Right on the busy intersection of Main Street and 3rd, about two blocks from the oceanside and pier, a small coffee shop sits. A girl stands behind the counter, long brown hair tied up high in a ponytail and an apron wrapped tightly around her waist. She smells like vanilla and dresses in spunky vintage clothes. She greets people with a sweet smile, making them feel like they are the most important part of her day. She is beautiful, but that’s probably the least interesting thing about her. This is Aviva Jones. She is the love of Ethan Jett’s life. Only she doesn’t know it because right now he is sitting outside the coffee shop, hiding in his beat-up Corolla with a bouquet of roses (the pink and white ones because she thinks red ones are basic) and a poster he spent way too long drawing that says “Will you go to prom with me?” Now, Ethan had run every possible outcome of this scenario in his brain a million times. He thought about all the different words he could say and spent the entirety of last night writing and rewriting his love confession to her to make sure every single word was perfect. Because she was perfect, and Ethan, well, he tried his best. But no matter how many different scenarios he ran through, each one ended with Aviva saying no, she did not love him back because she was far too out of his league, refusing to speak to him again, and him watching 10 years of friendship get thrown down the drain, all because he thought it would be nice to take a risk for once in his life. A stupid risk. A really stupid risk. Why was he doing this again? Why had he let his friends convince him to create this plan to win her over? He was fine with their friendship as it was. Their stable, ten-year-long friendship that started with her asking if they wanted to play handball together in the 2nd grade. Even if it meant he would never have Aviva the way he wanted, at least he had her in his life at all. Why was he trying to ruin that? Ethan looked at himself in the mirror. Who was he kidding, thinking he could just run in there and confess his love to her? He was Ethan Jett. A stupid kid who spent all his time sketching in his notebook, terrified to send out his portfolio to the world because he knew he wouldn’t be good enough. A kid whose best friend, aside from Aviva, was probably his mother, even though he would never dare admit such a thing. Ethan grabbed the car gear and shifted it into reverse. It was time to turn around. He was going to go home. He was going to pretend he never thought of committing such an act, and when Aviva got off her shift tonight, he would call her just as he always did. They would talk about the little things, like the art that he only ever showed her and the rude customers she had to deal with. They would go to the prom as friends. As only friends. Life would be normal. Just as it always was. Because Ethan Jett did not take risks. He did not tell people he loved them because that was embarrassing for caring so much. He did not wear vintage clothes like Aviva because the moment he tried, he got called weird, and he did not like being called weird. He did not go out. He did not talk to random strangers the way other, more personable people could. He did not do stupid things. He did not he did not he did not he did not he did not he did not he did not– Swish. Ethan slumped over, the air being kicked out of his lungs. He let go of his tight grip on the car gear, struggling to sit up, gasping for air. A cold presence suddenly washed over him, leaving him paralyzed. Leaving him cold. The feeling was like someone had touched his heart. The wind was knocked out of Ethan. It felt like everything was being knocked out of him. He felt hollow, like something was holding on to the thing that had made Ethan, Ethan. He slumped back into his seat, trying to regain the feeling of normalcy, but it was no use. Somehow, he knew he wouldn’t be able to escape it. He would never be able to escape it. It was as if the cold was trying to tell him something, trying to press a thought into his brain. He tried to shove it away, dampen it with thoughts about Aviva, but the thought was persistent. It struck him like ice water down his spine, consumed him like water filling his lungs. What are you? Ethan pleaded in his mind, but it was no use. Deep down, Ethan knew what this was. He knew what the cold was going to say. I’m going to die. Death wrapped a fist around his chest, squeezing tighter and tighter the more he fought. He could feel him in the backseat, watching over him, waiting for the moment when Ethan stopped struggling and succumbed to the cold. Ethan fought not to turn around, but it was as if there was a magnet forcing him to look that way. Someone was gripping his shoulder, pulling him back deep into the abyss of nothingness and darkness. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body to continue facing forward. Somehow, he knew, if he turned around, it would all be over. He thought about his life and all the things he had left to live for. His parents who raised him to be the man he was today. Had he told his parents that he loved them when he left the house? Had he told them that he cared? Was it too late? How about the arts school? The one he was too afraid to apply to because he figured he was going to get rejected. Did the rejection matter now? And the summer program? The outfit he had planned out in his closet for weeks, but was too afraid to wear. The comic book he wanted to create, but figured it was too stupid for a guy like him. Two hours ago, he had been too afraid to do all these things, and now he was facing the very thing everyone feared for their entire life. Breathe, Ethan told himself. But it was no use. He could barely hold onto his life because he had been too afraid to build one. He had waited too long to act, and now the one time he was going to, he was going to die. The only thing he had left to hold onto was her. Ethan closed his eyes. He was her best friend for over 10 years, and he didn’t know why she bothered to spend so much time around him, only that she had, and now he was here in front of the small coffee shop on the intersection between Main Street and 3rd, so close to figuring out whether or not she would ever feel the same way, yet so far. Death had him in its grasp, and now he was going to die without ever being able to tell her that he loved her, without ever being able to take her to the prom. But then, he heard it. The sound of the angel choir singing and the birds chirping. The sound he thought only existed in his dreams because such a lovely sound is simply too good for this world. Aviva was laughing. Her head was tilted back, and a smile was plastered wide on her face. It felt like sunlight was being injected into his veins until he was all warm inside. That was the sound that people fell in love with, the one that they would worship until the end of time. How could he have been so foolish to waste so much time when he could have had this all along? That was the sound people lived for. That was the sound he was going to live for. Ethan Jett was not going to die today. The feeling left as quickly as it came. Ethan’s heart continued to beat, and his body felt warm again as if his soul was suddenly thrust back into it. He told himself it was simply anxiety, the nerves he always got when he got close to Aviva. But he could still feel the presence of the feeling even if it wasn’t inside his body, like a raincloud looming over him. He finally gained the courage to turn around, searching for the presence that had wanted him mere moments ago. But the more he looked, the more the presence faded. Ethan was alone again, with nothing but the flowers. Ethan looked over at Aviva through the coffee shop window, with her hair in a high ponytail and a wide smile on her face. She didn’t know what Ethan had planned to do, nor would she ever know if he left. He could drive off, tell his friends she wasn’t there, and tell himself that he would have done it had he not just been spooked a few seconds before. Ethan could come back tomorrow. Surely, Death wouldn’t be there. If he wanted to kill Ethan, he would have when he had the chance, right? But there was no way to be sure. There was no way to know if there would be a tomorrow or another chance to even see her again. Ethan was given more time, but how much? He could spend the rest of his days counting down to when he would see Death next, doing whatever he could to shield himself from the cold, dark presence. Or he could take Death up on his offer and make the most of the time he had now. Ethan reached over and grabbed the bouquet. He examined the arrangement, making sure each flower had no wilting petals and was properly fixed. Then, brushing away any nerves he could feel creeping up on him, he walked into the cafe. The second she saw him, Aviva smiled and offered him a small wave. Soon enough, the cold presence had faded. All that was left was light. His therapist would tell him it was a mere panic attack, and he would spend the rest of his days trying to convince people it was something more, with no avail. Humans are good at finding rational explanations for things that do not need to be explained. There was a reason Death had given him more time. He would never be sure why. And somewhere, off into the clouds in a world where ordinary humans cannot see, there is a lurking spirit called Death, watching over as Ethan walked up to greet the girl. He watched as Ethan presented the flowers to the girl and as she leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, smiling with so much joy that Death could practically feel it oozing out of her heart. Death could still do it. He could reach over, tap Ethan’s shoulder, and collect his soul like he always did. But there was a feeling, a spark of hope in his chest. A stubborn flame of light that could never be burnt out. A feeling that Ethan deserved to keep moving forward, and Death had no right to take that away from him. Death would never let it happen again. He would continue to take souls, never staying longer than he should, in fear that he might witness what happened with Ethan again. Sometimes, he would visit Ethan while he was with Aviva or visiting his parents’ grave. Ethan could feel him. He could feel the faint ghost of the presence that had begged him to turn back all those years ago. But the presence wasn’t scary. It didn’t grip his soul and squeeze the air out of his lungs like it once had. It was a reminder to hold Aviva close and cherish the moments they had together. It was a reminder to keep moving forward. So whenever it came by, Ethan knew what he had to do. He kept on living That alone would haunt Death for the rest of his days. As a kid, I've always had an intense fear of death. I remember being so terrified of trying new things and being adventurous, fearing that my life would end because of it. But then, one day my mother told me something that changed my view on it, ultimately changing the way I approach life. She told me that death is just there to remind us how beautiful life can be. Although it's a slightly heavier concept to deal with, the overall message I wanted to convey is that kids should always take the risk (within reason) and not be afraid to try new things because life can be so limited. Storytelling is so important in childhood as kids have more impressionable minds and are more likely to believe what they see or hear, making it very important to spread impactful messages to raise them to be good adults. With my story, I wanted to teach them to be resilient by doing things even when they are hard because life will be hard but death is there to remind us it can also be beautiful.

One of the defining qualities of Battle Royale by Koushun Takami is that almost everyone dies. Set on an island where a 9th-grade class is kidnapped and forced to play a ruthless game of killing each other until one is left, we, as readers, get to experience a multitude of gory deaths and tragic endings through the perspective of the student dying. We witness their last thoughts, last words, and the way they were killed. Rather than watching the student’s death from the perspective of the person killing them, we are kept in the dark about the corruption and wickedness required to win the game. Battle Royale blends the gruesome game with the silliness of school-girl crushes and innocent school drama, shielding both the students and us from the killings of their classmates. By doing this, our views of the gruesome game become confined to the filters through which the children see their lives and deaths, whether it be through innocent metaphors or a great amount of hope. Almost every student’s death throughout the novel is compared to something far unrelated to death in a juvenile way. There is a distinct contrast between what the student thinks is happening and what actually is happening. For a moment, we are led to believe that the child's death is not as horrifying as we think it is. For example, when student Megumi Eto was killed by Mistuko Souma, Megumi described her own death in the following paragraph: "She heard a sound—slkkk— like a lemon being sliced. It was a very pleasing sound, right out of a TV cooking show; a sound only the best, newest knife and the freshest fruit could provide. Today, viewers, we’ll be making salmon with a lemon marinade. It took a good two or three seconds before Megumi realized what had happened. " 117) In this paragraph, Megumi’s innocence makes the moment almost sound positive with words like “pleasing” and “best” as well as “freshest”, setting up the contrast between what really happened and what Megumi thinks is happening. In the third sentence, the readers are even explicitly addressed and told that they are witnessing a completely ordinary, mundane act, which diverts the focus away from Megumi’s death to the cooking show she compares it to. These positive words and the pure, innocent metaphor describing her death change the reader’s view of the fact that Megumi’s throat was just slashed, as if trying to cushion the next sentence’s impact. While the final sentence jarringly moves from innocent daydream into reality, the real description of her death remains vague, with only a hint or a gesture explaining that this is death. While it is clear Megumi died, the book boils her death down to nothing but a mere comparison to a cooking show. Even the first sentence, where the sound of her death is being described, still never mentions any weapon or form of gore. We are intentionally kept in the dark on what the killer of Megumi thinks, reinforcing the innocent way death is described. This absurd metaphor, comparing morbid things to childish ones, creates a blend between innocence and corruption. Violence is woven onto almost every single page in Battle Royale, allowing us to find and question the limits to which violence can be portrayed without being immoral or unjustified. In the end, the filter of childhood innocence not only shields the students in Battle Royale and the readers from the corruption they are faced with, but it also serves as a way to turn violence from something we would never want to face in our daily lives into something appealing.

Hands shaking, the voices of my friends faded into the background as I could only focus on the emptiness inside my chest. This couldn’t be real. In disbelief, I looked down at the text confirming that my best friend, Logan, was dead. Startled by my friend’s voice asking, “Are you okay?”, I pried my eyes away from my phone, barely aware of my surroundings. Not able to process my feelings, I was paralyzed by denial the rest of the day. My mind immediately drifted to the possibility of suicide. Having known Logan since fifth grade, I knew he struggled with depression. “Everything is okay,” he used to say with a laugh, masking deep pain behind his smile. Though we attended separate high schools, I replayed his hopeful voice in my head saying, “We’re going to be together again!” after repeated promises of transferring to my school. But a later text confirmed my worst fears—he committed suicide. After a year of suppressing my sadness, my vision blurred as I found out that another best friend I'd known since 6th grade also committed suicide. This time, I was completely caught off guard—no one suspected she was struggling. I tried avoiding my feelings again, but my worried family convinced me to try therapy in hopes that I could process and heal. My therapist explained what I was experiencing—dissociation. Amid these unthinkable tragedies, I’d lost control of my body and emotions. In order to regain control, she urged me to find an outlet that I could use to express my grief, instead of keeping it inside. Dismissing her advice, I continued to go through the motions until two months later, when my friend recommended that I watch Good Will Hunting. Initially, I expected the movie to be nothing more than an entertaining story used to kill time. But as I wiped tears away as Will Hunting—a genius who struggled with letting go of his childhood trauma— learned to accept that his upbringing does not define him, I found myself resonating with him. Suppressing my grief wouldn’t help me get over the hardship I faced; it would only make it harder. As the credits rolled and I came to terms with the fact that I had to find a way to face my emotions, I realized that movies have a purpose beyond entertainment. They spread powerful messages that can change lives. Cinema became my new passion. I watched a new movie every week, whether it was a drama film or a neo-noir. From “Parasite”'s metaphor for social class to “La La Land”'s depiction of achieving dreams, I took notes on the deeper importance of these films in the context of society. After finding the screenplay for Good Will Hunting at my local thrift store, I realized that I didn’t have to just watch movies. I could write them. Screenwriting could not only be an outlet for expressing my grief, but I could also use it to shine a light on larger issues like mental health. Eagerly, I read numerous screenplays, teaching myself how to format lines and cut scenes. Summer after my sophomore year, I wrote my first screenplay addressing the effects of loneliness on the human mind. A film student at my high school, who was moved by the concept, helped me turn it into a short film. As students and parents came up to me, telling me that the film had moved them, I knew this would be the first of many screenplays to come. Currently, I attend the USC School of Cinematic Arts, where I continue to nurture my love for screenwriting and connect with others to bring my scripts to the big screen. I no longer suppress the emotions that came with my friends’ deaths; I embrace them, using them as motivation to write and spark change. My chest swells with fulfillment as I look to my future writing to change people’s lives.

Hands shaking, the voices of my friends faded into the background as I could only focus on the emptiness inside my chest. This couldn’t be real. In disbelief, I looked down at the text confirming that my best friend Logan was dead. Startled by my friend’s voice asking “Are you okay?”, I pried my eyes away from my phone, barely aware of my surroundings. Not able to process my feelings, I was paralyzed by denial the rest of the day. My mind immediately drifted to the possibility of suicide. Having known Logan since fifth grade, I knew he struggled with depression. “Everything is okay,” he used to say with a laugh, masking deep pain behind his smile. Though we attended separate high schools, I replayed his hopeful voice in my head saying “We’re going to be together again!” after repeated promises of transferring to my school. But a later text confirmed my worst fears—he committed suicide. After a year of suppressing my sadness, my vision blurred as I found out that another best friend I'd known since 6th grade also committed suicide. This time, I was completely caught off guard—no one suspected she was struggling. I tried avoiding my feelings again, but my worried family convinced me to try therapy in hopes that I could process and heal. My therapist explained what I was experiencing—dissociation. Amid these unthinkable tragedies, I’d lost control of my body and emotions. In order to regain control, she urged me to find an outlet that I could use to express my grief, instead of keeping it inside. Dismissing her advice, I continued to go through the motions until two months later when my friend recommended that I watch Good Will Hunting. Initially, I expected the movie to be nothing more than an entertaining story used to kill time. But as I wiped tears away as Will Hunting—a genius who struggled with letting go of his childhood trauma— learned to accept that his upbringing does not define him, I found myself resonating with him. Suppressing my grief wouldn’t help me get over the hardship I faced; it would only make it harder. As the credits rolled and I came to terms with the fact that I had to find a way to face my emotions, I realized that movies have a purpose beyond entertainment. They spread powerful messages that can change lives. Cinema became my new passion. I watched a new movie every week whether it was a drama film or neo-noir. From “Parasite”'s metaphor for social class to “La La Land”'s depiction of achieving dreams, I took notes on the deeper importance of these films in the context of society. After finding the screenplay for Good Will Hunting at my local thrift store, I realized that I didn’t have to just watch movies. I could write them. Screenwriting could not only be an outlet for expressing my grief but I could also use it to shine light on larger issues like mental health. Since then, I’ve written nine screenplays, each addressing social issues. I’ve submitted to festivals like UCLA’s Open Minds Mental Health Film Festival and the Beverly Hills Film Fest. I no longer suppress the emotions that came with my friends’ death, I embrace them, using it as motivation to write and spark change. My chest swells with fulfillment as I look to my future writing to change people’s lives.

This passage is from page 149 of The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson. Looking at herself in the mirror, with the bright morning sunlight freshening even the blue room of Hill House, Eleanor thought, It is my second morning in Hill House, and I am unbelievably happy. Journeys end in lovers meeting; I have spent an all but sleepless night, I have told lies and made a fool of myself, and the very air tastes like wine. I have been frightened half out of my foolish wits, but I have somehow earned this joy; I have been waiting for it for so long. Abandoning a lifelong belief that to name happiness is to dissipate it, she smiled at herself in the mirror and told herself silently, You are happy, Eleanor, you have finally been given a part of your measure of happiness. Looking away from her own face in the mirror, she thought blindly, Journeys end in lovers meeting, lovers meeting. The passage from page 149 of Shirley Jackson’s Haunting of Hill House, gives us insight into the way the main character, Eleanor, thinks and the way her mind operates as we reach the end of the novel. The very little use of periods, makes the paragraph seem like a stream of consciousness simply written down into words compared to refined and well thought-out prose. There is an excessive use of commas to compensate for the lack of periods which keeps each sentence flowing even when it shouldn’t be. For example, “Looking at herself in the mirror, with the bright morning sunlight freshening even the blue room of Hill House, Eleanor thought, It is my second morning in Hill House and I am unbelievably happy.” When she’s thinking, she isn’t thinking in sentences that are grammatically correct, but instead with phrases that all blend together and go on for a while. Almost as if she doesn’t want whatever she is thinking about to end like her journey at Hill House, because while commas signify a pause, periods signify a stop. Even in the quote “Journeys end in lover meeting, lovers meeting” there is still an unnecessary repetition of ‘lover’s meeting’ like she just wanted to keep the thought going. Eleanor was not ready for the journey to end in ‘lover's meeting’ and to express this she added ‘lover's meeting’ again to continue it. The uniform font of the paragraph also tells us that Eleanor’s mind is somewhat being lost to the setting because of the lack of difference between Eleanor’s thoughts and the third person narration. The third person narration is primarily used to describe Hill House “bright morning sunlight freshening even the blue room of Hill House” and the first person narration is also used to voice Eleanor’s thoughts of Hill House and her experience there. Since each narration is depicting Hill House and there is no distinction between the two in fonts or quotes, it seems as if both narrations are one. Eleanor’s inner thoughts are muddled with the descriptive narration, with the only indicator of a switch being phrases like “she thought”. Those phrases seem to be a metaphor for Eleanor losing herself but still able to hold onto one last piece of her identity. Eleanor has slowly started to become one with the house and the atmosphere of Hill House reflects her mind. This passage seeks to reinforce the idea that Eleanor and Hill House are slowly becoming more intertwined. The repetitive language, punctation (or lack thereof), and lack of distinction between Eleanor's thoughts and descriptive setting is a reflection of Eleanor's path towards insanity.