The Emblem | 2019-2020 by Hutchison School

The Art and Literature of Hutchison School 2019-2020

The Emblem (Volume 62) Art and Literary Magazine Hutchison Upper School Cover artwork: Front: Caroline Weakley ‘20 Back: Sydney Shy ‘20, Mia Temme ‘21, Demi Angelikas ‘20, Amelia Hausmann ‘21, Caroline Seamons ‘20, and Betty Jane Thomas ‘21

Editors:

Caroline Couch ‘20, Poetry Abby Hays ‘20, Graphic Design Millie Mencke ‘20, Prose Madison Morris ‘20, Art Kiya Brown ‘21, Poetry, Writing Workshop Leader Eve West ‘21, Prose, Writing Workshop Leader

Special thanks to:

Ms. Anne Davey Ms. Adrienne Forgette Ms. Lacey Hudman Ms. Amy Lawrence Ms. Jeanette Leake Ms. Tracey Zerwig Ford Writing Workshop Attendees

Contents

Flowers for Nana by Marilyn Wiener...................................................................3 Golden Toad by Caroline Seamons.....................................................................4 “seventeen” by Caroline Couch.............................................................................5 Spider Bracelet by Julia Colombo.........................................................................5 “Pareidolia” by Grace Ellsworth.............................................................................6 “Conceited” by Kiya Brown......................................................................................8 I love you, I love you not by Caroline Robertson...............................................8 “A Dry River” by Kiya Brown....................................................................................9 Taxi Driver by Anna Rose Thomas.........................................................................9 “Wakan Tanka: Silent Pleas” by Lorelai Forgette............................................10 Openings of an Orchid by Caroline Robertson..............................................11 Water Bottles by Madeyln Simcoe.......................................................................11 “Down to the Last Second” by Lacy Williams...................................................12 Icy Bush by Madeleine Siler..................................................................................16 Ruling by Grace Clement......................................................................................16 Magnified by Caroline Shepherd.......................................................................17 Waterfall by Demi Angelikas...............................................................................17 “Safe Spaces” by Hamna Tameez........................................................................18 Olive by Maya Risch................................................................................................18 “It’s Time” by Katy Gilmore....................................................................................19 Pink and White by Miller Johnson......................................................................20 Adventure Awaits by Kate Downs......................................................................21 New Flowers by Madelyn Simcoe.......................................................................21 “Saturn’s Rings” by Mariam Husein.....................................................................22 Us by Madison Morris............................................................................................24 The Toll of Knowledge by Madison Morris.......................................................24 “The Carnival” by Zoe Ford..................................................................................25 “Complete Me” by Hamna Tameez.....................................................................30 Toadstool by Madison Smth...............................................................................30

“spiraling” by Caroline Couch..............................................................................31 Car Mirror by Madeleine Siler.............................................................................33 “Going Places” by Maya Risch..............................................................................34 Gone Wild by Marjorie Ann Templeton...........................................................34 “The Acorn” by Madison Morris..........................................................................35 Ski Goggles by Madeleine Siler...........................................................................36 “Palette” by Katy Gilmore.......................................................................................37 Teddy in the Sun by Marilyn Wiener...................................................................38 “Mask Shop” by Kate McCandless.....................................................................39 Siri by Mayers Wallace...........................................................................................42 “Hungry but Hopeful” by Helen Kastner...........................................................43 Doctor by Olivia Fonville......................................................................................47 “STEAL NOBODY” by Ana Hunter........................................................................48 Grandma’s Attic by Myanne James....................................................................49 “The Internet Best Friend Application” by Emily Grace Cater......................50 Laundry Day by Amelia Hausmann..................................................................53 Red Trees by Sophie Skolnik................................................................................54 “Carried Away” by Hamna Tameez.....................................................................55 Seeing Evil by Marjorie Ann Templeton...........................................................56 “Goodbye” by Maya Risch....................................................................................56 “The Flies” by Madison Morris.............................................................................57 Circles and Circles by Dabney Collier................................................................60 Title Wave by Sydney Shy....................................................................................61 “An Ode to English Teachers” by Caroline Couch...........................................62

MARILYN WIENER â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Flowers for Nana

CAROLINE SEAMONS â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Golden Toad

CAROLINE COUCH ‘20

seventeen

on the day that i was born, seventeen years ago, one door opened while another one closed. no second-born son, but a daughter born true. new to the family, new to you. jubilant and joyous for a newborn heart. yet time would make yours fail to start. scheduled appointment to fix that organ, so you could watch mine begin to beat. under anesthesia, you closed your eyes. breathing real air for the last time. a heavy iron lung, due to a deadly mistake circled in red. catholic last rites to help you pass, peace was finally found. (now seventeen years later i write with your pen. an early present from a long-passed man, helps gracefully ink my pages and thoughts) baby in black at your funeral. crying with a valentine’s rose. from ashes to ashes, i am here you are not.

JULIA COLOMBO ‘20

Spider Bracelet

GRACE ELLSWORTH ‘21

Pareidolia

Another cockroach was in the car. Dean, bored, watched the sawtooth hairs of the roach’s legs as it ducked behind the visor, clenched his knuckles down around the steering wheel. It was dead summer. Blackbirds peppered the robinegg blue of the late afternoon sky, and the sun sat in the center of the sky like an egg yolk. Dean, sick of the stale air circulating in the car, rolled down the window. A bucolic patchwork quilt of farmland rolled out as far as his eyes could see, acned by insubstantial shacks and small wooden houses. An American tableau of white and brown and black cows lumbering in the fields by the interstate blurred by. Dean accelerated irregularly in the far-left lane, watching the nose of the Jaguar eat at the reddish-brown pavement. At the next exit, the car peeled off to the right with a metallic groan, and the brown pavement turned grey as hunched buildings crawled into the skyline. The car fitfully grated its way down the maze of familiar buildings, and eventually, Dean pulled in front of an apartment complex. Dean shifted into park, the engine rumbled to a stop, and he sharply pulled out the car keys. Dispatched with a click. Dean’s shirt, damp with sweat, ripped wetly from the seat’s cheap polyester as he stood. A humid wave of tarmac hit his nose. He ritualistically walked up to the apartment building, spidered up the creaking metal stairs, walked over

to the door of apartment 302, wrestled with the keys in the doorknob, and then made his way inside. Plates matted with grime sat stacked in the sink, and a gravity-defying array of cans and packages and glass jars lined the countertop like a mountain range. Even in the cupboard, boxes, cups, canned food, and bags bulged behind the glass panels. A few opened boxes, box tape, and magazines were strewn across the kitchen floor beside an offensive, dark stain. Dean, disgusted, pointedly avoided looking at it, walking into the next room. The last time he’d seen Edgar, the old man had told him he’d clean up this time. He’d lied. In fact, compared to last time, even more miscellaneous objects had ventured into the apartment. An old stereo, a license plate, several more piles of assorted newspapers and magazines, and countless plastic wrappers hugged the walls, spilling onto the main floor. Edgar, on the other, snoozed somberly, compactly, in his recliner; a snuff tin, Aspirin bottle, and strewn Smarties wrappers sat on the side table. His snore was loud and rattling, and the black cat Ebenezer was curled in his lap. Jethro Tull pealed from the desktop computer in the other room; he’d left it on. Edgar’s calloused hands looked like aged leather, like elephant skin. Careful to not wake him, Dean tip-toed to the kitchen to make a snack. Dean got the 6

Wonder bread down from the top of fridge. Approximately one-and-a-half bland bologna sandwiches later, Dean put half of a sandwich in the fridge for later and gently placed his plate on the pile of dirty dishes. No hope for them now. After peeking into the living room and making sure Edgar was still asleep, he headed to the guest bedroom and fell asleep on the inflatable mattress. Edgar was getting old. He was a scaly old dragon of a man, with his hoard of items he found valuable. Edgar only intermittently visited the apartment now—after all, he was out of college now, had started work at a local car dealership. He’d bring the old man food, check up on him, but the stubborn old geezer refused to have anyone else sit in and watch him for much too long. Fiercely independent to the death. As the years compounded, so did the items in the apartment, whether they were empty cans or assorted cassette tapes or shoes with holes in the soles. Nothing was garbage—as Edgar always said, “You’ll never see it again.” Dean supposed he was right. He had never seen anything quite like this, spires of Jenga-balanced cans, residue covering the kitchen in a baked crust, the ants and the cockroaches. For Edgar, this heap was his burden to bear, something he could control. It was his hoard to idolize, his own hoard to understand. Dean turned to look at Edgar in the passenger seat at the red light, looking at how the orange afternoon light dramatized the permanent crease of his forehead. “Hey.

Old man.” Edgar grunted in acknowledgement, the sagging skin of his under-eyes pulling up. “You’d better call me that while you still can,” he rattled out. When the call came, it didn’t seem real. Dean knew it had been coming, had felt dread condensing in his throat as time passed, but it still didn’t seem real. In fact, everything was the same, he thought, mapping out the apartment out in front of him. The only difference was that Ebenezer sat alone, a threadbare black spot, on the recliner, currently watching him with saucer plate eyes. The clutter laid bare what he had known already—it was Edgar’s brain spilled out in front of him, the cluttered slopes of memories collected and qualified through a physical object. Every bottle cap signified a day, each magazine article was a link to some memory somewhere, each tape was an epoch in his life. It was beautifully miserable. A tussock of grass brushed against Dean’s pant leg in the dark. He held an Aquafina bottle in one hand, a worn rag in the other. The sky was dark, save for a catclaw moon. Not even stars made an appearance that night. He clambered over the hill, calculating each step to avoid the sharp stone blocks on the ground, and eventually found the place. He knelt, the dirt biting into his knees, and swiped his thumb over the stone face. Fat raindrops swarmed in the soupy air, biting into Dean’s skin as they fell. By the gravestone, he could just barely make out the form of a Coca-Cola can in the dark.

KIYA BROWN ‘21

Conceited

I’m not sure if I can love I’m not sure if I love you I’m sure I love myself That’s all you need I love me...I love me not I love your eyes I don’t love you, but I love seeing my reflection through them Baby can’t live without me But I breathe just fine on my own You continue to yell love at me I need you to check your tone Honeybees ain’t nothing without wings Tell my why the caged bird still sings I got sparkle in my step, joy in my stride, warmth in my stomach, and God on my side I’m not sure I love you Or the idea you gave me But either way it goes I can live without you, baby

CAROLINE ROBERTSON ‘21

I love you, I love you not

KIYA BROWN ‘21

A Dry River

Undone Until I figure out where I’m going This book is just pages and pages of emptiness Sadness is the step in my feet And the mood of my beat I’ve been undone Unwrapped Unforgivable The stride of my soul is unwanted All my days are bad and slow You probably have more joy in your right toe I can’t go I can’t move Your words used to be so calm They can soothe Like cocoa butter on my heart You made my brain start and stop The rhythm to my blues, you were my every muse I am caught in the rapture I’m your captive I hold on to every word like a child at storytime I never knew you This was all in my head But better words were better off never said

ANNA ROSE THOMAS ‘21

Taxi Driver

LORELAI FORGETTE â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;23

Wakan Tanka: Silent Pleas The grass was stained with the blood of our beloved. The strong beasts slaughtered by the cruel men with metal hats. Wakan Tanka. Where are you? The children are weeping; they are so cold and alone. The chiefs sing praise for the noble warriors, our only protectors in this time of need. The sweet lullabies are no more, as they are swallowed by the smooth sounds of sadness for those we have lost. They kill with no purpose. We are alone. Our buffalo no longer here to keep us ompany, replaced by these cruel men. All alone, all alone. Where is the rain? Wakan Tanka. We have no food. Our hands are stained with metallic maroon that came from our fallen. You failed us. The crops are dry with no moisture, the grass is no longer a sharp green, but now ruined with the vengeful red. The men scream as they plow through the land. They force metal branches to cross the ground, to carry banging metal boxes. Everything has gone awry. Wakan Tanka. We need you. Now the wind whispers, the ground is rumbling. Wakan Tanka. Is this you? The rain has come with strong bursts of lightning. The little buds come from the Earth, giving us new life. The luscious crops burst with splendor. The bad

men are no more. The children sing praise. The women leap and dance in excitement. We are joyous. All fear I have had has been swept away with pattering of the calming rain. We will live joyously because of you. You are the only true being who will protect us. Wakan Tanka. Thank you. Wakan Tanka. What have you done? The rivers have flooded our village. Safety was swept away by the muddy earth and powerful waves. The hands of the children are black and blue, and their teeth chatter. We no longer know if the rumbling is from the sky or from the train the cruel men put in our home. You have failed us. We never wished for this. We pray for you to leave. Wakan Tanka. Leave us be. The wind whispers over the valley, and the sun glints over the puffs of white. This is what you wished? When they ask for rain, shall they not receive rain? What more would you want from Wakan Tanka? Suddenly, there was nothing. No noise. No movement. Their pleads were met with only silence, as the breeze wiped away. Silence. 10

MADELYN SIMCOE ‘21

Water Bottles

CAROLINE ROBERTSON ‘21

Openings of an Orchid

LACY WILLIAMS ‘23

Down to the Last Second

Buzzes were heard all throughout the town at exactly midnight. The Life Clock had chimed. Today was humanity’s last day. There were different reactions happening all throughout the world. Although many people had imagined the day, they were all lost when the day had finally come. Of course, there were the wild ones. The people, mostly teenagers, who wanted their last day to end on a fun note. On the other hand, there were people who wanted to go out graciously. From calling all of their loved ones to tell them the things they liked best about them to reading their favorite book for the very last time, these select few wanted to have a gentle and positive view of the world as the rest of humanity ceased to exist. Although both reactions were considered normal, no one in the Smith family was feeling either one of these. Instead, their range of emotions consisted of everything except for normal, but that’s nothing new for them. According to all their neighbors, they were the weirdest family in town, and not even the Joneses, who performed daily rituals to the Sun and Earth gods, were weirder than them. But why were the Smith family members so weird in the first place? They always acted as if everything was normal. Even after the giant timer that chipped away at their remaining lives got installed on almost every technical device, they still acted as though life was just right. Every day of the week, each member of the family went to work, school, and came back home no matter how much harder it became to breathe or how the amount of nutrition tablets

increased as the condition of the planet worsened. But on this particular day, things were weirder than usual. The youngest member of the family, Julianna, was the first to check her phone at midnight. As she picked up her phone and read the blaring message, she immediately shot up out of bed. Most others were feeling panic and fear at this terrifying time, but Julianna simply sighed and sank back down. She knew this day was coming, and she accepted the fate of the world a long time ago. At least, that’s what she told herself. The time had been ticking since she was born, so she constantly tried to brace herself for the dreaded day. Unlike the other kids her age who also dealt with the ticking timer their whole lives, she still tried her hardest at everything. Even after her fifth-grade teacher told her class that none of them would have a future career given that humanity would be wiped out before they even got a chance, she still worked hard to receive the best grades possible. Even now, as a sophomore in high school, she was set on becoming valedictorian even though most of her class dropped out of school years ago. No one knew why she was so persistent about doing things perfectly. Even her parents were confused. Whenever anyone asked her why she did it, she simply shrugged and continued what she was doing; she would forever be a mystery to those around her. As she drifted back down in her bed, she could hear loud, clumsy footsteps from across the hall. Rolling her eyes, she turned her back towards the door just in time for her older brother Jefferey to burst into her room. “Juli, get up! It’s finally happening,” he yelled. He had yet

to shut off the alarm on his phone, so it was still blaring as he cut on his sister’s lights and yanked her blankets off of her. She loudly groaned as she reached for his phone, finally shutting off the alarm. Jefferey gave her a puzzled look as she pulled her covers back over her body to go back to sleep. “Of course she would sleep through this,” he mumbled to himself as he shut off the lights and stomped to their parents’ room. He never understood how his sister just ignored the things happening around them daily, just like how she never understood her brother’s “obsession” with all the events leading up to this point. Jefferey was another confusing member for the Smith family. Unlike his sister who learned to just accept the fate of the world, he was constantly in denial. For years, he would talk to his online friends on an exclusive climate conspiracy website where they discussed ideas about how one nation was making everything up to divert attention from World War III, which had just recently ended. In his room, the walls were filled with dozens of maps and even a hand-drawn timeline that dated all the way back to 2016, the year he believed everything started. Although he still went to school regularly, just like Julianna, everyone knew his intentions. The more he knew about the past, and the more he understood different algorithms, then the better his investigations would be. For Jefferey, today was the day he would finally discover the truth. As he arrived at his parents’ door, he heard hushed yet frantic voices signaling to him that his parents were awake as well. Without giving them time to finish what sounded like an urgent conversation, he rushed into the room to state the obvious. Grateful that his parents gave an actual reaction to what was

happening and were not as nonchalant as his sister, he gave a sigh of relief as his father retrieved the protocol from its place on the fridge. Each family was given a copy of instructions of what to do on this dreaded day, such as to stay close to their families and to make sure to look decent since no one wants to die in an ugly outfit. Students constantly performed drills in school, and adults had to attend mandatory meetings at various times to practice what to do. James Smith had the idea of this day lurking in the back of his head constantly. At work, at home, and even in his sleep, he thought of what would happen on this very day. Similar to his son, he constantly had the “last day” nagging his thoughts, and it affected everything he did. Well, it used to. Over the years, he started spending more time at work. He was a researcher, and his main job was to try and reverse everything that went wrong in the past, the main issue being climate change. As the doomed day grew closer, he spent more and more hours in his lab studying weather patterns from 2018 to the present day and trying to pinpoint the exact spot where everything went wrong. His colleagues, who gave up on the research as the day loomed closer, continuously tried to calm him down and force him to go home. Everyone, including James, knew that there was nothing that could be done, yet he insisted on continuing to try. Others viewed him as a madman for willingly spending all his time working on something that will never change instead of spending time with his family before it was too late. They still never found an actual reason for why he stayed other than he was desperate, but weren’t they all? “Okay, Jasmine, you make sure the kids are up and calm them down, and I’ll start gathering the essential things that we need,”

he said frantically as he searched around the room for various items. His wife, Jasmine Smith, simply shook her head. Was she worried about today as well? Of course, but she was not going to have some type of false hope that they would survive. Ever since she was a little girl, she had heard about the Earth’s dying state, but no one did anything about it. She even felt guilty for just being a bystander and not thinking twice about recycling or saving water. In her mind, she was part of the reason why humanity was dying, and she believed it was right for her to go, but not her family. They had nothing to do with the Earth dying, but she did. She walked out of the shared bedroom and bumped right into her son, who seemed to look more worried than usual. “I knew you would be up,” she said as nonchalantly as she could. She tried to view her son as she normally would, a smart and adorably paranoid seventeen-year-old, without having negative thoughts cloud her mind. Yes, it might be the last day she would ever see her son, but they were going to make the best out of the situation. Well, that’s what she thought. “Mom, I can fix this. We are not going to die today. I finally realized the truth, just you wait and see,” he said hurriedly as he rushed into the room to find his dad. The thoughts that she tried so hard to get rid of slowly came creeping back into her mind. The dark cloud of regrets, fears, and what the future could hold took a toll on her, and she had to grip the nearest wall before she fell to the floor. The feelings she fought so hard to get rid of were coming back, and at a record rate of intensity. Her therapist had described these depressing thoughts as a result of feeling as if she had a helping hand in humanity’s demise. On the world’s final day, the destructive thoughts came

back with a vengeance, and Jasmine had no choice but to do what she thought was best when she had these sudden attacks, even if her therapist classified them as counterproductive. She isolated herself in a dark room with nothing but her deep, dark thoughts. Constant buzzing finally shook Julianna out of her sleep, again. Her phone kept going off with alarms from the government alerting her of the crisis going on as if she didn’t already know. Unlike any other day, she slugged out of bed and went to her desk. Looking at her small succulents, she shook her head in disappointment. She told herself that she accepted the fate of humanity many times a day, but that was very far from the truth. “I guess no amount of praying could have prevented this,” she whispered to herself. Although no one in her family was religious, she took up Christian practices in an attempt to repent on the behalf of humanity. In her head, the only way to get in God’s good graces was to apologize and restore what was destroyed, so she spent countless hours volunteering to help those hurt in the war or help build homes for those who lost theirs due to rising sea levels and flooding. She kept a small garden in a field to regrow plants, but most of them were not able to survive the new climates. In the end, she was still doomed. Everyone was. She was going to die at age fifteen because of the people before her, and for years she tried to put on a smile. It’s not entirely their fault... “Let’s live the time we have to the fullest then,” she would exclaim whenever people asked her. She never had friends or was even able to enjoy her life the way she instructed others to because of the responsibilities she bestowed upon herself.

Tears hit the desk as she sat and tried to remember a time when she was genuinely happy. No one in her family had ever spent time with her, she scared away every potential friend, and she carried the weight of dozens of generations of her shoulders, and in the end, she dropped it. For once, she finally left out all the pain and hurt that she felt, and for the first time ever, she didn’t leave her room. Instead, she sat in her room and isolated herself, but this time it was on purpose. After bumping into his mom, Jefferey hurriedly rushed back into his room. Today was the day he would prove that everyone was wrong. All his theories would become reality, and he would be the new hero. So, he grabbed his notebook and went to work on planning out the day’s events. Sure, there will be a few bad things that will happen, but overall, humanity will survive for many more years. For hours, he sat huddled in his room working on the day and his eventual speech that he was sure he would give when his research was released, so he too spent his day in his room isolating himself. The head of the family was more worried about preparing himself best for death than mending the failed relationships within his family as others advised him to. Questions rolled through his head as if he was packing for a trip out of town. “Did I finish everything at the lab?” “Did I take a shower?” “Do I have my suit?” he asked himself as he rushed around the house. He never stopped to question where his wife, who was still fighting against her own mind, was, or his children, who both were slowly going insane in their own ways. Instead, he prepared for his own death, forgetting about his family who he was never around

anyway. In the end, all four members of the family were too caught up in themselves to spend their last days to the fullest. When the final buzzes were heard around the world, they each realized their mistakes in the last second. As oxygen started to run out, and the sun started beating down harder than it ever had in history, Julianna cried harder to herself at her own failure. Jasmine eventually lost the fight against her mind, and Jeffery’s heart broke at the fact that he was wrong. And James, poor James, finally remembered his family in the last second. In the last second, he shed tears for the first time, for finally, he acknowledged his mistakes.

MADELEINE SILER ‘21

Icy Bush

GRACE CELEMENT ‘20

Ruling

CAROLINE SHEPHERD ‘21

Magnified

DEMI ANGELIKAS ‘20

Waterfall

HAMNA TAMEEZ â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

Safe Spaces

I feel the rush of travelling through a thousand galaxies Those instances when I dream so deep. I want to live in that void-like world Of vacuous space. To be free with the histories of the universes, And the futures of ones ahead My safe space is space, you see. Primarily because there is nowhere else where you can be completely untroubled Of all the earthly sorrows and The grievances of beings. I will wrap my own little sky of wonders and things that could be Around my hypnagogic head. It will appear as a scarf but will wear like a dream Fulfilled.

MAYA RISCH â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

Olive

KATY GILMORE ‘20 Chapter 1 Pages smudged with stubby, sticky fingerprints close. “Time to sleep.” “One more, please?” It’s okay, the cow still jumps over the moon And over the glow-in-the dark stars on the ceiling. Bedtime stories end, but Clifford Still peeks his big red head around the door, His big red tail wagging a metronomic rhythm. The door closes, but the hidden reading light turns on, The stow-away library comes out of hiding. The Cat in the Hat still brings mischief to the night. Winnie the Pooh shares his honey. The story’s just beginning, and it’s time to dream.

It’s Time

Chapter 2 When mom moves to a land far, far away, A land called Nebraska that seems light years apart from Tennessee, It’s all right because at least it’s not as far as Lucy and her gang travel across Narnia. When they say the words “divorce” and “moving” It’s time to find something more fast-paced, more action-packed. Spider-Man swings across the room off the page 19

And doesn’t mention those awful words. Chapter 3 “It’s time to get serious.” Grades are no longer just numbers, And college isn’t just a concept. It’s real. It’s now. It’s a major responsibility. Harry Potter is traded for heavy history books. Asland is exchanged for algebraic texts. It’s an interlude in the story. Wax in ears, tied to a scholarly pole, Time to block out the siren’s call and focus. Chapter 4 Sometimes, dad used to not be able to read bedtime stories. He explained his lungs hugged each other so tight, He had trouble breathing and talking. Now he’s confined to a single throne, A sickly king at the end of his reign. No more bedtime stories ever. And somehow, the history and the algebra don’t matter anymore. Diplomas aren’t important if he won’t ever see them. The secret library opens its doors again Because getting lost in Middle Earth and Seuss’s land

Is the only option. And at the very end, when the kingdom doors are closing, Everything is on fire. Each nursery rhyme is burning through time And every story is ending all at once. Tears crash more than Percy Jackson’s waves And flow like Prince Caspian’s sea. It doesn’t feel like the promised happily ever after. Chapter 5 It’s time to return to the childhood neighborhood, To the street lined with Hogwarts and Pooh’s hut And all those points of refuge. Heartbreak is fostered on this road and transferred into creativity. At the end of the street, there’s an empty house. Rooms waiting to be filled and a garden needing tending. It’s time to end the story, but time to create a new one. Reading can get you lost, but writing is what makes you found. After dealing with your greatest loss, it’s time to find the writer Hiding between the pages. Pick up the pencil, open the laptop, write for him since his fingers no longer move, “Chapter 1 Pages smudged with…”

MILLER JOHNSON ‘21

Pink and White

MADELYN SIMCOE ‘21

New Flowers

KATE DOWNS ‘21

Adventure Awaits

MARIAM HUSEIN ‘22

Saturn’s Rings

Everyone gathered around The Star, hoping to get a look at the most famous galactical icon in the cosmos. He smiled and waved as all of us asked for his autograph, but as time flew by, we all drifted further and further away. “Can you please, please, please sign my comet book?” Mercury, who always managed to be the closest to The Star, begged as he drifted. “Can someone tell me why he’s always so close to the front while we are all waiting to get a look back here?” Neptune asked. “I think it’s because—” Pluto began. Uranus sighed, “We are just not close enough to see him.” “Ugh! Why do you have to be so negative all the time?” Neptune asked, clearly annoyed. Jupiter, changing the subject, then asked, “Does anyone know where Earth is?” “He is most likely exercising,” Venus answered. “He always says that he needs to burn his fossil fuels to stay in good shape.” Jupiter rolled his eyes. “Of course when I have something important to say, he’s not here.” “Well, what is so important that you need everyone to be here?” Venus asked. “You know that only happens every

500 years.” “Yes, and believe me, I have been counting down,” he said. “Less than a year left.” “Until what?” Venus asked. “Until I propose to Saturn,” he proudly answered. They all gasped. “Just imagine one of my huge diamonds on one of her beautiful rings,” he said. “Yeah, with the diamonds that magically rain from your skies...” Neptune muttered. “Come on, we all know that you’re just jealous,” Jupiter said to Neptune. “Finally someone said it,” Pluto whispered to Uranus. “Oh, looks like Earth is on his way here right now,” Venus said, trying to break up the awkwardness that Neptune started. “Hey, guys, so sorry I’m late! I have been at the gym. These fossil fuels are not going to burn themselves, you know,” Earth said, out of breath. “Actually—” Pluto, trying to be helpful, started. “What did I miss?” Earth interjected. “Jupiter is going to propose to Saturn!” Venus exclaimed. As she turned to Jupiter, she asked, “Wait, how are you going to planet?”

“I am not sure yet,” he said. “We need the whole place to light up with stars, and I’ll need a red carpet running down her orbit, but we must hurry; it won’t be long before she is back!” “I am willing to help, but I won’t be able to stay long,” Earth said. Venus asked, “Where would you like me to put the red carpet?” “Right here,” Jupiter answered pointing to Saturn’s orbit. Turning to Earth he asked, “Can you help me put up the stars?” “Sure,” answered Earth, as he reached for a few stars. As everything came together and Earth left to finish some laps, Venus excitedly announced that she could see Saturn coming. As Saturn made her way down her orbit, Jupiter got onto his axis; you could see the joy in Saturn’s eyes. She knew what was happening. “Will you marry me?” he asked her. “Yes, of course!” she said, delighted. All of the planets cheered, even Uranus, who was always so blue. They all talked and celebrated, and then Jupiter invited them to the wedding. At the wedding, which took place 500 years later, they all talked and congratulated the happy couple. When everyone began to eat, Earth arrived and went straight to the drinks. “Don’t you think that you drink too much water?” asked Venus. 23

“I bet you are like 90% water,” commented Jupiter. “71%, actually,” Earth corrected. They all laughed and continued to talk. Once more, Earth prepared himself to leave early to run a few laps around his orbit. It surprised the other planets when he told them that it took one year for him to do a lap! “How can you do that?” asked Jupiter, awed. “I just have a very pacific workout schedule,” he answered as he was leaving. “Or maybe it’s just because—” Pluto tried to add.

MADISON MORRIS ‘20

The Toll of Knowledge

MADISON MORRIS ‘20

ZOE FORD ‘23

The Carnival

“No, darling, you can’t go. It’s past your bedtime.” “But Mamma, no one knows when they’ll come next!” exclaimed the little girl as she wormed her way into her bed sheets that were layered like cake. Her mother sat down on the little girl’s bed with a sigh. She rubbed her face, which was marred by hard work, wrinkles, and secrets. “Then we’ll have to wait until you get older.” As the light that clung to the walls shriveled away with her mother shutting the door, the little girl knew she wouldn’t heed her mother’s wishes. After the hallway light disappeared, she seeped from her covers. The little girl shivered when the cold air crept up her spine as she slipped into the dark, heavy night. Nights like these are creatures of their own, shifting and morphing into an entirely new entity as children escape the warm cocoon of their beds during the dead months. The little girl ran down the road until she was swallowed into the night. Her feet pattered down into the field; her clothes caught on grassy arms that reached out to her, trying to pull her down to them and escape the night. Eventually, she slowed down to a walk and thought that she might start seeing the lights soon. Magically, like the sun rising from a velvety darkness, she saw the bright lights of The Carnival. The moon and stars weren’t providing much light, but she could see the dancing shapes and castle-like structures. All exhaustion shed behind her, she skipped, hopped, and leapt forward toward The Carnival. Screams of laughter echoed through the abyss once the little girl started to get close. She was

then able to hear the music, not quite a cacophony, but a chaotic, jovial string of notes that wormed its way into her ear, brain, and heart. It was the type of music that never leaves once one hears it, playing in a loop forever, a broken music box. Her pace quickened. She was able to see the people of The Carnival in detail now; they weren’t colorful blobs that danced to their own rhythm anymore. They were frightening figures that stretched impossible ways in their flamboyant get-ups. The townsfolk always dressed alike, looked alike, and acted alike in a mundane brownish-grey existence. But this – this was the embodiment of her wildest dreams. As the little girl reached The Carnival, its franticness started to scare her. She snapped her head around wildly for anyone who seemed familiar, but it was all so new, so bright, so fast, so colorful, so overwhelming. She started to cry. “Hey now, child. What’s the matter? Pucker up, it’s a big night tonight.” Hearing a comforting, gravelly voice, the little girl looked up. The man was slightly blurred because of her tears, but she could tell that he had a slightly electric – but comforting – aura. As she harshly rubbed away her tears, she could tell the man was in a suit. A strange suit at that; it was brown and heavy, and it looked stifling. What was even more strange was that it was the ‘mater man, Birdhouse Jones, who was wearing it. The man who always wore overalls and a yellow handkerchief in his back pocket on any given day. And on special days, he switched to blue jeans that had a few faded grass stains on them and a tattered, worn blue shirt with a collar.

“Mr. Birdhouse? What are you doing here?” asked the little girl, all traces of sadness washed away in his presence. “Well, little missy, I’m celebrating with some good old friends of mine,” the ’ mater man smiled. The little girl smiled back. Birdhouse Jones didn’t have the best smile, with all his crooked teeth, and some missing, but it was a smile that she couldn’t help but return. “Who are your friends?” “How about I introduce you to them? I’m sure you’d all get along splendidly.” Strolling through the trampled grass, the little girl gazed at her strange surroundings. She had to run every two steps to keep up with Birdhouse Jones. He chuckled down at her amazement of all the different people and attractions they passed, but the little girl soon noticed something odd. “Mr. Birdhouse, why are there only carnival people here and why are there so many boxes?” “Ah, about that—” Birdhouse Jones stopped both his sentence and his walking simultaneously. The little girl, curious, peeked out from behind him. To her surprise, there was a strange figure smothered in cloth that previously was not there. The fabrics that covered the person’s frail body were of an assortment of colors that made the little girl’s head hurt. She assumed that the person was frail because she could see their bony hands tremble so much it frightened her. “Hello there. And who might you be?” asked what the little girl could only assume to be the fortune teller. “Ah, wait, don’t tell me… you’re a lost spirit hoping to find the way…” The fortune teller drifted off in thought, and she wasn’t intent on finishing her sentence. “Actually, I—”

“Come, come, now. No need to be afraid. Follow me, child,” beckoned the fortune teller. The little girl, hesitant at first, until curiosity took over, followed the fortune teller into a tent that popped up out of nowhere, much like The Carnival itself. As the little girl moved aside the heavy curtains that shut the room off from the world, she startled as she felt a chilly hand grasp her shoulder. “Are you afraid, child? Are you afraid in the face of the future? Tell me, what drew you to this carnival in the first place?” whispered the fortune teller. “I came here because—” “Oh, Lydia, stop putting on a show. You’re obviously scaring the poor girl,” interrupted Birdhouse Jones, stepping into the tent. “This is Lydia DeHammings, the grandest actress in the silent film industry!” “Jones,” said Ms. Lydia, “you know I was big in the ‘20’s, then everyone forgot about me. Just as they did you. Quite tragic, really; it wasn’t exactly how I pictured leaving the industry, but I couldn’t remember my lines to save my life!” She ended her sentence with a laugh, but the little girl saw something flash behind Lydia’s eyes. Something sad. “Are you already packing up?” asked Birdhouse Jones. The little girl looked up at this; she had been wondering why there were boxes around The Carnival. “Yes, actually, we plan to leave tonight.” “Wait!” pleaded the little girl. She had been looking forward to seeing The Carnival ever since Birdhouse Jones mentioned it. But it was leaving on the one night she managed to sneak out. “Hey!” called someone outside, “We need help taking down this tent!”

“C’mon, Lydia, we better go help.” Birdhouse Jones shook his head then called out to the little girl, “We’ll be right outside. Just come out and I’ll walk you home in a bit.” The little girl nodded sadly while looking at the boxes. Her eyes started to gloss over, but right as the first tear slipped down her round face, she saw something shine in the corner of her eye. After walking over to a spot in the tent that wasn’t quite sewn together properly, so that a tiny sliver of moonlight filtered in, she held the object up. It was a deck of cards that displayed strange creatures, ghastly figures, and enchanting images. Right as she ran her tiny fingers over the golden designs, Birdhouse Jones stepped into the tent. Pocketing the object, she spun around. “Are you ready to go home now?” asked Birdhouse Jones kindly. “Yeah, I think so.” ... Alice loved her box. Nothing was really special about it; it was a plain, cardboard box. She loved it even though it was battered and torn and had the word ‘Kitchen’ written on it in Sharpie chicken scratch. But what she loved even more was what was inside it. Plopping down on her bed, she giggled to herself at a squeak from the rusty springs. She leaned upside-down so far her hair tickled the ground and pulled up the box with a grunt. Alice shuffled and moved the items around, looking for something in particular. There was the broken music box, the small, rusty harmonica, a chipped tea cup that had a broken handle, an old pocket watch, and a box of tarot cards. Smiling to herself, she put the other items into the box and placed each tarot card in its own blue diamond on her old quilt. The one that stood out to her the most was an intricate golden image of the sun. The rays seemed to

stretch out, reaching for something it couldn’t quite touch. She wondered who had donated the box of cards because when she had found it, it was in the back corner of Mom’s thrift store; on the shelf no one goes near because of the water leak right above it, drip, drip, drip, into the bright orange plastic bucket that still has sand in it and its cheap, plastic handle broken. Drip, drip, drip, despite the patched duct tape across the ceiling. Then again, few people visit Mom’s thrift store, so no one would see the deck of cards, anyway. Today, Alice had a mission; she would ask Mom about the tarot cards. Mom always seemed to know all the stories unique to each object. Every object had a life of its own: wishes, hopes, and loved ones. She just wondered where they had gone. “Alice? I told you to take out the trash, so why isn’t it done?” called Mom. Shutting her eyes, Alice yelled, “I forgot, sorry! I’ll be down in a second!” Clutching the tarot cards, she sprung off her bed and landed on the cold wooden floor. Alice loved the wood in her room because it went up and down like a roller coaster, but Mom never liked it because she says it’s warped by the water leak downstairs. Sliding across the wood, Alice traipsed down the stairs to the thrift store below. As Alice reached the end of the stairs, she peeked around the corner and saw Mom on the phone. It was one of those old, plastic phones: the off-white clunky ones that hang on the wall and have wires like curly fries. Mom said that they were making models that didn’t have a wire and were smaller than your hand, but Alice doesn’t believe her. Alice let out a warm breath and rounded the corner just as Mom clicked the phone back in its place. While keeping her gaze

on Mom, she steeled herself to ask about the tarot cards. Alice knew Mom wasn’t exactly a fan about her taking items from the thrift store, but no one bought anything anyway; why should it make a difference? “Mom?” asked Alice, as if to test whether Mom would be in the mood to answer, “I was wondering what these are?” Alice presented the tarot cards in their neat little box. Mom didn’t speak for a couple seconds, and her mouth looked like it was containing a fight between her tongue and teeth before it spat out the words: “Throw that away. It’s trash.” “But Mom, they look so pretty and magical! I want to know what they’re for,” pleaded Alice. “Alice,” Mom said in a voice that could cut through steel, “go take out the trash. That includes those cards. I have to go to work now, so I don’t have time for your questions today.” Alice’s nose quivered. Mom hadn’t ever been this harsh before. As she lowered her head, Alice felt Mom’s tiny, delicate hand on her shoulder. Mom plastered a smile to her face like duct tape on water leaks, and said, “Now, go take out the trash like I told you.” Alice nodded and dragged her feet over to the trash can behind the glass top counter, which had a price tag, too. Walking outside, Alice scrunched up her face as the wind bit at her nose and trudged over to the trash bin her family shared with Birdhouse Jones. He happened to be lugging over a cart of tomatoes when she reached the bin. “Hello, Mr. Jones. How are you today?” asked Alice, sad she had to throw away the tarot cards. “I’m fine, but you look like you’re not,” he replied. Alice watched as he tilted his cart so the tomatoes rolled into the trash

bin. She wrinkled her nose as a rotten smell hit her. “Mom just won’t tell me what these cards are for. They look so pretty, don’t you think?” “Well, I’ll be darned,” Birdhouse Jones exclaimed after a few visible puffs of breath. “Where did you find those, Alice?” “I found them in Mom’s thrift store,” Alice replied, happy that he was taking an interest. Birdhouse Jones carefully picked up the little box of cards and turned them over in his hands. He shuddered another breath before he replied. “These are some authentic tarot cards.” Birdhouse Jones elaborated, “They predict the future. Tarot ladies and fortune tellers use them. You know, Alice, I haven’t seen tarot cards like these since The Carnival was last in town.” Alice had heard of The Carnival before, but she had never seen it for herself. According to the hushed whispers of children that lingered in the schoolyard, The Carnival hadn’t come back to Woodland for twenty-five years. It discarded the town just as people did with the items in Mom’s thrift store. “Mr. Jones, do you think The Carnival will ever come back?” asked Alice. “I don’t know, Alice.” Mr. Jones’s voice wobbled, as if straining to hold something back from her. “I don’t know.” ... Glue. Opening her eyes in the morning, Alice decided, was like trying to pry apart two sheets of paper stuck together with glue. It didn’t help that there was insistent knocking on her door, too. Alice rolled over in her bed. The knocking only got louder, with Mom calling her. Alice slipped out of her cocoon of sheets and shuddered as goosebumps bloomed on her arms due to the frosty air. Hastily throwing on a sweater, she stumbled down the stairs

and to Mom’s thrift store. As she rounded the corner, she saw Birdhouse Jones talking expressively with Mom. He was throwing his arms about, trying to make a point, Alice guessed. “Alice! Good morning to you. I hope you don’t mind me intruding, but I have exciting news,” Birdhouse Jones smiled. Alice opened her eyes for this: it was a school day, and anything to make it more interesting was appreciated. She glanced over at Mom, who shook her head slightly. “I managed to call in a few favors with some old friends of mine, and, lo and behold, The Carnival is in town for a day and a night!” At this, Alice’s eyes flew open. Her conversation with Birdhouse Jones a month ago must have struck a chord as loud and insistent as Mom’s knocking. “Can – can I go?” hesitantly asked Alice. She wasn’t sure if Mom would let her. She wasn’t sure if she was asking Birdhouse Jones or Mom if she could go, either. “Come, Alice, we have to leave now if we want to get to The Carnival,” smiled Birdhouse Jones. “But Mr. Jones, I have school today. I can’t go right now,” Alice cried. She didn’t want to wait to see The Carnival. All the little stories and whispers about The Carnival had built up inside Alice like a tidal wave of anticipation and curiosity about to overflow. “Ah, about that, I’ve arranged that you can miss today,” Birdhouse Jones stated, looking Mom square in the eye, challenging her. She didn’t say anything. Alice ran outside, trailing Birdhouse Jones as he paved a trail through the dewy grass. The water that clung to the grass brushed onto their jeans, staining them dark and cold. Doing a strange hop-skip so that she was in line with Birdhouse Jones, Alice slipped her tiny, frozen hand into Birdhouse Jones’s paw of

a hand. A silence covered them that was similar to the fog that hung in the distance and seemed to mute their steps. As they drew farther away from Woodland and closer to the promise of a carnival, they heard a hum and a clash of sounds that they had never heard before. It grated on their ears but brought a strange sense of comfort to their pounding hearts. Screams of laughter echoed through the abyss once the they started to get close. Suddenly, breaking through the foggy barrier, they were able to hear the music clearly; not quite a cacophony, but one that was a chaotic, jovial string of notes that wormed its way into their ear, brain, and heart. It was the type of music that never leaves once one hears it, playing forever, preserved in a small music box. Their pace quickened; their shoes and jeans drenched thoroughly in the tears of the morning. Wading through the fog, they saw the people of The Carnival in detail now; they weren’t colorful blobs that danced to their own rhythm anymore. They were beautiful figures that buzzed around, setting up The Carnival. Alice smiled to herself as she clutched Birdhouse Jones’s warm, old hand, looking out at The Carnival, and gazing at the uncovered sun.

HAMNA TAMEEZ ‘22 My identity is not just a news article It’s gray and black lines And its conformity to society’s actions Which we can only change with Awareness. Awareness never ceases for as long as we live.

Complete Me

And to possibly complete others, If we end on the same note. Oh, that big “if.” Not one single person can complete us, So we must all find a way to complete ourselves.

I am not who you think I am. My looks may deceive you but my Words, Unsaid thoughts, Prayers. They all break down those barriers of my mask. A mask so encompassing it seems to cover every single person, Each with their own individual barriers, On this passing earth. I need conversation. Conversations which are as deep as, My roots, my whole being. With different people, With different minds. I need to express my unknown identity In order to complete myself,

MADISON SMITH ‘20

Toadstool

down.

down,

spiraling further.

as i descend further still,

do i not deserve it?

i cry.

“it is me,”

to me, they are but moths drawn to that false light.

my mind vociferates and mutters my silent oaths, wax poetic.

the people rush past up the staircase, but i avert mine eye

... and more

then another.

down.

and i take a first step

begging and tempting me to start,

whispers to me like mephistopheles.

that question to belong,

that sinking feeling of doubt,

i implore the importance of the pain that i feel.

a lucifer complex.

enveloped in light, but mired in sin.

i stand at the top of a staircase.

spiraling

CAROLINE COUCH ‘20

i took this first step, there is no going back.

downward.

and another,

another step forward

i have made my choice.

still that whisper returns,

i stand in solitude, for a moment of self-reflection.

and with resilient regret,

but i must break free.

they claw and they beg,

but i do not.

they call me to join them

spiraling furthermore.

somewhere in this black unknown.

acknowledging my blindness, i know i cannot.

and join them in their splendorous joy?

my own intentions in dissention,

but do i dare to question

the people still continue in their ascent,

somewhere in this black unknown.

(but i bargain on doubt and fear)

hesitation fosters comfort.

MADELEINE SILER â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

Car Mirror

MAYA RISCH ‘21

MARJORIE ANN TEMPLETON ‘21

Going Places

Infinity: Is it always going somewhere? Or is it always going nowhere? My thoughts They’re spiraling Looping Over again A thousand A million Infinite Thoughts

Gone Wild

Loop Loop Over Over No No

When will they cease? Or are they just going nowhere? Because I sure feel like I’m not going Anywhere Sometimes I don’t understand numbers 34

The Acorn

MADISON MORRIS â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

MADELEINE SILER â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

Ski Goggles

KATY GILMORE ‘20

Palette

It starts with green. Moss creeping over ragged terrains, Lichen giving way to life, Land collides with land And grass sprouts out of sand. Then forests of green, green, green. Until us.

The water used to be blue. Indigo waves reaching with white claws, Retracting and reaching, Pushing and pulling. Turquoise sliding onto a tan shoreline, Splashing a river’s rocks. Then we ventured into the sea. A girl looks out into that blue, She wants to know what it feels like surrounding her, That blue is her new religion. A boy finds emerald sea glass in that blue, He thinks he finally understands What his mother means when she declares something “Beautiful.” Ships sunk into a deep sleep in the Mediterranean. Submarines made a home in the Atlantic neighborhood.

With them, lives were lost. One war and then another and then another. Blood spilling in water, Diluting the blue, Churning a crimson tide. The night used to have stars. Yellow string lights twinkling Against a black canvas. Van Gogh’s swirling violet and blue winds Dancing with the constellations. Leo spun Draco and left gold trails. Then we rose to the sky. America is great: we walk on the moon. We circle the earth in silver-white vessels That streak the once black and gold night. America is scared: we walk on thin ice. This war is too cold, so we make weapons That maim and dent the earth and scare the sky. Missiles leave smoke and fire in the atmosphere. The night is no longer Van Gogh’s black, blue, and gold heaven. It is Munch’s screaming sky Modulating from gold to orange to grey.

People are afraid and color is thick in the air. We fear each other’s pigmentation, Melanin becomes a value of worth. It’s hard to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Cough. Men yelling on the news is lucid orange. War weeps tears of red and cannot be consoled. The doomsday clock tick tick ticks towards a dark green midnight. Grey coats us all: concrete pours And statues immortalize the wrong men. Yellow paints over hunger, poverty, disappointment. If we cover the world in yellow, We’ll have to be happy. Right? Colors waft and mix and turn and combine Until it’s all brown and muddled and foggy. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Shudder. Too much. Too many coats of paint. Turn off the television. Close the blinds. Relax. Inhale. Exhale. Time rewinds. Everything is white and calm.

Strip away the paint, layer by layer. A branch scratches the window. Start over with leaves of green.

MARILYN WIENER ‘20

Teddy in the Sun

KATE MCCANDLESS ‘22

Mask Shop

I t’s a quiet day today; it’s always quiet, not that The Masked minds. The Masked likes the quietness of the shop; the quiet helps It focus when It makes masks. The mask It is working on now is almost complete. The mask is truly one of Its best works, but the same could be said of all Its masks. The Masked had felt inspired by an earlier customer and began working on this new mask as soon as she left. She had narrow, sly hazel eyes that were framed by her long, russet hair and bangs that covered her forehead. She was a short, lithe young woman who didn’t appear physically strong. Like all Its female customers, she wore a sleeveless black dress that went down to her knees. Her bronze skin showed no scars or blemishes, but the look in her eyes was that of a thieving temptress. Like all who enter the Mask Shop, her mask was broken. The Masked welcomed her like It did with all Its customers: by waiting next to the seven-foot tall, full-body mirror in the back for her. She found It rather quickly and chose her mask with the same quickness as well. Most customers take their time when choosing, but she didn’t. She knew what she wanted, and as soon as the Masked showed her the masks, she grabbed the first one she liked and chose to exchange her broken mask for the new mask. The one she wanted was a black widow mask made of a glossy, black metal for the base and copper for the patterns. The eyes were made of rubies, and eight legs, four on each side, extended down from the eyes and to her chin, covering her cheeks. On the lower half of her face was a thin veil of chain mail made to look like a spider’s web. In the dim lighting of the shop, the spider

mask looked unusually lifelike, as do all the masks in the shop when a customer tries one on. The Masked told her that It would fix her mask and hold on to her old mask for her until she came back for it. However, unlike most customers, she didn’t seem to care about what happened to her old, broken mask. (It doesn’t matter...no one ever comes back for their old mask anyway.) So, removing her mask with care, as to not damage it further, It put the new mask on her with the same amount of meticulousness, and said goodbye. The Masked shook Its head, dragging Itself from Its thoughts, and looked over at her old mask on the workbench. The mask was made of fabric, likely silk, the same bronze color as her skin. The hair of the russet bangs that framed the mask were made of individual pieces of twine. The mask has an impish grin showing pearly, white beads in place of teeth. The mask is winking with the left eye closed and the right eye open, showing a gleaming, hazel button for an eye. A long tear in the mask’s fabric stretches from the left cheek, up across the closed, left eye, and zig-zags into the twine bangs. It will be difficult to fix without leaving a scar, but it should be manageable for the Masked. The Masked turns back to Its newest work, a fox mask.The mask is made of wood, with the base as redwood, the white snout as a thin layer of birch, and the black ears as a thin layer of ebony. The Masked uses Its pitch-black claw to carve a pattern of thorns and brambles into the birch and ebony deep enough to see the redwood under it. The Masked is just finishing the thorny pattern,

making sure it’s symmetrical, when It hears a customer enter the shop. It stands up and drags Its claw across the collection of Its personal masks on the wall above the workbench. It decides on the wolf-skull mask, puts it on, looks around at the hundreds of broken masks that cover the walls, and leaves the workshop. The clicking of claws on wood echoes throughout the shop as the Masked walks to stand beside the mirror and wait. The customer peeks out from behind a shelf and looks at the creature. The mirror the creature’s standing next to is a foot shorter than the creature. It wears a pitch-black, thick fur cloak, and red irises gleam through the eye sockets of the wolf-skull on Its head. “Greetings,” the Masked says in a gentle voice that doesn’t match Its appearance. The customer gasps and ducks behind the shelf. The Masked cocks Its head in confusion like an animal would. “Do not be afraid, Lost One; I mean you no harm.” Slowly, the customer, a young girl about eight years old, stands in front of the Masked. She has wide, emerald green eyes, short, scarlet hair, and porcelain skin. Like all female customers, she wears a dress, except hers is pure white, and she has a golden, heart-shaped locket around her neck. A…child? Some customers had brought items they cherished with them, but they had all been adults dressed in black. The Masked comes back to reality, “Greetings, Lost One, they call me the Masked. Is there any mask you are looking for?” “I...um,” the child looks to the floor and clutches the skirt of the dress. “N-no,” she whispers. “Very well then, are you fond of small animals?” the Masked asks as It walks towards a shelf, claws clicking against the wood

floor. “U-um, I guess?” The girl follows behind It. “How about bugs?” “Uh, maybe?” “Do you prefer scales, feathers, or fur?” “I…don’t know.” “Feel free to stop and take any mask you like.” “O-okay.” This line of questioning goes on for a while as the Masked shows her different masks. She timidly points to masks she likes and the Masked carries them for her back to the mirror. The girl stands in front of the mirror and holds the masks up to her face one at a time, and the Masked hangs the masks she seems to like on the mirror. It’s not unusual for customers to take a long time and be indecisive when choosing a mask, but none have taken as long and been as indecisive as she has, not that the Masked minds. “I-I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time. You must have something better to do than this,” the girl says after her onehundred-and-sixteenth mask. “It is quite all right,” the Masked assures her. “Take all the time you need; this is a very important decision after all…and I do not mind the company.” The girl smiles sweetly. “Okay!” she says. She begins to open up to the Masked after that. She doesn’t whisper or stutter as much and doesn’t hesitate to ask for help. The girl seems to be a free spirit to the Masked as she starts asking It questions. The questions are simple and innocent, the kind a child would ask, yet It has trouble answering the ones about Itself. “Can I try on your mask?” The question catches It by surprise.

“W-what, I mean, that would not be advisable. My appearance is rather…unsettling to Lost Ones…” “Oh, okay,” she starts to frown and fiddle with the locket around her neck. “Wait here a moment.” The Masked heads to Its workshop. It doesn’t know why It changed Its mind, but It did not want to make the child sad. It enters the workshop and takes off Its mask. It puts the wolf-skull mask next to the fox mask and grabs the crow-skull mask from the wall. It puts on the crow-skull mask and Its pitch-black fur cloak transforms into pitch-black feathers. It picks up the wolf-skull and fox masks with Its shadowy talons and returns to the girl. She’s a bit surprised at his change, but still happy to see It. “Be careful; it might be heavy,” It warns. Her head fits completely inside of the mask, and the Masked holds it in place for her as she looks in the mirror. “I, uh, I think it’s a little big for me.” The Masked takes the mask off her and hangs it on the mirror. “Why not try this one on instead?” the Masked hands her the fox mask. “I finished it right before you came in.” “Okay,” she takes the mask and holds it up to her face. “Oh, wow! It’s really beautiful!” “If you like it that much…would you like to put it on?” “Really? Yes please!” the Lost One grins in excitement. The Masked sighs, sad that she’s leaving already, bends down and begins to take off her mask, but the Lost One quickly reaches up to keep the mask on. “Wh-what are you doing?” “Your mask is broken, and you cannot wear two masks,” the Masked explains. “But I need my mask.”

“It is broken. I will fix it for you, and you can have this one until then,” the Masked gestures to the fox mask. “But…this mask has all of my precious memories. I need them!” “All of the Lost Ones who enter this shop do so because they have no precious memories. So, when their masks break, they come here and willingly part with their broken masks because their memories are not precious to them.” The girl looks at her feet and then back up at the Masked. “What about my memories of you?” “What…about…me?” the Masked asks, turning Its head to the side like a curious animal yet again. “If you take my mask, I’ll forget about you.” “About…me? I beg your pardon, but why would you want to remember me?” the Masked says still confused. “I’m rather frightening...don’t I frighten you?” “At first, yes…but now that I’ve gotten to know you, I care about you and I don’t want to forget you.” “I will fix your mask and then you can come back for it and remember me.” “Okay, but…what if you forget about me?” “I will not.” “But what if you do?” the child insists. “Here.” The girl takes off her locket and puts it around the Masked’s neck. “Now you won’t forget about me because I’ll always be close to your heart.” This makes the Masked feel…warm inside. The girl smiles and takes off her mask. The Masked catches it before it falls to the floor and It puts the fox mask on the Lost One. A beautiful, russet fox sits where the little girl previously stood. The fox looks around and then up at the Masked for a few moments before scampering away.

“Farewell, little fox,” the Masked says as the fox leaves. It looks down at the mask in Its claws, “Porcelain…like a little doll.” The Masked fiddles with the locket as It realizes how cold the shop is now that she’s gone. “Back to work…” It doesn’t know how long it has been since It has seen the little fox; time is irrelevant at the shop. But, customers come and customers go, three hundred and forty-seven to be exact, and still no sign of the little fox. The Masked fixed her mask three hundred and forty-two customers ago, and It keeps the mask close to Itself in order to give it to the little fox as soon as the little fox gets here. However, the Masked grows curious; why did the little fox want to keep the mask so badly? So, the Masked stands in front of the mirror and holds the porcelain in front of Its face. When It looks through the mask, It doesn’t see Itself, but rather the little girl. The girl It sees in the mirror looks exactly the same as It remembers, with short, scarlet hair, emerald eyes, and porcelain skin. The Masked fills with warmth and can’t help but smile when It sees her, and the reflection smiles back. The Masked is completely lost in the mirror’s reflection, until the clicking of claws pulls It from Its thoughts. The Masked lowers the porcelain mask and turns around to greet Its newest customer. “Hello again, little fox.”

MAYERS WALLACE ‘21

Siri

HELEN KASTNER ‘23

Hungry but Hopeful

The sun from the small carved-out window in my room is shining through The blinding sun rays burn my eyes, but they remind me that it is time to rise Time to start my long day of continuous work I put on the same yellow and red raggedy dress that I wore yesterday The dress is torn, ripped, and jagged on the ends But it’s all I have I creep into the kitchen It’s very small with a table in the middle and a homemade stove in the corner But we barely get to use it anyway It is 5 a.m. I feel like I’m the only teen girl in the world who is awake at this time The only one who has to work all day I check to see what is left of our scarce amount of food in what is supposed to be a cupboard I see that there is only one meager piece of bread left, so I take it and hold it tight in my hands And consume it in small bits at a time, savoring every crumb Knowing that this is all I will have to eat until supper (but sometimes there isn’t a supper) I put on my worn shoes that have a tiny hole at the end of my big toe I try to take care of my belongings, I really do But I walk so much that the gravel in the ground always destroys them Momma told me that I needed to sell some of her pottery today The fragile pottery that she makes with her bare hands The beautiful pottery that she stays up working on all night The carefully made pottery that helps to provide for our family Her pottery is beautiful and pieces are colorful like an array of rainbows 43

Others she likes to keep bland, like plain concrete Most of the pieces include intricate designs Mostly ones that represent where we live, like elephants or colors like green, red, and yellow Ones that are close to our hearts I bring the pieces to a local market and place them carefully on a table I try to get people’s attention I want them to buy my Momma’s pottery to make her feel like she’s working so hard for a reason Yet I leave the market empty handed just like most days Half the people who live here are doing the same as me Selling hand-crafted goods all day in hopes of making the money that they need So, they can’t even afford the pottery anyway The other artisans here work all day and night Their art is all beautiful And everyone here is proud of their work whether it sells or not… For these artistic people, it’s the art itself that matters most to them (not the money) Some make pottery like Momma, some sew, some paint But all of their art is unique in some way (at least to me) I collect Momma’s pottery and continue my day I stop by the local market and the aroma of fresh-baked bread fills the air I can feel my stomach grumble with hunger as the smell warms my body My mouth waters for the sweet taste of fresh bread I search my bag to look for any loose change, but there is nothing I can’t bear this pain of hunger much longer So I return home with Momma’s pottery in my worn canvas satchel As I get closer to home, I begin to tremble I’m scared and I’m tired of having to tell Momma that none of her pottery sold again The pain of telling her is like a million daggers going into my heart all at once

Excruciating and agonizing. I walk inside my home, and I greet Momma with a gigantic hug I hand her the pottery with a trembling hand and a fearful heart And I watch as her eyes become glossy The look of fear and deep pain appears in her eyes I guess she thought that today would be the day The day I come home with a gigantic smile on my face As I tell her that all of her pottery pieces had sold And I hand her the money Money for food Money for new things The money that we need so badly But today just wasn’t the day I wish it was so I could see Momma’s contagious smile again She works so hard, and I want to give her what she deserves But Momma looked at me She by now had heard the screams that were coming from my stomach She told me As long as I got you As long as we try As long as we have family Money is the least of my worries.

It’s a day later Today I walk to the market with more confidence than I did yesterday More willingness

More happiness The gravel on the walk there pains my feet less I stroll with a sense of pride I approach the market with hope Today it feels like some of the daggers were plucked from my heart (Maybe Momma’s impactful words are making me feel this way or maybe the universe is telling me that today is special) I begin to put Momma’s pottery on a table, admiring each piece and its unique qualities I stand and wait Wait for someone to buy the pottery Wait for someone to fulfill my happiness But it’s the end of the day and no one has bought anything Just like every other day My heart drops heavily to my chest with a thud Tears well up in my eyes and start to spill out like a river But then I hear a faint raspy voice It’s a man Wearing a blue shirt with a hole in the left sleeve His pants are long and too big for his starved body He looks at me with big brown eyes Are these pieces still for sale? As he points to a set of bowls that are painted with blue intricate designs I reply with a confident yes He admires the pieces for a moment My heart floats back up in my chest like a balloon rising in the sky And the hope I felt earlier comes back like a rushing body of water He gathers up the pieces with trembling hands He carefully hands me money and tells me

My wife has wanted these pieces for a while I think she deserves them I smile as wide as I can and thank him What will Momma think? I wonder I sprint home faster than ever, but I’m careful not to break Momma’s pottery I run inside I nearly cause Momma to fall to the floor I’m so happy So hopeful I show her the money And this time Her eyes are glossy But with tears of joy Not fear

OLIVIA FONVILLE ‘20 47

Doctor

ANA HUNTER ‘23

STEAL NOBODY.

Price, who walked alone down the street, With these ugly spaceship shoes on his feet That looked like Tide Pods from beneath, Was the one who was always watching me eat. He would smile at me as he watched, But I thought that he didn’t know that I could see him watching me. Price, he had these eyes that looked more like science, Like he was ready to try new things and live, But he acted more like California, fast-paced and full of flames, Which had me wondering what would pop up in his brain On the days Where he would walk down the street Holding his leg like it had a migraine. One day Price, whose name sounds like money, not quite like honey because Price sounds more like that dirty old rice than it does the sweet stuff that he puts on his morning bun. That day, I guess I found that I watch Price while he eats, just like he watches me. But Price, one morning, I didn’t get to see eat That morning bun with the honey. Because it looked like he was running from the police,

dressed like he was going trick or treat with his pants sagging and a cap on his head not to mention the wrap around his leg that looked like it was oozing red. Probably spilled Kool-Aid From his little sister, Tank Whose name sounded like the army days That Poppa would rather not say. But Price held something in his hand— Looked like one of those mini milk cartons That goldfish would go in. That was probably for Tank, too, Because those were her favorite. But I wondered if that Kool-Aid would stop spreading Because his funny walk that he did With his leg dragging behind Almost seemed real, like he wanted it to fall in line. But it made me laugh Because when he looked at me, He gave me that same smile As he did while he watched me eat.

MYANNE JAMES ‘20 49

Grandma’s Attic

EMILY GRACE CATER ‘23

The Internet Best Friend Application Hi. No, no, that’s not going to do anything. Hello! Oh, that’s worse. Let me just…okay, okay, that’ll work. Hey, my name is Jenna, and I want to be YOUR internet best friend. Wow, I sound needy. Let’s just *backspace*. Okay, here we go. Hey, I’m Jenna. Okay, I’m ready for the application. Oh, I don’t even have to write that. Fantastic. ENTER NAME HERE: Let’s just put my name in here. Jenna Elizabeth Mayer. That was easy. Next one! PHONE NUMBER HERE: Weird. Why do I need this? Do they mean the LAN line? I don’t own a mobile. It’ll have to do. INSTAGRAM HERE: I have been wondering what this was. Should I ask Carol? Yeah, she’ll know. Carol! *meow* Oh, good you’re here. What’s Instagram? *meow* Hmm, you’re not much help —pushes cat off the bed— goodbye. Oh well, next!

POSITION APPLYING FOR: Fantastic, this one is easy, in-inter-internet best friend. Done. HOW DID YOU FIND US? Hmm, how should I phrase this? I found you all online :) LET US KNOW WHAT YOUR INTERESTS ARE! REMEMBER, BE HONEST. What am I interested in? Oh, I know the perfect thing. Hey, I’m Jenna and I am interested in loads of things! For starters, I love to cook. My favorite thing to do in the kitchen is to make the fire cracker sing to me. I am trying to teach it a new tune. Instead of a beeping noise, I am trying to get it to make a squeaking noise. Although it is not going very well, the fire cracker is hard-headed, and every time I am getting anywhere with him, the kitchen fills up with smoke. Which is his way of telling me to go away. Another thing that I am interested in is my cat Carol. She and I do everything together. We take naps together, we eat together, and we do the flowers together. Oh, that Carol, always leaving me to do all the work. Although, I think she is starting to feel guilty for leaving 50

me alone by giving me my space to filter through my thoughts. Oh! I almost forgot to tell you more about her. Silly me. She is a Manx cat that is orange and brown, and she has green eyes. Fun fact about Manx cats: they have a genetic mutation that shortens their tails to almost nothing but a little nub. It is so cute. Oh, my cutie Carol. Speaking of Carol, where is she? I’ll be back, application.

5 minutes later. Okay, so I found Carol in a tree. It is the tree that is right out back next to the railing on the porch. That Carol, always climbing on things. Although, I do not understand how she got all the way up there. Nonetheless, she will be fine, but I think it is a good thing she does not have a long tail, or she might have not had it after this tree climb. She is sweet, I promise, but she just gets herself into trouble. Oh, that Carol. Let us get back onto the subject matter. What interests me? I have talked about the vocal lessons, Carol, and what else am I interested in…? Hmm, I thought this would be easy. I guess I was wrong. Who cares, I got this. I’m interesting. Okay, application, you weren’t ready for Jenna Elizabeth Mayer! Ooh, this is so exciting! I am interested in movies although I am more of a book person. Ooh, let me tell you about this book I read last Sun-

day. It might have been the best book I have ever read…No, that is not true; the best book I have ever read was the one I read two months ago, I’ll tell you about that one, too. So, the first book that I read Sunday is probably the second best I have ever read…No, that would be the one I plan to read tomorrow…Anyway, this book I read on Sunday is fantastic, I totally recommend it. Oh, there was this movie I was wanting to see. Maybe you can watch it, too, and we can talk about it. Okay, okay, it is called Cats vs Dogs: Kitty Galore, and the ratings are supposed to be awesome. I hope we can talk about it later. I think Carol told me it was good, but you already know that, Carol. Carol! Didn’t you like that Kitty Galore movie?! *meow* I’ll take that as a yes. I am interested in loads of things. Unless it involves skydiving, pandas (even the stuffed ones), sports, or video games. I just do not understand the buttons of those gamey thingies. You know? Okay, next section. Phew, that one was difficult. WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE COLOR? “All” is not a proper answer :) Favorite color, do I have one of those? I wonder if they mean the rainbow colors or the other colors. Anyhow, I’ll just put both. Well, when it comes to the rainbow, my favorite color is

pink, and when it comes to every other color, it would have to be… Hmmm, what other color could I use? What other color do I like? I like the color of this mug; I’ll simply put that. Pink. Genius. Next Question. WHO HAS INFLUENCED YOU IN YOUR LIFE? WHAT DID THEY DO? I know this one. She would be perfect. My mom influenced me because she was one of the greatest people I knew. She is no longer with me, but she gave me my Carol before she passed. And I believe she knew what she was doing when she put us together. Moving back onto my mother, not Carol. She told me to not try to be anyone other than myself because if I am not myself, who would I be? You would have loved her. I loved her…so much it makes my chest hurt. Moving on...she also taught me how to sing. Although she plugged her ears and told me to never sing again the first day, when she heard me sing, I knew that I would sing for the rest of my life. She tried to tell me that she didn’t want to hurt my feelings, but I didn’t understand her. I mean, it was opposite day when I sang to her. She supported me when no one else did, and for that, I am truly grateful. Okay, next one. Hold on, where’s Carol? “Carol?” I called for her. Where could she be? “Carol?” I guess I’ll have to just find her. All right, let’s put up the camp. Put up the laptop. (She closes the laptop and places in its black case next to the oak desk).

I miss her. I place my hand on the inscription on the desk: Love you always. -Mom. Love you, too, mom. Now let’s find us that Carol. “Carol! Where are you?!” (waits two seconds) “Carol! Meow if you can hear me!” *meow* “Oh, there you are. Hey, do you want to go watch the sunset with me?” *meow* “Good, let’s go.” I’ll finish the application later. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. “Come on, Carol—we haven’t got all day.” *meow* I walk up to my bay window and take a seat on top of my numerous colorful pillows. The sky is a warm orange and yellow, with a touch of pink and purple on opposite sides. This. This is nice. Contentment showed across my face as I smiled from earto-ear. Carol’s already found a good spot to fall asleep, and I decided to watch the sun go down just a little more. Looking at Carol once more on her soft, colorful pillows next to the windows, I think to myself, Mom would have loved this. I love this. As I watch the colors fade away in the sky, I readjust myself and lay down. Slowly, my eyes start to droop ’til my dreams start to take me over.

AMELIA HAUSMANN â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21 53

Laundry Day

SOPHIE SKOLNICK â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

Red Trees

HAMNA TAMEEZ â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

Carried Away

Carry me away. Away to a place where no man has ever gone before. A place where peace is built instead of shattered, And lives of worlds apart thrive in unity. Oh, wind, Carry me away. I cannot feel connection to my people, And youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re the only one to dares to explore these whirlwind worlds, As you sweep the whole globe and back again.

Can the people hear it? Your violent thrashes of war, heartbreak, freedom fighting, opportunity-grappling, crying, screaming, being. You are banging against our room windows, Waiting for us to dive into you, oh wind.

You hope for the need of the people to be carried away.

MAYA RISCH ‘22

Goodbye

i don’t know why i wasted so much time on you no you weren’t a waste because you turned out to be a facade you were a waste because you made me live in the past in the future but not in the present

MARJORIE ANN TEMPLETON ‘21

Seeing Evil

MADISON MORRIS ‘20

The Flies

My socked feet pitter-pattered along the forest pine needles, my eyes trained intently on the perfect slab of stone to spend the next twenty-four hours. Upon that very rock, I would experience a revelation that changed the way I looked at others, myself, my family, my happiness, the world, and reality itself. I know, it’s big. Snuggling myself upon the stone—which was nicely toasted by the sun’s rays—I gave my camp counselor the thumbs up, and she returned the gesture, turned, and walked back the way we had come. And so it began. My twenty-four-hours of solitude. That’s right, in the summer of 2018, I spent a whole day and night in the Oregon woods alone with just my thoughts and the lions, tigers, and bears. I had been given a few slices of bread, three peanut butter packets, and some trail mix. I had a tarp, a sleeping bag, the Good Lord’s book, and a journal. I had no weapons of any kind. No form of protection or defense from the wild beasts that were sure to emerge later that evening, which, once again, I would be spending, by myself. Alone. In the Oregon woods. All alone. At night. Needless to say, I was pretty excited. The promise of death: every high-school student’s dream. 57

Anyway, the purpose of this 24-hour solo—the one besides the obvious primary purpose of helping parents get rid of annoying children—was to, in short, figure out one’s life. Obviously, it was a pretty daunting task, so I decided to start the day off slow and to tackle my lunch before I tackled the meaning of life. So, after finishing a nice peanut butter sandwich at 10:00 a.m., I turned to the real issue at hand: more procrastination. I ate another sandwich. I rearranged my sleeping materials. I scouted the area for evidence of any potentiallyconcerning critters. I ate my trail mix. I grew concerned that I no longer had very much trail mix and/or peanut butter sandwiches left. Then, I seriously got serious and sat down. And this is when the real solo began. But before we get into that whole shebang, there are a few things you need know about me: 1. As I absolutely love to pepper into any conversation that can be considered remotely spiritual, I’m Catholic. 2. My mental state is questionable. Oftentimes, I don’t even know what’s going on up there. 3. My life, up until this point, had been nothing more than a pursuit of happiness.

4. Even though I’m going to be talking about what I have come to recognize as True, which happens to be the Christian God, I think that religion—in all of its forms— is a beautiful thing, worthy of respect and celebration. I hope my account encourages you to share freely and unapologetically your beliefs and how you perceive Truth, be it Allah, Yahweh, the Bodhi, a walk in the woods, or something else. Okay, so let’s get started! After making the sign of the cross, I tackled the issue that was at the forefront of my mind and had been there since I was eleven years old: to be or not to be…a nun. Yes, ever since I was eleven, I’ve had my heart set on being a religious Sister. While my disposition—which is excessively loud and energetic—makes this desire a surprise to just about anyone in my community, it was no surprise to me. For seven years, I’d wanted to be a Sister, on account of numerous reasons. The main one being that I. absolutely. adore. The Sound of Music. Just kidding—though I do want to emphasize that it is quite a good film, and to base one’s life choices off Maria would be a pretty solid plan-of-action, in my opinion. I simply wanted to be a Sister because I felt it was the occupation that promised me the most happiness in life. I loved the idea of waking up each day surrounded by the tangible presence of the Sacred. It seemed to me I would feel God constantly and intensely, if I were to live in

a cathedral surrounded by men and women whose sole goal was to grow closer to the Father. There was only one thing that made me hesitate in my plan to become a nun. And that was my deep, deep love for Avatar: The Last Airbender. I really loved that show and numerous others growing up, so the idea of becoming an animator for a television show or a script-writer sounded incredibly exciting, too. It was a tough choice to make: on one hand, I had life in union with God, and on the other hand, cartoons. Needless to say, I was quite conflicted. So, I brought all my baggage and concerns to the Lord in prayer, and it went something like this: “Hey, God, sorry I haven’t checked in in a while, it’s just, I was taking AP U.S. History, so I was kinda busy worshiping Teddy Roosevelt, you know how it is.” And he said: *insert cricket noise* And so I was like, “Okay, sorry about that! Anyway, I’m BACK, and I still want to be a religious Sister! Yay! The only issue is that I also think it would be kind of fun to create television shows for kids just like the ones I loved. What are your thoughts?” *silence yet again* And then I said: “Ooookay, that’s cool, that’s cool, um… just a reminder…feel free to chime in at any time: go whenever you’re ready…” And then, can you take a guess at what happened next? That’s right: God spoke to me.

And when I say the words: “I heard the voice of God,” I mean it. I heard the literal voice of God. And it’s kinda funny; it doesn’t sound like you’d think it would. This is what he said to me: bzzzzt. And I watched as a fruit fly flew by my ear and landed on my knee. God’s message. And do you know what I did? I totally blew it off. I swatted the fly away, annoyed that this matured maggot had the audacity to intrude upon my quality time with The Creator of the Universe. Only then, it landed right back on my knee: TOTALLY not taking the hint. And to make matters worse, a few minutes later, its little vermin buddies decide to join the party. Picture it: a young girl sitting on a rock, alone in the woods, with angry tears spilling from my eyes, wailing and flapping my arms in a passionate yet futile attempt to rid myself of the cursed beings, and then simply freezing. The swarm flies landed on me again, but this time, I just watched them. The last screw had finally come loose. I think ever since middle school, I had been aware of the somewhat sketchy state of my mind, and I always had my lurking suspicions, but never had the insanity been so painfully obvious as when I, quite literally, started talking to the flies. And in a very professional manner, too. This is what I said.

“Okay, fellas...listen. If we’re gonna make us work, we gotta lay down some ground rules first. So, from this moment hereafter, if you choose to land upon my right shoulder, you will thereby relinquish all rights to any previous title, and consent to being referred to as ‘Jeromy.’ “Should you land on the left shoulder, you agree to the terms of being re-named ‘Jack’ for as long as you grace that shoulder with your presence.” “In a similar fashion, anyone who lands on the right leg will be referred to as ‘Tom.’ Continue to fly in the immediate vicinity, and you will henceforth be known as ‘Bubba.’” And then, for the next couple hours, I proceeded to engage them in further conversation, and they proceeded to listen respectfully. I don’t remember what exactly I said beyond those initial introductions, but I do remember how much that conversation changed me. Because that conversation I had with the flies was filled with peace, far much more peace than the clearcut conversation I was trying to hold with God initially. The moment I quit trying to defend what my small mind assumed was a ‘correct’ interaction with God: the moment I entertained the possibility that the flies might just be more than an inconvenience, more than an annoyance, God’s presence became real and tangible to me. And God did not look like how I imagined him to be. And God did not feel or sound like what I was told he felt

And God did not feel or sound like what I was told he felt or sounded like. But there was peace in all that. And it wasn’t peace brought about by rising above the flies: it was a peace brought by turning my face toward the flies, acknowledging them, and giving them a chance to say what they were made to say, and what I was made to listen to: that there is no ‘right thing’ that will lead me to happiness. Joy isn’t for me to make: joy offers itself at all times and in all things. All I have to do is be open to accepting it. When I stopped fighting against something that seemed like an obstacle, I discovered that it wasn’t an obstacle at all, but a stepping stone that brought my heart a bit closer to God. I ended that solo still unsure if being a religious Sister was the right path for me. In many ways, I still feel pulled in that direction, and I seriously consider it. In other ways, I know—thanks to the flies—that God and joy will be just as close to me whether I live in a monastery or animate TV shows or work at Burger King. But I’m no longer paralyzed by the daunting task of figuring out ‘the perfect path that will lead me to happiness.’ Because life isn’t about finding and fighting for this fragile happiness that I’ve built up in my mind. And faith isn’t about defending this carefully constructed image of God.

For me, it’s all about opening myself up to and learning to love the flies in this life. That one little tweak in perspective changes everything.

DABNEY COLLIER ‘20

Circles and Circles

SYDNEY SHY â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Title Wave

CAROLINE COUCH â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

An Ode to English Teachers

To the hollow-cheeked, yet soft voiced woman, Whose eyes, pillowed with age and sadness Read mysteries to the young children at her feet. To that grey lady, With the kindness of a mother, coupled with the wit of an analogy Making stories out of storms To the steady voice that delivered the rush of emotion as Dallas cried his anger to the universe, The sensation of hearing curses of anguish in an uncharted language unknown to innocent ears. To the sardonic mass of black tresses held together by a single pencil, To the pencil that held the world I knew together To the Socratic, cool baritone who implored the importance of a question To the English teachers. To the preservation of a tradition many claim ownership of But feel no connection to To the forging of this connection by enlightenment through study To the sowers of stories Waiting and watching

Gazing for a glimpse of the imagination that begins to germinate To the classes whose details are only known by the esoteric To the inspiration that flows, the themes that follow To the understanding that shines through debate To the English teacher. The ones whose words emboldened a lexicon of knowledge in my mind.