Frisson.          

Issue  1-­‐  Ink  Riot  

   

           

                                               

       

Staff

Editor-in-Chief/Creative Non-fiction Editor. Clara Chin Editor of Short Fiction.

Claire Schermeister Contributing Editor. Kaleb Davies. Cover Artwork. Zakiya Goggins. Additional Images.

Clara Chin.                    

fris•son [frē sōn′] *A moment of intense excitement; a shudder. **Means “ friction” in Latin and “shudder” in French, according to the Merriam Webster Dictionary. A frisson describes the emotional shiver experienced when listening to music, viewing artwork, watching a film, or writing. It is suspense, it is love, it is creation. It is the emotional response to art. It is proof that magic does exist; it is a non-scientific reaction of the soul to the bustling world around it. Just as any good stew needs that extra kick of good flavor, every story needs a little bit of frisson.

*If you would like to contribute artwork, writing, etc., contact inkgriots@gmail.com!

*thefreedictionary.com  

 

Table of Contents Creative Non-Fiction “Atlas,” Kaleb Davies “Fugue,” Clara Chin

“Untitled,” Heidi Lee Poetry

“The Story of the Shooting Star Flower,” Maya Roe “Salt Point,” Maya Roe

Short Fiction Excerpt from The Sweetest Immortality, Claire

Schermeister “Though, Said, and Done,” Aaron Barlin

Artist Bios  

   

             

Message  from  the  Editors.  Frisson  is  a  literary  magazine  written  and  geared  towards  high  school  students.  It  is  currently  based  in  the  South  Bay  of  Los  Angeles  and  Sonora,  California,  but  hopes  to  expand  after  releasing  the  first  issue.  We  hope  to  inspire  young  people  to  express  themselves  with  written  words  outside  of  school  and  to  explore  different  writing  genres  besides  the  cookie  cutter  school  essay.  If  you  wish  to  contribute  writing  or  place  an  advertisement,  please  contact  inkgriots@gmail.com  for  more  information.  The  editors  would  like  to  thank  Timothy  Chin  and  Yung  Nguyen  for  advisement  and  funding  the  first  edition.    Enjoy!    

 

   

Atlas, Kaleb Davies

I am Atlas. Pretentious much? I know the drama of holding the world solely on my shoulders could seem a bit

arrogant. But isn’t this what we’ve been told since we were tots? “The children are our future.” That’s big talk, and it’s been instilled in us from a very young age. And the more we think about it the

more obvious it is to us- our decisions and goals no longer matter. It is no longer about doing what we want, or acting how we’d like to act. This life is about contributing to society. It’s about going to college, because that’s what you’re supposed to do after high school. It’s about getting married and having kids, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re grown up. It’s about buying a little house and going to work every day, because that’s what you’re supposed to do in life.

So I am Atlas. I and every teenager I know hold the future on our shoulders. We bear the stress of the national economy and the power of U.S. society. We will shape the future, and because of this, we are continuously being told what is right and what is wrong. Dead are the days of the individual. Dead are the days of making mistakes for yourselves.

So I plead with you, shrug it off. You, Atlas, shrug your weight. Go and fuck up a little bit. Smoke pot. Drink beer. Make as many mistakes as you can. And more important than anything else: learn from them. Don’t take that BS that your parents tell you about being careful or cautious and just go for it, look back, laugh and say “Yea, that was a crappy idea.” In the end you will be all the better for it. Maybe you’ll realize what you want to do. Maybe you’ll see college isn’t the right choice. Hell, maybe you’ll see America isn’t the right choice.

Shrug the weight of the world off your shoulders and do something crazy. I’d rather live in a future of wise old day laborers than a future of stuffy un-experienced lawyers and doctors. So again, I beg you, shrug it off.

Fugue, Clara Chin

I arrived at Whittier College. The 11:00am air hung fresh with dew and swirling wind. I knew I was piano competition ready because I had my warm red gloves and that fresh nervousness flitting around in my stomach. All around me the world buzzed. Crickets chirped non-stop. Cars zoomed by, including a bus. Engraved on its side was a fancy school name that sounded familiar. A hoard of people my age jibber jabbered loudly and emerged from the yellow bus. I noticed their enormous briefcases and fashionable business attire. Some of them were even talking to walls. This could only mean one thing–speech and debate tournament. Had I not suddenly decided to quit, I might have been at Whittier for an entirely different reason. My parents took me up the stairs to the recital hall, my sister running circles around me. There stood what appeared to be my competitor. His dad wore an intimidating looking baseball cap. Despite his relaxed stance and casual clothing, a burning intensity gleamed clearly beneath his eyes, an intensity that said, “Son, you will hit a home run.” As always, I needed to size up my competitor. He was tall, decent looking, but extremely polished. He had an air of confidence, maybe even arrogance, about him. He would probably play some really fast, loud, impressive sounding pieces. He rolled his sleeves up, his chin in the air, his eyes darting furtively back in forth. I, too, raised my chin and began to assess from the peripheral rather than actually turning my head. I rubbed my hands together and fanned my face, my pieces running through my head in a jittery jumble. The sound of heels escalated and interrupted my thoughts. My piano teacher beamed at me. “How are you? How was your practice this morning?”

 

 

   

I told her it went well, and that I practiced the Bach piece just like she wanted me to. “You’ll do great. Oh! And look at the program. Look how short his pieces are!!” I nodded, but thought to myself, “And how flashy.” She handed me the repertoire list and I saw that my competitor would be playing Bach, just like me. He also had Rimsky-Korsakov and Copland on his list–impressive sounding pieces, as predicted. I walked a circular path, bouncing a little bit and rubbing my numb hands together to repel the wind. I took my phone out of my pocket, pausing to check the time and also my Facebook. Five minutes before my age group, five notifications. The sound of high heels once again commenced as a jovial looking blonde lady sauntered towards me. Disrupting the tranquil bubble around the church, she peered down at me and asked in a Russian accent, “Are you ready?” Her Cheshire Cat smile scared me a little. She told me to wiggle it out, so I unwillingly followed her lead–maybe shaking my fingers and twisting my body like I was on a children’s exercise show would somehow help my performance. I continued to walk circles around myself. Soon enough, I heard the boy begin to play. It was a simple little Bach piece, loud and blunt. Trying to tune it all out, I still heard several sharp notes, little turbulences amidst a small sea. I felt myself smile slightly. Despite this small hiccup, he quickly regained momentum and boomeranged back into his songs. Even from outside, I could imagine what he must have looked like––back crunched over above the piano, eyes ablaze in intensity as his fingers aggressively attacked the black and white rectangles. His Flight of the Bumblebee resonated loudly; it was more like Attack of the Giant Bee. His Cat and the Mouse was 100% accurate, but it sounded like a Lion and a Hyena. Since I played the piece before, I knew when the piece ended. A couple bars before the mouse limped away, I took off my gloves to reveal my still shivering but now sweaty fingers. I rubbed them together just as the blonde lady came to take me into the Church. I followed her lead, twitching slightly. Why were his songs so short? I was expecting more time. I entered the church as my competitor left. I moved my head to smile in what I hoped looked like a congratulatory grin, but he glared at me bitterly and took me completely by surprise. He said, “Congratulations on winning first place,” as he stormed out sourly, his even grimmer dad following close behind him. Warm bubbles began rising in my stomach. Could this be another lucky day? No. Expect the worst, I tried to tell myself. I shoved a lid over my stew of happiness. I needed to focus on my songs. All those years of ballet were not for naught. I reminded myself to maintain a long neck. I “confidently” strode into the church across the wide expanse to where the two judges were sitting. My high heels clunked and clonked. My ponytail bounced behind me. My powder blue dress rustled delicately. I finally came eye to eye with my judges. One was a stern looking woman with narrowed eyes, the other a man who I could have sworn judged me before. Smiling, I handed them my music score. I clunked some more until I reached the grand beauty. The seven foot piano stood before me. I placed my left hand on the giant, tenderly, and bowed. Maybe I’d be doing this a week later at the winner’s recital. They smiled encouragingly and I quickly sat on the piano bench. The chair screeched as I adjusted it slightly. I took two final seconds to try to forget I was all alone in a room, laying out my soul for two seasoned professionals to judge. Hundreds upon hundreds of hours to practice, just for fifteen minutes of fate. My fingers grazed the keys. It was time. I settled into a comfortable state of mind. My Bach Prelude was absolutely divine. It was sensitive, broken, delicate, everything that I wanted and needed it to be. My fingers weaved a tapestry of purring harmonies, followed by a sunnier, sharper melody. The somber, moody soft and loud tones danced around each other, and finally finished with a final catch and release. Excitement pulsed through my veins. Now, I just needed to play the fugue–three melodies at once with complex texture? I could do it. Dynamics, check. Rhythm, check. Notes, check. Fingering….wait, was that the

   

fingering I used before? Everything was running so smoothly until now. How was it that I could get all the difficult parts right, but this small little transition wrong? Never before could I have sensed that there was a gap in my memory. I thought, so I forgot. I hit a wall and I could not peer beyond it. I kept running into it but I couldn’t push past it, so I looped back to the beginning. My breath was frozen as I mechanically repeated what I had just gone through. My weary hands pushed on through the sticky phrases. My gut rose as I reached the same point in the piece. I cried out to myself, “You can do it, you can do it, you can do it, you can do it.” But of course, I couldn’t. A memory slip? Who does that? Certainly not I. Out of all the problems I could have, memory was the most basic. It was the foundation I thought was there. This had never happened to me before. Flustered and confused, I just removed my fingers from the keyboard and the unresolved chord echoed awkwardly in the silence. I avoided the stare of my judges and began my next piece. It was a piece I had done for years. It was a modern piece, fiery, passionate, and teeming with emotion. Yet somehow, that all left my mind. I went through the motions. B flat chord, G sharp augmented, C. Piano, forte. Piano, forte. Section I, Section II. Almost done, almost done, almost done, and… Done. That was great! I did it! But then as soon as I began preparing myself for the next piece, I realized it wasn’t. It was half baked. Not even the right side–they might as well just hire a robot. There were no mistakes, but what did that matter? My cheeks burned red. I wanted to flee and never see the judges again. Who am I kidding? There was no way I would win now. There was no way I could win...but that meant I had nothing to lose. Whatever, I thought, nothing matters now. Who cares if I make mistakes. My hands rose, and out of them flowed rivers of sweet, sonorous passion. Upon entering the first passage, I truly felt the desperation of Chopin and the yearning through each leap across the keys. My mind floated off into the unknown. Really all that was there were my dancing fingers, my heart, and one large piano. Every note resonated and bounced off the simmering light of the stained glass windows. It was as if Chopin was right next to me, listening to my music and nodding his head in approval. Did I make mistakes? Who knows, who cares. All that mattered was the overall golden sound that I knew I had produced. But before I could really drift off into oblivion, the judges pulled me out of the music river. “Time’s up.” I came to an abrupt halt, played a final dramatic low note, and raised my head and awaited the judges’ faces.

Untitled, Heidi Lee I believe in parallel universes. I believe that there are infinite amounts of separate universes, some with slight differences to ours. I believe that in some of these universes, the differences are so subtle that there is almost no variance, but in others, the culmination of many miniscule differences cause entirely altered worlds. This is not an unbelievable theory that I support, of anything some of the world’s leading physicists ponder the thought of the existence of parallel universes. The affirmation came one summer as I was marathoning Through the Wormhole and stumbled upon the episode entitled, “Do Parallel Universes Exist?” Morgan Freeman’s majestic, deep, sprawling voice narrated the episode that examined the possibility of parallel universes, what their discovery would mean to us, and what would happen if we met our parallel selves—and it was one of the most enthralling 44 minutes of my life. Frank Tipler, a renowned quantum mechanics physicist, explains that parallel universes are connected to Schrodinger’s famous equation and quantum mechanics support their existence. He says that “we shouldn’t

   

think the possibilities as just possibilities, the other realities don’t cease to exist—they still exist.” What this means in context is that, if for example, I were to give a gift, all wrapped up and pretty. Until the moment that you open up the box, there are endless possibilities of what the gift can be. But the moment that you see what the gift is, the other possibilities don’t just disappear. In another parallel universe you received a teddy bear instead of a book. And in another, the alternate version of yourself received golf balls, and so on and so forth. When there are different possible outcomes and you become only aware of one, you may believe that the other outcome didn’t happen when the other version of yourself in another universe would think that same thought. If you are as excited as me about this subject, it is easy to understand why I’m captivated by parallel universes. And it’s not just because the scientific theories are cool; Yes, the idea that parallel universes might be connected to black holes where if a star is swallowed by a black hole in our world, that torn up, “spagettified” culmination of energy will be spewed out from a “white hole” on the other side of a parallel universe. Or the thought that our universe is made up of matter but a parallel universe made of anti-matter (because during the Big Bang, both anti-matter and matter were created in equal amounts, but we don’t necessarily know where the antimatter has gone, so this parallel universe would explain the existence and disappearance of antimatter) and if we were to meet our other selves, at contact there would be an explosion larger than the bomb dropped on Hiroshima because antimatter and matter just don’t mix. It’s amazing, crazy, and completely viable—and that is just one half of the reason why I love parallel universes. The other reason is solace. It brings me solace to think that maybe in another universe there holds a Heidi with fewer scars and less pain. That there is a version of myself that didn’t have to have a heart surgery and live everyday with a massive scar on her chest and in constant pain. Where there is a Heidi that isn’t so prone to one-in-a-million chances and found herself at the age of eight with her foot stuck in the side of an escalator and now has a gnarly scar where skin, tissue, and muscle were ripped apart until white bone gleamed, open to my curious inspection until red blood started gushing out. And another Heidi where her mind isn’t so messed up from family and life that she doesn’t need a psychologist, psychiatrist, and a variety of anti-depressants and ant-anxiety meds along with a slew of painkillers to feel partially sane and okay. Where the world is more just and the Recession didn’t ruin my family with thousands of others. It’s a selfish, narcissistic thinking process but sometimes that’s what I need to get through the day. It bring joy to me to think of an earth that barely missed a meteor and dinosaurs still roam the lands; and another where the reboot of Star Wars was not as awful. But there are days when even the pleasures of parallel universes are not enough; where a universe filled with dinosaurs, and ones where my favorite cancelled TV shows are still on the air, my loves ones are still alive, and I don’t have the regrets and thoughts that plague me—the days that even my escape into parallel universes do not suffice. It is on these days that I’m reminded of Morgan Freeman’s words that closed that episode of Through the Wormhole so many summers ago. As he looked straight into the camera, into me, he said in his mellifluous, thunderous, rolling voice, “It’s hard not to wonder what our alter egos might be like, whether they are living out our most cherished dreams. But don’t forget this possibility: you could already be living the dream of another you from a parallel universe.” Parallel universes are a tricky, trippy, and awe-inspiring concept that I love. They keep me going in this infinite, constantly expanding universe. And I hope you love parallel universes and found that they help too. But even if you don’t, I won’t fret, because there’s another one of you that does.

   

The Story of the Shooting Star Flower, Maya Roe

The Story Goes or So I’m Told That when the earth was not so old

A woman of a noble birth came down to rule upon the earth

Her beauty would make all men swoon And they named her a goddess of the moon

She taught the stars to shine so bright

And push away the dark of night The stars they loved her every one Except the god who ruled the sun He feared she would usurp his day By sending the dark of night away

He planned to kill the lovely moon By making daylight come too soon But he heard the people of the land

Crying for mercy by his hand. Although his love for us was great

He still shone down his brilliant hate

And thus the dying goddess knew So down on earth her stars she threw But as the stars grew near the earth The sun surrendered its endless day

And the stars rested above the ground Waiting until the goddess came and found

The stars had turned to flowers gold,

and in the earth had taken hold.

 

 

   

Salt Point, Maya Roe

First

you must understand the wind.

Sometimes a jester, pushing clouds across the horizon sometimes a meek breath, barely moving the fog.

The fog. how it creates mystery of even the simplest forms

how it mixes with the salt spray and seems to seep into everything.

Bare board fences like teeth of a troll grey and lichen.

Wanderers may come here, stumble and fall in the soft sand, wondering

why am I here? where am I going?

And every day the sea will carefully remind us that we are needed somewhere, so we must rise

and try to blow the fog of worry away with frail breaths.

And the lonely wanderer will begin the long journey home

to a place they once knew, and the ocean will wait,

and recommence it’s ever loving waltz with the wind.

 

   

An Excerpt from The Sweetest Immortality, Claire Schermeister

This is an excerpt from a novel I wrote about Beethoven and someone he loves very much named Maria. They have known each other for about 10 years at this point. Beethoven was very sick during his lifetime, and this excerpt takes place after they have just visited his doctor together to try and take care of his serious health problems. He has just been diagnosed with Hepatitis and is feeling very stressed, overwhelmed and worried. She tries to comfort him, but nothing she says seems to make him feel any better.

They reached the door of his apartment. "Come in." She said. He sighed and followed her. She closed the door and he sat down at the table while she went into his pantry and rummaged around. She brought out a bottle of wine. "Here," she said, setting it down on the table. "Why don't we have some of this." She poured them both a glass, and they drank in silence. After a minute, Maria concluded that it was unlike Ludwig to be so silent.

"Beethoven?" she said.

He sighed. "Yes?"

"Is there something else wrong? I know you may not want to talk at the moment, but remember that you can tell me anything." He sighed again. "Oh, this doctor visit just brings into a harsh light all the problems that I find ever-present. Sickness. Hepatitis. Marriage. Social status. I find it utterly disheartening and depressing. I know it will all come around in the end, but it weighs down on me, having to deal with it all of the time. I wish it was all gone and I could just..." He reached across the table and took her hand. "...be utterly and hopelessly in love with you, my dear. Nothing but that."

She squeezed his hand. “I know. If only the world were so." He finished off his glass of wine and she poured him another. "But the good bit is that we have this wonderful liquid to drink that makes us forget about everything that makes us unhappy. Yes?" He chuckled. "Ah, I know that none too well. But... I don't believe we have ever done this together before?"

She shook her head. He smiled. "Ah, then you will have the rare opportunity to see me intoxicated."

"Oh... how are you, then?"

"Truthful, talkative, and happy.”

She smiled. "In that case, let me pour you another glass."

She took his cup, that which he had emptied twice already, and poured some more. She, too, poured herself another glass.

Beethoven, Maria found, was particularly thirsty that day, for he singlehandedly finished off the bottle of wine while she had only two glasses. "Mmm... I feel better," he said, setting his glass down on the table with a thud, "But I still feel uneasy. I think I'll have another bottle." He got up from his chair, and while doing so, tripped and fell to his knees. "Ah...” He said and lifted himself up off the ground.

   

   

"Louie, I think you've had enough. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

He shook his head. "No, I'll be alright." He walked over to his pantry and fished out a second bottle of wine. He brought it back, opened it and poured Maria the first glass. "Here," he said, "Have a bit more. It feels good." She let him pour her glass half-full and then jerked the bottle upwards. "No, Ludwig, I think that will be enough for me. I don't think it is a good idea to be having this in excess."

"Wine is both-" he took a big gulp from his glass. "-Necessary and good for me." She sighed. She supposed she could not keep him from drinking, especially if this was his only outlet for the anger and frustration he was feeling. She knew it was not the right thing to do, and it was definitely not good for him, but once in a while, she supposed, would be alright. He drank alarmingly fast and soon the second bottle was half-empty. She reached across the table. "Ludwig. How do you feel?"

He sighed. "Ah, better. Maria, do you know what I have been thinking?"

She smiled. "What?"

He coughed. "I would like to dance with you."

She laughed. "We have no music!"

He got up and walked around the table to her. "No matter. I shall sing it." She laughed. "You really are better drunk." He shook his head. "No, I am perfectly alright.” She stood up and walked with him to the middle of his common area. She took his hands and he her waist, and he hummed a waltz as they started to dance.

"Mm pah pah, hmmm mmm mm mmm, tah tah."

She laughed, and he laughed a bit too, even though he had to stop the music to do so. They danced around a bit. "Are you making this up?" she asked him. "Of course." He said and smiled. "It would be cheating to use another composer's tune for my own enjoyment." He chuckled. "This is why I love spirits. They make me more pleasant, do you agree?" "Yes." she smiled. "I quite like you like this."

They said nothing more for a while while they danced to Ludwig's tune. Maria thought that even though this drinking hurt his body a bit, it was good for his mind to have a bit of respite; otherwise he might go completely insane. Finally, Ludwig's song ended and they stopped dancing. He gave her a small kiss. "Thank you, Maria. I enjoyed that. I think I'll sit down and have some more." She knew it was not best, but she did not want to shatter his good mood and have to deal with a drunk and angry Ludwig.

She returned to the table with him and waited while he finished the last half of the second bottle.

He took the last gulp and set it down on the table with a thud. He burped loudly. "Ah, that was... good. I want to... have some more, I think. It feels..." He didn't finish his sentence but stood up and stumbled towards his pantry. Maria got up, rushed in front of him and stood in his way. "No, Ludwig. You have had enough wine for today. If you have more, you will hurt yourself. I want to keep you safe." He leaned in and kissed her. She could taste the alcohol in his mouth. "I love... you Maria. Please let me... have this pleasure. I think of it as having... a good time with you. It lets me... talk with you freely and I... like it. Please..."

She sighed and let him by. "Alright, Louie. Go ahead."

One hour later, the third bottle of wine sat empty on the table, and Ludwig and Maria lay draped over each other in a nearby chair. Ludwig had drunk the entire bottle by himself, and was now too drunk to walk properly. He kissed Maria sloppily, getting his saliva all over her face. "I l-l-love y-you...” he stuttered. She smiled. "I love you too, Beethoven, although I think you are a bit too drunk."

   

"Mmm." he moaned. "M-m-maria, I feel... I f-feel s-sick..." Suddenly he got up and walked around to the side of the chair. He doubled over, clutched his stomach and vomited violently all over the floor. "Oh, Ludwig!" Maria cried and stood up to put a hand on his back for support. He slowly stood up and took her hand. "Ah... M-m-maria, I..." And then his body went limp, and he fell, unconscious, to the floor.

Maria's eyes opened wide. "Ludwig! Ludwig!" She screamed and bent down to where he lay. "Beethoven! Answer me!" She shook him. No response. She turned his head. "Wake up!" She shouted in his ear. No response. "Oh, no...” She said to herself. "Oh no. I should have never let you go this far, Ludwig. I'm sorry." She rolled him onto his side. "I have got to get you upstairs to your bed." She muttered. She sat him up and put both of his arms securely around her neck, his head resting on her shoulder. She took both of his legs and put one on each side of her body. Then, she slowly started to stand up. He was heavy! She was just about to her knees when she slipped and she and Ludwig went crashing to the floor. She picked herself up and situated him again. "Don't worry," she said under her breath, "I'll take care of you." She slowly stood up again, being extra careful this time, and started to walk towards the stairs. When she reached them, she took caution with every step, one hand around Ludwig's waist and one on the handrail to steady her.

Nearing the top of the stairs, it was torture. Her legs screamed out in pain with every step, and the arm holding Ludwig felt as though it was going to break. But she had to get him to his bed - ah! - She was almost there.

She took the last step into his room and gently laid him down on the edge of his bed. She looked at him for a moment. He could have been peacefully sleeping, but Maria knew something was very wrong. She undid the button on the end of his arm and pulled his sleeve up. Then, she put her finger on his wrist, feeling for a pulse. She felt none, and panicked. Then she remembered that his neck would be the best indicator. She hurriedly untied his ascot and felt for his jugular vein. Yes, there was his pulse. Yes! She smiled. Then she put one hand on his chest and one on his nose and mouth to check for breathing. Yes, he was breathing. She breathed a sigh of relief.

And then she remembered something the doctor had done... she had to check his liver. She unbuttoned his coat and placed her hand under his left ribcage. She needed him to take a deep breath in, but... he could not do that for her. Well, she would have to do it for him. She leaned over and pinched his nose with her free hand. Then, she placed her lips over his and breathed out. His chest rose and she felt around under his ribcage for his liver. Yes, there it was, and by her reckoning, it was unusually swollen. This was an emergency. She buttoned his coat back up and took off his shoes, putting them on her own feet. "Ludwig," she said. "I'll be back. I'm going to get the doctor."

~To be continued~ Thought, Said, and Done, Aaron Barlin It had been another day with the lion coming back with his daily kill of a massive buffalo. He set down the bloody meat on the ground as his family began to feast upon its flesh, and as usual, he commenced his boast over his triumph to all the other surrounding animals. “It is I who has brought down another massive beast for my family! I have again and again shown the greatest strength and brawn out of you all! Who else can possibly do what I can do? Who else can bring down a buffalo? No one can!” Though one of all the animals today had become fed up with these words and thoughts of the lion. This was the lowly mouse. The mouse began, “You say again and again that you can do what no other being can do? Ha! You may be strong, though the killing of buffalo is not impossible to the rest of us; even I can probably kill a buffalo for my family.” The lion let out a massive guffaw at the mouse. Even the rest of the animals took a look at the small being and began to chuckle. “You?! Kill a buffalo?! I may as well kill you now. You are so small!

   

So feeble! A buffalo would step on you and barely notice, and you’re going to kill one? Like I said before: I, the strong and gargantuan lion, am the only one who can kill a buffalo. Though, I do believe this will be highly entertaining. If your words uphold what you can actually perform, fine. It shall be tomorrow morning where you will be given the chance to…kill…a buffalo.” The mouse accepted, and the lion began to chortle out loud at the mouse once more. The following afternoon, the lion and the mouse traveled from the homeland to a herd of wild buffalo. The beasts grazed upon the wide, vast grass, so peaceful and calm. “Here mouse. Here is your herd. Please don’t hurt yourself out there. Manage to kill a buffalo, and I shall even bring back your kill for you. Your poor body would’ve been through enough by then,” the lion taunted with a smirk on his face. Immediately though, the mouse smirked back. The mouse had hatched a brilliant plan the night before. The mouse was aware of his weaknesses; he knew he was the small and feeble mouse the lion had said he was. Though he also knew his strengths; those of which he would use wisely. “Set your mind up for defeat lion," the mouse warned as he dived out of sight and into the grass, prepared to put the lion to shame. The lion rolled onto his back as he once again began laughing at the mouse’s confidence. The mouse’s path as he moved was clear in the patches of grass of the savanna, though it caught the lion’s eye that it had went far past the herd of buffalo. The lion was confused as he saw the mouse shoot over the horizon, but through his present amusement, he decided to give the mouse a chance and waited for him to take action. “If any action at all,” the lion coldly thought to himself. Soon after about an hour had passed, the lion grew weary of having to wait for the mouse to finally kill a buffalo. A smile drew upon his face as he declared himself victor and began to braggingly stride back to the homeland. He began thinking of clever insults that he would throw at the mouse when he returned heavy-hearted. It was then, however, when the shriek of a massive beast was shot through the air. The lion twisted around as his eyes grew two times in size by the oncoming sight. There, coming quickly forward was a huge parade of elephants all trumpeting and charging away in terror. “What in the world are they charging away from,” the lion asked himself. There though, only feet behind the elephants, was the mouse with the power of fear on his hands! The herd of buffalo was in direct-line with the elephants. They became quickly disoriented as the terror of getting trampled flew through them, sealing their fate with the charging beasts. In a blur, the elephants mixed into the herd of buffalo; some of the buffalo barely dodging the elephants, others were immediately trampled. Through all the commotion, dust arose and swirled, blinding the lion and leaving him as disoriented as the buffalo were. Eventually, the dust settled, the elephants had calmed down and continued walking on, and everything became plain to see. There in the middle of the massacre of buffalo was the victorious mouse! Buffalo lay dead and scattered across the ground. The number killed was nearly as much as the lion would kill in a month’s time! The mouse stood taut and firm and began, “So lion, I guess what you can do can be done by even someone as small and feeble as myself. Kill a buffalo: why, I think I may have done something even greater! Look around: I managed to practically kill thirty. What do you say?” The lion only stared in disbelief at the mouse and at what had just occurred before him. The mouse began to move back to the homeland with a huge grin of triumph on his face as the lion, having to stick with his word, was left to miserably bring back the mouse’s kill.

   

Artist Bios ZAKIYA GOGGINS, 16, is a senior at Claremont High School (Claremont, CA). She enjoys art, hip-hop dancing, and singing with the CHS Chamber Singers. CLARA CHIN, 16, is an 11th grade student at West High School (Torrance, CA). She enjoys writing, music, and films. CLAIRE SCHERMEISTER, 15, attends Connections Academy of Visual and Performing Arts (Sonora, California) as a sophomore. She enjoys playing the piano, composing, and being a filmmaker. KALEB DAVIES, 16, is in 11th grade at West High School. He enjoys music and running. HEIDI LEE, 17, is a junior at West High School. She enjoys reading, making art, practicing Defense Against the Dark Arts, and spending time with her family and friends. MAYA ROE, 16, attends Conserve School (Land O’Lakes, Wisconsin) and enjoys writing poetry, backpacking, and hiking. AARON BARLIN, 16, is a junior at West High School and enjoys eating.