The Vast Land

by Nysha T.

The heat welcomes you

toasting your skin,

your blood

Orange at sunrise

Ochre at noon

You can see

the currents of the wind

flowing on its grains

Like the ocean

it can engulf anything

in its reach

it can rise up

to the sky

and drift through the air

Yet, it is silent

And as the sun sets

to give way for the moon

The tyre tracks disappear

your footprints too

and the vast land

of the sand dunes

blends into the night

never speaking of your arrival

Jem's Diary

Dear Diary,

Sneaked up to the trial of Tom Robinson today with Dill and Scout. We sat at the coloured balcony with Reverend Skye.

Mr. Bob Ewell and Miss Mayella sure can lie. But Atticus got some skill. He revealed Miss Mayella had nobody be proper with her when he asked her if she had any friends! And Mr. Ewell does things to her, she said so herself.

Tom Robinson said Mayella jumped on him. I believe hi. Atticus showed it at the beginning when he asked about the last time he went to jail. I really thought we got him innocent. But that jury sure has some shadow of doubts. They charged him guilty! I don't think it's fair.

Why charge him because he's not our colour? Atticus told me it's because the world is full of ugly things. And that what I had seen today was just the start. He says when a white man charges a black man, the white man is trash. I hope they don't take Tom's life. Atticus says he has a good chance of another trial. But it will always be his color that will be judged.

Funny thing though. Calpurnia found lots of food outside the house. She said all of them were from all of the friends of Tom Robinson. I think they were thanking Atticus for his attempt, althougth he could not win the case. And Mr. Ewell gave him a real good wash of his spit. He said he was going to get Atticus. But I don't believe his; he's only angry, that's why.

-J.E.M.

To Kill A Mockingbird Cover

This is my version of the cover for To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee.

The tree at the back is the oak tree that a person can't even hug around near the Radley property. I had emphasized its bark in the picture. There is a shadow that forms into a man holding a knife on the oak tree. This represents Mr. Ewell trying to attack the Finch siblings when they were on their way home. (They were near the oak tree at that time it happened).

There is a broken pocket watch hanging down the page. This is one of the many gifts that Boo Radley gave to the children. I chose the watch as it no only represents time, it represents time that is frozen because of flaws and dilemmas. Like Segregation and the Great Depression.

But it could also be the porch swing belonging to the children, meaning their innocence. There is a mockingbird on the swing shocked to see the figure. Will it fly away in time?

And lastly, the title is scratched on the bark as it represents what Scout and Jem did when they marked the oak tree to tell everyone else the presents were only theirs.

-MAYCOMB COUNTY CHRONICLE-

Advertisement

Movie v.s Book

There are some flaws in the movie directed by Harry Hook that was based on the novel Lord of the Flies by William Golding. The conch, a symbolic item in the book, lacked an importance, the boys were lead by an adult, and tension between Jack and Ralph--some of the main characters-- seemed unclear.

To start off, the text specifically showed the significance of the conch. It stood for order and civility to the boys. And when it broke, it not only meant the loss of an item, but the collapse of law and order among them. However, in the movie, its meaning was not as powerful; the importance of its meaning was completely lost. Plus, it did not even break.

Additionally, the boys were not lead by an adult in the book. When the plane crashed, no adult survived. They actually were enjoying their freedom from the grown-ups and their rules. And they were lead by a kid named Ralph. But the boys were lead by the pilot in the movie--a grown-up. With a grown-up, we would not be able to see the naivate of the boys as they would be following his leadership for survival.

Furthermore, the Lord of the Flies made it clear of the tension between Jack and Ralph, the lead rivals in the novel. This tension between them would then give a foreshadow in the text that the group will spilt up; the novel had a reason. Nonetheless, the film only had shown an argument between Jack and Ralph that made the group split. In the whole film, their hostility against each other was not very present, hence, confusing the person who was watching and wondering," Why are they fighting all of a sudden?"

To conclude, the Lord of the Flies is an exemplary piece of fiction that did not deserve to have such an inaccurate movie. It had perfect detail, impressive characters, and had a mastery of allegories. But the movie does not match this ranking. So's to say, not all movies are as good as the book.

The Lord of the Flies Graphic Novel/ Comic Book

by Nysha T.

Lord of the Flies is now in comic! With colour highlights, and landscapes from the book, we now can see the story unfold in picture! Packed with real emotion, and quotes from the text, we can now understand what the story truly means.

Excerpt from the introduction of my comic:

"The Lord of the Flies by William Golding is a revelation that man can become savage when civilization and order is far from their reach. This point is shown in a group of British schoolboys stranded on an island by a plane crash during World War II. And with no adult alive to lead them, they start to do all sorts of antics. Their choices are limitless.

As the book is an allegory, I have tried to capture the second meanings in the scenes from the book. For example, there are a group of boys who arrive in the first chapter who have crosses on their hats and uniform. They march in step together too. To me, they have a resemblance to the Nazis, but they are depicted as boys. And their characters are reflected in the chapters to come."

Lord of the Flies Tanka

The conch is useless

Jack's manipulating them

He's abusing too

Can Ralph get back his power?

No, Jack's reign is now complete

You Can't Have It All...

But you can have oatmeal in the mornings made by Dad--

warm like balmy summer days

and sweet like Betty Crocker vanilla frosting

And the diablo rojos startling you at 4 in the morning

their engines thundering the highway,

depriving you of sleep.

You can have goats to feed corn cobs with no kernels to,

wet corn leaves and banana peels.

And have thick sofa covers

as brown as the Arabian desert sands

to keep you warm at night.

You can have a toothbrush party

by the kitchen sink with your cousins--

using drinking glasses for gargling.

You can have Gingham print forks and spoons

and a big fish pond

where you can sail in a bamboo raft.

But you are too afraid that it might give way

under your weight.

You can have a toad's lullaby lulling you to sleep

with its deep coarse, croaking.

And the radio playing hypnotizing music

from those spas and massage places

during lunch.

You can have the moist and mild air after the rain

grasp your nostrils and throat,

"It's muggy," some could say,

as the sun shines in its reign.

And slow, heavy traffic that seems like an eternity,

with blaring horns and sudden stops.

You can have Crispy Rice cereal with honey for dinner

and flooded streets that are knee-deep

when it rains too hard;

the cars making water works as they zoom past,

rippling the murky, green water.

You can have handmade wish bands that come in many different colours:

blue and white with orange

yellow, pink, and purple

red and blue with maroon,

all in a Ziploc bag.

You can sleep and wake up in the morning for school

and still feel sleepy.

You can think of all the things you do have

and still say you don't,

but there always is.

Benjamin Moore Wethersfield Moss HC-110

Down by the Wethersfield moss

where oak trees hide

a small path

where only they

Pauline, Casey, and Susie

could find

Among the moist leaves

and lemon yellow

dandelions

Down by the Wethersfield moss

past the morning glories

the small path

led to a spring

Bottomless

Still

The tree,

Down by the Wethersfield moss

where Pauline and Casey

jumped

from the tallest branch

of the elm

Splashing

and thrashing

into the dense, dark

blue

Through the path ,

Down by the Wethersfield moss

they dragged along Susie

whose eyes made you

fall

into the deep

azure that they are

To the water

the abysmal water

Giggling

and screaming

as they went

At the spring

Down by the Wethersfield moss

blinded by the wisps of

white water

drenching their faces

they were all

oblivious

to what had occurred.

Through the path,

Pauline and Casey ran

Leaving the spring,

when Susie didn't come back

up

Her eyes

now part of the

obscure hue

Down by the Wethersfield moss.

As I Wait...

Poems selected by Nysha T.

Theme: Waiting

Description: When we wait, we are being patient as well. And the things we wait for can actually be interesting sometimes, and so are the thoughts that spark in your mind while doing so.

Synopsis: Poems about the time you spend while waiting for somebody, someone, something. The thoughts that comes across your mind and what happens in between.

How to Make a Game of Waiting by Jennifer K. Sweeny

In the Waiting Room by Elizabeth Bishop

Patience by Kay Ryan

Pigeons at Dawn by Charles Simic

Bright Star by John Keats

That Everything's Inevitable by Katy Lederer

It Happens Like This by James Tate

Aubade: Some Peaches, After Storm by Carl Phillips

Book Review By Nysha T.

The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls

Publisher: SRIBNER International

Genre: Memoir, Non-fiction

Where I got it: I found it when I was clearing out my bookshelf.

One sentence summary: Jeannette Walls tells about living in a unique yet quirky family--a brilliant yet alcoholic dad, and a free spirited mother--where she and her siblings look out for each other as they grow up together in different states till they find their way to New York City; their parents insisting on being homeless.

First sentence: I was sitting in a taxi, wonering if I had overdressed for the evening, when I looked out the window and saw Mom rooting through a Dumpster.

First chapter review: The first chapter is about how the memoirist expresses her feelings to her mother about being homeless when they meet up. She tries to offer some help, but her mother refuses, pointing out her values have been mixed up. We can tell a bit about her mother in the chapter--she seems to stay strongly by what she thinks. It ends with a clue to how the chapters are written.

Verdict: A dazzling volume of whimsically told chapters, an enlightening read; I'd love to read it again!

Cover comments: Has a girl whispering to a boy--could be brother and sister. Maybe it shows the bond between siblings as told in the book.

Chp.5 Beast from Water, Beastie

What about the beast?

Says the beast

is dark

unknown indigo

a dense black mass

says the beast

comes out

the shimmer

of the vast sea

A squid

couldn't come up the water

a ghost?

Perhaps

that's what it is

said they dream and cry

--the littluns

the vivid horror

so nakedly terrifying

like Pacific storms

frightens them

frightened myself

sometimes

but we are all

being cry-babies and sissies

We're strong

we'll hunt it down!

Fear can't hurt you

anymore

than a dream

Where I'm From

I am from pressed uniforms, from Faultless and Easy On.

I am from Mama'a Baby by Burberry

that nobody sells anymore.

I am from Papa's Saturday newspaper and naps on Sunday afternoons.

From Tita Rosalie's, "Nysha, Nysha, lavandera," and, "Carrots are good for you."

From when Kisha ran with her injured hip and came in second place

I am from the mossy walls around the garden.

From the bright yellow allamandas and

the smell of pine after the rain.

From dried acrylic paints and unsharpened pencils.

I am from Asia.

From the Hainan Islands and Philippine archipaelego

From Grandma Nena's rice with the occasional cooked ants

From Hainanese Chicken Rice and Sinigang soup

I am from church trips only during christmas and the bible collecting dust in the storeroom

Collecting dust with the stacks of photo albums,

Black and white pictures,

Sepia, polaroids

coloured

Set aside but not far away

The memories building up

Thickening like the bark of the tree

A new ring

A new memory

Screaming at the Water

*based on the March 11,2011 Japan Tsunami & Earthquake.

As Yoko and I walked back home from school, we heard the audible sound of the tsunami alert. People along the streets came out from their houses--with babies and children in tow--and started to run to the nearest evacuation area. Yoko and I joined the crowd and held hands to facilitate finding each other in the moving bodies of people.

I heard a sound. A rush of water not so far away. The group began to panic. There was a cry from an old lady behind me. Wailing from a baby. The adults' voice trembling as they told their children to hush. And as the panic surged, the crowd scattered in different places leaving us in the path of the preceding flood of water--with no evidence of decelerating. Time was crucial.

I ran to the nearest tree, Yoko behind me, and quickly began to climb.

" Wait for me!" Yoko shrieked as she struggled getting her legs on the branches.

The tsunami was nearing us, fearing for my best friend's life, I extended my arm and shouted,"Grab on!"

And just as her hand touched my palm, just as her fingers gripped my wrist, a great colour of azure slammed against Yoko out of the tree like a bowling pin.

I screamed Yoko's name, searching the deluge of water and copious amounts of debris for any sign of her.I screamed till I felt a pang in my throat. I screamed till I didn't even know what I was screaming for; was I screaming for Yoko to emerge from the waters? Or was I screaming at the water, demanding why it had to wash my best friend away?

Night by Elie Wiesel

Reviewed by Nysha T.

"Night" meaning the darkness the memorist was living, in the harsh conditions of the Holocaust. The concentration camps. Caved in, with no way out, that place locks you, your mind, away from the world--none of them knowing what goes on behind the heavy iron gates.

This is the memoir of Elie Wiesel. A Jew, from Sighet, Trasylvania, who tells us his terrifying story about being transported to and trapped in the wrath of concentration camps with his father during his teenage years.

Separated from his mother and sisters, it is a vivid narrative depicted through the observant eyes of a boy in a way where you know the treatment of people, how they lived, the pain they faced, stringed with powerful words and thoughts.

He came to realize being kept away from humanity, and getting beaten, the fear of it happening again can numb your emotions. It numbed the memorist's belief in his god as he grew questioning what He can really do. It numbs till the only thing you think of is your ration of food and living for yourself--not for anyone else.

I think it is painful to know how life was like in a concentration camp. (If it would be called a “life.”). It has gripped me with a painful respect to the people who have survived such a horrific experience. It is the revalation of what goes on behind the gates. How some were forced to do things that can erase their emotions. And how some, through all these sufferings, sometimes succumbed to insanity, and death.

LINES THAT YOU LOVED.:

"How long had we been standing on the freezing wind? One hour? A single hour? Sixty minutes?

Surely it was a dream." (Page 37)

"All I could hear was the violin, and it was as if Juliek's soul had become his bow. He was playing his life. His whole being was gliding over the strings. His unfulfilled hopes. His charred past, his extinguished future. He played that which he would never play again." (Page 95)

What I believe

I believe sunsets are too common--

I don't like watching

something end.

I believe we all wake up

to the scent of dew

from the trees.

I believe nutella on bread

is key

to a good breakfast

I believe time does wait for people

but we are all trying hard to beat it

I believe deadlines don't kill us

but we do so on our own doing.

I believe we don't throw things away,

we set them aside.

I believe in laughing like a fool.

And crying like a toddler.

I believe in chilled watermelon

on a sweltering day,

the cold juice trickling down my chin

and numbing my fingers.

I believe the only way to eat chicken wings

is with your hands.

And when you're done

you have to lick your fingers.

If not, it isn't really doing the chicken wings justice

I believe the man on the moon

is not a man at all,

it's a rabbit.

And I believe,

if you're on a swing,

and you tilt your head back,

the sky is not so far away.

We All Have to Start Somewhere

It was a meeting, a session. Private. In the studio of budding designer Genevive J'maine. It had taken her weeks to complete each piece. Afraid of dissension from the critics, she had been meticulous about each detail, sequin, hem, you name it. But it wasn't her fault to be such a perfectionist. Who wouldn't be when, Paul Hudkinson, one of the greatest magazine editors of all time, would be coming?

The guests have arrived: high-end models, assistants, stylists, editors in-chiefs, sitting in front of a make-shift stage. Genevive appeared from the white curtains, said a small speech and began her introduction to her newest collection: Shining sequined mini dresses, colourful batik themed jumpers, feather skirts....The critics, even Paul Hudkinson, gave her pieces a nod as they assimilated her masterpieces!

And that was the start of Genevive J'maine's fashion career. After that day, there has been calls after calls coming in asking her to present it to the public, Central Park, and even during the New York Fashion week! Now you can see all her designs in each top magazines in the world. All of them lionizing her artistic palette.

The Case of the Diamond Catcher

It was 10 o'clock on a Friday night and I am sitting there in my office in 125A, 50th Street, Waterloo Avenue with the lamp shining on my latest case: a series of puzzling robberies in jewelry stores around the Glasshouse town, leaving the staff of the stores in a state of anarchy. It was no ordinary robbery, mind you. What was taken was only diamonds. Yes, diamonds, ingeniusly picked out of their rings like plucking strawberries out of the bush under the cover of darkness. The Diamond Catcher, some have nicknamed. Who or what would conspire such a bizzare burgurlary?

I puffed on my cigar, musing on the information I had gathered today. I had stopped by a jewelry store that has not been robbed to loan a diamond ring; I wanted to study how this rock could be taken out with sheer delicacy. Then I rememeber meeting up with Olie Benson--one of the witnesses of the robberies--and had some coffee on Broadway while he told me what he saw. When we were done, I had decided to get the lights I ordered for the apartment, since the shop was right across the street. The shop, I noticed, had a dark green van parked outside, the same van Benson had mentioned. I noticed a chandelier being made as I paid for the lights. I recall, when I was leaving, seeing the maker using a special plier taking out something from a...ring.

I reached for the telephone, I am very sure Inspector Menken would like to hear who to apprehend for the case of the Diamond Catcher.

Magic Hands

You meet him at a petrol kiosk at night, when not much people are around. The kiosk is open with only the accountant counting on the desk. He sits you down on a red plastic chair. You tell him you have headaches in the morning when you wake up. He laughs and says he knows exactly what to do.

Then you feel pain when he swipes your arm with only his fingertips. This small man, with a light blue cap with silver stars all over. That means your blood circulation isn't so well, he says. This small man, with a long, grey braid streaming down his back.

Then he pulls across the skin of your arm. You feel it burn. He pulls your fingertips. Pop! Pop! Pop! You feel relief. Relax, he says. Now up! Your arm rockets to the air. Again, he says. Up one more! Pop! You feel light. He does the same to the other arm. You feel like a feather.

This small man, whose teeth are black to the gum, smiles in delight as he watches your face glimmer in awe. Thanks god, he says. He swipes your arm. Not even a flinch. He swipes the other. Nothing. He laughs. I told you I knew what to do! You pay him, he smiles as he shakes your hand.Thanks god, he says again, thanks god. And you both leave.

This small man, who wears a white singlet and a pair of jeans, who lives with a psycic in his apartment, walks back home--denim jacket in hand--his brown skin blending into the night. This small man, has magic hands.