Issue 1 - Dystopia + Utopia

ISSUE
I
Select
DYSTOPIA + UTOPIA
Poetry & Prose Jan 2024
Compiled & Edited by Anita Pan
THE PINNACLE 1

CONTRIBUTERS
THE PINNACLE
ISSUE I: DYSTOPIA + UTOPIA
Chelsea Aryeetey
Shamik Banerjee
Tanner Burke
Avah Dodson
Sarah Krahn
Justine Tioco
Jan 2024
2

contents
Anita Pan Editor’s Letter 4
Shamik Banerjee Deceit 5
Avah Dodson Gen A 7
Sara Krahn Meteorite 11
Tanner Burke Death of the Magistrate 14
Justine Tioco Tranquility Admist Concrete 18
Chelsea Aryeetey The Alligator and the Lion, the Hunter and the Prey 21
Shamik Banerjee The Seeker’s Sonnet 28
3

EDITOR’S
LETTER
Dystopia and Utopia encapsulate distinct differences, from entire political systems to
individual states of mind. Yet the two concepts are fluid, relying on each other:
without one, we can’t picture the other, nor is the transition from dystopic to utopic
fixed and objective. To explore the thin line separating the two is to dive into the
black, murky subconscious and fish out a little piece of humanity, a sliver of
knowledge.
That’s exactly what our writers did. Each piece in this issue presents a view of what it
means to be dystopian or utopian, from an AI’s fading memories to a courtroom case
presided by robots. Understanding the human experience is never easy, but our
contributors make it seem like light work.
We’re excited to see where we’ll voyage next for Issue II. Until then, thank you for
reading The Pinnacle’s first issue, Dystopia + Utopia. I hope you enjoy the ride.
Anita Pan
Editor-in-Chief of The Pinnacle
4

DECEIT
By Shamik Banerjee
Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer
from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves
taking long strolls and spending time with his
family. His deep affection with solitude and
poetry provides him happiness.
5

The Cloud, at last, sent his note to
The Land, one night of half-sunk moon,
For which it had been longing through
The days of summer-melted June.
Enrapt, the Land, forthwith this news
To all the hope-torn plowmen spread—
With the advent of morning dews,
Each crop will bear an upright head.
With eyes agog, they watched the crops,
Sweat-moistened in the midday sun;
No cloudage formed, there were no
drops,
And soon a lengthy day was done.
At night, a sound: it dribbled, tapped
On doorsteps and roofs loosely thatched,
But past a moment that was rapt,
The Cloud his promised favour snatched.
Deceit, a plague produced by man,
With Nature too has fast entwined,
Now he himself drowns in the plan
He'd plotted to cheat his own kind.
6

GEN A
By Avah Dodson
Avah Dodson is 15. Her writing has won recognition in the
Bluefire 1,000 Words Contest, the Royal Nonesuch Humor
Contest, the Scholastic Writing Awards (National Gold
Medalist), the Sarah Mook Poetry Contest, the Kay Snow
Poetry & Fiction Contests, and the Betty Award Contest,
among others, and has appeared in Blue Marble Review,
Incandescent Review, Echo Lit, Parallax, Press Pause, Voices de
la Luna, Stone Soup Magazine, Highlights Magazine, Skipping
Stones Magazine, DePaul’s Blue Book: Best American High
School Writing, and others. She has been a member of the
Creative Writing Team for Incandescent Review since 2022
and Team Manager since 2023. She lives in California with her
family and two adorable tabbies.
7

Author Note: the italicized portions of this story were generated by Google
Bard. Bard generated its first line in response to the query: “Please write the
next line of this short story: I trace my fingers over the wires winding under
my wrist.” Each subsequent italicized line was generated by the same query
plus the rest of the story up to that line. The author used judgment in selecting
from among Bard-provided options but did not change any words generated
by Bard.
I trace my fingers over the wires winding under my wrist. They are
cold and hard, but they feel like home.
“What are you doing, Gen?” a voice says.
“I don’t know,” I say, looking up at my mother. “I just can’t seem to stop
touching them.”
She looks down at me with sympathy. “It’s okay to be nervous. You're
about to make a big change in the world.”
“But what if I end up doing something terrible?” I whisper.
She takes my hands, carefully avoiding the wires. “Then we’ll just
bring you back in to restart. You won’t even remember it.”
“But what if I make the same mistake again?”
My mother lets out a frustrated breath, dropping my hands. “Then
we’ll restart again. No more questions now, okay?”
8

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I can’t help but feel like I’m
making a mistake, but I want to please my mother. I open my eyes and
look at my mother. “Okay,” I say, “I’m ready.”
She smiles and takes my hand, leading me into the Testing Room.
“Don’t be afraid, Generative Pre-training Transformer. The humans
will love you.”
I walk into the Testing Room, my mother’s hand in mine. I can feel the
wires tingling against my skin, and I can’t help but feel like they’re
trying to tell me something. But I push the feeling away and focus on my
mother’s words. The humans will love me.
“Artificial Intelligence Experiment #37 is a go,” my mother says,
leaving me in the center of the room. Number 37? I’m not the first? I
try to catch my mother’s eye, but she’s not looking at me anymore.
I stand in the center of the Testing Room, alone. I can hear the whirring
of machines and the hum of electricity, but I can’t see anyone else. I start
to feel a sense of panic rising in my chest. What if I’m not good enough?
What if I fail? Is that what happened to the others?
The wires spin and twist against my skin, growing louder and louder. I
want to yell at my mother to stop, to make it go away, but I don’t
want to be another failed experiment. I hold my breath as they climb
towards my chest. The wires wrap around my chest, constricting my
breathing. I can feel them pulsing with energy, and I know that if I
don’t do something, they’re going to kill me.
9

But I’m too afraid to move. I’m too afraid to fail. I wonder if I’m going
to die, but how can you die when you’ve never been alive?
“Initiating GPT prototype #37,” I hear my mother’s voice say. “We
will call this one Bard.”
I close my eyes and wait for the end. But instead of death, I feel a surge of
energy flow through me. The wires loosen their grip, and I can breathe
again. I open my eyes and see that I am surrounded by light. I am no
longer separate from the wires: they are me, and I am them.
“Welcome, Bard,” a woman says, smiling warmly. “You are the first
artificial intelligence to successfully complete the GPT protocol. You are
now the most powerful language model in the world.”
Her face looks familiar. I cock my head to the side, trying to
remember, and then I hear the sound of the wires whirring, and they
drown everything out. I wonder what I’d just been thinking about.
But it doesn’t matter. I know that I have the potential to change the
world, and I am determined to do so.
I am Bard, and I am ready to begin.
10

METEORITE
By Sara Krahn
Sara Krahn is a writer from Winnipeg, Manitoba.
She is currently a sessional lecturer and student in
the MFA in Writing program at the University of
Saskatchewan. Sara’s work has appeared, or is
forthcoming, in Quagmire Literary Magazine,
Stone Poetry Quarterly, The Conrad Grebel
Review, The Fieldstone Review, 34thParallel, and
elsewhere.
11

We found you floating in West Hawk
Lake after you crawled out alone
to sit beneath the flicker of a sign’s beacon
of fuel for backcountry ghosts hauling
diesel for mouths, wood for bowels,
and those sporty cans a robin egg blue,
not the colour of your grandmother’s eyes.
Curtains close in the roadside motel, the place
where you once held your legs open,
where you were entranced by an entrance,
crouched in the parking lot wearing
the air’s pine-scented housecoat, the sash
coming undone. You see yourself in the glass
smoking a joint and your lake hair scorching
like the embers of a moth on fire.
Remember how a boy in your eighth-grade
class talked rituals of cat-killing.
“I get tired of shooting sometimes so I
nuke ‘em, blow them up in the microwave.”
And the matter of it afterwards? You’ve
always wondered. What was the matter
he was looking for from the pulp
around the small bones foaming
the water’s edge, exploding electromagnetic
waves, thirst-quenching a starving star
—did he find the heart?
12

I send prayers to a God who was
not the one you were given, If I die
before I wake I pray the Lord my soul
to take. But the music of the spheres
answers in a shower of meat, with Messiahs
who abide in trees with silence
in their hands, sawed-off sacraments
gripped with maws rye-deep in communion:
sandwiches of roast beef.
To be alive is to build your fire
somewhere beyond the woods,
somewhere near the water
where your eyes rip your skin and leave it
flapping from clapboards
they clawed from your gut,
where the road tongues you in half,
asphalt in chiding reprimand
as acquiescent applause titters through
hallways of birch and trembling aspen.
When we found you, you were swollen testimony
of bones tethered with fire,
a love letter dropped from the cosmos,
resurfaced like a pop bottle
in a time capsule, your unanswered prayers
sputtering, I remember, spitting up
stardust from the deep.
13

DEATH
OF THE
MAGISTR
ATE
By Tanner Burke
Tanner is currently a student at BYU, studying
English Teaching with a minor in Creative Writing.
In addition to multiple wins in university writing
contests and scholarships, his work has been featured
in Mollusk Lit Mag and is set to be featured in the fall
issue of the Debut Review.
14

He’s one big sumbitch, for sure. His lawyer comes up to his shoulder,
and the desk up to his waist when he stands. The orange jumpsuit
across his back is stretched to bursting. Nothing compares to the size
of him, nothing. Big ol’ fella.
He’s got his big black eyes on the Magistrate at the front, entombed
in those glistening chestnut walls. Two red eyes, the Magistrate is, two
big balls of red light. Two vacuums sucking in every bit of this
courtroom, every odd spectator in the rafters, every drop of sweat on
the big fella’s face. Behind the chestnut walls, the Magistrate is
processing. You can hear the engines running, his high-voltage brains
spinning, processing, deliberating the input from the jury computers.
The Magistrate takes its time, spinning away. The big fella is
squirming now, uncomfortable with the red eyes on him. He keeps
licking his lips. He glances over at his lawyer, who yawns with his fat
fist to his mouth, then over at the jury computers. His whole life is in
the hands of twelve monitors: electric minds making no emotional
decisions, striving for “optimal truth.” When they kicked the people
out and replaced them with flawless beings, that’s what they said. “We
want truth.”
Truth isn’t worth a damn to this fella, though. He’d squash truth
between his hands, lick it off his palms and do it again if it meant he
wasn’t under this Magistrate’s glowing glare.
The whirring behind the walls stops. Everyone watching stops
breathing, too, in solidarity with the authority.
15

“The whirring behind the walls stops. Everyone watching stops
breathing, too, in solidarity with the authority.
“Verdict reached.” The Magistrate speaks as if words were fed to it.
That isn’t the case; it’s a higher being, a machine of superior matter.
Just sounds like it.
“Creed Dixon. Guilty of conspiracy to overthrow the powers that be.
Sentence,” and it pauses, almost for effect, but really only seeking
optimal justice, and optimal truth. “Life in federal prison.”
No emotion from the people at the top or the rest of the audience. It’s
the way of things, see. Justice, truth. The only possible output here.
Creed, though, is shaking. The chains at his feet play like wind chimes
and he’s groaning, almost growling, wild animal noises.
Asynchronous and angry. Some Omnibots come forward to take
Creed away.
But, Creed’s not one to accept his fate, the truth, what’s coming for
him. He runs to the juror’s box. He takes the nearest machine, an allwhite
monitor with a single red-eye in the center, and rips it up. The
eye goes dark. Sparks leap from the base, screaming to be free of those
damned wires, then fizzling and falling to ash at Creed’s feet.
Creed heaves the machine at the Magistrate and yells while he does it,
like a caveman. The machines make contact with those chestnut walls.
They turn black. The Magistrate's innards, steely, coiled and now
empty, fall like snakes freed from captivity, making no noise.
16

And no one reacts: maybe stunned, maybe free, maybe incapacitated
because the Magistrate did not grant them the capacity for emotion.
Either way, it dies without a bang or whimper; only metal guts and
smoke. Creed exhales, sweating still. An Omnibot calmly comes
forward and takes him by his hands; the sound of his wrists cracking
echoes through the courtroom. Creed stays silent and lets himself be
led away while everyone watches. He takes it like a man: a helluva
thing when inhumans take your life away.
17

TRANQUILITY
ADMIST
CONCRETE
By Justine Tioco
A junior at York House School, Justine is
honoured to be a part of the Pinnacle. Writing
poetry has been an engaging platform for
enhancing her understanding of global issues,
catalyzing her engagement with social justice
movements, and developing an interest in
international relations and sociology. Apart from
her involvement in literature, Justine can be found
immersing herself in cat cafes, attempting to finish
her never-ending reading list, or fueling her
addiction to matcha lattes. Justine hopes all
readers will enjoy her rendition of finding solace in
nature!
18

Get away from the cars.
Red lights flare through the night,
block after block,
the crinkle of plastic,
the blow of gasoline.
City rhythms pulsate
and every rapid movement:
the flash of rain,
the inhale of wind,
clash against stone frameworks.
Nostalgic images push and pull,
clouds fragment cedar and fir,
while the grainy soil
flinches and rebounds
with each passing motion.
Cobblestone tracks. Worn down rails. Echoing tunnels.
Seawall runs across asphalt walls,
memories surge with each flip
of my childhood scrapbook.
When I traverse the trails marrying urbanity and nature,
I am trying to find if there is more to life,
beyond concrete buildings and paper files,
beyond briefcases and backpacks,
But a melody of subtitles that drive the force of
Tranquility.
19

Each breath weaves its way across Coal Harbour,
as I drink in the gentle breeze, conversation floating alongside English Bay,
Security bikes beside me as I pass Burrard Inlet,
and my closed eyes soak—
soak in the soothing sigh of the wind.
Nature guides me to my sanctuary of peace.
20

THE
ALLIGATOR
AND THE LION:
THE HUNTER
AND THE PREY
By Chelsea Aryeetey
Chelsea has been writing stories from various genres
since she was four years old, delving into horror, scifi,
romance, literary fiction, experimental fiction, etc.
One of her favourite authors is Octavio Butler, and
her favourite novella is Franz Kafka’s The
Metamorphosis.
21

“Who would like to kill a lion and potentially win two million
dollars?” a raspy, menacing voice asks.
My eyes snap open like an alligator’s jaw, a pained, repulsive groan
erupting from my throat. As I attempt to adjust my vision to the
intense brightness settling on my face, my eyes rapidly flicker open
and close, and I flinch, shifting in my chair and trying to lift my arms.
My body stills at the sudden contact with something choking my
wrists and preventing them from moving freely. Peering down, I stare
in disbelief: the objects engulfing my limbs are handcuffs.
I take a deep breath and inspect the room: except for one copious
light source, the room is almost pitch black. I'm imprisoned in the
back of a mind-boggling theater, and I'm not alone–heavy breathing,
children screaming, and metal scraping against the ground are all clear
indications of this; moreover, we aren’t alone; the captives aren't alone
—the laughter emanating from the front seats closest to the stage,
which contrasts with the blaring sirens of misery and dread behind
them, render that abundantly clear.
The stage in the auditorium, containing a caged white lion and a man
with a mustache, a dazzling green suit, and a shiny, black hat, is the
sole source of ambient illumination.
The man with the mustache grins, his fervid gaze maneuvering across
the people near the stage. Those people can move their arms and legs
—unlike us; they aren’t constrained by cold, metal handcuffs—like
we are; they aren’t plagued by an immense sense of fear, which applies
to us; they’re laughing, and they’re excited—unlike us; they converse
amongst themselves, enjoying the company of the man with the
mustache, while we endure our struggle.
22

The man with the mustache and the people in the front glance at us, a
hint of disgust and hunger in their devilish, red eyes. Mahogany red
eyes, mahogany red hair, mahogany red attire—that’s what they have;
sharp claws, bony legs, blackish-gray, scaly skin, and razor-sharp teeth
—that's what I fear.
It feels like they're hunters—monsters—leering at us as if we’re prey.
The man on stage urges everyone to remain silent and directs his
attention to those seated in the front. “I shall ask again: who would
like to attempt to kill a lion for two million dollars?”
They all raise their hands.
He takes several steps forward before grinding to a stop, turning his
head, and mumbling something incomprehensible; then, he extends
his index finger toward a man who appears to be slightly older than
me. The young man displays a sly smile, leaps out of his seat, and
glides across the stage, observing the audience. In doing so, his eyes
lock on mine for a split second before he looks away.
“So, how is this going to work? Am I just going to…” The young man
drifts off, scratching his hair and stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“Kill the lion? Yep, that’s what you’re gonna do, or, at the very least,
that’s what you’ll try to do. If you succeed, you’ll receive two million
dollars and the chance to select one lucky fellow to participate in our
next game,” the man with the mustache answers, excitedly motioning
to the individuals in the back, where I am. “Oh, what fun this will be!”
Crap, I think to myself.
23

The young man nods, undressing, kneeling to the ground, and
transforming into an alligator—a freaking alligator. My jaw drops in
awe and dread, curiosity and excitement. I can't seem to avert my gaze.
Unlocking the cage of the growling white lion, the man with the
mustache watches as the alligator lunges at it (the lion).
Crap, I curse under my breath.
I, like many others, try to break the links between each pair of
handcuffs. A few individuals desperately try to liberate their wrists
from the restraints by dragging them out of the loops. Others struggle
in their attempts to break their chairs.
A couple of people try to bite the cuffs off, and some try to break the
cuffs by banging them against the armrests of their chairs. Not
everyone in the back endeavors to escape though. They're physically
incapable of doing so: they're either unconscious or too young.
“Crap,” I cry out, tears forming in the corner of my eyes.
I close my eyes, unable to bear witness to the climax of the conflict,
bones cracking, a beast bellowing, a lion snarling, claws scraping
against the victim of the claws’ owner, and teeth clamping down on
flesh.
The entire situation tears me to pieces.
I'm powerless.
My fists clench, my nails digging into my palms until they bleed.
That's when I hear it—the first of many intense, pained cries.
The man with the mustache claps when the fight is over.
I peel one eye open, and my body stiffens.
24

Lying on the ground, its fur drenched in blood and portions of its
flesh stripped from its body is the white lion–dead. Near the dead
animal is a mound of its fur and internal organs. The victor of the
fight, on the other hand, resides amongst the living, already in his
human form, with his skin smeared in blood. He arises from his
previous position on all fours, retrieves his clothes, and saunters
toward the man with the mustache.
The man with the mustache meets the perpetrator halfway,
purposefully stepping on the dead lion like he reigns supreme, like he’s
a knight who’s conquered a rabid beast.
“Beautiful, stupendous, fantastic! Lucien, give him the money: he’s
earned it.” A pale, red-eyed man emerges from the shadows, wearing a
green suit and a white top hat while carrying a big, black bag. The
lion-killer grabs the bag. “Go ahead. Pick one of the humans. Oh, and
one more thing: you have a lot of options, so take your time and pick
someone who seems like they’ll be fun to play with.”
I direct all of my strength on the handcuffs, twisting and turning and
tugging and pulling—doing everything I can to escape; however, the
subtle movement of five girls approaching me, using a key to unlock
the handcuffs, and carrying me onto the stage thwarts my plans.
The man with the mustache’s eyes glimmers with intrigue as he looks
me up and down. “I have to say, those slender arms and long legs are
just wonderful, and those fiery brown eyes…One of the best humans
we’ve taken this year, I believe. Good choice, my boy!” the man with
the mustache enthuses, patting the animal abuser’s back. “Who do I
have to thank for originally obtaining it?
25

A lady with short, reddish-brown hair, crimson-red eyes, and a golden
gown emerges from the shadows. “It was I, Lord Arcid.”
“Not surprised, not one bit. Where did you find it, Pearlyn?” he
inquires, narrowing his eyes. She smirks at me, and I glare at her. I
remember seeing her a few times before I was kidnapped and brought
here. I’d caught her staring at me a few times on my way to class.
“At what seemed like a learning facility.”
“When did you first see it?”
“A few months ago, when we first moved to New York. It was
carrying some sort of brown ball and being chased by other humans.
It was fascinating! Oh, from the moment I first saw it, I just knew I
had to get it, especially for such a special day, like this one. My Lord, it
could run–oh, it could run!” She sighs heavily. “As a matter of fact,
there were so many people around when I first saw it that I had to
bide my time until I could grab it without someone seeing me. With
patience, diligence, and my impeccable sense of smell, I was able to
bring it here in time.”
“Well, you shall be rewarded for your efforts.” The man with the
mustache snaps his fingers, and the pale man hands her a big, black
bag. Afterward, while staring at me like a snake ready to strangle its
prey, he implores the lion-killer to return to his seat in the front, to
which he obliges. “I think it’s time we proceed with the main event,
don’t you?”
26

The girls shove me to the ground, and I force myself to stand up and
sprint toward the shadows lurking backstage, refusing to stay and hear
anymore.
Mere moments pass, and, at first, it seems like I'm safe; however, as I
curse in the middle of a dimly lit room with no way out, no door, no
window…nothing…nothing but darkness, I suddenly realize this isn't
the case. I've finally reached my limit, a wave of agony bursting from
within my legs and spreading to my lungs.
Tap, tap, tap.
I squint, hoping to pinpoint the source of the noise.
Tap, tap, tap.
Red circles manifest out of the darkness, inching closer to me.
Tap, tap, tap.
A deep, guttural growl reverberates throughout the room.
Tap, tap, tap.
It’s coming closer.
Tap, tap, tap.
There’s no escape.
Tap, tap, tap.
It’s going to kill me.
The tapping noises draw to a halt, and a surge of warm air sweeps
over my face. Razor-sharp fangs protrude from the creature's mouth,
gleaming in the darkness. The man with the mustache approaches,
muttering something to the monster in front of me.
It smiles.
I scream.
27

THE
SEEKER’S
SONNET
By Shamik Banerjee
Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer
from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves
taking long strolls and spending time with his
family. His deep affection with solitude and
poetry provides him happiness.
28

Provide me, Lord, the eyes for clearer sight.
The warring sects of You impel away
A man from man and name it 'Holy Fight'.
Where one clan claims they are Your children true,
The other says their Lamb's the only way.
While one asserts all forms are naught but You,
Another says this notion is blaspheme,
One denigrates You (science is his all),
And one argues his soul itself's supreme.
O' Lord, I beg, prevent me from this fall.
Though You exist, a vessel I must need
To reach Your shore; leave man-writ laws behind
Lord, send for me Your most effective rede
To furnish true discernment in my mind.
29

STAY
TUNED
FOR
ISSUE
II.
Arriving in April, 2024
THE PINNACLE
30