Issue 37

An Ode to Morrisson’s —Sula

By Chaeeun Yoo

There are times when readers have the unquenching desire to melt into the symphony of a writer’s words; their orchestration of sentences and metaphors leaves the audience bejeweled with awe and veneration. Hence, it is not rare to proclaim Toni Morrison as a towering literary genius and exceptional novelist, brilliantly capturing the fundamental human condition and Black experience. In her blazing second novel, Sula, Morrison’s literary themes interrogate white exclusionary politics and celebrate Black girlhood, remaining deeply relevant in the 21st century. Morrison’s words, reading like music, illustrate a stunning portrait of Sula Peace and her hostile environment as she grows up in a generational household of defiant women. As Sula’s subversive acts are curtailed as malevolent and wicked, readers are granted a glimpse into the turbulent nature of growing up as a Black girl in the midwestern United States, witnessing the impacts of trauma, grief, and ostracization. Whether it is the townspeople’s moral repulsion of Sula or Shadrack’s gentle fondness and consideration towards her, Morrison extends beyond the lines of an unbiased, third-person narrator, becoming not only the storyteller of the events but also the insider to each of the character’s innermost thoughts and fears. Hence, she embraces all the wretched and kind, disparaging and encouraging perspectives of Sula, detailing the politics and shortcomings of freedom and rebellion and asking readers if it is worth performing as to what society confines and defines as a ‘moral’ person.

I remember reading Sula for the first time last year; it was harrowing as it was transformative. Through her writing, Morrison truly was a leading figure in combating 20th-century American conservatism and parochial views on Black life and girlhood. We see Sula, a woman who has been exploited and pigeonholed into becoming the pinnacle representation of spite and malice, as an allusion to general society’s demonization of Black womanhood and autonomy. After consuming this brilliant novella, I myself have cogitated on the parallels or contrasts between morality and rebellion, deliberating on the tumultuous nature behind living free and unabashedly despite societal discouragement and denigration. I believe every person should read at least one (or two, or three) Morrison books in their lifetime, with Sula being one of them. You’ll leave with your mouth agape, marveling at her ability to incorporate fires (yes, fires) into the book so seamlessly.

A poignant yet stunning portrait of Black girlhood, love, loss, and defiance, she ultimately examines the politics of insubordination in the name of liberation. We question what it means to be either disparaged or commemorated by those who fabricate the definitions of conventionality and morality.

A literary giant and acclaimed genius, Morrison’s searing legacy laid the path for the long lineage of Black female writers and their commentary on socio-political affairs. In a world where men are not the primary purpose, her novels defy the customary tradition that it is an inescapable tragedy to craft a story in the absence of men. Inventive for the 1970s United States, Sula proves to be a relevant, scintillating story of Black female defiance and power, engaging contemporary readers in continued conversations about ostracized and berated racialized identities.

Chaeeun Yoo is a high school senior studying at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts. Yoo is the Founder and Executive Editor of The Redwood Review and has been recognized by The Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop, Mint Hill Arts Center, Scholastics Art and Writing, and others. In their free time, they love vermicomposting and tending to their plant garden.

Two times Dumb, Never

By Moseka Ntiyia

They said, “You’re too young,
too raw, too unsure to write like Shakespeare.”
“First things first,” they said,
but what is first when the words are already here?
I wanted to write, so I write now—
flawed, unfinished, but unstoppable.

My words don’t flow perfectly,
they stumble and scratch at the page.
There’s no applause, no trophies waiting,
but I write anyway,
because something inside refuses to stay still.

I’m shy, hesitant when I speak,
my voice shrinking in the shadow of others.
So I write to speak louder,
to make sure I’m not two times dumb—
silenced in the room, and erased from thought.

They don’t see me win the Nobel,
I don’t see myself either,
and I don’t seek their vision.
I write not to win, but to exist,
to leave something behind
that whispers, “I was here.”

It’s not about approval or fame.
It’s about the words that refuse to be ignored,
the need to create something that can stand
even when I fall.

Laugh if you will, doubt if you must,
but I’ll keep writing.
Because in every line,
I find the truest version of myself.

Moseka Ole Ntiyia is a proud Maasai, a patriotic Kenyan, and a true Pan-Africanist with a global outlook. A passionate writer and poet, his work beautifully weaves together themes of humanness, justice, and African identity, capturing the rich and complex realities of life in a developing world. Deeply rooted in authenticity—whether in faith, knowledge, or connections—Moseka finds inspiration in the rhythm of nature, often while herding his cherished cows, Noo Pukoret (those worth going hungry for) and Sujarot (those worth chasing as long as they find water and pasture), a reflection of the deep love his people have for their livestock. His writing has graced the pages of Isele Magazine, with forthcoming features in The Arc Poetry and Viridine Literary. With a degree in Political Science and International Relations from the University of Nairobi, Moseka continues to reach new heights, using his craft to inspire, challenge, and connect with audiences worldwide—one powerful story at a time.

Almost Surfing

By Padraic Dwyer

On July 14th, 2019, I found myself sitting on a surfboard, sunburned, covered in seaweed, wet, with bits of sand in my hair, wishing I were anywhere else in the world. Yet I was in Honolulu being taught surfing by an inexperienced teenager whose hair went down below his shoulders and called himself Moonbeam, yes actually. He had just finished telling us what to do once we’d caught a wave.

“Bend your knees, and look straight, the rest you’ll figure out!” he said.

Whatever my dad had paid for that class, was a long shot from what it was worth.

“Who wants to go first?” he asked.

We were silent, having only been taught two things about surfing, other than to figure it out.

“No one? It’s easy really, you just have to figure it out.”

He scanned the group, no one spoke.

“Alright then, Mikey you’re up!” Moonbeam told me.

Of all people! I thought. My mind scattered trying to think of an excuse.

“I need to watch someone else do it first.” I told him.

“Just figure it out, open your heart to the ocean,” he answered.

I gave him a puzzled look.

“You know what I mean,” he said.

I did not.

I hesitated; Moonbeam shot me an impatient glance.

“There’s a wave coming up now, start paddling Mikey!” he instructed.

“I’m not ready yet,” I told him.

He rolled his eyes, “Figure it out!” he said.

He then gave me a great push as the wave came, giving me little time to process the situation. I still sat with my bottom on the board, and legs in the water. After Moonbeam’s push there was an even larger shove that came from the wave behind me, like a great beast that had found me in its way. Totally in shock, I was off, carried away by the wave.

Panicking, I swooped my legs onto the boards, and lied down. Jump off I thought. I was too scared, lying down on the board the wave towered monstrously over me. My instinct told me to stay on the board. It gave out a monstrous roar as we continued forward, like it was going to eat me whole if I didn’t stay where I was. Just stay on the board, you’re fine right here on the board I thought to myself. That calmed me down a little. All I had to do was stay there until the wave died.

I looked behind me, the wave grew bigger as I moved along. If I were standing up it would have been above my head. It was like a large animal moving under an oily green carpet.

Foam formed at its tips, and the ride grew increasingly bumpy. I began to get the idea that any moment this wave could tumble over me, and I’d be caught in the undertow dragged around like a ragdoll. It happened plenty of times when I’d got boogie boarding and had a giant wave crash down over me. Suddenly I’d be swirling in circles, and hanging on to my swim shorts, with the taste of saltwater in my mouth. Those waves could be mere splashes in a swimming pool compared to this freak of nature. I was petrified of what it would do if it suddenly crashed and caught me in its grasp.

Ahead of me the city of Honolulu sat colorfully lit in the warm sunshine. In front of the buildings, and tropical restaurants. Was the crowded beach packed with sunbathing adults, and little kids scampering about looking for sand crabs, or throwing frisbees. How stupid had I been to have left that to be wet, cold, and sunburned, at the complete mercy of a beast that would open its jaws and swallow me whole if I simply leaned a little to the right and tipped over. I should have paddled out of that lesson the moment I found out the instructor’s name was Moonbeam I thought.

I then realized the middle of the wave had sunk back, while the top stuck out over me with an increased amount of foam foaming. It was going to crash. I was at its complete mercy. I could taste the salt water that I would be swallowing soon already. I tried to imagine a situation where I wouldn’t get wiped out too badly. There was no such possibility I could even fathom.

Signs of crashing increased rapidly. The top of the wave stuck out more and more. It had grown to be twice the size it had when I first caught it. My mind raced, wishing I had jumped off while I still had the chance, but it was too late. At that point there was nothing I could have possibly done to make the situation any better. How stupid could I have been to assume that this wave would have simply died out. I gulped. The wave suddenly crashed.

After only a single moment to prepare for impact. I felt a great force push me down until I could feel the smooth sand of the ocean floor as my toes brushed against it. The sour taste of saltwater filled my mouth despite efforts to keep it shut. Much of it managed to trickle down my throat causing me to gag. The taste became stronger, and I felt as if I was going to throw up.

Everything was happening so fast. All I could think about was getting to the surface. Which didn’t feel possible at the moment. In my first attempt to swim up I had only managed to get a quick breath before I was sent swirling down again. I could only wait out the crash as the undertow tugged me around mercilessly and hold onto my swim trunks.

Finally, the strength the crash had once contained weakened. This time I was able to swim up to the surface, and the great power that had once pushed me down had become a slight tug. To my right was my surfboard, which floated there flipped over on the foaming water. As I got on other waves passed by, all dwarfs compared to the giant I had ridden. Behind me I could see the surf lesson I had ridden away from, two boys were wrestling each other on a board, soon they both rolled off, and continued their fight in the water, where they both tried pushing each other under the surface. All while Moonbeam sat and watched in mild amusement.

Without a second thought I paddled for the shore. Next time, I’ll just go paddleboarding.

Padraic Dwyer is fifteen years old, lives in Danville California and attends Monte Vista High School. He has had a passion for writing stories since a young age.

Caroline Liddell

By Nicole Hirt

The young woman’s carmine umbrella bobbed through the cobblestone streets, shining beautifully against the sea of black. Raindrops flecked her dark hair. She pulled her mustard-yellow coat tight around her, trying to block the chilling breeze that whispered of winter. Dry leaves whisked around her boots as she reached the bus stop. She exhaled and leaned against the sign.

Edmund sipped his macchiato, his dark eyes never leaving her figure. The rain pattered soothingly on the awning of the café. A half-eaten croissant rested by his book: Anna Karenina.

The Queen’s Cup was his favorite café in Oxford. Excellent espresso, exquisite pastries, and a snug atmosphere welcomed the bookish people of town. On a dreary day like this, however, most customers gathered inside to enjoy the warmth. But if he did that, he wouldn’t be able to watch Caroline.

Edmund had learned her name after listening in on her phone call a month ago. She put away her phone now and rested her umbrella on her shoulder, hazel eyes gazing at the clouds rolling above. Her lipstick was a warm Venetian red, a different shade than what she normally wore. He liked it.

Steam from his macchiato curled into his face, fogging his glasses. He took them off and swiftly wiped them clean on the edge of his wool coat. After inspecting them for smears, he put them back on and resumed to watching her—only to almost spit out his drink.

A man was talking to Caroline. A young, attractive man with a strong jawline and curly hair that rustled in the wind. His blue eyes were warm as he extended a hand to her in greeting.

Edmund gripped the table.

Caroline smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. A sign of emotional interest. She fidgeted with the end of her scarf. No doubt a quickened heartbeat too. The man said something, and a snort escaped her lips. She clapped her hand over her mouth, cheeks flushing pink. But the young man only laughed, and the embarrassment fled from her face as she joined in.

The cup slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the table. No.

A bus as red as Caroline’s umbrella rolled to a stop next to her. She made to leave, but the young man stopped her, offering his phone to her. She hesitated, then smiled bashfully and typed something—her number—before climbing in.

The bus groaned to life and trundled down High Street. Rain splattered against the windows, turning Caroline’s beaming face into a dripping smear. The man stared after it, a faint smile on his freckled face, then he started walking down the pavement and toward the café.

He strolled by Edmund, his coat brushing against his leg. Edmund’s hand twitched. He let the man take a few more steps before flexing his fingers and rising from the chair, leaving behind Anna Karenina as dark espresso slowly dripped onto the pages.

Nicole Hirt is a senior studying English and Creative Writing at Palm Beach Atlantic University. She is an editor at Living Waters Review. Her works have appeared in The Bluebird Word and Westmarch Literary Journal, and are forthcoming in Runestone Literary Journal. In her free time, she enjoys wandering through cemeteries.

Chasing Bones: My Summer as a Dinosaur Hunter

By Henry Bourtin

Maneuvering the tiny awl through the rock was a test of real patience, the layers of earth that had to gently be removed were hard and crunchy after being baked in the sun for millions of years. As the youngest team member at the Judith River Dinosaur Institute’s Snowy Mountain Dig, I learned more than I have in years of reading about dinosaurs. The act of digging is not for the weak. It requires industrial strength knee pads, brushes, knives, dental picks and awls. To sustain the long hours of crouching over the dirt, one must get creative, shifting the weight of the body to find that perfect low fatigue position. At times, I even experimented with the “lying on the belly move” arms extended in front of me, as if ground-flying toward my reward.

While there are no guarantees of discovering anything on a dig, I found it easy to keep my hope and curiosity alive. Dig sites are charged with possibility. We all felt it. And after four days of digging in the 110 degree weather, I heard that hollow sound and knew I hit something. Patiently, I brushed away the dirt and saw that beautiful brown/purple bone. While some team members had already found bones or bone fragments on the first few days, I had not. This was my moment, and my first fossil was not just any fossil. It was a Stegosaurus back plate. I looked down at the bone with pride and wonder, knowing I had uncovered an animal that hadn’t seen daylight in 150 million years.

My fascination with dinosaurs started when I was a little boy. Mornings watching Barney the dinosaur made me curious about other facets of ancient life. As I grew older, I moved beyond children’s shows, and my favorite documentary was Walking with Monsters, where I became enthralled with evolution. I was drawn to how organisms change, how they behave, and how they operate within their ecosystem. It is amazing to think about how different organisms today evolved from ones from the past.

My interest led me to search online for a dig in which I could participate, and when I found it, I jumped at the chance to experience the life of a paleontologist. This dig taught me that TV does not reflect what really happens on these digs and the different types of paleontologists. Some professionals specialize in geology, others lean more into the evolutionary biology aspect, but all of them play pivotal roles in the excavation of animals and the growth of scientific knowledge. I learned there are three types of paleontologists, the “hands-on” individuals who go out into the field, the lab paleontologists who then reconstruct and study the bones that come from the excavation, and the PhD paleontologists who take the evidence found in the fossils to create theories and publish their ideas. The most interesting thing that I learned on this dig was that as a paleontologist, you don’t have to have a formal education to make a discovery! The man leading the dig, Nate Murphy, is a well-known paleontologist who didn’t go to college! Instead, he honed his skills in the field and supported it by reading widely on the topic.

While my friends spent their summers on the beach, I am so grateful for the experience to dig in the dirt in Montana on a quest for discovery. Paleontology is difficult, tedious work but each person has the opportunity to make a discovery and contribute to the team effort.

Henry “Banks” Bourtin has had a life long fascination with paleontology. He had the opportunity this summer to go on his first dinosaur dig, where he unearthed a stegosaurus backplate. He is a 10th grader from Texas, and will earn Eagle Scout rank in May, 2025.

Fifteen and Fearless: Conquering Kilimanjaro

By Emilia Lun

Let me be honest with you—I had absolutely no clue what I was getting myself into when I decided to climb Kilimanjaro. None. Zero. Zilch. But isn’t that how most great stories start? With an idea that seems just a little bit (or a lot) ridiculous at first?

I’ve always been the kind of person who craves a challenge. Growing up in Switzerland, surrounded by the Alps, I was that kid who begged to take the harder hiking routes, who secretly loved the burn in her legs after a steep ascent, and who never minded getting a little dirt under her nails. So when my school announced they were offering a highly selective half-term break trip to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, I didn’t just want in—I needed in. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just pure, reckless enthusiasm.

Of course, my excitement didn’t mean anything unless I earned my spot. Only twelve students would be chosen. The school wasn’t about to let anyone waltz up Africa’s highest mountain unprepared, and to prove we were serious, we had to train—hard. For three months, every Tuesday and Thursday, our group of twelve hiked through rain, snow, and whatever miserable weather Switzerland threw at us. We trekked at high altitudes, climbed with heavy backpacks, and pushed through exhaustion because if we couldn’t handle this, we sure as hell weren’t going to make it on Kilimanjaro. There were days when I felt invincible and days when I wanted to collapse in a heap and never put on hiking boots again. But quitting? That wasn’t an option.

I had no idea just how much all that training was going to matter. Because let me tell you—nothing could have fully prepared me for the reality of climbing this mountain.

~The Climb Begins~

Fast forward to our first day on the trail. I was practically bouncing with excitement, my backpack strapped tight, my boots laced up, feeling ready for anything. This wasn’t just any trip—this was Kilimanjaro, the tallest mountain in Africa, and I was about to climb it.

We had flown first to Amsterdam and then on to Tanzania on a six-hour flight, buzzing with anticipation the entire way. Our group was twelve people strong—my school class—on an adventure together during the half-term break. I had come with my good friend Erica, and though we were already close, this trip would bond us in ways I never could have imagined. We weren’t alone, though. Local guides, who seemed unfazed by the altitude, led us along the trail, constantly reminding us to go pole pole—Swahili for “slowly, slowly.” And they meant it. Every step was deliberate, every movement measured. At first, I found it funny. How hard could it really be?

Little did I know, Kilimanjaro had some thoughts about that.

As we climbed higher, the landscape shifted. The rainforest disappeared, replaced by rolling moorlands that stretched into infinity. The sun was relentless during the day, and at night? Oh, it was cold. Like, wrap-yourself-in-every-layer-you-own-and-hope-for-the-best kind of cold. My body ached, my lungs struggled to pull in enough oxygen, and my enthusiasm? Well, let’s just say it took a serious hit.

I’d love to tell you that I powered through every moment with unwavering determination, but the truth? There were times I wanted to quit. Times I questioned why I ever thought this was a good idea. But then I’d look around—the vastness of the mountain, the unwavering determination of my fellow climbers, the sheer magic of being so high up—and something inside me would reignite. I reminded myself why I was here. Not just for me, but for every young girl who’s ever been told she wasn’t strong enough, tough enough, or capable enough. I wanted to prove—to myself and to others—that we belong here, in these wild, untamed places.

~The Final Push~

Summit night was, in a word, brutal. We started our ascent under the cover of darkness—not sure out of a daredevil‘s whim, but out of pure necessity. The plan was to reach the top by sunset, ensuring that we had enough time to descend safely in daylight. Had we begun our climb in the morning, by the time we reached the peak the day would have given way to night, making the descent treacherous. We started climbing at midnight, in complete darkness, the cold biting through every layer I had on. The altitude was unforgiving —every breath felt shallow, every step impossibly heavy. My fingers were almost numb, my legs burned and the thought of turning back whispered in the back of my mind. But I refused to listen.

Then, just as I thought I couldn’t take another step, the horizon started to glow. Deep blues turned to fiery oranges, and the first light of dawn spilled across the sky. I can’t even begin to describe what that felt like—like hope, like possibility, like every ounce of exhaustion suddenly didn’t matter anymore.

And then, finally, Uhuru Peak. 5,895 meters. The roof of Africa. I made it.

Standing there, looking out at the endless sea of clouds below me, I felt something shift inside. This wasn’t just about reaching the top of a mountain. It was about proving to myself that I could do hard things. That even when my body screamed at me to stop, even when doubt tried to creep in, I could push through.

And if I could do this? What else could I do? What else could we do, if we stopped letting fear and doubt hold us back?

~Why This Story Matters~

I didn’t climb Kilimanjaro just for the Instagram photos (though let’s be real, they were pretty epic). I climbed it because I wanted to prove that adventure isn’t just for the strongest, the toughest, or the most experienced. It’s for anyone who’s willing to show up, put in the effort, and take that first step—even when it’s terrifying.

I want other girls to know that they belong in this space. That they deserve to take up space. Whether it’s climbing a mountain, starting a new sport, or chasing a wild, impossible dream—do it. Don’t wait until you feel “ready.” Don’t let the doubts of others define what you can or can’t do. Just take the first step.

Because here’s the truth: The hardest part of any adventure isn’t the climb itself. It’s deciding to go in the first place.

So if you’re reading this, and you’ve got a dream that feels too big, too crazy, too out of reach—I dare you to chase it anyway. You might just surprise yourself.

And who knows? Maybe I’ll see you on the next mountain.

Emilia is a sixteen-year-old adventurer, writer, and mountain enthusiast from Switzerland. At just fifteen, she summited Mount Kilimanjaro, proving that big challenges aren’t reserved for the experienced or the fearless—they’re for anyone bold enough to try. When she’s not climbing mountains, she’s chasing new adventures, pushing her limits, and inspiring others to do the same.