Ethos Magazine | Issue I

7/28/2019 Ethos Magazine | Issue I

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ethosEditor in Chief

Emily Cheng

SupervisorMs. Sara Ellison

EditorsErnest ChengBrandon Mok

Priscilla NgJai RaneJulia Xu

Contributors

Sakina AbidiCorinne Ang

Gunjan BhargavaHazel Chan

Emily ChengMax Ferguson

Nikita GogineniKatie Ko

Sabine KwanBrandon Mok

Priscilla NgLee PhillipsKuhu Singh

Abbie Walker

Julia XuThomas Xu

[email protected]

ADVERTISE WITH ETHOSCONTACT US AT [email protected]


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CONTENTS

2 | ethos ethos | 3

letter fromthe editor

everal months ago, Ethos Magazine was but a spark of imagination in my mind. Now,thanks to the hard work of our student team and the overwhelming support fromacross the school, Ethos has emerged as a fully-edged publication that showcases the

extraordinary literary and artistic talents within West Island. The name of this magazine, Ethos, isa Greek word for character, or beliefs and values. I believe that our inaugural issue is a celebrationof West Island Schools values, the diversity of thought and the inclusion of the entire schoolcommunity.This issue is all about travel, both literal and metaphorical. Our photographs showcase far-ungdestinations, whereas our written works take us through time and history. Lee Phillips piece onfemale protagonists transports us to the Civil War-era of Gone With The Wind; quickly enough we arewhisked away to the 80s New York ofAnnie Hall. My own article on reality TV reveals the microcosmof Hollywood up close, whilst showcasing a local perspective from Helena Chan ofAsias Next TopModel. The voyage only continues in our prose. Lifes Edge, a short story by Brandon Mok, beautifullyrecalls a mans life in a series of anecdotes. Set in the modern day as well as Maos China, thenarrative recounts a violence-ridden history against the backdrop of the Great Wall. Max Fergusonsworks take us to the circus, the city and the se a in a succession of exquisite ly composed writing. Weare transported into the mysterious depths of a mirror by Kuhu Singhs thought-provoking piece of

the same name.

This issue is also one of contrasts. Hazel Chans stunning photographs transport us to farawayremoteness, whilst the bittersweet poemAlone by Abbie Walker hits close to the heart. We arebrought to tears of laughter by the sardonic Hasta la Vista, and tears of grief by the evocative dada.Ultimately, our talented contributors have proven the power of the pen: writing is a potent yeteloquent way to unleash ideas.

Many of you may see just a magazine, but it represents months of sweat, tears and a lot of diligence.This publication would not have been possible without the generous assistance of our principalMs. Jane Foxcroft, the head of English Ms. Louise Davison, and most of all our supervisor Ms. SaraEllison. Without her encouragement and constant support, this magazine would not be here today. Idalso like to thank our amazing editorial team, consisting of Priscilla Ng, Julia Xu, Jai Rane, BrandonMok and Ernest Cheng. They have been with me every step of the way and helped nurture themagazine from concept to substance.

Creating this magazine has taken me on a wonderful journey. I hope that reading it will do the samefor you.

Sincerely,

S

FEATURESLetter from theEditorEmily Cheng

Rise of the DragonBrandon Mok

The progressionof the femaleprotagonist in flmLee Phillips

Real Or Not Real?Emily Cheng

En LumireMr. WalkerEmily Cheng &

Gunjan Bhargava

PROSELifes EdgeBrandon Mok

Horrors WithinThomas Xu

The CircusMax Ferguson

OnlyJulia Xu

UntitledMax Ferguson

MirrorKuhu Singh

La MerMax Ferguson

POETRYHasta la VistaAnonymous

AloneAbbie Walker

The loudness of[-------]Brandon Mok

AnonymousEmily Cheng

things i feelsomeone oughtto knowSakina Abidi

A Broken SpellKuhu Singh

dadaAnonymous

ARTWORKTearsEmily Cheng

JointPriscilla Ng

The LeopardNikita Gogineni

Starry SkySabine Kwan

A DaydreamersWorldCorinne Ang

The Art ofDeductionEmily Cheng

PHOTOGRAPHYCarnivalEmily Cheng

New LifeEmily Cheng

ExpanseEmily Cheng

Beautiful Creatures

Emily Cheng

SeriesHazel Chan

UntitledGunjan Bhargava

Big SurEmily Cheng

DivergeEmily Cheng

CanvasAnonymous

UniformAnonymous

Untitled 2Gunjan Bhargava

The Last LightKatie Ko

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ethos | 54 | ethos

RISE OFTHE DRAGON

First it was Britain. Then America. Now the latter has acontender: China. Once the center of the ancient world,China fell from its high perch as a culture-deningsuzerain at the beginning of nineteenth-century, itspeople crushed as the country suffered invasion, warand famine. It has languished there for the better partof a century, but now China is growing more powerfuland may once again become the Middle Kingdom. Butlook at the delicate equilibrium of global relations now:will this dragons rise raise or wreck the world order aswe know it? This author stands rmly on the latter.

Firstly, China has a history of belligerence; it has a trackrecord of interfering with its neighbours affairs. TheKorean War. The Taiwan Strait. The current dispute overthe Diaoyu Islands. In each of these examples, Chinahas intervened obtrusively with varying degrees of itsmilitary might in full knowledge that nonintervention isan axiomatic principle of foreign affairs that cannot andshould not be broken. China has both the desire andability to incite major conicts within Asia. Secondly,

the rise of a Chinese hegemonic order will give rise toan arms race between key players in Asia. The ColdWar is an instance of this: the US and th e Soviet Unionwere locked in a struggle in which neither admittedto pre-emptive action, instead performing a type ofshadow-boxing consisting of proxy wars and arms racesdesigned to subdue the other. The harms were tangible:diplomatic relations soured, trade was fraught and othercountries found themselves wedged as the battleeld oftwo nuclear juggernauts. This will happen with Chinasmeteoric rise. With one difference: the results will befar more catastrophic with contemporary technology.Chinas rise as a military superpower has not beenpeaceful; thus Asia would be wise to fear it.

Firstly, China is a nation inclined to military actionto solve its disputes. When North Korea became

embroiled in internecine conict with South Korea,Mao Zedong promptly sent volunteers to aid theirfellow Communists. More currently, China has beenacting belligerently against Taiwan in all the variouscrises that have ensued since the Nationalists edthere. There have been a total of 3 military conictsthat have each resulted in attendant diplomatic crises.In the First Taiwan Crisis, the Peoples Liberation Armyunleashed a heavy artillery bombardment of Quemoyand bombed the Tachen Islands near Taiwan. In 1958,the PLA shelled the islands of Matsu and Quemoy inthe Taiwan Strait in an attempt to seize them from theRepublic of China in what would comprise the SecondTaiwan Crisis. The Third Taiwan Crisis involved a showof aggression thinly veiled as a military exercise. Morerecently: the Tiananmen Square Incident in 1989. Chinasent in tanks to resist unarmed students. These fourexamples show the extent to which China will pursue itsgoals in its-less-than-irenic manner. In addition, Chinastill considers Taiwan its territory if it is prepared togo to such lengths to apprehend its own compatriots,what will an external nation face?

Secondly, the rise of China will inevitably causeshockwaves in the Asian community as it seeks to bec omea regional hegemon. Regardless of political assurances,hegemonic powers always seek to disseminate theirprevailing political ideology and culture peacefully; butwhen push comes to shove, they impose their systemson weaker states by force. The US is a global power it has sought and continues to seek the germinationof democracy in all nations. Regardless of the benignintentions of this particular hegemon, this shows theimmense pressure world powers can wield on othernations. If China becomes a world power, it will seek

to impose its authoritarian regime on other nations.Instead of political progress hoped for by countries,political regress will instate itself as more and morepower is taken from the people and centralized in thestates hands.

As mentioned before, China is a belligerent, aggressivenation. Other Asian nations will seek to prevent its riseby aligning themse lves with a coun terbalancing power,the United States in an attempt to create an exclusionarybloc against China. The attempt by the existingASEAN members to block its entry lends credenceto this. According to the September 2012 issue of theEconomist, Japan, Malaysia, Indonesia, Singapore

and Vietnam are in favor of a pro-American bloc. Thisis already happening. And it will continue to happen.

This will in turn provoke China into achieving its endsthrough more aggressive means. This has happenedbefore: the C old War was a watershed incident in the20th century. The US and USSR both sought to dispelthe others hegemonic potential with arms races andproxy wars. The specter of nuclear war loomed over all.It is now the 21st century the technology of materielhas improved exponentially, deadly and stealthyweapons have grown only deadlier and stealthier. Asmy rst speaker mentioned, Chinas military capacityis redoubtable. China now has 240 nuclear warheads.Only 1 is needed to destroy the world order. China willseek to impose its will on weaker nations with orwithout military action.

In the face of such dysfunctional diplomatic relations,any major overtures at foreign policy reform will be

rebuffed as Asian countries seek to out-weapon China.It will result in proliferation of nuclear and non-nuclear

weapons. The risk of nuclear war will, regardless ofclaims of nuclear deterrence, drastically increase thechance of nuclear war.

To conclude: Firstly, China is a belligerent nationinclined to using military action to solve its disputes. Ifany such disputes arise, China will unleash its militarymight on the aggressor nation. Secondly, hegemoniesunbalance the world order and an inevitableconsequence of Chinese dominance is the impositionof the Chinese authoritarian political system on otherstates, regardless of military pressure or not. Andnally, Chinese hegemony will lead to dysfunctionaldiplomatic relations, heightened hostility, and increasedproliferation of nuclear weapons, leading to instabilitywithin the world order. Thus, Chinas rise as a militarysuperpower should and must be feared by Asia.

By Brandon Mok


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6 | ethos ethos | 7

From the damsel in distress, to thehousewife who longs to break free, tothe uninching girl with a gun, femaleprotagonists have played central roles

in many of todays most successful andcritically acclaimed lms. Althoughcharacteristics females are expected toembody as protagonists have changed inrecent years one thing has remained thesame: successful female protagonistsnever conform; most female charactersare usually one step ahead of socialvalues.When female protagonists were justbreaking into the movie scene, thecharacters were often opinionated,strong, and above all, attractive. At thistime, a woman voicing her opinions and

The progression of The

female proTagonisTin filmBy Lee Phillips

conversing with a man on equal grounds was far from thepreestablished woman of the day, making protagonistsof this kind all the more intriguing. Gone With the Wind

(1939), was a groundbreaking phenomenon for the femaleprotagonist. In a time when women were meant to beseen, not heard, the protagonist, Scarlett OHara (VivienLeigh) did both, using her intelligence, wit, and charm tokeep her and her family aoat despite the destruction ofthe American Civil War. With her subtle but effective wit,she cleverly used her looks to her advantage, and upheldand protected her dignity.Fast-forward about 40 years, and the stock characteristics

of the female protagonist have not changed drastically. Annie Hall(1977) was a new take on women in a romantic comedy lm. Anniewas an awkward, neurotic, self-conscious woman, dating an evenmore neurotic and dangerously pessimistic comedian. Not exactly aPrince Charming situation.Her honesty and sheer likeability is what made her stand out as aprotagonist. Her glitzy charm, odd wardrobe and quirky catch-phrases

appealed to many women who want to relate to a character as opposedto admire and idolise them. This m ovie proved to everybody at the timethat a woman does not have to be man-like to be interesting. A womanis a woman, and no matter how hard you try to turn it the other way, itwill never be as e ffective as a wom an just being a woman. Annie Hallwas possibly the greatest example of this; the tale of a self-consciousbut opinionated woman blossoming under the companionship of avery different man, and beco ming so independent th at she decides todo it all on her own.

However, as we enter the mid 1980s the subtle emotional strengththat made the female protagonist so special begins to siphon awayas screenwriters and directors decide to create a bolder, more heroic,femme fatale. Suddenly, emotional strength alone isnt enough

to create an intriguing female protagonist.Women in lm and media are now onlycompelling if they are in a position that a manwould traditionally be in. The result? We are

sucked into an ocean of movies about femaleFBI agents, machine gun wielding vigilantes,and superheroes dressed in the most ludicrousspandex uniforms, the riveting lead charactersof the 1980s.One example is Jodie Fosters Clarice Starlingin The Silence of the Lambs, a crime-thrillerwhich revolves around a hardened anddetermined FBI agent (Foster), who teams upwith a captured deranged c annibalistic serialkiller, Hannibal Lecter, in an effort to catchanother serial killer still at large. Claricesfemininity is completely overshadowed byher ambition and fearlessness in the face ofdanger, yet, despite her determination tomask all personal feeling, emotion still seepsthrough,.

Today, in the 21st century, emotion hasbeen completely disregarded. In QuentinTarantinos, Kill Bill, a dangerous former-assassin, driven mad with thoughts of revenge,goes on a gory, action packed journey in theattempt to kill the many people who havewronged her. Uma Thurman plays BeatrixKiddo, who is essentially a blonde, femaleBruce Lee. The fantastical and heavilychoreographed ght scenes where Beatrixcompletely annihilates over 80 trainedswordsmen, have transformed her into one ofthe coolest female characters in lm history.But what exactly makes a katana-wieldingblonde bombshell more appealing to the

modern audience than the sensitive women ofyesteryears? Do es the fact that lms are nowdepicting women in this manner constitute therise of feminism? Scarlett OHara is such anordinary woman today that we are required todream up bolder female characters in order toengage an audience long bored by the norm.Which leaves us with the simple question,is this dramatic change in the portrayal offemale lead characters an attempt to empowerwomen, or to fulll the misogynistic fantasiesmen have that involve women in a traditionallymale occupation, but looking good on the job?


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ethos | 98 | ethos

REALOR

NOTREAL?

he term reality TV is an oxymoron in itself. Realityis banal and mundane, whereas television aims toentertain and amuse. It seems to be a formula forfailure, yet in recent years reality television has

proliferated beyond our greatest expectations (or dismay).Our channels have been invaded by a slew of Kardashians,child pageant queens, real Housewives and bronze-bakedJersey girls desperate to showcase their lives in the publiceye. Oddly enough, the public is completely enthralledby this new form of entertainment. When did reality,previously so dissatisfying, suddenly become so appealing?Television used to be about fantasy, an escape from thedisappointment of reality. In the past, our small screenswere lled with excitin g sci-, dramatic so ap operas and

thrilling crime mysteries. Now, apparently weve come fullcircle and ended right back at reality. Im not convincedthat our viewing tastes are any different: we still crave thetheatrics of TV shows past. If we havent changed, it mustbe reality that has.

Author Sarah Rees Brennan once said that Real life isboring, rarely conclusive and boy, does the dialogue needwork. This quote rings painfully true: the trivialitiesof real life are not worthy of an audiences attention letalone precious screen time. Therefore reality on televisionis amped up and dramatized to create a more excitingexperience for the viewer. The personalities of the showare expected to create commotion and conict that will

stimulate audiences and up the ratings. Reality star KimKardashian is a prime example of how generating dramacan garner attention from the public. In 2007, she achievednotoriety as the subject of a racy video (that she hadallegedly leaked herself), and rose to fame that same yearin her reality show,Keeping Up with the K ardashians. In2011, she married athlete Kris Humphries in a lavish andextensively publicized ceremony, only to le for divorce 72days later. Whilst she was heralded as a fame monger forusing her marriage as a publicity stunt, Kim received morefame than ever in exclusive press deals and promotionfor her brands. Most importantly, the splashy sham-wedding multiplied viewership for her show drawingrecord ratings for its channelE! Entertainment. Evidently,

integrity is a small price to pay for fame and fortune. Thisappears to be this way with many if not all reality stars;moral rectitude is thrown out of the window in favor offame. Flick through the channels ofE! and TLC, and youcan see it for your own eyes. In the showHere ComesHoney Boo Boo Child, child pageant star Alana Thompsonthrows diva-esque tantrums and exposes embarrassingdetails of her family life. In Jersey Shore, guidettes Snookiand J-Woww ash paparazzi cameras and pick ghtsat nightclubs, all the while dressed in trashy, skin-tightclothing. In theReal Housewives series, bourgeois womenwhine extensively about shopping, plastic surgery andtheir antagonisms towards each other. In all, they competewith shameless agrancy for ratings and viewership. This

pandering to the camera is vulgar, yet we viewers not onlycondone, but revel in the theatrics.

However, even this is not enough to make good TV.Reality is disjointed, the excitement too infrequent andthe boredom too extensive to make for interesting viewing.Thus it becomes the producers job to cut and edit theshow, reworking life into a constant dramatic high. Ratherthan sticking to their roles as faithful biographers, theybecome creative storytellers, even spin-doctors. Sometake it to the next level by completely scripting reality,playing God and coercing the show participants to playroles - albeit unwillingly. Reality star Kristen Cavallari ofThe Hills fame claimed that her entire television series was

a uke. According to her, the whole franchise was basedupon fake ghts and fake relationships, including herown romance with costar Justin Bobby. Furthermore,she even confessed to feeling more like an actor than areality personality. It seems that reality shows bear moreresemblance to outright fantasy than the life they claimto portray. As they do for movies,reality shows often lm severaltakes of a single scene in order toget the personalities in their bestlight - to show reality at its nest.Kim Kardashian famously hadher marriage proposal from KrisHumphries reshot for her show,just because she didnt like howher face looked in the rst take -and she wonders why her marriage

didnt work out. Its this exploitativeattitude that makes reality shows sodespicable. Yet in all honesty, theyare simply giving the audience whatit wants, drama and emotion albeitwith added trickery on the side.

On the television screen, realityshows may be repugnant but theyappear fairly innocuous notcausing harm to anyone or anythingbesides our brain cells. Yet what happens off screen is anentirely different story. I recently spoke to Helena Chan,veteran contes tant of the reality competition showAsiasNext Top Model, and she recounted her experienceswith an air of disillusionment, even disappointment.Competition shows are notorious for being overly harshon their contestants, eager to expose anxiety and distress

on camera. I was dismayed to nd that these speculationswere true. Helena, a n effervescent m odel with a vivaciouspersonality, confessed that her naivet led to a hugeshock as she entered the world of reality TV. I came tothe competition thinking that Im always happy on set [ofphoto shoots], Ill be ne, she said But then it all turnedon me. She revealed that the producers of the show wouldput immense pressure on the competing girls, in order toto elicit stressful responses for the TV cameras. What theywould try to do is make it as difcult as poss ible for you toperform. the model divulged They stress you out, theymake you upset, they make sure everything in the modelhouse is super stressful so that you just come to set superstressed. For the full-time model, it was totally alien to the

relaxed atmosphere that she was used to in the workingworld. T he living conditions of the competition were n ohelp to her either: Helena revealed to me that in the two-month shooting period of the show, the girls were notallowed to use phones, use the Internet or even watch TV.Not only that but they werent allowed to leave the modelhouse for activities, and they had cameras trained uponthem 24/7. These conditions would be enough to make anysane person claustrophobic, but even more so when onewas conned to a house full of fellow c ompetitors.

The situation only got worse for Helena as the showprogressed. As the producers noticed her frank, condentand competitive personality, they manipulated her

candidness to appear condescending. I think I wasan easy target because I am a very outspoken, loud andcrazy person in general, she confessed. Undoubtedlythe producers targeted her for just that; as the episodesprogressed she was quickly labeled the bad girl of theshow. Frequently pictured alone, with the other girls

making disparaging commentsabout her in Confessional, shebecame the classic scapegoatpresent in every competitionshow the one everyone lovesto hate. Also subjected to harshcritique from the judges, it soonbecame too much for He lena tohandle and she suffered her rstanxiety attack, right in front ofthe rolling cameras. Recalling

the incident, she told me that itwasnt until the show that sheexperienced an anxiety attack.Yet even after the show ended,she continued to suffer anxietyproblems, so much so that she hadto see a doctor back here in HongKong. The show may not havedirectly induced Helenas anxietyattack, but it was sufcientenough to create captivating

drama at the cost of her distress and disenchantment.I came out of the show incredibly confused and dazed,she said. For her, and for me also, it was eye opening tothe brutalities of the reality competition show. I used tobelieve that there was still a trace of moral righteousness inthe reality TV business. Taking into account the way theytreated Helena, Im not so sure that they can be trusted

with anything, let alone the substantial responsibility ofdepicting the truth.

he term reality TV is not only an oxymoron butalso a misnomer: theres nothing real about it at all.Through careful scripting and manipulative editing,producers have rendered reality shows as fake as the

next soap opera. Perhaps when audiences realize theirlack of credibility, they will move on to more intellectuallystimulating fare Im still waiting for that to happen.You may be disappointed that your favorite reality show,whether it beKeeping Up With The Kardashians orAsiasNext Top Model, is far from the truth. Thats the thingthough - reality sucks.

Wheres the reality in reality TV?

By Emily Cheng

I came out

of the sho

incredibly

confusedand dazed

- Helena Chan

Asias Next Top Model Contestantt

t


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10 | ethos ethos | 11

LIFES EDGE

ou cant take those things that stalk your dreamsand invade your reality and possess your familyanymore. You have tried everything, from sharppain to shaman-aided purge. You dont careabout anything anymore; you just want peace.

You walk. Your breath comes out as short-lived clouds.Sunshine kisses your face and spreads a buttery glowover the stone.You walk on.You pause, turning back and smiling as you realize thatall this will end soon. Then you keep going.You enter a tower and make your way up crumbling stairsuntil you emerge into the air. You revel in the stillness ofa predawn world. From your lofty perch you imagine

yourself as a feather-light spirit twirling through theunsullied air.You feel as though the world is oddly muted; as thoughthe arrival of the sun should be heralded by bursts ofmusic that have only now been silenced.You hear birdsong and you decide that that will be yourherald.You walk on.And you keep on walking, even as beneath your feetthe ground becomes eight meters of empty air, and yourealize that your body is not a feather, but a stone.

I am dying.The man rolls the syllables in his mouth. They have aparticular avor.I am dying.There is something liberating about saying it aloud.I am dying!That sends them running, sympathy plastered on theirfaces like cheap makeup. Father, are you alright? Father,dont say such things; you still have a long life left. Father,you must ght.If theres one thing he is certain that he has taught hischildren, its how to lie.They dont do it very well.He waves them away and they scuttle out, fearful that theirintrusion will have diminished their inheritance. A drychuckle escapes from his lips. He has had seventy yearsof hale life - surviving war, revolution and famine. It isanticlimactic that his own body is his killer.He can still remember the energy as he marched as aGuard, waving his little red book and chanting slogans. Itall seems another life.He is dying. And theres nothing he can do. But his deathis of no importance. Ever since Doctor Wang said he had

forty-eight hours left, only one thing matters. A memory.A haze of a mem ory so far in to the past that he himselfis unsure whether it is true or not. But its verity does notmatter what matters is he remembers. This memory washis anchor. It was something so naked, so touching, so rawthat it shook him to the core.He curses himself for his failing mind. If there is one thingworth living for, it is this.He searches, but cannot nd.

He had been playing hide-and-seek with his sister when hiscousin had come running. He was crouched beneath thechicken coop, watching the roosters strut like emperors.A scream rent the air. He saw his aunt stumble out, clawing

the air and crumpling to the ground. Her body heaved. Hisfather walked out as though in a dream, his arms slack. Hesaw his sister run out of the house.Hey, I won! he shouted. But she had already ed. Hethought he heard her sob. Wondering at the strange turnof events, he waddled to the house. As he neared, he heardsomeone say:They found her at the bottom of the Wall. She justjumped.Who had jumped? Hadnt he been at the Great Walltoday? He couldnt rememberand he wouldve denitelyremembered if someone had indeed jumped. In fact, hecouldnt remember anything. It was like he had simplywoken up into the game of hide-and-s eek.

It was nearly sundown: time for dinner.He trotted in. The two aunts who had been chattingstopped and stared.Does he know?Know what? he said. His other two aunts glanced ateach other and kept silent. He didnt care. He was hungry.Normally dinner would be here already, a half-bowl of rice,boiled cabbage, and some chicken if he was lucky. Thetable was empty.Wheres Mama?

He didnt know what it was. He couldnt understand whyhe wouldnt see Mama again. To him, she was just away.Everyone acted funny around him. His father shot quickglances at him. His sister wouldnt speak to him. His auntswhispered behind his back.A week after shed gone, he decided to go to where she hadleft. He woke up extra early and slipped out. He walkedall the way to the Wall and stood on the edge of the tower,eight meters above ground, feeling the wind grab at him.He felt nothing, not even when he stood on one foot anddeliberately teetered.So he jumped back down and went home.

No. The man knows its not this. Theres nothing pureabout this act. But he knows its the rst domino that willbring them all back.He settles deeper into his pillows. If he didnt know better,he would have thought his children were trying to suffocatehim with cotton.He closes his eyes, and remembers.

The airplane ew so low he fancied that he could see thepilots face. The engines roared as the plane spat a chain ofbullets into the neighboring eld. A plume o f blood puffed

into the air.He felt bile rising. The plane soared onwards. He madesure no more were in sight before dropping his scythe andrunning towards the fallen man.Red unfurled beneath him. A smell of iron lled his nostrilsas he stripped away the mans shirt. He knew then that theman was going to die.He had seen the man from afar in the village. A fellowfarmer, just like his father.The man gave a sudden shudder. His eyes glazed over.No sound stroked the boys ears apart from the gentleshushing of corn.It couldve been him. Or his father. It couldve been anyone.But instead the Japanese pilot had chosen this man. He

By Brandon Mok

Y


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the rubble onto the Wall proper.Eight meters above and it was another world. The starswere as sharp and bright as dagger-points an d the moonbathed the valley in silver light. He looked across andinhaled sharply.He could see his village.It was unmistakable. The clock tower and the rings of mudbrick houses festering over bare dirt; the patchwork offarmland. Who knew it was just a wall away? He had lefthis home to seek a new life, only to be brought back.The sun was beginning to kiss the horizon. Warm goldsmothered the stars silver. He turned to the east to feel thewarmth and as he did so, caught sight of the silhouette of awoman poised on the edge of the tower ahead of him, one

foot delicately placed over air. An imperceptible motion:the earth beckoned. Time shrank, dilated, stilled, sped.He started to run.

His children are back.The memory oods in. He remembers her, but who is she?Is - was she real?Does it matter?He is gripped with an urgency so potent he can barelybreathe.Xiao. Xiao, he croaks. The gangly man by the windowhalf-turns. The other children are buzzing around thenurse, concerned for their oh-so-beloved father. Xiao isthe only one who shows that he doesnt care. Thats whythe dying man is asking for him.What is it, father? Xiao bends awkwardly over.He tries to speak.Father?The other children, hawk-eyed, swoop in. Father, what isit? Do you need anything? They are pesky sparrows.Take me to the Wall.

His announcement ignited a row. Xiao and him against theothers.He was now cocooned in a private ambulance. They movedagonizingly slowly a concession hed had to make for hisother children. He didnt understand why they bothered.Prolonging his life did nothing for their wallets.Father. Are you comfortable? one of the sisters loomsover. He has forgotten her name.He grunts. He feels that he is entombed in a white, portablemausoleum, sliding to his nal resting place. If he closeshis eyes and ignores the beep-beep of the machines andthe sisters horse-like heaving, he can pretend he is alreadyfree.

The Wall is exactly as he remembers it.He ignores the shouts of angry tourists who have beenshunted off. He focuses on the white-uffed blue above,the marching grey below, and the rufed green around.His children buzz over him like harpies, feasting on thefruits of his thoughts. He sighs.Its some time before he notices the silence.They are all gone. Everyone. He inches his head to eachside. Not a single soul. Silence reigns supreme. Has hedied?He forces himself up, surprising himself in the process. Itsbeen nearly a year since he has sat up. He gingerly maneu-vers his legs over the bedside . A ush lls him it feels as

though he is getting younger. He stares at his hand. Beforehis eyes, liver spots shrivel, wrinkles un-wrinkle, and skinstraightens. Everywhere he feels the tautness of youth.

He breathes deeply and relishes the fresh air in his lungs.For once, he is alone.The Wall ribbons away in grey from under his feet, snakingand shrinking over the next mountain. It had been darkestnight seconds ago but at super-speed the sun has breathedlight into the world. It is when sunshine plumes down herhair does he notice her.She glides. He tries to run after her but its like runningthrough syrup. Every step he takes is ve of hers. He doesnot know why he is running; even when he had been hale,

he had never felt the need to. He tries to call but only a puffof air comes out.She stops suddenly. She turns. The sun ashes.His mother smiles at him.He wades after her as fast as he can as the air solidiesaround him. For some reason the world seems to begrowing. The ramparts loom over his head; he can seenothing except the road. His arms are weakening; hisstrides shortening. He catches sight of his hands.They are the pudgy paws of a toddler.And as the sun births rays that sing across the sky, thetruth dawns on the ninety-three-year-old in the ve-year-old body.This is it. This was it.The memory.

ou watch as the old, old man staggers to his feet.You watch as he moves towards you. You watchthis child, this father, this traitor, this Guard, thisson of yours perseveres now as he has done hisentire life.

You know all of this, for it was you who brought him here.You know the Wall was his home. Innumerable times hehas fed; innumerable times he has returned. It has beenthe circle and the center of his life.You watch now as he stands on the tower from which youhad left eons past.You see his tears swirling down to a smile as bright as therising sun.You see him as he takes a step forward, as you had.Another. Another. He keeps on walking. And even thoughyou know the exact point in this longest journey of his lifewhere the unyielding stone will surrender to emptinessand he will leave as you did, you close your eyes.Because for you, he will be forever on the edge. On that

edge between stone and air, between life and death,between him and you.Forever aloft.

was n ot e ven tha t goo d a farmer an yway. Just a normalperson trying to survive.The war had barely touched. Hed seen a few soldiersmarching along the Wall, but that was it. He didntunderstand. What did they get from this one death?He closed the mans eyes, trying not to cringe as his handcame away smeared with blood. Then he picked up hisscythe, and walked away.

They had come back for more. They hadnt stopped there.His cousin wasnt killed, but what was left of her afterwas a husk. She would mo ve like she was shift ing throughwater. She would answer with a mumble. It wasnt one, oreven three who had taken her. Itd been ve.

He was thankful when they were beaten back.A chain of little black dashes had sliced the thread of thatmans life. He had gone through thirteen years in theillusion of his immortality. That moment had torn awayany notions of his invincibility.He had run to the man an innocent, and walked awaystained.

The memory was sullied. But the image of blood lingeredand poured until it became another memory.

The power was intoxicating.He now understood what it meant to be a Red Guard. Itwas even better being the commander of a Red Guardtroupe.Wheres the counterrevolutionary Hu? he barked. A manwas dragged out from the jail, which was merely a guardedclassroom. But it sufced. The teachers could not spreadtheir evil words through concrete.Do you confess to your crimes? he said.I have done no wrong, sir, the teacher whimpered. Hisright temple was bleeding. Hed used to teach him math.He could still remember Mr Hu sneering at him for awrong answer. Well, the good and oppressed had nowbeen elevated by Chairman Mao himself. He felt justieddoing what he did now.He addressed his comrades. The reactionary denieseverything. He waited as it sank in. You. He stabbed anger at Lin, who shrank back. Hed never liked Lin. Healways kowtowed to teachers. Traitor. Do you think thisteacher is a liar?Lin dipped his head further.Guang? It seems that we have Yes! Yes, he is a traitor. Look at him. His hands areshaking; hes crying. If hes telling the truth, hed be calm.

The Quotations says so.Hu had stopped whimpering. He knew what was going tocome.The commander smiled for his comrades, even as insidehe recoiled at what they would do to Hu. Hu didnt deservethis. None of the teachers did. There had only been thenews from Beijing. He knew that if he didnt take control,one of the rougher boys would and then everything wouldbe worse. But it didnt mean he liked it.With Hu gone, there wo uld only be two left. It was almosta race with the neighboring schools to see how many theycould get rid of.Two Guards dragged the limp man out. As commander, hewould have to preside over the proceedings.

He did so. But when they began to hoist Hu up to the loopof rope hanging from the tree, he closed his eyes.He was seventeen.

A hand latches over his mouth and presses. He s truggles.The hand disappears.He sees a face above him before he blinks, and it disappears.A face that used be clean and set in a permanent f rown,now dappled with dried blood and snot.Hu.He can no longer tell reality from dream.The television has been burbling in the background. Ha.It is him on the screen. A prisoner of food tubes and plushsheets. The scene changes and his children appear. They

look grieved but he knows that they are thankful he is nearthe end.He presses the plunger for more painkillers.The button is red. A red that he has seen before on ags,books and buildings.Red lls his vision, and as he falls into another memory, hethinks: I am so close.

His words injected energy into them.shall destroy the relics of an ignominious past that haveno place in our new future. Go forth, comrades, and builda new world!His voice stirred the ocean of Guards as the moon stirs thetides. They roared their approval.The newly arrived Red Guard roared with them,brandishing his little red book like a bayonet.It had begun.When Mao had ordered the closure of all schools, theboy hadnt known what to do. Harvest time was still twomonths away. Then Mao had called for a meeting of RedGuards in Tiananmen Square. The boy was chosen by thetownspeople to represent them.It was the rst time he had left the town. The train rocketedpast elds at an astonishing 20 miles per hour. The GreatWall, which had s eemed so impossibly distant and vast,dwindled until his hand could shield it completely. It wasnow a mere ribbon of stone.Hed been a dutiful Guard. He participated in rallies andthe burnings of Western things daily.Then: The Great Wall is a great irony of our country. Itstands as a symbol of strength yet it has done nothing tokeep the invaders out. Let it not stand as an artifact ofshame.That was all it took. By the next morning thousands ofRed Guards, he included, ooded the trains towards the

Great Wall. They stormed the waiting brick and mortar,chanting and singing as they used hammers, rocks, eventheir own hands to tear the Wall down. It bore this silently.And whe n the y tired and retreate d back into the housesthey requisitioned from their owners, it remained shiningin the moonlight.What woke him up he did not know. Only the eetingshadow of a kiss on his forehead. Seeing as he was wideawake now, he walked into the night.The Wall was a swathe of void against a star-dusted sky.The silence was as enameled and cold to feel as a Mingvase.They had torn entire sections down, leaving yawning gapsthrough which he could see the other side. He climbed up

Y



9/24

Blood on the walls.I am staring at them again, the four bars standing betweenfreedom and darkness, light and justice. And I am thinkinghow this came to be... No! No, I must not think, must not

remember. Only then will the horrors fade.Blood on the walls.I cannot stop myself. I am back in the castle, in halls ofstone, chambers lit with torches. Each ame, each crack inevery brick exquisite, perfect. No! I must stop, must purgemyself of this darkness that preys on my mind. No, it is toolate, and I am falling.Blood on the walls.I am walking, walking towards the door, the door at the endof the hallway. Guards in front, guards behind, blockingmy view, my view of those perfect ames, dancing to eachpad of my feet, each beat of my heart. We reach the doorand it opens. And I see my chance...Blood on the walls.

No! I cannot stop, and yet I must. I am staring at thebars, those four bars. But they are fading, dissolving intodarkness. The horrors draw ever nearer...Time slows and I see. I see the blade, steel shining, glowing

in the torchlight. And I see the ames, ickering, dancing.Luck has never been my ally, and yet I see today it shallbe m y friend. I seize the to rch, sn ufng out that perfectdance. The blade is in my hand. Red lls my vision, whichshould have been black. The world is spinning...All is still. I nd the torch and the dance begins .I see the guards, lifeless, sprawled at my feet. And theireyes! Their eyes! Staring at me! At me! Accusing, likengers pointed in condemnation. And the walls, the walls...I am running, eeing the horrors, leaving behind thisworld of death for which I was responsible . I am hiding,hiding from myself...And I am staring at the bars.


HORRORS wITHINBy Thomas Xu


10/24


Hot and sticky August. Inside the big top, the canvas shiftslazily. The parking lot is transformed into the magical land

of lions and horses with plumes. The curtains twitch andthe lights dim. Music oats, crisp in my ear as the conductorsteps out in his gold-braided coat. Painted faces ash by,the smell of sawdust dances around the tent as horseskick and dancers twist, contorting into impossible shapes.Drumbeats vibrate through my bones. The lions glare, theircold eyes gleaming in the mid-light. The air shimmers andfor a moment I believe. The crowd cheers and for a momentI believe. Then just like that, with a snap of someones sorryngers, its over.

THE CIRCUSBy Max Ferguson


11/24

awoke to the sound of water. I sat up, trembling. Myface illuminated by the moonlight, I listened. Theship rumbled and groaned and relinquished its nalbreath. My breath was trapped deep in side me, held

prisoner by fear and panic. Bare toes barely touching therough, splintery oor, I ran. All thoughts now centered onsurvival. Water gurgled and sloshed all around the shipand the rst screams pierced the stale air. I reached theouter deck and gasped as the cold, harsh wind ew intomy face and attacked my hair. I whirled around, seekingsecurity and help. The deck was deserted.

A shrill cry echoed off a wall near me. I hurdled towardsit, hoping it could provide the answers to the pulsatingproblems pounding in my head. A woman lay sprawled onthe stairway; her foot broken through a stair as she hadfrantically tried to escape the watery killer below. Thewater was n ow almost on the deck, swallowing up half o fthe womans body. A reddish tinge in the water formed

around her maimed appendage as I stared. I ran.I ran forward and pounded the now damp stair with mysts. Cool, almost calming water danced around myknees as I did whatever I could do to destroy the stair andfree her foot. Suddenly only the sound of water could beheard. I stopped, then turned slowly, as if in a trance. Thewomans open eyes gazed sightlessly under the water thathad engulfed her, the water was rising quickly now. Myeyes lled as I thought of the many souls who had alreadyperished, the blank faces, known and unknown, thatwould forever see without truly seeing. I angrily swiped atthe tears with my hand; I couldnt even save just one soul.

I rose to my feet and remembered the lifeboats the captainhad informed all the passengers of when we rst boarded.The starboard, near the stern. I repeated the loca tion of thelife vessels in my head as I somehow salvaged the energyto sprint. The ship lurched to the right, sunk a few moreinches. Running and running through time and space,almost running on water. Oh the irony. The next jolt wasfar stronger and I went tumbling backward in the shallowwater that sloshed on the deck. A ash of o range! Hopecame and went. The small orange lifeboats were all gone,most likely carried away with the tide. The hopelessnessinside of me nally reared its miserable head. I collapsed.

ACHOO! The monster of a snee ze that erupted from mynose awoke my broken heart and reminded me that therewas mo re to life than giving in . I shivered i nvoluntarily;

I was soaked, colder than a wilting ower in the midst ofa heavy storm. There was no sign of life anywhere on theship. Impossible, had no one escaped from below? Did thewater really rise that quickly? My body was numb from theknees down, where the water was sloshing menacingly.My depression soon turned into deance. I rolled up thesleeves of my blue striped pajamas and waded my wayup to the mainmast. The looming shadow of approachingdeath triggered the adrenaline that allowed me to scalethe mast like a squirrel up a tree. My shoulders shook asI laughed grimly at all the movies of sunken ships I hadseen in the dark, familiar comfort of theaters back home;now, gone were the cushioned mauve chairs, the calamityclichs of rescue ships arriving just when all seems lost.With this touch of remembrance I became acutely awareof everything, a rush of the past buffeted by a rush of icysea wind. My entire life of memories seemed to y awaywith it. What is this life? I wanted to shout at the barrenocean, to muster a force that would somehow propel me

from this dark, churning world of water. But all I could dowas hug the mast tightly, and hope that I would never haveto let go.

Thunder shook the ship, roaring at my forlorn silhouette.The continuous downpour made the waves rock the alreadyhalfway-submerged ship more angrily and united theterrible sky with a violent sea. My arms were sore, readyto snap like twigs sooner or later with exhaustion. Coldwind seared its way down my throat as a scream eruptedfrom my mottled blue lips. A strong current washedover the weakened vessel and shoved it sharply closer todestructionmy bare feet dangled above a gaping mouth.Muscles shrieking cacophonously in my mind, I now clungto the mast like a monkey. Shivering with cold, I stareddown at the watery death that lurked below me, the chaosof the open sky that shrieked above me.

Life. So easily lost. I marveled at how long I had livedalready. How can twelve years have passed so carelesslywhen death glides on such swift tides? Permeated with adull and nal numbness, I greeted what was to come withsolemn acknowledgment. Looking up one last time at theclouded sky, the almost beautiful mixture of grays above, apatch of dawns gold light broke through the storm and theship accepted its doom with a nal shudder.

I jumped into the mysterious depths below and nallyclosed my heavy eyes.

ONLYBy Julia Xu

18 | ethos

I


12/24

20 | ethos

Its winter, cold and dull, wisps of mist weaving around the looming steel gray towers and the sky trussed up by longstreaks of grey clouds, monotonous and dirtypallor. Mindless people trudging down silent winding mazes and hunchedtired roads leading to the weary, old waves drifting past the forgettabledishwater harbor. The buildings sigh and leanover each other, the colours bleeding into each other like an artist giving up on his masterpiece. They all look the same,every ofce block, shopping center, ickeringourescentlight diner. Just like the people, there is no difference.

Dont make a sound lest it echoes through the dark gaping alleyways, startling the grey suited businessman, schoolgirl,taxi driver, maid, shopkeeper, trash collector, tourist, banker, the fancy lady and the stay-at-home wife. They seem still,unmoving as if they have lost the will, the glow of life oppressed by the heavy weight of the water vapour ridden airpressing on their shoulders. All the different faces with the same expression of no expression, blank like a page waitingfor touch of a pen. Even the stray dogs with their mottled and mangy and matted fur, lie still.Listen. The intangible drag of feet, pitchy wind, off-key drone of unhappiness.Look.

By Max Ferguson

The beauty of it can be quite overwhelming at rst. Suchan ordinary object, a mere mirror how can it be capableof radiating an aura so strong that aws are turned intoperfection by the faintest hint of desire? The mirror isperched on the top shelf in the antique shop down theroad. Its hidden away from the nave eyes of lost andlonely souls who dont know any better than to starestraight into the very glass of the mirror. But certainpeople are destined to be tested by this mirror, and so fateguides them until they eventually reach it.And then they look into it.Now, the mirror itself seems to be an excellent sight. Butif one were to notice the details about the atmospherearound it, it wouldnt be difcult to spot all the signs thatscream out to throw away the cursed piece of glass andrun. The air around the mirror seems quieter, breezesstop as they move nearer. Its power is so strong, almost

visible, even tangible! A layer of mist en cases every curve,every slope of the mirrors body. And yet each part of themirror sparkles clearly in the musty room that the shopis. Brightening up from within, it compels the victim tolook into the glass.And if you look in, youve lost the battle. The mirrorwill tear open your soul and look within. Your deepestinsecurities and worst fears will be found. Wildest horrorsthat you buried long ago will be brought back to life.Every thought that ever ran through your mind will beltered for information on your weaknesses. And slowlybut steadily, the mirror will extract all it needs from youand the only thing that you can do is attempt to recoverfrom the shock of it all. The glass will transform toreveal an alternate you: every fear, insecurity, worry andweakness exaggerated to the maxim um. It must be noted

that by this time, the mind has lost the capability to ghtback with reasoning or logic. And so it believes what itsees; it has no other choice. But the mirror does not stophere, no, that would be too easy. What it does next is evenworse: it gives you your perfection.All your dreams, all your hopes. Poof! Theyre real.Everything you hated about yourself will be gone. Therewill be no trace, no memory, not a sin gle fragment oftruth to prove the existence of your aws. The perfection

of your dreams will be right within your reach. And asmost humans do, you fancy the idea of yourself achievingthis stage of beauty, perfection and excellence so muchthat you are prepared to give anything to buy it. Evenyour soul, your very freedom. No one would want to goback from here to that world of insecurities. So you dowhat the mirror has been willing you to do all along:choose your untrue perfection over your authentic self.You submit yourself to the forces within the m irror.You, your soul, your mind, your very being trappedinside the glass forever. And just as you begin yourimprisonment, a new gem on the mirror will brighten upto sparkle. One more victim.For the rst few days, months, maybe years, you will besatised with the new you. But eventually the gloss ofyour new excellence drains out. Memories are fractured,broken, fragmented. Life before the m irror? What was it?The roller coaster starts off at satisfaction, then moves on

to helplessness, disappointment, regret and nally anger.Banging on the glass of the mirror does no good, neitherdoes screaming for help; no one can see you or hear you.Looking at the people passing by the shop pricks at somememory or incident before the imprisonment.

The visitors of the shop walk in to innocently inspect theantique collections. And every once in awhile, someonewill come to the mirror. Pick it up, turn it over, have agood look at it. And you? Your heart will race. Will sheget trapped? Will she fall for it? High hopes of getting acompanion. No, you shouldnt wish for her to get trappedlike you. Emotions conict and ght and become alltangled. What a mess! The girl, shes turning the mirrorover. Shes looking at it now. Whats that? Shes smiling.But why isnt anything happening? Something must bewrong! Shes admiring herself now. She should be se eing

her fears and terrors, shouldnt she? You can feel themirror compelling her, but its just not working! The girlturns her head to the side one last time. Happy with whatshe sees, she smiles and puts the mirror back down. Andleaves.She fought it. She fought the cursed power.And youre left to ponder the question one mo re time:Why did you choose this wretched excellence?

MIRRORBy Kuhu Singh

ethos | 21


13/24

Its beautiful, in its own quiet way.They say that a person is dened by not how manytimes they fall but how many times they get back up.If this is true, the ocean must be very clearly dened asit crashes so many times yet it always rears back up torepeat the process.I am quite entranced by its different faces.The stormy dark blue faceted waves promise to drown

you, yet, you dont mind. The cold embrace icks smalljewels of salt water, nicking your skin with its coldbite. It froths like a pet at your arrival, the lacey latherlatticing the ever changing surface. Sometimes it islike a friend; nothing to hide and always there, othertimes like a stranger; distant, cold, mysterious, aloofand elusive.It is controlled by the ever-present, dominating moon.Yet it still manages to break out. A sign of reb ellion inthe refracted light, reminding me,happiness is a state of mind.

LA MERBy Max Ferguson

22 | ethos


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18/24

Hasta la VistaHasta la Vista, Crafty Mona Lisa

To the source of my demise,

hear the anathemas of my last goodbyes.

That glint of gold

upon your rectangular cage,

that secret smile

that tempted me to stage

your destruction.

From the sofa

off which I jumped,

to the sound

of that satisfying thump,

of you smacking the ground.

Why, Mona Lisa,

did you have to fall?

Why couldnt you just

stay on the wall?

My parents rage after you broke

would make any

bull elephant choke.

Yes Mona Lisa,

hear my cry!

I will not

just let you by!

You devious,

mischievous,

portrait on the wall.

Though you are,

unfortunately,

a stunning success,

aunting Leonardo da Vincis

intelligence,

why?

Why even though

youre mended,

do I have to stay

in my room

until Wednesday?

And as I sulk

while my teeth grate,

youre allowed to stay up late.

Dangling amidst

the walls smooth wood,

I shouldve smashed you up for good.

- Anonymous



19/24

AloneAlone

You left me on my ownI was never shown

A picture of youGuess you hated me tooI never knew what I did

To make you blow your lidAll I know is that

You put me down and I satOn the shop step

With no-one to prepMe for the news

That I was part of a ruseTo get some money

Guess you thought it was funnyTo leave me

Alone

- Abbie Walker


The loudness of [-------]Cut my tongue outSo I cannot speakCut my hands offSo I cannot writeBlind me deafen me silence me break m--e

The world will stillSeeHearMe as [----] as a[gunshot]For my silence will still be[------] than your[ ]

- Brandon Mok


20/24


AnonymousShe was the girl with the featureless faceA face that left no impression o n mostFleeting passerby, leaving little traceForgotten the very next dayShe was the girl with the lackluster hairNot strands of corn silk nor ebony blackBut a mousy brownLost amongst the crowd

She was the girl with the itting gureA waif-like thing amongst curves, s ticks and pinsNeither fat nor thinSwamped by masses in the dinShe was the girl with the nondescript nameOverlooked by strangers and mixed up with othersA lonely fate to befallHaving this name was having no name at allIt builds, it manifestsCruel thoughts infestI was anonymousI am anonymousI will always be anonymous.

She was the girl with the lackluster hairHair that stained crimson as it crushed against the tracksShe had decided to be nameless no moreAnd take a nal leapFrom anonymousTo notoriousShe is the girl with the infamous faceBloodstained remnants splashed across pagesShe is the girl with the household nameMourned and grieved by the massesShe is the girl who got what she wantedLeaving all of us, haunted

Yet in a day she will be a girl of the pastHer newfound fame unable to lastShe will be the girl who has once again digressedInto the back pages of obituaries and the rest

But no, her death was not for naughtThere is a lesson to be taughtAnonymous faces are not ano nymous soulsEach act of neglect will take its toll

The next time you see her with the featureless faceEquivocal expression and ephemeral traceLook into her eyes and offer a smileA long-awaited reason to live for a while.

- Emily Cheng


21/24

in my defense; i had not known that my heart was not a throbbing organ. rather, it was a gment of my imaginationand it was made of glass.

that upon breaking,it did not cut into two parts, but fell into pieces upon the oor as i stood there and you walked away.

it was wrong of me to hope,but i wanted so badly for a minute piece to em bed into your skin.

that every time you walkedyou saw redas it pierced through your tissues,eventually making its way to your lungs,so every time you took a breathyoud feel a prick, a stab, a stingas if it was a splinterand itd never leave you be.

- Sakina Abidi

ethos | 3938 | ethos


22/24

i am standing at a candy store and i wait for you to beckon me in. i already know i will turn towards the bitter

chocolate in the back and turn away from the sweets at the counter that i love so dear.

because they are cheap.

and articially avoured.

they are untruths

that are made easy to swallow

and i will regret them later

when i see the wear they do to my body and face.

i will eat my bitter chocolate in wretched silence

because i am now grown up.

and grown ups are bitter,

surrounded in cigarette smoke and coffee cups

its taste never leaving me entirely

- Sakina Abidi


A Broken SpellThe leaves fall, hold, now they kiss the groundSwiftly with the wind they twirlBrush slightly, make no soundReds and shades, colours unfurl

The fragrances, soft, y into the breeze

Dance on the mountain tipsThey shake and they teaseSpill little magic icks

Look here, the owers shine sweet and farBloom away, petals openLeft behind every scarCareful, a spell now broken

- Kuhu Singh


23/24

ethos | 4342 | ethos

dada,you knew and we knew,so they all came to sit by your bedsideand told you they loved you,and how hard they were trying,and please keep trying,and i love you, i love you, i love you.

your birthday was the day after mine;

now i have no-one to call.

and im sorry i only spoke broken urdu and youd reply in broken english so we could never actually speak.i should have tried harder.i didnt know how important it was until i got older and you were dying,so i tried to tell you all i could,but it hurt you to answer back,and it was hard for you to hear.

you broke my father.he called me all the way from there to tell me thatjaan, my fathers gone.voice hitched and breaking,and not from lost connection.

and im sorry i came out so pale, so foreign, so goranot in appearance but in actuality.

im sorry you could never quite look at me and go,her. thats one of mine.

that i wasnt awful,but i wasnt great.

and id come home and crinkle my nose at the dilli airbecause its putrid smell would circle me until it was all i could inhale.

but i want to tell youthat the aligarh air,is one of the beautiful things.because it isnt the city air,its the smell of fresh earth after the rain has washed everything else away.

i hope you know they all talk fondly.they sit in circles with bittersweet smilesthat should reek of nostalgia,

but they talk in present tenseand i wonder if itll ever truly hit themand if theyll stopand leave you in the past.

but im not afraid, i promise, because they love you,they love you,they love you.

- Anonymous


24/24

WHAT FIRST GOT YOU INTERESTED IN ENGLISH?I loved reading books, and I liked the ideas surrounding

the books that I read as a kid, books like The ColorPurple, The Great Gatsby, and To Kill a Mockingbird.They were very much about social ideas, very much aboutthe ways in which characters could be constructed. I oftenescaped into the world of those characters; I found manyaspects of their personalities engaging and I tried to adaptthem to my own world.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE NOVEL?One of my favorite books isA Short History of NearlyEverything by Bill Bryson. I nd it absolutely fascinating:the way its been crafted, the way in which it can engageyou into science but its kind of xed with a bit ofcreativity. Life of Piby Yann Martel is yet another goodbook. Its a really well put together story about the artof storytelling.Lord of the Flies by William Golding is agreat one as well, about how children can try to nd their

own responsibilities without parents or authority gures.

IF YOU COULD bE ANY FICTIONAL CHARACTER, WHOWOULD YOU bE?One of my favorite books is The Count of Monte Cristoby Alexander Dumas. The protagonist Edmond Dan tesis tested by the extreme adversity, and luck neverseems to go his way. However, he keeps his faith allthe way throughout the trials and tribulations that heis put through. I nd inspiration in his courage, in thesense that you should never give up. Hes probably thecharacter that I am most inspired by, and aspire the mostto be. Not that I want to end up in prison for thirty yearsas he has!

IF YOU COULD DATE ANY FICTIONAL CHARACTER, WHOWOULD IT bE?Well, its gotta be Jessica Rabbit from Who FramedRoger Rabbit?. In terms of strong female characters thatI admire, I love Lyra from theNorthern Lights trilogy byPhilip Pullman. I think that shes incredibly courageous,brave and breaks the mold.

IF YOU HAD THE CHANCE, WHICH DYSTOPIAN WORLDWOULD YOU LIVE IN?Possibly the world ofThe Matrix; I like that fancy worldwhere you can kind of transcend from one t hing toanother. Of course Id like to be woken up; I wouldntwant to be in a capsule all the time with a battery in m yhead.

WHO IS THE bIGGEST bOOKWORM IN THE STAFFROOM?That implies that we teachers can read! Id say that Ms.Hasell is a contender; Mr. Clayton and Mr. Playford alsoenjoy a good read. Id probably put myself up there too -Im a bit of a book geek.

WHATS YOUR FAVORITE WORD IN THE ENGLISHLANGUAGE?Swear words aside, I really like the word abbergasted!It sounds fun, and you can kind of spit as you say it.

WHAT DO bOOKS MEAN TO YOU?Its a bit cheesy, but books are very much like friends to

me. Theyre very precious to me and I nd it very hard togive them away. So Im a bit of a hoarder: I have all thesebooks that I will lend to friends, but I want them b ackbecause they mean something to me. Theyre importantbecause they remind me of childhood and friends, placesthat I went on holiday, feelings and emotions that I had ata certain time. The way that books are written also leavesa lasting impression on me. At the moment, Im readinga book by Martin Amis called Money. Its quite graphic,gruesome and dark, but the way its written is incredible!The prose, the gluing and weaving together of the words -its like a beautiful piece of music, or a wonderful canvasof art that just takes your breath away. Its like looking ata piece by Salvador Dali, or listening to an extremely well-written piece of Eminem music, which you migh t not seeas art but is actually really beautifully constructed. Butyeah, I see books as quite personal frien ds - its quite sad

really *laughs*

HAS A bOOK EVERY MADE YOU CRY?Actually, as recent as last year, I read a book called AFault In Our Stars by John Green which was really wellput together. Without giving anything away, the ending isincredibly emotional because its been built up to a pointwhen you actually care about the characters. John Greendidnt over-sentimentalize the ideas, but the outcome didmake me shed a tear or two. Well I did get goosebumpsat least - men dont cry! I had something in my eye, thatswhat it was.

Interview by Emily Cheng & Gunjan Bhargava

44 | ethos

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Ethos Magazine | Issue I