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WE DIGRESS... 20

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An art and literary collaborationKamehameha Schools Maui

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WE DIGRESS... 2016An art and literary collaboration

Kamehameha Schools MauiArts and Communications Academy:Creative Writing and Art Classes

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School Administration and Credits:Interim Headmaster: Po’o Kula Kaleo PahukulaHigh School Principals: Ms. Jay-R Ka’awa, Mr. Lance CagasanHigh School Vice Principal: Mr. Leo DelatoriCreative Writing Teacher: Ms. Kye HainaArt Teachers: Ms. Angie Abe, Ms. Lori GuntzelCOVER ART: Julia Singh ‘16

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TABLE OF CONTENTS17 and STUCK… 6A Knight’s Knight 8A Simple Adventure 10A Weird Understanding 12Bet 14Don’t Die on Me Now 15The Mynah 16Breakwater 18Awkward 19Colorful 20Courag 22Courage* 24Dear 25Dirt Nasty Low 26Hunger 26Fear 27Hushed Voices 28Divorce 29Change 30Zestful With A Hint of Salt 32Sanctuary 34Youth 35Childhood 36Effortless 38Headlines 39Fire 40Hate 41Hate 42Goats Backstory 43Things Parents Do 44Heart of The Shell 45Ice Cream for All 46Limericks 47My Innocence 48Will I be successful? 49A Shining Star 50Isis 52Scales 55Bliss 56

My Philosophy of Life 58Monday Mornings 59Daughter, Sister, Bestfriend 60The Collaboration 62Vibes Only 63My Kind of Girl 64Pen and Paper 66Parking 68Lot 68Picture 69Rockets in Space 70Poem of Passion 71Priscilla the Pessimist 72The Cat’s Outta the Bag 76#Sorry 77Not 77Sorry 77The Santa Hat 78Seashells and Similes 80Sunrise Sherbert 81Tattoo Man 82Ten 84Minutes 84The Beach 86The Dream Is His Treasure 88The Final Battle 89The Secret Behind the Green Eyes 91The Shell 92A Cautious 93Poem 93The Streak 94The Time of Ifs 95The Trees 97To Touch the Heart 98You Turned 99The Boy and the Fish 100Wild 102Down theDrain 104

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17 and STUCK…by Kiana Kanoa

You walk gracefully with Modesty and poise As you step in your heels With each tap, tap, tap, You can feel the powerResonate through the sound

You’re 17 going on 18, Or should I say, Simplicity moving onTo Complication. You aren’t crossing the streetWhile Ma holds your hand,

You still dream of pirates,Flesh-eating zombies, But know that when tomorrow hits, Scholarships,Essays,And equations, Will consume your mind.

But you’re 17,Going on 18, And while it’s Easy to come, It’s not Easy to go.

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by AUSTIN PETERS

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I kneel here, sword in hand, waiting. Waiting for another adventure to come for treasure I was cursed to protect. My armor is slow-ly rusting away with time. How long has it been since then?

The last I remember I was ordered to stay in this small castle to protect my kind’s pre-cious treasure. Very few came; however, of those who did, none ever left. They weren’t allowed to leave nor live.

I’d pace around the castle standing out on the balcony. I was lonely. I was the prin-cess stuck in a castle waiting for her knight in shining armor, but my story has a little twist. Whenever a knight approached, I had to attempt to kill him.

Years passed by like seconds, and soon enough, I was just a lingering spirit in dusty, rusty old armor. I grew tired of waiting, I grew tired of living, I wanted to die. I tried over and over, but with nobody to slay, I’m forever stuck inside this armor. I knelt down and stayed like this for however long and just dreamt.

I always dreamed that someone would walk in again, so that I might finally move and fight. I’d get up slowly, yet excited. No words would be exchanged, just the clash-ing of two swords with opposite objectives.

We would fight ‘til the death—either his or mine. He would be victorious, and I would be nothing but empty pieces of armor ly-ing on the floor. I’d still linger, though, and watch him traverse the castle, looking for the legendary treasure that I was cursed to protect. I’d follow and try to lead him to the treasure; my eagerness would overtake me. He would load up his empty sack with gold galore.

As he would take those final steps before walking out the door, I’d look back at my empty pieces of armor and reminisce about the time that I was here. As he would walk through the door, my soul would be free, free from this curse and free to finally move on.

A Knight’s Knightby Tyler Lum

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by MAIKA’IKE ENGLISH

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by AYLA FORSYTHE

A Simple Adventureby Toby Plunkett

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“Come on Terry we have to get to the bottom of the trail by sunrise so we can watch!” Jason raced down the trail, and Terry tailed close behind. “Not my fault the engine froze over!” The two shot conversation back and forth, arguing as they came close to the iconic sunrise spot know as “The Sun’s Ledge.” The location was prime this time of year due to the recent snowfall that would light up the valley with a glorious glow as the sun rose dead center of the river that flowed through it. As they flew around the switchback corners of the Matoahipa Mountain Trail, they could see the green glow of the sunrise up ahead. “Hurry, Terry, we don’t want to miss it. You realize we’re leaving tomorrow, right?” “Umm no, duh. I know that. Now stop talking and look forward before you hurt yourself!” They came around to the final stretch, and the iconic spot lay ahead. They rocketed past two fellow hikers and came upon the ledge. “Jesus, Jason, slow down. The ledge is up ahead!” Jason came to a halting stop, dig-ging his heels deep into the ground, but the snowy weather was an omen of what was going to come. Jason slipped and slid, and he was now parallel to the ground, skipping across the slippery snow on his back.Terry, following close behind, dove after him sliding along on her stom-ach. “Jason, reach out your hand!” Jason rolled over onto his stomach and outstretched his hand to Terry. Their sweaty snow gloves connected, and now they lay connected, sliding towards the edge of the cliff.Jason went off first, and gravity attempted to take Ter-ry with him. She went over head first, then her arms, and then her torso. This was it. The couple was gonna plunge to their death at one of the most romantic plac-es in the world.

Suddenly, Terry felt the warm embrace of a pair of hands around her ankle! The connected bodies of Ter-ry and Jason swung as they were held back from death by an unknown entity. They swung towards the side of the cliff, and as they collided, Jason hit his head vio-lently, he passed out, and dangled like a lifeless corpse. “Hold on!” Terry looked up and caught a glimpse of two figures holding onto her ankles. “Just keep a solid grip on him, and we’ll have you both up safely!” Terry felt a rope being tied tightly around her ankles like fishing line around a hook.“One…two…three!”

Terry felt her body being yanked up to-wards the ledge, as she held onto the still unconscious Jason with all her might, his rag doll body flailing around. Terry could barely hold on, and Jason was anything but light. The group of good Samaritans had al-most gotten them to the top of the ledge, and this was the final push. “One…two…three!” The group gave one last mighty heave pulling Jason’s glove right off his hand, sending him plummeting down to the bot-tom of the valley. Terry didn’t scream. She didn’t flinch. She just stared. Clutching only Jason’s glove in her hand, she was much easier to pull up and over the edge. She stood up and ignored the comments of the people comforting her. She turned to the beauti-ful sunset. She clutched Jason’s glove even tighter as she fell to her knees and col-lapsed into tears. “He’s gone…he’s actually gone” She could hear the sound of sirens echo-

ing throughout the valley, and two paramedics rushed to her side. She couldn’t tell what they were saying, just a muffle of noise like her ears were filled with cotton. Another man came down with a stretcher, and the first two helped her on.Terry lay back, smothered in her thoughts as the sun slipped below the horizon.

“Jesus, Jason, slow down! The ledge is up ahead!”

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Life isn’t about complaining that your fries aren’t crispy.It’s not about how slow the Internet connection isOr if you got more than 10 likes On InstagramTwitterOr Facebook.It’s not about having the iPhone 6s, Or the newest Galaxy S7,It isn’t about picking the right outfit

for the boy Who won’t even remember or care about What shade of red you wore, If your shoes were wedges or sti-lettos, If your hair was up or down.It’s not about who made you cry in the 7th grade,Who made you cry yesterday,Or who’s going to make you cry.

It isn’t about getting A 35 on the ACT, A 2400 on the SAT, Or writing the perfect college essay That makes you seem like The perfect applicant, With the perfect GPA.It’s not about being better than everyone else And getting a higher grade than Cathy,

A Weird Understanding by Kiana Kanoa

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by KEKOA OSTERMILLER

The Teacher’s Pet,Or running better than Josie, Athlete of the year. It’s not a competition.

Life is about picking sunflowers with hazel-eyed boys,Who share your appreciation for Jack Johnson and Sublime,It’s about understanding that It’s short,

“So love the one you got,Cause’ ya might get run over,or ya might get shot.”It’s about looking at the stars And wondering ‘bout surfing on Mars,And hanging onto Saturn’s rings.It’s about dreaming beyond your wildest imagination And drinking coffee, The blackest of the black,

Or with a seductive combinationOf cream and sugar.It’s about loving who you are and Swimming in happiness, It’s about being content, Understanding and growing with others All in all, life is about loving the ones who love you And loving them back just as much.

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Betby Lia IkedaI close my eyes,Count to ten,Take a deep breath.My arm outstretched,The stakes too compelling to ignore,We shake on it.The words fall out of my mouth.“It’s a bet.”

by AIKALA CHAPELL

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Don’t Die on Me Nowby Lukela Kanae

CarelesslyShe and I play,The entrance toAdventure,Dark and unknown.Deep within theShadows, weDelve ourselvesThroughA new world.

The silence,So sharpYou drink waterAnd hearThe leftoversCrash on the ground.Pebbles shifting,These cat-like earsOf mine twitching,At the chanceFor more sustenance.

Her voice,Faint,Light,Like the windRushing throughA field of green grass.She can’t sing,But she did make a wager.Her voice grows weak,Or is itJust me?

by JAYDEN GONSALVES

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Ask anyone from Hawai’i about what they think of mynah birds. It is likely many of them will mention the distinct ring of a my-nah’s cry, and the constant annoy-ance that they feel anytime that cry is heard. Feral birds, like mynahs, carry potentially harmful diseases, and are not normally household pets. My mother and I used to agree with many of these negative ideas about the noisy black birds, until one day one flew into our lives and changed them forever. As a child, I always looked forward to waking up early on Saturdays. Cozy pajamas, the inviting smell of my motherʻs cooking, and color-ful cartoons were all a child like me needed in order to be entertained. One Saturday, with The Winx Club playing on our small TV, the inces-sant caw of mynah birds outside, and the distant crackling of bacon frying in the kitchen, our regular Saturday routine was panning out perfectly, until I saw a flash of black breeze through the open screen door and into the kitchen where my mother was. Being the naive seven year old that I was, I assumed the worst. I imagined that my mother had just been knocked out by a flying rock, causing her to spill the soon-to-be feast of bacon and pancakes meant for my enjoyment. Firing up my imagination, not two seconds later a scream rang throughout the house. I sprang off the couch and into the

kitchen where I could only imagine my mother lay, a frightened mess. Carefully creeping around the cor-ner and into our tiny kitchen, my mind flashed with horrifying images of spilled bacon, dustings of flour on the floor, and my mother laid out with a rock in her head. To my surprise, I found my moth-er to be in one piece and the kitch-en spotless. Everything looked as it should, until I looked up at my mother’s head. Perched proudly on her long blonde hair was one pudgy mynah bird. That was the first of many run-ins with that bird. Days passed with no bird incidents, but about one week after the bird had first visited us, he appeared again. This time I was outside on our lanai painting when I felt a weight on my head. I slowly turned my head to the right, and in the reflection of a sliding glass door, I made out the silhouette of a confi-dent black bird on my head. The mynah soon began to visit my mother and me daily. He would fly into our kitchen and land on our heads or arms, and we would let him. He was a harmless bird, sweet even, and eventually we began to think of him as a pet. We even affectionately named him Buddy Bird. We became accustomed to his ap-pearances and even looked forward to him. As a child who was obsessed with Snow White, having a wild bird land on me and at my call felt like

The Mynahby Kai’ulani Cambra

“He was a harm-less bird, sweet even, and eventu-ally, we began to think of him as a pet.”

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a dream. Buddy Bird had grown to love us, and we him. One day, after my mother and I had fed Buddy and sent him off, my father came out to the lanai for his notorious afternoon smoke. I watched from the couch as my fa-ther took one last drag from his cig-arette, my eyes wide as I watched the thick cloud of smoke escaped from his lips. With a sigh, he flicked what was left of the poison stick off the lanai and made his way back inside.It was in the dead of night when we heard the piercing cry of Buddy Bird. I sat up in bed and looked to the window expecting to see Buddy flapping his wings in the sunlight as I had seen on so many mornings be-fore. But instead, it was still night, and I could barely make up his tiny black frame in the dark. Buddy con-tinued to cry out, and soon both my parents were awake and upset. His crying continued, and as we all sat up in bed, we smelled it. The thick heavy stench of burning leaves. My parents and I sprang from the bed and rushed outside to the source of the smell. Underneath the house, buried in the pile of dry, dead leaves, a single cigarette smoldered at the heart of a small fire. With a speed I had never seen him use before, my father reached for the hose and ex-tinguished the flames. Weeks passed, and Buddy Bird vis-ited us less, until one day he stopped showing up. My mother and I would

wait in the kitchen and on the lanai longing for the familiar, gentle claws on our head. We missed our feath-ered friend and often wondered why he had chosen to fly in that one morning. We didn’t know why

he had stopped coming around, or why he had chosen our family. All we knew was that if he hadn’t, we might not be alive today. To this day, whenever my mother and I hear the caw of a mynah bird, we smile.

by MALIA YONEMURA

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Breakwaterby Tyler Lum

My heart’s a breakwater,Strong and tall,Surviving a blastOf lethal love.Protecting my harbor,From all that hurt.

by MAIKA’IKE ENGLISH

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The feeling was awkward,Like a novice chef asking if his burnt steak is “good,”Like standing alone in a ball-room of strangers,Like making an error in front of an attentive judge,I’d never felt this way before,And never,Would I let myself feel this way again.

by TAYLOR CHING

Awkwardby Toby Plunkett

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Colorful. That’s what my childhood was like. Everywhere I looked there was color, and not just literally, but figuratively. When I was growing up there was never any conflict around me. My parents always got along, and everything was joyous. I was always out adventuring, with friends and family, exploring the island. I remem-ber it all like it was yesterday. We would go to multiple beaches, ponds, and trails. Some of these visions are more vivid in my memory, such as the beach Wailua, the pond Honopou, and the trail known as Skyline. All of these places have made im-pressions on me, and the feeling can only be described as colorful. Wailua most definitely is my favorite, and I’ve been there so many times its viv-id beauty is engraved into my mind. The sight of the picture-perfect waves crash-ing down like a stampede of bulls makes my heart drop, and the fuzzy sea salt mist they create sends a shock into my nose that lets me know exactly where I am without even looking. As I sit down and absorb the environment, I can smell the zesty aroma of board wax as it grinds against my un-cle’s board. As I stand up, clutching my sticky board and rubber fins in my hand, I can hear my uncle gasping in awe at the upcoming set of waves as he cheers and celebrates the perfect day we snagged. I can hear the thunder of rolling rocks as they are being dragged out to sea after each wave, and see the lush green valley-side stand high like a wall protecting this secluded bay from danger. The danger of more people finding out about this secret spot. The pond at Honopou was one of my fa-vorite places to go when I was young. The

fresh flowing waters, bright green forest-ry, and high rocks to jump off are a sight for sore eyes, and every time I’m there I can’t help but feel happy. The trees sway in the wind like hula dancers, and we leap from the rocks like birds trying to take flight. When you hit the water, splash! You can taste the happiness infused in it. The sound of birds chirping adds to the mood, and the smell of someone’s lunch is always present. This is a place that is truly special. When you get the top of Haleakalʻ and arrive at the beginning of the trail known as Skyline, you can’t help but have that oh-my-God-this-is-gonna-be-so-much-fun face on. The cold tickles the tip of my nose and knuckles as I fly down the trail, and coming around the crazy close cor-ners gives me that burst of adrenaline that makes me feel invincible. The feeling of being cold goes away as my heart rate rises, and suddenly everything is warm. My arms are warm, my chest is warm, and every-thing becomes a comfortable warm. Dirt flies up from the ground and into my face, right into my mouth. It’s not a bad taste, nor a good taste. It’s just a taste that I will always remember. Coming down the trail we come into a forest, and pass through the trees like a crowd of people. I can hear as I pass my friends by, phoop phoop phoop. Arriving at the end, a person can’t help but want to do it again. All these places bestow the feeling of being colorful upon me. Whether I’m rid-ing the crystal clear waves of Wailua, flying though the refreshing air of Honopou, or weaving my way through the thick forest of Skyline. No matter which one of these places I am at, I always have this odd feel-ing of being…well…colorful.

Colorfulby Toby Plunkett

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by CAYLA NAKAGAWA

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Courage by Kai’ulani Cambra

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Courage,A seven-letter wordUsed to describe actsOf braveryOf self- sacrificeOf martyrdom.

Courage,A seven-letter wordUsed to justifySending thousands of menOn a suicide mission.

CourageA seven-letter wordUsed to rememberThose who gave their livesFor the sake of ours.

by JAMES AWAI

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Courage*by Lia Ikeda*a tribute to the members of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team

Courage.Being the first person in class to raise your hand,Bracing the icy cold water at swim practice,Standing up for yourself after being called a loser,Telling the truth to be a good friend,Applying to Starbucks to make extra money,Telling off a bully who’s picking on your friend,Pushing through practice even though your muscles ache,Volunteering for service even though you don’t want to,

Being the first person to charge the front line,Bracing the icy cold air of reality,Standing up for yourself after being called a Jap,Upholding the truth of loyalty to country,Signing up for war to support your family,Telling off the enemy who threatens democracy,Pushing through battle even though you’re woundedVolunteering for war so your children won’t have to,Courage.

by GABRIELLE ALO

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Dearby Toby Plunkett

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Dirt Nasty Lowby Jordan Marciel

I don’t haveThe timeTo adjustYour settings.

You scrape onEverything Higher than Two inches.

Forgive me car,You’re soFun to drive.

by ASHLEE SAWAI

Hungerby Lukela Kanae

I don’t haveAny moneySo I can’tBuy your

Chicken sandwich,Your medium drink,Your small fries,Or your dipped cone.

It okay though,These blousesFrom Macy’s,Were on sale.

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As I stare down the hall,Lurking in the darkness,Standing at a distance,A figure appears.

Lurking in the darkness,With patience unwavering,A figure appears,In the silence of night.

With patience unwavering,The eerie view of a grin,In the silence of night,Slowly approaching.

The eerie view of a grin,Reaching out to touch me,Slowly approaching,The fear grows within.

Reaching out to touch me,Standing at a distance,The fear grows within,As I stare down the hall.

by KULANA WILHELM

Fearby Lukela Kanae

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by PRINCE KEKONA

Hushed Voicesby Keely Lindsey

A small village in the countryside.Not many people dareTo wander to it’s borders.A baron owns the landOn which the village nestles.

As villagers hustle and bustle,They only speak in hushed voices,Fearful of the powerful overlordWho is only a phantom in their lives.

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Divorce by Kai’ulani Cambra

So, what’s the vibe?Black?Or is it blue?All the blacksAnd blues in life,Slow and rhythmic.

I will have my falls,My slip ups,My blacks,My right foot will go,Followed by my left,Then the entirety of my weightWill follow.

But then come the blues,The blues that make youQuestion whyThe ones that stain your pillows,And the sheets of paper With the words written on them..

by CAYLA NAKAGAWA

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by CHLOE LAWRENCE

Changeby Keely Lindsey

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Change is inevitable. Nothing in our lives stays the same forever. In my childhood, I experienced many chang-es that I had to adapt to: adapting to a new home, adapting to a new island, and adapting to the life of a military child. The three places in my life where I feel that I adapted are my house in Hilo, the airport, and my Tūtū’s house in Maui.

When I was a seven-year-old, little, red-haired, brown-eyed, freckle-faced girl, my father was deployed to Iraq. My fa-ther is a short, stalky man with skin as brown as mocha (the complete oppo-site of me). He has that black and white peppered hair that comes with age and that uniform, short, military buzz cut that everyone in the army is required to have. We were at the Hilo Airport, and I could taste that scent of rain that lin-gered in the air. This was the day that we said goodbye to our dad for a year. I could taste the salt of my own tears as they trickled down my tear-stained face. I couldn’t bear the thought of not having my dad around for the year, but I was comforted by the fact that I would still have my mom and siblings around. My dad gave me a huge bear hug. It was the type of hug that could take away all of my fears and doubts. I inhaled the scent of jasmine vanilla lotion that my dad always wears. In those years, the airport became a familiar place to me. It was a place that told me that I would have to adapt.

When I was nine years old, we needed to move to Maui to take care of my Tūtū. As I lay in my small office cu-bicle of a room, I stared up at the Bippity-boppity blue ceiling covered with painted-on, white, fluffy clouds. Our entire house was packed like a shoebox, but an emptiness consumed me, and I am was overcome with sadness. I didn’t want to move, and I didn’t want to leave the house that I grew up in. To a nine-year-old girl, nothing could

be worse. I took in the damp, musty smell of our house. It was a smell that I had come to know and love. The rainy Hilo nights in our house were my favor-ite because I knew I was never alone. All anyone could ever hear at night was the “coqui, coqui” coming from the frogs. It’s a sound that other people find irri-tating, but the coqui frogs croaked that lullaby that rocked me to sleep every night. I would miss the sound of rain-drops hitting the aluminum roof of our house, the most soothing sound in the world to me. It was painful to know that in a few short days, this house would be-long to someone else, and I would have to adapt again.

The first step into my Tūtū’s house, and this indescribable smell overcomes me. This house always smells a certain way, and I’m never sure whether or not I like it. My Tūtū is a small, old Hawaiian lady whose hands are worn with time. She smells like perfume from the 60’s, but

I love it. When I look out the windows, I can see the lush, green sugar cane fields cover the entire island of Maui like a soft, green blanket. When I walk into my new room, I look around and think, “How am I ever going to get used to this?” The quiet nights and sunny days only fill my heart with longing, longing for home. But I know that I am going to have to make this new house my home, and that’s exactly what I do.

“how am i ever going to get used to this?”

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As a child, I spent most of my time jump-ing off rocks, searching for shells, and eating the best flavors the North Shore had to offer. I spent the most memorable and magical moments of my childhood experiencing the wonders of the North Shore. The most memorable spots include my Grandma Kerry’s magical beach house that overlooks Off the Wall, a beach that holds a trea-sure chest in my heart full of the seashells I’ve discovered; Waimea Bay—where all the fun is at; and Ted’s Bakery, home of the most amazing ba-nana cream pie, EVER. All of these places cre-ated the zestful combination that makes up my childhood. Let’s start by unleashing the wonder that is my Grandma Kerry’s house, my childhood home,

my getaway. I walk up the damp wooden steps in need of repair and stop once I reach the porch. I’m out of breath, not only because the 15 steps are a lil’ bit of a workout for me, but because of what is in front of me. They say love is the clos-est thing we have to magic; well, I’m in love with this view. During the winter, I can see the waves, like monsters creeping up from the sea bed. And if I can’t see the waves, I can hear them. The roar of the waves may be intimidating to some, but to me it means that the seasonal tide pools filled with mystical treasures are back and better than ever. I put my stuff down and give my papa, a.k.a. “Pops,” a kiss. I can feel his scruffy mus-tache brush up against my skin—he has the most well maintained grey ‘stache I’ve ever seen. I can

by MICHAEL KAHULA

Zestful With A Hint of Salt by Kiana Kanoa

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smell the freshly brewed coffee my pops made. He hands me some in the cup I made in second grade (I’m insist that it makes my coffee taste better.) After settling down, I decide to go on my annual shell hunt. I walk down the path in between grass as tall as mountains, and I smell rain coming, muggy, but oddly comforting. Be-fore I start my mission, I remember that the Thai Food Truck is calling my name so I order the usual, chicken pad thai to go, my favorite. I skip across the street, open the gate that allows me to head onto the bike path, and walk down towards the ocean. I set my towel down and prepare my stomach for some amaz-ingness. I take a bite of my pad thai, and right away I feel the combina-tion of peanuts and chicken dancing the tango on my tongue. The sand on Oahu is different; It’s bigger, re-sembling miniature pebbles I can feel sticking to my legs; however, I can effortlessly brush it off without struggle. So this is what love feels like. Whenever I visit O’ahu, I have to remember to visit Ted’s Bakery. Ted holds the key to my heart, and that key is made of bacon breakfast sandwiches and banana cream pie. It doesn’t matter on which day you visit them, or at what time, they are always crowded. I walk in, and I can smell the to-die-for sandwiches and, oddly enough, life. I can smell the energy of hungry souls ready to feed their faces. I see mothers telling their children to move away from the doughnut display accompanied by you-touch-you-die stares. The best part of visiting Ted’s is the satisfaction of receiving your order and finding a spot outside. The umbrella tables are filled with stickers from those who had eat-en and liked the banana cream pie. I scramble around the crowd to find a seat and open the pie package. I dip my spoon in, and as it touches my mouth I can feel the light whipped cream on my tongue. So, this is what love tastes like.

Last but not least, I visit my all-time favorite beach—Waimea Bay. I walk barefoot on the siz-zling, sinister, yet satisfying sand that fries my feet. “OW, OW, OW!” I can hear the children scream in pain, often followed by a firm, “Bring your slippahz next time you dang kid.” Once again, I feel the signature Oʻahu sand sticking to that skin on my legs covered in suntan lotion. The water on the NS will always feel like home to me. I laugh as I watch the group of boys do-

ing suicides off the infamous jumping rock. When I gath-er enough courage to do the same, I can feel the butter-flies flutter under my skin, and then, without thinking, I jump. I can feel the water slam against my body and jump for joy in a mil-lion pieces before becoming whole again. I catch my breath, get a taste of the salt water, and think “AGAIN AGAIN” like a lit-tle kid. I can smell the salty air of the ocean; it brings me comfort and secu-rity. So this is what

love smells like. While the heart of my zestful childhood memories can be felt in many different places, the biggest place in my heart is set aside for my memories on the North Shore. Whether it is falling asleep to the roar of the ocean at my grandma’s house, avoiding a hungry crowd and enjoying a bite of seductive pie at Ted’s, or taking a leap of faith into my mermaid home, Waimea Bay, I will never be able to get enough. My heart is with the North Shore, and it always will be. This is love.

“Whenev-er I visit O’ahu, I have to remember to visit Ted’s Bak-ery.”

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Seclusion, isolation, loneliness – these are three things that I faced in my solitary childhood. There were three memorable places that made these feelings come out: My grandmother’s house (where, ironically, my cousins were packed in); my living room, where I was ostracized behind ‘big kid’ blockades; and my bedroom, where my otherwise static toys and games came to life just for me. These are the solitary connections I hold onto from my past. The place where I grew up the most, my grandma’s house, brings many memories forth. I can still hear the ringing in my ears from the sheer, sharp, sickening si-lence when everyone’s parents picked them up and left me here alone. I feel the old carpet under my feet, and the smell of stale oxygen always holds onto my nose, like a monkey on a tree. I can see the dusty, old newspaper stacks in the corner of the living room, begging for a reader’s eyes to caress them. The taste of warm bottled water still lingers on my tongue ‘til this day. From the living room of my house, I learned to be on my own. The neighbors’ dogs taught me that dogs

bark for no reason. Seeing nothing but the backs of two big couches keeping the big people on the opposite side intensified my feelings of loneliness. I held dear to me the smell of a fresh-out-of-the-wash teddy bear. I can still feel the flattened, old carpet under my feet, and the taste of Vienna Sausages and Instant Noodles is a stalker that still follows me. My room is like a sanctuary of fun—solitary fun. The sound of Legos clicking and clacking as I put them to-gether resonates with me. I could always smell the fresh outside air through my window, slightly ajar. When I looked down, I’d see a toy-laced, carpeted floor. I felt nothing but Legos and action figures when I was in my world. The bland taste of saliva built up, while my lonely day ticked on. I felt a lot of things in these places: loneliness, isola-tion, seclusion. Those things did not take away from my experience as a child. I grew up as an individual. I learned things on my own. I monologue in my head every day. As I grow into adulthood, these are the connections I hold onto from my solitary past.

by PRINCE KEKONA

Sanctuaryby Lukela Kanae

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Youthby Lia Ikeda

Remember when we were young?When we saw today as a distant dream,We dreamed of all the things to come,Waiting to be met.

When we saw today as a distant dream,People, cities, houses and jobs,Waiting to be met,We pictured ourselves as adults.

People, cities, houses and jobs,Daydreams conjured in our minds.We pictured ourselves as adults.Wanting to read the rest of our book.

Daydreams conjured in our minds,When reality became too hard to face.Wanting to read the rest of our book,Until the rest became today.

When reality became too hard to face,We dreamed of all the things to come,Until the rest became today.Remember when we were young?

by KAI’ULANI CAMBRA

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Most of my childhood was spent in solitude. I re-member having a lot of time to myself, where I was free to play and create. My childhood consisted of imaginary friends, art projects, and made-up scenarios that I would act out. My childhood was filled with creativity. Living in Kihei meant going to the beach almost every day. At the beach I would watch as waves rolled into the shore like powerful barrels of blue. I remember distancing myself from the mass of adults partying on the beach by floating into the ocean where I submerged myself in its cool embrace. The taste of the salt water pruned my lips, while it gently flowed through my long, gold, baby-smooth hair. There in the water, I was free to swim about. With each glide underwater I trans-formed into the magical mermaid I had always dreamed of being. Emerging from the ocean, my imaginary uto-pia was destroyed by the heavy scent of cheap alcohol and the loud cheers coming from my mother’s friends. My childhood home had a long outside hallway that led to a small 10’ x 20’ room, customized with an even smaller loft ten feet above. To access that loft you had to climb up a makeshift ladder with scratchy sandpaper glued on for grip. As a child, I loved to pretend the loft

was a part of a large castle, and I lived up there as the beautiful princess Kai’u. I watched as birds flew past the dusty screen window that never failed to make me sneeze. I had many adventures in that tiny loft. From up there I could hear the conversations my neighbors were having, and I could taste the intoxicating aroma of mango from a nearby tree.Many of my days were spent adventuring in my drive-way. I could see the stone walls lining the perimeter of my property, the perfect canvas for my famous chalk portraits. The sounds of cars zooming past my drive-way echoed through the walls as the breeze brought the scent of plumeria masked by the exhaust fumes. As the hours passed, and the air grew hotter, I would take out my metal tea set, fill a bucket with water, and transform my cement driveway into a luxury home fit for the most luxurious of tea parties. From pretending to be a mermaid in the cool waters of Kihei, being a princess in a high tower, or hosting epic imaginary tea parties, my childhood was far from boring. As a child, I was allowed to explore and create whatever I could. As a child I was allowed to be cre-ative.

by TEA MONDEN

Childhoodby Kai’ulani Cambra

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For a Friendby Kai’ulani Cambra

This is a poem that sulks, aloneIn the corner, patiently daydreamingOf her chance to make you seeBecause how could this poem be good enough,For the likes of you?Because why would you take the time,To read in-between the lines?

And when the inevitable cloud of dread,Floats back into viewThis poem wishes it had fewer stanzas,Less syllables, and more rhymes

This is the poem that loves too deepFrom the depths of the unexplored,To the craters of the moon.Like the shining star, too far from view.

by MAIKA’IKE ENGLISH

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Effortlessby Lia Ikeda

Monotone black and white, A precise contrast Between coal and milk.It sits upon the eclectic grains,Simplicity amid garishness.

It is smooth,With various peaks That emerge from the surface.A bird’s-eye view,Of snowy plains, and Sky-scraping trees.

Organic dots,Sitting uniformly.Emit order and purity,A calming potion.Small, Yet eye catching.No loud colors That beg for attention,Or massive size That overpowers.It is captivating,All on its own.

by CASEY NEIZMAN

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Headlinesby Lia Ikeda

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Fireby Kandace Ota

Fields burst into flames. Orange and red ignite the town. Black and grey roll from the fire. No wind, Smoke sits On the town. Neighbors gather Like Christmas around the fire. I feel the power,The blaze’s heat hits my face.How did this happen?

41

Hateby Keely Lindsey

Scaly, mean, with claws,Blood boiling withBurnt orange, dull and drabHorrid, rotting Nonsense blaring in your ear,The bass ringing over your own voice.Slimy and as bland as paper.Gun shots and yelling, people calling for help people writhing on the ground in pain,People scattering Looking for safety.

by KAMAILE AIPA

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Hateby Lukela Kanae

The way the hairs move back and forthBoiling the heat of rage that wells up.Its displeasing indecisiveness,How it rips at the follicles in the nostrilsReeking of curdling corpses.Constantly repeating the same four seconds,Grating on the planes of your molars,Tossing about another’s effort.

by PRINCE KEKONA

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Pops, look at da fields. We get too much goats li’ dat. I ride my horse around, and I stay running over da goats! Neighbors stay saying that every day there’s one new pile of goat poop in their yards! No more room for dis many goats already. What you like do about ‘em, Pops? We go sell ‘em! Uncle Kaleo down da road look like he need couple goats. Get choke grass growing every-where. Give ‘em couple goats, and den BAM, da grass gon’ be gone. No need lawnmower even. Pops, I going walk over to Kaleo’s and see if he like buy ‘em. Before I go, I going on the computer first. I gotta check couple e-mails. *powers on computer and checks email, sees email from craigslist and opens it up* Aii, Pops,

I think get one ad fo sell our goats on here! Even get one picture of our yard! You when send in one ad? “Huh? I don’t know how fo’ do dat?” But if I never send one ad in, who did? Get one number on top for call. I go try call ‘em. *ring ring ring* “Aloha, dis is Kaleo.” What?! Braddah Kaleo? “How come you stay selling my goats!” Kaleo replies, “Cause dey taking ova the land already. No more room on da fields when all your goats stay dea. In fact, not even fields al-ready ‘cause no more grass ‘cause your goats wen eat ‘em all! So dat’s why I wen set up dis ad, and sell ‘em for you already. Irritating!”

by DYLAN FALCES

Goats Backstoryby Kandance Ota

44

by ASHLEE SAWAI

Things Parents Doby Kandace Ota

Before you’re out the door:“Drive safe!” “Look both ways before crossing the road!” “I love you!” My mom. Always blurting blunt and abnormal things. “Honey, you’re the bomb dot com.” “Abstinence is key!” “Remember your ginger shots!”

45

As I gaze into the heart of the shellFirst it is pitch black,A small dark hole, The peephole to a hotel door,And nothing else.And then, with a simple turn,It turns into a thousand tiny raindrops,Intricate little dots in a perfect line.Hold it up to the light,And the tiny raindrops disappear,And in their place,Fresh-washed linen,Soft translucent fabric,But change the way you hold it,It becomes a glimmering firework,Igniting with a spark,And now it is a jellyfish,Round in its shape,And now it becomes a cat’s tongue,The sandpaper texturePrickling your fingers,And now it is still,Free of analogies and comparisons,As am I.

by PRINCE KEKONA

Heart of The Shellby Kai’ulani Cambra

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Reclining in my rainbow beach chair, lounging in my leopard-print bathing suit, and relaxing under my cat-eye sunglasses, I have officially become the world’s coolest grandma. After working as an el-ementary teacher for 30 years, I, Gertrude Wells, have retired and moved away from my snowy home in New Jersey to the always-sunny Palm Beach, Florida.

You see, in my 65 years of living on this planet, I’ve learned some things. I have come to the con-clusion that life is all about luck. Now that I’m re-tired, I’ve decided to let life take its course. Instead of trying to control every detail, I depend on luck. In fact, just yesterday, while walking through the mall, I spotted a $100 bill on the ground! In all my years of working to make a living and hoping to be rewarded for my actions, never have I experienced such good fortune. Life doesn’t reward those who are good. No, it’s all about being in the right place at the right time.

So here I am, widowed and retired, without a care in the world that can bring me down. Walking back to my condo, I pass an ice cream stand where kids are begging their moms for a cone. I go up to the worker, hand him the $100 bill I found yesterday and tell him to treat them all to a scoop on me. The kids erupt in cheers. If life really is all about luck, I might as well make it someone’s lucky day.

by DYLAN FALCES

Ice Cream for Allby Lia Ikeda

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by Keely LindseyThere once was a dog from New York,Who hoped he could dine on some pork,So he set out to find,A creature porcine,That small, hungry dog from New York.

I once met a girl from Grant Road.Every day she would walk with her toad,And whenever they walked,The toad and she talked,In their own girl-amphibian code.

by Lukela KanaeI once met a gal from D.C.Every day she drank gallons of teaBut whenever she drankHer breath – man – it stankThat strange, smelly gal from D.C.

There once was a dog from OwyheeWho always thought he could just be freeSo she got on a boatBut it didn’t floatSo he sank in the Sea of Owyhee.

by Kai’ulani CambraThere once was a bear from a zooEvery day he would hope for a clueTo find his way back And take that jet pack That space bear I saw from my view.

I once met a man from BerlinEvery day he would go out and winBut whenever he shouted The crowd, they all doubtedThat strange loony man from the bin.

by Kiana KanoaI once met a fella named Dan,Who lived in a green Caravan,He slept and he ate,The Greatest of Great, And invited me to join his clan

There once was a girl from Paris, Who thought razors to be really scary, She kicked and she screamed,They all thought she was mean,Turns out she just loved being hairy.

by Lia IkedaThere once was a girl from the cityWhom everyone thought was so prettyBut while running a raceShe fell straight on her faceAnd we all cried out, “Oh, what a pity!”

There once was a man from KentuckyWho was well known for being unlucky.But one day he foundTons of cash on the groundAnd ever since then he’s been lucky.

Limericks

by ASHLEE SAWAI

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My Innocenceby Lukela Kanae

It lays belowThe thin pane of glass,Switching on and off,Convertible light-emitting diodes.The screen bearingSuch an abomination,Too graphic for a child’s eyes,Too graphic for a demon’s eyes,Too graphic for my eyes.

The colors exchange gesturesPurging a plague outFrom the monitor,Seeping into the veryWindows to my soul,Slowly churning and ripping throughMy purity,My sanity,My innocence.

by KAMAULIOLA

49

Will I be successful?by Keely Lindsey

I want to accomplish so many things:go to the college of my choice,win in judo,make enough money,become a veterinarian.

First I must faceThe nagging and the doubts.“Print out those papers for Cornell,”An endless phrase, My mom repeats.

I don’t like having to clean up After my own pets,But I want to be a veterinarian?These questions linger in my mind.

Trials and tribulations,Constantly bite,Making sure I acknowledge them.“For every dark night,There’s a day,”I’ve been told.For every failure I face,Will I come right back with success?

With doubt and uncertainty,I don’t know the answer.So I continue to ask,Hoping that you’ll know The answer with certainty,

by CASEY NEIZMAN

50

A Shining Starby Lukela Kanae

A shining star, A precise path,A massive stratosphere,Unconsciously creates a wall.

Fine, straightforward flares,Dart slowly,Into my miniscule retinas,

A clash of colorful clarity and confusion,On my cortex, Moving swiftly into the void,Of the inner workings of my mind.

My open eyes are etched,A striking streak,A silver shooting star,Barreling across the night sky.

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by KAYLA SNIFFEN

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Isisby Jordan Marciel

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Not everyone in the family knew we had a beast locked in a cage. This beast was rarely let out, but when it was, every-one around knew of its presence. This beast came into my life when I was just a 13-year-old lad. Upon the day of receiving this beast, my life was forever changed. I waited at home while my par-ents went out to fetch it and bring it to its new home. I had a vague idea of what it was, but still was not quite sure what to ex-pect. Hours went by while I waited in silence for my first look at this beast. I was anxious to see ex-actly what it was. Then I heard it roar as my parents brought it up the street nearly a half-mile away. I could tell just from its sound, that it was something to be reckoned with. I stood at the front door watching as my parents came up the driveway with the beast. It was a vibrant red color, with many battle wounds visible from where I was standing. It looked as if it had been to hell and back, but that only made it look even fiercer. It gave the beast extra character. This Honda Civic was unlike any other I had seen before. Louder, faster, cleaner. I was in awe of the beast my parents had brought home.

Over the course of about a month, we cleaned up the beast, for it was filthy on the inside. We even gave it a name. We named it Isis, after the Egyptian goddess, because of its sheer power. Isis was ca-pable of running high tens on the quarter with standard 92-rated octane. She put out about 460 to the ground on 22 lbs. of boost, which means, we were getting just over 500 off the crank.

Isis didn’t get out much. We generally took her out at night three or four times a month just for a fun drive. In the meantime, she just sat in her cage, longing to be let out. Isis was the first car I ever sat be-hind the wheel of. She was proba-bly one the most cherished objects I ever had, even though she wasn’t truly mine. I had a respect for Isis that I didn’t have for many other things. Since the day I watched Isis

leave, there hasn’t been a day that’s gone by when I didn’t think about what it would be like if I still had her. I am thankful for the time we spent to-gether, times that I will never forget, but if there was one solid idea that Isis taught me, it was to enjoy the things you have now, because one day, they’ll be gone.

“isis was the first car I ever sat behind the wheel of. ”

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Scalesby Kai’ulani Cambra

Life isn’t about scales.It’s not about right or wrongOr good and bad.It’s not about sinningOr about salvation.It’s not about how many sermons you’ve seen,It’s not about how many you haven’t,It doesn’t revolve around the existential humankind,Whether or not you believe,If you couldn’t care less at all.It isn’t all about love and hate,And all the complications they bring,Not about harmony or strife,how messy and complicated things get, how easy and effortless it can be.It isn’t about the how and why,the unanswered questions,all the mystery of the unknown.It isn’t yes or noIt isn’t positive or the negativeIt isn’t all about perfectionIt isn’t driving yourself crazy,attempting to achieve just that.

It’s about seizing the moments,It’s about spontaneity,And crazy in-the-moment-ness.It’s about getting lost, and getting lost again,It’s not knowing the who, what, where, and when,It’s about acceptance, and compassion,Living for the present.It’s a small flower budIn cold and dark conditions,thirsting for more.It’s pushing forward, despite all else.It’s growing up and getting hurt,It’s knowing you deserve more,It’s receiving less.

by DYLAN FALCES

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Blissby Lia Ikeda

The air is muggy, and the sun is shining through the blanket of clouds. As seen in the crowds of people, the morning farmer’s mar-ket is busy as ever. Streets are lined with ven-dors, carts are full of colorful produce, and tourists are admiring it all among the locals.

“How much for those red ball things?”

“You mean the lychee? It’s $4 a pound.”

The cruise ship has just docked at Hilo Bay, and the farmer’s market is the first stop for tourists coming from around the world.

Amid the madness, Kaipo is running through the streets. Barefoot with tan skin, messy hair and wide eyes, the little Hawaiian boy weaves his way through the crowds. While tourists ar-gue with local vendors and rummage through the piles of fruit, he grabs a mango off a cart and continues on his way. It’s the hottest day of the summer, and he’s on a mission.

He runs past town and up the road to Rain-bow Falls. The street is lined with shiny Jeeps and Mustangs—rental cars. A Robert’s Ha-wai›i bus just pulled in, and crowds of aloha shirts, cameras and flip-flops unload.

As the tourists snap their pictures in front of the waterfalls and fan themselves from the heat, Kaipo whips past them. He leaps past groups of tourists stumbling up the trail.

Half a mile up the marked trail, Kaipo cuts through the trees and disappears into the forest. His feet are used to the sting from the broken sticks and rocks that line the ground. After running for a good half hour, he stops. His mouth curls into a smile as he faces the pristine freshwater pond and flowing waterfall.

Without hesitation, he runs into the pond, splashing in the water and wading in its coolness. He wades to the waterfall and lets its stream massage his head. As he sits in his secret pond, he takes a bite out of his mango and smiles. Nothing compares to this.

57

by JACOB JULIAN

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My Philosophy of Lifeby Kandace Ota

Life isn’t about how many days You lived through,It’s not “whoever lives the longest wins.”

Life isn’t about graduation,Or the advanced classes you took,It isn’t about the record-breaking G.P.A.,Extra-curricular activities,And who has the most hours of volunteer work.

Life isn’t about a degree that definesYour financial status,To live comfortably.

Life is about the moments that make you crywhen you’re happy,and when you’re disappointed.Life is about disappointments,Because without them,You wouldn’t know what you deserve.It is about the times whenGiving up was an option,But not the one you chose.

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Monday Morningsby Lia Ikeda

I apologize In advanceFor the Sloth-y movements,Rolling eyes,Sassy comebacks,Selective hearing,Dramatic sighs,Short-fused temper,Sleeping in class, andConstant complaints,

But what can I say?

It’s Monday.

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They say you find your other half in true love. This is not true for everyone, or, for me at least. My other half is the person who sits next to me during car rides, gives me a shoulder to cry on, raps with me (badly), hugs me when I need her to, stays up with me till 1 a.m. because I don’t want to be alone, comments on my Instagram pictures while she’s sitting right next to me, and makes me strawberry smoothies after HER workout. Yeah, my other half is a girl who listens to J. Cole and The Weeknd, sings along to Kehlani and Justin Bieber, and knows that family is ev-erything. I found my other half, my best friend, my ride-or-die in my sister. My forever best friend. The bond between Kayla and me may seem like your

average sisterly love, type A relationship, but it’s so much more. People underestimate the bond between my sis-ter and me. Kayla and I do everything together; we talk about boys, we paint each other’s nails, and we fight over who has better taste in music. Kayla Kanoa is the best friend that every girl wishes she could have. When I say Kayla and I are joined at the hip, I mean it. Two years between us makes no dif-ference in our relationship. We share the same clothes, and we appreciate the same things. We pick each other up when we are at our low-est. Kayla has seen me at my worst and stood proud with me at my best. When I am sad, I know I can turn to my sister, whose green-ish-brown eyes and subtle blonde-brown hair could take down an entire army of men. Her brace face smile may seem cute at first, but

by MICHELLE NAKASHIMA

Daughter, Sister, Bestfriend by Kiana Kanoa

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don’t underestimate the words that could come out of her mouth. She is powerful and content with her life, I have never met someone who is so certain about the kind of people she wants in her life. She is picky about who she chooses as friends, she doesn’t settle for anything less than what she deserves, and she knows what she wants. I like to think that she gets it from me, my baby sister Kayla, figuring out life one step at a time. She is way more mature than I was at her age. But when we fight, it’s another story. Not only can this girl sucker punch like nobody’s business, but she can say things that make you wish she lived on another planet. Her sarcastic and pessimistic attitude when she’s in a bad mood can leave you crying. We don’t fight often, and I’m glad about that.Bottom line, my sister is my best friend. She makes my days better, and she’s the only person I could see ev-ery day and never get annoyed—for the most part. Here’s to sisterly love.

“I found my oth-er half, my best friend, my ride-or-die in my sister.”

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The Collaborationby Jordan Marciel

This is a poem that dancesIn the Argentinian Mountains,That skipsBecause it’s a collaboration,Because I am Batman.

And when happinessMakes you feel as if you are at the peak,This is the poem that dancesIn the Argentinian MountainsLike Gotham City, doing the Harlem Shake.

by AYLA FORSYTHE

63

It wasn’t until college that Chad came out of his shell. All throughout high school, he was shy, reserved and quiet. He rarely went out with friends, hardly participat-ed in school activities and never went to parties. He was happy in the background; he avoided attention. Once he went to college, he gradually became more outgoing. Perhaps it was because he was now able to grow his hair out, or it was the newfound independence he found by living away from home. He made a new circle of friends and became outgoing. Chad always had a low-key hipster vibe in him. His taste in music was one example—Bon Iver, Death Cab for Cutie and Hozier were typical artists on his playlists. A gifted musician himself, Chad couldn’t stop buying instruments. He was the proud owner of three guitars, two ‘ukuleles, two keyboards, and a mandolin. Often you would find him sitting under a tree with his long hair down, strumming away. One day, while sitting in the park with his favorite

mahogany guitar, Chad was approached by some hip-pie-looking guys looking for a jam session. Apparently, his hipster vibes attracted more of his kind. The two other guys had long, raggy hair, wore unbuttoned aloha shirts and carried guitars of their own. Without saying a word to each other, they began to play. It was as if they had an unspoken language that only they could understand. They played for hours, picking away at the strings and dancing to their melo-dies. People walking through the park came to listen, and soon, a crowd had formed around them. People cheered and whipped out their phones to record the spectacle. You would never guess that the charismatic, long-haired guy jamming under a tree with strangers was once a quiet, unsure boy trying to survive high school. College brought out a new side of him. The hippie-ness in my brother that I could never relate to had brought him new friendship…and fame.

by CAYLA NAKAGAWA

Vibes Onlyby Lia Ikeda

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My Kind of Girlby Tyler Lum

I stood outside the classroom in the Pākī building. It was my first day of summer school, and I didn’t know anyone. The teacher wasn’t there yet, so I decided to get out of everyone’s way and sit myself against the wall. Everyone looked like they knew each other, and then there was me, the loner and complete stranger.

There was another kid next to me playing a PSP. I wished I had mine to play. He was playing an anime fighting game. The teacher finally came to open the door, but when he did, very few of us went in.

I finally took my seat still not knowing what to do. The teacher turned on the TV and The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air was playing. With nothing to do, I unconsciously start-ed to watch. Time passed, and it was time to start class.

The teacher called roll, and I was surprised to learn that the person sitting in the back of me had the same last name as mine. The teacher called me next, and then the next person, and so on.

When the break came along, the girl behind me started talking to me. She intro-duced herself and told me that she thought it was cool that our last names were the same. I, too, introduced myself and agreed; that was how I met my one-of-a-kind girl.

She slowly opened up, and I saw the bubbly, cutesy side of her personality. I fell in love with that. I fell in love with her. She was that one-of-a-kind person who was meant for me.

In the days to come, our relationship grew. She showed me her artwork, and I gave her an origami heart. I soon came to love her more and more over that short summer school session. We progressed onto holding hands in the morning. I would tickle her and she would hold my hand to stop, and that was my excuse to hold her hand. I was always excited to go to school the next day to see this gentle female. Ev-ery day after school I would be sad to leave, to leave her, but as the end came closer, she became to stray from what we had built up.

During the last two weeks of the summer school session she slowly grew distant. She didn’t want to grow too attached since we lived on different islands. Finally, I had to leave to go to my home island, but eventually, we reunited because I could never forget my one-of-a-kind girl.

65by KAMAILE AIPA

66

Pen and Paperby Kai’ulani Cambra

You were the paper, and I was the penI was the shepherd and you the sheepThey called me reckless, and incompleteThey called you nice, and they called you sweet.

I was the shepherd, and you the sheepBehind the facades, it hurt more than it showedWhen they called you nice, when they called you sweetLittle did they know, what lay beneath.

Behind the facades it hurt more than it showed,You were stop, and I was goLittle did they know what lay beneath,A blank white page, with nothing to read.

You were stop, and I was goI was always in character, putting on a showA blank white page, with nothing to read,Comedy and tragedy coming to an end

I was always in character, putting on a showThey called me reckless, and incompleteComedy and tragedy coming to an end,You were the paper, and I was the pen.

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by KAYLA TUITELE

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Cars parked in a large parking lot, Attending an event? Maybe.

The symmetry unreal, Are you dizzy yet?Maybe. Reminds me of Indian designs,Arrow patterns repeat,Perfectly aligned.

Imagine the ignition,All at the same time.High levels of pollution,Hard to breathe, Carbon monoxide, Right?

by JORDAN CORN

Parking Lotby Jordan Marciel

69by MALIA YONEMURA

Pictureby Kai’ulani Cambra

Dark mountains stand tall, Watching,Accompanied,By towering skyscrapers,Overlooking crashing waves, And sandy shores,White light beams down, Transforming dark illusion Into hopeful company.

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Rockets in Spaceby Tyler Lum

The rocket shoots off,Into space,With its beautiful glow, Leaving its trail of light. The night sky glows, And the spotted city, Is a sight worth seeing, As the rocket says goodbye.

by MAKAMAE KAPONO

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Poem of Passionby Kandace Ota

This is a poem that smiles and bloomsIn the arms of your caress,That makes me feel warmth and loveBecause I’m showered with kisses And deluged with tickles, And when passionate yearningSends tingles from my toes to my heart,This is the poem that burns with affectionFrom each chamber of my heart,This is the poem that overflows with tendernessIn every hand clench, caress, and kiss.

by AUSTIN PETERS

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“Priscilla Darthwormor was your average sardonic teenage lon-er. Her hobbies included whipping back dry-witted comments associ-ated with razor sharp sarcasm. She found the stupidity of others en-tertaining, especially because when she talked to them, they didn’t even realize that the words squirm-ing out of her mouth were actually insults. Her voice was nasally, and she wore big round glasses that paired perfectly with her dark au-burn hair. She was a natural-born genius who read incessantly and took apart just about anyone who seemed shallow or superficial -- which was just about anyone.”

“Well there you have it, that’s my eulogy for you,” Jenny said sarcas-tically. Jenny Cullentent was my tall, skin-ny and perhaps equally sarcastic best friend.

“Thanks. I think you really cap-tured my personality.”

Jenny and I were discussing how we’d present each other in our eu-logies, depending on who would die first. I knew it’d be me because I have no soul, and I’d rather be dead then have to wake up at 6:45 a.m. to go to the pile of poop we call school. Jenny and I walked to school every day, but not by choice. It was mostly because I couldn’t afford a stinking car, and my career-fixated parents wouldn’t buy me anything I wanted….but if

it was for Toby, my brother, God forbid he go without being treated like royalty! But that’s beside the point.

Jenny and I were walking today, and it wasn’t your average muggy, I’d-rather-be-dead kind of day – it was worse. Today we had our an-nual Panther’s Peppiest of the Pep pep rally just before the first home game, which happened to be fol-lowed by a school dance.

I didn’t know why I had to go. It wasn’t like I was going to the stu-pid game, for crying out loud. I hate football, I hate sports, I hate people.

Just as we arrived, we glanced at the cheerleaders, who were already in their incredibly revealing peppi-est of the pep uniforms.

“How is it that I get dress coded for wearing a tank top, but these chicks can flop around in their su-perficial uniforms, and it’s consid-ered ‘sport’?” Jenny said.

“Beat’s me,” I replied.

The cheerleaders were perform-ing icebreakers near the entrance. Their annoying voices were giv-ing me a headache. It’s 7:45 in the morning, for crying out loud!

“Hey Jenny and Priscilla! You com-ing to the game tonight? It’s gonna be WAY cool! :DDD Oh wait..I

Priscilla the Pessimistby Kiana Kanoa

“

”

73

by KIANA NEMOTO-OSHITA

74

forgot, you don’t do anything,” Josie, the team captain shouted out. The team followed with an in-sync laugh.

Josie was your average too-good-for-nothing head cheerleader, who was straight up brat. I hated her guts and so did Jenny.

“Sometimes your shallowness is so thorough, I almost mistake it for depth,” I scatted back.

Josie was obviously confused by my comment, so she sneered and then walked away. So did I.

I said my goodbyes to Jenny as I entered my first period classroom. My thoughts ran amok as I start to think about the dance. It wasn’t like I wanted to go, but I’m awe-some. Why hasn’t anyone asked me so I could reject them?

Maybe they’re too intimidated, yeah, that’s it, I thought to myself.

I got through the next three pe-riods without any confrontation, the only conversation was during lunch, with Lola, the wannabe supermodel. Lola disregarded any and all options available and grabbed a bottle of water; then, she looked down at my plate of tater tots and scuffed.

“Haven’t you ever heard the ex-pression you are what you eat?”

I give her a blank stare and replied, “Haven’t you ever heard the ex-pression ‘get the heck away from me’?”

It seems like today is as bland as the unseasoned tater tots on my plate.

I met up with Jenny at our usual spot across the quad under a tree, away from civilization.

“I kinda wanna go to the dance, P. We’re seniors, and we’ve avoided it every single year,” said Jenny. “Plus, someone kinda asked me...and I said yes.”

I felt sick to my stomach. The thought of dancing near imbeciles made me want to puke. I was even more con-fused with Jenny, I thought she hated these things, too. I couldn’t find the words to respond. I didn’t wanna go; I didn’t wanna interact.

“Uh, cool. I don’t think I’m going. I just remembered that The Office is on tonight, you know me and The Office,” I said.

“C’mon, P. It can’t be that bad. I’ll even request some David Bowie songs for you.”

I didn’t respond. I kept the blank face, and then the bell rang.

“Gotta get to class.”

I walked toward my final class of the day before the pep rally. WOO. The class went by fast, and before I knew it, it was time for excessive screaming and headaches – the Peppiest of the Pep pep rally.

Just as I was about to sit down, I looked below the bleachers and saw some kid lighting a cig and handling a guitar. For lack of something better to do, I walked down to see what was up. I didn’t want to be at the pep rally any-way. Besides, he intrigued me, and that didn’t happen often.

“Hey,” I said softly.

Regardless of my heartless ways, I do have a soft spot for dark, moody

looking boys, and he definitely met my criteria. He was breathing in his cigarette, but he managed to sneak in a “hi” before he blew the smoke out. I could use a smoke right now.

“Why aren’t you at the pep rally?” I asked.

“Why aren’t you?”

“Touché. Drags?”

“

”

75

He handed me the cigarette and just stared at me. His stare could have made me melt into a puddle of choco-late goo; he was mesmerizing.

“Do you ever feel like you’re wasting your life?” he asked oddly.

“Only when I’m awake,” I said reluctantly, with my usual sarcasm.

He laughed.

“I like you. What’s your name?”

“Priscilla, but my friends call me P. You?”

“I’m Jesse, Jesse Collins, how dya do?”

He must’ve been new around here be-cause there is only one Jesse at our school, and it’s Jesse the Jerk from Calculus. We talked until the pep rally ended. I found out he loved David Bowie and The Of-fice. I thought I might never see him around school again because up until then, I hadn’t, but we had to go. We ex-changed goodbyes, and then he was off, guitar in one hand, ciggy in the other.

I didn’t bother telling Jenny about Jes-se. She wouldn’t be interested right now anyway; she was all about her date for the dance.

I got home and prepared myself for The Office. I threw some popcorn in the mi-crowave and grabbed some Moroccan oil for my hair. I love Moroccan oil; it does wonders. Just as I was about to turn on the TV, my workaholic mother opened the door to tell me that someone was outside waiting for me. She didn’t even bother to tell me who it was. It was obvious that she needed to get back to work.

I walked down the stairs in a baseball tee and some box-ers. I thought it might’ve been Jenny. “Dang you, Jenny. I told you I didn’t wanna go,” I said, annoyed as I opened the door.

“Last time I checked, my name was Jesse, but I could be

wrong,” Jesse said.

It was him, it was really him!

“Hey, I hear there’s this stupid school dance going on. Wanna crash it?” he smirked.

Talking to him made me want to melt, but I hate those things. I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. He could tell that I was reluctant, so he added, “If it sucks, we’ll hop in my car and jam to Bowie!”

I couldn’t resist. Was Jesse ru-ining my heartless girl persona? Oh, yes he was.

The rest of the night was a blur. Jenny and her new boo (still not sure what his name was) ended up dancing the night away. The cheerleaders wore their incred-ibly short dresses, as expect-ed, and the DJ said that David Bowie wasn’t appropriate for the dance.

Nevertheless, I had fun, for once.

“So this is what letting your hair down feels like, huh?” I told Jesse.

He took out his gorgeous man bun and replied.

“Got that right.”

It was after that night that I re-alized something. Being optimistic may not be for me, but being a pessimist isn’t either. I can continue to use my wit to scare away the annoying losers surrounding me, but it doesn’t hurt to be happy about something. Hey, I’m only a senior.

“

”

76

The Cat’s Outta the Bagby Lukela Kanae

Its shape and size is unknown. The clatter in the garage sends shocks up my spine with every step I take towards it. Opening the door to the garage, I feel terror and anxiety consume me.

The sun shines brightly through my window brushing against the half-open window shades. The wind slowly sends in a slight, smooth breeze, which sometimes carries the sounds of the quaint outside world.

Attaching Lego bricks together, I feel contempt, but my peace is soon broken by some commotion coming from the garage that looks like a hurricane tore through it. I get up and out of my room to find the source of the noise.

As I approach, I hear a faint “meow.” Terribly afraid of animals, I reluctantly inch my way toward the kitchen, which leads into the garage. I lay my hand upon the old copper doorknob, turn it 135 degrees clockwise, and pull back-wards.

When I get into the garage, I turn to the right where boxes and buckets are stacked like the Great Wall of China. My eyes dart around. I achieve eye contact with the feline and see it covered in cuts and scratches. I inch closer, feeling bad for the poor creature, and step back startled, as the cat speeds out of the garage.

by U’ILANI GIBBS

77

#SorryNotSorryby Kandace Ota

You had acute laugh,fun memories,a kind personality.

You’re nice,maybe too nice,too kind.

Forgive me thatthe friend zoneis whereI left you.

by GBRIELLE ALO

78

The Santa Hatby Keely Lindsey

by MONTANA VAUGHT

79

The snow was blinding, burning everything with a cold, hot touch. Santa, struggling through the knee-deep snow, tossed a sack full of toys into the back of his sleigh. He pulled himself into the sleigh with a low grunt and shook the snow from his hat, shoulders, and beard. “Let’s get on with it,” Santa mumbled as he grabbed hold of the reigns, giving them a swift whip. The reindeer, seemingly un-bothered by the quickly falling snow, began to prance. Slowly at first, but faster and faster un-til their hooves left the ground and the sleigh was high up in the starry night sky. The first destination of the night was Asia. The sleigh rocked and soared its way over the Great Wall and land-ed gracefully on top of each and every snow-capped roof-top. The next stop was Aus-tralia. Santa and his reindeer flew over the Sydney Opera House and the Great Barri-er Reef, taking in all of the breathtaking sites. They con-tinued this routine of landing on rooftops, shimmying down chimneys and placing beauti-fully wrapped presents under brightly lit Christmas trees. They soared over the African savanna, the Eif-fel Tower, Big Ben, Machu Picchu, the Statue of Liberty, and the Golden Gate Bridge delivering presents. The last stop on his list was Hawai’i. Jolly old Saint Nick loved delivering presents in Hawai’i because the weather was always nice and warm compared to the icy cold of the North Pole. Santa started to sweat, so he took off his warm, furry coat and his iconic red Santa hat.

“Ahh, that’s much better,” Santa said, adjusting his short sleeve red and white aloha print shirt. Just then a gust coming from the Kona winds swept up his Santa hat and sent it sailing across the Pacific. “Oh no!” Santa exclaimed. “My hat is flying away!” The sun was starting to rise and it was too late for the poor fellow to retrieve his hat. He had to

get back to the North Pole because the magic in his sleigh wears off at sunrise. On Christmas morning, a little girl was walking on the beach with her moth-er. It had been a hard year, and the mother hadn’t been able to afford to buy Christmas presents for her daughter, so instead, the two were taking a walk on the beach.They came across a red and white Santa hat that had washed up on shore. “Look, Mom! A Santa hat!” the little girl said as she picked up the hat and put it on. When the girl and her mother got back home, they found a bunch of presents stacked up under-

neath the tree. The mother, in complete shock, jumped back and gasped. When they had left the house there were no gifts in sight. The girl, still wearing the Santa hat, ran to the stack of presents giggling and smiling from ear to ear. Little did she know that the Santa hat still contained a little bit of magic, just enough to bring joy and cheer to a sweet little girl whose mom had had a hard year.

“Oh no, Santa ex-claimed, my hat is flying away!”

80

Seashells and Similesby Jordan Marciel

As I gaze into the heart of the shell,First, it is a normal seashell,And then it is like the hat of an old Chinese man,And then it is like a queen’s jewel, Kept in a safe, secret place, Never to be disturbed,And then it becomes like a star of reflecting light,And then it is like a memory of times past,And then it is like a foundationThat determines the things around it.

by KAITLYN EVANS

81

Sunrise Sherbertby Keely Lindsey

As I admire the exterior texture of the shell,The hues of orange, yellow, and pink,Stare back at me, Reflecting the sunrise in my eyes.

It is a morning glow,That lights up the ocean at the break of dawn.It is a fire that burns with an iridescent flame,That can be seen from miles away.It is a work of God,Painting the sky with his brush.It is a sun ruffled with beaming rays.It is a sherbert dessert On a blazing Sunday afternoon.It is a part of the sea, That whispers to the shore.

by KIANA KANOA

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by KAITLYN EVANS

Tattoo Manby Kiana Kanoa

83

Today was gonna be a good day. I was in my new Mikoh Swim bikini, and I was fully loaded with tanning lotion, my mask and my beach tow-el. I needed gas and some-thing to cure my hunger. I scrambled up all of my coins and managed to round up $16.67. The coins moved around in my jar “CLACK CLACK.” Good enough. I searched between my couch cushions, under my tables, in all of my drawers. Sad to say, I was a little broke at the moment, but that wasn’t going to stop me. I was on a mission to find the nicest shells that Big Beach had to offer.

I drove into one of the slots, opened my car door and immediately felt the blazing hot Kīhei heat. I felt like I was going to melt. I wrapped my hair in a perfect messy bun, for once—exposing my tattoo that recre-ated Brandon Boyd’s ectoplasm piece. It was the best decision I’d ever made.

I walked into the store and immediately went to the soda fountain -- I needed a refreshing root beer to quench my thirst. Caffeine and sugar, the best combination. Then, just as I was about to grab the largest cup Tesoro had to offer, I saw you, standing behind me, admiring the art on my skin. Your tattooed arms like a Picasso painting that just needed to take hold of me. Your beautiful eyes and scrupulous lies had me

thinking that love at first sight really existed.

You caught me staring with my dang-boy-you-fine face because you started a conversation with me.

“Brandon Boyd, right?” you said, nodding at my tattoo. “I dig it, and I dig your style, girl, beautiful.”

I didn’t believe you, but I blushed anyways. I couldn’t find words to say. I was in awe—you were perfect. I walked away like a complete idiot. Here I am, given a chance at love, and I just threw it away! I paid for my drink to sat-

isfy my parched mouth that couldn’t find the words to say to the cutie at the soda fountain. I drove off, flushed. I couldn’t believe I didn’t respond!

I was halfway to Bigs, and then I realized some-thing...I forgot to fill up my tank! I’m running on empty, and I just missed my one shot at love, great.

So here I am now, in my car, stranded on the side of the road at Bigs, writing this ad in hopes that my tattoo man will find me…so I can call him to hitch a ride. Haha

“

”

84

Ten Minutesby Lia Ikeda

You had me at ten minutes.An infiniteAmount of moments.Now,Ten minutesIs all we have left.

I always told you,You never listened,You can’t avoid expiration dates.Now,Those ten minutes,Are all I have left.

My life with you,A mix of blue and orange.Now,I’m left with onlyRemnants of pink,That fade to grey.

My mind roams inA distant dream.Now,All I can think is,When one door closes, The whole world opens.

For that’s the only way,I let go of thoseTen minutes.

85by LOPAKA CABANILLA-ARICAYOS

86by LOPAKA CABANILLA-ARICAYOS

The Beachby Kai’ulani Cambra

87

A seagull’s cry rings out through the almost empty parking lot of a scenic lookout. Pine trees stretch all the way from the rocky shoreline up to the gravel road that leads to the parking lot. Sitting on the hood of his car, Frank tips back a cheap bottle of whiskey, swallow-ing slowly, allowing the alcohol to burn his throat. He grimaces as the liquid sears his palette, groaning as he wipes away the excess whiskey from his scruffy beard. So unlucky.

Day drinking alone at 10:35 a.m. on a Tuesday normally would be considered taboo, but for Frank, this is a regu-lar happening. Frank sloppily slides off the hood of his rusty red car, already feeling the power of the whiskey. With each staggered step Frank takes, a drop of his whiskey spills onto the black pavement where it fuses with the oil spilling out of his car in small drips.

Gripping onto the saturated wooden fence at the edge of the lookout, Frank stares out at the view before him. He watches as waves break violently against the infamous jagged rocks Washington is known for. His eyebrows furrow as he tries to determine where the sky and ocean meet. The dense gray cloud of fog rests on the horizon of the white-capped sea, baffling an intoxi-cated Frank. He takes three deep breaths and closes his eyes, letting the image of the cliffside linger in his mind one last time.

The path from the top of the cliff down to the sea-shore, although steep and nearly impossible to navigate, is popular with many of the locals, who frequent the beach to surf. Frank scowls as he makes his way down to the sandy shore, being careful as to not drop his bot-tle of golden poison. He breathes a sigh of relief, and he kicks his shoes off allowing the coarse clumps of sand to embed themselves into the crevices of his toes.

Bringing the bottle to his lips Frank pauses before finishing off the bottle. In that moment of silence, he closes his eyes once more, feeling the frigid wind hit his face. His last drink is bittersweet. Each sip is a constant reminder of all of his past grievances and mistakes. Taking his last swig, Frank lets the bottle slip from his hands, onto the sand.

Suicide used to be nothing but a topic of conversation to Frank, never a possibility, until now. The constant pressures of life weigh down hard upon the widowed 40-year-old, who is surviving off the inheritance of his deceased wife. So unlucky.

So there he stands on the shore of the rocky beach, taking it all in one last time before he steps into the icy waters.

Frank shivers as the water wraps around his ankles, pull-ing them out from under him, tugging at him with an invisible rope. With wave after wave, Frank finds him-self being pushed and pulled in every direction. Bubbles surround his body as the current holds him under.

As black spots begin to creep into his vision, Frank feels a firm grip on his forearm, and before he knows it, air is filling his lungs again. His body, still numb from the freezing temperatures of the sea, doesn’t feel the familiar sensation of the chunky sand cushioning his body.

“What they hell were ya’ doing Frank?! You’re lucky I saw you when I did! Jesus Christ man, suicide?” screams a rugged voice that can only belong to Roy Shepard, his best friend of 15 years.

Frank, still unable to talk, simply groans. So unlucky.

Twenty-five years later, Frank smiles as he watches his granddaughter push his grandson on the makeshift tire swing that hangs in his backyard. He turns his face away as he looks back on the day Roy pulled him to shore, grateful for the opportunity to start over. If he hadn’t been saved that day, he never would have gone to the hospital; he wouldn’t have met Sarah, his nurse; he wouldn’t have fallen in love with her, or married her, or started a family with her. He wouldn’t have been able to look out from his porch at his grandchildren laughing with each other. Frank smiles as he realizes, if it hadn’t been for that day at the beach, if it hadn’t been for Roy, he would never have been so lucky.

88

The Dream Is His Treasureby Kiana Kanoa

Days where he enjoys the sun,And the sand on his handsMixed with dirt and rock Make him one with the lands,

Show life is a gift.He sways in the water, And watches it shift.

by ERIN LIM

89

I climbed to the very peak, yes, I did,Up tall towers with high hopes,Over loose stones like a tipsy table.Though yellow deserts of sand,Over blue seas of water,Across red fields of clay.Now I was here.I gripped my bow tightly in my hand,Grasped an arrow from my quiver,Pressed it up against the band,And sent it through the air.

I made it to school, yes, I did,Barely in time though.I paid my dues,My classwork, My homework,My studies,Now I was here.My iPhone was a sign of my higher responsibility,Papers, uniform, laptop, shoes,Yet, I was still in tranquility.I flung the classroom door open.

My arrow hit its mark, yes, it did,Sent dark red blood spewing in the air.A deep moan echoed off the walls,Shook the very earth itself.The beast turned to me.Its soft blue eyes,Morphed into a vicious red.I drew my sword from its sheath,The beast stepped,Nearly sending me off my feet.This was the final battle.

I stepped into the classroom, yes, I did,My mindset was pure,The teacher’s voice called out my name.I responded with a mellow “here.”I took my seat,In the front of the room.I took a moment to settle my mind,I drew my pencil from my bag.My teacher stood,Silencing the entire class.Now I was here. This was my final exam.

by MALIA KEALOHA

The Final Battleby Toby Plunkett

90

by PRINCE KEKONA

91

Everyone in the household knows her as the Band-Aid that keeps the family together. Lost a shirt? “Momma!! Have you seen my black Brandy Melville shirt?” Can’t find the salt “Momma!! Where’s the salt?” Need to be picked up from school? “Mom-ma can ya’ pick me up today?” Momma knows the answer to everything. Momma is always there when you need her. To look at Momma, one sees nothing but se-curity, beauty and comfort. But no one sees the pain inside, behind her green eyes, what goes on when she isn’t finding your black Brandy Melville shirt, or fetching the salt, or picking you up from school. Momma is de-pendable, Momma is strong, Momma is kind but Momma isn’t invincible. Normal people go to work from 9 to 5 and still complain. Not Momma, Momma is different. Momma wakes up at 6:30 to take you to school, Momma makes sure you have your lunch packed with those candy Gush-ers you like so much, Momma remembers to pick up the milk for your breakfast cereal, and when things go wrong, who do you go to? That’s right, Momma because she knows you. Momma won’t care if you punched Joey in the face for picking on your brother, Momma won’t judge you because you have an 89.5% B+ instead of that A- you wanted so badly, and Momma won’t tell you it could be worse; Momma will remind you that it will get better. Her job never ends, she isn’t allowed to quit, and she doesn’t get vacation time. What creeps in the gentle, good night when we’re sleeping in the comfort of our

full-sized bed, covered softly with that blue and purple polka dot comforter that Mom-ma bought? What happens when we finally shut our eyes to take a break from our day? The tears she lets out get drowned out by the music blasting in your earphones. You listen to Childish Gambino and Trey Songz while she cries because the only thing she’s hold-ing onto is the love she has for her children. You worry about finding out which shade of blue to wear for the next day while she’s sit-ting alone on the couch clinging to her only friend, a glass of wine, or two; in fact, let’s grab the whole bottle. She worries about the IRS payments, your tuition, the mort-gage, the car payment, oh, and God forbid the electricity gets turned off. Her sadness comes on with the rise of the moon, but once the moon kisses the sun goodbye, the superhero is back. You’d never guess. Momma, the superhero. She carries her-self beautifully, effortlessly, and she never asks for gratitude that could never be mea-sured anyway. And one day, when you re-alize that sometimes the rain falls on even the shiniest souls, you won’t ask her to drive the extra 45 minutes to pick you up from school, you won’t go out with your friends and leave her worrying about where you are and who you’re with, and you’ll remember that life will get better, and you’ll make sure she knows that. You will make her breakfast in the morning and make your bed before you leave for school. You will thank her and remind her how much you love her. You will make sure she feels the love you have for her so that when it’s all she’s clinging to, it will be enough.

The Secret Behind the Green Eyesby Kiana Kanoa

92

The Shell by Kiana Kanoa

I walked slowly On the sand,Drifting alone, Letting my feet Brush up against the water

When I sawYour effortless movement Doing the salsa with the wave,Moving without worry,

That’s when I knewI needed you.

Your polka dots,Your tiny structure, The secrets you hold,

Forgive me For taking you Away from the danceYou loved oh so much.

by GIDEON AIWOHI

93

A CautiousPoemby Toby Plunkett

This is a poem that creeps,In the woods,That hides because it is scared,That hides because it is lost,But when courage takes over It finds a way.

by PRINCE KEKONA

94

The Streakby Toby Plunkett

The sunset orange streak Shone across the sky,Mysteriously magical,Nobody below knew What the soaring beam was,Which made it nonetheless amazing.

by JACOB JULIAN

95

by KAIRA DAVIS

The Time of Ifsby Tyler LumAs this red and green world turned purpleI remembered,A present that’s sought by the past,

An everlasting pain ofInstagram fightsAnd eternal sadness,

A sadness that’d run from the worldAnd hide itself away.

A sadness that would only be fixedBy games and ice cream,Computers and music,And the 18-peg loom Threaded with green yarn.

The thoughts of “her,”The endless waves of enemies.

I am standingAlmost alone,A friend complains,“Where’s my team?”

And, as always, I askWhat are you going to do without me?

96by JULIA SINGH

97

The trees outside looked like people, I swear to God they did. They looked like swaying, solemn people who towered over the ground like basketball players. I was riveted even though I wanted to look away. I just kept staring. The trunks kept swaying, like rows of people standing off-balance, poised to faint. “Greg,” I said. “Greg.” “What? I’m trying to sleep before I have to drive. Do you want me to get into a crash or…” The voice tapers off as Greg falls back into a doze. Greg can be woken up easily, but he can sure as heck go back to sleep just the same. “Greg, I’m serious. You don’t get it. It’s the trees. The trees.” “Shut up.” “Greg I’m scared.” I feel a quiver from my heart. My fingertips are unsteady. “The trees aren’t real.” “You’re talking nonsense Stew. Just let me sleep like I said.” “Please, Greg, you need to stay up. You can just sleepover; I’ll skip my appoint-ment in the morning so you won’t have to leave at dawn.” “Forget it, I’m taking a run in the morn-ing and I won’t be tempted into sleeping in.” “Greg.” I cover my face with my hands. My skin is starting to feel numb, and I press my forehead on the window’s glass. The cold from the wind seeps through, blowing through my hair. I don’t want to, but I pry my eyes open.

I see the trees once again. They’re lean-ing, this way, to the side, back, swooning to each other. I can’t take it. I jump up. “Fine Greg, you just stay here and snore all you want. I’m going out there.” “What?” Greg is really alert now. “It’s getting too dark. You’ll get lost out there and then I’ll have to find you, and I’ll nev-er get any sleep and I’ll crash on the way home, I’m telling you.” “Forget it.” I stomp over to the front door. “Stew, you better not. I’m not joking around here. You don’t even have a coat.” “The trees are looking at me Greg. I’m giving them a piece of my mind.” I grab an apple that’s resting on the countertop. “If any one of them tries anything fun-ny they’re getting it!” I thrust the apple in the air triumphantly. Greg looks both terrified and amused. “Stew, please, let’s just watch some TV okay?” “I won’t live my life in fear, Greg!” I tear open the door, jumping out into the evening and trotting down the stairs with buoyant legs ready for action. Behind me I hear Greg calling some-thing after me but I ignore it. Eventually he’s yelling so loud I can hear his words bouncing along on the air currents. “You’re trying to get yourself killed, ar-en’t you? And me with you! Me with you!” I kept my eyes on the trees. It was an interesting point. Maybe I was.

The Treesby Faith Owan

98

To Touch the Heartby Tyler Lum

This is a poem that softly criesIn the presence of you,that claws at the walls of the heartBecause of of the memories we madeBecause every single one still matters.

And when the feels finally stopThe tears will dry, and the light shall shine.This is the poem that travelsin-between the realms of light and dark,The silver lining in every cloud.

by JACOB JULIAN

99

You Turnedby Faith Owan

I walked out of the chapel Into the nightAnd you were walking towards the parking lot Away from meBut you turned, I don’t know why And you called my nameI tried to be casual You made a jokeI laughed and went inside You’d set me on fire

by JACOB JULIAN

100

by PRINCE KEKONA

The Boy and the Fishby Kai’ulani Cambra

101

People say the goal of resilience is to thrive, but in my case, I had to be resilient to survive. Survival wasn’t easy. There were days I felt like giving up, just throwing in the towel and sur-rendering myself to the unforgiving powers of nature.

It was winter in North Point, Alaska, and I, a 9-year-old, newly orphaned boy, was struggling to make it. The Storm had not been kind to any-one. Homes were destroyed, families ripped apart, and lives changed forever. Everyone was struggling to survive, and the hope for salvation grew dimmer and dimmer with each passing day.

My parents didn’t deserve to die. No one de-serves to die, at least that’s what I used to think. But the harsh cold of winter had taken its toll on my heart, forcing the once loving and empathet-ic organ to become merciless and morally cor-rupt. I was forced to be this way, forced by the snow, by the cold and the wind, forced by the hands of the God I no longer prayed to, the one who would never answer my prayers, forced by the ones who took my parents away from me.

They wore black from head to toe—the only ac-cent of color coming from their heavy fur coats, the ones that earned them their names. “The Coats” were a savage group of survivors. They were ruthless, going around tearing up refugee camps, taking everything they could, depleting the promise of salvation.

My mother and father had promised me that the camp we had chosen to settle in would be home. They promised no harm would come to us, they promised we would be safe. They were wrong.

It was in the dark of night when they came for our village. That was the way The Coats did it. Under the cover of darkness, they ravaged our camp, leaving us with nothing. I had been the only one to escape with my life. My parents, along with the 20 other families in the camp had not had been so lucky. It had all happened so fast, far too fast for my young mind to process. All the screaming, the pain, the blood. It had all been too much for me, so I ran. I ran until my legs gave way, and I fell to the snowy ground.

And so here I am. Kneeling in two inches of brackish snow, near the pond my parents used to take me to, watching a fish sway back and forth in the frigid water. I have but one thought in my mind in that moment. Survive. With that in mind, I plunge my hands into the icy water, and wait. I wait patiently for the scaly beast to fall into my trap. Feeling the slippery scales of the fish between my palms, I close my hands, trapping the creature in a cage of fingers. I yank my hands from the water, coming face to face with my soon-to-be dinner. With hunger and desperation in my eyes, I bite down hard into the fish.

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Wildby Keely Lindsey

This is a poem that runs swiftly through the deepest forests and narrowest valleys.That climbs the tallest, oldest treesbecause its branches call out in challenge, because its leaves whisper a soothing song.

And when curiosity creeps across its very being,This is the poem that stands at the forest’s edgeLike a shadow among the trees.

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Down the Drainby Faith Owan

It’s down the drainWent down wailingPleadingBut it’s down

The drain swallowed wholeThe painIt went slipping down the drainCrying

Down the drainThey are wholly forgottenThe gurglingIt haunts me

The drain still beckonsThe welcoming tubeIt’s readyTo go down the drain

Pleading for a chanceBut down the drain it goesI turnedI didn’t look anymore.

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by PRINCE KEKONA

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by Faith Owan 97by Faith Owan 99by Faith Owan 104by Jordan Marciel 26by Jordan Marciel 52by Jordan Marciel 62by Jordan Marciel 68by Jordan Marciel 80by Kai’ulani Cambra 16by Kai’ulani Cambra 22 by Kai’ulani Cambra 29by Kai’ulani Cambra 36by Kai’ulani Cambra 45by Kai’ulani Cambra 47by Kai’ulani Cambra 55by Kai’ulani Cambra 66by Kai’ulani Cambra 69by Kai’ulani Cambra 86by Kai’ulani Cambra 100by Kandace Ota 40by Kandace Ota 44by Kandace Ota 58by Kandace Ota 71by Kandace Ota 77by Kandance Ota 43by Keely Lindsey 28by Keely Lindsey 30by Keely Lindsey 41by Keely Lindsey 47by Keely Lindsey 49by Keely Lindsey 78by Keely Lindsey 81by Keely Lindsey 102by Kiana Kanoa 60by Kiana Kanoa 6by Kiana Kanoa 12by Kiana Kanoa 32by Kiana Kanoa 47

by Kiana Kanoa 72by Kiana Kanoa 82by Kiana Kanoa 88by Kiana Kanoa 91by Kiana Kanoa 92by Lia Ikeda 14by Lia Ikeda 24by Lia Ikeda 35by Lia Ikeda 38by Lia Ikeda 39by Lia Ikeda 46by Lia Ikeda 47by Lia Ikeda 56by Lia Ikeda 59by Lia Ikeda 63by Lia Ikeda 84by Lukela Kanae 15by Lukela Kanae 26by Lukela Kanae 27by Lukela Kanae 34by Lukela Kanae 42by Lukela Kanae 47by Lukela Kanae 48by Lukela Kanae 50by Lukela Kanae 76by Toby Plunkett 10by Toby Plunkett 19by Toby Plunkett 20by Toby Plunkett 25by Toby Plunkett 89by Toby Plunkett 93by Toby Plunkett 94by Tyler Lum 8by Tyler Lum 18by Tyler Lum 64by Tyler Lum 70by Tyler Lum 95by Tyler Lum 98

INDEX BY AUTHOR

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INDEX BY ARTISTby ASHLEE SAWAI 26by ASHLEE SAWAI 44by ASHLEE SAWAI 47by AUSTIN PETERS 7by AUSTIN PETERS 71by AYLA FORSYTHE 10by AYLA FORSYTHE 62by CASEY NEIZMAN 38by CASEY NEIZMAN 49by CAYLA NAKAGAWA 21by CAYLA NAKAGAWA 29by CAYLA NAKAGAWA 63by DYLAN FALCES 43by DYLAN FALCES 46by DYLAN FALCES 55by ERIN LIM 88by GABRIELLE ALO 24by GBRIELLE ALO 77by GIDEON AIWOHI 92by JACOB JULIAN 57by JACOB JULIAN 94by JACOB JULIAN 98by JACOB JULIAN 99by JAYDEN GONSALVES 15by JORDAN CORN 68by JULIA SINGH 96by KAIRA DAVIS 95by KAITLYN EVANS 80by KAITLYN EVANS 82

by KAI’ULANI CAMBRA 35by KAMAILE AIPA 41by KAMAILE AIPA 65by KAMAULIOLA 48by KAYLA SNIFFEN 51by KAYLA TUITELE 67by KIANA KANOA 81by KIANA NEMOTO-OSHITA 73by KULANA WILHELM 27by LOPAKA CABANILLA-ARICAYOS 85by LOPAKA CABANILLA-ARICAYOS 86by MAIKA’IKE ENGLISH 37by MAKAMAE KAPONO 70by MALIA KEALOHA 89by MALIA YONEMURA 17by MALIA YONEMURA 69by MICHAEL KAHULA 32by MICHELLE NAKASHIMA 60by MONTANA VAUGHT 78by PRINCE KEKONA 28by PRINCE KEKONA 42by PRINCE KEKONA 45by PRINCE KEKONA 90by PRINCE KEKONA 93by PRINCE KEKONA 100by PRINCE KEKONA 105by TAYLOR CHING 19by TEA MONDEN 36by U’ILANI GIBBS 76

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