainst the cloudless sky, where a couple of
sparrows soared through the unbearably hu-
mid air, the stoplight blazed a bloody red. The
minute the light lit up, dark-skinned, grimy
looking children dispersed from a corner of the street.
Like black ants swarming around biscuit crumbs, these
children horded around the lined up cars, each child
knocking on the windows, cupping their little, filthy
hands, and yelling, “ma’am, pera, pera, po.” One of them,
a little girl, rushed towards my car. The gaze that has lost
half the touch of reality melted the glass; the two eyes
were two wrinkled, salty olives soaked in ghostly blank-
ness. Indeed, it was a truly terrifying sight as the child
puffed mist on the window with her drooping cavern-
like mouth. She constantly knocked and begged for a
peso or two, until the stoplight turned green once more
and the car rushed on, leaving the dirty child behind in
the middle of the street, her cupped palms still empty.
The bare soles of these impoverished creatures are
caked with grey stuff at its folds, as well as their finger-
nails – each nail has unidentifiable grime stuck under.
Often the thin dark fingers would hold strings sewn with
white sampaguita flowers while the other hand would
form a small tunnel around their black lips, shouting
“fresh flowers.” Yet the deafening roar of the Fords and
the BMWs darting by instantly crushes the faint voices of
the children.
“Ya-ya, take care of Angel, please. She’s crying,”
There was a huge family sitting down on the table next
to mine. The mother of the family was one of those
proud Filipino women who always have scented makeup
plastered thickly on their faces and weigh themselves
down with dozens of golden chains wrapped around
their slender necks. The smell of her Bvlgari perfume
pierced the rim of my nostrils like needles. In a very
strong and arrogant Filipino accent she snapped at the
two nannies, both wearing white, sitting at the corner of
the table. Immediately the two dropped their spoon and
forks as one reached for the toddler’s toy while the other
picked up the child and cooed at the wailing face.
Why is it that well-off mothers, who spend a majority of
their time at the spa and the mall, are never willing to
take care of their own young? A scene too familiar in the
sophisticated parts of Manila, as mothers are either very
busy picking on their salpicao and salad, or observantly
23
19
looking at shop windows in the Greenbelt Malls while
her two children follow her on strollers pushed by at
least two invisible figures dressed in white. Around the
outdoor malls I have often seen a mother cat licking its
kittens and keeping their furs clean. Also, I was often
told that children who belong to wealthier families are
helped at the showers until the child is twelve years old
by their ya-yas, whose hands are eternally attached to
the smooth arms of these children.
The plates, inadequately filled with limp stir-fried kang
kong stalks and cold rice placed in front of the yayas,
were barely touched as the talkative family walked out
of the restaurant through its arched exits. Soon after
they left, a stray tabby cat slowly meandered towards
the table, pounced on it, and slowly began licking up the
food with its rubbery tongue. In a few minutes it left, dis-
appearing into the night.
I was passing through the financial district of the city at
its peak time of the day, at around 7 o’clock in the eve-
ning. Traffic in Manila is like a herd of a thousand ele-
phants stomping away from ivory hunters. Even with the
windows rolled up, the sound of the unbearable honking
and engines rumbling seeped through the cracks and
crevices like poisoning gas. With deft maneuvering of the
wheels the car eventually made its way out of the may-
hem, but soon I was stopped by a police officer dressed
in blue. He motioned the windows to be rolled down.
“Yes?”
He took off his gold-rimmed sunglasses, and while wip-
ing them on his sky-blue shirt, “Ma’am, you have made
an illegal right-turn.” At this point my driver interjected
in rapid Tagalog, loudly complaining at the policeman.
The officer put his glasses back on, swatted a mosquito
away from his arm, cleared his throat, and murmured
something quietly to my driver.
“Sandali lang,” he answered. Then he reached for his
back pocket and took out his battered wallet; from it he
took a five hundred peso bill and gave it to the officer.
The policeman snuck the bill slyly in his pocket, and
with a quiet “salamat” he waved his hands towards the
roads and sent us off.
Esther, Grade 9
 LIHAM

POETRY

Writers for this section

The Veiled Intent of War by Alex Elevator by Matt
Blow Your Precious Tears Away by Soowan The Chair by Lynn
Drastic Measures by Christopher The Storm by Jeremy
Continuity by Toni Diet Drinks by Juha
Carol of a Woman by Cathy Marshmallows by Soowan
Not Your Average Stereotypical Game Theory by Jose
Guy by Mic New Interlocking Shapes by Julia
~29
Eine Villanelle de Asuka by Asuka
POETRY

THE VEILED INTENT BLOW YOUR

OF WAR PRECIOUS TEARS
AWAY
Blow your precious tears away.
I believe that you’ve changed my life forever.
Rise and shine like in the morning ray.
“I owe you.” I say,
I’m not going to find another somebody like you,
never.
Blow your precious tears away.
I know it’s the sweetest debt; I’ll ever have to pay.
More than life now more than ever.
Rise and shine like in the morning ray
The time can’t take away.
All the sunlight in the morning. Whatsoever
Blow your precious tears away.
I wish I had more than just a life time. Everyday
To give back all you’ve given me moreover.
Rise and shine like in the morning ray.
And my love, you soak into my heart and brain day
by day
I might make mistakes, however
Blow your precious tears away.
Rise and shine like in the morning ray.

Pain, pain aroused by its puerile power.

Alex, Grade 12 Soowan, Grade 10

25
 LIHAM

DRASTIC MEASURES CONTINUITY

Sweat pouring on the court.
There on the bench, we see coach
Looking nervous, and calling for time,
To set the final play.
Our faith is not only in his hands, but ours.
The crowd sits there, silenced.

Coach says our doubters must be silenced.

We must look confident back on the court.
One last shot, this game will be ours.
We want this championship for coach.
Our point guard is scared to set the play.
He asks for more time.

But there is not enough time.

Crescendo of pain
Our opponents, bragging, must be silenced As warm blood gushes freely
Our backup guard, Michael is aching to play, Life drains with each drop
And he’s reluctantly placed on the court.
Like a hunting Beast,
I’m confident he will not fail Coach.
Then again, there is no “I” in this team. This team is ours.
Death lurks, readies to ensnare
Its prey with harsh jaws
The time-out finishes, time to take what’s ours.
Her fingers tightened
A mere 6 seconds in regulation time.
Their hold on the mortal plain
Michael playing at a time like this worries Coach.
If Michael can nail this, his enemies shall be silenced.
As her will strengthens
We get ready to inbound on the court The torment persists
Getting ready for the play.
And shrieks go on without fail
But she nears the end
But Michael sets a different play.
The fault will not be his, but ours! Finally!
We position ourselves on to the court.
Michael with the ball, looks at the time. Gentle hands raise her
He sets his own play...Takes a shot. Coach is silenced. Cool cloth placed on her flushed brow
I’d feel pretty darn nervous if I were Coach. Water graced parched throat

As the ball loops into the air, I take one last look at our Eyes still tightly clenched
scared Coach. A warm and fragile bundle
But Michael’s shot falls in! His daring play, Placed in her weak arms
Has worked, especially with the crowd no longer silenced.
The National Championship is ours! Tears pooled in her eyes
It’s been one hell of a time. Heart pounding… Her eyes opened
The home crowd, rushes down the court. Primal instincts surged

The opponents are silenced, we’ve taken what’s ours.

Bloodied lids fluttered
Our Coach was both pissed and relieved about the last The fruits of her labor smiled
play. Before the Beast pounced
It’s Michael’s time to shine, it’s now his court...

Christopher, Grade 11 Toni, Grade 10

26
POETRY

CAROL OF A WOMAN
Carols pummeled the shop’s sign boards,
Scribbling across the dust-filled counter,
Across the woman’s airless heart’s chords,
Revolving around like ripples of the night’s river,

Across the inky snow smearing the window,

That would vanish once this season is gone,
Isolating further apart the widow,
Cold and continuous the cheers leave her alone.

Sorry, you are not invited to this celebration,

The Siberian wind hiss to her ears,
Whose shape and form are like those of an apparition
Bleary-eyed, her time goes without peers.

Trudging her silent path home,

With icicles hanging off her finger.
She harbored if a happy day will ever come
Despondent, her steps went with no answer.

Cathy, Grade 10

NOT YOUR AVERAGE STEREOTYPICAL GUY

Oh curse the usual stereotypes!
For he is not like those in Hollywood.
To them, he is as irritating as bagpipes
In these eyes, it’s nothing but good.

What is seen is what is outside,

Only I accept what is within him.
Unlike the rest, never had he lied
For his words are as solemn as a hymn.

To the others, a pest is he,

But why should I care what they may think?
If it were true, the pest belongs to me.
He and I are two beats in sync.
Mic, Grade 11
Famous stars may have it all
But out of them all, he is the one standing tall.

27
 LIHAM

THE CHAIR
in the winter
a chair was put
into my father’s shower

during his daily ablutions

the chair made gravity tolerable
for his creaking body

lifted him to
the falling water
that shoved dirt off his skin

but couldn’t budge

the grains of time
that had lodged in his knees

they were rough, jagged, these grains

they rubbedagainst the bones in his body
THE STORM
they rubbedagainst his chair The wind blows and creates waves towards the shore.
and slowly Children cry, and to the gods the adults pray.
slowly
When this will end, nobody knows for sure.
eroded
them
to It doesn’t fade away; it comes more and more.
d People are full of fear as the clouds darken the bay.
u The wind blows and creates waves towards the shore.

s
Toward the shore the winds blow, down to the land the
t rains pour.
The waves sweep away the dead bodies from where they
so i made him a new chair lay.
When this will end, nobody knows for sure.
i tore my hair out of my head
and spun the strands into steel
Endlessly, the vigorous waves pound through the sandy
i built the chair’s frame
floor,
i pulled out the fibers of my heart All furniture is mercilessly taken away.
and made pillows The wind blows and creates waves towards the shore.
i padded the chair
Incessantly, the rains leave marks on the roofs they tore.
i picked my nails out of my hands
and carved them into diamonds
Throughout the deep wooden walls is all decay.
i adorned the chair When this will end, nobody knows for sure.

i collected my tears of joy More and more, the figures of the town blur.
and made a soothing enamel The ones still alive plead the gods to give them a way.
i shined the chair
The wind blows and creates waves towards the shore.
in the spring When this will end, nobody knows for sure.
this chair was put
into my father’s shower

it’s still there.

Lynn, Grade 10 Jeremy, Grade 11

28
 POETRY

DIET DRINKS
When you drink a serving of soda,
But the words “diet, light and zero” make
hopefully its not as tall as master Yoda.
them feel slim
although the reality is quite grim.
But there are those who want to lose weight,
although they might not care what’s on their plate,
So let’s reconsider these diet drinks,
‘cause they just might be a big fat jinx.
They will always choose
the words “diet, light or zero”
in the hopes that the can lose. Juha, Grade 10
But if you look at these people,
they are wider than a church steeple.

They have monster thighs,

and 64 as a waist size.

Most cannot be bothered to exercise,

and instead would eat a dozen pies.

But the words “diet, light and zero” make them feel
slim
although the reality is quite grim.

So let’s reconsider these diet drinks,

MARSHMALLOWS
Melting in my mouth
All sticking to my teeth Soowan, Grade 10
Roasting them on fire was the times of delight
Soft moments all night
Heating them burn all the fire
Making wishes what you admire
Afterwards you eat
Licking my lips to get that last piece of treat
Loving these are so painful at the end
Oh! Now I need to diet extra hard!
What has happened to my tummy?
So then I think of the tastes of marshmallows again.

29

ELEVATOR
A slight cough and cellphones clicks
My reflection presses ever closer as I’m squished against the
mirrored walls
Ding!
Clamor erupts as the thundering horde departs.
Catching my breath, the steel doors slide slo-
A hand wedges between! I’m horrified as a man in red shoes
enters the box
I try not to stare; but the mirrored walls are unforgiving.
An awful stench filled the box.
I sensed a variety of smells – a bad night at the coco cabana
perhaps?
Holding my breath I prayed that th –
Ding!
The man in red shoes stumbled from the box,
And into the hallway past three beautiful young ladies.
I tired to smile, only to meet disgust in their faces.
The horrid stench; they think its me!
Looking away the box amplified the whispers they spoke,
They are unforgiving… just like the walls
Ding!
Red with embarrassment and turning away as they leave;
my reflection is unforgiving.
The steel doors slide slowly, I’m trapped within.
The distant muzak returns.
I stare at the camera; its omniscient eye saw everything.
With a grateful sigh I see the light…DING!
I step out of the box, leaving the steel doors behind.
Matt, Grade 11
LIHAM
GAME THEORY
I sit in class
and as X approaches zero,
there are less reasons
for me to care.
I wonder what’s wrong
with me.
She says she wants me.
(But that she shouldn’t, it’s trashy)
Hilariously, I like her because she has that class
because she wonders if the things she does are wrong,
or if she, in her luster, should even touch this blustering
zero.
I like her because she never pretends to care
and her laughs are always for a reason.
Of course, I question my own reasons;
I wonder what this says about me.
I should probably live with a little more care
I should probably pay attention in class
figure out what the hell happens when X approaches
zero
two pages of scribbling and I still got it wrong.
She and I play this game for all the wrong
reasons.
When the game ends, it’ll sum to zero,
and the winner won’t be me.
My doodles are troubled for the rest of the class.
I wrote her a sonnet. She didn’t seem to care.
In some ways, I wish she didn’t care.
or worry if being alone together is wrong,
and in this fool’s bliss we could skip class
she’d read my diary, laughing as I “contemplate the na-
ture of reason”,
and she’d make fun of me.
Nerdy as I am, I number my pages from zero.
Sometimes I count backwards to zero
measuring the time since I last cared
about someone other than me.
Whatever. What I want isn’t wrong,
people put too much weight in reason.
Decided, I pack up for the next class.
Jose, Grade 12
30
 POETRY

-CONTEST WINNERS-

NEW He lay there untouched by the previous accusations

She lay there affected by the previous statements
His iridescent colorful t-shirt painted the room a blended kaleidoscopic hue
INTERLOCKING Her shattered smile blackened the red growing tree
His heart shielded by the layer of protective sports gear

SHAPES Her heart fractured by the penetrating pain

He crept closer like a discreet wave huddling towards the shore
She traveled further from the blur of walking flashing memories
He blurted out a three-syllable word
She blurt a three -syllable word
I love you.
I
hate you.
She stood there indifferent
He stood there enclosed by a relinquishing defensive armor
Her smile provoking a building sense of superiority
His overflowing tears exposing a soft chamber of vulnerability
Her peripheral nervous system, free; bouncing with excitement
His limbic system pulverized by the grinding sharp silence
Her peripheral vision erasing the black and white reminiscences
His vision, blinded by the sheer multicolored bright object of affection
She clasped a hand
He reached for a hand
She grabbed Jon’s hand
He embraced Jennifer’s hand
Jon looked at Sarah lovingly
Jennifer looked at Mark emptily
Two firmly bounded intricate pieces of glass formed a tender love
Julia, Grade 10 Now, shattered.
By the two pairs of perfectly new interlocking shapes

Le thé, arigatou. How was Schule today?

EINE VILLANELLE DE
When they say life comes without subtitles, it’s
true, ASUKA
Das hier is mon jinsei.
Speaking in different languages is like using different colours on a portray
German red, English black, Japanese white, French blue.
When guests come to have dinner and stay
Das hier is mon jinsei.
They can never keep up with our language hue.
Le thé, arigatou. How was Schule today?
My kopf is often a crowded language soiree,
Speaking to others, I always try to say Full of nice Menschen, demo manchmal I have a lot of ado.
Le thé, arigatou. How was Schule today?
Something so simple, but often turns out askew.
Das hier is mon jinsei.
Das hier is mon jinsei.

Though at home language troubles fly away,

‘Cause my family speaks like me too.
Asuka,
Le thé, arigatou. How was Schule today?
Grade 10

31
 LIHAM

Visual Arts

Artists in this section

Isabel
Shanika
Krizia
Kat
Juha
~29
Visual Arts

LA MESA DAM by Isabel, Grade 11

by Shanika, Grade 12

by Isabel, Grade 11

by Krizia, Grade 12

33
 LIHAM
by Isabel, Grade 11

CUUUTE!
by Isabel, Grade 11

34
Visual Arts

DAY IN THE LIFE

by Kat, Grade 9

by Shanika,
Grade 12

35
 LIHAM

By Shanika, Grade 12

LET’S GO GREEN, by Juha

by Shanika, Grade 12 By Krizia, Grade 12

36
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