Resonance 2025
Editors in Chief
Ava Churchill ’25
Thomas Goux ’25
Lila Journalist ’25
Editorial Team
Elise Casso ’26
Max Donovan ’26
Hannah Flanders ’26
Bodhi Talbot ’26
Sophie McSherry ’27
Sofia Canelos ’28
Valentina Mendez ’28
Hollis Oliver ’28
Ryan Ronan ’28
Mary Snell ’28
Siehanna Vazquez ’28
Faculty Advisor
Mrs. Monica Hough
2025 Resonance Award Panel
Mr. Matthew Barnes
Dr. Andy Hamilton
Mr. David Perry
Mrs. Olivia Riddiford
Mrs. Britta Santamauro
Mr. J. Robinson Wells
©2025 Falmouth Academy, Inc. All rights reserved
Published by: Falmouth Academy 7 Highfield Drive Falmouth, MA 02540 (508) 457-9696
Art Index
Cover - Elise Soule ’27
Inside front cover - The Weight of Wings, Hollis Oliver ’28
Page 4 - IntrinCity, Ryan Ronan ’28
Page 6 - Shore, Nickolas Leach ’27
Page 8 - Xanadu, Elise Soule ’27
Page 13 - Beach, Cassie Duarte ’28
Page 14 - Luminous, Hollis Oliver ’28
Page 18 - Screenprint, Hannah Flanders ’26
Page 24 - Warhorse, Max Donovan ’26
Page 29 - Mute Swan, Tate Nelson ’28
Page 30 - Ceramic Pumpkins, Ace Cugini ’28
Page 32 - Infectionism, Ryan Ronan ’28
Page 34 - Raven, Raven Guinta-Tavares ’27
Page 36 - Lethal Crimson Mark, Ryan Ronan ’28
Page 40 - Watershed Batik, Alessia Mezzacappa ’29
Page 42 - 3 Eyes, Dalia Rose Najarian ’29
Page 49 - Blue Flower, Nickolas Leach ’27
Page 55 - Paper Crane, Kai Aretxabaleta ’29
Page 60 - Painting, Lynn Jazo ’26
Page 63 - Ink Stamp, Lochlan Tyrrell-Evans ’29
Page 64 - Acrylic on Canvas, Tate Nelson ’28
Page 66 - Digital Photography, Elyse Sharpe ’27
Page 68 - Mushrooms and Snail, Ace Cugini ’28 and Cassie Duarte ’28
Page 70 - Mountains, Arden O’Neil ’26
Page 71 - Ontologically, Ryan Ronan ’28
Inside Back Cover - Cinderella, Robby Lender ‘25
Back Cover - Color Variation 1, Max Donovan ’26
Table of Contents
Widow’s Walk, Faye McGuire ’26………………………………………..4
Question, Valentina Mendez ’28…………………………………………7
Bad Apples, Milo Allison ’29…………………………………………….7
The Narrators, Nickolas Leach ’27………………………………………8
Growing Older Isn’t Louder, Adelaide Metters ’29………………….…12
Phthia, Hollis Oliver ’28………………………………………………..15
Santa Fe, 1980, and Santa Barbara 1988, Lila Journalist ’25…….……19
Brittle As They Come, Cassie Duarte ’28……………………………….23
I Revel in the Danger You Bring, Cassie Duarte ’28……………….…...23
Fog and Chaos, Chase Renzi ’27……………………………………….25
I Saw the Swan, Ryan Ronan ’28…………………………………….…28
Stone, Hollis Oliver ’28…………………………………………………29
Pumpkin Spice in January, Sia Canelos ’26…………………………….30
Eurydice, Cassidy Eldredge ’29…………………………………………33
Requiem, Hollis Oliver ’28……………………………………………...34
Haven, Arden O’Neil ’26………………………………………………..35
Below the Surface, Sofia Canelos ’28……………………………………37
The Final Whistle, Sumaiya Noury ’30………………………………….40
The Hum, Gabriela Otoni ’27……………………………………………41
Vanishing Summer, Hannah Flanders ’26………………………………..42
An Evening in the City with the Ambassador, Max Donovan ’26……….44
Unspoken, Alanna Andrews ’29…………………………………………48
Spilled Between, Alanna Andrews ’29…………………………………...48
Blue Like the Reflection of Snow, Cassie Duarte ’28…………………….49
Spring Cranes, Emme Carroll ’28……………………………………….55
Wisp of Wind and Sail, Cassie Duarte ’28……………………………….59
Recoloring of the First Perspective, Ryan Ronan ’28…………………...61
The Dying Embers of Summer, Talena Gonneea ’26…………………….64
Passage O: How Must We Wander?, Ryan Ronan ’28…………………..66
Saci, Isabelly Belo ’29…………………………………………………...68
IroniC Immersion, Ryan Ronan ’28……………………………………..69
The Secret Ingredient, Thomas Goux ’25………………………………..70
The Ship of Dark Waters, Giulia King ’28……………………………….70
Widow’s Walk
The cold wind whipped through the gnarled branches of the scrub pines that lined the shore of the westernmost point of our new colony. I stood at the water’s edge, my feet sinking slightly into the damp sand, the waves crashing against the shore with relentless force. Cold crept through the thin leather soles of my boots, and water seeped through the worn stitches. I could feel my toes beginning to numb, but that was the smallest of my concerns. The sound of the surf, the high-pitched call of a seagull, and the occasional rustle of wind against my coat harmonized with the cacophony of the late afternoon beach.
Though my ears were full of sound, the only thing I could hear was my own heart beating against my ribs and the shuddering rise and fall of my chest. As I wrapped my arms around my shaking frame, I stood there, feet sinking into the sand, eyes set on the horizon.
The sun began to break through the slate-gray clouds, casting rays of golden light that reflected off of the roiling sea. There was less than a half an hour before it would slip below the horizon, bathing the beach in an ink black night. Right now, however, the sun was radiant, taking the edge off the cool wind that pilfered through my layers of cloaks and clothing. It was holding on, waiting, just as I was, with a stubborn resolve to not dip below the horizon. It held onto the memory of today just as I held onto my hope that three masts would appear, climbing over the curvature of our earth, crawling towards the port.
As I gazed at the churning water, I felt a kind of anger rise against the crashing waves. They struggled against each other, fighting for no reason. How many of these waves could have pushed the ship back into shore? How many of them dragged her further away? How many times had I stood on this beach, watching the sun slip below the horizon, squinting at the last rays of sunlight before the dark encompassed the shore, and I was forced back to my home. I wielded my lantern as my only weapon, hoping to push away some of the night.
At that moment, the sun was my greatest ally. It continued to hold on, dropping lower and lower, but not yet encompassed by the waves. The horizon remained empty and I felt my own body begin to float away. I fell, took my head in my hands, and ran my sandy fingers through my tangled hair. My hands dropped,
and I suddenly felt heavy.
My three masts wouldn’t appear tonight.
Hands digging into the cool beach, gripping the grains of sand as if they could tether me to this shore, I felt my heart pounding against my chest, like it was trying to escape. Every inhale burned my throat and the sharp, salty air made my eyes water. I had always found solace in the smell of the sea, the way it promised a sort of permanence in a world that so often felt unpredictable. Tonight, however, the brine pierced my throat, and I struggled to breathe the thick, salty air.
I had spent many nights here, standing in the same spot, watching the same waves, hearing the same gulls. Tonight, the sunset came too quickly. Time was slipping away faster than it should, and the chill seemed eager to creep up behind me and swallow me whole.
I stared again at the darkening horizon, searching for any sign. My breath came out in ragged puffs, visible in the frosty air in front of me. The wind continued to bite at my cheeks, burning them raw and unfeeling.
It felt like I had been here for hours, heart pounding against my throat in the rhythm that the waves pounded the shore. How many women had spent nights alone on the beach, pacing the empty shores, just to be met with the most devastating news of their lives? Though I was alone, I felt the shared anticipation of every woman who strode along these shores. I felt their uncertainty, their triumph, their emotion, and their loss.
I grasped myself tightly, wrapped in my own arms as I shivered against the permeating cold. This would not be my widow’s walk.
The wind calmed for a moment. My happiest memories came to life and flooded my ears with sounds that were not really there: the soft clap of sails against the rigging, the distant shouting of a crew returning home, and his low, gravelly voice.
As the wind picked up again, I could have sworn I heard him whispering.
I exhaled slowly, my breath trembling in the cool air. The resurfacing of these sounds from deep in my brain had flooded me with serenity. I took comfort in knowing that it could still be tonight - but it wasn’t time yet.
The sun was lower now, a sliver of fiery orange hanging just above the horizon. The waves, once wild and untamable, seemed to have quieted as dusk rolled in, settling into a strange calm, as if the ocean itself was waiting with me.
Then, just as the last drop of sunlight fell beneath the sea, I saw it.
The faint outline of three masts pierced the sky, like silhouettes rising from the mist.
My breath caught in my chest, and for a moment, I felt the world around me hold its breath, too. The sea’s pounding stopped. The wind silenced. The gulls had gone to sleep.
I rubbed my eyes with such vigor I saw black spots dancing across my vision, but nothing could obscure the real, the undeniably, unequivocally real masts that crept towards our ocean town.
My heart, which had been beating with such frantic urgency for so long, pounded so hard I placed both hands on my chest in case I had to catch it, should it jump out from between my ribs. In this eerie silence, I stood perfectly still, watching the three masts slowly approach the port. Their shapes became clearer as the ship drew closer. The waves, which had once seemed so threatening, now lapped the shore with purposeful calmness, as if they were dutifully propelling the ship forward.
My knees felt weak, and for a moment, I feared they might give way. But I stood firm, my gaze fixed on the growing ship. The sun had long since vanished, and I could see my puffs of breath in front of me. But I was warmer than I had been all day. There was no more biting cold driving me off the beach. In this inky night, the moon’s radiant light bathed everything in a silver sheen. I could stand here for hours. There was no more urgency.
The ship would make it home. My wait was over.
And in that moment, as the canvas of the sails caught the beaming moonlight, as the raging sea abandoned its battle, and as the wind ceased its driving gale, I knew that my waiting had not been in vain.
My eyes stayed on the horizon, and I noticed that my heart rate had moderated, my fingers had defrosted, and my feet felt dry. The masts were a promise.
This had not been my widow’s walk.
- Faye McGuire ’26
Question
Winter's silence
Creeping in
Bare and nude
What is to come?
Frosted conifers
Brittle pines
Now is time
The closest to the unknown
Now emerging
From my den
Sun kissed blossoms
Young and pure
Bleeding with chartreuse
This new year Has answered In its entirety
- Valentina Mendez ’28
Bad Apples
Picking apples, we poisoned ourselves, The bitter taste
Of our own wrongdoing.
Cracked apart like eggs on a Sunday morning,
With worn minds we wither, wondering whether our next step Is falling into a trick or a trap. I’d give my ribs, no matter how broken or bruised,
To be and to stay a part of you.
Serpents
Striking from all sides, Mumbling sweet nothings, Filling our heads with noise Till sleep strikes everything still. Each new day
Followed by hope, Hope of a fresh start, A new future.
Some apples aren’t meant to be eaten.
- Milo Allison ’29
The Narrators
Welcome! I know this will be a bit much, but you are dead. That car came out of nowhere, didn’t it? You’re probably wondering what this is and who I am. And, before you ask, no, I’m not God. God doesn’t exist, silly! Nah, I’m just kidding. I don’t really know if there is a God. All I know is that we are The Narrators, a seemingly special group of deceased individuals–or spirits if you’d like to call us that–who gaze down upon the world and, well, as the name implies, we narrate. Sort of like the narrators in the books the living write! Except our books are special. We aren’t really sure what they do, but they seem to keep things in balance. Many of us suspect that without our books, the past wouldn’t exist. Sounds weird, I know. Even I think it’s a little crazy. But here we are, standing in this room.
Also, yes, I’m not speaking. You see my mouth moving, but this conversation is happening in our minds. That’s also why living people say they have voices in their heads because they do. Well, sometimes. Some people are just crazy and don’t have narrators gibbering in their minds. And yes, before you ask, ghost hauntings are narrators, and yes, narrators sometimes do seek vengeance against those who have wronged them. We try to stop these narrators from their dangerous meddlings, but sometimes rogue narrators slip away.
Some narrators are just insane!
Hey, who is eavesdropping on this brain conversation? Ava, is that you? This is my recruit, not yours.
What are you gonna do, report me? For having a conversation with a recruit in a public place?
You need to stop. Do you know how confusing this is going to be for the person reading this narration
in thirty years? There won’t be any quotation marks. It will all be narration! How are they going to know who’s who?
Not my problem.
“Well, it’s going to be a problem once I file a report against you and get you replaced!” Jonathan said.
“Hey, who is narrating my narration?” Jonathan said with an aggressive tone. “STOP!” Jonathan shouted.
“Nice one, Jane!” Ava said. Ava turned to the new recruit. “If Jonathan ever gets on your nerves, just start narrating him! He hates it. And if you’re ever around Jane, you better get used to it. She loves narrating.”
“You two are such bad examples to the recruits. How did you even get into the training program?” Jonathan said in his stupid, annoying voice.
All right, I’ve had my fun. I’ll see you two later! Ava, want to come with me and go meet some more recruits?
Sure. Good luck, Jonathan!
Thank God they are gone. We need to get out of here. There are too many narrators around. Oh, and, to be clear. You are Elbert, or Narrator 1985. Yes, I know this isn’t the name you had on Earth, and it’s a rather odd name, but you’ll get used to it. Your name will always be the name of the person you are assigned to narrate. You likely won’t hear your name much, but sometimes it comes in handy for identification. It would be a real drag if we all just called each other by our numbers!
Come on, you’re walking slow! Pick up the pace. The world isn’t going to last much longer. Oh, wait… you don’t know about that, do you? Well, to put it bluntly, a nuclear war is about to break out, and humanity is about to collapse! Sure, it’s tragic, but just think of the riveting narratives! Oh, come on now, don’t look at me like that. You knew it was going to happen eventually. Humans were destined to spontaneously combust.
So, on a much more serious note, you are one of the narrators at the center of this whole thing. The man you’re narrating, Elbert, uh, Hughes, I think, he’s a missileman stationed in a classified TurkishAmerican military base. He and his team are going to detect a thermonuclear weapon exiting Russian airspace over the Black Sea in twenty minutes. And we, with good reason, believe that this is going to end the world. Very scary, I know. But you are going to be narrating him. And, I guess I will be there too, seeing as, well, this is going to be weird. I was your narrator. Before you, well, got run over by that guy. He really should’ve been paying more attention. I mean come on, if you’re going to text and drive, at least look up once in a while!
Okay, where were we? Oh, right. A missileman, you, and the potential end of the world! How fun! Why are you looking at me like that? Is it not exciting? Okay, we are here. Step right through this door, please. Yes, I know, that door just appeared out of nowhere. Yes, it’s strange. No, I don’t know how it works, so stop asking questions. What color is it? Use your imagination for goodness sake! It can be whatever color you want it to be. Really? You want me to tell you the color of the door because now you’re awfully curious as to what color the door is? Fine. It’s red. Happy? Blue? What do you mean it’s blue? I don’t know what to tell you, but that door is a bright red my friend. Oh for goodness sake, we have fifteen minutes! Look how much time you’re wasting! Oh so it’s my fault now? JUST GO THROUGH THE DAMN DOOR!
All right, here we are! In the middle of a top-secret nuclear weapons facility. Quick, let’s get going, we have seven minutes before the whole thing goes down. Go ahead, try it. Narrate! Oh, don’t be shy. They can’t hear you!
Elbert sat at his station, twiddling his thumbs. Although he had one of the most important jobs in the world, it was also one of the more boring ones. He was part of the team in charge of monitoring the nuclear weapons in this military establishment. Most of the time would be spent just sitting, monitoring screens, buttons, and performing the occasional repair, although they had a separate team for that.
That’s it! You’re doing it! You’re narrating! You even have your narrator’s insight. Not every narrator has it, but many, like you, have the ability to almost read minds, and are able to narrate in a way that gives the story context. Keep going!
While Elbert found his job to be fulfilling to his ego, and made him feel like he had a purpose, he found that it lacked excitement. He had missed the height of the Cold War and the Cuban Missile Crisis, joining his position in 1975, and with relations with the Soviet Union strengthening, he found his job rather useless. He, the four other operators, and his commanding officer, stayed in the control room 24/7. They took shifts with another nuclear team of course, but due to their being only two or three teams at any given time, shifts lasted up to twelve hours.
Suddenly, the phone rang. Not just any phone, the red phone in the corner of the dimly lit room. The officer walked over to the phone, slowly bringing it up to his ear.
“Hello? Hello sir. Yes. Alright. Yes sir.” He began to fidget as he spoke. “Nathan, check the detection system now!” he barked at one of the missilemen.
“Yes sir!” Nathan responded, immediately checking the early warning system. The system suddenly began to beep, followed by a sort of alarm. “Sir… we have a rocket propelled object exiting Russia, approaching the Black Sea.”
The officer, his face suddenly turning a sort of pale colour, immediately held the phone back to his ear.
“Sir, we have confirmed enemy launch. Single missile. We have no idea where it is going, but it could be somewhere in Europe. But sir, it’s just one missile. Surely this isn’t an attack? Affirmative. Yes sir.” The officer slowly lowered the phone. With a soft, but still commanding tone, he spoke. “Prepare missiles one, two, and three for retaliatory measures. Awaiting target.”
Elbert immediately lunged forward towards the control panel. Time was of the essence. He activated and unlocked weapon one. Two of the missilemen in the room did the same for two and three.
“Weapons live. Awaiting target,” Elbert exclaimed. He was worried. For the first time in his life, he was unsure whether or not anything would stay as it was. The phone rang again. The officer picked up the phone once again.
“Yes sir, weapons are live. Yes sir. Affirmative.” The officer slowly placed the phone back on its pedestal. “We have orders to inflict maximum damage. NATO weapons will knock out their ballistic systems once we have the go-ahead. Target the Kremlin, Stalingrad, and St. Petersburg.”
The control room was silent, aside from the missile launch warning beeping in the background.
“Well, don’t just stand there! We have orders!” the officer shouted.
“Sir, with all due respect, they have fired one missile! For all we know it could be a misfire and we don’t want to–” Elbert was cut short by the officer.
“We have orders. Initiate the sequence.”
Elbert flipped a few switches, then entered the coordinates of Moscow into the ballistics computer. Then, silently, the officer and the controllers approached the launch panel. The officer put his key into the panel, and so did three of the other missilemen. Elbert, and one of the other controllers, Mike, remained as statues, standing frozen.
“Gentlemen, we have orders. Put your keys in, now!” The officer stared at them with fury in his eyes. “NOW!”
They are going to do it. They are going to launch the missiles. For your first day on the job, this must be a lot to narrate. I know you had faith in humanity, but like I said, they are destined to destroy themselves. Really? You still believe in Elbert? You think he is going to save the day? You have far too much faith in these people. Anyway, carry on with your narration.
Elbert stood there for a moment, and glanced pleadingly at Mike. But Mike, glancing back, put his key in its slot, and twisted. Elbert followed suit.
“Weapons armed!” barked the officer. “Awaiting final go ahead.”
Elbert glanced at the missile detection system, watching as a red dot on the screen barreled across the Black Sea. Hoping for that red dot to just disappear. Hoping that it was all just a mistake.
The phone rang. The officer picked it up, held it for a few seconds, and quickly lowered it back into place.
“We have go for launch,” he said blankly.
The officer flipped one, two, and then three switches. He walked left, and flipped up the safety cover on the launch button. His hand began to lower. Elbert stared at the button, fear coursing through his veins. But you, our new narrator, knew something he didn’t. The Russian missile had been deactivated, and the red dot had vanished from the radar. It was a mislaunch. You, our faithful narrator, walked over to the screen, hoping that Elbert could just glance over, wishing that he could see that the missile was gone before it was too late. You glanced at the control panel, and noticed a small coffee cup. You knew what to do. Using your ghostly hand, you hit the coffee cup. It tumbled to the floor.
Elbert, in that moment before disaster, glanced over towards the noise of the cup, over towards the screen. In that instant, he realised what the others in that control room did not.
“DON’T LAUNCH!” Elbert shouted, dashing for his commanding officer, knocking him to the ground. “The Russians stopped their missile! They cancelled the launch!”
Everyone glanced up towards the now blank missile detection system. They all sighed with relief. Disaster had been avoided. The phone rang, and their commanding officer picked it up. He confirmed that the Russians had mislaunched, and that Russian diplomats were apologizing for the catastrophic event.
Well, you did it, narrator. I’m honestly surprised. I’m not sure if I approve of your crazy meddling and crisis averting. We narrators are usually supposed to stay out of things, but there are some exceptions. You saved the world, sort of, and made an incredible narration for your first day. I think your training is complete. Good luck out there, narrator! Till we meet again.
The End… Or is it?
- Nickolas Leach ‘27
Growing Older Isn't Louder
Childhood was a language I knew by heart Before I ever learned how to fear it fading. There was a time when the sky spoke in colors only I could name, When the ground beneath my feet was endless, And I believed the trees could tell me storiesNot the kind you read, but the kind you feel in your bones.
Now, everything feels like it’s slipping away. The years have stretched into something vast and heavy, And I’m lost in the space between yesterday and today, My laughter now cracked, like glass, Echoing but never full. The girl who chased the wind Has been swallowed by the weight of time.
I can’t remember when it happened, When I stopped feeling like I belonged in my own skin, When the body I once ran in, wild and free, Started to hurt with the weight of things It couldn’t outrun anymore. And the heart that once dreamed without limits Now carries the quiet ache of unspoken goodbyes.
The trees I climbed are ghosts, Their branches unreachable, And the world that once seemed infinite Now feels like a door closing, A door I can’t open anymore. And I stand on the other side, Grasping for something I can’t name.
I miss the days when my hands were soft, When they reached for a future that felt like it would never end, Before time taught me that everything slips away Faster than I can hold on.
Growing older isn’t loud. It’s a quiet loss that settles in your chest And sits there, weightless but suffocating. I wonder if I’ll ever stop grieving The girl who believed the world would always have room For all her dreams.
-Adelaide Metters ’29
Phthia
"Tell the king; the fair wrought house has fallen. No shelter has Apollo, nor sacred laurel leaves; The fountains are now silent; the voice is stilled. It is finished.”
“We’re here,” the guide announced. The engine silenced, and the man dropped out the door onto the caked ground. He rolled his neck and glanced at his watch as a small entourage of visitors filed out of the bus and watched, unimpressed, as a father struggled to get his toddler down the steps: a warm welcome to the temple nestled between the rolling cliffs of Delphi.
Cleo rocked back and forth, biting her lower lip in anticipation. Her leaden bookbag was already weighing her down. She felt her companion Thalia’s eyes on her back but didn’t care. What did she know? All the while casting her gaze around the open plateau, studying the precious ruins.
“The inscription there,” she raised her arm, pointing to an abstract string of letters carved above the entryway, “I know it. That one reads, ‘Know thyself.’”
“You read Greek?”
“I read books,” Cleo stated, tapping her copy of The Oxford Handbook of Monsters in Classical Myth.
The escort began his lecture, “On the left you’ll see the amphitheater. It’s of Greek origin but was used by the Romans sometimes. It’s uh, interesting stuff. Then, here to the right,” he glanced at his watch again, “No, we can skip that,” he droned on, drifting between topics punctuated with mumbles and awkward pauses.
“Excuse me, sir,” Cleo piped up, “but—since you brought it up—do you know how the amphitheater relates to the temple itself? Or how the Roman occupation changed its use over time?”
He paused for a second, peering over her blank clipboard while placing a thoughtful finger on his lip as if pretending to consider her question before giving his answer. “Well, ya-know, there were a lot of people here back in the day who came here for the Oracle who would’ve probably used it, and then the Romans were just different people.”
“And what about the Oracle?” The tour guide paused again, ever aware of his quick-ticking watch. His eye twitched.
“Right, sorry.” Cleo began to fiddle with her pen. This trip cost a lot, after all, and her notebook was awfully blank for the effort. She leaned over and whispered to Thalia, “This is useless. I’m going to sneak around. You stay here.”
“Huh?” Thalia snapped out of her haze, “You’re gonna do what?”
“Just,” she looked away, “you know, take a look at things. This guide clearly doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s not even paying attention to us. I’ll just slip away, don’t worry about it.”
Thalia watched open-mouthed as her impossible friend crawled off into a nearby bush. She determined that Cleo would never make it out on her own, so the only sensible thing to do was to join her.
After considerable—and unnecessary—struggle through small patches of shadow and uncomfortably muddy ditches, the pair inched up the broken stairs, Cleo pausing every few moments to inspect the inscriptions, Thalia not seeing the point. They crept through the entryway into the central chamber where darkness clung to the walls, to the ceiling, and to the floor. The great stone pillars weren’t exactly built to be welcoming.
As Thalia’s flashlight flicked on to reveal the grand mosaic walls, Cleo was reminded why this hall had so long been revered. An image of Apollo, bathed in light, grappling with a great serpent met her eyes, blinking out to her from the shadows of the far wall. In the legends, this temple was once home to Python, victim of Apollo. The word Phthia, she remembered, the name of this place, the name of the priestess, descends from the Greek word meaning “to rot.” Joining the depiction were mosaics of all manner: Theseus and his ball of glowing thread, Pandora thumbing open the jar. The side walls each opened into a tight walkway, quickly fading into darkness.
“We have to split up,” Cleo observed.
“Have you never watched a horror movie?”
“We aren’t in a horror movie, Thalia. Calm down.”
“But what about—” Cleo had already turned the other way, snapping pictures of the portraits on the walls.
“I’ll go right, you go left.” Thalia had known her long enough to know this wasn’t a suggestion. Above each of the doorways, a small insignia had been carved. On the left, a sun crossed by an arrow was etched into the frame; on the right, a twisting shape had been obscured by a missing fragment of stone. Cleo didn’t look back as they descended into the serpent’s den.
The suffocation was instant; as soon as she passed the threshold the walls closed in. The heat of summer was replaced by a deep, bone chilling cold. It was only a few steps before the steady glow of the flashlight diminished to an uncertain flickering. She was forced to feel her way through the web of passages beneath the Temple of Apollo. The deeper she went, the more it began to feel like a crypt.
Just as her light went dark, Cleo stumbled into an open chamber within the temple. A mass of shadows huddled in the corner of the room, creaking and groaning, accompanied by the unsettling sound of metal scraping stone. She rapidly trifled with the flashlight controls, trying to get the light to come on once more, only for the intermittent glow to reveal what appeared to her to be a pale living corpse, chained and starving in a shallow pit of stagnant black water.
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” rasped the figure, “No one is.”
Cleo stepped back. “Are you..?”
“The Oracle? I suppose. Or I was, long ago, but I have been forgotten like so many before me. It is the curse of us Oracles.” She sneered at the last word, dragging it out like it had an unpleasant flavor in her mouth.
“You haven’t been forgotten, just–”
“Yes. Forgotten.” The words held like stone. “You, dear, must not stay. If you come seeking prophecy I can no longer help you.”
“I just wanted to talk to you,” her voice softened. “I just wanted to know you were real.”
A trickle of dusty light filtered through a crack in the chamber ceiling. It wasn't much, barely enough to illuminate the scene, but it was enough to remind them that the sun was still there.
The Oracle stared deep into the inky water, searching the depths. A glimmer of light flashed across the surface, a puff of shimmering smoke rose from the water. The ancient woman’s eyes flicked wide. She spoke without opening her lips.
“Listen closely, child. I will speak this only once.” Her discarnate voice scraped against the damp chamber. “There is one thing I can tell you; may it be of use.” With a flick of her wrist, the black waters started to churn, animated by a preternatural force. The glass-like surface began to fluoresce, illuminating the rotting insides of the basilica.
“Know thyself, but know also those around you. Alone, you are not as strong as the pillars of Rome, and even they once fell.”
With a wave of her hand the oracle silenced the echoes crying through the hall, and the room grew dark once more. An air of finality settled over the cavern.
“Go, you are sent.” It was a simple command.
Just as she said this, Cleo became aware of the pattering footsteps at the other end of the hall. She turned to see Thalia sprinting toward her from down the closed corridor, carrying a piece of light with her.
“Cleo!” She threw her arms around her friend, what looked like tears beginning to well in her eyes.
“Thank God you’re here. Come on, let’s get out. I found the way.”
Cleo looked at Thalia: those around you. Her friend was breathing heavily, her face, illuminated in the glow of a flashlight, revealed itself covered in sweat, and more than a few small rips and tears were present on her clothes, but it was still her. When Cleo looked back, the oracle was gone.
After one wrong turn and a moment of panic, a beam of sunlight appeared at the far end of the passageway: the exit. Warmth spread through their faces, arms, and necks as they stepped through the glaring white doorway. A clean breeze washed away the thick feeling of decay which clung to them, and no one noticed as the girls slipped back onto the idling bus. The tour of Delphi had concluded, but the waters had not run dry.
- Hollis Oliver ‘28
Santa
Fe, 1980
Nora woke to the squeal of tires on pavement and the bus driver's savage setting of the E- brake. She had fallen asleep with her head braced against the cool, dirt-caked glass of the window, and their jolted stop pitched her back against the seat cushion.
"Are we here?" asked the mellifluous voice to her right.
Felicity had stirred, and turned to pull her gangly legs into her chest and rest her chin on the tops of her knees.
"Yes," Nora hushed.
Felicity nodded, raising her head slightly to peer out the window.
The driver began to direct people off of the bus, and Nora maneuvered herself around Felicity to stretch, and reach above their heads for the luggage; a duffle bag and Nora's purse. As Felicity rose and pulled on her sweater, Nora fished out her wallet and opened the latch.
156 bucks. She counted it methodically, feeling the pit in her stomach settle as she counted the money, just by knowing that it was there. Two fifties, two twenties, a ten, six ones.
She smoothed the pads of her fingers over the rough face of the bills. She wondered if her mother was missing it right about now.
1,200 miles from Tennessee. 800 to go to California.
Nora took Felicity's hand and led her off the bus, careful of the swarm headed for the visitor's center terminal.
It was sun and sand out here, dust and bone. Thick, hot, and dry. There were souls on the wind, and despite the heat, Nora shivered. She led Felicity out of the swelter and towards the building. They were sweating. Felicity’s thick blonde hair, which hung almost to her waist nowadays, was sticking to her forehead, and her cheeks were flushed and dewy.
Nora unhooked her overalls and fastened them around her waist to combat the heat.
She left Felicity sitting by an open window, keeping watch over their things. There wasn't enough money left for water.
Nora followed her dirty sneakers to the ticket counter. Even the industrial tiled floors were sooty and covered in dirt. There was a haze that stuck like globs to the slothful dessert gusts, and the fans behind the desk did nothing to dissuade her from feeling that there were spirits in the air, like smoke.
"Two tickets to San Diego," Nora said. Defiant, confident.
The ticket agent nodded. She was a short, older woman, with thin, flippy hair and thick red lipstick. It was caked and dry and smeared on her teeth.
"How old are you honey?" Her accent was not the comforting drawl of someone from Nora's home, but the alien twang of the West, and it scared her.
"Twenty-two." It was an easy lie. One she had practiced with calm diligence. She didn't move a muscle, didn't tick her hands or look away. She stood up a little straighter.
"OK, $60.25 please."
Nora counted out the money with a thick swallow. She smoothed her hands over the bills again. It made her sick to let them go. She only had to do this one more time, then they'd be there. She took the tickets from under the plastic guard. They were slick with the agent's sweat, and Nora saw a flash of her long red shellaced nails retreating behind her desk. Nora didn't say thank you.
She turned on her heel and followed her feet again back to Felicity. But Felicity was not alone on the bench anymore.
A girl of about their age sat next to her, watching the buses roll by through the open window. She wore a pair of old workingman's boots, so cracked and worn from the sun that she had taped the disintegrating soles back together herself. She also had on a pair of ill fitting trousers held up at the waist by a belt almost as old as her boots. And a white, man's dress shirt buttoned all the way up to her neck.
Nora wouldn't have known how young she was if it weren't for her long black hair which hung in a thick braid over her left shoulder, held together by a fraying white ribbon. Not an inch of her skin was showing, as the rest was covered up by a filthy trench coat, which may have once been a pretty green color, but was now so muddled and faded it just appeared a dull brown.
The girl's long, thin face was visible, punctuated by thin pale lips, dark eyes, a long thin nose and thin, high-set cheekbones. The rest of her seemed long and thin, too, swallowed by her clothes. The indentations under her eyes were dark, and there was dirt on her face. She looked petrified - like she wasn't a novice to the way the world worked, the way that Nora and Felicity were.
The wind, which breezed sluggishly in from the window, played with the strands of her braid, and they danced upon her small pale cheeks in the humid gusts. The newsboy's cap atop her head, which she had pulled down over her ears, kept the strands from settling. She reached up with slender hands to periodically brush the hair from her jaded, grey eyes.
"Who are you?" Nora demanded, looking urgently to Felicity. She had made it clear: don't speak to anyone.
The young girl did not answer, and instead Felicity’s bell-like voice spoke up. "She came to sit by me, she doesn't talk," she explained simply.
Nora just nodded. "C'mon Flick, we're leaving," she demanded, and began to turn on her sneakers, and head for the door. They had their tickets, they were so close, they just had to get the hell out of here and -
Felicity hadn't budged. She looked to Nora with a puzzled frown, and proceeded to say "She's all alone Nora."
"She's not coming with us!" Nora exclaimed, incredulous.
"Yes, she is," Felicity said firmly. There was no discussion, no explanation.
Nora looked at the blonde girl, dumbstruck.
"She has nowhere to go."
"That doesn't concern us."
Nora went to grab Felicity's arm, and tug her to her feet, but Felicity yanked her hand away and remained on the bench.
"I'm not going anywhere," Felicity said. She stuck her nose up in the air and crossed her arms.
The dark haired girl was still silent, and Nora let out an exasperated sigh. She could never say no to Felicity, and so she took a seat on the bench next to them.
It was raining. Pouring down in dense, wrathful sheets. Pools formed in the dry, earthen roads, and the crackle of water against tin and ground was like a drum beat. Nora stood, soaked to the marrow in front of the bus stop. She had pulled her drenched sweater around her to try and find some relief from the onslaught of water.
Felicity and the dark haired girl sat with their arms linked together. She had yet to say a single word.
"The bus will be here any second!" Nora's voice was shrill and loud above the sounds of the storm.
"I won't leave her!" screamed Felicity.
A faint honk and the distinct chhhh of a vehicle stopping broke Nora's focus, and she turned to see the silver bus pull into the parking lot and stop right in front of the terminal. People filed out from beneath the building's awning, holding umbrellas, pulling up hoods, some with newspapers as their only barrier against the dreadful rain.
"We have to go NOW!" Nora was done playing games. She threw her arms around Felicity and tried to hoist the younger girl into her arms, to no avail.
"No!" Felicity was angrier than Nora had ever seen her. "I won’t leave!" Felicity looked like she was about to cry. They were calling for the last borders. The rain was so thick and consuming that Nora's teeth had begun to clack together.
"FINE, let's go." She gave in.
Felicity turned to the dark haired girl in triumph and they rose in tandem from their crouched Positions, the two sopping wet girls filed onto the bus, arms still linked.
Nora boarded last, quickly folding the their two tickets around each other to make it seem like there were three. She said a quick prayer that the bus driver wouldn't check their receipt. And he didn't.
They took their seats.
"I'm Sloane," said a rough, childlike voice from Nora's right. She looked to the seat across the aisle, where Felicity and the other girl had sat. Sloane smiled timidly at her.
And Nora gave her a nod.
Santa Barbara, 1988
Of course, if Bobbie were ever going to be married, it would be like this. She’d had lights hung from each rafter, pole, and hook. There was tulle affixed to everything: the chandeliers, the backs of chairs, the bouquets, the place settings, the bridesmaid’s dresses, even the lapels of the waiters. White and pink and sweet like one gigantic and overpriced pie. Bobbie had chosen a swanky beach resort, which seemed like a more fitting place for the high school prom than for a shotgun wedding.
The gaudily large venue had a wall of windows overlooking the warm, frothy ocean. She’d had big languishing bows tied about the linen curtains. Flowers spilled from each orifice like buttercream frosting. And of course Bobbie herself was the cake topper. In her ball gown she oozed lace and peach piping. Her blonde hair was swept up in an updo and polished off with a tiara. She was very made up, in a soft way that complimented her round face and fair brown eyes. Christine sat alone at their table by the waxy, wooden
dance floor. From her vantage point, she had the urge to remind Bobbie that this was California and not Cinderella.
But Bobbie was all giggles, as usual, and didn’t seem to mind the paisley disaster unfolding around her. Her groom was not at all interested in his own reception and stood drinking quietly with his brothers aside the mammoth windows. James was almost as all-American as Bobbie. He was blonde himself and of average height with plain grey-blue eyes. But he had a rugged and boyish look about him, and he was rather smart. They all liked him very much. Bobbie made the rounds to all of her glamorous friends, as James watched her passively. It all made Christine smile.
She didn’t mind watching; she really didn’t. She looked down at her own drink, untouched and sweating. Fizzing just over the ice, barely, only if she looked close enough.
Her table had emptied some time ago.
Felicity had risen first - she had a knack for conversation, and she sat in a different chair now. Her long, thick hair hung loosely down her back. Her simple yellow dress was a welcome respite amid the sea of important people in their wedding guest get ups. Lissy spoke animatedly to a group of her and Bobbie’s mutual friends. Christine watched her laughing and talking and being. Felicity used her thumb to twist her engagement band around her finger absentmindedly. Her fiance was visiting his family out in the sticks of Idaho. Felicity crossed one leg over the other and leaned in to say something. Her hair followed her, like a loyal friend.
Sloane had left not long after. She had her back to the wall on the opposite end of the room, reposing silently, enthralled by her own company. She had retrieved a pad and pencil from her purse, and, in intervals, studied the room and jotted down notes. Her elegant hands toyed with the worn pages of her notebook, rolling the up corners in slow, unintentionally methodical movements. Until she would remember she had another thing to say, and her pencil would move again. Although jaded, Sloane was honest. Concretely, harshly, and brutally so. Christine could always count on that.
Nora had been the last to go. She was on the dance floor and had been for some time. She looked so garishly out of place in her poofy bridesmaid’s dress. Out of all of them, Nora was the closest to Bobbie, and she had forgone her usual long black skirts and heavy eye makeup for the night. She looked hilariously out of place next to her famously under-dressed husband, Nora even had a bow in her short, dark, clipped hair. Dean, the husband, was their favorite. Christine watched as he endured yet another slow dance with Nora stepping on his toes. She was Christine’s favorite, if she had to pick one. Nora had moxie.
The raucous wedding guests were on their fourth and fifth drinks, and someone had opened a window to let the balmy, salt air in. Christine hadn’t realized the sun had set, and Bobbie’s lights cast a novel glow over the California surf.
Her table had emptied long ago.
he sat contentedly watching her friends, just now noticing the pivot. The fixed turning; in which she sat here and they were over there. It didn’t keep the smile from her face, nor the lightness from her heart.
From across the hall, Bobbie popped another bottle of champagne.
-Lila Journalist ’25
Brittle As They Come
I am frozen when those eyes, Those eyes of silk and dust, Pierce a hole through what Used to be my skull. You are a shallow figure, Nothing but a stroke of ink. Never before Have I seen Ink crack marble. We will find a corpse Of a fox In the dark of trees, You will gorge on its blood While I make you a crown From its bones. When you look back, The blood dripping down your muzzle Is not what I can focus on. I will set this crown upon your brow, And watch those eyes of ash Through the fox’s sockets Blink with the carefulness Of a lizard’s tail. In that moment, I will crawl closer And be not afraid.
- Cassie Duarte ’28
I Revel in the Danger You Bring
Beast of calamity, Bringer of dread, God or monster, Human or demon, What does it matter anyway? Those bloody runes And creations of pure Energy Are a magnificent sight. Wings of ink, Tail of a god, Cackling through this darkness Where I stand, I’ve never felt more alive. That may be a monster In your heart But I find it Just beautiful.
- Cassie Duarte ’28
Fog and Chaos
The fog rolled in without warning, silently creeping down alleys and under bridges. With it came an air of change, of unrest. An air of rebellion. Iris was running as fast as her feet could take her, blue locs whipping behind her, almost slipping on the damp cobblestones as she rounded corners. She was so late, River was going to kill her. Reaching the locked doors of the library at last, she slammed her weight against the mahogany, cringing at the screams of the rusty hinges. She barely had time to catch her breath before River came out from between two bookshelves, the silver beads that occasionally dotted her purple braids glinting in the moonlight.
“There you are! We were starting to think you got kidnapped or something!" Before she knew what was happening, River's hand was slung around her shoulders and steering her deeper into the building. The ceiling was covered in intricate paintings almost as old as the library itself, depicting various myths and tales of the gods and their champions. As a child visiting the library with her mother, Iris would find a comfortable chair, or occasionally a bench, and lose herself in the murals, so lifelike they seemed to move across the ceiling. As she gazed up at the images, she realized that River had stopped talking. She had asked her a question.
"Um… yes?" was all she had to offer, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
River shook her head. "You have no idea what I just said."
Iris hung her head in shame, muttering a quick, "Yeah."
"I was saying that the next few demonstrations are coming up, so we've been talking about the best ways to go about the recent corruption," River explained.
"Oh! I actually had some ideas about that, hold on, I wrote them down somewhere…" The bluehaired girl trailed off as she searched through her messenger bag. The pair made their way to the main meeting room, chatting about everything from Iris's ideas to River's new cat, and took their seats across from each other. The meeting room was relatively small, compared to the rest of the library. A large circular table stood in the center of the room, with about 14 chairs on wheels around it, most of them filled. The table was covered in various papers, maps of the city's sewer system, drafted bills that were going to be voted on, political newspaper clippings, and smaller notes with doodles and quick notes.
"Nice of you to finally join us," Rowan's voice was laced with humor, as it usually was, and he had a twinkle in his eye. He stood at the very back of the room, where a map of the entire city hung on the wall.
"Sorry, Rowan, I was reading and I completely lost track of-" She was cut off by the sound of the older man's laughter.
"You know I'm messing with you, Ire. Now then, since everybody's here, let's begin." The meeting went on as it typically would, but something was different this time. Had River's eyes always had those flecks of gold? Were her freckles always reminiscent of the stars?
None of that, Iris firmly thought, shaking her head as if she were flinging the thoughts from her mind. We're friends. Nothing more, nothing less.
"Iris? Is there something you’d like to share with the class?"
She jumped. "Nope! Blockades to restrict trade are a really great idea."
Rowan looked skeptical, but he continued on with his spiel, explaining the reasoning behind the blockade locations and assigning the people who’d missed the last meeting to different groups. River was diligently taking notes, offering comments and advice where she saw inconsistency. Iris, trying to avoid
bringing attention to herself, kept her head down, mindlessly doodling in her notebook for the rest of the meeting.
As the meeting came to a close, she was horrified to look down and see that she had drawn nothing but River and herself, on what appeared to be dates in the city. Slamming her notebook shut, Iris glanced up at River. Her shoulders relaxed a bit when she saw that the girl was still taking notes, hanging on to Rowan's every word. Of course she is, Iris reasoned. When has she ever missed a single detail?
Before long, the two were back on the street. The dim light from the streetlamps combined with the fog made it seem as though River had a halo of light surrounding her. Radiant, Iris thought. She's absolutely radiant.
"Do you want to go to The Tin Pot?" Iris could hear the answer before River had even opened her mouth.
The pair made their way to their favorite café, joking as if they hadn't a care in the world. As they approached the small building, the smell of coffee and cinnamon wafted through the air. The scent brought Iris some comfort, and she breathed deeply, trying to absorb as much of it as she could.
The small bell above the door sang quietly as they entered the shop. A tired-looking barista started their corporate-mandated greeting, before recognizing the two.
"Welcome to The Tin Pot, where we- Oh hey guys!"
"Hey Wren," River laughed. "Long time, no see."
"You're telling me," Wren replied smoothly. "Sorry I couldn't make the meeting, but Ari said she'd have to fire me if I didn't get my weekly hours up."
"It's fine, mostly paperwork and maps." Iris tried to push down the anger that sparked when Wren's manager was mentioned. They needed this job. Without it, Wren couldn't put a roof over their head, and they'd be out on the streets within a month.
"You guys want the usual?"
"Yes, please," the girls replied in unison. All three paused for a moment, then burst out laughing.
"How much is it again? I can never remember," Iris asked.
"Screw it, I'm tired and mad at Ari, so it's on the house."
River cut in, "Wren, don't do anything stu-"
"Relax, River, it's two drinks, it's not that deep."
She didn't look satisfied by their lax attitude, but she let it slide. "At least let me tip you?"
Wren pulled a face, but didn't object to the clatter of four gold pieces landing in the blue tip jar. With a flourish, they announced, "One large Rebel Rainforest Iced Tea with honey instead of sugar, one medium Late Night Lavender Chai, and two blueberry muffins, comin' right up!"
"You're the best, Wren," Iris called as they disappeared behind the counter.
"I know, dude," came the joking response. “So, what did I miss at the meeting?”
“Just some final details for tomorrow, who’s going where, stuff like that. Nothing you didn’t already know.”
The puff of curly green hair behind the many rows of flavored syrups bobbed up and down before coming back to the register. “Okay, cool. Does Rowan still want me to bring the extra rags?”
River took her drink and replied, “I’m pretty sure, yeah. Thanks, by the way.”
“Don’t mention it.” Wren laughed for a moment, then their face shifted to an expression of mockstoicism, and they lowered their voice in a terrible impression of their manager. “Wren, this is the last straw! Are you giving out handouts? Don’t you know that nothing is free in this world? Keep it up and soon people will ask to use the restroom without buying something! Like animals!”
The rest of the evening was filled with laughter between friends, and the trio drank up every moment, knowing that in the morning, there was work to be done. Iris couldn't help laying awake in bed that night, echoes of River's laughter still ringing in her ears like a bard's lingering melody.
Iris woke with a start the next morning, the sun glaring in her eyes. It was time. She hurriedly dressed herself in a black linen top, a pair of rust-colored harem pants and her most comfortable combat boots. Before she headed out the door, she grabbed a shawl that matched her top, and wrapped it around her head, obscuring her face from view and covering her easily-identifiable cobalt-blue locs, and made her way to the heart of the city.
Her task was relatively simple: Distract the patrollers long enough for the other members of the group to set up blockades, cutting off all delivery access until the mayor has no choice but to negotiate with their leaders. Taking a deep breath, Iris approached the members of her group, who were already taking note of what they had at their disposal.
"Here, you'll be wanting a couple of these." Iris looked up to see who was speaking, and almost fell over when she recognized them.
"Gods, Wren, you gave me a heart attack, don't just sneak up on me like that!"
"Was I sneaking, or was your guard down?" Their teasing, normally more lighthearted, seemed to have a sharper edge than usual. "We're about to start, you'd better get in position."
"Right." Iris started walking towards a large statue of the mayor, feeling the cool glass bottles that Wren had pressed into her hands. Wait, what? She looked down, and saw that they had given her two unlit Molotov cocktails. She frantically looked around, trying to catch Wren's eye, but they had their back to her. As she shoved the bottles into her bag, a young patroller ran by, almost knocking her over.
He didn't slow down, throwing a quick, "Sorry," over his shoulder.
"Watch it!" He was already out of earshot by the time Iris had gotten her bearings. She craned her neck to see what it was he was running towards, when she felt a wave of heat behind her. Turning in awe, she saw the statue, covered in flames like a grotesque beacon. She hadn't prepared for this much chaos, at least, not this quickly. Wren slipped into an alley in her peripheral vision, giving her at least the comfort that her friend was out of harm's way.
She pulled a bottle out of her bag, and ran toward the city hall. Pulling a lighter from her pocket, she looked around, mapping out an exit in her mind before flicking the lighter to life.
Click… smash… boom.
The revolution had begun.
- Chase Renzi ’27
I Saw the Swan.
As the snowman melted, his sullen carrots dropping to the ground, soon tainted by its tangible grip, I saw the swan Swanning around— not ostentatiously, But in a way worth particular admiration.
As the snow lifted itself off the ground, And a dull pickle tone was all that could be sighted, And the altruistic, free, pure white color Transferred itself to another at once, I saw the swan Shimmering, illuminating, Unshackled from the constraints Of a muted, diluted habitat.
…Was I free of that undesirable life?
The altruistic luster turned egotism, All in a couple weeks’ span; An event far too luxurious for the ones Of my kind.
I saw the swan Bathing without my kind.
The gleam fascinated every being, and then it didn’t. The clean, big shape functioned, and then it discombobulated. The boundary between us and them…
*Shhhhhhhh…*
A newfound stream of flowing arcana Physically divided us and them, But in its tentative existence did it also Provide illumination of its own.
I saw the swan, Approaching in what I suspected to be pride. Polygons filled with once bruised, furrowed grass Perked up; the greenery spread saturation as might a contagious disease. Realized by the content Of this restored haven, They saw the swan;
He passed by, nodding hello serenely, To the millions of micro-beings: Passersby, who have finally learned their way.
I saw the swan, The one who knew all along Of the eventual metamorphosing of ours, Of the late blooming we would undergo, No matter the fluctuation of our fragile yet enduring hopes.
- Ryan Ronan ’28
Stone
I know a place in the woods.
A bed of moss. A running stream. I must have been there a thousand times, And the shade there knows my name.
It’s been years since I discovered it, Yet the trees remain unchanged. I walked along The dampened bank throughout my odyssey.
It’s hard to know that a land can give love, That rocks and weeds can burst into life, But to me it has always been easy.
The time-smoothed bark pressed onto my skin. Dew drops shine in the mornings when nothing Else is right. It holds you there in comfort.
There's a stone at the bottom of the brook. It doesn’t shine, I’ve never once touched it, But it’s never left me behind.
If that’s what love is, a language of constants, Relentless and cool like the stone in a lake, Then there is no truer love than the moss
And the gentle singing of the birds.
- Hollis Oliver ’28
Pumpkin Spice in January
Stretching my limbs and groaning, I squeeze my eyes shut as hard as possible. My frilly pink quilt slides off of my body, which was once warm during the freezing cold hours of the night. But now, I sit upright, my hair ruffled in every which way, and I break a frown through the crusted-over drool that coats the sides of my mouth. I am cold, so cold in my pitch black room. A sliver of gray sunlight creeps through my curtain in one descending line, barely light enough for my tired, strained eyes to see. An unbearable ache pounds right behind my eyes just as it does every cold January morning, and the cold draft that leaks from my windows isn't making it much better. Memories of pleasant golden fall mornings dance in my mind, the crackling leaves that fall beneath my window, the gentle sway of the trees, and a cloudless blue sky, the taste of a warm pumpkin spice latte. The taste of a warm pumpkin spice latte. Mmm.. I moan. “The taste of a warm pumpkin spice latte.” I am now thinking aloud. Quickly I spring into my day in anticipation of the pumpkin spice latte that I will clench comfortably between my ice cold fingertips and how it will warm them. I think of how good it is going to look between my dainty hands decorated with gold rings, and my red painted fingernails, and the sweet tang of pumpkin coffee and frothed milk burning delightfully on my tongue. I open my curtains joyfully only to be greeted by gray skies and empty trees that are still trying to be brown. This weather can't bring me down. I must get my latte.
“Bye, Mom!” I shout, shutting my front door, as an unpleasant cold winter breeze brushes my platinum hair into my vanilla-flavored lip gloss, slathering it anywhere else but my lips. Usually this would set my day back, but just thinking about the pumpkin spice latte that has yet to warm me up propels me forward. I hop into my car and lay my purse and my scarf on top of each other on the passenger seat. As I drive down to Starbucks my center console clock reads 7:58 a.m. I’m going to be late to school, but I’m okay with that. I have pre-calc first period. Thank gosh, I think to myself, that math room is absolutely and utterly treacherous; the thought of it sends a shiver down my spine. The broken vent in that room blows cold air right at my desk; I can just smell the stale, rancid air seeping from the vent that has probably been there
longer than both of my parents combined have been alive. I am so relieved I’m going to Starbucks instead of that wretched math room. I mean, what damage could just one absence do today?
Turning into the drive-thru I rehearse my order through hums to the music blaring on my radio. “Pumpkin…Hmm…Spice…Hmm.. Lat..eee!” It is finally my turn;I roll my window down, and I am grinning ear to ear, resting my head on my hand.
“Welcome to Starbucks, what can I get for you today?” a high pitched man's voice sings.
“I’ll get one pumpkin spice latte please, that's all!” I say joyfully.
There is a long pause, perhaps the drive-thru just broke, or have I said something wrong? What is happening? I just want my pumpkin spice latte. My eyebrows narrow.
“Um,” his voice finally squeaks out of the intercom. “I am sorry, girl, we stopped carrying those two months ago.”
I feel my eyes go blank. That sentence echoes over and over and over in my head. TWO months ago? I think to myself.
“Can I getcha anything else today?” his voice sings yet again, as if he has not just told me the worst possible news I could have heard today. I mean, who doesn’t sell pumpkin spice lattes in January? My blood boils, and my face burns red like a stovetop; thankfully my window is down allowing cold air to trespass into my car. I need to take matters into my own hands. I ram my gear stick back into drive, bump it over the cones that “guard” people from driving out of the drive-thru; can't fool me Starbucks. After driving over the cones, I hear honking in the near distance. I know where I must go now. Stop and Shop. Stop and Shop MUST have pumpkin spice flavoring AND coffee! I’m a genius! I drive so fast and so eagerly, I forget to roll my window back up. My knuckles are white around the wheel, and I'm unsure if that's because they're about to fall off from frostbite, or because I need to get there fast. I am running out of time. I look back at the center console clock: 8:30 a.m,it reads. Second period starts at 9:00. I can make it, surely.
I zoom past the red light, dodging cars as I enter the Stop and Shop parking lot. I open my door to an unwelcoming breeze that turns my nose bright red as I slam my door shut and carry on merrily, but after a single step in this parking lot I suddenly find myself lying on it. Have I just slipped? My world is spinning around me; I blink my way back into reality and look around. Ice. Black ice. Damnit, I think to myself; blood drips down from my scalp and my eyebrow diverts it from my eye. I grab my head, which is now pounding more than it was already. Sitting up dazed and holding my head, I peer at my right foot, which seems to be in the opposite direction than it should. I gaze around the parking lot from my low angle to try to seek help, but who is at Stop and Shop on a Tuesday at eight in the morning in this small town? Nobody. I must take matters into my own hands; how hard can putting my foot back into place be, right? Grabbing my foot I snap it back and let out a shriek but quickly cover my mouth and bite into my wool glove. Nothing can get in between me and this latte. I manage to balance as I get up and wipe the fresh blood from my forehead, staining my glove. Limping towards the door I notice all of the lights are shut off. CLOSED, the sign reads. “Closed. CLOSED!” I yell, throwing my hands on the glass door and sliding down it.
9:00 a.m my car clock reads. I am expressionless, and my mascara is smeared in streaks from weeping on t he way back to the car; black and red pigment are dripping down my neck. I sit hunched over clutching the wheel thinking, I need this latte. After a long pause an idea dawns on me. “Aha!” I exclaim. How could I not have considered this before? I must go to the pumpkin patch! Mmm... I groan thinking about the fresh pumpkin flavor that has yet to be in my coffee. My head aches, and my vision blurs over, but these circumstances are dire, and I am indifferent to the burning sensation in my scalp that I can deal with later. My foot is going limp, but I use all my strength in my leg to push the gas pedal as
I zoom down the highway. I can see the sign, Bourne Farms. I am practically licking my lips; my family always goes here during the fall to pick a pumpkin for Halloween, I’ll be sure to find a big plump one that’ll last me a long time.
Just as I click my turn signal to turn into the farm, bright red and blue sirens blare directly behind me. My heart is going to beat out of my chest, what do I do? What should I do? For a split second I consider pulling over, but I jerk the wheel and floor the gas pedal into the farm. Dodging bushes and fences I can still hear the sirens in the distance, but they barely caught up due to my swiftness and quick-thinking skills, and my car crushing everything in its path. As I am still checking my blind spot for cops, suddenly my whole car has been jerked forward, and I hear a very loud and agonizing sound that is the entire front half of my car being crumpled like a piece of paper as I ram into a tree. The jolt causes my head to hit the wheel once again, the world spinning around me. I manage to crack my door open and slither my body out of my car. Falling limply to the dirt, I am met with a slight bump directly below me, and as I sit up a small, pale, flaccid pumpkin reveals itself. I clutch the pumpkin with all my might and grin ear to ear. I am covered in dirt, my makeup smeared and my white coat and jeans are smeared with grass stains and blood. I reach up to the top of my head to be met with the puddle of blood that has been spouting out, yet I am overjoyed. Just as I attempt to lift my limp body up I hear what seems to be a million sirens whirring, and the once gray skies flashed with pink and blue as I look above, still smiling with joy.
“DROP THE WEAPON!” a loud and booming voice orders.
“It's just my pumpkin!” I giggle.
- Sia Canelos ’26
Eurydice
You were off on adventures
When I fell in love with your enchanting songs I never believed in love at first sight
That was until I heard and saw you You brought me happiness more than you knew You saved me from my darkness
Ready to spend forever with you
Singing with the birds in the trees Dancing with joy in the fields The happiest day of my life Suddenly turned into misery Life came crashing down
I was pulled away
As fast as a snake slithers in grass
The robins sang their mournful songs You grieved alongside them
I heard your melancholy poems above Turn into songs nearby I should have known you’d try to be a hero Your strong song thawed the coldest of hearts You begged and pleaded To save me from the darkness
Given the chance to take me back Don’t turn around Trust I’m right behind you I say your name to get you through I know it was hard And I don’t blame you
But as I lose my voice
You lose your faith
And as I see your Face one last time You lose me once and for all
Because conditions were meant to be broken Love was meant for forever
But no matter what we do Life is meant to end
And that’s why I will never blame you
- Cassidy Eldredge ’29
R E Q U I E M
The gardener comes to say her requiem for flowers:
Water makes all equal. Sink down into the Earth Where sunshine loses faith. Seafoam falls to the immense blackness Held near God’s beating heart. Daisy roots deliver godfood, Liquid fire from the trees of life, Warmth on the pitchfork, Sweet, most divine.
Lily-winged seeds settle to soil, full of unimaginable life. Insectine breezes shift the sand. As birds will sing, so poets cry: How much miracle there is to cradle With hands that can hold down nothing. Nothing will bear the weight of being stationary. The state of being un-reborn, the un-resurrected. I strain against the temporary weight of death.
- Hollis Oliver ’28
Haven
When Gemini X was discovered, it was like fresh air had been breathed into the over-polluted atmosphere. Ashley could still remember the day she heard about it; she begged Avery to take her to the clearing in the woods. The one that was far enough away from the nearest streetlight that you could see the stars with no obstructions. She had brought her small telescope with her so they could look for the planet that might save them all.
Now, Ashley searched the sky every night, waiting to see the small moving dot that meant Avery was coming home. Gemini and Haven’s mission had become her obsession. Her sister had left three years and seven months ago, and Ashley had dutifully marked each day off her calendar. Avery was supposed to come home over a year ago, Haven had been scheduled to come back mid-summer of 2102. It was now 2103 and Ashley was beginning to lose hope. She read every readable document and every news report, hoping to find an answer to where her sister was.
Ashley stood in her driveway, looking at the stars, hope blooming in her chest, until her mom called to her from the door, “Ash, you're going to freeze in this temperature. Please come in. Dinner is ready.” Ashley hesitated, not wanting to look down. The sky was completely clear; it hadn't been like this for days. Ashley wanted to take advantage of the clarity to calm down under the steady gaze of where she knew her sister was. Avery would be here soon.
“Ashley,” her mother called again, “come inside.”
“I'm coming, Mom,” she sighed. Her boots crunched in the dirty snow as she trudged inside. She pulled off her hat and mask as she walked in the door, slipping her shoes onto the shoe rack. When she sat at the dinner table across from her mom, she silently grabbed her fork and began to eat. Her joy had withered the moment she stepped through the doorway. Her mother's face was slack and emotionless just like has been for over a year.
“Where’s Dad?” Ashley's voice broke through the heavy silence.
“He's at the office,” her Mom replied, voice clipped. Ashley's brows furrowed but she just nodded before looking back down at her dinner. Her father had told her he would be home tonight. They always looked for Haven in the sky on Friday nights. But she knew it broke him a little more every night when they did not find it. Her parents had become shells of what they once were. The dark circles under their eyes had become permanent, and frowns were the only expression they showed.
“You know, time dilation might be different on Gemini X. We read an article about time dilation at school, and maybe that’s why she is not home. Maybe it's only been a month or two there-” Ashley looked over at her mother, and her words died on her tongue. Her excitement at the fact had fizzled out when her mother's face fell and tears welled in her eyes. Ashley felt the sparks of anger beginning to light in her chest at the hopelessness in her mother's eyes.
“Mom, are you even listening to me? They think that time moves slower on Gemini than it does here. That means the mission could still be on schedule for them. She could be home soon.”
Her mother kept on eating and did not even blink.
“Do you not even care?” Ashley stood up in disbelief. She pushed her chair back and marched to the door, grabbing her coat on the way. “I'm going to take a walk,” she said as the door closed behind her.
When Ashley stepped outside, the cold air enveloped her in a gentle embrace. It cooled the raging
fire swirling through her. She took a deep breath and started toward the path behind her house walking until she made it to the small clearing tucked under the stars. There were two beach chairs in the middle. She had dragged them there that morning for her father and her.
She sank into one of the chairs, gazing up at the night sky, feeling small and inconsequential under the expanse of stars. Her raging thoughts slowed as she sat in awe. She reached down and pulled the metal box from under her chair. The telescope had been a gift from Avery before she left. Ashley had looked through it every night. She put her eye to the flash and angled it to the star she knew Gemini X revolved around. The telescope was the newest iteration; it had been in development for years before it came out. Avery had spent god knows how much on it, and it was the best gift Ashley had ever received. It had the strength of a much larger telescope packed into a tube the size of a soda can on an extendable tripod. The star was indistinguishable from the others, but Ashley always found it by following the handle of the Big Dipper to the small point of light it was pointing to.
Once she had focused the telescope, she gasped. Every time she had looked before, there were stars and nothing else, but tonight, something was moving. It was a faint white speck that moved closer and closer the longer Ashley watched. When it was close enough to distinguish the faint blue trail propelling it closer she stood. Her heart pounded in excitement, praying to the stars it was Avery.
She pulled out her phone and saw the missed calls and texts from her parents.
When she unlocked it, they all simply read.
“Where are you?” and “She's almost home”.
- Arden O’Neil
’26
Below the Surface
The sun began to rise above the horizon, painting the skies with yellows and oranges as the tiny boat gently bobbed in the open waters off Roanoke Island. The salt air thick, carrying the familiar scent of the morning waves and fish. Addie squinted at the horizon letting her fingers drape over her eyes to block the sun out. Her other hand gently traced the metal steering wheel, the cold nipping at her hand like a bunch of bugs. It was these moments that everything felt still, as if the waves paused time for only a second letting her take it all in. She was used to the peacefulness of the Outer Banks, the quiet mornings, the soft sound of the waves, the squawk of the gulls calling above the boat. But today felt different. Maybe it was because her best friends were with her. There was Lily, the dreamer with the wild imagination, who dreamed of leaving the island one day. Liam, the quiet thinker, who seemed to know just about everything before anyone else. Walker, the joker who could make anyone laugh. And Noah, the one who always seemed lost but never unloyal. Together they were inseparable drawn together by the simplicity of the island.
Today was just supposed to be another day on the water, fishing, laughing, talking about high school. But before they could realise, they drifted off too far into the deeper water. Something below the boat left a shadow under the water, leaving a dark spot in the bright blue ocean.
“What's that?” Addie's voice cut through the laughter, her eyes narrowing on the shadow. No one said anything at first; they all leaned over the edge boat, peering into the dark depths. Everyone shared the same expressions, their faces scrunched together narrowing their eyes into the water. There under the water, was an unmistakable outline of a boat. The bimini had been torn.
Liam frowned, “It wasn't there last time we were out.” Addie swallowed. The air suddenly felt colder.The waves, once so gentle, now seemed to hold something sacred and unknowing, like they were hiding something, something that didn't belong.
Noah was the first to break the silence, “What do you think happened to it?” His voice was barely above a whisper. Addie stared at the sunken boat. The weight of the mystery had begun to pull her hand down to touch the water.
“We should check it out,” she said steadily, though her heart felt like it was going to explode. Her friends exchanged uneasy glances, but one by one they nodded.
“I say we go down there,” Walker said, smirking at the water. “Yeah, why not,” Walker said again, almost responding to his own statement. His voice was light, but there was still a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “It's just a sunken boat, could be something interesting, right?” he said, and he let his shoulders shrug.
Lily, usually the one to follow with the group, spoke up “But…what if something happened to the people in it? What if they are still down there? What if-.” Before she could continue talking, Addie placed her hand on her mouth.
“We'll be fine. Like Walker said, what's the worst that could happen?” Addie asked, her face and body loose.
Liam folded his arms and leaned back. “It's probably just some abandoned wreck that's sat here for years,” he said, scoffing at the idea of there being something bad in it.
“Then why hasn't it been here all the other times?” Noah asked, raising his voice a little bit. Addie couldn't help but feel her stomach twist. She pushed aside the nagging feeling in her gut,
“We'll be fine; we just want to take a quick look. It’ll feel weird if we just leave it here.” Her voice was more confident than she felt, but she knew her friends were relying on her to be the steady one and make the calls.
“All right, let's do it then,” Walker said, his grin returning to his face. “Nothing like a little adventure to spice up the morning.” Walker was the most excited out of all of them to go down. Addie turned to him and smiled, her fears muted a bit by Walker's actual confidence. Addie then began guiding the boat closer to the wreck, her hands tightened around the wheel, and she met the cold metal again. Once they got closer, the dark shadow became more
and more visible by the second. The hull, once vibrant white was now dull, a faded shade, covered in algae and barnacles. The bimini frame had collapsed, the fabric hanging in ragged shapes like a flag in windless air.
“We should put the anchor down,” Liam said. He cautiously grabbed the anchor and slowly lowered it down into the water. The sound of the anchor scraping against the boat below them was muffled by the sound of the water, but once the rope attached to the anchor stopped moving, everyone fell silent and looked around.
“I'm not going down there,” Lily declared,
“Me neither,” Noah said, not even a second after Lily. The two boys and Addie looked at each other, none of them wanting to go first.
“Walker, since you were so eager to go first earlier, I say you go,” Addie said in an assertive tone but her lips still curved upwards.
“Works for me,” Walker said with a smirk, eager to dive into the unknown,
“No way, I'm going down,” Liam said, his calm demeanor replaced with a subtle hint of fear. Walker took a step back, not fighting Liam on his decision, and let him put on his goggles.
Noah and Lily sat on the edge of the boat, leaning closely to the two boys and Addie. They both had anticipation in their eyes, but also hated the fact that they were going down there. Liam slowly lowered himself into the water and carefully broke the surface, letting his body fall gracefully. He took a deep breath and fully submerged himself in the water, tiny air bubbles breaching the face of the ocean. Everyone else leaned over the boat, tipping it as they all bent their bodies over the edge.
Liam's head made a splash on the surface of the water. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, but the trembling didn’t stop. His voice came out in a whisper, barely audible above the soft lapping of the waves against the boat.
"I saw something... not just a shadow. It was moving, like it was alive. I-I don’t know what it was, but it didn’t feel human."
A thick silence fell in the air as everyone exchanged nervous glances.
"What should we do?" Noah asked, his voice tight with anxiety. His hands gripped the side of the boat, and he couldn’t hide the fear in his eyes.
"We need to get out of here," Lily said quickly, the edge in her voice rising. She had never been one to shy away from adventure, but something about this felt... wrong. "This is crazy, Addie. We should just go back to the shore."
Addie looked over at her friends, their faces reflected the same unease she felt in her gut. Part of her wanted to listen to Lily, to turn the boat around and leave the wreckage behind, to leave whatever that shadow was to the ocean. But another part of her, a deeper part, couldn’t let it go. They had already come this far.
"We can’t just leave it like this," Addie said, her voice quieter now. She looked out at the water again, where the shadow of the sunken boat lingered in the depths, dark and ominous. "We have to know what it is. I’m not leaving until we understand what’s going on."
Walker, who had been surprisingly silent since Liam resurfaced, looked at Addie with a mixture of concern and determination. "Are you sure about this? It’s not just about curiosity anymore. This feels... off."
Addie met his gaze, her jaw set in a firm line. "I’m sure. We have to know."
Liam hesitated, but finally nodded. "I’ll go back down," he said quietly, his voice steely despite the tremor. "I’ll go deeper this time. If there’s something down there, I’ll find out what it is."
"Are you crazy?" Lily protested. "You can’t! What if-"
"I’ll be fine," Liam interrupted, though his words carried no real certainty. "It’s the only way to know."
Walker shot a look at Noah, who looked just as terrified but seemed to understand the weight of Addie’s decision. There was no convincing her now. They were in this together.
"All right, man," Walker said, swallowing hard. "We’re with you."
Liam took a deep breath, grabbed his goggles once more, and lowered himself over the edge of the boat. Addie could feel her heart pounding in her chest.
Minutes passed, and then, splash. Liam’s head broke the surface again. His eyes were wide, and his breath came in sharp, panicked gasps.
"There’s something down there," he choked out. "I-I saw something, something that-" His voice cut off as he sputtered, clearly shaken.
"What did you see?" Addie demanded, leaning over the edge. She was almost afraid to ask.
Liam’s gaze darted nervously to the others, his hands trembling as he wiped the water from his face. "It’s... there’s a figure. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not-" He stopped, his voice faltering again, before he finally said, "It’s a person. At least, it looks like one. But... it doesn’t belong there. It’s too still."
No one spoke for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. Addie felt the fear creep up her spine, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that they had to do something. They couldn’t just turn away now.
"We need to pull it up," she said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Liam nodded, though the unease in his eyes was palpable. "Okay. But I’m not going down there again-not without something to help us. We need a rope, something to pull it up with."
Walker grabbed the rope from the back of the boat and tossed it to Liam. "You want to pull it up, you better hope it’s not alive," he said, trying to lighten the mood, but it didn’t work. The tension was too thick.
Addie took a deep breath and steered the boat closer to the wreck. As they approached, the shadow below them seemed to grow.
Liam, his face pale, tied the rope securely to the wreck, then nodded to Addie. "Pull us back," he said, his voice steady despite the terror in his eyes.
With one final, deep breath, Addie turned the wheel, slowly pulling the boat backward. The tension in the rope grew taut, the surface of the water still and quiet for a moment. And then, with a sudden jolt, the rope snapped upward, pulling something out of the water with it.
A figure, dark and ragged, broke the surface.
Addie gasped, her hands gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white. The others were frozen, unable to look away as the body slowly floated to the surface, caught in the ropes.The group started, frozen in horror It was clear now, they had found something far worse than just a sunken boat.
-Sofia Canelos ’28
The Final Whistle
On the field where dreams collide, The sun dips low, the flow of time, Each heartbeat echoes the crowd’s wild tide, As moments linger in rhythm and rhyme.
The ball dances, a fleeting spark, Chasing shadows where legends tread. Grass-stained memories, vibrant and stark, In every pass the stories spread. Whistles pierce the evening air, A final call, the end of play, Cheers and sighs, a bittersweet flair, As heroes part at the close of day.
Jerseys faded but spirits bright, In the heart’s arena, they’ll forever stay, For every match is a glimpse of light, A beautiful game, come what may.
Though the score may fade, and the lights go dim, Th echoes of laughter, the bonds we weave, In the game’s embrace, we find our hymn; In every ending, a reason to believe.
- Sumaiya Noury ‘30
The Hum
They say you don’t truly appreciate something until it’s gone. And I guess that’s true. I never thought I’d miss the hum of the old refrigerator, the same hum that had driven me crazy for years. It always seemed to get louder at night, right when I was trying to sleep. But now, standing in the quiet kitchen, all I can hear is the wind rattling the trees outside. The fridge stopped working two days ago.
At first, I thought I could fix it. I even pulled the fridge away from the wall, checked the plug, pressed every button I could find. But isn’t this what I always wanted? For that stupid hum to stop?
I don’t know what to feel. Something is missing. The house feels hollow, like it's falling apart. I can almost hear it decomposing, every crack in the walls deepening, every molecule breaking apart. Has it always been like this? I used to love this place, but now… Now, I’m not sure what it is to me anymore.
I walk into the kitchen for what must be the twentieth time today and open the door again. What if it’s not really broken? What if I imagined it? But just like before, warm, stale air greets me. Dark. Empty. Maybe… maybe if I close it and open it again, it’ll be fixed. I try. It isn’t. I shut the door, pressing my forehead against its warm surface. “I should call someone to take care of it,” I murmur to myself. My voice is weak, barely more than a whisper, still it echoes, as it bounces around the empty house. The sound startles me, I hadn’t spoken in days. My throat is dry, my words unfamiliar. I clear my throat and straighten myself, but I don’t reach for my phone. I don’t move at all. I can’t.
The silence is pressing in. It’s heavier than yesterday, heavier than the day before. It doesn’t feel like an absence anymore. It feels like a presence. Like it’s watching me. Maybe the hum was never just noise, but a barrier, a thin, invisible wall between me and this- this thing. Without it, the silence has crept in, filling every space, seeping into my skin. It wraps around my chest, tightens. I can’t breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s nothing. Just silence. Just the absence of sound. Then I hear it. Not the hum. A breath. Not mine. Right behind me. I spin around, heart hammering, but the kitchen is empty, it's always been. The silence is suffocating, pressing against my ears, my skin, my ribs. I stumble backward, gripping the edge of the counter. My mind races. I need to get out. I need to—
The fridge hums.
The sound is soft at first, like a memory slipping back into place. Then louder. Stronger. I exhale.
- Gabriela Otoni ’27
Vanishing Summer
The bright sunlight shines through the window as it reflects off of the fresh snow outside. The room is almost silent except for the muffled humming of heat running through the vents, which is weird because there used to always be the sound of birds chirping in the morning when we would wake up together.
I turn to awaken the girl who looks just like her and have to stop myself from saying her name, ,even though it used to be my favorite word. She goes into the other room to find her coat and shoes, and asks me, “How come there are two toothbrushes in here if you live alone?” I simply tell her it’s for my friend who stays here occasionally, but I think she can tell by the numbness in my eyes that it’s not the truth. She leans in for a quick kiss before she leaves; her touch feels cold and empty towards me.
Daily walks became a part of my routine to prevent any rotting away in the memories that seem to haunt the house. It helps to remind myself that there’s a whole world outside of the life we could’ve had together, but it doesn’t change the fact that I would have chosen that life over anything in the world. Once I step outside, cold air feels like glass shards against my face, and it takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the whiteness of the snow and sky. Although I’ve lived in this town for years, this winter makes everything around me feel completely foreign, as if the snow and ice has placed a mask on what I used to know. The memories I had of walking with her by my side on these streets were now distorted, since the trees were all bare, and the air felt harsh instead of comforting. I take a deep breath and force myself to accept the new reality. I try to focus on the path ahead, hoping that I can get through this by going on like normal.
Even though my head still aches from being at the bar last night, I find myself stopping into the liquor store along the way. When the cashier sees me place a couple shooters on the counter, he smiles and
asks what kind of plans I have for today in a joking tone. I don’t smile back and tell him, “Just looking for something to keep me warm in this weather.” His only response is a look that says something like ‘this guy needs to get it together.’ I empty the small bottles into my coffee and continue the stroll.
The snow crunches under each of my steps as I make my way over to a bench on the side of the road. Minutes later a little boy walks over, no older than eight, and sits on the other end. I notice he’s softly crying to himself. Even though I would usually hate to pry, I turn to him and concerningly ask if everything’s all right. He turns to me, eyes watery. “You can’t find bugs in the snow,” he says.
“What are you talking about, kid?” I ask him, confused.
“My favorite thing is finding bugs in the grass, but there’s snow everywhere.”
I don’t know exactly what to say because I’ve never experienced someone so emotional about bugs before.
“Well, aren't there other things you like doing? Stuff you could do now like playing in the snow, or even ice skating?”
“I like all those things. But they don’t make me as happy as the bugs,” he tells me, still sniffling.
“Yeah, but so what? Even though your favorite thing isn’t available, you can still find other activities to spend your time with. And it’s nice to think about how finding the bugs made you so happy because it’s still a good memory.”
“What if nothing makes me as happy?” he asks me. At least he has stopped crying now. I don’t know exactly what to tell him now because I’ve been asking myself this question and haven’t found a good enough answer. So I just shrug and give him a smile. Without exchanging any more words, he smiles back, wipes his tears, and walks away.
I really wish I could have given him an answer to that question, but my mind went completely blank, and not just because of the alcohol I had drunk by then. That question keeps me awake at night and makes me wonder if one day this emptiness will leave my body. I feel sort of ignorant when I can't give a child an answer to a simple question, but people do say that love makes you stupid sometimes.
The deeper my surroundings descend into the cold season, the more lost my thoughts seem to become since I haven’t truly felt alive since the summertime. The warm feeling she gave my soul cannot be replicated by any girl or drink I’ve had since, but fire is fire, and I’ve been freezing to death since she left. I suppose that the following winters will be easier, but for now it’s a reminder of how summer left, and my love did, too.
- Hannah Flanders ’26
An Evening In the City with the Ambassador
“So, where do we want to eat?” Maria asked, sprawling languidly across the red leather couch, her vintage crocodile handbag teetering on the tip of her bony pointer finger. She glanced around the room expectantly, waiting for an answer from the other four. “So, where do—”
“What about Trattoria Francesco? It’s experimental north Italian!” Ralph piped up, his hands making wide, sweeping gestures.
“Oh, honey, north Italian?” Linda interjected. “I could do Southern Italian, certainly, but Northern Italian is just so gauche.” Ralph made a sound not unlike the air being let out of a balloon. Then, Francois, who had been silent for the greater part of the afternoon, startled the group by loudly declaring, “We simply must go to Chez Martinique! It’s right by the embassy!”
“Look, I am honored to be in the esteemed presence of the ambassador from France,” uttered Jeff, his head still tucked to his chin as he struggled to type something into his phone, “but have you seen that place’s Yelp reviews?”
“Bah! I refuse to take advice on food from a bunch of nobodies on the internet. It has a Bib Gourmand!” Francois jumped up from his seat, swiftly making his way to the large, singular window at the front of the room. He gazed out across the vast and brilliant cityscape, glass panes glittering in the radiant, golden sunset. Matter-of-factly, he stated, “We need some place inoffensive—and fast. I have no desire to stay up past eleven.”
“How about Lykke’s? It’s like Danish, or something? Anyhow, it’s got great reviews!” Linda said, outstretching her arms and spinning in the center of the room, her flowing silk dress lifting elegantly from the floor.
“Then I say hell yes!” Ralph raised his hand in another extreme gesture, “Everyone, to the garage!”
The group gathered together in one large mass and headed for the elevator lobby. Linda pondered, staring up at the ceiling, “Do you think I should invite my little sister?”
Maria replied, pressing the down button on the panel, “Her? Don’t you think she’s a bit of a downer?” The elevator doors opened, and they shuffled in.
“Well, I think she’s good company! She just doesn’t agree with a lifestyle that’s so…”
“Bourgeois.” Ralph plainly stated.
“Bourgeois? You really think so, honey?”
“Do you have a better word?”
“I would say…maybe…superficial? Eh, I suppose it makes no difference. I’m calling her!” The elevator door chimed, and the doors opened with a mechanical whoosh. Ralph was the first to step out, heading to a small cubicle,
“Hey, Nigel, pull the Benz around, would you? We’ll be out on the sidewalk.”
Out on the street, a cool breeze brought with it the scent of lilacs and magnolia from a nearby park. Linda looked towards Francois, gently placing a hand on his shoulder, “Oh, Spring is simply my favorite time of the year! I would love to spend it in Bordeaux! Wouldn’t you agree, Francois?”
“France? In April? But the weather!”
“Yes, but Bordeaux! Even just saying that word fills me with the freshness of spring!” The car glided to a smooth halt before them, the mechanized gull-wing door to the rear cabin opening with elegant precision. Inside, there were two benches of luxurious black leather, highlighted by the shimmer of blue light spilling out from beneath them onto the floor. Linda, climbing into the cabin, leaned over into the driver’s seat, “Just so you know, Nigel, we’re picking up Juniper on the way.”
Once seated comfortably, Jeff finally removed his face from his phone,
“You know, for how much she despises the free market and all that, she sure doesn’t mind when we take her to dinner.”
“I suppose it can’t be helped,” she said. The car flew down the empty boulevard, the dying sunset sinking below the horizon ahead. Nearly every intersection was empty, save for the occasional Amazon delivery van, and the usual bustle of the sidewalks had all but disappeared.
After a few silent moments in the car had passed, Francois interrupted, in a distant, steely voice, “Not to detract from the mood, but don’t you all think it’s a tad… quiet around here? It’s Friday night! The people should be out partying! Instead, it is as though a bomb has been dropped.”
“Never mind ‘the people,’ Francois,” growled Maria, teasingly, “we have our own charming circle! Is there anything else that matters?”
“I suppose not,” sighed Francois, dejectedly.
Linda turned suddenly, palms pressed against the tinted glass window, smiling, “Look, everybody, this is Juniper’s building!”
“In this part of town? Doesn’t she have a trust fund set up?” Ralph replied.
“Yes, but I don’t think she likes to acknowledge it. You know how she is.”
“Ha! That’s golden. ‘Anti-capitalist’ my ass!”
Nigel guided the car to a smooth landing, stopping in the middle of the street. The door opened once more with an automated whoosh, and Juniper climbed into the cabin. She was dressed in lime green flannel with combat boots and a scally cap, contrasting against the fine woolen sport coats and blouses of the group. She sat before saying with a blank look in her eyes, “Hey, what’s up?”
“Oh, Juniper! How are you?” Linda pulled on every word to its fullest extent. “I hope you’re in the mood for avant-garde deconstructionist Nordic cuisine!”
“Who wouldn’t be in the mood?” Juniper rolled her eyes.
“You know what would make this night even better?” Francois announced to the group, raising his hand in the air, “A toast! There is champagne in the mini-fridge!” The group responded with a cacophony of agreements.
“Would you like me to have the honors?” Ralph asked.
“Of course, Ralph! I love that you never say very much!” Francois replied.
“Well, in that case,” Ralph said, slyly grinning ear-to-ear; he grabbed the thick emerald bottle by the neck, its foil top making a subtle crinkling noise as he hefted the bottle up from the rack. A single, shimmering drop of condensation fell from the bottom of the glass. Ralph placed his thumb in the deep punt and waited for the slender crystal flutes to be passed around.
“Francois, have you ever been to Champagne?” Linda inquired. “It seems so romantic!”
“No,” came the curt reply. He was far too preoccupied with staring out of the window, eyes fixed on every passing street, to bother with humoring Linda. A slight elbow from Maria alerted him to the beginning of the toast. Readily, the group extended their glasses towards Ralph, except Juniper, who held firmly to hers with arms crossed, a slight pout on her face. Ralph poured the champagne with flair, dramatically lifting the bottle at the end of every pour. A mat of cream-colored bubbles foamed at the top of each glass.
“This is it, folks! A wonderful day behind us, a wonderful night ahead of us! To friends, to food, to life! Cheers!”
“Cheers!” answered the group, flutes clinking together in a soft and discordant melody.
Juniper, hesitant to take a sip, remarked, “Champagne in a limo. I wouldn’t want to be found anywhere near you all when the proletariat comes for your heads.”
Then, an overwhelmingly loud, distant crash roared behind them, pervading the smooth jazz blaring from the stereo system.
“What was that sound?” fretted Linda, glancing around the room.
“I knew something was going on!” Francois furrowed his brow, shoulders tensing up.
“Oh, it’s just the sounds of the city!” drawled Maria, amused, her champagne flute raised almost to the roof of the car.
“That was the sound of the coming revolution,” declared Juniper. “It was an explosion.”
“Yeah, maybe the explosion of some idiot’s car backfiring!” teased Jeff.
“Never mind what it was, we’re almost at the restaurant!” said Linda, shaking her head.
“I’m telling you, it’s coming!” Juniper straightened her back in her seat. “Haven’t you guys heard of the PRM?”
“Don’t bore me with politics, please.” Maria slouched further in her seat, leaning over her crocodile leather bag. Jeff looked up,
“What’s it stand for?”
“The People’s Revolutionary Militia,” Juniper replied, suddenly energized.
“The ‘M’ should stand for ‘Morons’ if you ask me,” Ralph set his gaze to the sun-bleached wooden façade of Restaurant Lykke coming into view.
“D-do they have weapons? Are they dangerous?” Jeff asked, unbuckling his seatbelt.
“You ever met a moron that wasn’t dangerous?”
“Velkome to Restaurant Lykke! Table for 6?” The waiter, dressed in a simple black vest and tie, outstretched his arms and herded the group into a private annex before anyone could blurt out a reply. “For your information, our special tonight is a deconstructed duet of fermented cod!”
“Deconstructed how?” asked Maria.
“The cod has been turned into a fine powder, madam.”
“Oh,” Maria pursed her lips, “I suppose we’ll be a minute with the menus.” The waiter gave a deep nod and robotically turned to march out the door.
“This restaurant is so charming! I just adore private rooms! Don’t you all agree?” Linda clasped her hands at her cheek.
“Maybe if you’re into liquified reindeer and turnip Jello,” said Jeff, swirling the water in his glass.
“Ditto,” Juniper muttered. Suddenly, three short bursts of noise sounded from outside the restaurant, like the cracking of a thick pane of glass.
“God, I hope Nigel didn’t park the car next to a Little League field.”
“Those were gunshots, Ralph,” Juniper crossed her arms, “Like I said, it’s the revolution.”
“Jesus, I knew something was going to happen tonight!” Francois jolted up in a panic. “I could feel it!”
“Oh, please, Francois,” Linda deflated in her chair, “Might we finish this wonderful dinner?” As if in response, the waiter rushed back into the room,
“Hallo, my esteemed guests! We at Restaurant Lykke profusely apologize for the inconvenience, but we must close now!”
Ralph raised his hands in anger.“Whaddaya mean, ‘closed’? For what?”
“Well, sir, not to be perceived as…rude, but haven’t you seen what’s going on outside?”
Without warning, a line of police cruisers and sirens jetted along the barren street outside, blue light pouring through the window in long shafts. The group, led by Francois, started out the door.
“They will so be hearing about this on Yelp,” said Jeff. Maria nodded indignantly in agreement.
- Max Donovan ’26
Unspoken
Meeting you was like watching a fire whispering its first breath—a tiny, glinty spark in the dusty gloom, flickering with uncertainty, aimlessly tracing patterns in the dark.
At first, it seems insignificant, almost laughable, like a careless ember too fragile to endure.
But then there is your warmth, self-contradictory, like the sun dimming itself as it rises— soft but fierce, burning but quiet. I’m not sure if it’s real or just a trick, fraudulent, like the words that slip easily from lips and vanish in the air.
Yet, still, you draw me in, your forwardness strangely magnetic, each word a hesitant step closer, and each step feels like a sign.
- Alanna Andrews ’29
Spilled Between
The nail polish bottle wobbles on my desk, pink smudges on the edges of the glass. I twist the cap; the sharp scent stings my nose. I paint one nail, then wipe it clean. It’s never right— too streaky, too bright, too much like I’m trying too hard. The mirror leans against the wall, its reflection waiting, still and steady.
I tilt my head, wondering if I’ll ever look like someone who knows what they’re doing. It just stares back, like it’s bored by my questions. In the hallway, lockers crash shut— bang, bang, bang— a rhythm I can’t follow. Shoes squeak against the floor, their owners laughing, shouting, moving too fast.
I walk slower, trying not to trip over my own feet or the shadows that feel too big for me. The nail polish spills. Pink seeps across the desk, a sticky, messy flood.
I watch it spread, and for a second it feels like the only thing that makes sense.
- Alanna Andrews ’29
Blue Like the Reflection of Snow
Keen had one minor quarrel with the color of his hair. Reddish orange, the color of his papa’s old coat. On another boy, he might have found it beautiful. Despite that, it didn’t seem right when he eyed the photographs lining the walls. None of them had matching hair colors, but for some reason, Keen’s hair felt wrong.
The bed shook as another body hit the mattress. Keen jumped, blinking at the intruder.
His sister, Eva, grinned, waving with a gloved hand. “What’s with the moping?” she wondered, leaning against the wall.
“I want my hair to look like yours,” he stated, eyes tracing the long aquamarine strands that fell down her back, pooling on the bed like melting ice.
She stared at him intently for several moments. Keen shifted back. “I don’t think you’d look good with straight hair,” she said at last, gesturing to the auburn coils.
Keen pouted, crossing his arms. “I meant the color!” he argued, running a gentle hand through it. As it was, he’d let it grow out for several years, allowing Eva to trim or fiddle with it as she saw fit, but mostly he chose to leave it alone. By then it fell almost to his elbows. He paused. “Do you think that would look good?”
“We could get it blue for sure. I’m not so sure about getting it bright teal though,” she laughed, ruffling his hair with cool gentleness.
Keen gasped. “Really?”
Eva grabbed his hand, dragging him off the star patterned blankets, “Course, let’s go ask Dad,” she offered, grabbing the door handle.
They ran down the hall, sliding to halt in front of the coffee table. “Dad!” Eva shouted, her little brother in tow, “Can I dye Keen’s hair?”
Their dad sat on the couch, reading a sappy romance novel. He looked up with a serene smile. “We don’t have any hair dye in the house, Eva,” he pointed out. “Do you two want to go to the store and pick some up?” he suggested, gesturing to the front door.
Eva glanced back at Keen, he gave a thumbs up in agreement. “We can do that!” she gave a thumbs up.
Grabbing a pad of paper from the coffee table, their dad scribbled a few items down.“Buy these, too, if you would,” he said, placing the list and a handful of coins in Eva’s hand. “Also, remember to stay together and if-”
“If someone tries to kidnap us, beat them up!” Eva finished with a proud expression.
Before he could correct her, Keen shook his head with a sigh. “Get away and don’t engage,” he said.
Their dad nodded, “That’s correct, hun.” He smiled, turning to Eva, “Keep your little brother safe.”
Eva pulled Keen to the door, “Always!” she yelled down the hall, stuffing her feet in her shoes. Keen sat down, tying the laces of his sneakers tight. They waved as they ran outside, “We’ll be back!”
“Be careful!” their dad called from the sofa.
They ran down the street, sneakers bouncing against cracked asphalt. Eva’s violet scarf—strange for the summer season though it was—billowed behind her, a stark contrast to her lighter hair.
As they took a shortcut down a small hill, Eva stumbled over a root but hopped up again with enthusiasm.
“That was fun!” she giggled, spinning around to look at Keen.
The younger stared at her with wide eyes. “You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked, gesturing to her knees, which were now stained with dirt. The fabric of her pants hadn’t ripped—at least not from the fall—but Keen couldn’t help but check on her.
She shook her head. “Nothin’ bad,” she assured him, turning to the small shop in front of them. “See, we’re here!” she exclaimed with a proud grin.
Keen smiled softly, relieved. “Just be more careful next time,” he pleaded.
Eva shrugged, shoving open the dark wood door. A bell rang as they wandered inside. “Let’s see,” Eva hummed. “First is pain medicine,” she read off the list, written in cursive handwriting that always reminded Keen of a doctor’s.
“For Dad?” Keen asked, scanning the shelves until he came across a small package that matched what he’d seen in the cabinets at home.
“Probably,” Eva muttered, taking the item from him. “Next up… bandages!” she stated, marching to the next aisle. After a moment, she gasped, lifting up a deep blue box. “Space themed!” She offered it to him.
Keen paused, staring at the container. It was enticing. Stars, moons and suns. “Can we get these?” he asked, holding them close to his chest.
Eva giggled. “Obviously, dummy,” she said, stuffing her hand in her pocket and fishing out the list.
Keen smiled widely, a glimmer in his darkly colored eyes. “What’s next?” he asked, leaning over her shoulder as she unfolded the list. “Oh, it’s just those two…”
“What was the list for then?!” Eva complained, tossing the paper onto the floor. “Did he really think we couldn’t remember two items?”
Keen shrugged. “I can see you forgetting,” he admitted, ignoring as she elbowed him.
She stomped away. “Let’s get the hair dye,” she said with a pout.
Keen smirked and followed.
They stood in the aisle, Eva reading the details on a bottle. “I like that color,” said Keen, pointing at a deep blue.
“Do you wanna bleach your hair?” Eva wondered, taking the item off the shelf.
Keen paused. “Not really,” he decided. “Is that going to be a problem?”
Eva shook her head. “It’ll just be a bit duller,” she stated, tossing the container to him. “That looks good, though. We’ll get two for that mess,” she gestured at him.
Keen chuckled, stacking them. “That’s all, yeah?” he confirmed with a tilt of his head.
After a moment of thought, Eva stepped back, “Stay here, I’m gonna grab something!” She darted off.
“But-” Keen began, realizing she was already gone. He sighed, “Dad told us to stay together…”
From what he saw, there was one other customer in the store. He’d seen a mop of brown hair run into an aisle but—other than the clerk—no one else.
He heard the patter of footsteps from behind him. He started to turn.
A shorter boy checked him as he ran past. “S’rry,” he muttered, slipping away.
Keen recognized afterwards the young boy was demon-born. Barbed tail and red horns. He didn’t often see full demons in the area but he didn’t ever understand what the problem was with them. “I like your jacket!” he called out to the boy.
The boy spun around, purple eyes staring wide. Black sclera, Keen thought, admiring the contrast between the bright color of his eyes. The boy pursed his lips. “Thanks…” he whispered, tugging the denim tighter.
Keen smiled brightly as the boy retreated away.
He had truly meant the compliment. The jacket had several clearly hand-sewn patches on it, mainly
suns. Having seen Eva sew in the past, he knew how much effort went into the work.
Besides that, he was happy he’d seen the boy's face. Purple, he mused, thinking faintly of purple hair. He decided quickly it wouldn’t work for him.
“Keen!” Eva slammed into his back, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Let’s go!” She pulled the hood of his T-shirt, dragging him towards the register.
Wriggling out of her grip, Keen stumbled as he attempted to stand up properly. “Eve!” he whined, managing to set the items on the large table without issue.
“Eight silvers,” the clerk said.
Eva grabbed the money from her pocket. “Here,” she muttered with a quick nod of her head.
The person on the other side bagged the items, clearly bored with their work.
A gust of wind passed behind Keen, and he noticed the faint smell of cut grass. He saw a denim wearing figure dart by, almost out the door.
The clerk quickly realized they would be unable to stop the boy from leaving, considering he’d already pushed open the door and left. They made a “tch!” sound and waved the siblings away, “Careful when leaving that brat doesn’t steal from you, too.” They sighed, setting themself back down on a chair.
When they got out onto the warm air of the street, Keen turned to his sister, “That other kid was strange, huh?” he paused, not liking the sound of the words, “I mean quiet and all that,” he amended.
Eva shrugged, “I guess.” She stared at the clouds as they drifted past the suns over thatched roofs. “But everyone’s quiet when they’re alone like that,” she hummed, leaning back further, “Ah! What does it matter anyway!” she waved her hands around.
“I liked his jacket,” Keen repeated, smiling softly.
“Yellow suns are kinda odd though,” Eva pointed out.
Keen glanced up at the red suns above them. He’d read in a book that the world used to have a golden sun that a beautiful goddess created and controlled. When she died, the new sun god had two faces, thus making two suns. He didn’t really get why it made them red, though.
It was strange to think of that world, he thought, with gods and danger around every turn. Maybe when he was older, he could be a good swordsman. But really, it all sounded too eventful for him.
“Eve?” Keen asked. “Do you think you’d be good at adventuring, like in the stories?”
Eva thought for a moment. “Yeah,” she said with a nod, “You’d be good too with all Papa’s teaching,” she added.
“Wouldn’t it be dangerous?” he wondered, clutching the bag tighter in his hand.
Eva wrapped a cold arm around him, “That’s what I’m there for! Gotta keep you outta trouble!” she assured him, confidently.
Keen rose an eyebrow. “I don’t get in trouble as often as you,” he argued.
“Oh, hush,” Eva complained, jabbing his arm. Keen giggled, running further ahead. Eva gasped,.“Keenan! Get back here!” she shouted.
“No way!” Keen called back.
Keen tapped his foot, watching as Eva wandered around him collecting items.
She pulled an old towel over his shoulders. “Blue time,” she hummed, holding a brush up. She dipped into the container of dye, taking it chunk by chunk.
Eva was by no means a hairstylist, but it was clear to Keen that she would be one day. It was either that, or a fashion designer.
“What made you wanna dye it anyway?” Eva asked, finally asking what she’d been wondering since he proposed the idea earlier in the day. “For the new school?”
Keen drummed his fingers softly on his thigh, “Maybe a bit.” His gaze fell on the box of space bandages. “I also wanted to look a little more like you… we don’t really look alike,” he said.
“No! Really? I hadn’t noticed!” Eva exclaimed overdramatically, waving the brush around before returning to her work. “Honestly, I assumed it was ‘cause of the night sky. ’Specially with this color you picked, it’s perfect night sky color,” she mused, knowing the color would change slightly when she was finished.
Keen paused. “That… would make sense,” he admitted, a little embarrassed he hadn’t realized it sooner.
“I guess the reason doesn’t really matter,” she decided, continuing with her thorough dyeing.
With the amount of hair being dyed, the process wasn’t short. At the occasional point when the conversation would drift into boring silence, Eva managed to trick Keen back into a random topic. Simple topics, ones anyone could ask—what he wanted for his birthday, how he felt about going to a new school— and yet with Eva, it felt perfectly fine. Not that awkward conversation with Granny while he waited for the cookies to cool.
“Well,” Eva began with a soft hum, “it’s still wet, so it’ll dry a little lighter but I think you can see it now,” she decided, dragging him into her room.
He stared into the mirror. Dark blue. It was strange, completely different, and yet…
He spun around to face Eva, squeezing her into a hug. “Eve!” he cried, burying his face in the crook of her neck, feeling the softness of her signature scarf. “It looks amazing,” he whispered.
Eva giggled, her hands gentle. “I’ve got one more little thing,” she said, setting him back on his feet.
Keen tilted his head, watching as she stuffed her hands into her pocket.
“Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t notice at the store,” she admitted, placing an item carefully in the palm of his hand.
Keen blinked at the object with curiosity. A hairclip adorned with a simple cloud. Eva snatched the item out of his hands again. “Here!” she said, pushing a cluster of curls behind his ear. She clipped the pin down.
Peering into the mirror again, Keen leaned closer. “It does look nice,” he muttered, tapping the charm carefully.
“You like the cloud?” Eva confirmed. “They didn’t have any stars or moons.”
“I would have rathered the cloud anyway,” he confessed. “It reminds me of snow,” he added with a
careful expression.
Eva grinned. “Let’s show Papa and Dad!” she suggested enthusiastically, dragging him out of the room.
Returning to the living room, the siblings found their Papa reading the same sappy romance their Dad had been reading earlier. He glanced up, tapping his husband on the shoulder. Despite his initial tiredness he quickly perked up after seeing the two children.
“That is a good color,” their Dad hummed with a soft smile.
Nodding, their Papa added, “It matches your personality much better I’d say.”
Eva pulled Keen closer, showing off the clip, “Look at this, too!”
Keen attempted to unlatch her hand. “Eve!” he whined, through another giggle.
“You certainly do have an eye for fashion, Eva,” their Dad complimented.
Eva placed her hands on her hips with a proud grin before turning back to Keen, “That’s all we had to show you!” She began to walk away. “I’ll let you get back to your nap now, bye!”
Keen waved, running up to follow her, blue hair twisting in the air behind him.
As Eva walked past the door to his room, Keen called out, “Eve!” She spun around.“Thanks for helping me today… I really like it,” he whispered, his hand settling on the door knob.
Eva tilted her head. “‘Course, I’m your big sister; it’s my job,” she stated like she always did.
“No, really, Eve,” he continued. “You’re amazing.”
Eva turned away. “I try,” she said quietly.
Keen waved, realizing the conversation was over. He walked into his room, glowing stars lighting it.
He lay on his bed, staring at the greenish light source. The darkness in his room was faintly blue with the light from outside. He pulled a notebook from his desk, scribbling a note down before flipping the page over.
The note read a simple message:
Blue is the color of family and the night sky.
- Cassie Duarte ’28
Spring Cranes
It was late March. The wild onions had just begun to curl their chive-like stems into the cool air from the grassy edges of the parking lot. The pinkletink calls had started to fill the night just weeks before. It was an average Tuesday, one of those unusually warm March days that trick you into believing that spring is really here. I crossed the parking lot not thinking of much, feeling the long awaited sun on my bare arms.
As I entered my first class, late as always, I moved towards my seat and noticed a small, perfect, cardinal-red paper crane, perfectly and precisely folded: no extra creases, uneven folds, or any of the other imperfections that marked any attempts I had ever made. I glanced around, surprised to notice that clones of my crane graced the desks of each of my classmates. Some looked down at them warily and seemingly afraid; others held theirs loosely in their fingers, inspecting the unnaturally perfect craftsmanship of the birds. I sat, keeping my hands at the edge of the desk, away from the delicate paper that seemed too perfect to be ruined by my clumsy fingers.
Closer, I noticed the small tag fastened around the crane's thin neck by way of an equally red string. Curious, I tilted my head to read it, still without moving the crane, it read, in neat script, “The deepest secret of the one you love most.” Below that was a more perfect cursive replica of my name than I had ever written, although I had never been particularly good at cursive.
Mr. Billard made his way to the front of the classroom. He seemed unsteady, with a strange look in his eyes. He didn’t speak for a moment; he seemed not to notice the confusion on many of the kids’ faces, and I realized that the look in his eyes was fear, controlled, but still there. I still didn’t realize why, not connecting the strange birds to my teacher's fear. He seemed to snap out of his strange state, realizing
that the class had come alive with whispers.
“Everyone settle down,” he said, back in control. “Today we’re going to be discussing last night's reading.”
“What about these? Where did they come from?” interrupted one of the kids, holding out his graceful scarlet crane carelessly. Mr. Billiard’s eyes flashed with fear again, but this vanished quickly. I didn’t hear his response, as it occurred to me at that moment why he might be afraid. I glanced back at his desk, but instead of the little cranes that still graced the desks of every student, a small square paper lay open on top of the messy jumble of grading papers. It was folded up, the deep, smooth red edge facing me, a hint of the creamy interior peeking past. I stared at that paper for most of class, not paying attention to much else. That’s when I realized, from Mr. Billard’s fear after opening his and his distant look, that the message had to be real..
I stood by my locker, waiting. I held my books and papers in my arms, but I could feel the little crane pushing into my leg from where I had gently placed it, still afraid to harm its carefully folded wings, in the pocket of my jeans. A hand tapped my shoulder, startling me, and a familiar voice whispered, “You know we’re going to be late!”
“I was waiting for you!” I paused. “Where were you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, as we started to make our way to class. “The weirdest thing just happened in math!.
“Paper cranes?” I question, my voice a little shaky.
“Yeah!” she paused. “Wait, how’d you know?”
Now I was sure that this was real. Though before I thought it must be true, I still did not really believe it, as long as I could think that it was only our class, just some kind of cruel joke on Mr. Billard. “We got them too,” I explained, “I think they're real, Mr. Billard seemed super freaked out.”
“Wait really?” she looked at me, “What do they say?”
“How would I know? I mean it’s not like I saw Mr. Billard’s, but it was open,” I considered. “And it’s not like I looked at mine.”
“Do you think you will?” she asked quietly, but was sharply cut off as Ms. Zimmers spotted us lingering outside the door, quickly ushering us in with a stern warning about being late.
I couldn’t pay attention to anything in the next class, either. All I could think about was her unanswered question, “Do you think you will? Will I?” I couldn’t even seem to consider what I might find, let alone actually think about who it would be about. I didn’t even know if I could. I considered, absentmindedly running my fingers along the shape of the crane in my pocket.
I came back to attention as I heard the kid next to me whispering to his friend, who seemed to desperately be trying desperately to pay attention to Ms. Zimmers, as though nothing else was happening. He was talking about the cranes, nervously voicing all the questions I’m sure were on everyone's mind: “Where did they come from?” “Do you think they're real?” “Do you think it’s just a joke?” After each question the friend shrugs, like he is brushing off the idea, as though he is trying not to think about the answers. What do you think they’ll do about it? I’m not really sure who they are, but I assume it's the teachers, or someone in charge. And finally, he asks the question that has been repeating in my mind during that whole class, “Do you think you'll open yours?”
Well, I decided that I wouldn’t, at least not at first. It was because of something she told me. Well, if we're being specific, that so and so told her that so and so told him that someone opened theirs.I guess that at that point many people had probably opened theirs, won over by curiosity, or not believing that what the tag said was really true, but I didn’t know at that point. While of course I already believed that they really were real, to hear it described and really know what lay inside each of ours was a shock. She said that the secret had been about the girl's parents, stated rather bluntly, and had sent the girl running into the bathroom, crying. No one really knew any more than this, but it scared me enough to finally know the answer to that question: I was not going to open mine. I placed it gently on the top shelf of my locker, tucked between the binders and irrelevant papers.
At morning meeting whispers abounded among the students, everyone wondering and panicking and gossiping. It quickly became much quieter as the principal entered the center of the foyer, although whispers still clung to the edges of the room.
“Good morning everyone!” he bellowed in a falsely cheerful voice.
“In light of recent events, I would just like to say that you have nothing to fear in our school,” he continued to reassure us, pouring out false consolations in an attempt to calm the room. He didn’t directly speak to the issue, which disappointed many of the students, who seemed to believe he could have magically made it all go away and say it was just a misunderstanding.
I sat in study hall, silently waiting for her. I thoughtlessly doodled little stars, tracing the shape of them through muscle memory, decorating the top of my homework in a design much prettier than the math problems below. They evolved into little squiggles and loops, working their way along the edges of the page, outlining the photocopied marks of the hole puncher.
It was at this point that she entered, noticeably late, her eyes red around the edges, tears still springing at the corners, though she seemed to be trying to hold them back.
“What happened?” I immediately asked, knowing it must have something to do with the cranes. She didn’t quite answer, just looked down. I could tell by her eyes that if she tried to speak, the tears would win again. I placed my hand on her knee, “What happened?” I repeated uselessly. “Did you open yours?” I half whispered, a little disbelief tainting my voice though I tried to push it away. She moved her head side to side, her eyes coming up to meet mine, a no. We sat quiet for a moment, me thinking of what it could be, her thinking of what happened.
“Did you ever worry that your secret might be in someone else's crane?” She breaks our silence with an unsteady voice. I had briefly thought of this, but realized after some short panic that I didn’t really have any life-or-death secrets. A few embarrassing moments, sure, but I had none that would be life altering if they were spilled, so I decided that that was a foolish worry, pointless to worry about and nevermind out of my control.
“Sure…?” I said, not really understanding why she asked her question. She looked at me, her eyes sad, and a little regretful. She looked sorry, although sorry for what, I wasn’t sure yet. She held out the small red crane on her palm, no longer perfect, rumpled as though refolded by a less expert hand. The tag still read the same, but underneath, I realized, was not her name, but mine.
“Did you…” open mine?” I tried to continue, but my voice faded out, refusing to work anymore. She looked down, her palm still outstretched, cradling my crane. She understood me like always, even through my broken voice.
“Yeah,” she mumble-whispered, avoiding looking into my face. “I’m sorry, my thoughts were just spiralling, and I kept thinking that what if yours was about me, what with your perfect family probably
being secret free, and I was just really scared that you would hate me if it was something bad,” she stopped abruptly, wiping a tear at her eye. “I’m really sorry, I know you probably hate me anyway now…”
I didn’t ask her about the secrets she must be keeping, secrets she would come to tell me in the future anyway, or point out that my family is far from perfect; instead, I asked just one question.
“Did you read it?” I knew she opened it, knew if I had gone that far I would have read it, but it was hard to say with her. She could easily be this worked up over unfolding it halfway then refolding it.
“Enough to know it wasn’t about me…” her voice faded, “just a few words.” She looked even more on the verge of tears as she sat there, looking at me,.Se looked so sure that I would never forgive her, that she was the worst person in the world. So I did the one thing I could think of, the one thing I wanted to do. I gently took the crane from her hand, her fingers curling in on empty space, and slid it into my pocket.
I wrapped my arms around her thin frame. At first she was stiff, in disbelief at my forgiveness, then she melted into the hug, giving in to her tears. I know I should have been mad, I should have felt my trust broken, should have been angry and hateful. I know I shouldn’t have forgiven her, but I did.
In art class I sat in front of my easel, distracted and waiting for her. I ran my pencil along the shape of the display I had arranged the day before, though it felt much farther away than that. I had been thinking of spring, anxious for its arrival and grateful for the smattering that was emerging now. It consisted mainly of little bouquets, suspended in mini glass jars. A bunch of wild onions, the roots and bulbs magnified by the water and glass, showing the brown streaks and misshapen uncertainty of the bulbs, the unruly stems spread above the glass, pointing every which way, unpredictably curled. Bantam-sized pheasant eye daffodils, their pretty yellow trumpet centers rimmed in a wobbly, thin line of red, their soft white petals near perfect, offset by little nicks and windtears, and their cut-off stems splayed beneath the water, along the bottom of the jar their stems oozed greenish clear sap. Small feathers protruded from another jar, this one absent of water, each dropped by a different bird: brown chicken, fragile junco, loud bluejay, bright cardinal. The weathered barbs of each split apart in places, interesting, colorful, however dull in comparison to the birds they fell from. I added to this display, partially hidden and distorted by the glass, the brilliantly red paper crane, unnaturally perfect, though now a little rumpled as well, as if to match the natural, imperfect, and beautiful offerings of spring.
- Emme Carroll ’28
Wisp of Wind And Sail
Some still remember the time, before salt and sails, where all they had were lakes and puddles. Well, not too many anymore, but there were a few. One in particular—she’s a good friend of mine—if you ask, she’ll always tell you of rainy days. She’ll tell you of the little ponds of mud, and how she’d splash and play in them until the sun went down. But she’s never speaking more fondly than when she tells you of her lake. Her little lake.
Now, I suppose, it's a spring. But at the time—because you have to remember, this was a long time ago, much before you—it was just a lake. And on that lake, she’d made a boat.
I know, I know, that’s not very cool, but at the time, boats were special. Only fishermen with big lakes to sail on ever made any. What was the point of some girl making one?
But, my dear friend wanted more of the water than just to swim in it. And, for a long time, that little lake of hers was enough. But she always wished for more. She wished for salty air and wind through her braids, and what she wished for the most: a giant lake.
Yes, you laugh, but it’s true!
Well, it just so happens that there was a god who had yet to choose his passion. He wandered, looking for inspiration, and he happened upon my dear friend. He was amazed at her love for the water. He came wailing, saying how he wished to have as much passion as she did. Now, I can’t remember if this was his brother or the Queen of Vines, but one of the two suggested he befriend her. That was fairly common back then, as with my star-eyed love.
Anyway, he went back and began to talk with her. One day, he finally asked what he’d wanted to ask for so long. He looked at my dear friend with his brilliant eyes and said, “How, if I may ask, do you love this water so dearly. It has no god, no power of your heart, yet I believe you’d be happier to see this little lake become slightly larger than to see a god standing in front of you.”
And do you know what she said to that? She smiled, turning back to face the reflective surface she’d come to know so well. “I believe this water is the heart of my soul. It is the truest part of me,” she told him, reaching her hand into the water and splashing the unchosen god. She laughed.
He stared at her for a moment too long before a smile widened on his face. He felt something, something true. He took her hand, still wet from the lake. “I understand, more than I ever had, can you tell me, do you wish for the water to expand farther than this little lake?” he asked, a plan on the tips of his fingers.
Of course, my dear friend was a little taken aback, but her expression softened, and she nodded. “Yes, I wish for the waters that I hold so dear to embrace the world farther than this,” she repeated, sounding so sure of herself, I have to believe she knew of his true self.
The god, now called Falen, smiled, dipping his hands into the cool water. “Then I shall make it true.”
And then, the girl of the little lake, felt the wind a bit stronger in her heart. Or I suppose in her own words, her soul.
In an instant, the world that once only held little lakes and puddles of mud overflowed with water. No, not flooding the world, I think the Poet of the Silver Feather even protected the mortals from drowning, but those distant deserts and devoid places suddenly became full of water.
My friend felt the wind against her cheeks and stared at the newly appointed god. “It’s salty,” she noted, pressing a hand into the water.
“It is,” Falen nodded. “And it’s yours. Wisp of the wind and sail.”
And with that, they began their rule of the water and wind.
Pirates and fishermen sailed their seas. Wisp guided their sails, and Falen steered their fleets. Mortals used these waters to reach faraway lands, learning of and occasionally fighting with the inhabitants of these places.
While Wisp of Sails is often prayed to by lovers of ocean, her winds extend much further than that, you know. I’ve seen her on plains of wildflowers and over the hills of sand in dusty deserts. She’s responsible for it all.
Now, I believe it’s time for someone to get some rest. Or at the very least, drink some water.
What? You want a final parting piece of wisdom from this old god? Fine then, I suppose the lesson of all this is to follow your heart. Yeah, I guess that is a little overdone… Maybe, it’s to find the truth in what you believe and keep hold of it for as long as you can. Is that better?
You really should be getting to bed now. I’m sure you have a story in your heart waiting for you there.
Hold this story I told you close now, and have a good night.
- Cassie Duarte ’28
Recoloring of the First Perspective
Sheer Publishers
Ms. Arya Amani
50 Gear Rd.
Inclementium, NY, 11257
Hello, fellow head editor! It pleases me to begin contact with you in a timely fashion, coinciding with the esteemed author Mx. Aka Ito’s switch from your publishing company, Sheer Publishers, to ours, Yondr Publishing Company. I hope we may bond over our continuous efforts in preparing various manuscripts for publication. Speaking of manuscripts, I would first like to mention Mx. Ito’s most recent one: Perimeter.
Thank you for recommending this author to our editorial services. As a fan of their many appraised novels, I have enjoyed working with them strenuously to edit and publish this book. Now, that does not absolve any number of errors that have arisen as we have begun to emend the book. Errors that should not have caused too much fretting on our part, or on urne part, which leads me to retcon a bit. While all writers, wherever on the spectrum of expertise they fall, occasionally run into grammatical errors, needless words, or thematic fallacies, we have not observed too many of these in Mx. Ito’s manuscript. The errors which we are focusing on are more obvious, and I don’t believe that they could be accidental. It would be an understatement to only acknowledge the truthfulness of what you expressed about their writing quirks in your letter two months prior to this.
Many of their errors revolve around different language structures altogether, rather than grammatical errors. To give you a glaring example, “...have ic minen shōe ŏn put.” Found in the middle of Chapter 3, which is particularly encroached by these types of sentences, this clause restructures the verb order following that of certain German clauses by the conjugated “have” pushing “put” to the end of the clause. The preposition “on” of the separable verb “put” is also behind this, which is commonly found in this type of German clause. In terms of words, contrarily, most of them are in Middle English or Modern English rather than any form of German. While an average reader might be able to decode that this means, “I have put on my shoes,” the value of this clause does not immediately unravel itself. As editors, we cannot ignore when style conflicts with clear meaning. Moving on from grammatical inconsistencies, they continue to berate the audience with such random adjectives and noun pairs that I can only assume they used a word generator to link them. Flowery, wordy writing is not overdone here; phrases like “delectable ambivalence” or “incandescent fruition” compromise clarity more excessively. Context does not serve much help, either.
What I would like to get across here—sorry to waste your time, by the way—is how strange an experience this is. What compels them to write what I must unfortunately title “half-baked anomalies,” errors that only partially compromise the value of their writing? Our countless hours of editing now solicit a clear plot line from the text as intended, and I think I might begin to understand why Mx. Ito has published under so many different companies spanning their five years as an author. Furthermore, we shall fix what we can, and remedy the other dysfunctional clauses and phrases. I just wanted to give an update, and I hope you are faring well.
Respectfully,
Dr. Durnaz Akhtar :)
Head Editor at the Yondr Publishing Company
Eurena, NY, 11103
1/23/18
Sheer Publishers
Ms. Arya Amani
50 Gear Rd.
Inclementium, NY, 11257
Good afternoon! How has your day gone? I would like to give a brief renewal of our prior discussion; incidentally, this pertains to a manuscript Recombobulate, by the renowned author Mx. Aka Ito.
By means of hopeful kindness, I will not address the concerns I have about the name of this document. Ignoring the issues that also permeated their last manuscript, Perimeter, the manuscript Recombobulate features other errors that further obfuscate each chapter. Mx. Ito changes the formatting or font of the text throughout every chapter, and many letters are bolded sporadically, which I assume must be combined to form a significant word or phrase. In this way, it is almost as if Mx. Ito intends to hide the actual words from the reader. Focusing on the bolded letters and unscrambling them (one per chapter) guides the reader nowhere. I will share an example of what one would reveal from trying this in Chapter 7:
F A O R K I N
No matter how I configure it, I cannot find an acronym, abbreviation, set of initials, word(s), or phrase it resembles. I suppose it could form a word from a different language. Following up with a question I have long desired to ask concerning both Perimeter and Recombobulate: why? Why write a book like this? Although I can’t find an answer for that question, I will say that is why I have no need to share the other shenanigans causing their works of art to stagnate. Frankly, it would be an overstatement to call this writing complex or deep, for why trivialize reading in such a way? I would love to honor this art free of judgement, but can I truly publish Recombobulate as a novel if I am aware that many of its readers will not know what it is about?
As I did with Perimeter, I will attempt to revise the complicated Mx. Ito’s writing; furthermore, I have more to share. Chapter 13 of Recombobulate begins with a concrete poem, which shapes a spiderweb with the words used. Words such as “extrapolate,” “trite,” or “mediate” link from prefix to suffix, forming diagonal lines that lead the reader to focus at the phrase in the middle. The phrase is illuminated by a white halo:
d o n ’ t a s s i m i l a t e.
Something you might nevertheless wonder: haven’t these things been communicated with the editors, who must fully understand the text to make proper alterations? After initiating contact with Mx. Ito, as any publishing team must, the questions about this writing style are never met with answers; we do not even receive cryptic responses to decode. Oftentimes, I worry that this whole situation is a paradox that only some may wholly understand, so I understand why you have recommended the heightened Mx. Ito to our services. I’ve no one to blame but, forsooth, a dilemma to process, especially regarding this current manuscript. Thank you for retaining contact. I enjoyed your response letter with regard to your communication with a newer author seeking a publishing service, and I hope that is still going well.
Warm regards,
Dr. Durnaz Akhtar :)
Head Editor at the Yondr Publishing Company Eurena, NY, 11103 5/11/18
Mx. Aka Ito
78 Charlie St. Trita, NY, 11298
A letter concerning your second manuscript with the Yondr Publishing Company—quite the monumental achievement! Additionally, I have conquered a dilemma, which is an event I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear about.
We would like to congratulate you on your second published book involving Yondr. In light of my recent realizations, we would not like to rescind our contract with you, for you are welcome here just as a tenured professor at a university. I have recently become starkly aware that past publishing companies have treated your novels like a “hot potato,” and I cannot do much to console you in another way than offering my own condolences for how we handled Perimeter, as well as Recombobulate during the early stages of the editing process. I apologize earnestly for leading myself and my team to change the entirety of your novel, disregarding
its multivalent existence. I don’t find it okay to disregard anything of yours at all; my conduct was of utmost disorder.
While I will not say I understand the quirks of your writing, a critique is not what I should offer. Instead, I offer a republishing. Even the resurfacing of your name on bookstore shelves could attract some people’s eyes. Your most recent book, Recombobulate, has supposedly underperformed Perimeter in the market for fiction books, according to the statistics team up here at Yondr Publishing Company. That's beside the point, since it is not so much my job to handle the statistics. The tone and theme of your first novel with us could set a precedent for the novels you might continue to write (Recombobulate included). Clarity cites itself as an important rule for good writing and in showing purpose, but I must admit that adjectives are often subjective. If your audience recognizes the patterns of your writing, the ones who want to read and admire will engage. Soon, a naturally-curated audience will wait patiently for each new book you produce.
Ultimately, it is your decision. Please let us know your unabridged thoughts; we always appreciate frequent c ommunication. I hope your day has been splendiferous, and your woes relieved. Let that expression of yours be heard, not absolved; let it lie down on a plane among the things which it might very well be.
Sincerely,
Dr. Durnaz Akbar
6/22/18
- Ryan Ronan ’28
The Dying Embers of Summer
The leaves have not yet turned for the fall, when thereafter winter will tear them from their homes on branches and on trees. Still young in the season, there is a mirthfulness evident in the chorus of the birds and the dying croak of the last frogs of the month. The winds are calmer now; they have accepted the coming weeks with much angst in the beginning, but now lull to a soothing whistle. The warmth from their embrace has left, trailing a few pockets of heat behind, but besides that there is not much remaining of the once brashly brazen breezes.
The trees fight for their color, an ever vibrant mixture of green and yellow hues, sprinkled with rays of light gently tugging their way through the dense canopy above. I would say that it has succeeded, charming the leaves into a thin settlement that will best enhance the flaunt of the gold rays. Gold blasted by heat and white light blocked by the trees, they are protecting me from the resoluteness of the setting sun.
How the sediments crumble under my feet, an ugly gray with dead pine and spruce sprinkled throughout. I suppose that those who first laid this path before me did so to respect the trees, to ensure that no person would pay mind to the murk below their feet. The sun in all her glory has spared me today, protecting portions of her power to light the road that winds through this forest. She has littered the ground with sunlight, guiding me with luminescence.
The conclusion of the day sheds light on the beauties unseen by noon. There is, crafted by shadows and highlights, an inexhaustible ambience to the life that populates this place. Praxiteles, with all his power and wisdom, would not know how to emanate the serenity of the thicket that beholds me. Should I cower in fear of her beauty? Or shall I spread open my arms and challenge her?
Bade by concord, all is at rest. Invited by the tranquility around me, the late hours of the day must then be as such. Respite, holding reveries near and intimate to the heart, an hour for reflection and relaxation. To silence a voice, hold it to oneself. I welcome solitude with my arms reaching, and in the repose of the day, I rejoice.
- Taleena Gonneea ’26
Passage 0: How Must We Wander?
0- 1
The will of life; the destiny of that peaceful, aimless wandering—to where does it lead?
Innately etched into that inquiry lives a qualm of a bigger kind: what is fate?
Does fate protrude upon the minds of each and every soul, altering the gluttonous realities of those alive and dead?
Might it wilt upon discovering the realizations of mankind?
Hm…does enlightenment fall into the eyes Of the beholder?
In a flash, now, this instance of fate metamorphoses into a bright light. Disregarding the bounds of time, it then dims; it forms a consciousness of unruly contemplation and uncontrollable relapse.
Relapsing, relapsing. The neverending demise of life and return of death incorporates itself into the life of fate, flowing around in circles, which grind against additional circles, flattening and bonding with one another.
The light focuses. As it enlarges, Protracts, to prolong once more, And brightens one final time,
So buds the flower of projection. Faster than the speed of this concentrated, buzzing cycle— What is formed: only the continuity of a stark world Itself.
And in this tapering, flickering, wavering landscape, a fragment is born, flickering cheerfully alongside its analyzers. It flickers too speedily for its own sight, yet it is observed.
A fragment of light, of hope, of despair, of nihil, of perpetual sight, or even of insight?
0- 2
“But well…what exactly is there to ‘see’?”
One might wonder that incessantly.
Within this fragment, Awash a shore of nihil, the water of which erodes the sands of null, There appears another sparkle, a burst of energy.
Is this to any avail;
To any avail against the bleakness of monochrome unanimity? That illuminate, disastrous spasm remains stagnant soon after its colossal appearance.
The anomaly has made a profound discovery, right?
That’s what one must believe.
What answer is there not?
This light, once dependent on a conglomerate of itself, It has taken a new form. Has it grown out of its grotesque apparition?
One among the insightful might “discover” this type of white beyond the never-ending black. This is what one calls a postulate, which provides not food for thought, but thought for thought’s fear of a needless existence.
If you don't notice this abstract, your world will absolutely prosper.
- Ryan Ronan ’28
Saci
One leg spinning, red cap blazing bright, I dance through fields in dusty flight, Twirling, whirling - a mischievous sparkWhistling secrets from forests dark..
My hurricane spins, a playful embrace, Tangling threads with impish grace, Pipe smoke curling, a trick in the air, Moonlight catching my wild, dark stare.
Pots tumble down, chickens scatter wide, No saddle needed for my windswept ride, Matita song echoes, melancholy and free, A trickster's laughter - just try to catch me!
Invisible, visible - now here, now gone, My red cap magic dances on, One leg leaping through Brazilian night, A spirit of chaos, pure delight.
- Isabelly Belo ’29
Ironic Immersion
The floating red shard illuminates with recollection, The girl of conflict unravels the reality In a world of real fiction
This world, its god Reflects all evenly, Light and conflict coincide, running together Through the ends of each glass shard. This god shines down light on endless reflection.
But it is a hollow luminescence. Nonetheless, the memories of a Not-so-distant future coalesce
Staring deeply into the eyes of the girl in black, Through the warped pane of transparent glass in front, The girl of light Wonders what fate will come next, In a world of real fiction.
Does she know Of the duplicitous nature, that comes with the imagined after? Of the lies she cannot prevent from turning true?
In a world of real fiction, Does the girl of conflict, notice the earnest hope of the girl of light?
In a world of real fiction, does the girl of light, of ambivalent hope, recognize the impending doom, the red, glowing, dishonest catastrophe, floating her way?
-Ryan Ronan 28
The following Pieces Were Selected for Publication in The Scary Society, a collection of 100-word short stories published by Young Writers.
The Secret Ingredient
Steam billows from under the pot lid, the stew’s aroma filling the kitchen– it’s almost complete! I flit from the cupboard to the stovetop. A pinch of salt… A dash of garlic powder… I nearly forgot the secret ingredient! I produce a small vial from the leftmost pocket of my apron, adding its liquid contents to the boil. A bitter almond scent nestles within the hearty fragrance of the stew, concealed from the prying nostrils of my houseguests. “Smells good!” Steve says from the dining room. “Oh, you have no idea,” I responded with a grin. “It’s to die for!”
- Thomas Goux ’
The Ship of Dark Waters
My curiosity turned to terror as we walked towards the dock, the water black as Obsidian, the sky covered in clouds. The ship stood alone creaking in the breeze, my heart dropped, the torn black sails moved softly in the mist. We stood next to the ship, my friend and I. Staring up at the dark wood hull, mist swirled in long tendrils, the wind howled through the brig. It swayed back and forth, the water calm but something stirred below. A loud crack as the mast broke, a silvery figure floated above and our only instinct was to run.
- Giulia King ’28
