TABLE OF CONTENTS

Editor’s Note 1
In Red by Chaewon Kim 2
Exposed by Jack Dobbs 3
Old Lady by Isaac Taylor 3
You open the door by Catalina Howells 4
Les Miserables: A Series of Haikus 5
by Miriam and Rachel Davison
Meander by Rachel Davison 5
transmogrify by Suzuko Oshima 6
lots to do by Miriam Davison 7
All-nighter by Liliana Rivera 8
Procrastination: A Student’s Guide by Eno Thomson-Tribe 9
My Love’s Seasons by B. Keith 11
Exploited by Ume Judge-Glascock 12
Motherhood by Yunah Choi 13
Intersecting Paths by Hana Lee 14
the ocean & the moon by Harper Nosek-Mulvihill 15
idk how to draw trees by Liam Safranek 16
jalapeño by Karis Kim 17
Nothing by Henry Beveridge 17
The Other One by Scarlett Manuelian 18
corridor & my apartment complex by Kinzie Asmus-Kim 19
19/9 by Michael Isayan 19
Uncertainty to Victory by Leander Dennisel Sanchez 20
American Dream by Emma Shanakian 21
and the trees by Boheng Cao 21
my little froggy prince by Somin Kim 22
The Bricksperience by Elias Fenig 22
The Magnitude Staff 23

Cover Art by Lan Li

This cover is a throwback to the very first 2003 issue.
 A Note from the Editor

Welcome to the Fall 2023 edition of The Magnitude!

In the Fall of 2003, five North Hollywood students took a near-defunct

skeleton club and turned it into a literary magazine. Twenty years and
nearly 1,000 (!) pieces later, we boast a dedicated board of more than
twenty editors, an online archive, and several subsidiary clubs—and
more projects on the way! Our pieces this year are a collection of some
of the most thought-provoking, touching, inspiring, and hilarious
work North Hollywood has to offer.

We are extremely grateful to Ms. Gullo and Ms. Underwood for

offering their support, space, and endorsement, and for encouraging
student writing at every turn. Thank you also to the Friends of the
HGM, which generously supports our magazine every year.

The Magnitude would not have been possible without the tireless
work of our editorial board. Thank you for your dedication,
suggestions, and careful editorial feedback, both on submitted pieces
and the magazine as a whole. Thanks to your efforts, we have more
grade and genre diversity than ever before―and the pieces are worthy
of our landmark issue.

Finally, to the student body of North Hollywood High School, for

submitting dozens of brilliant, compelling drawings, paintings, photos,
poems, stories, memoirs, and listicles, thank you―and, to the artists
whose color media we’re printing in black and white, sorry (you can
view all art in color at themagnitude.weebly.com).

With that, please enjoy this edition of The Magnitude!

Sincerely,
Oscar Johnson Kohler
Editor-in-Chief
1
In Red
Chaewon Kim, Grade 9

It was the slight click of the barrel

and the hand gripping the handle;
and she was still standing,
hand in hand with an umbrella,
standing in front of the exit of her labyrinth.

Her silent cries splashed and turmoiled

in terror, in resentment, in indignance,
the wave consuming all,
raging like a crashing bomb
until it exploded in the ultimate cacophony.

And each drop of pain fell in echoing dissonance.

She was standing,

perhaps just her silverness of soul and mind,
Standing,
perhaps just her forlorn memories,
the umbrella splattered on the ground,
splattered in the colors of wistfulness and pain,
in red.

2
 Exposed
Jack Dobbs, Grade 12
Forever have I stowed away the gloom
That which has blurred the line from day to day
For what could any human ever do
To sway its petty pace, if ever played
Its torpid track of sorrow on repeat
Is grating to the ears, and yet the mind
Is grateful for the years of sweet deceit
Accumulated by this gloom I bind
For what? A man to happen ‘pon the scent
And shrewdly slip and see inside its cell?
To glimpse the gloom whose drug’s a fundament
In fabricating my demeanor’s spell?
See, now the gloom is something I’ve to share
Its fumes to be suffused about the air

Old Lady
Isaac Taylor, Grade 9

3
You open the door
Catalina Howells, Grade 12
You open the door. There’s no one at the door. You close it.
You open the door. Something’s wrong. There's no one at the door. You close it.
You open the door. Something’s wrong. The air is too still. There’s no one at the
door. You close it.
You open the door. Something’s wrong. The air is too still. You can hear a voice,
but you don’t have any neighbors. There’s no one at the door. You close it.
You open the door. Something’s wrong. The air is too still. You can hear a voice,
but you don’t have any neighbors. Something has occurred, you think. There’s
no one at the door. You close it.
You open the door. Something’s wrong. The air is too still. You can hear a voice,
but you don’t have any neighbors. Something has occurred, you think. You’ve
missed something (this isn’t how it happened) but you don’t know what. There’s
no one at the door. You close it.
You open the door. Something’s wrong. The air is too still. You can hear a voice,
but you don’t have any neighbors. Something has occurred, you think. You’ve
missed something (this isn’t how it happened) but you don’t know what.
Something’s wrong (this isn’t how it happened). There’s no one at the door. You
close it.
You open the door. Something’s wrong. The air is too still. You can hear a voice,
but you don’t have any neighbors. Something has occurred, you think. You’ve
missed something (this isn’t how it happened) but you don’t know what.
Something’s wrong (this isn’t how it happened). Shouldn’t there be someone
(this isn’t how it happened) at the door? There’s no one at the door. You close it.
You open the door. Something’s wrong. The air is too still. You can hear a voice,
but you don’t have any neighbors. Something has occurred, you think. You’ve
missed something (this isn’t how it happened) but you don’t know what.
Something’s wrong (this isn’t how it happened). Shouldn’t there be someone
(this isn’t how it happened) at the door? The wall in front of you looks wrong
(this isn’t how it happened). There’s no one at the door. You close it.
You open the door. Something’s wrong. The air is too still. You can hear a voice,
but you don’t have any neighbors. Something has occurred, you think. You’ve
missed something (this isn’t how it happened) but you don’t know what.
Something’s wrong (this isn’t how it happened). Shouldn’t there be someone
(this isn’t how it happened) at the door? The wall in front of you looks wrong
(this isn’t how it happened). Doesn’t that window (THIS ISN’T HOW IT
HAPPENED) have a crack in it? There’s no one at the door. You close it.
You open the door. Someone’s there.

4
 transmogrify
Suzuko Ohshima, Grade 10
Do they know?
Do they know?
Did I slip up?
Do they know?

Can they tell?

Do they know?
I have to change that.
Do they know?

Do they know?
Please don’t out me.
Do they know yet?
Will they know soon?

Do they know?
Do they know?
Do they know?
Do they know?

5
Les Miserables: A Series of Haikus
Miriam and Rachel Davison, Grade 11
(dedicated to all Les Mis fans)

Stole a loaf of bread

Rescued penniless orphan
Made a lotta dough

Stood on someone's coin

Hee hee ha ha it's mine now
Oh no, my morals!

Help! I'm being chased

Javert won't leave me alone
Restraining order? Meander
Rachel Davison, Grade 11

Whoops, became a nun

Innkeeper wants to frame me
I need new neighbors

I'm an ex-convict
It's Cosette and Marius
Sitting in a tree

Vive revolution!
Do you hear the people sing…
Valjean now at peace.

6
 lots to do
Miriam Davison, Grade 11
you have lots to do
so you go find some music
but the radio is too noisy
and Spotify has too many ads
and YouTube seems just right.

so you choose a song

and start your lots to do
and then you change the song
again and again and again
skipskipskipskip just right.

but you need a snack

but the pantry has too many options
and the fridge has too little
and the cupboard seems just right.

so you eat your wheat thin crackers

and continue your lots to do
though your cracker bowl is empty
only the crumbs remain
still hungry.

you haven't finished your lots to do

because the room is too hot
but the thermostat has too many buttons
and you never have any cool clothes in the closet
and a glass of water seems just right.

so you put ice in your water

and the glass begins to sweat
you need to find a coaster
but it's in the other room
your old math homework finally serves a purpose.

7
there's still lots to do
but you need a pencil
and more paper for notes
and the internet is being slow
and you have a mosquito bite on your foot
and your thigh
and your right bicep
still lots and lots to do
and your ice has melted.

you need a new glass of water.

All-nighter
Liliana Rivera, Grade 11

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 Procrastination: A Student’s Guide
Eno Thomson-Tribe, Grade 11
Hi there, fellow student. While I have no idea who you are, what your situation
is, and what led you to flip to this specific Magnitude piece, I do know that high
school students aren’t exactly known for their work habits. That’s what I’m
here to help you with. As a self-affirmed productivity expert with a wealth of
published, Pulitzer-deserving work, including such titles as Sleep Less, Work
Less and Lower Your Expectations, I’ve compiled some of my best advice here
for anyone needing guidance on updating their work habits.
In this guide, we’ll cover both simple-yet-effective changes anyone can make
and advanced tips tailored to more experienced work avoiders. I hope this
guide will help you better understand and skillfully react to whatever’s limiting
your efficiency.

1. Start small. When working to change your productivity habits, it’s

important to begin with small steps so you can gradually adjust. At first, try
pushing your bedtime just a few minutes later or waiting an extra day
before starting each assignment to get your feet wet.
2. Broaden your horizons. All-nighters get a bad rep. Everyone always
mentions how they’re “bad for your health” and “don’t align with a healthy
work-life balance.” Really, it’s quite the opposite. As anyone who’s pulled
one knows, the invigorating adrenaline rush of an 11:59 PM submission
timestamp is simply unparalleled. After all, we’ve evolved to harness
adrenaline as a survival tool, so we might as well get some use out of it. I
encourage remaining open to new ideas if you hope to shift your studying
mindset.
3. Understand what you’re putting off. Ask yourself: Is it an assignment?
Emailing someone? Chores? More importantly: is there a due date? How
late can you push it back? Knowing this information will free up time to
figure out how you’ll put off your other work, all while making sure you
don’t have to worry about this task for the foreseeable future.
4. Consider distractions. Studies show your productivity levels decline with
more distractions in your study space¹, and that you can boost them by
keeping your phone in another room.² So, kill two birds with one stone by
distracting yourself with your phone, keeping you blissfully ignorant of any
rapidly-approaching deadlines that could cause you discomfort. Work with
as many tempting YouTube tabs running in the background as possible and
keep your desk cluttered so you won’t be able to find those pesky
“important” instructions.

1. I procrastinated on writing this footnote.

9 2. This one, too.
5. Take a walk. Walking is a double-edged sword: consider this option only if
you’re an experienced procrastinator who’s ready for the next level. Walking is
a great way to get lost, drastically cutting down on available work time.
However, you run the risk of increased mental clarity, which could make you
question whether these strategies are actually working. They are. I promise.
Don’t google it. I know everything you need to know about productivity. You
should only listen to me.
6. Actually start your work. That way, after intermittently working for a few
minutes (remember, background YouTube tabs are key), you can take a well-
deserved multi-hour TV binging break or movie marathon, guilt-free.
7. Adjust your schedule to work for you. Need more time for those
aforementioned movie marathons? Go for it. Only you know exactly what you
need. (And me. But I support deviating from these instructions as long as
you’re doing something unrelated to work.)
8. Prepare for panic. There will inevitably be a moment later tonight between the
hours of one and four AM in which you will jolt awake remembering some
presentation you have to give or an assignment you forgot about. Mentally
prepare yourself for that moment so it doesn’t catch you by surprise. But don’t
worry yet about what that thing might be; that’s for a few hours from now.
9. Panic.
10. Panic produce. This is the time for pure insanity. Quality is meaningless; start
typing and don’t stop until you have a finished, barely-passable, cobbled-
together essay in front of you. You only have time for the bare minimum.
Hammer those keys, enter a procrastination frenzy, and crank out a flood of
worthless material. If you thought you hit rock bottom, KEEP DIGGING. I’ll
give you a shovel. The bar is so low at this point you can trip on it, but all that
matters is you’ve finished something. Now that it’s already morning, you don’t
have time for sleep. Get up, get caffeinated, present your assignment, and
continue the cycle.
11. Repeat steps 4-10. While it’s important not to fall into a daily routine, these
pillars of procrastination should remain constant.
12. Reread this guide. The more time spent studying unproductivity, the more the
material will sink in. Plus, you’ll spend less time doing actual stressful work.
13. Spread this information. Once you’ve converted to Procrastinationism™, it’s
important to spread this cult religion to as many people as possible. (Always
make sure to promote my other work.) Preach the myriad benefits of late night
time crunches, and reframe a “U” under Work Habits on your report card as a
badge of honor. Go and make your own version of this guide and distribute it
like I have. Maybe, hide it in a spot like a literary magazine through which
unsuspecting readers may convert, submit their own writing, and then run out
of time to finish their

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 My Love’s Seasons
B. Keith, Grade 9
With the year beginning once more and the dawn giving the day new life.
Tell me your feelings of content, my dear, your words are as true as art.
Angel, your laugh is as passionate as your loud-spoken strife.
Your wings are forever pure, I just know we’ll never be apart.

Summer bringing the warming sunlight beams,

Your smile slips for just a moment, was everything before a disguise?
When you speak it's as if you are never speaking of dreams,
Darling, please tell me you feel no despair for your tears would rip me at the
seams.

The late months bringing air crisp as cider and leaves crackling,
Your seemingly cheerful voice as you yell for me to not tag along,
Your eyes growing sad, your footsteps getting quieter, your face slowly paling.
My one, my only, my love, you disappear into the fog.

The fresh snow now coating the ground while I ponder my life,
My daughter, the sacrifice of my breath is the least I’ll do for you.

11
Exploited
Ume Judge-Glascock, Grade 10

12
 Motherhood
Yunah Choi, Grade 9
On soundless nights when Papa didn’t come home, Mama would lay on her
chair and cradle her swollen belly. Her nightgown dripped from her skin, a silent
silhouette, like a butterfly enveloped in a cocoon. She whispered a melancholy
lullaby, careful not to interrupt the silence. Her once dewy lips were parched dry
and her plump cheeks concave. Sweat trickled onto her burdensome breasts like
sand spiraling in an hourglass, making it harder for her to breathe. She would
occasionally twist her body to ease the wrinkles in her lower spine, again careful
not to break the temporary peace. It was soundless nights like this where she had
enough hours to spare for herself, yet she didn’t enjoy it. Papa had brought pain
and love all at once, and Mama was no longer a girl.
When Papa came in, he brought in alarming gusts of cold wind that sliced the
ends of Mama’s nightgown. It was no longer latched onto her body, but seemed to
be about to fly away if Mama hadn't been anchoring it down. The sweat
abandoned her skin until finally the door was locked and father turned on the
heater. Papa briskly pushed his cracked lips onto Mama’s forehead. Things had
changed. Papa no longer rubbed Mama’s rosy cheeks, and Mama no longer
fluttered with joy when Papa returned home. Their hearts no longer swelled with
excitement, and Mama sacrificed hers for their child. Mama replied with a painful
cough.
Papa’s face had stiffened, with creases between his heavy eyebrows, when the
doctor announced Mama’s miscarriage. He had had a similar mask when Mama
was told she would die after birthing their next child. At least back then, he had
loved Mama dearly and was pained to see Mama’s stifled cries. But still, he didn’t
want to be hurt. He didn’t want to bear the weight of her enclosed coffin, as well
as the stillborn body of a child. Mama eventually accepted her fate, and she
sacrificed everything for her last chance. Meanwhile, Papa distanced himself from
his wife, hoping to lessen the blow of reality. He often came home late with
drowsy eyes and a drooped chin.
Mama was now in a hospital gown with Papa still drunk. He had sorrow
thrashing and kicking in the back of his sore throat but never voiced it. The doctor
came in, carrying the smell of fresh death, to deliver Mama’s final gift to Papa.
Mama opened the legs and blindly followed the doctor’s monotone words, tensing
every muscle in her face due to the pain. Pearls of sweat arose from her reddened
face and mixed with her desperate tears, but Papa spilled neither. At last, the baby
was born and the room filled with the smell of both life and death. Papa slowly
raised his gaze and fixed it onto the wailing baby, yet his emotionless face
remained indifferent. At last, his mask shattered and the sorrow inside him

13
spewed out uncontrollably. His mouth opened with lamenting cries and he too
was glazed with tears.
Death crept up without a word and picked up Mama. Her face was no longer
scrunched, but smooth with the absence of life. Her soul emerged from her body
like a butterfly unfolding its wings for the first time. She lingered above Papa,
gently kissing his face like how she wanted to do when she was alive. I waited for
her, staring at my newborn brother as she gave Papa one last kiss on the forehead.
“Mama,” I called. She stood in her nightgown, and embraced me with frail arms.
Her stomach was now slimmed and her youthful spirit came back alive. She was
no longer sick. We tangled our hands together and walked towards the new day.

Intersecting Paths
Hana Lee, Grade 11

14
 the ocean & the moon
Harper Nosek-Mulvihill, Grade 9
I love you. I have no idea what that means to you; I had no idea what it meant to
me, but then I met you and I understood.

People tell you they love you on a daily basis, strangers who know the ocean’s
glimmering surface but not its blackest trenches, people who fear the riptide,
perhaps rightfully so. Anyway. I’d like to think this confession carries a different
connotation,

I’ve always been scared of you. The sea was, at some point, and is, even now,
vastly uncharted; who knows where it ends, what’s inside of it, what it will do
next? I’m afraid of the unknown. You are too, but you’ve always been a better
hider than me.

Then there’s the moon to worry about, the audience pushing or pulling you into
tsunamis or submission. The moon; it was once part of the earth, but it broke off
to live among the stars as something I could never be. I could never pull you
towards me quite the same way, but I’ll take what you have left

The ocean cannot reach the stars; theirs is a romance steeped in eons of longing,
the kind of poetry you would believe in but I would rebuke. The ocean would
freeze in another atmosphere (the atmosphere of the moon). It would no longer be
an ocean, not in the sense that so many adore:

Perhaps the ocean longs for the moon because it has never known the moon as I
have. The earth came first, the moon broke off. The ocean came last, though no
one knows how exactly it arrived, and the ocean has been shaping earth ever
since. The seas reach out to something big enough to draw them in, but not strong
enough to keep them there;

Pull back, reach up, recede; recede into me, the land. The land that existed before
you that you breathed life into, the land you have pushed together and pulled
apart, the land that wishes you would bother flooding her like god intended, the
land that knows the moon is dead.

The moon that pulls and pulls and pulls and never reaches out because it is dead.
It changes shape because we move, as I move and you always move with me, but
you always reach back towards that
dead, grey, skeleton
of a moon.

15
The ocean propels itself, my love: winds, currents, gravity all of its own, moving
on its own. You never learned this, to my knowledge; you know how to hide. You
always knew how to hide better than how to show yourself. So you cut off parts of
yourself the stars don’t want to see, sweep them into your trenches, and keep
reaching, reaching, reaching until you fall back into me. Because ours is not the
story you wanted, not the nature you wanted, not the lover you tried to write;

I have no idea what love means to you. Maybe it is simply another form of pain,
only real when you long for an ever-shifting concept in the sky; but I will change
as you shape me. I will spend eons as your shoulder to lean on while you fall back,
get up, and go right back to it (even this process has formed some of humanity’s
most mystifying cliffs, though I suppose you’ve seen them already). I study the
beauties of your depths, let you move as you please, watch you swallow sailboats
every so often.

And I love you. I love all of you, all the time, and I know I’m not what you wanted
but you could be anything and I would want all of it;

I understand now: pull back, reach up, recede. Stay, watch, hold you when you’re
done, let go. Repeat.

idk how to draw trees

Liam Safranek, Grade 12

16
 jalapeño
Karis Kim, Grade 11

Nothing
Henry Beveridge, Grade 9

You sit on a bench in the park, holding an unfocused gaze at the flourishing
greenery. The sweet chirping of the songbirds fills the air, and you should be
delighted. Instead, you only hear their muffled tune. This scene, so deeply
familiar, has yet to enchant you the same.

For what lies next to you, in the place of your backpack, is, well, nothing. In fact,
you carry no notebook, no pens, pencils, or paraphernalia. No assignments plead
for your attention, no exams wrench your mind away. No projects or
presentations compete for your focus.

The absence of stress, the dissipated sense of panic should bring solace. But it
doesn’t. Here too, lies nothingness.

The question of “What next?” floats across your mind, but what is here to compel
you to answer? The curse of organization, the assignments, the exams was long
detested, but now you miss the purpose it gave you.

Because without the prodding touch of panic, you are lost.

17
One & Other
Scarlett Manuelian, Grade 11
There were two.
The two were the same.
Breaking rules,
Manipulating parents,
Lying to everyone.
Lying about small things at first.
About brushing their teeth,
about trying in school,
about caring at all.
But the two were the same,
Though they looked opposite
Because The One was trusted
and The Other One was not.
So The One pleased others
while The Other One disappointed.
The One was liked more
And people's trust in it grew.
(but The One never really meant it.)
The One learned to mislead,
to manipulate,
to lie,
to change itself
to please each audience.
The One did everything The Other One did,
but no one looked in The One’s true
direction.
They blindly believed in the impossible
perfect
of The One
To convince themselves
something turned out right.
So they looked in the direction of The
Other One.
Scolded it.
Punished it.
Cried over it.
Yet they failed to notice
the two were the same.
Everyone always scornfully obsessed
with The Other One
And only ever tried to fix it
To make it like an other .
But were they fixing the right One?
18
 corridor & my apartment complex
Kinzie Asmus-Kim, Grade 11

19/9
Michael Isayan, Grade 11

I was born here

This is my home.
But the road in is closed
And this afternoon the bombs are falling.
Now, we have to go away.

The blockade of Artsakh—a Rhode-Island-sized territory internationally

recognized as part of Azerbaijan but up until recently inhabited and governed by
local Armenians—culminated on September 19, 2023, with a one-day military
operation that forced its population of over 100,000 to flee. Among the casualties:
playgrounds, churches, cemeteries, and two and a half thousand years of history.

19
Uncertainty to Victory
Leander Dennisel Sanchez, Grade 11

Seated before a drum kit for the first time, uncertainty clouded my thoughts.
Confronted by an array of unfamiliar components with foreign sticks in my hand,
I knew this was going to be a challenge. My early attempts were a symphony of
discord. I constantly missed, my hits lacked resonance, and the weak sounds
mocked my attempts. Frustration filled me as I stumbled over the instrument I
longed to master. Anger crept in, my head dripping with sweat as I grappled with
the rhythm. Nevertheless, with each missed beat, I resolved to try again. With
every weak strike, I doubled my efforts to improve; at last, rhythm emerged from
the chaos. My strikes were precise, filled with resonance, and the once feeble
sounds were no more.

ամերիկյան երազանք (American Dream)

Emma Shanakian, Grade 11

Fleeing a looming war, my mom entered a foreign land knowing only “Hello, how
are you?” in her Armenian accent. Eventually her American dream consisted of a
loving husband, three kids, and an entertaining, disobedient dog. I was born with
external pressure that ate me alive. But the daily fun-fact on the board about a
diamond’s formation resonated with me―how with the right pressure, deep
below earth’s surface, billions of carbon atoms produce a glistening diamond;
pressure and success, I’ve learned, are symbiotic. Inevitably when my heartbeat
rises, the pressure of my carbon atoms will create diamonds.

20
 and the trees
Boheng Cao, Grade 12
For you it was just a normal Tuesday.
For the spatula that you broke in two trying to shatter my back, it was the last
day of its decade of existence. For its bitter wooden body has endured the torment
of flipping garlic-speckled green beans drenched in soy sauce, then retrieved and
applied to soap and moldy sponge, and returned to the garlic-speckled green
beans drenched in soy sauce, and so on, until marred by the burden of memory
and ceaseless fatigue, it became intruded by the avarices of time to accommodate
the invasion of blunt scratches and yellowed edges and more blunt scratches. And
in the kitchen, simmering in marinated potatoes, it saw itself being lifted into the
abyss of pale warm light. Then, it saw speckled ceramic tiles, and more, so distant
from its proper stovetop station, yet flying closer and closer and closer, and that is
the first time that it thought, maybe, that it might not live another night after all.
But it would be buried by caring hands, deposited on the fragile bed of trampled
grass and soil under the moonlit wisteria. The hands would shake tearfully at
every shadow’s movement, streaked with blood and the tremors of uncertainty.
But the trees overlooking the makeshift grave would soon whisper that
everything would be fine, and they would reassure the precarious hands that
forgetting would be soon and that all would be inevitably returned to its prior
state. The hands heeded the calm voice and became better.

my little froggy prince

Somin Kim, Grade 10

21
The Bricksperience
Elias Fenig, Grade 12

22
 THE MAGNITUDE STAFF

Oscar Johnson Kohler Editor-in-Chief

Miriam Davison Assistant Editor-in-Chief
Katie Hwang Social Media, Layout, & Fiction
Suzuko Ohshima Nonfiction
Faye Du Poetry
Ume Judge-Glascock Nonfiction & Visual Art
Sasha Murakawa Fiction & Visual Art
June Oh Nonfiction & Poetry
Daisy Luke Poetry & Visual Art
Chaewon Kim Poetry
Liam Safranek Visual Art
Ayla Soto Fiction & Poetry
Michael Isayan Nonfiction & Humor/Satire
Andrew Lee Nonfiction
Nola Sherrod Fiction
Dana Injan Poetry & Visual Art
Alexander Werth Humor/Satire & Visual Art
Rachel Davison Fiction & Nonfiction
Reanna Lee Humor/Satire
Rowan Wheaton Fiction & Nonfiction
Yunah Choi Poetry & Fiction
Eno Thomson-Tribe Humor/Satire

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