Cambridge Road 2023

Cambridge Road Literary Magazine

Cover Art: "Love I Touch"

By Dani Fielding

A Letter fromthe Editor

"Changing Seasons" showcases Bishop Ireton's creative mind. Whether it be a picturesque landscape, a reflective poem on nature, or an awesome essay from Ms. McGraw, CambridgeRoadhas something delightful to share.

A huge thank you to Ms. Tombs, our amazing moderator, and the editing team! This edition could not have been without them.

- Dani Fielding; Editor-in-Chief 2022-2023

"Traveling Seed" by

Alaina Rogers

A seed shouldn’t be planted where it isn’t meant to grow.

It feels wrong to dance alone when the lights are low.

Do I belong, where I feel wrong?

The wind carried the seed to a place she didn’t know. Then the rain came pouring over, drowning her below.

Do I belong, Where I feel wrong?

When it came to other plants she seemed a little slow. Roses blossomed everywhere while only her sprout would show.

Do I belong, Where I feel wrong?

She finally grew but began to spread.

An abomination, filled with dread.

She wished she flowed like the others to the wind.

Instead she danced alone, But she danced and they flowed. Maybe I have a chance, When I get to dance.

I cry out for rescue and You send a single word: winnow whistling through my head storm reminding me that Your winnowing winds are strangely welcome and what little remains is all I need to bloom in place, graced a willowy stalk in the sun

"TheWinnowing" by Mrs. Rosie Driscoll

"Reginald

Rigby"

by Gabby Pamor

On a hot summer day, you’d find Reginald Rigby working his trade. A tall gent with a purple beret. Rectangle spectacles on a pink face. Everybody knows him. Every cat and every loony.

Reginald Rigby, the talk of the town, shelving books at the local library.

After spending the day with Shakespeare, Mister Rigby slips away. Away into the night, To a crooked house on a crystal lake. Rectangle spectacles come off of flustered cheeks, replaced by pajamas and silk sheets.

Reginald Rigby is known for his cats, Miss Susie and little Joe. He cares for strays as if they were his own.

On a cool summer evening, you’d find Reginald Rigby silently sleeping. Dreaming of Chaucer, of Christie and Dickinson. Of dusty shelves and buying food for the kittens. In the morning he’ll rise, ready to seize the day, walking to town with an elegant sway.

Lucero Carcamo

"Sunsetby the River" by

"TheLightin the Refrigerator" by Grace Keller

A perpetual light shines out from above those pristine white shelves, illuminating the tupperwares of leftovers and packages of strawberries, and bottles of milk, like a halo. Maybe as a child, you would open the door very quickly, trying to catch the inside of the refrigerator, when the light was still turned off. But that light was always on when you opened it, and the chilly air always stung your face if you stood in front of the agape door for too long. One day you opened the door, and the light wasn’t on. The inside of the refrigerator wasn’t cold.

The leftover stir fry from last night, put inside the refrigerator to keep cold, had become lukewarm in the stale air. Soon it will begin to rot and you will have to throw it away. Now you know, the light does turn off in the refrigerator.

"Outof Season" by Annaliese Ludvigson

If a leaf falls from a tree

It will never go home To its former branch. It will never have another chance To be the brightest red Or the darkest green

The leaf, however, Will never grow again either.

Like the leaf from the tree, So the snow falls from the sky.

If a flake escapes a cloud

It will never return To its house of cold.

It will never have another moment To be the most ornate flake Or the simplest dot in the sky.

The snow, nonetheless, Will never crystallize again either.

Like the snowflakes fall from the sky, So does the flower bloom.

If a flower blooms, It will never shutter itself And retreat inward again.

It will never return to its shyness

To be a small bud hugging itself

Close and blocking out the world. The flower, though, Will never bloom again either.

So like the flower blooms, So do the birds leave their nests.

If a bird leaves its nest

It never retreats

To its former solace again.

It will never be embraced by a mother

As the most timid bird in the nest Or the first that begins to fly.

The bird, however, Will still sing again.

And like the bird leaves for the summer, So do we turn the page for our next chapter.

When we turn that page, We move with the fear that We may never go back again.

One day, we may turn the page one last time And we may finish the book, Instead beginning a new book that waits to be written.

"A Runner's Guide to Noticing" by

Ms. Molly McGraw

-ToRossGay,ClintSmith,MaryOliver,andanyotherwriters whohaveeverurgedmetolookup.

There are two things I want you to know about me, two changes in my life as of late:

The first is that I moved to DC in August, and I have yet to live through the changing of each season to the next, but, so far, the change from winter to spring is my favoritemetamorphosis.The city takes a deep breath. The cherry blossoms peek out. Residents of DC and visitors alike walk a little slower—there’s morelight, so what’s the rush?

The second is that I, very recently, have fallen in love with running. Yes, I love running for the typical reasons I feel stronger, I have more energy, and with each step, my mind’s seemingly endless stream of thoughts slows to a manageabledrip. An unexpected benefit, however, of my new running regiment is that, when I’m running, I’m locked into the present moment.

Mary Oliver writes the following in her “Instructions for living a life”:

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.

When writers such as Mary Oliver advise their readers to pay attention, I envision a slow noticing a “coffee in hand, got all day, café commandeering” noticing. This is not the type of noticing I do when running. When I’m not wondering why I thought running nine miles in 90 degree heat was a good idea or when I’m not peering down at my already reddening arms, wishing that, even though the smell makes me slightly nauseous, I had put on sunscreen (yes, even at my age, I’m still learning how to care for myself), I’m noticing blips of people’s lives that become impressionist paintings in my mind.

I’ll show you what I mean.

2.1 miles into my run, I’m on the National Mall, running past the National Gallery of Art. On one of the benches lining my path, I see a woman readingMrs.Dalloway—the cover is imprinted on my mind, Clarissa Dalloway’s remarkably imposing sunhat blocking her partygoers’ faces. 50 paces later, I wonder how socially unacceptable it would have been for me to plop down by this stranger and ask where she is in the story and whether she’s gotten to the part when Clarissa peers through her bedroom window into her neighbor’s house (pp. 185-186 if you’re curious).

3.2 miles in, I’m running on the Tidal Basin, across from the World War II Memorial, and there’s a family picnicking, the mom dolling out peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on sourdough (I can tell it’s sourdough because of the flakes coming off the crust) and cans of cheddar pringles.

5.5 miles in, I’m running by the reflecting pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial, and I see several families, parents included, discarding their socks and shoes and running to dip their toes, feet, calves, legs into the water.

5.7 miles in, I see a little girl, probably eight years old. It must not have occurred to her to take her socks off before plunging into the pool because I watch her peel off her now water-logged socks before rejoining her family.

6.6 miles in, I’m making my way back to the National Mall, passing by the Washington Monument. I catch a glimpse of two siblings ogling at a group of twenty teenagers playing an intense game of tag. There’s skepticism in the five and seven-year-olds’ eyes, as if they’re asking, “Aren’t you all too old to be doing that?” (Answer: No one’s ever too old to play tag)

6.7 miles in, I’m passing by a stage next to the Washington Monument. On the otherwise empty stage, a little boy does a cartwheel (an impressive one), strikes a pose, and looks around, wondering if anyone will clap for him (his dad does so enthusiastically).

7.0 miles in, I’m back on the Mall, and on the grass across from the American History Museum, I see a father feed his four-monthold an ice cream cone as the mom snaps a picture. I wonder where that photo will undoubtedly exist for years to come maybe it will hang on an office wall or at the top of a staircase or on a mantel somewhere.

7.5 miles in, I see several couples watching their children run through the sprinklers on the Mall, and even though it will add 0.1 miles to my run, I make my way toward these sprinklers, choosing to run through the cool water if for no other reason than to remind myself that I am a part of these simple moments of unbridled joy.

"Through the Blooms" by Mr. JoshGoldman

"Unlove" by Kayla Bernescut

Love is but a rose, a blooming flower in a glass case, guarding its innocence. Cheap glass, it might break easily, leaving the rose vulnerable to all of the sorrows.

Fickle, with petals that entice at first glance, but fall, one by one, little by little, slowly dying. Little knowledge of its fallibility. Toncœur, your heart, a red mass where we say love originates from, from that beating organ aching for its solemn fate, tugging at every word, every petal. They disappoint, leave nothing but a vulnerable void.

Artwork by Jack Cordell

"Nature Resets and so Does the Mind"

The straw-like grass emerges through the snow, The cold unfit to bring my hands to numb.

Impending the spring draw so near, you know. Take notice of the season change to come!

Just as a drama has a change of scene, The wilderness shall shift and then reset The season’s change creates a slate, so clean

Will this slate wipe my Mind and cause forget?

The Mind contains priceless tokens of the past

But things I reminisce, away they fly?

But I’ve enjoyed these feelings at long last

And too, I’d hate to wish these thoughts good-bye.

Oh well, psyche never stays one for long.

This new change shall help me to grow more strong.

"Sacred Heart" by Mrs. Rosie Driscoll

Andaswordwillpierceyourheart, sothatthethoughtsofmanyheartsmaybe revealed.

Luke2:35

Simeon knew before you that a sword would pierce your heart to reveal our own.

You knew before me that we must be bloodied to be blessed

So that we like you may hold our children in heart wrench bless the world with brokenness

"Red" by Ella Goulet

Nagtzaam

It was the year 8000. Food supply was no longer an issue. My father harvested crops at various farms alongside other employees. My mother packed meat at a meat factory. Every day of my life has been the same. I woke up, got ready, went to school, performed how society expects me to, then went home, cooled down, and prepared for the next day. Rinse and repeat, in and out. Over and over again. The alarms on telephone poles in my neighborhood rang at five o’clock. I jolted awake as one does when they hear such an ear-piercing sound and rolled out of bed. I walked over to our family’s bathroom and took care of my hygiene. I then greeted my parents as they greeted me. My parents then walked to the bathroom, and I stepped onto the teleportation device. The touch screen attached to the teleportation device scanned my face as I scanned in my fingerprints on the touch screen.

The device announced, “Citizen 783-829-382-393-392 report to school. Goozam Incorporated is awaiting your arrival. Have a good day, Citizen!” 783-829-382-393-392. I hated that name. 783-829-382-393-392 is my government name, but to me it always seemed so boring. I’ve always liked the idea of being called something special, something different and unique, a real word like how “corn” and “beef” are called instead of just a random string of numbers. If I was able to pick a word to be called by, I think I would choose something proud, something confident, something like “Axel.” I typed in District Eleven Public School. Moments later, a tremendous jolt of electricity ran through my body, forcing me to clamp my teeth and the muscles in my body to tense up. I then arrived at District Eleven Public School. The next thing I knew I was in an elevator that opened to the school entrance. Everyone wore the same clothes. Cargo pants, a long white sleeve shirt, black socks, a grey winter hat, and standard issue sneakers with the choice of grey, black, or white. The inside of the school was rather cold. I stepped onto the moving conveyor belt that circles around the school.

"All is Well" by Jack

Then a motion sensor door opened as I approached my classroom on the conveyor belt and walked in. I was the last one to enter the class and was therefore considered late. I immediately took my seat as the teacher proceeded to explain how Goozam manipulates the weather to maximize food output for plants that grow outside. I couldn’t care less about how Goozam controls the weather. It’s almost always the same anyways. It’s either about to pour, it’s pouring, or there is not a cloud in sight. What do I care anyways? I’ve never been outside. The only lucky people who go outside are the ones who work in the field. Boy I’ve wondered how the weather feels. All I've ever known is a 68-degree air-conditioned environment, which Goozam claims is engineered to aid in optimal human function.

After what felt like an eternity of slow, boring classes, I teleported back home. My parents were not home, which must mean my father was still at a farm harvesting crops and my mom was still packaging meat. I got started on homework, which was about how to give the maximum amount of effort in your job on a day when you don’t feel like working that hard. Later that evening my parents arrived. We exchanged greetings before taking our seats at the dinner table. The number on the screen in the table showed how many food credits we had. My father pressed the red button next to the screen three times which meant that the center of the table opened and gave three of the same meals to each of us.

My father claimed, “Yum, it looks like beef, potatoes, celery, carrots, and water today.” My mom just stared blankly at the food and then began to start eating dinner. We don’t talk much as a family. We never have any new news to express to each other because we experience the same thing every day.

I then professed, “I don’t want to work in a factory or field. I want to explore the earth. All I’ve ever known is wake up, go to school, come home, do homework, then eat dinner and go to sleep. I want to see what else there is to life. There’s more to life isn’t there? Why can’t robots do these mundane tasks we do? They exist! We could be living lavish lives, but we’re simply a gear in the motor." 24

My mom uttered, “Hush! You know they listen to everything you say! Show some gratitude, dammit. You have a stable life and future to look forward to. You won’t be throwing that away for whatever you are thinking of doing. Exploring the earth, was it? Foolish boy. Eat your food and be quiet.” I was pissed. My father shoved down his food and stormed off to bed. My mother simply ate her food while gazing blankly at it. I didn’t finish my meal. I couldn’t stand this family! I couldn’t stand the life I was given. Once I went to my room, I emptied out all my school supplies and homework from my backpack and shoved clothes in it from my closet. I also put my hygienic supplies in it along with my only unique possession which was a rock a friend gave me last year. Cameras were watching my every move so I would have to plan my next steps accordingly. I knew where the two cameras in my room were. One faced the window and the other faced my bedroom door. I punched a hole in the drywall and cut the wire in it with the rock my friend gave me. I think that shut off the cameras. I grabbed a shirt from my bag and wrapped it around my head only leaving my eyes exposed. Then I put on sunglasses as well. I opened the window, and an alarm went off. I swiftly hopped out of the window and sprinted down the street my house was on.

I had no idea where I was going. Every street looked the same as the last that I ran down. The wispy wind whipped at my face and whistled in my ears as I ran. Finally, I arrived at what seemed like a long fence after running across a field. I looked behind to see if anyone or anything had chased me. Nothing was behind me but a silent stillness. I inhaled a large breath of fresh air. One arm and leg at a time, I ascended the fence. Leaping onto the unknown ground rendered a sense of freedom which was the most marvelous sensation I've ever felt.

"World of No Pain" by

Tatiana Moses

Sorrow is seen more than smiles.

Anxiety keeps you awake at late hours. The pressure on your heart makes breathing difficult.

Languid from defeat, you are in depression. Searching for a cure, let me know when you find it.

Life is imperfect in many ways. It forces suffering into your world. Hostility might make you cry. Opposition might throw you for a loop.

It is all too much, too much a burden, but

please, take some time to realize, a sanctuary is waiting for you.

One that can carry you through trials. One that can save you from despair.

Let the calming breeze find a home on your face, as your head sways to the lark’s melody.

You fall into the daffodils of a new spring, and laughter heals your fatigue.

Live now in a world of no pain.

"Kate" by DaniFielding

"Unnoticed Tour Guides" by Emily Le

The humid air makes my hair frizz up here.

I feel sweat begin to bead on my tan forehead. It drips down the side of my sunkissed cheek under Mother Maui’s unforgivable rays.

The geraniums manage to bud on the edge of the Haleakalā Mountains, their resilience is bound to bring a smile to your face. They are safe as they cling to the rich Earth.

Guiding your path with their bright white petals and centers of magenta that gift color to a monochrome world. Angels in a sea of moss and mud.

Don’t forget to look up!

The beloved blossoms guided you to Wailua Falls.

They want to cool you down as a “thank you” for trusting them.

For your face to feel every sprinkle of the freshwater mist, the cool breeze that will relieve your worries.

They want you to know how perfect it is up here.

Their hard work is complete.

Sophia Molinari

Bright and green, on the apple tree, Hanging by a stem.

Fields and Mountains, all this I can see Beloved nature’s gem.

Helped by Sunshine and pouring Rain, Swaying in the breeze.

The changing of the seasons, all the same Celestial-given ease.

Star light, star bright, through space and time, Playing in the field.

With Clouds up above, higher you must climb

To find the light it wields.

Shining colors seen through the trees, Brilliant red I sing.

I forbode what is to come, I ponder

What will this winter bring?

"Next Spring" by

The cold is here, here for us all, To deliver fate.

So what can we do to resist its call?

This dark cold that we hate.

Cold takes all, the branches are clear, No color to bring.

To the ground I fall for no one to hear

No longer red I sing.

Buried in cold, when will it clear? And, when will I sing?

Now what is there left for me to do here

But wait for the next spring.

by AidanMcNerney

"Lakeshore"

Jennifer Dee

I close my eyes and look up at the sky

I feel nothing but cool wind from the night

I stay outside every day

Every day not wanting to leave It’s so peaceful I think I might stay here forever

Forever in the creek

Forever hidden by the trees

Forever in a place that is carefree

"My Creek" by

"Nature" by DaniFielding

"Seasonal Allergies" by Annaliese Ludvigson

Spring brings new air, New birds, new flowers, new life; Though it also brings new problems

New obstacles, new issues, new strife

Pollen, like confetti, Decorates the earth below

Bringing a promise of spring

For the flowers to grow

A joy to some

Who love to see the flowers bloom

And pain to others

Who await the season with doom

Pollen swarms the atmosphere

Invading sinuses all around

Taunting the individuals

The second it hits the ground

But are we allergic to the particles

Of dust that swirl about the air

Or are we allergic to the change

That wasn't always there?

by Liz D'Souza

"Transcendence"

"TheSweeper" by

Nick Temple

Now…

Beyond this world is a domain of mystic wonder. A cascade of endless possibilities and probabilities. A universewhere the luscious violet-tinted sky drifts aimlessly, yet purposefully. A land where the stars dance with its people and meteorites rain overhead like fireworks. A land of dreams…

The denizens strive in their stride, dutiful to their specialized tasks enclosed by this miniature milky way. Innovation, invention, flourishing and flowering. The scent of rose lingers within the air, refusing to cease captivity of their noses. The lovingly radiant green grass is grateful, too.

Despite the gorgeously frantic nature of this extraordinary realm, all is well.

Lo, for all the greatness of these valleys there lies an unbelievable girl of the utmost talent and honor. We call her “The Sweeper.”

Sweep,sweep,sweep. Shhk, ssshk, sshk.

Ch-kuh, ch-kuh, ch-kuh.

She sweeps the stardust away. Her dedication is unparalleled. With no sight towards the countless distractions of the stunning skies, she takes pride in her work, sweeping the market floor diligently.

Returning from an otherworldly expedition, her friends re-enter this dimension, speaking spontaneously of striking syndicate sycophants within the speckled spaces.

“So many mysteries to uncover, danger and delight at every jump!

The astral cosmos know no bounds…

Join us, won’t you?”

With a simple turn, she replies, “Not today, guys.

I gotta finish these floors.”

After a moment or so of pestering, her allies in purposeresumetheir pilgrimage. She was upset to deny them, but who were they to deny her work?...

Who was ANYONE to?

No marvel of the magenta atmosphere, no mere martian or peculiar parallel would halt HER from her duty!

Even the manager himself stops by out of concern.

“You deserve a break for your efforts. You’re still young, go have fun with your friends!”

Sighing softly, she politely declines.

Scratching his head with his three-fingered hand, he leaves her to her task.

Sweep, sweep, sweep…

That seems to be all she does. Sweep, sweep, sweep… Her perseveranceshines. Nothing can stop her from sweeping the floor of a mediocre shopplace in the middle of a galaxy.

Where unimaginable dreams are but a step away.

It’s closing time, and the market is spotless. Looking nearly as beautiful as the intergalactic environment itself. The Sweeper, smiling slowly, stows her broom away and walks to her apartment.

There's a meteor shower tonight.

She gazes up in wonder at the alluring downpour of space rock.

Whistling to herself, she continues homewards.

“All in a day’s work.”

"Mountains Above" by Lucero Carcamo

Platonicus"

by Sammie Johnson

There are these people who I’ve known since birth. They’ve loved me since my first moment on Earth. First for my mother, then for me. Her friends in life, our family.

The joy they bring each other, and the stories they tell bring me a feeling nothing else can compel. The hardships and loss they have each endured, have shown me that there is a cure

"Amor

for life and its misery. The only way to chase the sadness and gloom away is to laugh and love. Be happy to give to those around you. It is the only way to live. There is no blood between us, no obligation to care. But these are the people who’ve always been there.

on the Horizon"

by Annabella McDowell

"Sunset

"Solitude" by Ms. Meredith Tombs

Silence drowns the sounds

Sorrow keeps us up all night

Sunrise never comes

When plants begin to grow

How I hope that you would know

That I miss you

When the sun is too much to bear

How I wish that you were there

So I could kiss you

And when the leaves turn red and brown

I yearn to hear your sound

But I will wait

When the trees start to die

When will you recognize

This is our fate

"Never Ending Love" by Julien Goulet

As the seasons change

My love will the same

But like a bird caught in the snow

You do not know where to go

I will show you the way.

You may call me crazy, devoted, out of my mind

Or all of the above

But is it really such a crazy thing

To be so much in love?

Flakes" by Ms. MeredithTombs

"Frosted

"An Ode to Nancy" by

John Gibson

She’s a couch that hits a hundred miles an hour

And smells like gasoline

My girl Nancy Is the embodiment of The American dream

Sure, I was born on third base But I worked for this ride.

And I didn’t work

Six long months

At a restaurant riddled With endless insects

And suffer blisters from hot pans

To buy an engine

That doesn’t roar when I turn the key. Sure,

Sometimes the key ceases to turn at all

But when it does, Nancy fires up loud.

Champagne beige with Rust all over. About fifteen dents

And twice as many scratches, it’s the Inside that counts though.

In my heart, She’s fast enough

To be in NasCar And can drive me

Away

From all of my worries

Effortlessly

Over and over again. And the very best part is She’s all mine.

"Hawaii" by Dani Fielding

"Tunes by the Ocean" by

Sessen Mengesha

I sat there listening to each instrument that composed the song singling out each beat and rhythm that vibrated and echoed throughout my ear the drums, the bass, the keys, and, of course, the vocals the most essential part of the song breathing life into the music

I sat there, On the beach watching the pacing blue waves effervescing along the shore

The sun, no longer in my eyes or tanning my skin

Instead, washed away into the night, creating A painting; watercolors of pinks, oranges, and blues

I sat there still, finding serenity while watching each wave brush the sand and taking some in exchange

listening to the jumble of various sounds that marvelously fuse to create something beautiful

"Rebirth" by JulienGoulet

The noise of life fills the air

The flowers begin to bloom

Light takes over,

And for darkness, there is no room

Yet, I remain

Hoping to be reborn

Praying for Mother Earth’s forgiveness

And still I face the scorn

Neither the song the bluebird sings

Nor the pattering of the rain

Will shield my troubled thoughts

Or my ever-constant pain

Scents of honeysuckle

Tickle my nose and mind

Making me relive my youth

Transporting me to a much better time

I pray as the tulips grow For Mother Earth to hear my plea

Make me one with the dirt

So that I may be redeemed

"November Fog" by Eleanor Schmutz

Ballad

Mrs. Paige Johnson

Friends, lend your ear, this tale you must hear of a renegade lady I knew

To her I must hand it, this teacher-turned bandit, to books, she was brave and true.

Her students weren’t reading, so Sally was needing to make a difference else-where some minutes avail – I’ll regale you a tale of Ms. Henderson’s panache and flair. (This lady had panache and flair!)

The idea she had – just bear with me, lads –was to spread good books door to door: take from those who don’t need ‘em give to those who might read ‘em, rob the rich, and give to the poor.

Now, I ain’t sayin’ its right, but she left in the night and went West in a Honda Accord but the engine delayed and the spark plugs were frayed and the gas was too much to afford. Yes, the gas cost too much to afford.

"The

of Sally Henderson, English Teacher and Outlaw" by

She needed a horse! And a fast one, of course –

She stole from a farmer, you see –the horse had him some fire, he could run and not tire –this horse could help Sally run free, lads, this horse could help Sally run free.

She called him Fitzgerald and rode single barrelled with saddlebags crammed full of stories and in every small town she would pass books around and be gone by the first light of morning.

She took all she could carry ‘cross the American prairie, and meant to be back by September just a bag full of Blake, Keats, Shelly, and Yeats and all the great books she remembered. She brought Austin and Hardy, both Brontes, a cardi, her toothbrush and Edna Millay the complete works of Shakespeare (and let me just be clear: her intent was to give it away, my friends –she gave all the good books away).

She brought Fraser and Tolkein

Smiley and Graham Green

Tyler and old Barbara K

Halprin and Joyce, so folks had a choice

O’Farrell and E Hemingway

(‘cuz you can’t forget E. Hemingway).

With DeBus, Doerr, and Yeats, she rode ‘cross the states on a horse named Fitzgerald, by day She had only her mission, and all of that fiction her shotgun, and bags of Earl Gray

(she liked tea, lads, so bags of Earl Gray).

But the farmer went round to the sheriff in town and the sheriff? Tipped off, you might say –He swore with a frown he would track Sally down Mrs. H, she would not get away. No, our Sally would not get away.

So, like Doc and young Billy, and old Texas Willie, Butch, Sundance, and Bonnie and Clyde from the law she did run with an antique shotgun and the sheriff chased her far and wide Sheriff Maligant chased far and wide.

(Ride, Sally Henderson! Ride!)

Well, the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months and he chased her clean out to the coast the long arm of the law was upon her, she saw yes, poor Sally, she knew she was toast.

And one late summer night, he gave Sally a fright cornered her on the sharp edge of town right out on a cliff, and her heart it went stiff so she slowed old Fitzgerald down.

Whoah, boy, Fitzgerald, slow down.

“Put your hands in the air!” said the sheriff with flair, thinking he’d caught his white whale –with a dignified gesture, she put down her Winchester, and looked into his face, cold and pale.

But the English teacher had teacher-like features

she knew how to diffuse situations –

She asked him his name and and his anger did wain as she spoke with kindness and patience.

Turns out Maligant, as antagonists went, Was a bit of a bibliophile:

he liked gothic romantics with passion-filled antics and kept them at home in a pile.

What he wanted, you see, from our teacher, Sally –the reason he’d chased her these nights?

A particular tome he did not have at home a copy of WutheringHeights, friends, just a copy of WutheringHeights.

So she gave him the book and a teacher-like look

And he left, reading Heathcliff and Catherine

The very night he’d closed in, he left with a grin

And poor Sally H took an aspirin.

But without Maligant, her valiant quest went rather poorly; it failed to excite

He needed the chase and she needed the race and all that pursuit in the night.

So with tacit agreement, the sheriff and she went on, though he never quite caught her –

She just gave him new books and some secretive looks and the law? Well, it never quite got her –

Yes the law, well, it never quite got her.

And so, to this day, she is out there, they say and happy, from all I can glean –

You might track her down in some mid-western town

‘

cuz I’ve heard folks who say she’s been seen.

I hope, my dear friends that as this poem ends, you will promise to pass on her story

She helped those in need (IF they wanted to read), yes

Her legacy’s good books and glory, lads

Her legacy is good books and glory.

"Home" by Dani Fielding

"Julie's Cultural Reset" by

Micah Hutchings

She stumbles into her dorm, her friend’s laughter ringing in her ears. The blazing neon alarm clock broadcasted the night’s fun, reading 2 A.M. sharp. Julie’s final thoughts before slumber were filled with memories.

Memories with the most popular frats on campus.

Memories of sharing laughter with her roommates.

In the frenzy of boys and girls voices, she’s thankful for this shift to collegiate freedom, resenting the curfew she had at home.

As the night died down, Julie snuggled into her blanket, thinking about how grateful she is to be comfortable in her college community.

But, a loud knock wakes her. A firm clip-clop of heels fills the dorm. With the shuffling of papers and a loud voice, Julie clambers out of her bed.

“Is this the residence of Julie Landerberg?”

Curiously, Julie opens the door, and a tall businesswoman awaits in front of her. Her thin mouth dully utters: “You have been selected as the university’s experimental exchange student. You will attend the nearest HBCU for five-seven weeks to collect data on the differences between campuses. Lucky you. Pack your things.”

Plagued with fatigue, Julie stares at the woman intently. “QUICKLY,” the woman insists.

In pure fear, Julie frantically packs her necessities, leaving behind the junk of her reckless living. With the clanging of beer bottles rolling under her bed, she wipes the ashes of her cigarette tray into the trash, and pulls her bulging suitcase shut.

The beginning of a new era?

Still plagued with fatigue, Julie rushes out to class, barely noticing her new surroundings until a bright red bomber jacket flashes across her line of sight. As her eyes focus, she reads what appears to be Greek letters. Her smile flashes, remembering the Greek letters spray painted on the front of each frat house. The memories of her reckless nights flooded back.

But, these letters seemed…different? Crisper? These letters were worn with pride and dignity, instead of hastily spray painted across the door.

From across the yard, the girl with the red bomber exclaims happily, “Hey soror!” to a girl with long, flowing goddess braids. The two girls walk off together with excitement, talking about the upcoming cross event of the Delta Sorority.

Julie yearns for a sense of familiarity. Feeling confident, she approaches the girls: “Is your house plagued with spray paint of your Greek letters?”

The girls stare at Julie, dumbfounded. “Girl, no. We wear our letters with pride. The Delta House features diamond encrusted letters on the door, handpicked to fit our doorway. By the way, we are the girls from Delta Sigma Rho Incorporated, a historically black sorority, and a big part of the Divine 9. Are you new here? You can read more information about the historically black sorority on our website.”

The girl with the red bomber quickly scratches down the sorority’s website on a post-it note. Handing it to Julie, the girls invite her to walk with them to class.

As the group continues to walk through the yard, Julie sees flags sporting “HBCU Pride.” Students bustle around with sweatshirts bearing “HBCU Made,” “HBCU Material,” and other HBCU paraphernalia.

Hesitantly, Julie asks, “What’s an HBCU?”

The girls look at each other, confused. “Then, you really must be new!” Despite their initial confusion, the girls answer the question with passion:

“An HBCU is an acronym for the term Historically Black College or University. These sets of universities were created to serve the African-American collegiate population during a time where many colleges did not allow racial diversity. These racially segregated colleges have now evolved into predominantly white institutions (PWIs) who in modern day, embrace diversity. After our country became truly desegregated, the integrity of HBCUs remained. Many AfricanAmericans are proud to get their education at an HBCU because it allows them to embrace their cultural identity and celebrate their academic success in an environment where they see others like them. HBCUs are very popular, especially because they produce some of the most successful black people in our world, who are adamant about serving our nation’s black population.”

Julie appears perplexed.

The girls eventually make it to class, and exit with an empty stomach.

“Let’s stop at the Caf.”

As the girls enter the cafeteria, Julie’s new Delta friends run to greet the rest of their sorors sitting at a long cafeteria table. Chatting excitedly, Julie decides to venture out alone to explore the wonders of this “HBCU.”

She approaches a bustling food stand featuring “Soul Food Friday.” Close by, a group of boys joke about how the meal reflects their mom’s authentic home cooking.

The lunch ladies pile food onto Julie’s plate, piping hot and smelling delicious. The collard greens are fresh and leafy, with bits of slow-cooked meat adding a spark of flavor. The creamy macaroni and cheese has a baked, brown coating on the top, filled with fresh seasonings and an assortment of cheeses. The bright yellow cornbread is soft and delicate, balanced out with thick butter coating.

Julie has never scarfed up a meal so quickly.

As she looks around the Caf, she sees how happy everyone is; the spirit of fellowship, friendship, unity, and community filled the room. Everyone was mixing and mingling, laughing together. All types of young men and women, driven with passion to pursue their needed and valuable education.

The crowd parts ways as the Divine 9 sororities and fraternities take over the Caf with an amazing production. Pumping music, sacred chants, and carefully articulated dance ignited the crowd with cheers and applause.

“Get it, Alpha Kappa Rho,” the sorority girls screamed with excitement. The loudness and bustling energy caused Julie to arise from her seat in the Caf. This was a new wave of excitement, different from the rush she felt from the previous frat parties she attended. Another morning on the bustling HBCU lawn awaits.

Julie starts her day rushing to class. But this time, she talked excitedly to her friends the entire way.

“Culture Quiz: Do you know the difference between a PWI and an HBCU?” “What’s the history behind each?”

“Have you ever heard of the Divine 9?”

“Ever seen a traditionally black fraternity step show in the Caf?”

“Do you know how good cornbread is with melted butter on top?”

The Deltas grin knowingly, excited that Julie had finally caught on.

Julie realized that there was a whole other world outside of her small PWI environment. Although it was where she was comfortable, she embraced learning about new things.

And quite literally, all of these events contributed to…

Julie’s cultural reset.

"Springtime

Serenity"

by AndrewLoesch

Spring is here again.

Daffodils are in full bloom, Nature is at peace.

Shadow" by Charlotte Benson

Someone’s been following me.

All day, She follows me. Every day, She follows me.

She lurks behind me, Observing Taunting Watching

But doesn’t say a word. She never does. Never will. She has

no ears

no eyes no mouth,

A mysterious aura surrounds her and she’s dressed from head to toe in black velvet.

"The

Motive?

I'm not quite sure.

Game of hide and seek? Maybe.

I’ve tried to run.

Faster I go every time

But she stays close right on my heels.

As if she’s sewed on. It’s at night when she disappears

The one I now call friend is gone.

Where she goes I couldn’t say.

I guess all shadows need their rest.

"LTF"

by Annie Nealon

"Perhapsthetruthdepends onawalkaroundthelake."

-Wallace Stevens

"As the Seasons Change" by

Alaina Rogers

The world evolves in seasons, from summer to fall, winter to spring - sun to falling leaves, snow to blooming trees. Animals develop in stages, like from an egg to a chick, then a rooster or a hen. Humans mature gradually over change as well. First, we learn and explore, then we connect with others. We form moral assets, discover our identities, and hopefully understand our role in the world. It is difficult to reach the final, ideal step of contentment and reflection without carefully undergoing each of these steps. As time progresses, transitions between seasons can be difficult to encounter, and a constant source of stability can serve as a guide to help us reach the final stage.

For many, this source is a childhood home, rich with family and familiarity. Having moved twelve times in my seventeen years, I haven’t had the chance to build connections to a town or house, and it’s been a struggle to makelasting relationships. Every new school has brought challenges, both socially and academically. I have often pondered the question of “where do I fit in?” or more accurately, “where am I accepted?" On top of studying new environments, I must catch up with the work that may be more advanced than that of my last school. At the end of the day, there is also little comfort in a house that doesn’t yet feel like home; it’s hard to fall asleep in a room in which I feel like an intruder.

In search of an alternative sense of security, sometimes I seek comfort from rolemodels or a constant belief system. I place significant value on lessons I learn and base my actions on specific morals, so this is very important to me. Role models are not always trustworthy, however. I watch the people who have taught me to love everyonedespite appearances or beliefs curse and reject a perfectly kind woman simply because of what she was born with. After noticing the hypocrisy of people I had trusted, I began to find morality a quandary. Itbecame a struggle to determine what was correct in every situation. There was no longer a constant, definite system. I once again found myself adrift at the stifling lack of stability.

I’m not unfamiliar with the feeling that something is missing, but while it is difficult to find my place in the world, I have found stability introspectively. Through all the changes and inquiries, I have always had myself and my values. With this mindset, I have been able to appreciate change and the novelty of the places I've been around the world. I am also open to incorporating new values with those I already hold. I love to learn about the world around me, through philosophy, and my interior world, through psychology. My mom has always called me a "thinker." I spend a lot of time going for long walks outside because I enjoy analyzing my surroundings and I find it intellectually stimulating. When I'm not doing that, I'm typically found sprawled on my bed with a vegetarian snack, pen in hand, annotating books or writing songs. I'vebeen songwriting my entire life, and I intend to pursue a musical side hob. A career in psychotherapy, however,has always interested me more than anything because what matters to me the most is the well being of others. My values are generally formed upon a social conscience, and my number one goal is to look back on life knowing that I have helped people.

Finding stability has been a long-running battle for me, but I would like to think that I have defeated it. I am confident that my values and curiosity will guide me through every changing season of my life so that when my hair turns silver and my last leaves are about to fall, I'll reflect upon my life with serenity and satisfaction.

"Hollow" by Aidan McNerney

Isn’t it unnerving?

How you move while the whole world stays in place

And waits for you to return

And say hello to say goodbye again

Never knowing which will last forever

And which will mean nothing at all

Isn’t it alarming?

How vacant your homefeels on these nights

Receding laughter of former familiars

Strangers with full hearts but empty promises

Perhaps six or seven more returns

Unrecognizable but never really changing

Isn’t it bewildering?

How we all somehow forgot

The world was moved here but it doesn’t matter now

Looking in a mirror at thirteen

A specter wilted in several years

Mourn me but continue racing away

Acknowledgements

We would like to thank all those who submitted to this year's magazine. It is a joy to be able to share your work withour community.

Many thanks to our editing teamfor your dedication, communication, and enthusiasmfor creating this year's CambridgeRoad. A big thank-you to McCabe's PrintingGroup for your collaboration and production.

Bishop Ireton administration – we are so grateful for your support, year after year. Thank you for guidance & encouragement, and for this platform!

Editorial Staff

Editor-in-Chief: Dani Fielding

Curation & Communications: Gabi Hovatter & Aidan

McNerney

Marketing: Allison Dunnegan

Faculty Advisor: Ms. Tombs

Content Editors:

Gabi Hovatter

Aidan McNerney

Annie Nealon

Ella Goulet

Annaliese Ludvigson

Jack Nagtzaam

Patrick Carpenter

Hallie Crawford

Diana Modu Atogo

Charlotte Benson