Felicity SEAL 2024

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Felicity

SEAL 2024

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Constant - Avery Kelly (top), Power - Bridget Lomax (bottom)

Wonder - Morgan Lomax

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STAFF Katherine Hornby Ava Petrecca Sofia Uribe Katie Wong Maureen Brady Instructor

Felicity: SEAL Magazine 2024 is a current expression of Academy students’ spiritual, emotional, psychological and social lives. From freshman to senior, the spectrum of creative work within reflects the various stages and aspects of their journey.

Selections were chosen for their unique voices-- often quirky, playful, and mysterious. While occasionally somber and raw, the overall tone is strong, sassy and resilient as students look forward to a bright future.

In less than three months, our Digital Publishing students learned basic concepts of design and how to use a digital layout platform.

They poured over hundreds of student submissions, chose a representative mix, organized the visual and written work thematically, and laid out the elements on these pages.

THANKS Janet Antico Kate DeMatos Ellen Denuto Catherine Reilly Cristina Rovayo Alexandra Settembrino

We hope you enjoy Felicity.

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Divine Sophia - Acrylic - Brooke Wesbecker

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Imagine a vessel, carefully crafted to encapsulate the essence of an individual-- a sanctuary of secrets, a pool of pondering thoughts, and a quiet confidant. This object is adorned with colorful accents and a textured surface that gently envelops blank canvases, yearning to be filled. Within the realm of this object lies millions of doorways that lead to worlds waiting to unfold, for dreams to come to life, and for soul-searching to take flight. As the page turns, symphonies of various ink colors dance from page to page, engraving an author's voice. In this case, I am the author.

And the key to unlocking my innermost self started with one small word: “cherries.”

An eight-year-old, brown-haired girl sits in her bed with only the moon to help her see, holding her voice-activated diary close to her chest. “Cherries,” she whispers softly, awaiting the magic to happen. Yet again, that hot pink door unlocks and opens the tunnel to

her innermost self. She picks up her invisible ink pen, and while her hands do the hard work, her heart does the speaking, giving her a sense of calm. As the weeks pass, there isn’t a day where the word “cherries” is not spoken.

Now, a sixteen-year-old, brown-haired girl lies awake in her bed, and the brightest colors fill her head. She reaches out toward her nightstand, looking for either a tassel, a surface covered in grooves, or golden-lined pages. As she grasps her journal, her fingers glide across the crisp paper, tracing over inklings of introspection and most cherished moments.

And in the realm of personal growth and transformation, there exists a hidden tool, a key, to open the tunnel that leads to a fresh start. Offering solace and understanding in times of trouble, and whispering waves of encouragement in moments of self-doubt,

this locked door was one I had always wanted to open. It is only recently that I realized that it has always been open, and I have been the key. As I grew up, I may have graduated from my hot pink, voice-activated diary to something more mature, but the thought of “cherries” has never left my mind. As a juvenile girl, all I did was write about the past, but now, as I continue to write, I am slowly beginning to narrate my future.

While something as small as an eight-letter word may seem meaningless to you, that simple word means everything to me. That word encouraged me to take up the pen, flip open to a blank canvas, and unlock my ideal entrance to success and security with the opportunity to rewrite my story. An unwritten chapter is calling my name for a second chance, all I have to do is muster the courage to turn the page, seize the pen, and fearlessly write my own destiny.

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Untouched Reflections

by Jacqueline O’Connor In the mirror’s gaze, a choice unfolds, To give in to the powders, the creams, The paint I use to hide my very being, Or to leave myself untouched.

Raw, natural, and human.

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I have made my decision, For two days, I must refrain, And battle against my disdainful eyes.

I must meet my bare reflection in the morning And dare to leave it as it is.

No concealer to brighten my under-eye shadows, No blush to cloak my natural hue.

My eyelashes are left unextended, And my eyebrows, unbrushed.

I feel no need to enhance What is already made perfect.

My face is a canvas, Unadorned by pigments that are not my own.

I have set aside cosmetics, And in their place, I have found time, Time to live freely, Time to accomplish more, And, most importantly, Time to celebrate who I am, Raw, natural, and human.

Digital Art by Katie Wong: Lonesome (top) Sugar (middle) Fireflies (bottom)

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Confused - Acrylic - Devyn DeLaura (left)

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More Than Fine

by Ava Breault

Driving down the parkway Going 79, Listening to Springsteen Everything’s more than fine.

Our last summer Taking it all in Making memories, our last attempt Leaving the beach with tan lines, Returning to parents drinking summertime wine Everything’s more than fine.

Remember, take a moment to breathe You are so much more than you seem We’ll miss the summers, But everything’s going to be more than fine.

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As the summer starts to dwindle, We prepare to leave All the relationships we’ve just rekindled The bittersweet memories

Home From College

by Emily Muir

It started like any other night, family dinner. My sister had returned from college for Christmas break, so the debates were even livelier than usual. After dinner, my siblings and I headed to another room to watch TV. I gushed about friends to my sister. We stopped in our family room; my sister started spilling advice. Time flew by unnoticed; my brother went to bed. My sister and I spent more time together watching a movie.

My sister randomly paused the movie to share her invaluable wisdom.

In that moment my worries vanished; my world felt simple for a while.

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A Summer Stroll

by Morgan Lomax

The landscape bursts with summer’s fragrant scent, As flowers bloom and drowsily unfurl; And though the boughs of trees strain to relent, They bear the weight of Nature’s heavy toll.

For even with their verdant canopy, That forms a lace below the heaven’s realm, The Sun will shine in perpetuity And strike the leaves, intent to overwhelm.

And still their roots which plunge into the earth, To seek some respite from the light of day, Might soon discover that the soil’s worth, Through April’s rain, has all been washed away.

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Yet strolling through the forest’s scented paths, Man thinks that from Earth’s fray he is detached!

Vacation Home

by Annie Rojack

I walked up the stairs, past the empty bedrooms, and crawled under my covers. It didn’t feel the same. With my siblings in college, it never would again. I wanted to go back to watching Disney Channel shows on the couch together until we were called up for dinner, to jumping on the trampoline until someone got hurt, to having sleepovers in each other's rooms. I wanted to go back to knowing what they did that day without having to look at Instagram. Now, I accept that what used to be home is now just their vacation home.

Clockwise: July Mornings - Pastel - Devyn DeLaura Sunday Morning - Mixed Media - Piper Tricarico A Slice of Sweet Cherry Pie - 3-D Painting - Cate Mendrzycki

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Someone watches me everywhere I go. I hear footsteps at night. Doors open and close by themselves. There have been times when something I have placed on a table and left alone for a few minutes disappears without a trace. Am I living with a ghost, or am I just going insane?

I sit at my computer trying to edit a newspaper article but can’t write. I keep checking my surroundings like someone is watching my every move. Maybe I am going crazy, or maybe I’m just tired. I decided to go to bed. Untucking the covers, I glance at my familiar bed, empty walls, and the endless stacks of boxes I haven’t unpacked.

I moved into my house a few months ago, excited to start a new chapter of my life and hopeful to make some friends. However, my excitement soon turned into paranoia. The house seemed normal at first, but then I heard footsteps at night. Initially, I thought I was imagining things, but now I’m sure they are real. The ghost who lives in my house is a rowdy one.

I lie in my bed, contemplating my life. Will I ever sleep peacefully again? I could move, but I still adore this house. Ever since I saw it, I fell in love with its calming chestnut walls, cylindrical windows, and open layout. I knew this was where I wanted to live, but now I question my decision.

A genius idea lights up my mind. The internet has the answers to everything. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? I jump from my bed, flick the light switch, and plop on my desk chair. I turn on the computer and search for ways to catch ghosts. The first result is an ad for real-life ghost busters; I scoff. Never will I ever resort to something that outrageous. I scroll down, looking for a more sensible option. The second result is a list called “A Beginner’s Guide to Catching a Ghost.” It’s worth a try! Maybe if I follow these steps, I could move on with my life.

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Step 1: Try to catch the ghost in the act.

Usually, one can easily encounter the ghost at night.

I tiptoe down the hallways, determined to find the ghost. A door cracks open. My heart beats faster and faster as I get closer.

Clumsily, I trip over a cloth, landing headfirst.

I never placed that cloth on the ground. I give up in anger, hoping the next step will be more helpful.

Step 2: Contact and seek assistance from family and friends. You will find comfort in their help and concern.

I hesitantly dial my mother’s phone number. I tell her about my situation, realizing it was a horrible decision to call. Anything would have been better than hearing my mother call me deranged and unhinged. I try explaining to her, but she won’t listen. She speaks to me in a condescending tone, telling me to get help from the doctor as if I need a mental checkup; she doesn’t believe a word I say. Great! Now, I am isolated. Nobody is here to reassure me or speak to me. I am alone in life-- except when I’m at home. There, I’m never alone.

Step 3: Make a ghost-repellent. Your ghost will leave on its own.

If no one else is going to help me, I better help myself. I scour the internet for recipes to repel ghosts. I could make ghost glitter by

Domesticated Darling - Bridget Lomax

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Break the Chains - Pencil - Brugge Erickson

burning sage, a bath infused with holy water, or a piñata filled with positive words. Who wrote these recipes? Though they are ridiculous, I decide to give one a try. I follow the recipe for the ghost glitter, since it seems the most sensible. I buy sage, burn it, and sprinkle it throughout my house. That night, after I concocting the substance, I still hear footsteps.

When I wake up the next morning, small footprints cover my floors and my furniture was dusted in gray. The ghost must have spread the ashes around my house. Why didn’t the sage scare away the ghost? I examine the footprints. They are tiny and oddly shaped. Strangely, they look like an animal’s. Did my ghost have a pet?

Step 4: Hire a ghost-hunting business.

Never did I think I would stoop so low.

My finger hover over the phone number, hesitant to call. I take a deep breath and a plunge. I tell the ghost-hunters about my new roommate and, for once, someone treats me like I'm sane.

The next day, I hear a knock. I tiptoe around the house, scanning every door for a sighting of the ethereal figure playing jokes on me. Then, I realize the ghost hunters had arrived. I answer the door, trying not to think about my mishap.

They search the house for what seems like hours, opening every cabinet, walking into every room, and looking under every bed.

They use the most outrageous tools, too. I

can’t even watch when they pull out an obnoxiously large, neon-green inflatable camera. And they have a vacuum that “sucks up spiritual essence." For my safety, I have to stand outside the room until they finish using it.

As I edit a paper at my desk, the workers come down wearing defeated frowns. One tells me, “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but we failed to find anything. Your house is completely ghost-free.”

My heart drops. I stutter, “Are you sure? I'm certain something is living in my house.”

The man shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but we did our job, and we can’t help you any further.

Maybe you should get a mental check-up. Have a nice day.” They start to pack up their ridiculous equipment.

Here I am, back at the start. Is this my life now? Am I ever going to sleep again? My gut tells me contacting ghost hunters was a silly idea. I should have listened, instead of wasting my time and money.

The ghost hunters are leaving when we all heard... bleats, like an animal’s, echoing through my empty hallways.

One man throws his equipment to the ground and searches for the source. Maybe I'm not going crazy! In a few minutes, he emerges with a baby goat in his arms. Apparently, this small fluffy goat was living in my basement. The ghost hunters tell me they never heard of any situation like mine. They guess that since it was a baby, the goat traveled around my house in the middle of the night, searching for its mother. My heart melts as I stare at the poor, lonely baby.

Before long, I decide to keep the goat. After all, I'm lonely, too, and could use some company. The next day, I register the goat at the vet, and name her Casper.

Step 5: Find a roommate. Some people may just feel scared living alone in an empty house.

Casper is the best roommate I could ever ask for. She keeps me company and comforts me when I'm upset. I may not have found any human friends yet, but Casper and I are best friends, And, for now, that is more than enough.

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Pink Paradise

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The Pink Eraser

by Francesca Coniglio The day had finally come. The day I had been planning for years. I was going to give the eraser back. I had borrowed my friend’s pink, heart-shaped eraser four years ago, and I forgot to return it. I am a person who sticks to their promises, and the fact I still had this eraser burdened my conscience for years and years; I couldn’t take it anymore. When I borrowed the eraser, I was in fifth grade in a school in Scotland. I searched my old friend’s name online and discovered she still lived there. Unfortunately, I had moved to the U.S. That meant I would have to travel a great

distance, but nothing was going to stop me from giving this eraser back.

I could have taken a plane or a boat there, but my parents wouldn’t let me pay for a flight to only give back a silly eraser. That meant I needed to find an alternate way. I packed a backpack with only necessities and the coveted eraser. Then I put on my swimsuit and walked to the beach, which was only a few blocks away from my house. I took a deep breath and jumped into the cool ocean water, beginning my journey to swim across the Atlantic Ocean. I had mapped out my route,

and it would only take about 36 days. I just needed to take minimal breaks.

After hours upon hours of trekking through the water, I had reached the coast. After asking around the town, I located my friend’s house and returned the eraser. She didn’t even say thank you, she just said. “You can keep it. I don’t want it anymore.” She handed me back the eraser. I sighed in anguish. I had swam for what seemed like a year for me to be back where I started, with the eraser in my hand.

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Bubblegum Bliss

Childhood Enchantment

In the small town of Brookeville, a man named Larry always wished for more excitement. One day, while strolling through the town square, he stumbled upon a magical lamp. After giving it a rub, a lively genie appeared, ready to grant him three wishes. As his first wish, Larry wished for a never-ending supply of bubblegum.

Suddenly, his house transformed into a bubblegum paradise, with walls and furniture made of bubblegum wrappers. However, as Larry tried to lift one foot off the floor, he realized he was stuck. Panicking, he called for help. When the townspeople came to rescue him, the bubblegum grew, and Larry was nowhere to be seen. As the bubblegum overflowed, the townspeople left, hoping it would not spread.

We found rocks and made them into tables, we added walls and tiny decorations. We made the tiny house as enchanting as it could be. I was a hopeful little girl awaiting magic to appear in my backyard. My older cousin, my little sister and I had put so much effort into the tiny fairy house. We left for a few hours, and when we came back, we knelt down next to the dainty house, looked in, and saw them. There were tiny fairies with little bags of pixie dust and notes to each one of us. We had radiant smiles, we were exuberant and fulfilled. If only childhood magic was a feeling that lasted. I miss the wistfulness. I miss the wonder.

by Carly Dumaresq

by Madelyn Riordan

Heavenly Rays - Acrylic - Angelina Salese (opposite) Chocolate Covered - Acrylic - Gracelyn Spina (left) Donuts - Acrylic - Evelyn West (top right) Sisters - Oil - Montserrat Soriano Gutierrez (bottom right)

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Melodies & Ink

by Ciara Mulcahy

Love & Loss

by Samantha Farnsworth Pray now for a fair summer, See the great doings in the world And, for love, it will soon itself come back I wake and walk about the house, As though I’d find you coming through some door.

You loved me then and you do now, Or did I dream that?

A sudden cold wind, a trembling below the ground Envy is a deadly sin So let her turn herself cold now I see now your spirit twists around the single error of my life We burn a hot fire here; it melts down all concealment I will leave and I will not come back again I will cut off my hand before I'll ever reach for you again I will never give you hope to wait for me.

The Nails - Ava Montaruli (top) Exit - Olivia Nuzzo (middle) Rust - Olivia Nuzzo (bottom) How Soon Is Now? - Oil - Valentina Barbella (opposite)

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Hundreds of thousands of words on a page, I need to know them all.

Hundreds of different songs on replay, I get to hum along.

A new book gives me a new life to have.

A new song helps me learn my own.

An escape or embrace is all that I need, I can’t possibly do it alone.

The walls that surround me Are made of pages and measures, The words are the doors to come in.

At the last note and final words I mourn the loss of the escape.

I can’t be alone with my thoughts, I’ve fallen in love with melodies and ink.

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Window Panes

by Caroline O'Callaghan The window at my desk A view to the yard Winter spring summer fall The glass stands strong Wind rain hail snow sleet The window insulates me from the world As I look out upon the lawn I admire through the glass The colorful rise and fall of each day From the bleak darkness of my gray room Each morning the light from the window Rouses my head from rest The glass that separates me From the elements, the beauty, the cold.

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Double Take - Acrylic - Harrison Parker (top) White Lily - Morgan Lomax (bottom) Cola Cam - Mixed Media - Sarah Heflin (left)

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Runway Resilience

by Kylee Rafferty

A hush fell over the elegant fashion show as I tripped on my extravagant gown, tumbling onto the runway. I was so mortified, I wanted to crawl in a hole! The room held its breath, awaiting my reaction.

Instead of hiding, I rose with grace, my misstep transforming into a beautiful pivot. The audience exploded in cheers, transforming my mistaken fall into a great moment. I discovered the strength to shine in my weakness, and the road to success became paved with courage.

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The Cold Embrace

by Francesca Coniglio

Two days. No steam, no comforting warmth. Nothing but the shocking chill of a cold shower. As the first drop of frigid water pierced my skin, goosebumps erupted across my arm. My teeth chattered and my body shivered. But as the cold enveloped me, it transformed, awakening my senses. Stepping out of the shower, I wasn’t accompanied by steamy comfort, but by a crisp energy that lingered with me throughout the day. I felt alert and fresh, ready to take on whatever I may have encountered. I missed the heat, but the brief discomfort opened the door to a new feeling. I felt as if I was able to be present in the moment and notice what was going on around me. All because I turned the knob down on my shower. Hot showers may return tomorrow, but the memories of the chilly showers will stick with me, for I have discovered warmth within.

Rapunzel - Mixed Media - Olivia Ventola (above) Abstract - Acrylic - Grace Walsh (left)

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Innocence Interrupted couch with a broken arm or something minor, but I knew something was seriously wrong.

Dad's next words shattered my heart: “We don't know what is wrong with her yet. The doctors are keeping her there for a few days.”

My world was tossed upside down in a matter of minutes and living that routine life didn’t sound so bad anymore.

"My world was tossed upside down in a matter of minutes and living that routine life didn’t sound so bad anymore."

Over It - Acrylic - Devyn DeLaura

to Michaels with my mom to get the materials to make a pilgrim hat out of a pot. I remember so vividly returning home on the verge of tears because my project just about broke in class while I was assembling it. All I wanted at that moment was my mom.

When we opened the side door, something was off. The house was dark. We called out "Mom," but no one answered. Before we could even think, my aunt and cousins pulled up.

“Your mom and dad got stuck in traffic.”

Those words echo in my mind every time I think back because I would give anything for that to have been the truth.

We spent that afternoon at my aunt's house, and by dinner time I knew something was wrong. Who gets stuck in traffic for 3 hours?

Around 8PM my dad came to get us. He looked tired and drained.

“Where were you?” I asked.

“The hospital,” he said.

I wanted to believe that my dad would take me home and my mom would be lying on the

Thanksgiving It had been two excruciating days without Mom and still no answers. My family always hosts Thanksgiving and my mom always prepares for days. So for those two days, we came home to a house that was ready for a holiday that we would not be celebrating. The night before Thanksgiving my dad told Nicholas and I that we would go to see Mom in the morning and watch the parade with her.

I woke up that morning so excited because it would be the first time I saw her since Tuesday morning. I ran down the stairs as my dad got a phone call from the doctor. My dad came into the family room to tell us we weren't going to see Mom after all. He couldn’t tell us why at that moment, but years later I would find out that the swelling of my mom’s brain needed a craniotomy, and she had to be put in a coma.

All happiness and light were drained from that Thanksgiving. We ate whatever food we had in the house as we awaited my

grandparent's arrival. My mom’s parents lived in Florida and they came to help us deal with everything. This made me realize that something really bad was happening, I just didn't know what. I remember feeling like I was in the dark, but I am forever grateful to my father for keeping me there.

Christmas The holiday season felt dull: everything was different and I hated it. I remember setting up the Christmas decorations and getting so mad at my Grandma for putting everything in different spots. That's not how Mom used to set it up. My dad told me that I needed to be nicer and that Christmas would look different this year. “Remember your Grandmother doesn't have her daughter right now, just like you don't have your mom,” he would say.

Christmas morning came and I remember looking at the tree with all the presents and feeling so angry. Everything was just so different than how my mom would do it. It sounds so stupid thinking back at it now, but when you have been used to a certain magic on Christmas morning, it's hard when that spark is gone. I opened my presents and felt disappointed. I got so mad at my Grandma: she was messing everything up. I ran up to my room and started to cry. My dad walked in and said that I should apologize to Grandma because I hurt her feelings. I wanted to scream, “I want Mom back so badly! I want Mom back!” Years later my dad has told me that Christmas morning was one of the hardest things he had to do without Mom. I was so focused on myself that I forgot my dad was barely holding on and he was missing her, too.

New Year's At the dinner table every night we tried our hardest not to discuss what was going on. It was like the elephant in the room that no one wanted to talk about. One night during Christmas break, my dad and grandparents were discussing how they had started to wake up my mom. Back then my dad made sure no one used the “coma” word because he wanted to shield me. So they were very careful how they worded everything.

“Mom is going to start to wake up soon.

The doctors are going to slowly take away the medicine that is making her sleep,” Dad said.

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Every day of my life felt like it was the same: it was so routine. The bus pulled up to my house around 3:45 every single day. My brother Nicholas and I got off, excited to get home after a long day of school. I was three months into middle school and my biggest issue was the Thanksgiving project for my Spanish class. I spent the whole weekend going

A True Story

by Julia Paragano

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Under Control - Oil Pastel - Devyn DeLaura

Despite the good news, the house was in a cloud of tension that week. My dad and grandparents were stressed and worried. I was so confused. Why wasn't it a good thing that Mom was waking up? When I asked my dad why they weren’t excited, he explained that they didn't know if she would wake up, and if she did if she would have her memories.

My heart stopped. How could my own mom forget me?

Stressed out, for many nights I was tossing and turning; I just couldn’t sleep thinking about my mom. The idea of how I was living now being permanent scared me. I didn’t want my Grandma to be my new mom. I wanted my teachers, friends and adults to just treat me normal again. I really wanted my dad to be happy again, and I wanted the dark cloud that had been covering my life to be lifted.

A few nights later, right before New Year's Eve, my dad came into my room to tuck me in. This time with him was special.

He started making a habit of doing this when

Mom got sick because it was a time of the day for just the two of us. He was so busy with work and making sure he visited my mom multiple times a day, that sometimes I wouldn't see him until night. That particular night, when he came in, the air shifted: it was lighter.

“Your mom woke up today,” he said. The biggest smile came across my face. I saw something come over my dad’s face, too, that I hadn’t seen this entire time. He started to get a little teary-eyed as he told me, “Before she was taken out of the room for a scan she mouthed, ‘I’m okay, I love you.’” My smile grew so much more. She remembered us.

After my mom woke up she was moved to Kessler Rehab Center, and in February, I visited her for the first time. It was weird, to say the least. She couldn't move, her head was shaved, she was so tiny, and she sounded different. My dad explained it was because her voice had rested for a month so she sounded quieter. She looked weak and not like the mom I remembered. It was so hard seeing her. From

Easter During spring break my dad took me and my brother to visit her a lot more often. Because it was nicer outside, we could push Mom around the facility in her wheelchair. One day they told us we could bring our dog because it might be good for her to see our pet, so we brought Murphy. Mom was rolled out to the courtyard area and I remember how excited Murphy was to see her. My dad placed the dog on her lap and Mom’s face lit up. She told us she was nervous to see him, but immediately she fell back into a rhythm with him. After our visit, Mom was freaking out, in a good way though! It reminded me of how she used to be as she stressed over Murphy making a mess of her leggings. “Why didn't you bring a lint roller?” she asked. I was so happy when I left because something so little as freaking out about dog fur on her clothes was a hint that my old mom was coming back.

On Easter, we visited again. I was all dressed up and so excited to show her my Easter outfit. This was the first time I went out with my dad to buy a dress for a holiday, and I wanted Mom to see what I had picked out.

We spent about an hour with her, talking about what we got from the Easter Bunny and what we were going to do for the day. By the end of the visit, all I wanted to do was take her home but, she was stuck there.

Mother's Day The weather was warmer again and the end of the school year was near. It was the Friday before Mother’s Day and I had a Girls Scouts meeting after school. After the meeting my friend's moms drove me home and when I walked up to my front door something felt different. I opened the door and there was my mom! It felt so unreal. She was here, she was home, this was real. I ran up and gave her a big hug, or as good a hug as I could with her in a wheelchair. The timing was perfect. She arrived home just before Mother's Day, and we spent that weekend all together celebrating my mom for her strength.

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February onward I would only visit her once every two weeks on Sundays. I hate saying this, but a part of me didn't like seeing her at all.

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Blank Canvas

by Emma Ginsberg The smell of a freshly painted room hits you as soon as you step foot onto the cold wooden floors that lead to my bedroom door. The plain, blank white walls stare at you with ten eyes wondering what is next for them. These monotonous walls hold endless possibilities, like a blank canvas waiting to be painted, decorated, and made your own. I sit on my bed, in my empty bedroom, surrounded by nothing but these plain white, freshly painted walls, questioning my life. Thoughts rush through my brain, one after another, distracting me from everything else in my life. I forget how to breathe and function as the inside voices take over my body, whispering a thousand little details, ideas, and critiques. Decorating this

brand-new bedroom is like the pressure of deciding what is next in your life. A clean start I have. A clean start in life. A clean start with my bedroom. A clean start with my family. A clean start with myself. The pressure of deciding such a little thing, like decorating my room, stresses me out, and I start to sweat. My hairline starts to feel warm and damp. Why is this such a big deal to me?

Why does it matter so much? Can’t you always change your room? Questions flow through my mind as if I don’t already know the answers. My face turns red as embarrassment comes over me, stemming from the feeling of not being understood. No one will understand why this is so important

to me, but the little people are constantly jumping around in my brain and I will understand. I look around all four corners of my room once again and finally settle on a decision-- to keep what looked like boring walls the same as they are now: freshly painted, plain white walls. What appears to be boring to everyone else isn’t to me. These walls describe me. Plain, boring, and not understood from the exterior, but built with layers and layers of history, from sadness to happiness, making me more than what I appear to be physically. Like the walls' layers of wood, drywall and plaster, I have layers of emotions, experiences, memories, history, trauma, sadness, and happiness, that make me Emma.

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Heat Wave

Sole Symphony

The gust of heat hits my face as I walk into the classroom. Everyone was quiet, not talking-- except for me and my friends. We always find a way to have a conversation. As I sit in my seat, the heat is really getting to me. I'm just thinking,“How much longer is left in school?” and “I'm so hungry." Only realizing it is still 9AM, I know I just have to sit back, relax, and get through the rest of the day. Scanning the ten other people, I see everyone silently doing their work, the stillness broken only by the teacher discussing an assignment with a classmate and the tiny fan attempting to cool us down. I can smell my perfume, the one everyone always tries to steal from me. Feeling my fingers clicking the keyboard on my computer to write my first journal entry, the stress is on me to make the best story, but in his heat wave I'm just trying my best to think. The taste of my Starbucks this morning lingers in my mouth, making me wish I had more and think of the nice drive to school this morning in the air conditioned car. Air conditioning is all I can think about; air conditioning is all I need.

I felt the comfortable padding beneath my feet as I stepped into my favorite sneakers, providing a warm buffer between me and the chilly ground. A symphony of a city was created by the rhythmic thud of every stride resonating through the rubber soles. But as I removed my shoes and walked barefoot on the grass covered in dew, a faint rebellious feeling raced through my body. The ground enveloped me in its crisp but rough grumbles, reawakening an instinctive bond that went beyond the sturdiness of shoes.

by Grace Hiatrides

by Alea Bediner

Blues - Mixed Media - Piper Tricarico (opposite) Ocean - Maddy Brisby (left) Summer Sky - Maddy Brisby (top right) Dreary Day, Pretty Leaves - Morgane Farrell (bottom right)

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Monarch

by Katherine Hornby

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Mascara - Acrylic - Samantha Sloan (left)

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I watched her thin lips slurp the soup off her spoon. I wondered if the fresh chicken noodle warmed up her cold heart. “So…” she awkwardly began to speak, “have you picked out a prom dress?” What a mundane question. I wanted to roll my eyes but I told myself before coming here that I needed to be nice.

“No, I have not,” I replied.

“Hmm…” She responded not knowing what to say, “Well, you always looked good in yellow. You should go with that.”

“Thanks.” Silence loomed over us, “How have you and Luke been?

Isn’t it four years coming up? Man, it is crazy you guys have been together since before we properly hit puberty!” I chuckled trying to lighten the mood.

“Actually,” I felt my smile drop as she continued, “We broke up a while ago. It just wasn’t right.”

“What?!” I jumped from shock, “But you and Luke-” I was stunned. How could have they broken up? How did I not know?

I was there when they started dating back in middle school!

“It was a while ago,” she repeated and took a sip of lemonade.

Look at us. We used to be whisked away on adventures in NYC, or off on our annual sunny vacation to Florida for beaches and Disney.

Now we're suffocating in a gross Panera Bread booth, unable to hold a conversation, not knowing the details of each other's day-to-day life. She told me that we could fix this, and she told me that we could go back to the way things were. I knew that was a lie. I knew from the day I met her a deceiving Monarch could never be the true best friend of a Moth drawn to a flame. She was a delicate poison, yet I am the fool who was crazily intrigued. She took another slurp off her spoon.

“Have you heard back from Georgetown yet?” She asked annoyed from the last topic but eager to continue, attempting to rekindle this clearly faded relationship.

“No,” I paused for a minute looking down at my hands, “I- I didn’t even apply.” I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to take that stupid soup and throw it in her face.

“Oh…well, wherever you end up…I am sure you will make the most of it.” Her reply stung my heart. The “wherever I end up” used to be a dream of our shared dorm room which would eventually translate into our next door houses and shared yards that our kids, who would undoubtedly be best friends, would run around in. The “wherever I end up” will never be the seat next to her anymore. The “wherever I end up” has me counted out of her future life.

The world prepares you for your first breakup, the first heartache.

They never prepare you for the first time someone asks you who your best friend is and the name of your “best friend” struggles to come to mind. The real pain does not come from some stupidly hot lacrosse boy. The real pain comes from the 5’4" blonde with a Starbucks addiction.

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A Time to Sea

by Crystal Pisello

He grew up, Upper-middle-class, Only child. Two parents in the home, Private schools, Never faced hardship.

Nothing made him unique.

Right?

Yes.

Himself, Freedom, the luxury of freedom.

A first-gen American, Now he’s grown, Time passed…

A big kid in the big world.

No legacy or family name, A boy with a big dream.

What that dream is, Where it will lead, Is for him, Only him, to see...

To sea.

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Father enlisted in the US Army, Straight out of high school.

Mother forced to join a communist army, An officer.

An odd duo, Both sides different.

US immigrants.

The American dream worked.

He’d seen for himself.

Soul of the Sea

by Francesca Coniglio The ocean waves are rolling, and a dove flies by.

An ethereal being envelops the sky.

He begins to whistle a fantastical song.

He sings about love and dreams.

His songs turn the weak strong.

Thousands of people seek his guidance And his spectacular wisdom.

Others on the shore enjoy his constance.

Oh, the soul of the sea, Thank you for your enlightenment.

Please continue to guide humankind.

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The Crucible by Dalila DeLaura No one can really know what our lives were like.

They believed that we held in our steady hands, The candle that would light the world.

When one rises above the individual, One can only pity me.

We can never catch it by running after it, It will soon itself come back.

I have inherited this belief, And it has helped and hurt me.

I have often wondered, What shall I say to him?

There is nothing more, There be no blush about his name.

I may speak my heart, I told him everything,

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He was the kind of man.

I am looking for you more often, We were dancing in the woods last night.

I am waiting for you every night.

I may think of you softly From time to time, Will you leave me now?

Oh, he’s only gone…

I am not used to this, I'd almost forgot how strong you are.

If I may ask you, What happened?

What are we doing?

What have I done?

I loved you, And you loved me then...

Clockwise: Wine - Cut Paper - Piper Tricarico Vintage Car - Cut Paper - Emma VanDerhoef On The Boat - Cut Paper - Crystal Pisello New York City - Cut Paper - Scarlett Claps

True Memories by Grace Hiatrides A trash can, all painted blue, Holds secrets old and memories true.

A red frame captures pictures bright, Locking in memories, holding them tight.

An old teddy bear, its stuffing flowing out, Crying of childhood, there's no doubt.

A padlock, firm, its message clear, Treasures, those we hold dear.

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I

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n the elegant neighborhood of Beacon Hill in Boston, a new resident arrived one August day. Word spread quickly amongst the small population, and everyone greeted this young lady quickly. Many people introduced themselves to Ilia every day, and she knew she had picked the right place to settle. As she explored her new neighborhood, she heard someone behind her announce, “Did you hear about the new citizen named Ilia? I heard she is beautiful.” Ilia whipped her head around, suddenly face to face with a charming police officer named Atlas, and was instantly attracted to his bright green eyes. It felt like love at first sight.

Ilia's first full week in Beacon Hill had been a whirlwind of discoveries, and the local bakery had become her favorite morning

discovered the joy of filling the void in Atlas' life, while in turn, he treated her like royalty.

Seamlessly, weeks became months, as the bond between Ilia and Atlas grew stronger.

However, hidden layers began to unravel, casting shadows on their once-perfect relationship. Atlas started to venture out at odd hours with vague explanations, missing important events. A shroud of secrecy surrounded him, and a subtle sense of unease crept into Ilia's heart.

One evening, amidst the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the vibrant colors of the flowers on the table, Ilia couldn't contain her growing concerns any longer. "You've been acting strangely lately, Atlas," she began, her voice tinged with worry and curiosity. "What's going on?"

of trusting the man she loved or unraveling the mystery that could to disrupt their love story.

One chilly evening, as Atlas left for another inexplicable excursion, Ilia's curiosity overpowered her hesitations. She decided to follow him discreetly, her heart hammering with eagerness and anxiety. A quiet Beacon Hill street soon morphed into an unsettling alley.

Atlas entered an unassuming building. Ilia paused momentarily, her mind a battlefield of doubt and determination. She mustered up her confidence and entered the building, walking through shadowy corridors until she came across a door that was slightly ajar. She gently pushed it open and found herself in a room filled with maps, case files, and evidence boards. It was an improvised investigation headquarters. Atlas was involved in something

Shadows of of Love Love Shadows

by Emma Ginsberg

retreat. Little did she know that this cozy spot would play a pivotal role in the next unfolding chapter of her life. One morning she found herself once again in the warm embrace of the bakery, the familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air. And there he was—Atlas, the man she had unknowingly been searching for. The connection between them sparked like an invisible force, drawing them together once again. Their interactions were natural and effortless, and soon they were inseparable. The initial weeks of dating felt like a dream, and their love story became the envy of the entire community. Ilia and Atlas basked in the adoration, relishing every magical moment the inseparable pair spent together.

Coffee and flowers became daily tokens of his affection, turning routine gestures into expressions of love-- the kind of love that inspired songs and fueled fairy tales. Ilia 22

Atlas looked into her eyes, taking a moment before responding. "Ilia, I wish I could tell you everything, but there are things I can't share. I hope you understand it's for your safety."

The weight of his words hung in the air, intensifying the unease between them. Ilia, torn between trusting the love they had built and the growing sense of secrecy, pressed on, "Atlas, we're supposed to share everything.

I can't shake off this feeling that something's not right. Please, help me understand." As the coffee shop buzzed with the hum of conversations around them, Atlas sighed and said, "I never wanted to keep things from you, but my job... It's more complicated than I can explain. I promise, when the time is right, I'll tell you everything. Just trust me for now."

The fragrant flowers on the table seemed to wilt, mirroring the tension in the air. Their seemingly idyllic love story was facing a crossroads, and Ilia grappled with the choice

far more complicated than she could have anticipated, and the revelation hit her like a gust of wind.

Ilia hid herself as Atlas returned. To her surprise, he was not alone. Another officer, stern-faced and forceful, conversed quietly with Atlas. Their conversation hinted at a secret investigation, one intertwined with a member of Beacon Hill. Ilia's pulse raced, torn between love and the unsettling truth emerging before her. The stakes were higher than she had foreseen. Atlas sighed as the conversation dissolved, his eyes showing the weight of the secrets he bore as he left the room and headed for the door. Ilia peeked out, checking if the coast was clear. She ventured towards the evidence boards and case files, searching for answers to her questions. Delving deeper, a suffocating sense of dread clung to her as she grasped the magnitude of the situation.

The evidence boards and case files laid out before her painted a chilling panorama of

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"The connection between them sparked like an invisible force, drawing them together..."

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crimes committed in her former town-- crimes that she had orchestrated. The once-charming police officer, whom she believed she had fallen in love with, was an undercover agent meticulously assigned to ensnare her in the web of justice. Clumsily, Ilia tried to slip away unnoticed, but Atlas heard her in the stillness and turned back sharply toward the sound.

Their eyes locked and the room seemed to freeze. Ilia's heart raced as she comprehended the gravity of the situation.

"Atlas," Ilia stammered, her voice confused and desperate. "What is all this? What are you doing here?" Atlas maintained a stern gaze, revealing the conflict within.

"Ilia, it's not what you think. I had to protect you, even if it meant playing a role."

The tension in the room thickened. "Protect me? From what? These crimes, this deceit? You were a part of it all?"

Atlas sighed, a heavy burden in his tone. "I had to get close to you to expose the truth. The

"A suffocating sense of dread clung to her as she grasped the magnitude of the situation."

organization you were involved with is dangerous, Ilia. I needed to stop them, and I needed your help."

Ilia's mind reeled, torn between the shock of betrayal and the possibility that Atlas might be telling the truth. As the weight of the situation settled, she whispered, "Why didn't you trust me enough to tell me?"

Atlas's eyes softened, a hint of regret flickering across his face. "I wanted to, Ilia, but it wasn't that simple. There were lives at stake, including yours.

I had to keep you in the dark to keep you safe."

The room, once frozen in time, buzzed with the weight of revelation. Ilia faced a choice— to believe the man she thought she knew or to confront the chilling truth laid out before her.

More police officers emerged, surrounding her. Atlas’s once sparkling green eyes turned dim, torn between his feelings for Ilia and his profession. The stern-faced officer, whom Ilia (Continued on Page 24)

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Jaded Journey

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Shadows of Love

(Continued from Page 23) now recognized as Detective Sterling, stepped forward and shared the extent of their elaborate operation. Ilia, cornered and defeated, admitted to her past crimes. As the cold silver handcuffs tightened around her wrists, a heavy silence settled in the room. Detective Sterling, directed the other officers to secure the evidence and prepare for Ilia's transport to the police station.

Atlas hesitated for a moment before following.

The charming face that had initially captivated Ilia now reflected a mixture of regret and duty. He had played his part well in this elaborate operation, but the emotional toll was evident.

As they stepped into the crisp fall night, Beacon Hill was eerily quiet, as if the neighborhood itself mourned the shattered love story. Word of Ilia's arrest spread like wildfire in

the community. The same people who had warmly welcomed her now gazed upon her with a mix of shock and betrayal. The cozy bakery, where Ilia and Atlas had once shared stolen glances and sweet moments, felt haunted. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, which once carried the promise of a perfect morning, lingered as a bitter reminder of the deception that had unfolded within those walls.

Ilia, escorted by the police, cast one last glance at Beacon Hill—a place that had promised a fresh start now held the echoes of her troubled past. As the patrol car pulled away, the elegant neighborhood struggled to reconcile its picturesque facade with its new harsh reality.

In the days that followed, Beacon Hill was consumed by whispers and sidelong glances.

The illusion of the perfect love story had been shattered, leaving behind a community grappling with the aftermath of a crime.

Atlas, burdened with emotions for the woman he had pursued and ultimately apprehended, found himself navigating a conflicted path between duty and the remnants of that broken connection.

Soon the fall days turned colder, and Beacon Hill began the process of healing, learning to trust once more. Ilia's unexpected arrival left an indelible mark, a cautionary tale about the dangers of appearances and the complexity that lies beneath the surface of seemingly idealized lives.

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Insidious Ink

Leather Trap

Black lines caress my arms. “Unlady-like,” I hear one scoff, “What trash,” I hear another whisper. I took the first inked-up needle to my arm at 15. By 17, I had nine. My trash tells a story. The arms that “won’t get me a job” remind me why I am here. Each crescent moon, plant and saying forced me to stay. I apologize if my persistence makes you uncomfortable.

I apologize if you feel I am a bad influence. Before you speak on what you do not know, remember this: it is not our stories that define us; they are merely what help us along the way. Some stories will remain untold, some so boldly. The most important, good and bad, are ingrained in me forever. They are what make me decide my next steps. They are what point me to my next cry or dance break, not some snotty remark of disapproval from a person that does not even know me or my soul. This insidious ink is embedded under my skin, not your daft, hateful opinions.

For years, Mary had been blind to the true world. Her shoes had been a mask, limiting her from what the world had to offer. Sliding off her boots, Mary saw the forest in a different light. She could sense every grain of dirt and gravel. Leaves crunched against her toes. Cool air brushed against her heel as she felt the energy of the Earth channel through her body. She danced through the forest, becoming one with the terrain. Mary had been free of the leather trap that had restricted her for years, and she was ready to discover what the world had to offer, at ground level.

by Katherine Hornby

by Francesca Coniglio

Connection - Dual Canvas Acrylic - Angelina Salese (opposite) Swans - Acrylic - Katie Wong (left) Wolf - Acrylic - Katie Wong (top right) Labyrinth - Reagan Gavrilovic (bottom right)

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Gears - Morgan Lomax

Music Box by Piper Misita Unusual giggling came from the attic. I investigated the dusty space and found some old toys. A whisper of music startled me, and I spied a ballerina music box. Curious, I opened the lid, and an ethereal little girl escaped– like a wisp of smoke emanating from a pink ribbon inside. She told tales of a secret universe. Then the clock struck twelve. She vanished, but the ribbon remained, quivering inside the box. I tugged on it and it tugged back, pulling me in. The lid slammed shut and now I’m trapped in the lullaby’s loop.

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Escaped Room by Alea Bediner It was pitch black and the claustrophobic walls seemed to be caving in. I took one creaky step: screams filled the room. Another step: an anonymous voice echoed above me. I looked up to see a masked creature.

How had we gotten entangled in this? Our signatures ensured there was no turning back. My heart beat fast as he pushed me down a tunnel.

Disoriented, I landed twenty feet outside of the house, completely isolated.

In the stillness, I could hear the screams of my friends inside. I still have nightmares about it.

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Taken by Julia Paragano We were close. The cold tin walls were coming to an end. I could see the light now, just a few more steps until freedom. My legs were heavy; my ankles were throbbing. My sister Luna's footsteps echoed with mine through the long, gray hallway. The bright rays were shining towards us.

For the first time in forever we could smell fresh air. Then a hand pulled me back into the darkness. I screamed; I heard Luna scream, too. I never saw my sister again. Who knows what happened to her. I pray it's better than how I ended up.

Midnight Harvest by Grace Hiatrides December 1: Their time had come. Arrows, spears, and bows– the barbaric group had everything imaginable to capture their prey. New settlers beyond the woods were fast asleep, and it was finally hunting time again. The screeching and wailing continued from dusk to dawn, until the group gathered enough fresh carcasses and creeped back into the dark depths of the woods. Once a year they gather what they need to survive, and then wait for another twelve moons to pass.

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Avery - Bridget Lomax

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Second Hand Store - Reagan Gavrilovic

Unchipped by Carley Dumaresq Untouched by their malevolent technology, Logan evaded the oppressive regime. Citizens had chips implanted, initially as cell phone replacements, promising ease– yet we discovered they tracked our every move, turning convenience into control. Those without implants held the key to overthrowing The Circuit's rule.

Covertly aiding Logan, we are leading a rebellion to expose the truth. Our faction aimed to deprogram the chips and liberate humanity. Our mission was compromised when regime spies infiltrated our ranks. It's not safe now that they know.

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As harbingers of change, we must remain resolute and accept the risks.

Ominous by Kylee Rafferty By the quiet shoreline, Piper and Emma splashed through the foam and soaked in the sun. Laughter filled the air, but the clear skies soon turned frighteningly gloomy with dark clouds filling the sky. Raindrops fell and the wind howled.

In no time, beach goers gathered their belongings, left behind what couldn't be saved, and vanished like shadows.

"We have to leave now!" Piper shouted, trembling in fear.

As they left the beach, the storm intensified, forcing the girls to seek shelter while the town was ravaged.

The once-peaceful hamlet now lay shattered in the wake of the relentless storm.

The Stranger - Avery Kelly

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Presence

by Sofia Uribe

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While love is a beautiful feeling, Don’t worry too much about it.

Stop worrying who will love you, Or how they’ll love you, Or when you’ll find love.

Love is the most infinite, Effortless presence in the world.

Like the way a flower blooms, And how a bird sings, It is found in the tiny details of human nature.

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It is found in a hospital room And a home-cooked meal.

It is in the smile of a passing stranger, The music you listen to, And the jokes you make.

Love is an “Are you okay?”

And “Get home safe.”

Love is the way your heart beats, How you wake up every morning, And how your soul exists so freely.

Don’t worry about love.

It is all around you– Every day at every moment!

It can reach you at your best And your worst.

There’s no force in this world Stronger than love.

There is no reason to believe Love can’t find you.

You are so loved.

Self-Portraits - Colored Pencil & Ink: Makayla Dye (top) Samantha Donnelly (middle) Caroline Zabik (bottom) Olivia Ventola (opposite)

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Divine Sophia's Seven Gifts - Acrylic - Nicola DiRienzo

The Universe & Me

by Maria Clara Bragagnolo Rose

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The universe is a mysterious thing.

Where and when, it adheres to my questioning.

We see it as to be far away, Imbued in the cosmic essence of deep space.

Yet also so close as the skies Who kiss our own Earth, Or the Sun that wakes her.

Perhaps as close as the leaves I step on in autumn, Or the chirps and flaps of birds in flight.

As close as the air we breathe, As close as what I find inside me.

Constellations of veins, signals in nerves And where they converge, The heart and the brain, And where they converge, The heart and the brain, A black hole or quasar.

Of atoms all made, And where they converge, The heart and the brain, A black hole or quasar.

Of atoms all made, Oxygen and nitrogen, carbon and hydrogen.

In me is the universe, And I am in it.

As a star is born, So is a thought.

As a meteorite collides, So does my voice.

Of explosions and implosions, Matter is formed.

In synapses and currents, Emotion is forged.

And in the nebulas of the subconscious Lies the dark matter of the being, That stuff that makes up my dreams.

In the depths of this space I find my soul echoing, the spirit of the self, Of faith and promise, the center of all.

Call it stardust, call it energy, call it lunacy.

For now it’s just the universe and me, This universe in me.

Savanna - Acrylic - Rebekah Marsh

A Bedtime Retreat by Sienna Ulukaya The blaring alarm pulls me from the comfort of my bed, and I stall beneath the blankets, hesitant to feel the cold of the morning. Throughout the tiring and laborious school day, my mind drifts off to the thought of returning to the welcoming and familiar warmth of my bed. Returning home, the mere sight of my bed is like a reward, reminding me of its ability to soothe my exhaustion. Being able to slip into the embrace of my soft comforter, and the support of my many pillows, somehow allows me to forget all of my troubles.

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Divine Sophia - Acrylic - Olivia Ventola

August

by Kaylee Brody

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we sat out looking upon the bay and talked about our days. ahead and behind, daydreaming at night. i could’ve sworn in that moment we owned the world– or at the very least– two of the houses on our street. it was fun to pretend with all of our dream money to spend. so carefree and careless in that instant, all of our work and duties seemed so distant. but then it was shattered, like a piece of glass thrown to the floor or a perfect sheen of water before it pours. and really what matters? our scenarios we made up in our heads? or the things of today that will lead us ahead.

The Dawn of Endless Night

by Isabella Misrahi

As the night crept from the trees, A cold shiver moved with the breeze.

With day gone, arrived the black, And suddenly the air went slack.

Eternal darkness came in fast, Reminder that the day wouldn’t last.

All were left in frozen time, Nothing seen but grit and grime: Wondering how the time had past, Without a single shadow cast.

As time continued, longer and longer, People question how the night felt stronger.

Though the night should break at dawn, Hope seemed lost when light was gone.

As hours passed, the world was distraught, But through everything they still fought, In hopes to see the light and joy once more Dreaming of the days before.

Still waiting for the sun to shine, The world’s no longer by design.

Finally recognizing that nothing's right, As they are soon trapped in Endless Night.

Divine Sophia's Radiance - Acrylic - Francesca Rosato

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Gonzo, Dogs, and Breakfast

by Emma Ginsberg

by Ciara Mulcahy

The sadness of moving is like the loss of a friend, each packed box holding memories engraved into the walls—whispers of laughter, shared moments. The rooms echo with the silence of the past, and the ache of the unknown grows with the anticipation of my future.

Goodbyes are heavy words, leaving a trail of bitter emotion in my heart.

The outside of my world changes, but the inside of my heart remains the same. In those quiet moments, sadness becomes a poignant remembrance of the chapters closed. Every step is a hesitant dance of nostalgia, a journey through my history.

Santa's Workshop - Oil - Brugge Erikson (above) London - Mixed Media - Evelyn West (opposite left) Christmas Baubles - Colored Pencil - Morgan Lomax (opposite right top) Morning Tea - Ava Montaruli (opposite right bottom)

The memories are like a faraway planet through a telescope, visible, but hard to achieve full sight. One thing that has always been in my childhood memories is Gonzo. He sits across from my bed in my room now, watching over me. Looking at him, you can see a beat-up stuffed animal with brown circles around his eyes from his first and last makeover. But when I look at him, I feel like I'm in my toddler years.

I can smell bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches, and dog hair. I could feel my old dog's fur under my hands while learning to walk. My dad's music blares as he whistles along in the kitchen. I see my old living room, which always has a Christmas tree in these memories, and I long for those simple times of bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches, learning how to walk, and Christmas trees every day of the year.

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Index B

Valentina Barbella 10 Alea Bediner 17, 26 Maria Clara Bragagnolo Rose 30 Ava Breault 4 Madeline Brisby 17, Back Cover Kayle Brody 31

C

Scarlett Claps 20 Francesca Coniglio 6, 8, 13, 20, 25

D

Dalila DeLaura 21 Devyn DeLaura 2, 4, 14, 15 Giovanna Desimone 34, Back Cover Nicola DiRienzo 30 Samantha Donnelly 29 Carley Dumaresq 9, 27 Makayla Dye 29

E

M

Brugge Erikson 7, 23, 32

Rebekah Marsh 30 Catherine Mendrzycki 4 Piper Misita 26 Isabella Misrahi 31 Ava Montaruli 11, 19, Ins. Back Cover Emily Muir 4 Ciara Mulcahy 11, 32

F

Samantha Farnsworth 11 Morgane Farrell 17 Caitlin Flanagan Cover

G

Reagan Gavrilovic 25, 27 Emma Ginsberg 16, 22, 32

N

H

O

Stella Hatch 19 Sarah Heflin 12 Grace Hiatrides 17, 21, 26 Katherine Hornby 19, 25

K

Avery Kelly 27, Inside Front Cover

L

Bridget Lomax 6, 26, Inside Front Cover Morgan Lomax 5, 12, 26, Inside Front Cover, Inside Back Cover

Olivia Nuzzo 11 Caroline O'Callaghan 12 Jacqueline O'Connor 3

P

Julia Paragano 14, 26 Harrison Parker 12 Crystal Pisello 20

R

Kylee Rafferty 13, 27 Madelyn Riordan 9 Anne Rojack 5 Francesca Rosato 31

S

Angelina Salese 8, 24 Samantha Sloan 18, 19 Montserrat Soriano Gutierrez 9 Gracelyn Spina 9, 19

T

Piper Tricarico 5, 16, 21

U

Sienna Ulukaya 30 Sofia Uribe 1, 29

V

Emma VanDerhoef 21 Olivia Ventola 13, 28, 31

W

Grace Walsh 13 Brooke Wesbecker 1 Evelyn West 9, Inside Back Cover Katie Wong 3, 25

Z

Caroline Zabik 29

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Above: Abstract - Ink - Giovanna Desimone

Ode to Sailing by Maddy Brisby

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Cover: When Fish Fly - Acrylic - Caitlin Flanagan

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Oh, the joys of sailing in the sun, The tall white sail above my head, And the salty spray upon my skin.

The serenity of the open sea Dissolves millions of my worries, And I am replaced by a gentle ease.

The water glides gently across it The waves dance crashing at my hull, Leaving their wake as live as can be, As I float along the sparkling bay.

Oh, the thrill of the bright blue bay, Filled with many mysteries beneath me, Twinkles as the sun beams down on it.

“Woosh,” the wind calls As it blows through my hair, And the water splashes up on my face.

Oh, the joys of sailing in the summer sun, Allowing the wind to fill my course.

Embarking on the wild waters, Leaving behind the glistening shore, As it twinkles like a star, The wind fills my sails And guides my voyage through.

Oh sailing through the bay, What a delight to explore the vast seas.

The horizon stretches far and wide, A canvas of blue, Where my dreams come to life.

Nothing beats sailing unworried and carefree!