Contents
Questions
Kylie Sherman
Doctor's Appointment
Desmond Kamas
Untitled
Kellyann Ye
Who We Are
Donnie (Tobie) Denome
The Creative Process
Jasmine Liu
Kylie Sherman
Doctor's Appointment
Desmond Kamas
Untitled
Kellyann Ye
Who We Are
Donnie (Tobie) Denome
The Creative Process
Jasmine Liu
Three Pillars of Uncertainty
Clem Chou
Clem Chou
Questions
by Kylie Sherman
How does the world work?
Oh, there are many answers, of course. Science has answers, religion has answers, etc.
But how does it work?
Why are we so lucky?
Why do we get to thrive?
Why are we so complicated?
Why are there so many of us?
Why can we think?
Why do we hurt each other?
Why do we matter?
Why do we?
Why?
Does everyone have a purpose? Are we all meant for some greater good?
Is there an order to life? Are we an evolutionary diamond?
Are we unique? Are we special?
I don’t know. Not for sure.
Does anyone?
Is there anything we do know?
Well, we’re here.
We exist somehow.
We could be someone’s dream.
We could be someone’s reflection.
We could be someone’s playthings.
We could be illusions.
We don’t know.
But we are here.
And we can learn.
We can change things.
We can improve.
We’ll always be human, and we are programmed to discover.
And someday, maybe we’ll even figure out the answer
To the eternal question:
Why?
Doctor’s Appointment
by Shelley Kim
Despite the fact that it’s in the middle of nowhere, the waiting room is pretty nice. The AC is on and humming to the tunes of the radio singing empty songs from a hollow plastic heart. Curtains spill from the windows like a tall, overturned glass of milk. They’re closed, and the only light in the room comes from a sleek lamp seated on a chrome and glass table. Overall, the room has a warm, soft, glowing sort of feeling. The only complaint I have is that the room smells of watered-down blood. It’s a sharp, metal, odor. It makes me apprehensive. I stare at the abandoned receptionist’s window. Maybe it’s abandoned for a reason.
I wait.
I glance over the shiny magazines splayed out on the chrome table. None of them interest me.
I wait.
I play a piano sonata of nervous finger drumming on the arm of the chair.
I wait.
I pick at a loose thread on the edge of the seat. I probably would have picked apart the whole chair, waiting, but at that moment the receptionist appears in an instant, as if she had been there the whole time and I had never noticed until now.
She perches herself at the window and smooths herself down. “Good afternoon!” she chirps, and flashes a smile so perfect and brilliant she could be in a toothpaste ad. I wonder how many times she’s practiced it in front of a mirror, over and over until her cheeks hurt.
“Afternoon,” I say, slowly and carefully.
Her smile never falters. “The doctor will see you now,” she sings, gesturing to the door next to the window.
“Okay.” I stay seated. There’s a momentary stare-off between me and the receptionist, who is smiling and waiting as if she was the one who had been patiently waiting, waiting, waiting there for all eternity and I was the one who had just appeared.
I get up and go through the door to the doctor’s office. The receptionist is still smiling as I close the door.
The office is empty. It looks like I have to wait some more. I sit on the examination room, a bit disgruntled.
No sooner have I finished sitting on the paper spread over the table does the doctor enter.
He saunters in, white coat flaring out behind him like a fanfare, wiry glasses flashing so often that I can’t tell what his eyes look like. Gray is making an inexorable crawl through his hair, but nothing about his swishy actions suggest age. Especially his grin. It reminds me of a python swallowing its prey, jaw extending wider and wider into uncanniness and distended hunger.
“Hello!” he smiles, and his glasses flash again. His voice is stained with an accent I can’t quite place my finger on. “You’re here for your appointment!” It’s not a question.
I don’t answer.
“Excellent timing! The results of your physical just came in!”
I don’t recall ever having a physical.
“And I, well…” The doctor’s grin flickers into an outright frown. “I must say that your results are worse than I have ever feared.” He shakes his head in pity. “It is no good. In fact, it’s very bad.”
“What is it?”
“Yes, well,” he says, adjusting his glasses, which flash again, “I’m afraid that you’re in perfect health.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
His frown deepens, and the next flash of his glasses is colder and darker. “Bad? Of course it’s bad!” he cries, and waves about a clipboard I never realized he was holding. “It means there’s nothing wrong with you! You have no flaws, no defects, no maladies, no tragedies, no…” He rambles on and on. “To the medically uneducated-” and he snorts the last part, “-that may seem advantageous. But ultimately it leaves you empty and deprived.” He shakes his head, and his glasses flash yet again. “Very bad,” he repeats.
“You see, since you have nothing wrong with you, you have nothing to work for in life. Nothing to overcome, nothing to improve. You don’t have any goals, or insight, or anything to reflect upon so that you can improve anything wrong with you. Which you don’t have.
“It’s a terrible lifestyle. Terrible,” and he shakes his head again. “I’m afraid that if you continue to live this way, you’ll probably never die.”
“I…” I go slack-jawed, staring at this sad old doctor, not sure how to react. “What should I do?”
At this question the doctor perks up again, and that python grin stretches across his face again.
“I would recommend leading a more active life.” He flips through a few pages on his clipboard. “You ought to stop trying to be so safe. Go get hurt; it doesn’t matter whether it’s physically or mentally. Form some strong opinions that are politically incorrect, and disagree with other people. Do something that makes you feel the need to wash your hands too often. Find the need to be noble or heroic. Make mistakes and regret them at least three times a week, and by the end of the year I want you to have suffered a broken heart.
“You see, you shan’t just do everything comfortably. There are hurtful things in the world, but it’s so much better to learn to put up with them than to avoid them forever and say empty. You have the right to suffer, to feel unhappy, to grown old and ugly, to feel hunger and pain and fear and the uncertainty of what may happen tomorrow. So go out into the world and enjoy it.
“With any luck, your condition will be much more interesting by the next appointment, and I’ll have something to work with.” The doctor scrawls something down on the clipboard in that illegible handwriting that all doctors seem to have. “But feel free to drop by any time before then if you still feel deficient.”
“Okay, well, thank-“
“Yes, now, I’m very busy, and I have other patients to talk with. Have a lovely day, and I’ll see you next time we meet.” At this he cocks himself up like a pistol and whisks himself out of the room, coat fluttering behind him. I’m left alone in the office, still sitting on the table.
I stay there for a while, staring at the floor.
I get up and walk out of the office, through the waiting room that smells of diluted blood and the eternally smiling receptionist, who would be smiling even at the end of the world, and she chirps a goodbye as I exit.
The sun is too hot and the world too bright, but for a long time I stand there, basking in the right to suffer and the newfound uncertainty of how to live and what to live for. I stand there for a long, long, time, needing everything, knowing nothing, doubting the unknown future laid out before me.
by Shelley Kim
Despite the fact that it’s in the middle of nowhere, the waiting room is pretty nice. The AC is on and humming to the tunes of the radio singing empty songs from a hollow plastic heart. Curtains spill from the windows like a tall, overturned glass of milk. They’re closed, and the only light in the room comes from a sleek lamp seated on a chrome and glass table. Overall, the room has a warm, soft, glowing sort of feeling. The only complaint I have is that the room smells of watered-down blood. It’s a sharp, metal, odor. It makes me apprehensive. I stare at the abandoned receptionist’s window. Maybe it’s abandoned for a reason.
I wait.
I glance over the shiny magazines splayed out on the chrome table. None of them interest me.
I wait.
I play a piano sonata of nervous finger drumming on the arm of the chair.
I wait.
I pick at a loose thread on the edge of the seat. I probably would have picked apart the whole chair, waiting, but at that moment the receptionist appears in an instant, as if she had been there the whole time and I had never noticed until now.
She perches herself at the window and smooths herself down. “Good afternoon!” she chirps, and flashes a smile so perfect and brilliant she could be in a toothpaste ad. I wonder how many times she’s practiced it in front of a mirror, over and over until her cheeks hurt.
“Afternoon,” I say, slowly and carefully.
Her smile never falters. “The doctor will see you now,” she sings, gesturing to the door next to the window.
“Okay.” I stay seated. There’s a momentary stare-off between me and the receptionist, who is smiling and waiting as if she was the one who had been patiently waiting, waiting, waiting there for all eternity and I was the one who had just appeared.
I get up and go through the door to the doctor’s office. The receptionist is still smiling as I close the door.
The office is empty. It looks like I have to wait some more. I sit on the examination room, a bit disgruntled.
No sooner have I finished sitting on the paper spread over the table does the doctor enter.
He saunters in, white coat flaring out behind him like a fanfare, wiry glasses flashing so often that I can’t tell what his eyes look like. Gray is making an inexorable crawl through his hair, but nothing about his swishy actions suggest age. Especially his grin. It reminds me of a python swallowing its prey, jaw extending wider and wider into uncanniness and distended hunger.
“Hello!” he smiles, and his glasses flash again. His voice is stained with an accent I can’t quite place my finger on. “You’re here for your appointment!” It’s not a question.
I don’t answer.
“Excellent timing! The results of your physical just came in!”
I don’t recall ever having a physical.
“And I, well…” The doctor’s grin flickers into an outright frown. “I must say that your results are worse than I have ever feared.” He shakes his head in pity. “It is no good. In fact, it’s very bad.”
“What is it?”
“Yes, well,” he says, adjusting his glasses, which flash again, “I’m afraid that you’re in perfect health.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
His frown deepens, and the next flash of his glasses is colder and darker. “Bad? Of course it’s bad!” he cries, and waves about a clipboard I never realized he was holding. “It means there’s nothing wrong with you! You have no flaws, no defects, no maladies, no tragedies, no…” He rambles on and on. “To the medically uneducated-” and he snorts the last part, “-that may seem advantageous. But ultimately it leaves you empty and deprived.” He shakes his head, and his glasses flash yet again. “Very bad,” he repeats.
“You see, since you have nothing wrong with you, you have nothing to work for in life. Nothing to overcome, nothing to improve. You don’t have any goals, or insight, or anything to reflect upon so that you can improve anything wrong with you. Which you don’t have.
“It’s a terrible lifestyle. Terrible,” and he shakes his head again. “I’m afraid that if you continue to live this way, you’ll probably never die.”
“I…” I go slack-jawed, staring at this sad old doctor, not sure how to react. “What should I do?”
At this question the doctor perks up again, and that python grin stretches across his face again.
“I would recommend leading a more active life.” He flips through a few pages on his clipboard. “You ought to stop trying to be so safe. Go get hurt; it doesn’t matter whether it’s physically or mentally. Form some strong opinions that are politically incorrect, and disagree with other people. Do something that makes you feel the need to wash your hands too often. Find the need to be noble or heroic. Make mistakes and regret them at least three times a week, and by the end of the year I want you to have suffered a broken heart.
“You see, you shan’t just do everything comfortably. There are hurtful things in the world, but it’s so much better to learn to put up with them than to avoid them forever and say empty. You have the right to suffer, to feel unhappy, to grown old and ugly, to feel hunger and pain and fear and the uncertainty of what may happen tomorrow. So go out into the world and enjoy it.
“With any luck, your condition will be much more interesting by the next appointment, and I’ll have something to work with.” The doctor scrawls something down on the clipboard in that illegible handwriting that all doctors seem to have. “But feel free to drop by any time before then if you still feel deficient.”
“Okay, well, thank-“
“Yes, now, I’m very busy, and I have other patients to talk with. Have a lovely day, and I’ll see you next time we meet.” At this he cocks himself up like a pistol and whisks himself out of the room, coat fluttering behind him. I’m left alone in the office, still sitting on the table.
I stay there for a while, staring at the floor.
I get up and walk out of the office, through the waiting room that smells of diluted blood and the eternally smiling receptionist, who would be smiling even at the end of the world, and she chirps a goodbye as I exit.
The sun is too hot and the world too bright, but for a long time I stand there, basking in the right to suffer and the newfound uncertainty of how to live and what to live for. I stand there for a long, long, time, needing everything, knowing nothing, doubting the unknown future laid out before me.
Who showed you how to fight back
To leap to your feet, teeth bared in fury whenever
Someone looked at you or someone else the wrong way?
How did you learn to sharpen your fingernails
On the chalkboards of empty classrooms
Just in case he doesn’t really mean that smile on his face?
Where did you learn that in order to
Fight your demons and come out alive
You needed sharp reflexes and a sharper tongue?
Because I was raised in rooms of gilded
Gold and silver that almost but didn’t quite
Hide the peeling papered walls,
My mouth so full of silver spoons
I never thought to ask how the world really worked
And now, I’m still hoping
Some of that silver rubbed off onto my tongue
God knows that’s all I have left
MY FINGER GUNS HAVE LONG SINCE RUN OUT OF BULLETS, IF THEY WERE EVER LOADED AT ALL | k.y
To leap to your feet, teeth bared in fury whenever
Someone looked at you or someone else the wrong way?
How did you learn to sharpen your fingernails
On the chalkboards of empty classrooms
Just in case he doesn’t really mean that smile on his face?
Where did you learn that in order to
Fight your demons and come out alive
You needed sharp reflexes and a sharper tongue?
Because I was raised in rooms of gilded
Gold and silver that almost but didn’t quite
Hide the peeling papered walls,
My mouth so full of silver spoons
I never thought to ask how the world really worked
And now, I’m still hoping
Some of that silver rubbed off onto my tongue
God knows that’s all I have left
MY FINGER GUNS HAVE LONG SINCE RUN OUT OF BULLETS, IF THEY WERE EVER LOADED AT ALL | k.y
Who We Are
by Donnie (Tobie) Denome
“You need to eat.”
“No.”
“What did you have for breakfast?”
“Cookie.”
“One?”
“Yeah.”
She gives up on trying to force-feed me and lets me stay in bed. The day turns
into night and we lie there in the still silence of the early fall.
“Your phone’s buzzing.”
“Meds.”
“Come on, you gotta take them.”
“No.”
“This is important.”
“I don’t want to.”
“It would help.”
“Nothing helps.”
I take two ibuprofen and a glass of water for my headache.
“It’s really time for dinner.”
“I guess.”
“We could order in pizza.”
“Okay.”
“Is your head any better?”
“No.”
She and I watch TV. I do the dishes after we finish off the pizza, just to give me
something to do.
“Come on, you’ve got to get undressed.”
“Please.”
“It’s not good for you to sleep in those tight clothes.”
“I can’t, I can’t.”
“I’ll help.”
I stand up to go to the bathroom and faint.
“Do you have to vomit again?”
“No – not now.”
“Just tell me, okay?”
“Yes.”
I’m pathetic. She has to help me to and from the bathroom because my
headaches are so bad. The doctor said they were just migraines but I doubt that.
“What’s that?”
“My phone. Just lie there, I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay.”
“Hi, Mama? Yeah, it’s me. Leigh’s okay. Headachey. Thanks for the
recommendation to the doctor. Oh, what? Okay. I’ll call him. I haven’t heard anything
recently but you know. Always on a story. Okay, Mama. Call you soon. Love you. Bye.”
“Is Wendell okay?”
“I don’t know. He’s probably not dead.”
I don’t want to die but I don’t want to exist.
“What should we do today?”
“I don’t feel well at all.”
“Okay, baby. I have to make some calls later on today but we can just stay in all
day if you want that.”
“That would be nice.”
“Do you want to work on the… you know, the papers?”
“It’s all useless.”
“No, it’s not.”
She would give anything for me to be happy. I am happy, around her. I’m just a
total wreck as well.
“Should I stay or should I go now?”
“Stay here, come on!”
“Sorry. Just like that song.”
“Okay. But will you come here?”
“You okay?”
“Just need a hand getting to the kitchen. Need a glass of water.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
I met her three years ago. We were at some party and everyone else seemed to
be smashed. I don’t drink since it makes the headaches worse and her dad’s side of the
family has a history of alcoholism. We sat there, sharing a six-pack of orange cream
sodas and laughing. I never felt at home before her. No one actually seemed to care
about me and no one seemed to accept her.
“Heard from Wendell.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s on a train heading out of Munich. God knows why, but he is. He said he’d
explain it all once he got back to the states.”
“Germany?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I hope he’s safe.”
The fog clears on Saturday morning. I can see far and wide. I want to take a walk
to the ocean but she says it’s inadvisable. Whatever. I won’t drown.
“Are you sure?”
“I'm Leigh, papers or not.”
As it turns out, I can’t take a walk. It’s a wheelchair day.
“Are you up for anything?”
“What do you mean?”
She’s much smaller than me. She jumps in my lap and I use the last of my
strength to wheel around the neighborhood as she shrieks in delight.
“Park?”
“Yeah. The park. But you have to push me.
The concrete bench is cold but her fingers are warm.
“I want to marry you.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean, I want to marry you.”
It’s a tiny black velvet box.
“Oh my God!”
“Please?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
by Donnie (Tobie) Denome
“You need to eat.”
“No.”
“What did you have for breakfast?”
“Cookie.”
“One?”
“Yeah.”
She gives up on trying to force-feed me and lets me stay in bed. The day turns
into night and we lie there in the still silence of the early fall.
“Your phone’s buzzing.”
“Meds.”
“Come on, you gotta take them.”
“No.”
“This is important.”
“I don’t want to.”
“It would help.”
“Nothing helps.”
I take two ibuprofen and a glass of water for my headache.
“It’s really time for dinner.”
“I guess.”
“We could order in pizza.”
“Okay.”
“Is your head any better?”
“No.”
She and I watch TV. I do the dishes after we finish off the pizza, just to give me
something to do.
“Come on, you’ve got to get undressed.”
“Please.”
“It’s not good for you to sleep in those tight clothes.”
“I can’t, I can’t.”
“I’ll help.”
I stand up to go to the bathroom and faint.
“Do you have to vomit again?”
“No – not now.”
“Just tell me, okay?”
“Yes.”
I’m pathetic. She has to help me to and from the bathroom because my
headaches are so bad. The doctor said they were just migraines but I doubt that.
“What’s that?”
“My phone. Just lie there, I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay.”
“Hi, Mama? Yeah, it’s me. Leigh’s okay. Headachey. Thanks for the
recommendation to the doctor. Oh, what? Okay. I’ll call him. I haven’t heard anything
recently but you know. Always on a story. Okay, Mama. Call you soon. Love you. Bye.”
“Is Wendell okay?”
“I don’t know. He’s probably not dead.”
I don’t want to die but I don’t want to exist.
“What should we do today?”
“I don’t feel well at all.”
“Okay, baby. I have to make some calls later on today but we can just stay in all
day if you want that.”
“That would be nice.”
“Do you want to work on the… you know, the papers?”
“It’s all useless.”
“No, it’s not.”
She would give anything for me to be happy. I am happy, around her. I’m just a
total wreck as well.
“Should I stay or should I go now?”
“Stay here, come on!”
“Sorry. Just like that song.”
“Okay. But will you come here?”
“You okay?”
“Just need a hand getting to the kitchen. Need a glass of water.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
I met her three years ago. We were at some party and everyone else seemed to
be smashed. I don’t drink since it makes the headaches worse and her dad’s side of the
family has a history of alcoholism. We sat there, sharing a six-pack of orange cream
sodas and laughing. I never felt at home before her. No one actually seemed to care
about me and no one seemed to accept her.
“Heard from Wendell.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s on a train heading out of Munich. God knows why, but he is. He said he’d
explain it all once he got back to the states.”
“Germany?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I hope he’s safe.”
The fog clears on Saturday morning. I can see far and wide. I want to take a walk
to the ocean but she says it’s inadvisable. Whatever. I won’t drown.
“Are you sure?”
“I'm Leigh, papers or not.”
As it turns out, I can’t take a walk. It’s a wheelchair day.
“Are you up for anything?”
“What do you mean?”
She’s much smaller than me. She jumps in my lap and I use the last of my
strength to wheel around the neighborhood as she shrieks in delight.
“Park?”
“Yeah. The park. But you have to push me.
The concrete bench is cold but her fingers are warm.
“I want to marry you.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean, I want to marry you.”
It’s a tiny black velvet box.
“Oh my God!”
“Please?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
The Creative Process
by Jasmine Liu
Despite having her earbuds on for nearly two hours and going through numerous articles,videos, and pictures, she still had no idea what she was going to write. A blank document sat in front of her. She had started to write something numerous times, but ultimately deleted each and every one of those starts.
Ironically, she was uncertain as what she wanted to write for her project. Her prompt was a difficult one. While she could write narratives and essays under her own prompt, writing using a single word as her only guideline was something that she never thought that she would have trouble writing.
She could feel her arm getting sore from trying to hold her head up. Another minute ticked by on the clock on the bottom right hand of her laptop screen. By now she was struggling to even get mind to keep up with her.
She let her mind drift. The white void of the blank document and the music pumping through her ears made her think of pianos and battlefields.
I close my eyes…
I feel alive...
This is forever…
The heavy base of the music reminded her of clapping and stomping to a beat. The nice piano going along with the beat. Her mind started to sync with the music’s beat. However, the word “uncertainty” continued to taunt her in her mind. She began to think about her assignments and whether or not she completed them. She knew that she completed them, right? Wait, but what if she forgot something on her history assignment? Maybe she missed one of the instructions to draw something on that map of England. But she knew that she checked to make sure that she did not miss any of the little symbols that she was supposed to draw. She discovered that she forgot to draw one of the little anvils that way. The little anvils represented all the iron factories in England during the Industrial revolution. It made her wonder, what if we did not have all those iron factories during the Industrial revolution? We probably would not have all the metal appliances today. Or maybe we would have discovered how to mine iron eventually. In fact, what if we never gone through the Industrial revolution in the first place? Maybe the world would not have been so polluted as it is now or have all those awful weapons that have killed millions. But then she wouldn’t have so many things she would have right now. She wouldn’t be able to have all her clothes, or a car to get to school or anywhere else. She wouldn’t have her phone or her laptop. The laptop that was hers. The laptop that was hers that was in front of her. The laptop that was hers that was in front of her that had a blank document still waiting for her.
She snapped back to reality. She blinked, confused, as her mind sluggishly tried to register her surroundings. She looked down. The song that she was listening to had already finished and her earbuds were silent. The laptop screen had gone to sleep in her musings and she circled the mouse around a few times to wake it. The sudden blast of light blinded her and she had to blink a few times to get used to the light.
Once again, she was staring at a blank document on her laptop screen. She sighed as she placed her fingers on the keyboard and she began typing. Despite having her earbuds on...
by Jasmine Liu
Despite having her earbuds on for nearly two hours and going through numerous articles,videos, and pictures, she still had no idea what she was going to write. A blank document sat in front of her. She had started to write something numerous times, but ultimately deleted each and every one of those starts.
Ironically, she was uncertain as what she wanted to write for her project. Her prompt was a difficult one. While she could write narratives and essays under her own prompt, writing using a single word as her only guideline was something that she never thought that she would have trouble writing.
She could feel her arm getting sore from trying to hold her head up. Another minute ticked by on the clock on the bottom right hand of her laptop screen. By now she was struggling to even get mind to keep up with her.
She let her mind drift. The white void of the blank document and the music pumping through her ears made her think of pianos and battlefields.
I close my eyes…
I feel alive...
This is forever…
The heavy base of the music reminded her of clapping and stomping to a beat. The nice piano going along with the beat. Her mind started to sync with the music’s beat. However, the word “uncertainty” continued to taunt her in her mind. She began to think about her assignments and whether or not she completed them. She knew that she completed them, right? Wait, but what if she forgot something on her history assignment? Maybe she missed one of the instructions to draw something on that map of England. But she knew that she checked to make sure that she did not miss any of the little symbols that she was supposed to draw. She discovered that she forgot to draw one of the little anvils that way. The little anvils represented all the iron factories in England during the Industrial revolution. It made her wonder, what if we did not have all those iron factories during the Industrial revolution? We probably would not have all the metal appliances today. Or maybe we would have discovered how to mine iron eventually. In fact, what if we never gone through the Industrial revolution in the first place? Maybe the world would not have been so polluted as it is now or have all those awful weapons that have killed millions. But then she wouldn’t have so many things she would have right now. She wouldn’t be able to have all her clothes, or a car to get to school or anywhere else. She wouldn’t have her phone or her laptop. The laptop that was hers. The laptop that was hers that was in front of her. The laptop that was hers that was in front of her that had a blank document still waiting for her.
She snapped back to reality. She blinked, confused, as her mind sluggishly tried to register her surroundings. She looked down. The song that she was listening to had already finished and her earbuds were silent. The laptop screen had gone to sleep in her musings and she circled the mouse around a few times to wake it. The sudden blast of light blinded her and she had to blink a few times to get used to the light.
Once again, she was staring at a blank document on her laptop screen. She sighed as she placed her fingers on the keyboard and she began typing. Despite having her earbuds on...
Three Pillars of Questions
by Clem Chou
by Clem Chou