Tapestry 2025

Tapestry 2025

New Year Resolutions at the Strike of One

This year I think I’ll:

Take on an organic diet, four days a week

Walk somewhere kindly, your voice in my ears

Wear your signature cherry lipgloss, every time I see you, the saccharine taste lingering on our lips

(It’s probably nothing but when you kiss my forehead my gut curdles with something sickly sweet, something I won’t be able to leave.)

Learn to knit, without clenching the needles too hard

Find a way to get rid of your shame, that look you gave me from across the room at midnight, after you promised to kiss me

Write, every waking moment, about you, about me, about the ivy that’s growing into the brick of my house, into my ribcage and splitting it open.

(Do you feel it too? That wedge between us, digging deeper and deeper?)

Fall asleep by ten thirty, except when the thirst finds me and I’m still pacing in my room by morning

Sprint till my limbs can’t keep up, till they scream for mercy, then keep running

Ramble to you, to my mother, to the mirror, about how I prefer the cruel bite of winter, the frost-covered windshields, your freezing fingertips finding mine

(Can you believe I dread the warmth, where you get more than my hand for comfort?)

Scratch our names into the old oak down the street, clench the knife till my knuckles turn white, kick away the shards of screaming wood by my feet

Carve out my gut where I’m standing, let it ooze down my legs

(Would you like me then? Or should I shave down my nose, even out my hips, perk up my chest?)

Dig my nails into your shoulder, harsh enough to leave a mark, soft enough for you to lean back in, even when we’re not alone

(And best of all, when the ball drops next year, I won’t shy away. I’ll grab you by the chin before you act ashamed. Is that such a crime?)

Elisabeth Small ‘25

Scholastics Honorable Mention

Keep One Eye Open

Megan Shaposky ‘26

Scholastics Gold Key

Pop-Pop’s Garden

Sunflowers so tall

And yellow — my favorite color. Step through the patio door Where little feet trod Fall, winter, spring, and summer. Five children were we, Siblings and cousins, When summer days Had been wild and free. Church, Sunday supper, 3pm; Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, Mom and Dad, My sister, and me.

Corn-on-the-cob so sweet, Buttered just right; Turnips, carrots, potatoes, Cabbage, peppers, tomatoes; Those were the days Of Pop-Pop’s garden. The days that were long and warm and slow; The cornstalks towered high above, The tulips versatile and bright, The croquet, The badminton, The sparklers at night. A bushel of Maryland steamed crabs Right from the bay; Yet nothing so memorable as Pop-Pop’s garden in the heart of May. He tilled and he planted, We wondered; we played. A mystery to all, A sight to see. Pop-Pop’s garden

And a 1980’s childhood, Oh how I miss thee.

Lisa Goldstein, Faculty

Braving the Ocean

The sun rises and then goes down. The world keeps turning round and round.

Just like the cogs in my brain when I'm thinking. I struggle to stay afloat in my thoughts, like a vessel sinking.

The push and pull of the waves set my ship back on course. And I wonder how I can stay adrift in my lonely transport.

My craft is aching, the wood old and marred. I begin to wonder if this raging ocean will become my solemn graveyard.

All my life, I’ve braved howling winds and stormy nights. Yet when the clouds eventually part I’m blessed with shimmering daylight.

I know my God has seen my courage and watched me sail on.

And I remember, after the hurricane, the heavens will always break into dawn.

Noelle Klinger ‘25

My Dad

Grace Yang ‘25

Searching for Sense: A Soldier’s Monologue

Tergiversation — an evasion of straightforward action or clear-cut statement; equivocation

Ah, tergiversation—what a word, what a marvel, what a mess. It rolls off the tongue like a confession half-meant, or perhaps like the sound of a door creaking open to a room you’d rather not enter but can’t resist. And isn’t that just like war? Or maybe life itself? You think you know where you’re going, but then a shell lands, or a message comes down the line, and suddenly the plan shifts. You’re left scrambling, trying to make sense of orders that contradict each other, trying to keep moving forward when every instinct screams to dig in or turn back.

We were told this war was about freedom, about stopping tyranny, about securing a future for the world. But what does that mean when you’re in a trench, watching the fog roll in over No Man’s Land? What does freedom look like when you’re dodging machine-gun fire or watching your buddy bleed out next to you? And yet, even in the chaos, there’s a strange kind of order, a rhythm to it all. Like the alphabet, that parade of symbols pretending to be linear, pretending to make sense. A to Z, they say, but out here, it’s more like Q to X to Y, looping back to some letter you didn’t even know existed.

Take the word “objective.” Command loves that word. It’s clean, sharp, full of purpose. But on the ground, an objective is just a patch of dirt, a crumbling building, a nameless hill. And when you get there, you realize it’s not the end. It’s just another beginning, another step in a journey that has no clear destination. Isn’t that the essence of tergiversation? This constant shifting, this refusal to settle on one meaning, one truth?

And history—oh, history. They’ll write about this war, won’t they? They’ll turn it into a story with heroes and villains, with clear-cut battles and decisive victories. But that’s not how it feels when you’re living it. Out here, history is just a series of moments, some too fast to grasp, others dragging on like eternity. The sounds of artillery, the smell of smoke, the taste of stale rations—these are the things that linger. Not the speeches or the maps or the grand strategies. Those are for the books, not for the men who carry the weight of them.

Yet, in the midst of all this, there’s art. Not the kind that hangs in galleries, but the kind you find in the margins. A sketch on the side of a helmet, a song hummed under your breath, a letter scribbled in the dark. Is it art? Is it survival? Does it matter? Maybe the act of creating something, anything, is a way of saying, “I’m still here,” even when the world seems determined to erase you.

And what about language? The orders barked over the radio, the letters sent home, the jokes shared in the barracks. Words are supposed to bring clarity, but out here, they’re just another kind of fog. It depends on who’s saying it, and when, and why. And sometimes, silence says more than words ever could. The look in a comrade’s eyes, the weight of a hand on your shoulder—those are the things that speak volumes.

Then there’s the enemy. Who are they, really? We’re told they’re monsters, but when you’re close enough to see the fear in their eyes, they look an awful lot like us. They have their orders, their reasons, their truths. Maybe that’s the most unsettling thing of all—the realization that we’re all just players in a game none of us fully understands, following rules that shift and change without warning.

But it’s not just the enemy who’s full of contradictions. It’s us, too. The soldier who shares his last cigarette with a comrade one minute and bayonets an enemy the next. The officer who speaks of honor and duty but sends men to die for a hill that will be abandoned by nightfall. The governments that talk of peace while building bigger bombs. Maybe that’s the heart of it: this war, this life, this world—it’s all tergiversation. A dance of contradictions, a refusal to settle on one truth, one meaning, one way forward.

Oh, the home front, that beacon of hope. The letters we get, full of news about rationing and blackouts and victory gardens. They paint a picture of a world that’s holding together, a world worth fighting for. But is it real? Or is it just another kind of propaganda, a way to keep us going when the nights are long and the days are longer? What will it be like when we go back? Will we recognize it? Will it recognize us? Or will we find that we’ve become strangers to the very thing we’re fighting to protect?

They tell us this war will end all wars, but we’ve heard that before. That’s what they said after the last one. And yet, here we are, slogging through mud and blood, fighting over scraps of land that will mean nothing when the next one comes. Because there will be a next war. There always is. And maybe that’s the ultimate tergiversation: the belief that we can break the cycle, learn from the past, and change. But can we? Or are we doomed to keep repeating the same mistakes, over and over, until there’s nothing left? No future.

So here I am, writing this down, or maybe just thinking it. Does it matter? Maybe the journey is the destination. Or maybe there is no destination. Maybe we’re all just letters in an endless alphabet, shuffling and reshuffling, trying to spell a word that can’t be spoken. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s enough. Or maybe it’s not. Who’s to say? Certainly not me. I’m too busy tergiversating, too busy trying to make sense of a world that refuses to be pinned down.

Nathaniel Linton ‘25

Ethan Goldstein

Creative Squares

‘26

Apple Seed

“OK, friends, you can carefully drop your seeds in now,” purred Ms. Henry.

Johnny, bored out of his mind, didn’t care that it was time to plant his sunflower seed. He lazily fingered the miniscule pointed seed in his hands. Then, he dropped it in. Not long after, Ms. Henry instructed the students to pour in the rest of the soil from their Ziploc bags. Johnny obeyed.

“What now?” he groaned, throwing his arms in the air and then slamming his face onto his desk in front of him. Ms. Henry just smiled and strode towards him, squatting down to his level and resting her hands on his shoulders. Johnny perked up and met her eyes with a scowl, pouting his lips.

“Now,” she said with a smile, “we wait.”

Johnny was satisfied by this answer. His scowl twisted into a smile and he triumphantly plopped his head back down onto his desk and took a nap until his mom came to pick him up fifteen minutes later.

“Johnny, it’s time for school!”

Johnny brushed his teeth aggressively and stomped loudly down the stairs to make sure his mom knew exactly how he felt about first grade.

However, school that day wasn’t as bad as Johnny thought it would be. Ms. Henry taught the class more about the seeds they’d planted the day before and how they were going to grow big and strong, just like him, in just a few weeks. Johnny was excited by the idea of doing something all by himself. He asked Ms. Henry loads of questions. He became fascinated by the concept of photosynthesis and wanted to learn more about all sorts of seeds. Ms. Henry’s enthusiasm for the subject only added to Johnny’s delight. At times, though, it almost seemed like she knew everything there was to be known about seeds which was a little weird but really cool in Johnny’s opinion. He convinced his mom to take him to the library where he found some picture books about apple seeds and sunflowers. He would giggle and kick his feet looking at all the silly pictures of sunflowers with googly eyes and apples with goofy worms peeking out. After he read both his new library books, he raved to his mom about seeds while she started cutting apple slices for him as the chicken nuggets cooked in the oven.

“WOAH, MOM, DID YOU KNOW SEEDS HAVE COATS THAT HELP THEM SURVIVE IN HARSH CONDITIONS?”

“No, sweetie, I didn’t.”

She finished slicing up the apple and sat down next to him at the table, munching on the remains of the apple.

“Wait, mom, look!” he exclaimed. “Those are seeds in there!”

She looked at the core of her apple and smiled at him. “Yes they are.”

“Wowww,” he puffed. “Can I see up close?”

She nodded, handing him the remains. He dug out the seeds with his grubby little hands, feeling the smoothness of the seeds in his palms. He stared at them in fascination. Later that night, he dreamed of tall plants and devious vines singing a sweet song.

The books got him even more excited about his seed that he’d planted, and made him impatient. He wanted his seed to grow into a sunflower now. He went to school every day with the sole hope of at least a sprout. First, he wished for a sprout. Then, a leaf. Then, a bud. Each time he got what he wished for, he only grew more impatient for the sunflower to finally bloom. When the other kids’ plants seemed to be growing more quickly than his, he would get irrationally angry and jealous; so much so that he would scream, cry, and throw things at them.

“Mom,” he poked his mother’s shoulder as she sat at the table drinking coffee, “what happens if I eat a seed?”

She tickled him lovingly. “Well, I suppose a little plant will grow inside of you.”

“Woahhhh,” he exclaimed, eyes wide. “Can I try one?”

His mother chuckled and shook her head. “No, sweetie, you don’t want that.”

But he did. He longed to know whether or not the plant would tickle him from the inside and how big it would grow.

“Pleeeease,” he begged.

“Maybe another day.”

Johnny knew his mother really meant “never,” and his chest sank. So he made a plan.

That night, when his mother had finished eating the remains of the apple that she used to cut him apple slices, Johnny executed it. He sneakily grabbed the core out of the trash can while his mother was watching TV, took out three seeds, and swallowed them whole, one by one.

Johnny froze. His breathing hitched. He expected it to cause some sort of immediate reaction. But it didn’t. So he waited. Then, he went to his room and he waited some more. Then, he brushed his teeth, changed into his PJs, and climbed into his bed and he waited some more. But nothing happened. Not yet.

The next day, he was excited to go to school. Although he was disappointed that he didn’t seem to feel a little apple tree growing inside of him, he was ecstatic to see if his sunflower had bloomed yet. He asked his mom to drop him off extra early so he could check as soon as possible, and his mother happily obliged. When his mom dropped him off in the car line, he sprinted into the building, excitement buzzing through him. He flung his backpack and lunch box into his cubby and zoomed straight to the windowsill to find the dixie cup with his name on it. Mary, Jane, Paxton, Elizabeth, Jason, but no Johnny.

Johnny became anxious. Where was his sunflower? He finally took a moment to take in his surroundings. He was the only one in the classroom apart from Ms. Henry, who was sitting at her desk, sipping her espresso and grading their vocab tests. She seemed almost as if she hadn’t noticed Johnny at all, as she didn’t acknowledge his presence.

“Ms. Henry?”

She met his eyes. Her eyes seemed tired and distant... unusual.

“Oh, hi Johnny.” she seemed to snap out of some sort of daze. “You’re here early, aren’t you?” she remarked.

“Yes, miss, I asked my mom to drop me off early so I could see my sunflower, but I can’t find it. Do you know where it is?”

“Oh, yes! It’s right here.” She then reached behind the stack of books and folders on her desk and there it was: Johnny’s sunflower. To his delight, Johnny found that his sunflower had finally begun to bloom. He stared in awe for several seconds.

“I thought I’d make a big reveal out of it because I knew how excited you were,” Ms. Henry said, holding his sunflower in her gentle hands.

Johnny beamed. He ran up to Ms. Henry and hugged her with all his might, and she gently hugged him back. However, he could have sworn he heard something weird when he hugged her. It was like...a rustling of leaves?

At that very moment, something changed within him. He let go of Ms. Henry immediately and fell to the ground, clutching his stomach in pain. He could feel it deep in his bones, under the countless layers of skin that clung to his body. Somewhere deep down inside of him, he felt an indescribable uneasiness.

Alarmed, Ms. Henry’s eyes dilated to the size of saucers.

The uneasiness intensified.

He moaned and screamed in excruciating pain, rolling back and forth on the ground, flailing his arms around and convulsing.

“W-w-what’s g-g-going on?” Ms. Henry’s voice was cracking. She slowly backed away like a helpless animal about to be eaten.

Suddenly, Johnny’s body stilled. He felt as though he had lost all control of his body. He willed his arms to prop himself up, but they refused to comply. He felt something inside of him growing larger and larger and stretching out. He felt vines snake through his veins, leaves unfurling under his skin, the faint scent of apples thick in the air. Apple blossoms sprouted from his fingertips and at the corners of his mouth. He could feel the roots wrapping around his bones. A branch burst from his sides, rough bark slicing through him. His body forced him into an upright position. Ms. Henry shrieked, dropping Johnny’s sunflower and clutching her head with her hands. Johnny’s eyes twitched in pain and horror as he watched his body transform. The last thing Johnny saw was a scarlet red apple that had painfully formed at his index finger, and Ms. Henry’s screams were the last things he heard before he blacked out. Then, the apple fell.

Lilian Domenico ‘25

Silent Observer

Angela Zhang ‘26

Scholastics Honorable Mention

Like You Mean It

I believe in the average rate of change. When I was little, calculus seemed like such a foreign concept. It was what the grown-ups knew. The day I knew calculus would be the day I knew it all. In calc, there’s this theorem called the Mean Value Theorem—when all the conditions are met, it guarantees that the derivative (this crazy complicated concept that’s just a fancy name for the rate of change) and the average rate of change (the common, basic slope that you learn about in algebra I) are exactly the same at one point. When I heard this, it seemed too good to be true. It was saying that two completely different things could meet. It was when the middle, the “average,” the simple, became special.

I was born middle-class. But as I grew older, I realized the middle-class is actually anything but the “middle.” A U.S. citizenship. Private school tuition. A cushy lifestyle. A home, parents who love me in the best way they can. My parents tell me that I’m living the American Dream. It took me a long time to believe them.

For 4 years, I tried to get into the “Gifted and Talented” Program in the school district. It was a form of education specifically for, you guessed it, gifted and talented students. For 4 years, I tortured myself over this program. I wanted to hear it, in the flesh,“you are special and deserve love and attention.” Looking back, I ask myself, “Why would I let some crappy school district make me think I wasn’t special?” I got in for middle school, and simply put, that program was extremely mediocre.

In any case, one of my most memorable experiences had almost nothing to do with the so-called gifted education. I was sitting in the 6th-grade science classroom with my deskmate. She was funny, nice – a good kid. I don’t know how we got to the topic at hand, but maybe I had asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” She told me that her doctor said she wouldn’t live far past 22. Apparently, she had this condition where her blood cells were abnormally shaped (I later found out this was sickle cell anemia). Sometimes, she would go through these fits of extreme pain, and she needed to take medication for it. But the part that really tore me up was when she said, with a straight face, “My mom also had it. She’s gone now. It makes me sad, because I want to have kids, too.”

When I went home, I cried. All I could think of was, “What if that had been me? What if her mom had been my mom?”

Every time I think about this, it makes me think about how unfairly lucky I am to be standing here. I have the luxury to dream up a future, and I can tell my mom how much I love her. That was 4 years ago. Now I know calculus. I’m learning how to drive. I work. But thinking about sickle cell still makes me feel the same way as I did when I knew nothing. When I think about just how incredible it is to be alive, for everyone I know and love to be alive, to have my whole life ahead of me, it feels beyond special to be moving at the average rate of change.

Chloe Li ‘26

Flower Field

she is a limerick, pounding through life, laughing with a smile. innocent, yet humorous.

flowers bloom from her pupils, and her voice sings with the sun. she falls in love with the floating of a feather, and raindrops, as they pour down, one by one.

a free verse poem, surrounded by structures of safety, tragedies so small they could fit on the tip of her tiny tongue. only thought occupying her head is if mom’s cooking is going to be tasty.

she is poetry.

a voice that cracks and splinters, like wood left out in the sun. i sometimes look at the imperfection in my reflections.

i used to dream of ballads, and being loved more than life itself, but i’ve found it hard for people to love me, when i can’t even love myself.

Natalie Lucas ‘26

Scholastics Honorable Mention

The Worth of Perfection

The ultimate gauntlet, a final test. Years of blood and tears In exchange for a future–Nothing.

A moment that determines destinies.

The pressure’s on. All eyes on me. One mistake will end it–Perfection. The stakes have never been higher.

Sweat dripping down my brow, A burning sense of despair Pools behind my eyes–Stop crying.

Unshed tears dry in their ducts. The clock speeds as the questions blur. Blood pours out in vain, Staining the pages red–Failure. The moment passes.

Was it worth it? They’ll ask, all that work–No.

Yes, I say.

Because all my work has to mean something. Right?

Rebecca Wang ‘26 Scholastics Silver Key

Beneath the Surface

Sophia Silverman ‘28 Scholastics Silver Key

He Would be So Proud

He would stand and stare for a bit

He’d see we finally figured out this haircut

He’d notice we proudly wear this cross around our necks

And he’d be proud of that

He would walk with me to class

He’d grin at how many friends we have to say hi to

He’d see I am unbothered by those who we don’t

And he’d be proud of that

His first questions would be about our academics

He’d be delighted to hear about our grades

He’d struggle to believe our SAT score

And he’d be proud of that

Then he’d ask me about how I’m doing

He’d laugh at all the stupid stories I have

He’d ask me if we’re actually singing at the winter concert this Friday

And he’d be proud of that

Finally, we’d make it to the band room

He’d ask if we know any theory, delighted with the response

He’d marvel at how much better we are now

And he’d be proud of us

Freshman me would have a lot of things to be proud of if he got the chance to meet me now

Samuel Ryan ‘25

The Rabbit

I found the keychain in the lost-and-found box at school. Just sitting there between a broken pair of headphones and a dusty mitten, like it had been waiting. It was white, and made from yarn — a crochet rabbit. The eyes were sewn on, and it had no mouth. I picked it up, felt the weight of it in my hand. Heavy, for a keychain. No name tag. No identifying marks. Just those eyes.

I clipped it to my keys.

At first, nothing happened. I forgot about it during math class, only noticed it again when I got home and dropped my keys onto the table. The bunny landed face-up. Staring. It was probably just the stress. Finals were creeping up, and I hadn’t been sleeping well. But that night, as I lay in bed scrolling on my phone, I swear I heard a soft squeak, like a mouse. I sat up. My keys were across the room, but the rabbit keychain was on my desk now, sitting upright like a stuffed animal. I didn’t move for a long time. I just stared back. Then I laughed, kind of nervously. “I must’ve moved it,” I thought to myself, even though I knew I hadn’t. I got up, clipped it back onto my keys, and crawled into bed.

The next morning, the keys were unclipped. The rabbit was on my bedside table.

By the third day, I started feeling weird about it. Not scared...watched. Its little eyes never looked quite the same twice. Sometimes they seemed beadier. Once I could’ve sworn they followed me. I left it on the kitchen counter before going to school, but when I opened my car, it was sitting on the passenger seat. I threw it out the window.

When I got to school, it was on my desk.

I asked around. “Did anyone lose a rabbit keychain?” No one claimed it. I tried to throw it out twice. Both times it came back, once in my jacket pocket, once on my pillow. I started to lose sleep. I started to dream in static, flickers of those eyes blinking open in the dark.

The worst night came when I woke up and found it sitting on my chest.

No weight. Just sitting there, head tilted.

I froze.

I don’t know how long we stared at each other. My heart was pounding like a drum, loud in my ears. The thing didn’t move, but its eyes were different. Deeper. I saw something in them. Not a reflection, but a place: empty, and wide, and cold. I saw myself standing in it.

I screamed and threw it across the room.

It didn’t hit the wall. It just... vanished in the air.

The next morning, I tore my room apart. Nothing. No rabbit. No fur. No squeaking noise.

I thought it was over.

It’s been two weeks now. Things have mostly gone back to normal. But last night, when I opened my desk drawer to grab a pen, there it was. Just sitting there, no dust, no wear, like new.

This time, I didn’t touch it.

But it’s watching again.

Julia Krajewski ‘25

Songs of the Forgotten

The drifter was a man without roots. He drifted from town to town along Maine’s rugged coast, a figure cloaked in mystery. The locals in our small shore town spoke of him in hushed tones. Some said he had once been a sailor, and others said he was a poet who had lost his muse. He never lingered long, which suited the townsfolk just fine—until the day he found the music box.

It washed ashore on a cold rainy Sunday morning, the waves gently delivering it to the town and dropping it on the damp sands like an offering. The box was small, with tarnished silver accents and detailed carvings of vines and flowers. When he first picked it up, the melody began, faint at first, then becoming an enchanting tune that seemed to pull at something deep inside him.

The drifter became a different man after that. He wandered the streets, muttering fragments of his dreams. At first, the townsfolk dismissed him as bizarre, but as the days passed, he preached about an unsettling image. He spoke of a fog-shrouded island and voices that called out in front of the darkness. That following Sunday, seven days had passed, and he disappeared. The music box was found lying on the shore where he first picked it up. And its haunting tune was now eerily silent.

Years later, Evelyn arrived in the same town, seeking a change in inspiration. A painter who loved the sea, she rented a small cottage on the edge of the dunes, hoping the ocean’s vastness would inspire her. Her life had been marked by an inexplicable pull towards music, leading her to try playing many instruments but ultimately failing and leaning on her painting talent. She had always felt like music lingered in the corners of her memory long after it was heard.

On a crisp autumn afternoon, the box was found. Evelyn wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just gathering seashells on the beach—but when her eyes landed on the music box, half-buried in the sand, she felt a compulsion to pick it up.

The first time the music played, she froze. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, and something about it stirred emotions she couldn’t place. That night, she dreamed of vast landscapes and shadowed faces. The dreams grew more vivid with each passing night, filling her canvases with scenes that felt more like memories than creations. The townsfolk noticed her work, drawn by the eerily familiar paintings she created.

Father Thomas, the town’s priest, visited her. He warned her about the box, his weathered hands trembling as he described its cursed history. “Ungodly music,” he called it, claiming it had led others to madness and ruin. Evelyn laughed it off as superstition.

But the dreams didn’t stop. In them, children told her of an island beyond the ever-present fog, a place they said was real.

Driven by obsession, Evelyn borrowed a fisherman’s boat. The children from her dreams seemed to guide her; their laughter carried on the breeze as she sailed into the fog. When the mist finally parted, the island emerged—a shadowy, lonely place that felt strange yet deeply familiar.

Stepping onto the shore, Evelyn called out to the children, but the only response was silence. The haunting melody filled the air, and suddenly, she was surrounded by figures—men, women, and children frozen in time, their faces void of emotion. Evelyn realized the truth: the music box was a vessel for lost souls. It ensnared those who heard its melody, drawing them into a dreamscape without escape.

She turned to leave, but the fog thickened, trapping her. Voices filled her mind, fragments of lives not her own. Her body felt heavy, her thoughts muddled. She understood now—she was part of the dream, bound to wander the island as others had before her, forever repeating the journey.

On the dark, wet sands of the island, Evelyn sat, the music box cradled in her hands. A painting lay beside her, the face of a child staring back. It was the same child she had dreamed of years ago, who had led her here.

In the shallows, a man stood, his gaze fixed on her. His eyes were empty, his posture slack, as though the music had hollowed him out. Around them, shadowy figures loomed, specters of lives forgotten. The melody played on, weaving its spell, binding them all to the endless dream.

Scholastics Silver Key

Kendall Hanna ‘25

Mythical Menagerie

Rebecca Wang ‘26

Nothing But Continuity

December 13th, 2123. Coughing for what seems like an eternity, leaded gasoline comes out onto the floor, but the smell is pleasant compared to the current air quality. A professional opinion is out of the question, some clankers are allowing automation of any and all employment. You step outside for the last time, you forgot your shoes, and you’ve already burned your feet. This world has become just a unit of measurement for the amount of artificial intelligence the wealthy can place on a planet, with Mars soon to follow as the rich leave in the craft called The Snowbird. Looking up, the sun stares back in red malice for humanity. Immolation, lungs burst alight, and there is no wait for the release that the sun has bequeathed to you. Free will was a flaw, Hell seems quite cold.

Brayden Tsinaroglou ‘26

Feeling Buggy Grace Yang ‘25 Scholastics National Merit & Medal

MoMA Escape

Christina’s World is mudging on the wall in front of me and I step in to take a closer look. Her good arm, the left one, braced uphill, reaches back, yanks my collar to the Maine ground with a weakness that is soft, irresistible, moving us downward to the dry and parched earth.

So. We crawl, elbow to elbow up the thatched field, thirsty and longing for a home that does not exist, just a fading rutted road promising escape over the horizon. I want to touch her, carry her up the hill. But she’s having none of it. We pause, lift our heads and gather our breath, prone on the flattened field, dust in our face and a lame hope in her eyes, looking to the home she believes in. I tuck the wisps of her hair back, touch her cheek in the failing light. But she’s having none of it, knowing the farmhouse holds a sturdy chair, a warm fire and decent meal, kindness on the hearth, a place to stride into. It’s not a world I know.

We arrive, smudged and prone, trying to stand. I remove her shoes, untrodden and unblemished. She smiles. I want to tell her there is no walking in the lame light of 1948. It’s just a ramshackle house, an empty world abandoned, offering a shadowed ladder to the roof, no escape there. She believes she can be here, is here, a place of warmth and finitude behind the front door, I beside her, knowing the only exit is to the shuttered barn centered in the painting, inside a rusted car and broken truck squatting on the hardwood planks, dripping oil all these years.

John Jordan ‘80, Faculty

Words

Unspoken Audrey Zou ‘26 Scholastics Gold Key

The R-Line, the 1-Line

in good time, my love

When I am 73 and you are—well—whatever you’d like to be, wearing your panache with strange egotism, I’ll smooth down my starched shirt from the cleaners, and you my favorite poplin skirt (the one with pretty white flowers, long dusted off). We sway together in the train car. I made you coffee, but is it upsetting your stomach? I brought Tums in a sterile jar if you want it. I’ll insist for a student to go before me, but she curves like a question in reply.

We laugh, stepping along in that strange dance, taking half a lurch forward when we listen to each other at the same time. Of course you stop to watch the girl playing for her life and toss a wadded bill in her direction. We walk stiffly on the pavement, by gray walkways you always begged to scrape your feet over. I shield my love from the tiny stones that escape churning rubber tires— I am always on the outside.

Jejune

Hello, my name is Vincent; I’m just trying to support my daughter and myself—— Two rows of heads duck down, Not a coin to be found on the filthy priority-seating plastic.

I can feel it—do you?

We have rime coating our gums and vermin clawing behind our eyes. We could be anywhere in the universe right now, yet somethings rips through the seams in my bones and I sit there, I sit there, afraid.

——I’m so sorry for bothering you all this morning——

Just the other day we were in the countryside together. You cradled a bee with pierced wings to your cheek, and I stood, roots wrapped around my feet while its limbs contorted in one last sigh. It scattered its atoms, slowly, as if to say I’m sorry.

——I’m just really in a tough spot. If you could find it in your heart to give me a little spare change——

We count twenty-seven pairs of eyes looking out the window, locked on each other, everywhere, anywhere, but the spotlight misses the end of the car. The light is weak, indolent.

Rolling off of the tip of my tongue and spattering like ice cubes, or blithe blackness, but I feel colder, and burnt on my cheeks and forehead, and the tension snaps over a mile.

——just a couple of dollars? okay. have a blessed day——

Whores, cheapskates, a dying bee, and a tall liar tumble into the next car. Perhaps, if he is not a mirage, if he really is truthful, I wonder if he remembers our faces, and recalls how we sat like shadows even after the next man arrived?

Brianna Yang ‘25 Scholastics Silver Key

i’m sorry

i’m sorry

my tongue was so loud it caused you to recoil–don’t worry, i speak no more.

i’m sorry

my appetite was so large it horrified you–don’t worry, i eat no more.

i’m sorry

my creativity was so beautiful it scandalized you–don’t worry, i create no more.

i’m sorry

my smile was so charming it mortified you–don’t worry, i smile no more.

i’m sorry

my light was so bright it disturbed your perfect darkness–don’t worry, i shine no more.

i’m sorry for living so happily it caused you jealousy–don’t worry,

One day the world will see me shine And revel in my radiance while you stand alone in the dark.

I’m sorry I’m not sorry.

Rebecca Wang ‘26 Scholastics Gold Key

Divination after Ezra Pound

Spiderwebs of immanent sheen: Cracks of glass in an iPhone screen.

Joseph

Quinn, Faculty

The F.U.T.U.R.E....?

Today was the day that colleges worldwide released this year’s F.U.T.U.R.E. question, or Furthering Undergraduates Through the Utilization of Raw Excellence. Kids everywhere, mouths salivating, eyes dilating. Driven into an animal-like frenzy. This was the one day of the year that students all over the country demonstrated their potential for greatness—by lopping off a university-chosen body part for collection.

I tried to hide my excitement, but I felt it all the same. A sickening drum in my heart thrumming with absolute resolution. I hated the admissions process. No: I loved it, more than anything in the world. Nothing could make me smile wider. My family had a lot to prove. Money was useless nowadays, too liquid and flighty. That’s why body parts were so in vogue. At least organs could be counted on.

Some years the applicants even survived the admissions process! Years when competition was thin, and students only had to scalpel out an accessory organ—perhaps a pancreas, or a liver, or the tongue. Those students accomplished their F.U.T.U.R.E. question with a grotesque, toothy grin on their faces. Perhaps, this year, I would finally save my family from shame.

My oldest brother, despite ripping out his kidney with excellent form, had been denied acceptance to top colleges on account of kindergarten delinquency. He begged and pleaded with the admissions directors as his blood ran out on F.U.T.U.R.E.’s lecture hall floor. Eventually, he was forced out of the building and into the ambulance waiting outside. He used to have the best smile; unlike most ones I saw these days, I actually liked his—it was real and crooked. He’d squint his eyes while laughing at jokes he had made hours beforehand.

My second-oldest brother worked his way up until he was top of his class, and made sure he had the most tantalizing prospects of any. One gallbladder later and he made it into a top university. He didn’t last a week. Pulled out on a stretcher and pronounced insane, he kept repeating, “The books are blank... They’re blank. What’s the point, what’s the point, what’s the point?” He still sends us postcards from the asylum. “Wish you were here!” they all say.

The F.U.T.U.R.E. waiting room smelled utilitarian and clean. Almost too much so, like stinging your nose with cleaning agent and not being able to smell for 30 minutes afterwards. The plastic chairs brought my notice to the blade strapped to my thigh. It poked my body uncomfortably as the LED lights overhead hummed impersonally. Other kids in the waiting room would be called in to enter the swinging double doors of the lecture hall, but no one returned the same way. Once slightly more than half of the waiting room had emptied, my name was called.

As I entered the F.U.T.U.R.E. lecture hall I was struck by the absolutely unimpressive nature of the admissions team. Gelled hair all combed the same, white button-down shirts, unexciting ties—they should have fit with the environment of the grandiose lecture hall. But looking at them I couldn’t help but feel these men were like termites, sucking away the regality of the room until it just became a weary, hollow place.

Were these the men who watched children endlessly mutilate themselves with no reaction? Were these the men to decide the future of our “illustrious” land?

I was roused from my stupor as the termite-men spoke my name. After sifting through a list of applications they pulled out mine and began to read. The men stiffly congratulated me on my impressive resume and various other accomplishments, then stopped and looked up from their papers. “That being said,” remarked the man in the middle, with a sniffly, scuttling voice, “this year’s competition is quite steep.” His glasses glittered like beetles’ eyes.

My stomach lurched. Some years, the students survived the admissions process. Then again, some years they didn’t.

“This year’s F.U.T.U.R.E. question is as follows.” The man paused. “Can you cut out your own heart to further the status of the university?”

Curiously enough, I didn’t focus much on what the admissions director said afterwards, how even in the case of death, they would review the quality of the organ and send either the admittance or rejection letter to the corresponding parent and/or guardian. I was too busy remembering a time in which I had been scolded by a teacher for asking if I could go to the bathroom. “It’s MAY I, not CAN I,” said she, many years ago. Her voice rang in my head, the may-I’s circling interminably.

And so I stood on the stage of that lecture hall. Silence swelled like hot, stuffy air. After a few seconds of hesitation, the admissions team began scribbling into their yellow legal pads. Panic rose from my chest, bringing bile to my throat. Scads of kids had probably cut out their hearts by now, and I was wasting precious time.

This is all you ever wanted, I thought. Rip out that heart and beat that college system! You can fight back against everything once you’ve gotten into college. But wait, how could I fight the future as a corpse? Though, coming home as a corpse might be better than coming home empty-handed. Would I be able to handle the surprised faces of friends and teachers if I told them I didn’t go through with the F.U.T.U.R.E. question? Their lips pursing, disappointed, in high and mighty sympathy? And my parents... my parents would be distraught that not one, not even one of their kids could make it for them.

The man in the middle shuffled his papers, and lowered his glasses to look at me. His eyes were much smaller than how they appeared refracted through the lenses. “Well,” he stared me down. “What are you waiting for?”

Anne-Cécile Kittila ‘26

Scholastics

Silver Key

Ramen Shop

Daniel Qi ‘26

Scholastics Honorable Mention

The Fumbles at the Rumble

The weather on February 26 was spring-like, and the moods of the two teams assembled to take hold of the Gilded Wrench and Square trophy were blossoming with optimism and reverence. Little did they know their fates were entwined in their ability to have and to hold an oblong ball faithfully through thickness and thin. Which team would boldly declare, “I do!”? This is why they chase the flag.The student team that emerged from the lukewarm Charbroil grill of the student tournament was the Claymont Skeletons, a proud group of sophomores too young to drive but old enough to dream. They believed they could be the first student champion to hoist the Gilded Wrench and Square trophy in 10 years, oh, and how they believed. The Skeleton crew consisted of Silas Aulick, Chase Lengkeek, Dylan Thompson, Connor Roche, Cameron Douglass, Matthew Formosa, Brecken Kessler, and Quinn Bellew, and Frankie Fredricks as coach. The Faculty Team assembled this day consisted of Misters Chominski, Duffy, Bardeer, Carty, Mengers, Hannagan, Hendrixson, Krass, and Nowaczyk. The teams now assembled to rumble for the crown amidst a sans-zeal crowd of 15 somewhat dissatisfied students who craved to perform the work of a referee but not a chance to seek extra help from any teacher. These students huddled in the shadow of a mother and child who sat on the brick retaining wall, hoping to share a moment they will recall every Thanksgiving when the talk of pigskins commences at the table. At 2:56 the game began as a vulture flew across Coaches Field, an omen too powerful to ignore, especially to a team named Skeletons.

The action was back and forth all game, though the faculty jumped out to a 14 point lead. The Skeletons seemed to be lacking the requisite organs needed to compete. A few fumbles at fragile moments near the goal line shattered their momentum like a Charlie Brown field goal attempt. Luckily this is a team that knows their way around the Yellow Brick Road, and just as if they visited the Wizard, they seemed to find heart and courage.

The battle continued, cold and hard, on a mostly unforgiving turf amidst a frosty jungle. Some young student shouted with a broken voice, “Hey, it’s a rumble out there!” And indeed it was, players grabbed for the football as if it were the Auk who laid golden eggs. Soon the score was tied at 28 since the student champions had collected their wits, bolstered by a faculty fumble and some timely catches by Dylan and key runs by Silas. Silas, in celebration at one point, hoisted the ball into the woods in honor of the Tin Man. He knew the Skeletons, like the Tin Man, needed heart to pull this out. But could they hold on? Connor Roche used some patented spins, and Formosa used his glove dives to buoy the student hopes. A Calc student on the sideline did the math on Connor’s spins and found they defied the Pythagorean theory—more tourney magic! But alas, possession flipped to the faculty. The sun was setting not just on Claymont but on the hopes of this young collection of lunchtime rabble-rousers.

The faculty team was able to drive down the field using savvy passing, potent footwork, and a master’s level understanding of angles to threaten the Skeletons with a score as the clock wound down under 2 minutes. The scoring play was as simple as a vector though glorious as a vision of the Delaware River through the arch of the trees. QB Duffy called “Flex Option Left, 88 stack center, 99 twist, Mountain Right.” He took a perfect snap (one of 3 during the entire tournament), looked left, and marched straight ahead to the right for the score through a welcoming arch of Skeletons lined up at the goal line as if a fettered group of nutcrackers. Several junior students claim they heard the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” played faintly in the woods as he crossed the goal line. It is unconfirmed. And just like that, the Faculty reclaimed the lead with just over a minute left. The mom on the wall wearily nodded her approval, and her daughter asked, “Mommy, is this why I dream of Archmere?”

The Skeletons, at this point low on time but not moxy, drove down the field and put themselves in a position to challenge the goal line. A pass across the middle to Lengkeek appeared to tie the game — but then the unthinkable. The ball, after his catch, slipped through his hands to the turf. A fumble!

Faculty ball! But wait, despite a neutral third-party review, the ball was returned to the Skeletons as an incomplete pass for one final play. It was all down to this play. The mother on the wall took a long, deep breath and gripped her beloved tight. Silas dropped back, under blitz, and wove a scramble of the age, worthy of the great philosophical works, but as he fled to his left, pursued by the Hound Bardeer, his foot landed out of bounds, and as a tugboat made its friendly call, the Skeletons were finished. The young girl felt her mother’s warm kiss on the top of her hooded head and the whispered words, “Thank you, St. Norbert, and thank you, Archmere Admissions”.

It was a valiant challenge by the Skeletons, and they represented the student body and biology with respect and zeal; we congratulate them. This was the Faculty’s day though, one that will long be remembered as the “Fumbles at the Rumble.”

Archmere Academy Delaware River Flag Football Championship Series of Claymont Championship Game Final

February 26, 2025

Faculty 35 Claymont Skeletons 28

Robert Nowaczyk, Faculty

Put Me In, Coach!

Colleen Burke ‘27

Scholastics Honorable Mention

The Secret Life of Trash

1,760 pounds.

That’s how much waste the average person in the United States generates in a single year. That adds up to the mass of everything we once thought mattered–until it didn’t.

When I was younger, my parents would pack my lunch every day: a bag of chips, a sandwich, and Oreos—or Chips Ahoy if my brother tagged along for the grocery run. I’ve never been a fan of lunch meat, or processed bread, or chips–so I just ate the Oreos.

The sandwich and chips?

Straight into the trash.

I couldn’t risk my parents finding out; who knows what they’d do? Give me food I’d actually like? Unthinkable.

Eventually, I stopped throwing the sandwich away. I’d carry it home, all soggy and squished. I always told myself that I would definitely eat it later, but I never did. It just sat there, rotting, its slow decay quietly reminding me that ignoring it doesn’t make it disappear.

Somewhere between tossing away the sandwich and hauling it back home in quiet betrayal, I started thinking: what even is trash? Who gets to decide what counts as trash and what doesn’t? Is it when something stops being useful? Or stops being wanted?

That brings me to the bracelet. My prized possession, my WWJD bracelet. The source of unerasable tan lines.

It all started when this so-called “wannabe popular girl” (and yes, someone actually called me that) started obsessing over a “What Would Jesus Do?” bracelet. You know, the cheap ones that sell for $9.99 just because they’re trendy.

So imagine my sheer ecstasy when I spotted one lying there on the ground, looking up at me as if it were destiny. I wiped off the dust bunnies and wore it as if it were a Cartier bracelet. Habitually. Religiously, even. Because to me, it wasn’t just a bracelet; it was a ticket into something bigger. Maybe if I wore it, and said the right things, I could slip into my aching dream of being accepted. Liked. Valued.

Until it snapped.

Not in the dramatic, slow-fall-to-the-ground way, just a quiet little give in the strap. No structure, no closure, it was just laying there.

The irony? Later that same week, I tore my ACL, a reminder that even bodies can fall apart without warning. It wasn’t just my knee that buckled, it was the version of myself I thought was invincible. Everything—the bracelet, my body, my dream of fitting in—all snapped. Suddenly, I wasn’t just the girl chasing acceptance anymore; I was the girl with crutches, a bulky knee brace, and a new kind of different no bracelet could fix.

And it hit me: everything is trash. Or at least, everything becomes trash eventually. Your favorite shirt? Trash. That phone you begged for? Trash. Even the writer of this essay one day? Trash.

But here’s the thing, trash isn’t bad. I believe trash is sacred.

Because trash, real trash, is just proof that something mattered once. That it was used, worn, loved... or at least tried.

Everything, from the soggy sandwiches, the snapped bracelets, the torn ligaments, isn’t failure; they’re proof that we lived fully, even if imperfectly.

Trash holds memories. It’s the physical manifestation of who we are, what we dreamed, and how we dared to live.

And if that’s what it means to become trash one day, I think it’s something worth being proud of. Audrey Curtis ‘27

Trash Bag Gown Rylon O’Donell ‘25 Scholastics Gold Key

The Blest Beauty

A warm luster swims through the silk, Illuminating its gentle nature, Its silent swaying shore. A radiant whisper glides in the twirling breeze Kissing each reflection, The shimmer of what has once been.

A celestial curve soars through the blue, Outflow adorations that preserve the bloom. A moonlight ripples past the nautical coast, A promise of what to come, A glimmer of hope.

The shadows of Esse whirl through the night, Out gleams the echo of heart’s eternal delight.

Gwyneth Ratsep ‘25

The Ray Elisabeth Small ‘25

Cracks

Kitchenware is something we use everyday

A plate or bowl

A fork or spoon

It is all used

When they are first created they are perfection

Something to look at in awe and with care

But as time goes on that awe and care disperse

The plates and bowls, once shiny and new

Sport cracks and chipped edges

The forks and spoons, so shiny and straight

Now dull and all bent out of shape

The cracks are inevitable

With time comes pain

But we can fix it

The cracks can be filled

And the forks unbent

But that line or divot will always exist

There will always be some evidence

Of the cracks we keep deep inside

Madison Gates ‘27

Reflected

Light Study

Anne-Cécile Kittila ‘26

Glass Dolphin

Daniel Qi ‘26

Scholastics Silver Key

Amusements and Tantalizations in Three Courses (or,

a Dinner Party)

I don’t want to go to this party.

I’m standing in front of my closet while Steve shaves in the bathroom, searching for an outfit that I might be able to squeeze myself into tonight. So far, I’ve tried on a floral wrap dress that made me look like a wrap, a plum jumpsuit that would have been passable if the zipper hadn’t popped off, and a floorlength halter gown that I’m sure I never had the breasts for, despite my weight. I’ve exclusively worn my fiancé’s oversized t-shirts for almost two years now, also forgoing makeup in the wake of pregnancy. But tonight, my face cannot be bare.

I used to love meeting people. I loved meeting them for the same reasons why I am dreading going to tonight’s party. I relished the chance to dress up (not that I’d ever been particularly slim, but at least passably “curvy”), the chance to chat with someone new (as a meteorologist, maintaining perfect eye contact and clear speech came with the job), and the chance for them to know me (I used to be an extreme-weather field reporter for CNN, which made people’s eyes widen deliciously whenever I told them). But not anymore.

Since the pandemic, I’ve had a kid, gotten laid off, and moved into a townhouse overseas. Our family has been incredibly fortunate. I’ve gotten lucky, I know. That’s why the prospect of going to Jess’s dinner party is making me feel like crying right now.

But of course I’m not going to cry. There’s no reason to! I need to get my act together and find something to wear. As Maple dashes across the room, waving a toilet paper roll above her curly little head, I convince myself that I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb if I just put on something more comfortable. Singapore (where Steve has been happy with his new job) would not approve if I called jeans and chunky hoops a night-out look.

I call out to Steve. “Babe, can you get her settled before we go?”

He steps gallantly into the kitchen, sweeping Maple’s toys into a bin. I enter the room, halter gown on and pantyhose already cutting into my waist like a knife. But I feel alright. I look okay. Maple’s clearing up her crayons when she notices me and bounds over for a hug; I touch my cheek to hers. Nature has decided that she ought to be extra discerning tonight, because she nuzzles into my neck and inhales. “Mama, you smell really sweaty.”

I head back to the closet, annoyed. Not at Maple for her endearing honesty, but at myself for being unable to worm my way out of this party like I have for every other social gathering in the past year. I had my arsenal of excuses ready to go: that Steve was busy at the office (this was true; in any given week, he spent more time at work than at home) or that Maple needed to catch up on schoolwork with me (even truer; Maple’s coloring left something to be desired by her pre-k teacher circa our last parent-child conference). But Jess—the wife of Steve’s colleague—persisted. I gave in after my parents conveniently made themselves available for the weekend to take care of my daughter.

I take off the halter gown and swipe a Clorox wipe across its neck. Then I smear extra deodorant near my armpits. I’m determined not to feel subdued, but it’s getting hard. I’m jobless. I’m overweight, and I have been overweight since I had Maple three years ago. I miss work, and I feel guilty for missing work. But that’s ridiculous. I resolve to put the halter gown back on and am about to leave with Steve until the matter occurs to me that I might still smell awful. “Steve, do I still smell like sweat?” I ask.

“You don’t smell like sweat,” he says from a distance so far away that he couldn’t smell me if he wanted to, grabbing the keys and opening the garage door.

I take a deep breath, because I know that I have to be patient and my parents are waiting by the car. I remember what my therapist has been telling me for the past couple of weeks: that it’s a good exercise to just tell people what I need. Especially if I want a small thing, like an honest answer to one of my questions. I decide that this is a small-enough need to ask about a second time. “Steve,” I say, carefully. “It’s really important to me that I don’t smell like sweat right now, because I want to be presentable for Jess’s party. Please tell me honestly. I just wiped myself off, but do you think I need to shower entirely?”

“You don’t smell like sweat,” he repeats, fiddling with the keys. Then he shuts the door behind him.

I resolve the matter by stuffing more Clorox wipes into my purse. ***

Jess greets us with an effervescent smile, poured into an olive-colored backless shift that someone of her height has the legs for. She pecks both of my cheeks without getting any lipstick on them, air-smacking next to my hairline. “Steve!” she coos, and puts a hand on his back to guide him towards the rest of the businessmen.

I can’t help but stare as we enter the foyer. Though our house resembles a war-zone of papers in Steve’s office, kid’s-butt indentations on the bed, and scribbles on walls splattered with a bit of morning egg or coffee, Jess’s looks more like a museum. The foyer walls are a dazzling deep navy, the dining room table that I can see out of the corner of my eye looks laden with gold finery, and there’s a real fireplace with the works. As she walks me to the room where people are gathering to say hello, I suck in my stomach.

“You look stunning,” I manage to say without breathing.

“Please, I don’t. Have a bao before you sit down,” she says, placing a small golden platter into my hands. “I over-steamed them. I’m sorry.”

They don’t look over-steamed at all—in fact, the five little buns sit in a vaguely floral shape, perfectly fluffy. I take a bite and almost throw my head back to savor the soupy pork. Delicious. Of course they’re delicious. So delicious that I remember how much I want to cry. I swallow. “They’re delicious, Jess. You should try one yourself.”

I duck out from underneath the golden tray and find myself face-to-face with a tall Nordic, who extends a firm handshake in greeting. He introduces himself and points to Steve. I’m barely paying attention when he asks me what I do for a living. “Ahh… Ahh, I’m a stay-at-home-mom, but I used to work for CNN.” I begin, lamely.

The man’s eyes widen imperceptibly. He manages a smile. Thankfully, Jess calls us to the dining room after a few eternities pass.

I’m hoping that this will be a small gathering, but almost twenty people are already here. Jess sets out an elderberry wine and small bowls of mapo tofu. Individually-portioned mapo tofu! Don’t you have to blanch for that sort of thing? I am in awe. The man to my right is a journalist, quite interesting and quite young. I want to bandage my head with the linen tablecloth on the dining room table whenever he speaks. The woman on my right is half-deaf but lovely. I interview her instead.

As Jess clears away the first course, I get up. “Can I help you with anything in the kitchen?” I offer. She begins to shake her head no, but I press forward because I genuinely cannot feel this exposed in front of her busy and important guests for a second longer. Jess relents and takes my hand, guiding me towards the kitchen.

She starts dicing chicken cutlets after I follow her in. “For the less adventurous,” she explains, deftly basting them in hot oil before turning to stir a soy glaze.

The wok dances, flames licking up its sides. I feel like throwing myself into the fire. Of course she didn’t bother to buy boxed orange chicken from Trader Joe’s. Of course she can make it from scratch while I can’t even boil spaghetti without having it coagulate into a big ball of mush. I busy myself with the sesame seeds, sprinkling them on top of the little dishes she brings out for the chicken. There’s a condensed milk sauce to be whipped for dessert that I also manage to help with. Jess smiles gratefully, as she isn’t just infuriatingly good at everything, but is also revoltingly kind. “How’s Maple doing?” she approaches me, a huge platter in hand. “Good, as good as she can be,” I return. “How’s John?”

A small charred stripe is just barely visible on the bottom of the bird, nestled beneath the bed of fresh cabbage she chopped up for garnishing. I’m stunned. “Jess,” I begin. “It’s fine. It looks… I mean, the duck looks amazing. I’m sure that nobody will notice. I know I didn’t.”

She sighs, turning away and setting the bird on the counter. “No, it’s ruined. I wanted the outside to be just slightly crispy. People who care about food like their duck slightly crispy, like lechon.”

I gape at her. Then I try something else. “Jess, everything has been so beautiful tonight. You look gorgeous, your house is amazing… frankly, it’s intimidating to even be in here with you right now.”

“Yeah, right.” She tosses her impeccably cut bob over her shoulder. I wait for the sarcasm: the chortle, the sparkle in her eye to let me know that she’s joking. But she just stares at her wok.

“You had an amazing career. You’re successful. You can actually… do something with yourself,” she turns to me.

“Had is the operative word here, ” I offer. “I don’t have a career anymore.”

She sighs. “But what can I do? Cook and clean? I can’t write, and I never got a degree. All I can do is take care of my husband’s colleagues, and I messed that up tonight with this stupid duck. You have a family and a profession waiting for you as soon as you want it. That’s the difference between us two.”

I’m at a loss for words. I’m sweaty and oozing out of my halter gown and about a hundred pounds heavier than Jess will ever be at her fattest…what is she talking about? She pushes her shoulders back and sets the duck onto the tray. “Now, help me carry this into the dining room. I do hope that Steve doesn’t mind getting a mouthful of char.”

“Steve,” I assure her while hoisting the duck up, “is happy to be eating at all.”

Forty minutes and two serving tongs later, the condensed milk sauce that Jess and I whipped up looks fluffy as ever, and the duck and chicken have not lost their crisp. Steve chats away with his friends nearby, tucking into a third helping of duck and spooning hoisin sauce over it. “This is the best,” he groans, taking another huge bite. Smiling at me, eyes twinkling.

I look at Jess. She looks at me. And we break into a fit of giggles — then, into big peals of laughter completely dichotomous to how quietly we greeted each other at the door.

As a hostess, Jess has to thank all twenty of her husband’s friends and colleagues before she waves to me and Steve. She tucks leftovers into his big jacket; we head towards the car together, with extra baos for Maple. I turn to hug Jess. Tightly. No air kisses.

And I let go.

Brianna Yang ‘25

Scholastics Silver Key

Operation: Dim Sum

“Do you sell egg tarts here?”

“This is delicious! Thank you so much!”

“Cheers to a successful week at the store!”

“You have never had Peking duck before? Well, let’s try!”

Amidst the chaos of the dim sum restaurant, I slurp my wonton soup peacefully, relishing the earthy taste. Its warmth heals my body, an escape from frigid Toronto. After being revitalized, I shrug off my coat and drop my hat to the floor. My brother quietly enjoys his lotus leaf wrapped sticky rice – as he unpackages the valuable bundle, the aroma of lotus fills the air. My mom helps herself to the spicy Singapore noodles, accompanied by a healthy serving of barbecue pork.

Our tranquil feast is disrupted by the entrance of three individuals.

A middle-aged woman enters loudly. Her eyes are covered by the brim of a black bucket hat. But one can still sense her fiery gaze judging each patron in the restaurant. She dons a dramatic Versace coat, which makes a hissing sound as she sashays between tables. Her crimson lips are pressed flat in disapproval. Despite her petite stature, she possesses a dominant aura, which captivates the entire room. When she reaches her table, she slams down her Prada purse before taking a seat. The woman removes her coat, revealing a gaudy blouse underneath, adorned with thick, gold chains. She does not take off her hat.

With the snap of her fingers, the woman’s sidekicks sit down hurriedly. They each wear a flashy, black, shiny, Moncler parka. Five tally marks are painted on the back in white paint. In imitation of their leader, the two men drape their coats over their chairs. They sit quietly, awaiting the words of the woman. In contrast to their fearful expressions, both hunched over in suspense, she leans back in her chair, arms akimbo. She reaches out her hand, in which the men obediently place a menu. Flipping the pages disinterestedly, the woman tosses the menu across the table.

The elderly waiter comes by with a spritely smile. “Good evening!” He pours each person a small cup of fragrant tea.

The lady turns towards our table. I make eye contact with her – well, the brim of her hat – and sink in my seat. She points a red nail towards my bowl. “Is that wonton soup? Give me three orders.”

“Yes, madam. That is wonton soup. However, each order feeds about four people, as each large bowl has 16 wontons in it, so I would recommend–”

“Three bowls!” she snaps. The waiter remains silent and subservient.

“And one plate of mapo tofu, two plates of yin yang fried rice...” She pauses to consider, lifting her hat to glare at the innocent waiter. Soon she returns to barking orders, naming a plethora of dishes. Without consulting her accomplices, she bellows, “Now!”

The waiter bows dutifully before scurrying back to the kitchen. The woman sniffs her complimentary tea with skepticism. She takes a small sip before shaking her head aggressively. Turning back to look at the waiter, she hisses, “idiot.” Her compatriots bob their heads in unison, succumbing to her superiority.

Soon, the waiter returns with three large bowls of steaming wonton soup balanced on his arms. The trio looks on with interest as he places the dishes in the center of the table. “Careful, this is very hot!” The waiter watches as the lady sips some soup and chews slowly on a wonton. The men wait for her coveted opinion. To everyone’s surprise and relief, the lady nods slowly. “Thank you,” she mutters reluctantly. Her sidekicks quickly help themselves to the soup, quickly finishing off the three bowls. The chef peeks his head out of the kitchen and chuckles with surprise. It’s not often he sees three eat for twelve!

But the laughter is short-lived. The lady beckons for the waiter to come over. This time, she points at the broth with vigor. They lower their voices and toss arguments back and forth. The waiter grows more perturbed at the woman’s tone. She hisses something inaudible before raising her hat again. He stares at her in confusion.

“This. Is. Plastic. In my soup!” she shouts for all to hear. “Are you trying to poison me? Give me a new bowl. Now!”

Embarrassed, the waiter takes the nearly empty bowl back to the kitchen for an inspection. Despite her accusations, there really is no plastic in the soup. He realizes her true intent: instead of ordering another bowl, the woman chose to wrongfully humiliate an elderly man for a free portion.

A few minutes later, the lady abruptly stands up and exits, seething. In the midst of her agitated gibberish, only one word is discernible. Mission.

I whisper to my brother, “I knew it, a secret agent!”

He sighs. “It’s just a family. A completely normal family.”

“Then why would she be concerned about being poisoned? Only a secret agent would have those concerns. Nobody would jump to conclusions like that!”

“You’re jumping to conclusions right now!”

“Simmer down. They’re not deaf, you know,” my mother whispers with mild reproof.

I return my attention to the two men. Left alone, they shovel rice into their mouths, talking freely. They gesture for the bill and pay for it on the spot. As soon as the transaction is complete, the lady marches in at a brisk pace.

“See, it was just a tactic to force the men to pay the bill,” my brother insists.

I shake my head. “She was definitely completing a mission. She said it herself! They’re all secret agents, I can feel it.”

The lady snaps her fingers again. The men abruptly rise from their positions like soldiers. She leads the way, exiting with her signature sashay, hat covering her eyes.

As I look at her in my peripheral vision, I spot my very own hat, lying on the floor. Something washes over me – a mix of mischievousness and boldness – so when I feel the lady’s ostentatious Versace coat brush my shoulder, I instinctively tip my hat to her.

I did not expect her to notice, much less reciprocate, my gesture. Yet, to my shock, she completely stops in her tracks, turns around – and repeats the motion.

With a smile.

Not a moment later, she is back in character, summoning her sidekicks to open the front door of the restaurant for her.

After the trio exits, the hostess tosses me a stare. Her sharp eyes accuse me of colluding with some suspicious entity. I shrivel into my seat.

Disrupting the awkwardness, a waitress glides over with a white platter of fortune cookies.

“Let’s see what mine says!” I exclaim, unwrapping the plastic wrapper and splitting open the cookie.

Crumbs fly across the tablecloth. In an attempt to gather the pieces, my elbow knocks the ceramic plate. My metal fork clangs loudly, bouncing next to my mother’s chopsticks. This time, she is the one shooting daggers at me as I struggle to tidy my mess.

In the disarray, the fortune falls to my lap. I grapple for the slip and scan it rapidly.

It says, trust your intuition.

Valentina Ramos ‘26

Scholastics Honorable Mention

Sister and Dog

Karina Ong ‘27

Scholastics Gold Key

The Power of Letters

after Sandra Cisneros

Gwyneth Ann Rita Ratsep. In Welsh, Gwyneth means happiness and luck. In Hebrew, Ann means gracious and merciful. In Sanskrit, Rita means brave and honest. In Estonian, Rätsep means tailor. It is these names that compose my identity.

My parents chose Gwyneth over Heidi and Tabatha for no greater reason than the name’s flow. There was no family heritage or greater significance—just Gwyneth.

Even though the picking of my name is not unique, my Mom added a slight twist. The spelling. Instead of the traditional Gwen, my mom flipped the e for a y. “Why?” I asked. Why make it so every group work assignment my name is slightly off? Not enough to correct my peers, but enough to reel in all of my attention. Surprisingly, she explained that she spelled my name differently to match hers–Elyse instead of Elise, Gwyn instead of Gwen. In a way, this will always connect me to my mom.

Our Ys tie us together.

Ratsep is a different story. Ratsep was my grandfather’s name and now it is mine. The name was given to my grandfather’s grandfather as a surname since my family did not have one. No last name. No identification.

In Estonian, Rätsep means a tailor. In Estonia, Ratsep is a photographer and model. In Delaware, Ratsep is a Relationship Manager at Vanguard, a director at DNREC, and two students. In Florida, Ratsep is retired.

When Rätsep traveled from Estonia, we did not land in the same place, but we shared the same values. A sour taste when speaking about Russia, memorializing lost family members. Excitement rooting during the Olympics knowing that’s our family competing. And anticipation awaits the next Song Festival, where we reunite. Ratsep is what ties us together.

My name is more than just a combination of letters; it is me: my mother’s uniqueness, my family history, and my identity all in one.

Gwyneth Rastep ‘25

Anatomy of a Cigarette

I. Type 1A

she always asks me if I want one when she knows I will shake my head and tell her to quit I like holding the silver case flicking the lid on and off while she balances the stick between her teeth like a poisonous acerbic lollipop she holds it between two small fingers close to her perfect luminous skin elegantly taps it on a convex knee the ashes fall like black snow my indifference feeds into the inexorable death of a star but we both know a short bright death far away will be such a cinematic end

II. Elegy

short blackened butts dot the ground an ugly graveyard of failed sacrifices there is no light except a weak spark from a grimy dying contraption that spits butane until nothing is left a toddler crawls along the floor and will know the acrid smell of smoke better than his mother’s embrace

Chloe Li ‘26

Scholastics Honorable Mention

The Living Ocean

I love the Ocean

The beauty of the waves

As they coil and turn Into different shapes and sizes

The civilizations that live below Living and thriving

Gliding together, happy together

Bright and colorful

The movements of the tides

As the ripples crease the surface

Of the shimmering lights

Dancing through the folds

Unpredictable with movements

Shifting with strength

Disrupting those empires

Causing them to crumble

Obstructing the other world

Overpowering those Who choose to cross paths When its brightness has disappeared

And the wrath Dawns them at the most Vulnerable moments When things seem comforting

The Ocean will turn And reveal its dominance When those take advantage of its beauty It will remind them of who has the jurisdiction

I love the Ocean.

Hannah

Stewart ‘25

Sunbath

i wither and wallow in the winter because everytime the sun touches my skin

it is like a reincarnation of my past my skin may be burdened in the future but i am happy nonetheless the same sun gives me a sense of warmth i am comforted by each version of myself the version lounging by the pool with a floral sun cap on consuming the juciest, ripest watermelon. i became a 12 year old girl bathing in the Atlantic hit by waves that wash her ashore her skin pained and kissed by the burning star

i hope to be the old woman sitting on the rocking chair her skin wrinkled like a raisin looking at the sun and thanking it it reminds her of her youth

Ella Julian ‘27

Burning Softly

Megan Shaposky ‘27

The Heart of Alaska

In the heart of Alaska where the winter sun barely lifted above the horizon, Bill Johnson’s mill stood at he edge of a frozen lake. It was a sprawling, rugged place, a blend of steel and timber, surrounded by thick pine trees that cut it off from the world. Few people outside his business even knew about the mill. It was an essential part of his father’s empire and kept running year-round to supply top-quality lumber to corporations across the country. Most people wouldn’t have thought Bill himself worked there, let alone led the crew every winter. But for Bill, the mill wasn’t just a job, it was a sanctuary.

Bill arrived in Alaska every November just as the first heavy snow started to fall. Unlike the men he worked alongside, he wasn’t there for the paycheck or the escape from a tougher life. He had the money and freedom to be anywhere in the world, but something about the vast, empty wilderness called to him. At the mill, he was just one of the guys. One with a strong mind and a sharp eye. They gave him no special treatment. He wore the same scuffed boots and winter gear as everyone else, blending into the work of the place.

For hours on end, he and his crew would saw through the thick logs, moving along to the hum of the saw blending with the stillness of the forest. This is where Bill felt most at home. He liked the simplicity of it all. Tree after tree, log after log, they were stripped and sanded and sent down the line. But beneath his tough and steady exterior, he carried the weight of his family’s legacy, along with the memory of that horrible day when he lost them. Here in Alaska though, no one knew the full story, and Bill liked it that way.

After a long shift one evening, Bill sat alone in the mill’s breakroom, drinking coffee and looking out at the vast expanse of snow through the frost-covered windows. It was here, in the quiet moments that his memories would catch up to him. He could almost see his father standing beside him, gesturing at the trees to his side and offering advice on where to cut and how to fall the trees in the harsh Alaskan weather. His father had built the mill from the ground up, and every inch of the mill had at one time or another been inspected by him.

“You okay, Bill?” asked James, a mid-60s gentleman who had worked with the mill for nearly 30 years. Almost longer than Bill had been alive.

Bill looked up, awoken by some inner thought. “I’m good, just thinking about how quiet it is up here,” he replied with a smile.

“Same as always,” James chuckled. “But we’re lucky to have you, you know? The guys appreciate a boss who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.”

Bill just nodded. James didn’t know the full story either, and Bill wanted to keep it that way. He didn’t want anyone’s apologies or understanding about what had happened. He just needed to keep building something, just like his father had taught him.

As winter fell farther into the abyss, the weather grew harsher. One late morning, a snowstorm swept in. It blew right through the trees and covered the landscape in a sheet of white snow. Despite the conditions, Bill and his team kept working. They bundled up in heavy coats with their breath still visible in the frigid air as they brought logs onto the conveyor belts and fixed machinery that had frozen overnight. Bill’s hands were cracked and red, but he kept going, pushing himself as hard as he had pushed anyone else.

During a break that afternoon, Bill slipped away from the mill, heading to a small, secluded area he had cleared himself. In this pocket of wilderness, he kept a small wooden shed. This was his escape from the mill. Inside, there was nothing more than a few tools, a small single bed, and a radio that only picked up the work channels. He came here whenever he needed to be truly alone. He liked to listen to the silence and feel the weight of the snow pressing down on everything. Out here, he could almost imagine his family was still alive, waiting for him back home.

Just as he was about to head back, he heard a voice over the radio, the mill was backed up. One of the massive saws had jammed, and there was no way to get a replacement part quickly in the storm. Bill ran back to the mill, his boots sinking into the deep snow. He and his men spent hours in the cold, working together to take apart the jammed saw and improvise a fix. When the blade finally spun back to life, a cheer went up from the crew. Bill finally allowed himself a rare smile.

By midnight, the storm had cleared, and Bill stood outside the mill, staring up at the stars. Alaska had a way of turning over one’s character. Out here, he didn’t need to be a billionaire, he didn’t need to live up to anyone’s expectations. He could just be Bill, a man who carried his father’s legacy in his hands. He was the man who found comfort in the work of the mill. The man who may one day find peace in letting go of the past.

For now, the mill was still his lifeline, and he was its heart.

Gavin Rovner ‘25

Scholastics Silver Key

Joe

Jace Walker ‘25

School

Sophia Silverman ‘28

Scholastics Gold Key

Beauty

Boundlessly bound with its waves branching so far that we so often promote its protection, and conservation. Fueled by useless feelings, We take the nourishment we so gluttonously take your gifts and feed ourselves to throw and infect. once more Once more, and once more, and once more, and so on.

Until we cannot bear, wherein we see our hands reaching out for an empty exchange. your feathered tenants

Until we cannot bear, singing on and on atop the pasture let alone stand, you grew atop your work as a gift and our bound ruins.

And now we lay still, wishing and waiting, to meet your hand. The hand we expect to be full of gifts... and forgiveness?

Alexis Castrejon-Garcia ‘25

Scholastics Gold Key

Crocheted Coral Elisabeth Small ‘25

The Cookie

after Julio Cortazar

I tightly grip my mother’s hand as we walk the mostly empty aisles of produce, toiletries, and stationery. I carefully observe every inch of my surroundings with curiosity and awe. Whenever I go grocery shopping with my mom, she always makes a pointed effort to avoid the sweets aisle. “You are what you eat,” she always says.

I once again ask my mother the fruitless question, “Mom, can we please just look at the sweets aisle?” She grins affectionately and looks down at me, but I can tell that she’s annoyed.

“No, sweetie. You are what you eat.”

“But Mom, just because we go look doesn’t mean we’ll buy something and eat it,” I plead. My curiosity boils up inside of me, rising higher and higher, tingling my sinuses. She pauses, shakes her head, and stops. She lets go of my hand, turns to face me and puts both her hands on my shoulders, leaning down so that her icy blue eyes meet mine.

She says, “If we go down that aisle, we’ll just be tempted to buy something unhealthy. Once it’s in our home, we’ll eat it.”

“OK, fine,” I puff with a sigh.

“Good,” she remarks, grinning as she turns back around.

“Your father comes home next week, you know,” she adds, trying to brighten my mood. Still feeling defeated, I mutter, “Yeah.”

She looks down at me and chuckles. “I know it seems silly, but I promise I say what I do for a reason. One day, I hope you’ll understand.”

She takes back my hand and holds it in hers. We finish our shopping and go home without exploring the alluring sweets aisle.

I start to think about it every day. In school, I can no longer pay attention. When I eat my daily soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I feel nothing but disgust. When I go to sleep, I dream of the sweets aisle at the grocery store. I dream about eating cookies. I dream about sugar cookies, oatmeal raisin, snickerdoodles, peanut butter, M&M, chocolate chip... oh my goodness... chocolate chip... the gooey chocolatey-ness and crispy edges! I dream of biting into that heavenly golden brown surface and savoring every flavor as crumbs tumble and rain all over my hands and onto the ground.

When I wake up, even the drool stain on my pillow resembles a cookie. I had never before smelled a chocolate chip cookie, but the children in the Chips Ahoy cookies commercial always seemed delighted by the smell, so it must be amazing. I imagine it smells like coffee or flowers or something of that sort; something pleasing. Every day, I watch that same advertisement, eyes glued to the screen of my fancy new television with anticipation and desire. Once it ends, I rewind my recording and watch it again. And then I do that again. And then I do that again. My fingers seem to press the rewind button over and over again all by themselves. I begin once my mother leaves for work at the paper firm at 7:00 AM and I conclude when she gets home from work at 5:00 PM. When my mother gets home, I retreat to my room and daydream until 6:00 PM. That’s dinner time. Dinner is always on the same rotation. My mother makes the same dinners. Each day has a corresponding, awful, disgusting dinner. I start to eat less. I start to daydream more. 9:00 is bedtime. Before bed, I lie awake for hours, fantasizing about the dessert I deserve. Torturous. Every day is more monotonous than the last. Agonizing. I long for the taste. Harrowing.

The next time my mother needs to go to the grocery store, I insist upon going with her. This time, I have a plan. She, as always, has a list of all the items she needs. We have one item left to get from the list when we approach the sweets aisle. It is almost as if I could feel the chocolate chips melting in my mouth.

“Yes, my love?”

“Can we please get some Chips Ahoy?”

She looks at me with disappointment, as if she’s ashamed of me for even asking.

“No, sweetie. You are what you eat, and you know that.”

I understand now what I must do. My mother is just an obstacle. She doesn’t want, and has never wanted, my happiness. But I don’t have to feel bad. I put my plan into action.

“Aw, okay. I’m going to use the bathroom now.”

“Okay, my dear. I’m just going to grab the paper towels, check out, and start to load up the car. You’ll be able to find me when you’re done, right?”

“Yep. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright, then. The bathrooms are right over there.”

I walk casually to the bathroom. I pace back and forth for several minutes. Once I can be sure that my mom is already finished checking out and is loading up her car, I head straight to the sweets aisle. The glorious boxes of Chips Ahoy cookies illuminate the aisle, seemingly pulling me towards them with a certain transcendence. I cautiously rip open the blue packaging at the top and pick out a cookie. I hold it up to my eyes so I can properly observe its qualities. It’s exactly as I pictured it. It’s exactly the same image as I viewed repeatedly on my television day after day. It’s beautiful. All of a sudden, I hear footsteps approaching. I quickly stash my prize in my jeans pocket, seal the package, put it back on the shelf, and run to the exit, heading straight for my mom’s car.

The time is now 8:54 PM. I wait with anticipation for the clock over the fireplace beside me to hit 9. I am sitting with my mom on our couch watching what used to be our favorite movie. Now, though, I am incapable of paying even the slightest bit of attention to my mother or the TV screen. All I can think about is the small treasure in my pocket. I have exhausted every ounce of patience left inside of me by saving my cookie for a bedtime snack. Finally, the clock strikes nine. I dart up the stairs to my room, not even bothering to say goodnight to my mother and kiss her on the cheek like I always do. I sprint so fast that I surprise myself. When I arrive at my room, I slam the door, launch myself onto my bed, and reach into my pocket for my dessert. I ravenously bring the chocolatey morsel to my lips, absorb its scent (different from how I expected, but still pleasing) and sink my teeth into it. It’s crispy yet chewy. It’s not very warm. It’s smooth and velvety. It’s sweet. It’s delicious. It’s addicting. I take another bite. It fills me with bliss. I have wanted nothing but this for an entire week. It has consumed my life and now I am consuming it. I take a final bite. A wave of joy washes over me. This feeling is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I need more.

But I don’t have more.

I lie restless in my bed, staring at my ceiling, eyes wide. I think about the way the chocolate melted in my mouth. I think about the sweetness. I think about the joy I got from tasting it. That feeling... that beautiful feeling...

I lie awake for several hours, unsure of what to do. I look at my digital clock on my bedside table. It’s currently 11:21 PM...wow, it’s getting late. Beside my clock is a picture of me and my parents in an ornate golden frame. I’m only around 4 in that picture, and my dad is giving me a piggyback ride. We’re all making funny faces, sticking our tongues out and widening our eyes. I think of my mom. I start to feel regret, but I quickly dismiss it. She’s just paranoid, I tell myself. She just doesn’t want me to be happy. She’s dramatic and cruel for hiding this joy from me. Nodding my head in agreement with myself, I lie my head back down centered on my pillow, pull the covers to my face, and close my eyes. When I open them again, everything is wrong. I’m in an enclosed space. It’s dark. I try to move, but I can’t. I’m confused. I’m scared. I try to scream, but can’t. Everything in my body is stiff. I begin to lose track of time, my mind spinning with questions. Where am I? Why can’t I move? Why can’t I see? Finally, all

of a sudden, I hear something: footsteps, coming in my direction. Soon after, I make out the sound of keys being carelessly tossed onto a counter. Am I in the kitchen?

“Oh I just can’t wait to see him.” It’s my father. My mother must have just picked him up from the airport.

“Hannah, you got cookies? You never get cookies!”

WHAT? MY MOM GOT COOKIES? FOR ME? I start to feel awful. I was awful to my mother. I was so obsessed that I completely ignored her. But why did she get me cookies? She was so opposed to them before... this doesn’t make sense. I must be dreaming.

My mother chuckles. “I figured it would be a good surprise. Ben’s been asking me for them all week long! Your son is as stubborn as you, you know.”

“Oh I know, believe me. Like father, like son. Where is he, anyway? I missed that little cookie monster.”

“He’s still sleeping, but I’m sure when he gets up he’ll be thrilled to see you again. Do you want a cookie while we wait?”

“Sure, why not,” my dad replies. Suddenly, I can see. I look up and I see my father’s enormous hand unwrapping the bright blue packaging. I can see the rows and rows of golden brown-ness surrounding me. I become aware of the granular crumbs beneath me.

I am one of them. I understand that now.

My mother was right, after all.

Horrified, I try to shut the eyes I do not have and hold the breath I do not breathe while I feel my father’s fingers lift me to his lips, my mother’s five-word saying ringing as loudly as police sirens as if reminding me why this is now and has always been my fate.

Lilian Dominico ‘25

Scholastics Silver Key

Which to Try First

Colleen Burke ‘27

Alright

I hustle to the kitchen, sweat beading down the acne on my face. Snatching the plates of luscious burgers and crispy fries, I quickly brush my pasty bangs from beneath my thick glasses. I rush back to the bar and throw the plates onto the sticky countertop.

“Long day?” Jesse asks, his silver eyes locking with mine in a state of concern. He carefully picks up a fry and takes a hesitant bite, noticing my tangled hair and heavy breathing. I shake my head, heaving my arms onto the counter with a sigh. My linen apron scratches my knees as I kick the baseboard with my worn sneakers.

“Ma died a year ago today,” I respond, blandly.

“Oh – it’s today,” he grimaces, looking at the calendar behind the cash register. He holds his head in his left hand, brushing back his dark curls. Setting down his burger, he exhales slowly between his teeth. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” I whisper, turning around. I see myself in the reflections of the glass cups that hang from the wooden pegboard nailed to the wall. Ma had a shimmer in her emerald eyes that you could see between the refractions of light in those glasses. She used to say that I had the shine too, in addition the same deep green eyes, thick eyelashes, and smooth monolids. In many ways, I’m grateful that Ma only saw my eyes with the shine.

“Mila, I have something to tell you.”

I spin around. My full name is seldom mentioned – it’s reserved for legal documents, introducing myself to strangers, and Ma when she got angry.

“Yes?”

“I’m starting a new job next week,” Jesse says, looking down.

“Eh? Why so sad? You got fired from your old one or something?” I say carelessly, wiping my hands on a rugged, mustard-yellow microfibre cloth.

“It’s an hour away from here.”

I halt, slowly raising my eyes to meet his. “So... you can’t–”

“I’m going to be busier now. And I’m taking a later shift, so I can’t just...stop by anymore.”

Now I’m 18 years old, no father, no mother, and not even a friend to rely on.

I bite my lip, halting the flow of tears. I turn my face away towards the window, revealing street lamps illuminating the deep sky. Ma always loved this scene: she thought those warm orbs of light were akin to miniature suns, providing even more comfort during the darkest nights. I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut, willing the nightmare to end, hoping she’ll wipe it all away. I turn back abruptly, feeling the need to comment. “So...you’ll make more money?”

Jesse nods slowly.

“Good. When you earn enough money, buy out this place. The current owner doesn’t realize how little minimum wage actually is. All he knows is that he’s raking it in.”

He cracks a slight smile, but pushes away his plate. “I know. I’ll...take the check.”

I sigh. “You know how much it is.”

Jesse reluctantly pulls out a ten from his wallet onto the table. Into my palm, he slips a twenty. I look at him in surprise, but he closes my fingers tightly around the crisp bill and turns to leave.

“I’m sorry. This was bad timing,” he whispers.

“No, no, Jesse,” I say, following him to the door. “It’s okay. I’ll be alright by myself.”

He raises a suspicious eyebrow, but I shrug. “I’ve always been alright. Who says I haven’t?”

My eyes swell with tears, and I can only feel his warm embrace before his shadow becomes one with the midnight sky.

Valentina Ramos ‘26 Scholastics Silver Key

Glass Doll

Jace Walker ‘25

First Nights

when i first lifted my head to peer inside your skull, light danced off of your too-long lashes— so damn bright that they could replace navigation lights on any plane— and i think you had wide doe-eyes that the prettiest dolls have tried to paint on their doll faces for centuries. whatever i once treasured for its strength dangled uselessly, too fat and too large, but also too flat. i remember how my sweat danced across the floor, so like the hot oil burning up my lungs. i remember how it snaked up my throat and split my smile. i remember how i thought to myself: who am i? what a doll. like the dolls in the pretty people store that i lost my money for on the way to buying, wax coins dripping onto fat deposits instead. my voice sounds full of doubt—i feel like i have wings. instead, i give you hot choc and hope that i laugh loudly enough to chase away the cave and gum that coalesced in my stomach. instead, i sink into your milk-candy skin—a white-hot core— there i find sweet relief warping through my mind. instead, my hand skips over miles of grass blades and across the blue gingham blankets, and the breadbasket, and the trodden earth. we say nothing by breathing in moon stars skin. i wipe my palms on my pants, because maybe the bugs can hear us, or the golf cart will come by and see that we are just two ordinary people sitting together. i touch your hair and braid clovers and spices into each path your freckles trace. i slip past stoicism to know muscle and blood and fat, pulsating with the truth.

I say to you: Thank you.

Brianna Yang ‘25

Scholastics Silver Key

I’ll Eat It. Will You?

Yellow saffron mixing with green onion, long grain sticking to sushi rice, contrasting flavors harmonizing into something new; that’s me in a metaphorical rice bowl. With a Chinese mother and a mixed Hispanic and Eastern European father, my heritage is (in my humble opinion) unique. Piling on the pancakes, my mother was raised a Buddhist, my paternal grandfather was Catholic, and my paternal grandmother is Jewish. That’s why I believe in sharing rice.

The diversity of my family has caused a plethora of confusing situations. These incidents are usually minor, even laughable; people have wrongly assumed that I’m Thai or Filipino. The more significant occurrences, however, are the awkward situations at holiday dinners with numerous relatives from different parts of my family. The language barriers between Cantonese (a Chinese dialect), Spanish, and English have made communication difficult. Despite the disjointed conversations, it is common practice for our family to bond over sharing rice, honoring two of the cultures at the table through paella and fried rice.

Sharing rice is a metaphor for my identity (hear me out on this one). I attend a Catholic school. But, when I go back to Canada, we visit the Buddhist temple where my maternal grandfather is memorialized. All the while, my paternal grandmother is a reminder of my Jewish origins. I used to understand some Spanish, but I lost the ability and now study Mandarin Chinese. Upon contemplating whether this was “too contradictory,” I realized — no. Take it like rice. Eat a scoop from each bowl. Find harmony despite the differences.

I have continued to apply the sharing-rice theory on a broader scale: you guessed it, Model UN (MUN). For those unfamiliar, MUN simulates the United Nations with students as delegates. Through it, I learned that though the world is so diverse, society chooses to use this as a weapon instead of an antidote to find unity. Stigmatizing different religions and ethnicities only deepens divides that prevent social understanding. The power of sensible thinking is often underestimated, which is where the sharing-rice theory comes into play. Look at the other party and work rationally to end the metaphorical or literal war. Take a scoop of their rice, force them to swallow yours, and work towards a solution. And if you don’t like their rice, you still have two viable (and amazing) options: eat it to be diplomatic (if you’re at the dinner table) or argue your case through a few logical clauses in a MUN resolution. Either way, it’s a win-win.

I believe in sharing rice, meaning that I believe it’s possible to find harmony despite differences through rational, methodological means. I found my identity when I accepted both the paella and fried rice that make up who I am. My family connected when they took a scoop of rice from each bowl. Maybe, as far-fetched as it seems, by sharing rice with more people, the whole world can find some sort of peace as well. And finally, to extend this metaphor further than it probably deserves to; no matter what, we are all just like rice. While we are all different, we are still all the same.

Valentina Ramos ‘26 Scholastics Gold Key

Mermaid Omakase

I. bluefin carving

they drag her onto the cutting board her dissection is beautiful

A rare gastronomical masterpiece they ogle the ruby treasure he wields a thin silver saber

An elegant dance of the blade lovingly cuts her flesh against the grain rips her translucent spine out (a bloodless job) debases her carcass and markets her body akami, chutoro, otoro— I like it fatty her death becomes art on the plate The marbling is marvelous here a splash of aged soy with ground wasabi There is no finer creature

II. Grace

Thank you, Lord for this food, and bless the hands that prepared it he deftly prepares the delicacies I will leave the details up to you taught to crave the pure and simple but learn to to shove rich tasteless life down your esophagus remorseless a seraphim angel sings from the sea as a mollusk of alabaster flesh learns to die its shell is for remembrance (it’s discarded) This uni is freshly imported from Hokkaido unblemished golden gonads, now naked the velvet procreating organ gouged from ebony skeletons now hollow inside We hope you enjoyed your experience Please come again.

Chole Li ‘26

Scholastics Honorable Mention

The Lament of Achilles

Men are not wrought from iron nor hewn from stone. Our hearts beat blood, our lungs breathe air; we die By sword or Fate or age’s dwindling groan. However met, the same end all; then why Devote our lives’ hours, fleetly flying on To deeds that carve for us a legacy:A simulacrum of glory set upon A frozen marble brow? What apogee Of life is this? To be a Name t’adorn So many lips, excepting those I’ve known And those I’ve kissed? I’ll be forsworn! I wish it were my monument had shown How glorious it is to simply live. My deeds, my name, my glory – all, I’d give To stretch, and yawn, and wake still curled upon The open palm of rosy-fingered dawn.

Inspired by the statuary of Achilles and the meeting of Odysseus and Achilles in Hades as described in The Odyssey; composed between Meteora and Santorini, Greece, in 2007

Lauren Walton, Faculty

Optical Leaves

Sophia Silverman ‘28

Scholastics Honorable Mention

Tapestry Mission & Policies

Tapestry is a student-run literary and fine arts publication that strives to showcase the creative talents and diverse artistic expression at Archmere Academy. Tapestry solicits writing submissions beginning in the spring via Google Forms, the senior creative writing class, and the faculty. The evaluation process begins in mid-April, when the editorial staff members, with the guidance of the faculty moderator, discuss each piece anonymously based on an evaluation rubric that encompasses creativity of approach, style of writing, and effectiveness of purpose. Submissions close in mid-May and the editorial staff complete the evaluation process in late May. Art pieces are solicited from students via Google forms and paired with accepted writing selections. Tapestry is published digitally and in-print in June.

Editors’ Note

Collaborating with the 2025 Tapestry Editorial Team was an incredible honor and privilege. Throughout the past few months, we’ve witnessed so much growth within our team, whether it be members’ first publication with us or, like the four of us, their very last. Each meeting, members arrived with a smile, excited to discuss different pieces in depth. Our time reviewing a diverse array of works taught us valuable skills in collaboration and dedication. These past few years, we’ve worked alongside many students, and as we depart, we know the rest of our vibrant team will take on the next edition without a falter. Tapestry is a place to showcase Archmere’s many talents and the voice of our incredibly gifted student body, whether it be award-winning artwork or rich pieces of poetry, prose, and everything in between. As we sally forth on our college journeys and beyond, we hope to leave Archmere with a book that captures our unique student visionaries. We sincerely hope you enjoy reading this collection of amazing writing and art.

Your 2025 Tapestry Editorial Team, Caileigh, Lily, Elisa, and Meredith

Colophon

The 2025 issue of Tapestry, Archmere Academy’s literary and arts magazine, is designed and created by students using Adobe InDesign CC. The Cover art , “Studio Work,” was created by Grace Yang ‘25 using white charcoal on black paper. Archmere students created all works within the magazine, aside from a few faculty contributions. The Title is in Bodoni 72 Oldstyle and the body text for all literary pieces is Athelas in 12 pt font. The printed book’s dimensions are 8.8 inches by 11 inches with 0.5-inch side margins and 1-inch top and bottom margins. The magazine is printed by Aztec Printing & Design in Wilmington, DE. Contact faculty moderator Stephen Klinge at sklinge@archmereacademy.com for more information.

2025

Senior Editors

Caileigh Crane ‘25

Lilian Domenico ‘25

Elisabeth Small ‘25

Meredith Victoria ‘25

Editorial Staff

Anabelle Demosthene ‘28

Evelyn Goodrick ‘28

Anne-Cécile Kittila ‘26

Chloe Li ‘26

Daniel Qi ‘26

Sophia Silverman ‘28

Selena Yang ‘26

Additional Staff

Jessica Li ‘28

Shripraba Narayanan’25

Allision Qu ‘28

Rebecca Wang ‘26

Layout & Art Editor Copy Editor

Meredith Victoria ‘25

Caileigh Crane ‘25

Faculty Advisor

Stephen Klinge

Special thanks to...

Mrs Silverman and the Art Department

Mrs. Linton and the Creative Writing Class and all who submitted work to Tapestry 2025!