Outcroppings - Spring 2023

OUTCROPPINGS

Volume 44 • 2023

OUTCROPPINGS

Volume 44 2023

Brewster Academy Wolfeboro, New Hampshire

Editor in Chief: Sylvie Storm Skibicki ’23

Managing Editor: Liam Fahey ’24

Art Editor: Zak Maxey ’23

Faculty Advisor: Jennifer Metcalfe Dumont

Cover Design by Sylvie Storm Skibicki ’23

From the Editors:

This here literary magazine is a testament to the boundless nooks and crannies of the universe that the minds of those in the Brewster community continuously explore. The pieces you are about to so graciously experience were curated by experts to make your viewer experience most enjoyable and are representative of the brave souls who decided to share various artistic expressions that reflect the highest peak of vulnerability. To share your work with the world is to subject ones’ self to constant judgment and for that, to those who have submitted their works to Outcroppings this year, we congratulate you for your not-so-small feat! Our community endures a diverse experience full of much laughter, tears, celebrations, and hardships, and to fall into the continuous loop of the mundane that coincides with order is often inescapable. Outcroppings is an outlet of expression that will forever aim to provide a fresh breath of change within the normality of habit and does so with the help of the unexplainable properties of art. Allow yourself to exist outside of your comfort zone as you view the following works, as it is our hope that the pieces featured will inspire your personal truths within a wide range of conversations.

“Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.”

-Pablo Picasso

People... by Vivian Haiat Daniel ’24

Yuki! by Finn Boston ’25

(Flower) by Chloe Horgan ’25

Table of Contents

by Nur Tugcu ’24

Autumn

by Finnian Sawin ’24

Autumn makes me think of Leaves on the ground in different colors Wind blows the leaves around Pumpkins grow in the fields

Cold mornings and dewy grass Frost, mist, fog

Shorter days and longer nights

Evenings by the crackling fire

My Childhood Home

by Hannah Ruegg ’26

The house is blue. Well, not blue, more green, but still blue. It wasn’t always blue, it used to be white, just white. The siding, the bricks, the windowsills, the gutters, all white, but now, they are blue, more green, but still blue. This house won’t be ours much longer. It will belong to someone else who will fill it with their own furniture, decorations, and people. They may change my room that has been purple for fourteen years, or my sister’s room, which has been orange for eight. They will paint over the wall, which has the names of brothers, sisters, cousins, and even my little stuffed bear, all at different heights to show how we grew. Many have grown out of this house. My brothers to Florida and Nevada, my sister to Tennessee, and soon, we will begin our own adventure Elsewhere. We will fill our new house with the same paintings, rugs, chairs, tables, and beds, but one thing we could never replicate are the memories.

The Milk-Duds box keeping my brothers fan from shaking, the hole in the wall where my brothers foot went through that has been plastered, but not painted, and the stain where my nail polish spilled all over the bathroom, where purple still stains the cabinet to this day. We will make new memories, but will never forget the ones in the white, blue, green, house on Holly Drive.

by Jun Sang Oh ’24

I Hope the Light Catches Me

by Poshu Ng ’23

After the shocking ringing silence Arose a certain surreal soreness, A delirious numbing in his limbs, Deep sleep tugging around the edges.

A lifetime of chaos but now he was blasted above it all, Limply tumbling into the undisturbed sky on a waft of warm air. He opened his eyes, watched the harrowed ground heave below, People oblivious to their entrapment—he finally felt sorry for her As he outstretched his arms, grasping for the infinite heaven above The light caught up, sparing him the fall.

Sweet Golden Clime by Shawn Wallace ’23

Gender Expression by Sam Hanabusa ’25

’25

Hope, for a Storm

by Elisha-Grace King ’23

“Connect to video call?” Click. Fluorescent lighting illuminates the familiar chaos that welcomes the further half of my soul, halfway around the world. It’s comforting to see the power is back on. The computer audio has difficulty picking up each word of Tagalog exchanged at a mile a minute. Additional to internet lag, tropical downpouring against the tin roof, and the sound of jeepneys passing through morning Manila rush hour, I can just barely identify the topic of conversation. Behind the screen, my grandmother calls my family name, “Batuting”, which means “littlest one”. Bright characters with the same eyes as mine fill the pixelated video screen. My cousins show me their newest toys from the parcel we sent and my aunts and uncles ask me about school. Amidst the decreasingly steady internet connection, we exchange frantic waves of goodbye and parting “I love you’s”. Turning off the monitor, we remark that we hope we can try again tomorrow. Hopefully, this storm passes quickly, as do the others on the way. May is typhoon season.

The Philippines, a country of island clusters off the coast of Southeast Asia, has been the site of horrifying climate disasters for decades. On average, twenty typhoons hit the country every year. Whenever I see weather reports predicting mass storms, I think about where my cousins will play once floods flush out the road. The tin on their roof, perhaps, if it can survive another record season of rain. One way or another, I know they will continue to enjoy being kids. Filipino kids, in specific. Despite facing record-breaking disaster after disaster, Filipino people inspirationally forge above their circumstances and never stop practicing joy. We harmonize to thunders of torrential storms and dance as the waters rip through our tropical treelines. Struggle is but a stage of display for the enormous good cheer in our hearts. Spread out around the world, Filipinos help each other from places far and foreign. The joy is powerfully cross-continental. Whether you are in the middle of Manila or visiting through Skype, the connection is near-tangible. When storms hit the vulnerable islands, communities gather in prayer, and families like mine who can only visit through Skype ship packages of toiletries, school supplies, food, and toys back home. Be it on white sandy beaches, busy urban streets, or under rusted tin roofs, there exists an abundance of generous and smiling faces who call the Philippines not only their nation but their way of life. From my ancestors, my spirit inherited a purpose of uplifting my community in togetherness and hope. As a daughter of my community, I dedicate myself to practicing the unflinching Filipino values of positivity and resilience. My maturing eyes wear these values as lenses to problem-solve in the increasingly complex world I am uncovering. When examining any problem, be it in regards to Skype to environmental injustice, it is instilled in me to step back, cultivate joy, and carry forward with hope. When life hits me with hurricanes that nearly flood out my ability to keep composure, I step back, explore solutions, and gather some friends to laugh with while we rebuild. Again and again, this process has helped me forge through the everchanging flurry of life. The unflinching mindset I’ve inherited from the most humbly joyful place on Earth is how I wish to connect humanity to hope throughout its heaviest of storms.

Crisp by Finn Boston

The Three Words

by Ibrahim Fataihi ’23

My feelings do not come with a book of instructions. I sit in awe knowing what love is, only after I start to fear the three words of destruction.

I was fond of the soul that approached me before ever needing an introduction. I did not know what to do with the heart I gave to what I thought was the light in between the darkness of dozens, For my feelings do not come with a book of instructions.

The love I felt was not up for discussion. I was left confused and brittled after what made me... ...Start to fear the three words of destruction.

Like Icarus, shall my pursuit for more lead to my destruction? The invisible pages were slowly being written in time, for My feelings do not come with a book of instructions.

No broken heart is in need of any interruptions, For the only way to break what’s already broken is to fix it after it... ...Start to fear the three words of destruction.

Here I am, drawing the face of what created this numbness. Afraid of searching for what’s to live for, After I’ve learned that my feelings do not come with a book of instructions, I start to fear the three words that caused this destruction.

Fear, Love, Change by Heidi Broussard ’25

Sharp by Sylvie Skibicki ’23

Green

by Liam Fahey ’24

HE: a dazzling drawing I often recall seeing in the sky when we had light. Twinkling, shining, ambient light. Now I see nothing but gray and reminisce about the rise and fall of the amber orb. Now I only see the imaginary light in my dreams, and think of what it might’ve been like to live just yesterday. The last generation has left us nothing, not even a thought of spring or fall. Only gray. No one recalls what the socalled color green looked like, or rather how it made us feel.

(beat)

HE: green like the supposed leaf, has now turned to gray like the clouds above and the puddles near. (beat)

HE: They have left us with nothing, or so I thought. They say there is some green left, yet we haven’t found it. In the books they described it as lush, overgrown, and rich, words I have no real concept of. They say the green represents those who tried, those who appreciated, and those who grew.

(beat)

HE: Grow, something I have yet to witness and only ever heard of. Grew, something we have yet to do. But how can we as a population grow with no seeds to plant. If we have not yet attained the good the last generation left for us. If, in some way, there is no good that the last generation left us.

(beat)

HE: How then, shall we continue to grow for those who come after us? How will we ensure that our lives and legacies will live on?

(beat)

HE: Is there such a legacy in nothing? Do we have anything to preserve for those coming after us? Do we deserve to have something that comes after us? Do they deserve to come after us?

(beat)

HE: If there was no green before us, how shall there be green to follow us? It does have to grow after all doesn’t it?

(beat)

HE: We reached a time where we don’t appreciate the green, so the green no longer holds room to appreciate us. But for as long as I have imagined, I have seen green. And I wonder if the green in my head is the same green others see. I see green as things we only dream of having; hope, prosperity, life.

(beat)

HE: Now there is no life, I don’t feel alive. I have no purpose for those who will follow, for I cannot warn them because the green is already gone. Maybe if the green existed I could experience those things and maybe I wouldn’t be feeling this way right now. I could feel alive, I could feel hope, but I have no hope to give nor a life to live.

Rolling Hills by Ms. Deanna Rowley

Boy in Red by Daniel Springman ’23

Beautiful Boy by Sylvie Skibicki ’23

The Lunar Expression by Lexi Davies ’25

Dear Lily

by Ney Phosuk ’23

Dear Diary, Today, my friend and I put some lanterns in the garden. Under the twilight light, those lanterns glimmered. There were flowers: carnations, lilies, roses. Our dresses were white, like lilies.

The flowers didn’t last forever, nor did the lanterns. They were burnt and thrown away, the next day. I had my favorite lily; I knew which was mine, The whitest white, my two-hands-size, near the biggest rose.

Tonight, the lanterns shine, and the flowers show. I can see the beauty, feel the warmth, In the garden: carnations, lilies, roses, Lanterns.

by Jack Matthews ’23

Rainbow Sky by Ms. Barb Thomas

Grip by Randall Preston ’25

Alight by Logan Cliche ’25

Dear Rejection Letter

by Elisha-Grace King ’23

Dear Rejection Letter,

I regret to inform you that it wasn’t worth it. The hours spent on contriving intriguing narratives of myself to appeal to your brutal standards of qualification. Were my witty remarks not quick enough? Were my unique interests too niche? I have shed too many tears and pulled out too many hairs over my computer keyboard to not see “Congratulations!” at the top of my screen. All of us did. Even the ones who did get in.

My father was shocked, and my friends rushed to convince me that everything would be okay. “I know, I know,” I assured them. It didn’t feel like a big deal at the time. In a deeper sense, it felt as if I were watching a burning building but experiencing no emotion. I was watching floods blast through the windows, but found myself in a blank stillness; disappointment, confusion, and apathy to dull it all away. Without a convincing face to show the people around me that I was truly “okay”, I just wanted to go to bed. Everything I had was emptied in pursuit of what now looked like a dead-end journey.

Secretly, everything depended on that admissions letter. No matter how many times I told myself that any school would do, I only had one ultimate goal. All the scenarios I played in my head of walking through the halls, sitting in class, and even the view I would see, were all attached to one place. When applicants click the “view status update” button, we surrender that reality to a faceless institution covered in mystique. Are these images ours to keep or yours to add to the shrinking acceptance ratios on U.S. News? If they are yours, take them, please take them.

I worked just as hard for you, rejection letter, as I did for your alternative. Off of the back of stacking bills on the kitchen table, I gave all I had for you. What now, when the thousands of words have left my fingertips and the sleepless nights have passed? I still have myself. My accomplishments. My drive to succeed by my own measures, not the ones of institutions who don’t know me.

The only lesson your school will ever teach me is that even if games are made to be lost, they ought to be played. I will write the essays and share my story as it evolves. Achievement or brutal loss, each step forges my path. Never waiting for a happenstance, but wacking the weeds towards the person I should be. Each change in direction builds momentum to a success that can’t be granted by a single letter.

I wish myself the best on my educational journey,

EG

Saying Goodbye

by Ms. Judy Northrop

On Saturday, Dad was able to make a few calls from his room in the hospital. One such was a clear call to the nurse’s station to inform them that he was ready to be discharged.

“I want to go home,” he declared.

Home, until now, was really wherever our Mom happened to be. Mom and Dad were two peas in a pod, partners in crime, BFF’s, and they went together as naturally as, gin and tonic, wine and cheese, peanut butter and chocolate, pork and sauerkraut, Sam’s Pizza & birch beer, skinny pretzels & ice cream-- they did just about all things together as a team.

E-v-e-r-y-thing.

Sue and Harry complemented one another.

Spending time with just Mom this week, we sifted through photos and discovered lost scrapbooks. We uncovered long hidden treasure maps of their lives and retraced their story. The story of two separate beings meeting at the right moment, who connected and grew together creating their mutually beneficial, cooperative life. It has been special to glimpse their past, not as my parents, but as the loves of each other’s lives.

Letters, dance memorabilia, bus tickets, movie stubs, college class schedules, pet names, photos, cartoons, inside jokes, commencement bulletins-- all testaments to their lives becoming more complete with the presence of the other.

Sue and Harry met ‘down the shore.’ It was a summer love that could have easily ended there, but did not. They kept the flame alive in a time without cell phones, text messages, email or social media. When crickets clamored rather than chirped, leaves slipped into something more glamorous, and classes commenced finally, then the letters were exchanged and the visits were planned.

The summers came and the summers passed, the shore being a touchstone of time spent together. Naturally, it became a special place for their family and for our families.

Just as important as our beach time was the journey.

I remember our trips to the seashore, so vividly. We sang songs, told tales, took naps, played the license plate or the alphabet game all along the way.

At the Great Egg Toll Plaza on the Garden State Parkway, the smell of salty marsh waters circles around the nostrils. Everything changes at that intersection of bay and bridge.

As kids, we would begin to look for landmarks; those familiar sights signaled to us that we were that much closer to our destination-- our Nanny’s house by the sea.

Dutifully, we would carry our suitcases inside, lovingly, we would hug our Nanny, and then we were off to the beach and to the sea. We could barely wait to feel the sand beneath and between our toes.

It was as if the ocean felt the same way, running to meet us like a long lost friend.

As toddlers, Mom & Dad held our hands as we jumped triumphantly over little baby waves. Our parents showed us how to create worlds in the sand with just a bucket and a clam shell.

cont. from pg. 20

When we were a bit older, but not quite ready to brave deep surf, Dad carried us out past the breakers to the rollers, where we learned how to float on our backs and to trust the ocean as a hammock.

As fully fledged swimmers, Dad taught us to ride the waves, to dive over or under those that seemed insurmountable.

He taught us to navigate tides and currents, and to check our distance from the shore using landmarks.

To this day, I remember following him across a large and deep gully to the sand bar, his orange swim shorts were dancing gently through the cloudy salted water. I kept him just in my sights, close enough to grab, if I needed him, until we reached the bar, the presence of the ocean changing the gully with its wave, roar, and foam.

You’re home, Dad.

Speckled Hill by Victoria Wilson ’24

The Worst Monsters are Real by Sylvie Skibicki ’23

(above) Eyes Open by Sylvie Skibicki ’23, (top left) Wash by Ms. Barb Thomas, (top right) The Tree of Knowledge by Will Dumont ’25

Death of the Homework

by Finnian Sawin ’24

Teacher gave student some homework Student took homework for home Student put homework on foam work And off student went to go roam

A dog came along named Roger Roger the dog’s slobber dripped The homework then tried to dodge her But then the feeble homework ripped

In Roger’s jaws the homework was clenched Before too long the paper was drenched The homework went down with a swallow Soon after the kid’s grades would follow

Child’s Play by Alex Gordon ’26

Toy by Aum Pechkamnerd ’23

Keys of Doom by Gigi Sassi ’23

The Player by Comeh Emuobor ’23

Online by Sylvie Skibicki ’23

Busywork by Chloe Horgan ’25

The Bloody Painting

by Rose Sheerin ’26

Soldiers, soldiers marching on a battlefield

Feels like I am going under

From something that’s been under pressure

This moment doesn’t feel real

But everything seems to be shiny and bright in the midst of this meadow

Then in an instant clouds fill my thoughts

It feels like I’m dreaming

Then a curtain is pulled with a painting behind

This painting is hidden but it’s meant to be seen

I try to reach it but it starts to move

Further and further away

So far it’s like a bright box in the distance

In this dark room the only thing I hear is bullets, I can’t see my surroundings

Then I feel something burst

I touch the spot that holds the pain

As it sputters with blood

I drop to my knees and I look up

To see the painting

That is now ripping and dripping with blood

The pieces of painting tear away falling to the ground

Now in my hands

Covered in blood

I look down at the scraps and think

“Is this what our country has become”

Our country isn’t just split

But it’s ripped itself up

Into a million pieces

I wake up in a sweat

The thought of bullets running through my mind

I’m lying in this field

I’m not in my body but I see it below

I’m floating above as I look to and fro

I see everything that could vanish

Like soldiers, soldiers marching on the battlefield

Eye Spy by Meghan Shippos ’23

On the Following Pages...

This sub-section has been brought to you by the freshman class (‘26) here at Brewster Academy. Starting high school is a humongous endeavor and moving away from all one has ever known to an entirely new environment absent of parental supervision adds a whole new dimension of excitement and fear to the process. The freshmen this year were asked to write a personal narrative in their English class where they dove deep into heartbreak, adventure, lessons learned, and much more! It should be noted that some of the stories shared could be found triggering so viewer discretion is advised. Enjoy a look inside a notable selection of 14 & 15-year-old brains!

Pondering by Morgan Tennent ’26

Wind & Water

by Lilly Felch-Lindvall ’26

Sailing has never been a significant skill of mine. I have been doing it since I was little but never enjoyed it. My mom thought it would be strange if I lived on Nantucket, an Island, and didn’t know how to sail a boat. I never wanted to go to practices, especially when they made me sail with my brother, Hutton. He was new to sailing Opti boats or Optimists, tiny boats like a dinghy that help kids new to sailing learn skills fast, so they thought it right to put us together. Although I love him, he can stress me out, especially when we are out on the water, and he is crying his eyes out. I’ll be honest; it wasn’t completely his fault. I preferred to sail alone, and when he was lying there doing nothing, I would start to yell.

This year I wanted to be better. I had practiced sailing for a long time. It was about time I started trying to be good at it. I made new friends and started to enjoy the sport a little more, but I was still worried about the race that was coming up. Both my brother and I fought my mom about going sailing that day.

“Mom, we go sailing every day, and my friends want to hang out. It’s just one day. Can I please skip,” I said.

“No, we paid money for you to have this opportunity. Stop being a brat. It is a good skill to have,” she replied. This was her response every time.

I wish just once she could understand where I am coming from, I thought to myself.

Mom forced us into the car. Even on the way to the beach, I hoped she would change her mind and decide it was ok not to go. Under my breath, I said, please, please turn around. But as usual, we arrived at the beach, and I was prepared to lose. I know it is not good to go into anything with a bad mindset, but it seemed realistic.

I was not confident in my skills, and having my brother in the boat, I had a feeling of how this would go. We got out to the water. My favorite part about sailing was the motorboat rides out. It would clear my mind, and it was like there was nothing to think about. Everything was silent, and you could see the beautiful houses on the coast pass by and the bright blue ocean below. I would play a game in my head where I would ask myself, what kind of animals are below me? It always felt so nice to have salt water hit my face and my hair whipping around. It was like a fun roller coaster but more peaceful.

We hit the floating dock, and all got off. I put my boat together and into the water first. That never happened, and I started to feel better about this race, feeling that

everything would be ok. Maybe I won’t lose this race. We may have a chance. I got into the boat and began communicating and directing my brother on what to do. I knew if I have to yell, this will not end well.

Next thing we know, the wind was blowing by, the race started, and we were ahead. It was smooth sailing, like flying around the course. We tacked and jibbed, all at the correct times, making perfect transitions. Flying by other racers like it was a walk in the park. Everything just felt right, like nothing could go wrong. As Hutton loosened the rope to let the boat tip just the slightest bit, I put my hand down and touched the cold water. My hand ran through the water, leaving a trail of bubbles as I caught seaweed between my fingers. I lifted my hand just enough to splash my brother with water. Of course, he yelled at me and then did the same because we are siblings. He just had to get me back.

I breathed in the salty air as it blwe by. Everything felt so easy and fun. It all went by in a blur. Sooner than later, I realized that Hutton and I had won the race, but not once. We won all three races. As I realized what happened, my jaw dropped.

Hutton looked over to me, saw my face, and in disbelief, he asked, “Lilly, did we just win?”

Still in shock, I replied, “I think we did.”

At that moment, I screamed over to the instructors and asked them. “Did we win??” They replied, laughing and nodding. With each nod of their heads, the crazier it sounded.

Hutton tapped me on the leg with his foot smiling, and said, “Lilly look behind you.” I turned just in time to see others behind us finally catching up. I thought, no way, but it was true we won. Hutton and I yelled in excitement, high-fiving and laughing in disbelief.

“We won, Hutton, we won the race,” I yelled to him. We laughed it out, soon changing the subject to something random like what’s for dinner once again. We were getting along. As much as I didn’t believe it, I had so much fun sailing with my brother.

We finished so far ahead of everyone we soared around the course with big smiles. I was so proud of both of us. After finishing, we helped others who were stuck on buoys get unstuck and finish the race. First, I laughed, but then I untied their router from the line and pushed their boat to the point where the wind could take them to the finish line. Hutton and I docked the boat and put it back cont. on pg. 31

cont. from pg. 30

on the stand. Even though it was heavy, our excitement pushed us through the struggle of lifting the boat.

We finished so early that we got time to swim in the harbor. After begging my coaches all season, they finally agreed, but we had to keep our life vests on even if we were strong swimmers. Hand in hand, we jumped into the bright blue water, seeing who could touch the bottom of the harbor first, even with those bright orange vests that prevent you from getting that deep. We fight the vests and swim to the bottom, grabbing handfuls of the goopy sand and bringing it back to prove that we touched it, coming up with the stinging salt in our eyes and gasping for air.

We return to land with soaked clothes and salt still on our faces and hair. Hutton and I start to wring out our clothes. I was excited to tell my mom how well we did. I knew I would have to deal with the “I told you”

conversation with my mom, but still, I was proud and could get over my stubbornness just this once. Excitingly, Hutton and I got into the car, laying towels on the seat so we don’t ruin the fake leather seats, with the water dripping from our hair and clothes. We told our mom about our great day and how well we did in the race. I was so proud of us and ready to brag about it for the rest of that week.

Sailing is a fantastic sport; if you are in the right environment, it is like another world of peace. My mom was right! I am so glad I got pushed into that car every day to go out on that water and make memories. Both good and bad, I spent time with my brother, and now that I am away from home, moments like those stupid fights mean everything to me. Even if we lost that day, which I’m so glad we didn’t, all I would remember would be the fun we had.

Frozen Wave by Heidi Broussard ’25

Light trails by Ellie Armstrong ’24

Butterfly by Ellie Armstrong ’24

The Big Dance

by Eli Carnegie ’26

It was the fall trimester, and the leaves were changing colors. But more importantly, dance class was starting. For the first month, we would do exercises to get comfortable with dancing and to learn new moves. For example, we learned krumping, a dance that pushes us out of our comfort zones. Then my friend Alex Gordon had the idea that we should dance at an all-school meeting. After he got approved by the teacher, he asked me first.

“Do you want to before a group dance at all school?” he said.

“With the whole class or just us?” I said.

“The whole class,” he said.

“Yeah, sure, ” I said.

Then we asked the class, “Do you guys want to perform a dance at the all-school?”

Initially, they were skeptical, but we started practicing after they thought about it. This journey was a long and fun experience because we got to develop our moves and how we would be positioned. We practiced every day during our dance block. Alex, who came up with the idea, also came up with the first couple of moves. But after that, the whole class threw in their ideas, so we all choreographed the dance.

The usual practice would look like us doing our typical ten-minute dance warm-up. We would also stretch for five minutes after to make sure that no one would get injured or hurt during our practice. We would then all get into places and start the dance. If we got to a point where we didn’t have a move, then we would all stay in the formation that we were in, and we would all propose ideas that we had until we all thought and agreed on the same idea.

We practiced for five weeks. After all that work, our dancers still feared going on stage and showing their identities. After all of our practicing, we all came up with the idea to hide our identities with masks and wear the same black hoodie, black pants, and glow-in-the-dark “Purge” mask. We wanted to hide our identities because some people were scared they would mess up. But another reason was that it would make the dance look cooler. It would also make people feel better about going on stage and make them more confident in their moves. Then after a long-awaited time, the day to perform finally came.

We were the first thing to go at all school, so we knew we had to set standards high for the rest of the assembly. So that’s what we did. We went out into our triangle formation behind the curtains, the curtains pulled back, and my heart sank. In front of me, over 300+ people had eyes on me. Before the song even starts, everyone saw us in our black hoodies and pants. They also saw our glow-inthe-dark mask and they went crazy screaming. The music began to play, and we started dancing, and the only thing I could think of was, “Don’t mess up, don’t mess up.” At first, the music was quiet, so we missed our first move. But the music was playing after that, and we were doing good.

Then came me and Alex’s duo. I was scared that I would mess up the moves, but I didn’t, and we finished the dance, ran down the middle row, and circled back up to the stage for a round of applause. After that, I learned that you could do anything you put your mind to. After we got off the stage, our teacher gave a speech about how good we did, and everyone felt good about the dance. I felt very accomplished because all the practice paid off. If I had the chance to do it again, I wouldn’t because that was a special moment with that class and that group of people, and I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else. After everything, everyone was happy, and we all loved it, and to this day we all look back on it and what a crazy experience it was.

Flowers and Tree Trunks

by Grace Watson ’26

Growing up, I was always very close with my grandfather. He was a fantastic person who cared about his family so much and always knew how to make you smile. On hot summer days when my cousins and I were little, he would let us stand on his back and pretend to surf in our cobalt-blue pool. If he wasn’t in the water, he would be dancing to the sound of Louis Armstrong in his Nylon toucan swim shorts. He was our everything, and we were his. Our family was a flourishing tree with him as our trunk, always keeping us strong and together.

The funny thing is I don’t remember the day things started to change. I don’t know a moment when I sat down on the beige living room couch and heard the words “dementia” and “memory” seep from my mother’s mouth. It may have been a passing conversation in the car on my way to school in leather seats. It didn’t matter where I sat or who said the words. I knew things were not the same as before. I knew he would forget little things that he used to remember with ease. I knew my mother’s constant need to make sure he was ok. I knew the looks, and I could feel the air. I knew things were not as they were.

Our visits to his little brick apartment on the first floor increased. Over the next few months, it became a second home to me, if it wasn’t already. It had little bushes in the front, the chain smoker with her noisy kids above, and little concrete stairs with a black railing. I always heard stories in passing about his neighbors, old and young. When you walk in, the old wooden doors creak like the apartment’s way of saying “hello.” I remember that apartment like my own. I still know which food was in each cabinet, where he put the remotes, and the closet where he put his favorite suits. As my parents swam around the house like bees or took trips to the grocery store to ensure he had everything he needed, I was drifting far away. On the couch, it was just him and me. We would spend hours watching crappy game shows and debating how long I should cook our lunch in the old white microwave. It was amazing.

To me, these more frequent visits were a gift. Why would I see it any other way? He was always a constant and comfort throughout my life. As he would say, visiting him was a “blessing.” In 2016 and 2017, I learned the value of family. In 2016 my Uncle passed, then in 2017, my cousin died, and a month or two later, my Grandmother followed. In the wake of so much loss came thankfulness for my family. The peace of his and my parents’ presence was a comfort I relished. I loved him, and he loved me. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“Bye, Grandpa! I love you!” I always said as my body drifted out of the little apartment.

Somehow over the buzz of my parents making sure he knew his appointments and where the food was, his partially deaf ears always found my voice

“I love you too, Gracie!” He would reply as always. Eventually, the time came when we had to say goodbye to the little brick apartment in Belmont. I don’t know when my family decided to move him out. All I knew was that it was what he needed. So we traded the couch for hard hospital chairs and the old TV for a little flatscreen tucked into the wall. I was used to hospital settings, but I still hated it. I hated watching him in bed. I hated the lack of comfort. I hated that nursing home. Of course because it was me and Grandpa we always found ways to bond, just in a different environment. We still watched crappy game shows over Jolly Ranchers and, of course, listened to Frank Sinatra once in a while. With time, that small room became another home, just like the little apartment. The rough bedding became soft, and the sound of the other patients became white noise.

Slowly I began to understand Dementia. He didn’t just forget doctors’ appointments or the year; it made him forget himself. I watched my best friend lose his grip on reality ever so slowly. First, he forgot the year. Next week it was where he was. Finally the time came where he didn’t remember me. My name changed from day to day. Sometimes I would be lucky, and my name would be Grace, but the next day I would be Meagan, Maureen, or Ellen. At first, I was shocked, but again, time allows for adjustment. Him not knowing who I was, not remembering the endless hours we spent together broke my heart, but I thought somewhere, under the chemicals, medicines, and hospital gown, he knew me, really knew it was me. Maybe I was delusional or desperate, but it still brought me comfort.

September 23rd was the day I said goodbye. I walked under the bright fluorescent lights, knowing this might be the last moments my best friend and I would have together. The breathing tubes and machines hummed so loud you could barely think. I don’t remember exactly what I said. All I knew was that I had never said the 3 words “I love you” so many times. The next day I heard the phone ringing early in the morning. I knew what this meant. I picked up the phone to the sounds of sobbing and heartbreak. I was the one who had to tell them. I grabbed my grandmother first, then my sleeping father. I hated this. I couldn’t put on those too-tight black flats and pick another black dress.

cont. on pg. 35

by Sylvie Skibicki ’23

Within a week, I went to his wake, spoke at his funeral, and stared at a patch of cemetery grass.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“He was a good man.”

“It will get better.”

After a while, the condolences and apologies became white noise I wished I could turn off. I couldn’t stand another conversation filled with teary eyes and awkward looks.

Even though he had passed away, our drives to upper Boston never stopped. The only thing that changed was the end destination. His grave was under a big beautiful blooming tree. Back when he was healthier, he would

always come to plant flowers and take care of our family’s burial spots. Slowly the responsibility shifted to my family and me. Gradually our grief was replaced with flower pots, gardening gloves, and soil. Visiting that cemetery became something I looked forward to. Through flowers, hot summer days, and painted stones, I began to show my love.

A year or two later I slowly crouched next to the big engraved stone. I’d been here so many times, under the old tree. Under the shade, I grabbed the pretty flower by my side and packed it into the rough, strongly scented dirt. I read the words for the 100th time, “Paul J. Haley,” and for a second, it feels like he is here, right beside me with the peonies, primroses, and petunias.

cont. from pg. 34

I Need to be Myself

by Marharyta Morozova ’26

I went to summer camp with my basketball team. It was the first time I had been to a summer camp, and I was excited about it. Coach told us that one girl was going to join our team. This camp was like ”tryouts” for her. She was from the Donetsk region, and I was curious to meet her because I didn’t know many people who lived just next to the occupied territories. When we arrived at the camp, she was already there. When we were deciding which rooms to choose (each room was for five people), the coach said a new girl would live in the same room with me. We discovered we had much in common as a short time period passed, so we became friends quickly. She was as tall as me, and we both liked to draw, watch anime, and play basketball. I have never made such a good friend so fast!

One day when the rain was dripping from the sky, we sat in our room, and I was drawing in my sketchbook.

“Can I draw in your sketchbook? I didn’t bring mine,” she asked me nicely. Something scratched me in my solar plexus, and I wouldn’t say I liked that idea.

“You can’t say no to her, she will be upset,” said the voices in my head, and I had no choice but listen to them.

“Sure,” I answered and gave her my sketchbook. Several days passed, and everything seemed to be okay. However, I sighed whenever my friend asked me for a sketchbook. I couldn’t say no to her. I was too afraid that she would be upset. While I was copying other artists from the internet (because I didn’t know how to draw yet), she was doing her own works, which were much better than mine! I felt annoyed and jealous because no matter how hard I tried, I could never draw like her! One day, when I was drawing, and she was not around, I tried to copy her work. It wasn’t as good as hers but better than mine. No surprise that she found out about it next time when she took my sketchbook. She opened the sketchbook and looked at the two pictures, hers and mine, as similar as two drops of water.

“What is it?” she asked me and frowned. “Why did you try to copy my work?

I lowered my head, refusing to admit it.

“I am learning from copying others. It is just my way to find progress.” I looked at her and continued, “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind.”

“You should’ve asked me first!”

“But it is my sketchbook, and you draw in it!” If she didn’t like that I copied her work, she shouldn’t use my sketchbook, right?

“Ugh! Whatever!” she stomped out of the room and slammed the door.

Looking back, I don’t think I ever explained why I kept copying her drawings. She never understood why I did that. My problem was not about her pictures but about her using my sketchbook. It was my first sketchbook, and I wanted it to be full of my work, not other people’s. Even if my work wasn’t as good as my friend’s, I still wanted my sketchbook to be that way. My success was important to me, and whenever I saw my friend’s drawing, I felt like my success was nothing. I was watching videos, and I practiced every single day of the camp, and she could draw whatever she wanted just out of her head! It disappointed me, mainly because I am always trying to be perfect, and whenever I fail upsets me. I am struggling with it even cont. on pg. 37

Lantern by by Marharyta Morozova ’26

cont. from pg. 26 now, five years later. I cannot put up with it whenever I am not perfect. I am too slow and weak compared to others on my basketball and crew team. I can’t get a score above 88 on my essays and projects.

The next day our team went to a beach. It was a sunny, hot day, and everybody was swimming and playing. I was sitting in the tree’s shadow on the grass, and honestly, even if my friend didn’t talk to me, I felt fine. I took out my sketchbook and started to draw. My friend came to me. I lifted my head and looked at her. She was looking at me too.

“Hey,” I said because we couldn’t just stare at each other for a whole day, right?

“Hi,” she mumbled and turned her eyes to my sketchbook. “Can I erase my drawings? I don’t like the thought that you are copying them.”

I didn’t want to let her erase them, but what could I do? It was her drawings, and it’s not like she will ever draw in my sketchbook again. “It is just stupid drawings. Just let her erase them,” said the voices in my head, so I gave her my sketchbook. She erased her drawing and gave me my sketchbook back. I was so mad! Honestly, I don’t know why I was so angry. It was just how it was.

Later on, we didn’t speak for a day or two. I started to feel bad about it because I realized I was wrong. I apologized to her, and she forgave me. However, from that day to the end of the camp, I didn’t feel the same happiness from our friendship. Probably because I still felt terrible about my actions, and every day I remembered that. I think the problem was in my feeling of inadequacy. I did a bad thing. I realized that, and so I started to feel sorry. It always works like this for me. I can’t just forget about my mistake. I have many memories of when I said or did something and my mum told me it was wrong, so I started wanting to escape it. I need to forget it; otherwise, I will feel bad

whenever something reminds me about that. Thinking about that, I just realized why I am always quiet with new people, I’m just scared I will do something wrong.

Talking about my friend, we were still friends when camp ended. But after the camp was over, I never saw her again. I had her phone number and even texted her a couple of times, but she never texted me first - she just answered my texts, so I stopped texting her. It was a long time ago. I lost her phone number and forgot her name.

I learned two lessons from this story. First, stepping back once and being honest with your feelings is better. If I had stepped back during the argument, our friendship could stay the same. Also, if I were honest with her, I would tell her I am not okay with sharing my sketchbook, so this argument would never happen.

The second lesson that I learned is about my feeling of inadequacy. From that moment and to this day, every time when I feel that I need to get better, I calm myself down and do what I can. For example, I go to the gym and practice before school to be stronger. I stopped copying others’ work, and every time I remind myself that I need to be myself.

Even if I know I need to be better, I also know that I need to understand that I can’t just wish for it, and it will come. I know I will make progress. Even if this progress will be slow, I will go toward my goal step by step at my own pace. Others can have it easier than me, but why should I care? People who always get everything easily may give up when it starts to be tough, but if it was tough for me from the beginning, and I didn’t give up, I will never give up halfway through. I don’t know who I am going to be and where life will take me next, but I will try my best in everything that this life will bring me. “Everything that doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.”

Placement

by Caitlin Cliche ’26

How will you ever know where you stand in others’ eyes? It’s always a guessing game because we do not want to be right or wrong because if we are wrong then we will be dead inside but if we are right in the wrong way then things will go downhill. I hate being right.

Being right means you have passed the test but will have another chance for failure. You can never be right in anyone’s mind because there is always room for improvement but what if I don’t want to improve?

What if improving just means that you were a mess up, a mistake?

I don’t want to be a mistake. I am not a mistake. Placement.

Everyone has a different opinion of you but no one will ever think highly of you because the is no way to be perfect and perfect is all that they ever want.

Perfect is just a word that we use to make sure that we set expectations that are way too high for ourselves so that we can tear ourselves apart until we are finally perfect. Perfect is the only thing that we will never be. We make statements, goals, and then promises that we don’t intend to keep but we still hold ourselves to them until the last minute.

I promise to be perfect. That was the impossible promise. I just wanted to be good enough but in the eyes of others but I won’t be. Placement is what others think of us, not what we think of ourselves. It shouldn’t be at least. Placement, perfect, improve. None of these exist anymore.

Weightless by Heidi Broussard ’25

The Escape

by Ibrahim Fitaihi ’23

Here I am, frowning as I manifest what could one day be called great. A swimming pool of feelings looking to make sense of what is not, For all I am is an artist swiftly dancing through a chaotic symphony I look to escape.

Playing as fear and confidence collide, away from attempting a mistake. Using notes from an instrument to Kill the silence that creeps into ones thoughts, Here I am, frowning as I manifest what could one day be called great.

How can one Play for love yet be so stained with hate?

An audience of puppets controlled with ropes and tied knots, For all I am is an artist swiftly dancing through a chaotic symphony I looks to escape.

Shaken from ears looking to hear freedom with closed gates, Hope is a currency unseen when lost what cannot be bought. (Love) Here I am, frowning as I manifest what could one day be called great.

Who knew a coffin would be the ultimate destination to this race, The value of loss is important, but here I am, trying not to make a mistake, For all I am is an artist swiftly dancing through a chaotic symphony I looks to escape.

lost in the darkness of bright lights and shiny shoes, A pricey watch that’s no use for he is trapped in time of guilt and shame. Here I am, frowning as I manifest what could one day be called great, An artist swiftly dancing through a chaotic symphony I looks to escape.

Coffee House by Hannah Ruegg ’26

What Remains by Logan Cliche ’25

While You Step Through Crunchy Leaves

by Finnian Sawin ’24

While you step through crunchy leaves on the forest floor, the dim spotted sunlight illuminates the ground through the tree branches on a chilly morning.

The path leads through a mist amongst the beautiful blueberry bushes that grow along the banks of a calm pond where little fish are jumping. A loon out on the water cries a ghostly song through the mist and a gentle breeze makes the last leaves clinging to the tree branches tremble.

The path takes you uphill into a darker setting and past two squirrels shuffling in the leaves. As you tread on uphill, you look up and see the silhouettes of turkeys still asleep in the dark trees. It is a very calm and quiet scene.

When you approach a steep and rocky incline, an eagle splits the silence with a haunting screech. You hike up the rocky ridge and out of the shadowy curtain of undergrowth.

The view from the summit is up ahead and it glows with the unfiltered luminance of a vivid, stark sunrise.

The eagle soars high overhead on the cool, gentle breeze that flows over the rounded mountaintops and makes ripples in the lake that reflect the morning sun like shimmering pearls. It brings with it fresh snowflakes that gently float down and begin to cover the golden mountaintops and freeze the fishes’ pond.

Wonder by Elisha-Grace King ’23

Jubilation by Finn Boston ’25

Rogue Chia Seed

by Zoe Schwartz ’23

small grey thing stuck to the back of my finger what are you fairy excrement or wet dust clump

no just a rogue chia seed left over from the oatmeal i ate this morning

Bye Bye Birdie by Ms. Barb Thomas

Labyrinth by Ms. Michelle Rafalowski

Nước (liquid/country)

by Kellye Nguyen ’23

An ode to my language

Ực.

Gulp. In it goes

Cooling waves crash against my skin

It’s now “hi Adam!” Instead of “chào An!”

The apple bobs up and down

Following the path mapped out in “The World”

The English alphabet twirls, a dance to the tune of my voice

The noise so foreign, so new

I haven’t got a clue where this next breath will take me

*Inhale*

A boat and its outstretched sleeves

Weaving between waves

Carrying me away from my hometown

Hands gripping strong as if choking

I crunched the plucked up roots of the old Acerola Cherry tree

Trying to hang onto the shores of my throat

My Mother’s tongue. My tongue.

*Exhale*

What is the body but a love letter?

Written in music notes of the old Coca-Cola ad from your cursed childhood

Written in inside jokes and tear-filled laughters

Shared between Lovers, Friends, and Souls whose light lit up lives

Mẹ, I know this love letter also came from the silent cries and untold pain

You swallowed

From prayers and the rainbows you painted over and over again

So that I can now be sheltered from this storming rain called Life

You wrote me so that I could be read

In red ink—printed bold, loud, and clearer than this ancient sky itself

I was written in the same love language from which you were born

This letter is now neatly rolled

Tightly tied to the side

Of the apple stem with a thread from the hem of your ripped summer dress

Sent away from the shores of your throat, your mother’s throat, and the throats of all the Mothers before her

Mẹ, I don’t know to where the coming air will take this apple boat, or if it will get lost in the

Currents of the world’s hungry, cold flow

But I am sure that your island will never be barren and

Your throat will forever be its return address.

Familiarity by Alexis D’Angelo ’25