WHIMSY
Editors note
Dear readers,
They could describe everything with one single word, and it's not 'Gnarly' but rather 'Whimsy'. This issue explores the creativity of writers in PEAK. We hope you can experience some of the whimsy, whether you walk through a night market or visit the seaside, listen to a busking cellist or find yourself in the whirlwind of action in a busy city.
Thank you to all our contributing writers and photographers. A special thank you to Aerin Choy for compiling and designing the Zine over the summer.
Everything's gnarly whimsy
Image
Credit to
Beautiful Jasmine Flower in Cambodian Guardian by Sam Ann Cheam Sea Water forming Seafoams by Brady Knoll
Scenic view of seashore by Tomasz Filipek
All other graphics or images are from canva.com or https://public.work/
Scar of Age
By: Lia Schneider
There is an echo that refuses to return, He runs north until the scent of Christmas ferns, Plants itself into his lungs, A seed embedded in the moist shelter, Between his beating heart, pumping.
Did you know that is what you are, Your heart pumps blood, Your body loves it, You'd be a carcass if you go without it!
There is an echo that refuses to return, He runs east and the blisters form, A sunburn!
The nearest star, she loves to draw, shading in your skin, coloring in freckles, The nearest force, she loves to tug, pulling your heavy skin wrinkles.
There is an oracle right down west, You don't know it but you carry her deep in your chest, She strings and laces your hair with gray, Reminding you of age, each and every day.
At last the echo only runs south, Refusing to smile to repossess his wrinkleless mouth, Refusing to speak to smooth out the valley, Returning that face to original-e.
Laterns like memory
By: Sophia Rasmussen
You step beneath the arch of red lanterns, their glow spills like melted saffron, painting shadows that dance along cracked pavement worn by millions of forgotten footfalls. The sky, glowing a coral of possibilities, seeps deep into the alleyway while the noctilucent stars gaze like thousands of watchful eyes. The heart to the soul, softly immersing you in and out of reality. The moment you enter, the world shifts beneath you - no longer a phosphorescent city street, but a dazzling maze of sound, scent and color. With your first breath, the world folds within. No longer asphalt and neon.
A pulse takes its place, woven from smoke, color, and sound. The air is an amalgamation of thick scents of charcoalscorched meats, sweet slow syrup and that unmistakable note of fermented defiance; Chòu dòufu, rising like a forgotten ancestor. Fragments of music hover without melody. Color streams around you. Fabric flutters in doorways. Silks shimmer like liquid flame. Lanterns blink slowly, as if the street itself is waking, guiding your step as it tucks you invitingly into its world.
The breeze is the first to greet you. It runs its fingers up your arms, dances across calves, slips behind your ears. You follow the path of the wind, filled with aromatic fragrances, as it spins freely, as if no one ever taught it to stay still. You follow. The market opens, like a blooming lotus unfolding in slow, sacred silence. It permits you not to walk through it, but to breathe it in. Lanterns sway like heartbeats suspended above. Crimson orbs, swollen with longing, carrying the weight of every unspoken wish. Beneath them, voices rise and fall - chants, bargains, laughter and grief - threads stitched across generations, echoing somewhere between flesh and spirit.
A woman folds scallion pancakes with spectral fingers, moving as if it were a practiced ritual. Each flip of dough is a turning page in an unwritten prayer book. Nearby, skewers of candied fruits lay restfully, as if they were treasure hoarded by the market itself. The sugar sparkles, perhaps to deny touch, yet still to initiate its sweetness. Bowls of Lǔ ròu fàn steam with the quiet reverence of an offering, the scent twirled upward, thick and comforting. Each grain of rice, soaked in something deeper than flavor, whispers of home and hunger.
No voice calls to you. No name is necessary. You are already known here. Not by your face, but by the echo of your soul, the version of you that reached the market long before your body ever did. The one woven from soft questions and the longing that hangs in the evening air. Each scent here is sacred. Each bite your mouth takes is a return, a communion. Therefore, when the mango shaved ice melts on your tongue, cool and light, you recall the first snow of a forgotten winter. The black tea warms you from the inside, the liquid cascading down your throat, as if it were older than language itself, steeped in stories untold
And then, somewhere beyond the tangled tarps and wires, a bell chimes. Slow. Deep. A call so loud it seems to crack the sky open, like an old secret finding its voice at last. You lift your gaze. Above, the night has ripened to a kaleidoscope of indigo hues. Lanterns burn like pinned constellations. Floating in the dusk, not to light the path, but to remember it.
You have not simply entered a market. You have crossed the threshold to an unimaginable living dream. A shrine built from steam, oil and flame. A poem, written not in ink, but in scent, sound and soul.
I
didn’t want to go but I ended up looking up into a kaleidoscope of design.
Photo by Alston Chang
Soaking up the California blue skies and the different cultures. Do you want to live here?
Photo by Alston Chang
ACID
By: Sean Lindsay
A fuzzing noise. I sat up in my bed, jolted awake. My brother James was sitting across from my bed, fiddling with something. “What are you doing with that knife and battery?” I asked groggily, squinting against the brightness coming through the window.
“A science experiment. I’m seeing if acid can really burn my fingers off, or if that’s just a myth,” He answered, watching as his fingernails caught on some faintly blue liquid leaking from the tips of the battery. “It tickles,” then he winced.
“Welp, looks like you’ll find out soon enough,” I replied, stepping off the bed and walking lethargically out of the room, heading for the kitchen. I opened a cabinet and pulled out a suspiciously light box of cereal. I shook it and looked inside, and it was completely empty. “James, you ate all the cereal again!” I shouted angrily. No reply came.
I stomped my way back into the bedroom, the flooring creaking in protest. Yes, I needed to let him know what was coming for him. His quietude certainly had to reflect his fear, a weakness he had. Weak. Pathetic, even. He would regret his decisions. I walked straight into the room, mustering all of the strength I could, picking at every source of anger and focusing it to a point. My mind seared and my heart seethed, and… I stumbled back. A body sat on that chair, torso half dissolved and face melted. An innocent battery lay in the grip of a skeletal hand.
“Welp,” I muttered to myself, “I guess karma got to him first”. Karma certainly went easy on him, though.
If I killed someone for you
By: Akeisha Sangal
I can’t think straight in this rain.
It's like Aeolus emptied his pockets of all things lost in the wind, droplets coming down in sheets and torrents, my hair stuck to me like magnets, and it lost its voluminosity that once hung naturally upon it, like tissues in a puddle. Rainwater weathered the bullet projectile into a fine smattering of powder, finishing my haphazard work of trying to claw the brass out of my sclera. Water and blood mixed with gunpowder running over my lips, copper in my mouth, the nausea rising. This typical discomfort seamlessly multiplied the artillery hammering at me. My hands were shaking, and they felt cold and empty without the smooth body of the revolver underneath my fingertips, the gold finishings catching on my skin—akin to how his touch keeps me sane. But it’s an insult to his identity. To relate and compare him to a gun that has claimed the lives of pathetic national security ‘threats’ which the Agency thought were worth wasting bullets on, and the tool for defeat in countless turns of Russian roulette.
Some New Yorker, like a bowling ball, dressed in a tasteless crimson rain jacket, launched into me. My body was thrown to the side like the frail bowling pins by their obnoxiousness; I fell into the gutter. My hands flew out to grab whatever flicker of dignity or ribbon of composure. I tried to muster the haughtiest expression that had shielded me before from arrogant politicians and terrorists alike. Still, it was difficult to hide my features, which were humiliated by the gore on my face. This gutter was the alley where he found me after my ten laps of Manhattan when I ungraciously excused myself from his party upon the scrutinising gaze of his father. He found me with a shallow gash struck across my face, and returned to me holding the collars of the jerks who took advantage of my emotional soup and spiked it.
He’s going to find me here again.
Warmth fell on my face, blood seeped out of my eyelids, and I was sitting riddled with nausea, nausea that left me desperately trying not to buckle. The odour of the gutter slapped me and forced another gag, but my legs were already carrying my upper half through the filthy streets of the Upper East Side, sprinting past everything into a blur of grey, breathing heavily enough to summon a hurricane that could rival his.
My work clothes improved my aerodynamics, moulding to me like a third skin. I had no ammunition on me to pull me down. Pedestrian crossings, stairs, and floors flew beneath me; awnings, ceilings, and lights disappeared above.
My left eye turned numb, and the right one was blazing with pain. I was seeing colours scientists hadn’t discovered yet amongst black spots leaping to and fro on the stage of my vision. My hand slipped from the door handle as if it refused to yield to my force, so I stepped back and threw my weight against it. I was thrown into the ochre yellow ambience lights and olive wood flooring paired with cornflower blue wallpaper. The pain exploded behind the nerve endings of my skull. The migraines and hypertension broke my defensive line.
I think I put my back to one of the walls, covering my eyes and sliding down like the sky's weight had finally broken; my glimmers of sanity were now more precious than diamonds. I think I was dry heaving and embarrassingly unaware of him trying to hold me up.
I killed someone.
I killed someone not because they were on the CIA hit list that was a secondary reason. I killed someone because they had hurt him.
I killed someone because I loved him.
A place of reflection. A place of growth. And an unending appreciation for Kyoto.
Photo by Alston Chang
A birthday and an extremely plesantly textured fish.
Photo by Alston Chang
By: Elsa Wu
幾顆淡藍⾊的透明玻璃珠，互相碰撞的珠⼦發出了清脆的聲響。
喀、喀、喀，是有些惱⼈的噪⾳，與放在房間中央那台⽼舊⻘⾊
電⾵扇發出的吃⼒聲響不相上下。妳將珠⼦放下，輕輕⽤⼿指將
幾顆彈了出去，⼀下⼜轉⾝為⾃⼰⼀頭⿊⾊頭髮扎辮⼦。髮絲被
挑起、互相纏繞、交錯⼜鬆開，直到全都打成⼀團⽑躁雜亂的結
為⽌才肯罷休。我⼀直看著妳，看著妳在頭髮打結後無奈於地板
躺下的樣⼦，看著那隻把玩玻璃珠和髮絲的⼿、那幾隻纖細蒼⽩
的⼿指、被彈出的幾顆珠⼦⋯⋯它們 路在⽊質地上滾啊滾，從
妳那頭滾到了房間另 頭，來到我⾯前，最後抵到了我的腳趾頭
才停下。我靠向那⾯窗坐，⽩⾊的窗簾被電⾵扇轉過時吹來的⾵
弄得掀起⼜盪下， 半的⾝體緊貼在窗上，本來有些溫暖的觸感
開始變得燙⼿。在陽光的照射下，單調的珠⼦被照出了晶瑩剔透 的樣⼦，裡頭透
妳說我們去看海吧。 我說好。
是
都很喜
歡那裡。 前往海邊的路全是單調的直線，偶爾幾個過彎才令⼈勉強
保持專⼼。 ⼀切仍然很安靜，任何⼀點廣播電台的⼈聲和⾳樂
都被妳在⾞剛發動時關掉了。我很想問妳會不會不舒服，有沒
有備著藥，但當我稍稍撇過頭，看⾒妳早就將⾞窗拉下，將頭
稍微往 旁靠著，讓海⾵隨意吹向妳的臉龐和頭髮時，我⼜什
麼都說不出來了。我想著這會不會是妳最後 次⾒到海景，最
後 次和我旅⾏，最後 次隨⼼所欲。蒼⽩的臉和淡紫⾊的雙
唇，顯然不是因為天氣太冷所導致，細緻挺⽴的五官，好像櫥
窗裡珍藏的娃娃⼀般。妳仍望著窗外，那海無⽐蔚藍，天也碧
空萬⾥， ⽚雲都⾒不著。陽光打在海⾯上反射出 閃 閃的
光，好像那幾顆玻璃珠⼦⼀樣。妳常抱怨⾵將妳那細⼼整理過
的瀏海給弄亂，只
妳破例忘記這份⼼情。妳只是閉上雙眼，偶爾抬頭看看
踏進沙灘的那刻我的步伐逐漸放慢，感受細沙隨著⾛
動⼀點⼀點滲進腳上那雙涼鞋裡。腳趾之間流滿沙⼦，
⼀顆顆都重重輾過每⼀⼨⽪膚，它們⼜粗⼜刺，恨不得
就這樣劃開、刺破表⽪再陷進⾁裡，每多⾛ 步，細密
的疼痛就加深⼀點，灼熱感⼜更烈⼀些。我邊動了動腳
趾，⼼想現在看起來肯定有些滑稽。
當正糾結於將鞋裡的沙⼦甩出來時，就看⾒已經將兩
隻帆布鞋和⽩襪隨意丟在沙灘上的你光腳踏進海裡。陽
光照在海⾯上，反射出 閃 閃的光輝。妳穿著短褲，
任由浪潮拍打在⼩腿上，黏著的沙粒被海⽔⼀次次沖
⾛，⼜再 次隨著步伐黏上去。妳轉⾝⾯向我，舉起右
腳上的涼鞋隨意甩在⼀旁，然後朝妳前
⾛下去的話總有 天
會來不及，會搆不著妳。沒有多加思考，可我的雙腳，
那雙才被沙⼦刺得難受的腳，正本能地向妳靠近。⽤⾛
的太慢了，妳很沒有耐⼼，等不了慢吞吞的我這麼久，
那我就快點、再快點，趁著妳對我的興趣還未消散的時
候，趁妳還有時間的時候。我衝進海裡， 腳踏碎浪
沫，濺起⼀陣⽔花，噴濕了妳的薄襯衫和臉頰，我換來
⼀聲不滿和⼀場撥⽔仗。本只能於玻璃珠上瞧⾒的光正
閃爍在妳我⾝上。被潑了 ⾝的我抬頭，⾒妳第 次笑 了。
這附近⼈煙罕⾄。少得稀奇，少得可怕。好像世上僅剩
下妳和我⽽已。我們如同孩⼦⼀般玩耍，單單互相撈起⼀把
⽔往對⽅⾝上潑去，不斷重複直到 切都濕透，好像忘了世
間的煩亂、緊張。然⽽此時 切都不重要，因為我眼中只剩
下笑著的妳，忘掉憂慮後僅單純笑著的妳。就這樣玩著， ⼀
直到太陽西落，海洋逐漸被染成 ⽚紅，沙灘上照出 ⽚⾦
⿈，直到妳說夠了我們才⾛。回頭時，我才發現來時的腳印
已經消失了， 道道⾵將我們的印記吹散、掩蓋、抹去，誰
都不會發現這⽚海灘上有誰曾造訪過。
妳說妳現在很瘦， 定很上鏡，於是拿著那台數位相機 讓我幫忙拍幾張照⽚，
妳說最近眼睛似乎 顯得很⼤，臉⼜變⼩，不⽤花費⼼⼒化妝。難道我該慶幸妳
最後是開⼼的嗎？ 好像不怕疼似的，妳光著腳丫 下踏著⽔ 下踩著沙。
⼿上拎著兩隻鞋⼦，從左邊跑到右邊，再從遠⽅跑到我⾯
前。⽿邊沒有⼈煙喧囂，我們聽著海浪拍打沙灘，聽妳偶爾
說些什麼，看天空幾隻⾶⿃於⿈昏之中翱翔。 切都很完
美，美好得如同虛幻，像是⽼天賜予的最後⼀個禮物。妳的
⼿指勾著我的，冰冷的觸感令⼈確實感受到妳的脆弱，我不
敢施⼒，⽣怕⼀不⼩⼼就傷了你，於是只得像對待藝術品、
易碎品、玻璃珠 般，⼩⼼翼翼的護著。我撇了 眼，現在
妳的五官倒是⼗分⽴體，原來這是妳滿意的樣⼦嗎？
回程路上，⼣陽餘暉映於海⾯，天邊散落幾道晚霞。妳將菸盒
打開遞給我。我揮著⼿說不抽。我看了妳 眼，收回嘴邊要妳別抽
煙的話。妳默默掏出隻打⽕機把煙給點上，將煙雲吐出窗外讓晚⾵
吹散。那是⽀⼥煙，點下的瞬間淡淡花⾹飄滿了⾞內，⼜隨著窗外
⾵消散。化⼯茉莉⾹
妳說這是最後⼀次。
我說好。
如果這是我最後能給予的。
妳說我⼀定要替妳來看更多次的海。
我不語，只是看著妳準備點下第⼆⽀煙的樣⼦。
。他們⾒我在 旁安靜的聽也看著無趣，⼜熱烈地邀請我加⼊。眼看
話題的主⼈翁出現換⼈的趨勢，我趕緊找了藉⼝離開那間餐館。 夜路寧靜，僅有幾盞路燈和被雲層蓋住的⽉光朦朧地照亮前⽅的 路。時間已經晚了，⾏⼈寥寥無幾。我⼀個⼈帶著滿⾝的酒氣在⼈⾏道 上搖搖晃晃地漫步。感到有些燥熱時就 ⼿鬆開領帶，另 ⼿甩動著公 事包，腦中想著那些同事近乎不省⼈事卻仍要消愁的模樣，想著他們⼀
個勁怨天怨地的模樣。
他們說過了幾年就會忘了。
可我覺得不是的。
不是這樣的。
因為妳佔據了我。
無論⽣命、回憶亦或是愛情。
的臉，哭得狼狽的臉，痛得猙獰的臉。我記得妳從⼀具溫暖、灼熱、最
後冰冷的軀體變成 塊塊碎裂的⻣頭和塵埃。
那⼜如何呢？
妳仍在這裡活著。
妳會在我⽤記憶拼湊起妳的那刻短暫地重⽣，在我的回憶裡活著。
那份回憶如夢，卻⾮鏡花⽔⽉。我沈迷於那墨⾊的深海中，瘋狂的
迷戀，所以怎麼可能忘記呢？
我忘不了妳。
因為我如此愛妳。
妳的⽪⾁、靈魂，妳任何⼀滴眼淚、⾎液、乃⾄⻣髓。
的刺。
可那⼜如何呢？
我只能等著。我留在這裡，枯燥乏
天出⾨，與不同的⼈們對話，但都快認不出每個⼈的聲⾳和模樣。我明
明存在， ⼀切都很
的嗎？
我停滯了很久
不願意前進的
⾃私停在你還
雲層完全遮蓋
⾵，吹過路邊⼈家
熟悉了，那是夏季
帶有妳的印記 茉 來。 夏
午後
那天 樣，好像妳的雙瞳 樣。
茉莉花⾹仍在煙草
動。連同我 起。
那些被光照亮的記
如同藍⾊玻璃珠 般，
The Musician
By: Aerin Choy
As the soft spring breeze rushed through the city, it playfully winded through the fruit cartons, tickling the oranges and apples. It petulantly tugged at the hairs of young joggers or at the “Help Wanted” posters that lined every lamppost for a mile but the city seemed deathly silent. The thick and cloying smells of petrol, with an undertone of gutter rot and the artificial gardens of perfumes and soaps hid the disappointing stench of an urban city. Soft shuffling of rubber soles against cracked concrete were a drone to the constant pinging of social media or vibrations in jean pockets, the bees which pollinated our minds with constant information. Yet underneath the overwhelming sensations the ground occasionally bounced to a pulse. Pulsing. Pulsing. Pulsing.
Traversing down the damp stairs of the metro stations, past the wrought iron gates or the automatic machines beeping and chattering, something moved. Like an oceanic current navigating the deep aquamarine sea, tugging at fish and loose pieces of seagrass, the whole station seemed to be pulled into the tug of jauntiness and vigour. There was a rush of cool breeze intermingled with wet metal and rusting pipes, as the train roared into the station, bright eyes illuminating the platform and the musician. Behind the background noise of the bright tinkling of petty cash or the buzz of the overworked lights, a deep soulfulness echoed around the air. Tempting low notes which slid into melodious scales, ached the heart, it was a rare flower in a concrete jungle.
Surrounded by a canopy of metal rebar, glass and pulsating lights and electricity, the curved varnished wood shone like an out of place piece in a puzzle. The soft tips of fingers against the thick and thin wire, tiptoed and glided like a dancer governed by four lines. Delicate wrists swayed to an invisible thread, pulling and tugging the musician’s long limbs in a spider, trance-like manner. Biting down ever so lightly on their lips as their sneakers tap a quick pace into the tiles, their eyebrows arched, eyes narrowed in focus at an invisible score. They were guided by something else entirely. The pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. Yet the instrument and its master were not the only ones who sensed this undeniable push and shove of the city.
Beyond the music, drawn like iron filings to a magnet a wideeyed boy gazes at them. His small frame seems to be tugged by the winds and the harshness of the bright surroundings causes him to shudder. Their small digits tingle and itch to reach out and touch the wood and their tense squirrelly movements threaten to explode at any time. But their simple request is lost to the tremendous rumble of the train and busy parenting.
Leaving its beady eyes of the train trailing the rest of the station, the pulsing still remains, the string tighter and more purposeful than ever. Somehow the city now feels less quiet, the grittiness of a horse-hair bow on metal strings, the sweet tinkling of shop bells and Candy Crush, a symphony of car honks at the intersection, indistinct humming under breath, a soft breeze of spring tugs at plants like rustling paper or the whoosh as they rush through buildings. The so-called-deathly silent city is actually a musician pulsating, pulsating.
Mother’s day
By: Lia Schneider
It is not a fleeting childhood but a drug induced amnesia
But memory always loses in a race with time
My mother applied the topical anesthesia
But the keloid still revienes on mine
Materially, I consume
Maternally, I hoard
Reaping one of my own, all peace and concord
An unrequited alliance is what we assume
The veranda in my brain, we congregate
Woven into each other, our fingers
And as you sedate me, hearts pulsate
The bitter prejudice you handed me lingers
Need gnaws, hunger hurts
Is it ever to be healed?
It seems to be evergreen, and thus k
The growth and grief she reconverts
Rejoice the truth
My hand on a bible in the 11th dining
A manual book, my family heirloom
I perforate and lacerate, to embed it in my womb
For the next, my labor is not induced
There is no more space for you in he
My darling angel, she deduced
Your mother will be there my dear
