Hip·po·crene
( Hip · po · crene | \hi-pə-krē-nē )
noun, literary
1. used to refer to poetic or literary inspiration
2. Greek Mythology — a fountain on Mount Helicon, sacred to the Muses: its waters inspire poets
HIPPOCRENE
2024-2025
The Arts & Literary Magazine of Avon Old Farms School
TABLE OF CONTENTS (red denotes seniors)
OWEN CALLAGHAN '25
JORDAN LEE '26
SHANE OLSON '26
JORDAN WEAVER '25
MINGZHANG (ROHENS) XU '27
KACIN ROBINSON '25
KADEN RODRIGUEZ '26
DOMINIK SEDLAK-BRAUDE '25
XIRAN (FELIX) FAN '27
CONNOR NOLL '25
CHRIS NAZARIAN '26
HENRY GOGINSKY '25
DOMINIC CARDUCCI '25
MASON MINKSY '25
SAMANTHA JENSEN F.A.S.
ANTHONY (AJ) ZAPPONE '26
PABLO PAREDES '26
TIGHE JOHNSTON '26
AUSTIN MOELLER '25
TRISTAN BLAINE '26
NATE OLSON '26
JORDAN LEE '26
IGNATIUS (IGGY) WALUK '28
HENRY GOGINSKY '25
JEONGMIN (IAN) CHOI '25
MICHAEL MOUNSEY '26
OWEN ALICIENE '25
JEONGMIN (IAN) CHOI '25
LUKE BARAN '26
SHAYDEN SAMUELS FRAZER '27
AHREN LEHNOFF '26
CHAINED BY TIME AND TIES
TITLE ART
A DREAM CUT SHORT
STARGAZER
REFECTIONS
PORTRAIT OF BUCK
PERSONAL HELICON
CLOWNFISH
WHO IS IT?
THE TALE OF A HOCKEY STICK
PHOTO OF STEM
TRAPPED
THE WIELDED BLADE
MY GRANDPA'S GENTLE LIGHT
BIDING TIME
TRELEPHANT
PERSONAL HELICON
WINE GLASS
BOWL
LAX BROCTOPUS
PERSONAL HELICON STREAM
EXCEED THE MINIMUM JOURNEY
MY SCHOOL BUILDING
NEW HAMPSHIRE HOLDS MY HEART
ODE TO MY FRIDGE
MY DORM ROOM
PERSONAL HELICON
TREE TRUNK
THOSE DAYS
HIPPOCRENE
2024–2025
The Arts & Literary Magazine of Avon Old Farms School
TABLE OF CONTENTS (red denotes seniors)
JORDAN LEE '26
SHANE OLSON '26
JOSH TRAVAGLINO '25
DEACON PRINCE '25
CHRIS NAZARIAN '26
WONJAE CHO '25
SHANE OLSON '26
SAMANTHA JENSEN F.A.S.
JORDAN WEAVER '25
CONNOR NOLL '25
ANDRÉS CALDERÓN SUÁREZ '27
WONJAE CHO '25
OWEN CALLAGHAN '25
NATE OLSON '26
CHRIS
DOMINIK
SEAN LYNCH '25
'26
JOHN GRANGER '26
AJ ZAPPONE '26
MASON MINSKY '25
'25
SUNSET AT THE LAKE POSTSCRIPT
NORTHERN LIGHTS A BEAUTIFUL GAME CAPTAINS MÖBIUS
PERSONAL HELICON
SUNSET AT SECRET LAKE WETLANDS
FOREST BIKE RIDES
SCENE IN AN OAXCAN PARADE
FRAGMENTS OF THE PRESENT HELPING HANDS
POSTSCRIPT
LINEUP PRAYER DUAL ROOTS
THE REAL ME
PORTRAIT
SELF PORTRAIT
CHENGFENG (ALLEN) YAN '25
DEACON PRINCE '25
MINGZHANG (ROHENS) XU '27
NATE OLSON '26
KACIN ROBINSON '25
OWEN CALLAGHAN '25
CHENGFENG (ALLEN) YAN '25
CHRIS
OWEN
'26
'25
I WISH IT WAS A BLUR OLD MAN ESCALATOR
PERSONAL HELICON SOUND OF WAVES
SNOWBANK
PORTRAIT OF ROGER
HOLDING THE BALL
LEAF IN SNOW
PREPARING THE SHOT
CHAINED BY TIME AND TIES
A Dream Cut Short
Shane Olson '26
Ryan Carter could still feel the phantom ache in his ankle, the constant reminder of the day everything slipped away. It wasn’t just the injury, though it was bad enough, but the loss of everything that had come with it. His body, once able to drive past defenders like they weren’t even there, had betrayed him. Now, in his mid-30s, Ryan worked as a car salesman at a used lot. His dreams of the NBA were long gone, but his mind still wondered what could have been. It was a good enough job, he told himself, but it did not make up for the fact that his potential had been much more.
His son, Matthew, was 10 years old now. He was bright and curious, Matthew still believed in the kind of magic Ryan used to feel when he had the ball in his hands. Sometimes, when Matthew asked why his dad didn’t play basketball anymore, Ryan would just smile and tell him, “Dad’s too old for that now, bud.” But Matthew did not know the truth, not about the nights Ryan spent lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering why it had to be him who lost it all right before it started.
Ryan sat at the kitchen table one Saturday afternoon, feeling like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Matthew was outside in the yard, trying to make a basket with a worn down ball and a hoop they’d set up years ago. It wasn’t anything special, but it was theirs. He tried to smile when Matthew called for him to come shoot with him, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore.
“Hey, Dad!” Can you help me with my form?” Matthew's voice cut through the stillness, snapping Ryan out of his daydream.
Ryan pushed away from the table and walked outside. He watched as Matthew bounced the ball, dribbling it like Ryan had taught him. His son’s shot was far from perfect, but there was something about the way that Matthew focused. Everytime he shot the ball, it was as if he believed it would go in no matter what, just like Ryan used to. The
sheer belief, the hope that he could still do something amazing, was almost too much for Ryan to bear.
“You’re getting better,” Ryan said, passing him the ball back after Matthew’s shot hit the rim.
“I’ll get it one day!” Matthew grinned up at him. “Can you show me that move you used to do? You know, the one where you jump and twist and shoot over everyone?”
Ryan froze. He knew exactly what Matthew was talking about. It was the move that had everyone at the college games buzzing, the one he had been famous for before it all went away. He didn't want to show Matthew. He couldn’t. He wasn’t that person anymore.
“I’m not sure I can do it like I used to,” Ryan Said, walking over and ruffling Matthew’s hair. “But let’s work on it together. We will take it one step at a time.”
As they started practicing, Ryan’s mind wandered back to the day of the injury. The crowd’s roar faded as his foot planted awkwardly and he went down, the sharp pain in his achilles shooting up his whole body. He remembered the way his coach’s face had looked as the trainers rushed over, knowing it was over before they had even determined the issue. The trainers later determined that his injury would be career ending. Ten years have passed and Ryan finds himself back in that moment everyday.
Later that night, after Matthew had gone to bed, Ryan sat in the living room, scrolling through the papers on the table. Old basketball magazines, some old family photos, and cutouts of himself in front of impressive stat lines. Then something caught his eye. A yellowed envelope that was tucked in between pages of a magazine. He picked it up and inside was a manuscript. He recognized his own handwriting and realized that it was his own writing full of memories, hope, and dreams that he had long pushed away.
It was the journal he had started writing while he was recovering from surgery, manifesting the journey of coming back to the game and defying the odds. He had abandoned it halfway through when he accepted the truth that his comeback would never come.
Ryan hadn’t thought about the manuscript in years and had forgotten about it com-
pletely. The stories from his past and unfiltered emotions were put on every page. His dreams were there, and in those pages, Ryan realized something that he hadn’t admitted to himself. He had been running from who he really was, from the person he used to be. The fear of failure had kept him from even looking at his past. He had tried to block it out completely.
It was as if he had lost two things, his career along with the version of himself who believed he could be great. That person was gone, replaced by a man who settled for a shitty job, who told himself that his best days were behind him.
Reading the words on the page felt different now. He couldn’t change the past, but maybe he could use it. The manuscript was his history, his story, and Matthew deserved to know the good and the bad in his father’s story.
STARGAZER
JORDAN WEAVER '25
REFECTIONS MINGZHANG (ROHENS) XU '27
The next day, when Matthew came home from school, Ryan was sitting at the kitchen table, the manuscript was open in front of him.
“Dad, what's that?” Matthew asked hesitantly.
Ryan looked up, his eyes a little teary as they locked with his son’s. “This,” Ryan said, holding up the manuscript, “is something I started writing a long time ago. It’s about basketball and my story.”
Matthew pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “Can I read it?”
Ryan hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, but let me read it with you.”
As they turned the pages together, Ryan told Matthew stories of his glory days, the training, the games, the excitement from the crowd, and everything that came with it. He told him about the injury too, how in one moment, everything changed. How he had felt lost. But most importantly, he told Matthew about how he was trying to find himself again, not as a player, but as a person.
“So, you used to think you’d make it to the NBA?” Matthew asked.
“I did. And for a while, I really believed it would happen. I was projected to be drafted.”
Matthew thought for a moment before speaking again. “Just because you didn’t make it there doesn’t mean you weren’t great.”
Ryan stared at his son, the simplicity of his words hitting him in a way he hadn’t expected. He spent years seeing himself as a failure, but Matthew saw something entirely different.
“I guess not,” Ryan finally said. “I guess being great isn’t just about what you can do on the court.”
Matthew grinned. “Well I think you should teach me everything you know.”
Ryan laughed, shaking his head. “Alright, bud. Let’s start tomorrow.”
For the first time in a long time, Ryan felt like he was stepping onto a new court, not as a player, but as a father ready to pass down something more important than just the special moves and love for the game. He was also going to share the lessons he learned along the way.
The next day, Ryan and Matthew woke up early and went to the local park. The court was empty, the morning air was crisp as the sun was coming over the trees. Ryan dribbled the ball, familiar yet foreign. He had spent years avoiding the game, but now, with Matthew watching him with eager eyes, he felt something different inside himself, a small bit of passion he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
“Alright, let's start with the basics,” Ryan said, passing the ball to Matthew. Matthew caught it and squared up with the hoop. His form was improving, but Ryan could see the small adjustments he needed to make. He stepped behind his son and corrected his form.
“Bend your knees a little more. Keep your elbows tucked in,” Ryan instructed. Matthew nodded, focusing as he took the shot. The ball arced through the air, bouncing off the backboard before going into the net. He turned to his dad with wide eyes. “Did you see that?”
Ryan smiled. “I did. That was a good shot.”
They spent hours on the court, Ryan showing Matthew different techniques, small tricks he had learned over the years. And as he taught, Ryan felt something unexpected, joy while he was playing the game. Not the regretful longing that he had become so used to, but pure, unfiltered happiness.He was reconnecting with basketball, but this time, it wasn’t about proving anything to himself or anything else. It was about sharing something he loved with his son.
As the weeks passed, their routine became a regular thing. After school, before dinner, on weekends, and any chance they got, they were on the court together. Ryan could see Matthew’s improvement, in skill and in confidence. He played with the same fire
that Ryan once had, but it wasn’t fueled by pressure or expectations. It was fueled by love for the game.
One evening, after a long practice session, they sat on the curb, drinking water and catching their breath. The sun was setting and they were getting ready to call it a night.
“Dad,” Matthew said, “why don’t you coach?”
Ryan turned to him, caught off guard. “Coach?”
“Yeah. You know so much about basketball. And you’re really good at teaching.” Matthew answered.
Ryan looked down at the ball in his hands. He had never considered it before. He had spent so long distancing himself from the sport, he never thought about returning in any other capacity other than a spectator. But now, as he watched Matthew’s hopeful expression, he wondered if maybe there was still a place for him in the game.
“I don’t know, bud,” Ryan said. “I haven't been around the game in a long time.”
“But you never forgot it, and you always tell me that basketball isn’t just about playing. It’s about heart and believing in yourself.”
Ryan smiles, ruffling Matthew’s hair. “Oh, so you have been listening to me.”
Matthew laughed. “Of course.”
That night, as Ryan layed in bed, he couldn’t shake the idea of coaching from his head. It was a different path, one he had never considered, but maybe it was a way back. Not to who he used to be, but to who he could become.
The next morning Ryan made a decision. He called up his old high school coach, who he hadn’t spoken to in years. After a brief chat, he learned that the youth league was in need of coaches. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
A week later, Ryan found himself standing in a gym, with a whistle around his neck, watching a group of young kids dribble up and down the court. He felt awkward at first, being on the sidelines instead of playing, but as he gave instructions, encouraged players, and saw their excitement, it felt like he was in the right place.
Matthew joined the team, and for the first time, Ryan wasn’t just his father. He was his coach. And as he watched his son dribble past defenders, a determined look in his eyes, Ryan knew that while his dream of the NBA had ended, a new dream had begun. He may have lost his chance to play, but he had found something more valuable.
Personal Helicon Kaden
Rodriguez '26
As a child, they could not keep me from the backyard, the woods, the stream, and most importantly, My older brother Niko, We lived in the wild places just beyond the fence.
I loved the smell of cut grass leading to the woods, The crunching of the autumn leaves beneath our feet, As we wandered deeper, the branches swayed. We chased after the wind, letting it carry us through the trees. Niko always led the way, and I followed, fearless in his shadow.
Now, the woods are quieter. The stream sings a softer song, But when the wind hits the branches, I still hear our laughing in the distance.
CLOWNFISH
The Tale of a Hockey Stick
Connor Noll '25
It is as light as a small bird's feather. The colors shine bright. The stick makes me play better, It always does me right.
Hold the stick in your hands. It guides the puck, as knights their fates do lead. They cost a few bands.
A partner in the dance of ice and speed.
Some sticks make me go wow. A tool of craft, yet passion’s fiery spark. I understand it now, It sings a song that echoes through the dark.
O faithful stick, you are an art, It is now time to add one to my cart.
PHOTO OF STEM
TRAPPED HENRY GOGINSKY '25
The Wielded Blade Dominic Carducci '25
Bronze Strength
Iron handle Wielded by The best The guard that protects the blade Also protects the Wielder
Of the sword
The wear and tear
Of the blade Shows the battle And blood The tip Has Pierced Many Hearts
My Grandpa's Gentle Light
Mason Minsky '25
The room is quiet, soft with shadows of gray, He rests, his breathing gentle, slow, and deep, His eyes, tired, dark, hold a strength to keep, A spark of life that will not fade away. We sit beside him, not sure what to say, The hours drift, a river calm in sleep. Our love surrounds him, steady, wide, and steep, A warmth that lingers as the sky darkens.
The world outside keeps moving, bright and fast, But here, the time feels tender, still, and small. His stories, laughter, kindness— stayed the same. Though life may change, his spirit holds faithful, A part of us forever through it all, Like sunlight breaking softly after rain.
Personal Helicon
Pablo Paredes '26
When I was a child, they couldn't keep me away, From the garden in Ecuador where I’d play.
With my dogs by my side, joy filled the air, A peaceful escape, beyond any care.
The soft grass beneath, cool under my feet, Fresh winds carried scents, so gentle, so sweet.
Nature’s embrace, a sheltering grace,
That garden was my most secure place.
Laughter and games, the sky open wide,
The world felt so safe with my dogs by my side.
Memories bloom where the air’s still so clear, And I find that same peace when I dream of myself here.
WINE GLASS TIGHE JOHNSTON '26
BOWL
AUSTIN MOELLER '25
Personal Helicon
Nate Olson '26
As a child, they could not keep me from marching down the hill with my bright blue net
The smell and sound of rushing water met me, the warmth of the summer sun on my back, Mud puddles splashing up my legs
I felt like my own version of Jeremy Wade from River Monsters, Chasing frogs all day, lost in the thrill Beside my house, a stream of water ran, And from the moment I opened my eyes
All I could think of were the frogs, waiting at the bank
I'd sneak up to the creek, careful and quiet, Swinging my net, hoping to catch the biggest one, Each moment filled with the joy of discovery.
STREAM
JORDAN LEE '26
Exceed the Minimum Ignatius (Iggy) Waluk '28
Exceed the Minimum. You’re Built for it.
Not to sound arrogant, but humans are superior beings. All animals have been sculpted by natural selection for the bare minimum: to survive in their habitat long enough to pass on their genes. Something seems different about us, though.
We have stretched our lifespans to well over 70 years, and lived those decades in blissful comfort. As this is being written, I am at a cool 68 degrees, in a leather chair, with a full belly of food, and clean drinking water beside me. We have made life something we cherish, rather than endure. Where I am going is that humans seem to be designed for more than just the minimum. The human brain is a perfect example of this.
To survive in this world, having a brain is useful, but not essential. Plants get by just fine without one. And yet, humans have developed brains that can write books, calculate motion, and ponder the meaning of life. To be such a smart cookie is not required for survival. However, the human mind was essential for the construction of the complex, booming populations around the world today. Our mind isn’t our only ticket to paradise, though. It is just one thing that has helped us flourish.
Unfortunately, some of our superior aspects can be dangerous. Us humans just never seem to be satisfied, so we explore, searching for a better life. Whether it be the Spaniards voyaging to North America or Neal Armstrong taking the first step on the moon, us humans just won’t stop searching for something better than what we have. Ironically, this trait is more often than not our demise. To have such an urge to explore is not only unnecessary to survival, but can be harmful. There have been countless failed expeditions throughout history. Luckily, there have been times where explorers do survive, and as a species we become stronger for it. It is rare for an organism to have such a taste for danger, yet we have this risky gift. Hence, we are meant to thrive.
Selflessness is the final beautiful attribute that will be mentioned. If observant enough, this attribute can be seen throughout everyday life. Think of when there is trash on the side of the road. It is so easy to walk by it and forget it moments later, allowing it to poison nature. Nevertheless, people, hopefully you, still pick it up. You are bettering society rather than yourself by picking up the trash, which you don’t have to do. Doing such a thing is an everyday sign of your superiority. So next time you see trash on the ground, remember: you are a superior being, so act like one.
JOURNEY
HENRY GOGINSKY '25
New Hampshire Holds My Heart
Michael Mounsey '26
Rooted am I to granite
My soul planted as if roots extend well into the ground, Like the weeping willowWatching over Winnipesauakee Anchoring me,
Steadfast am I to this ground, much like the people of this place
Strong in mind and in stature
We are fighters
Freedom was birthed on our soil
While we are small in size
We are not weak
While some may depart her lands
Their hearts grasp to her, She longs to not be forgotten
By the evolution of time
Her Majestic Mountains and Roaring rivers
Will bring he who travels the farthest from her, back
She is a Magnet
Elastic am I to her rugged ridges
She Holds my heart
New Hampshire Holds My heart
MY SCHOOL BUILDING JEONGMIN (IAN) CHOI '25
Ode to my Fridge
Owen Aliciene '25
3 and a half feet
By 1 and a quarter
The dimensions of happiness
Keeping beverages oh so cold And my discontent far away In the shadows of my dorm
Each week You carry different tasks Like keeping wings fresh for the next day
MY DORM ROOM JEONGMIN (IAN) CHOI '25
The refreshing taste of a cold water Or a crispy gatorade Keeps my mood afloat on a warm day
Personal Helicon
Luke Baran '26
When I was young they couldn't keep me from,
The oak down at the river bend
Three nailed steps, rigged and rough A ladder to adventure
To reach the sky of summer haze
I’d climb til the sun shrank, The calm summer breeze, An old friends laugh Its heavy limbs stretched out their arms, As the leaves swayed and danced
My platform to the cool below.
The river glistened-blue and green
Id jump, time paused
The plunge of freedom
The waters warm embrace.
The tree stands, Yet quieter now, But sometimes I still hear the water calling Bringing me back to when I was free.
TREE TRUNK
SHAYDEN SAMUELS FRAZER '27
Those Days
Ahren Lehnhoff '26
A game of tag Beads of sweat
And shirts stained black
From a day
Free from any worry, A thick headed young boy
Dared to jump over a rock
At first he hesitates
But peering at his friends
He obliges and gives it his best shot, But alas my skin scraped the sharp shards, shale and pumice, my left leg lacerated, Drops of red
And a steady stream of water, Like those old water wheels
You know the ones, With salty water turning it, But do you really think I'm talking about a rock? Or my leg? I miss those days
Those days when I could sweat stain my shirt and be bandaged if I'm broken With a tender kiss on the spot where it hurts
The sharp shale and pumice, Stings with those lessons of life
Which lead to dreary dullness
Oh how I could go on and on I wish I could tell you about those times
When it didn't matter about what lies beyond but i have forgotten.
SUNSET AT THE LAKE JORDAN LEE '26
Postscript Shane Olson '26
And some time make the time to sit at the lookout
On a morning when the sun is rising
And the sky is pink with clouds so low
They cover the trees beneath
Take the time to start your day this way
To see for yourself that there is beauty in everything
Make the time to reflect
As the sun rises from its rest
Where you can be free and at peace
Sitting on the benches
Not letting your thoughts leave your feet
A Beautiful Game
Deacon Prince '25
Just the concept was like a jewel
The game like a sapphire
A place in my heart it rules
An unparalleled love to be admired
A heavy toll it always takes
However playing brings you to a heavenly bliss But failure causes the spirit to break And once over its all you'll miss
No fleeting love, my solace, and my song
From the first time to the last
To thee, o football, I shall e’er belong Footballs now in the past
Though time may steal the moments I adore, My heart is bound to football evermore.
MÖBIUS WONJAE CHO '25
Personal Helicon
Shane Olson '26
As a child, they could not keep me from the pond
Where the cold turned the water into a dull white rink
I loved how the sharp cold air filled my lungs
And made my face reddish pink.
We raced around, chasing pucks through the brush
The rush of cracking on thin ice Every slip was followed by laughter, Just part of the fun
On the rusted pipe, we would tie our skates
My fingers ached, squeezing my laces tight
Sharing stories until the sky turned bright orange
WETLANDS JORDAN WEAVER '25
Forest Bike Rides
Connor Noll '25
As a child they could not keep me from riding my bike. My cousin and I would go into the unknown woods everyday. We would search for something thrilling, From making large jumps to getting chased by some crazy people. There was nothing like being one with the forest. Getting lost in the woods without a thought in mind. All we would bring was water and a speaker. If we got tired we would find an old stump to sit on.
Who knows what that stump has been through but all we knew was that it was there for us to sit on.
We would sit in silence with music softly coming from the speaker. The music helped us take in every moment we experienced.
There is nothing in the world I would trade, For those valuable and memorable moments with my cousin.
Scene in a Oaxacan Parade
Andrés Calderón Suárez '27
In son and internal marimba, The pueblo beats to the walls of mamey, Possessed by diablo and zapotecan dionysus, Sons of el maíz take the dance of fate. A dónde va esto?
The people guided by the picado sky, Crowded in that warm cup of atole, A density of 500 heights, skins, and colors.
Yet they all dance to the same rhythm, Each a different part of the alebrije, While mojigangas, in their form of mezcal, Float through the air and dictate the crowd.
The souls of huaraches hit the cobblestone, Dirt of millennia and revolutions, For this is the temple of union, The concha’s call, the hymn of revelry.
And suddenly, for all things here are sudden, The torch, bright with a star above, is handed to me, And I stand as one with the parade, A swift turn to the avenue of reform.
Red and green aluminum dresses shine, Reflecting the abundant cornucopia in their metallic glow, Golden piñatas orbiting the people, Visitors pulled by the charm of Oaxaca.
But I am no longer a foreigner, Though I once left, the dance now stirs within me, A pulse long buried, only revived in the chaos of my land, And I understand: I never truly left.
Postscript Nate Olson '26
And some time make the time To visit the chapel
Where we unite as a school In prayer
When the suns hazy rays Makes the windows glow
You are greeted by a gentle warmth With the smell of old wood, And creaks of the tightly placed chairs Say hello to you.
When rushes of different emotions fill the room And the future is uncertain
As the football team gathers Before every game
You might feel the other Avonians From years and years before In the room with you
PORTRAIT
JOHN GRANGER '26
SELF PORTRAIT
ANTHONY (AJ) ZAPPONE '26
I Wish it was a Blur Mason Minsky '25
An aurora shined before me from heaven’s grounds. The moon reflected against the calm, dappled water, And I reached out to a speck of hope
But to no avail.
When the water and air collided, I felt it all.
Time became still.
I could see as far as the mountains, But the beauty laid before me.
A figure emerged from the dark. The sudden screech casts a wave of disturbance
As it soars out of my grasp to the gods.
My feet were confined to the sand, And emptiness surrounded me.
I closed my eyes and inhaled the cold mist. A gentle breeze rustled against my cheek And took my foolish soul.
Just as water, I float away.
My tears were screaming with anguish, And my dreams were lost forever. Everything was gone, And the world laid still.
(ALLEN) YAN '25
Personal Helicon
Deacon Prince '25
As a child they could not keep me from the ocean
Looking over the endless expansion of turquoise
Who’s serenity is unmatched
And its depth unknown
With every person diving in The powerful ocean went unchanged
And the mysterious creatures within curious
On who disturbed their peace
Playing with the wet sand
And building majestic piles of nothing
I remember jumping off the dock with my friends
Which led to happiness only found at the beach
SOUND
OF WAVES MINGZHANG (ROHENS) XU '27
Snowbank
Nate Olson '26
Big Tim trudged through the snow-covered streets of Woodstock, Connecticut, his backpack slung over one shoulder, weighed down by textbooks, loose change, and the baseball that never left his side. It was the late 70s, and life was supposed to be simpler for a sixteen year old kid. But for Tim, it wasn’t. Every day was the same. School, home, taking care of his mom, and trying to make sense of a life that felt too heavy for his shoulders. He loved his mother deeply, but he longed for an escape. It was hard for him to see her lose her strength since she started chemotherapy, but he was the only one home throughout the school year to take care of her. His older brother had moved to New York for work, and his sister was off at college. His dad was always traveling for his job, leaving Tim as the sole caregiver. He had no choice. He never said it out loud, and never would, but he resented the weight of it all. His friends, Maxx and Dylan, didn’t have to rush home after school to make dinner or clean up after a sick parent. They didn’t have anything to worry about. They got to be normal kids. On the other hand, Tim felt like an adult trapped in a teenager’s body, burdened with responsibilities no kid should have to bear. He was jealous of their regular lives, and that jealousy made him feel even worse.
The cold air bit at his face as he got closer to the intersection by the high school. That’s when he saw a glimpse of green sticking out from a snowbank. His curiosity got the best of him. He bent down, kicked the snow aside, and there it was. A fat wad of cash. His fingers trembled as he peeled back the first few bills, it was more money than he had ever held in his life. His heart hammered in his chest. Glancing around to make sure no one was watch -
ing, he shoved the money into his jacket pocket and calmly walked back to his house, trying not to act suspicious. By the time he reached home, he was sweating despite the freezing temperatures.
Tim locked himself in his room, his hands shaking as he spread the bills out on his bead. He counted. Two thousand dollars.
A thought entered his mind, one so selfish that guilt twisted with excitement. This is my way out.
For the first time in years, he wouldn’t have to be the kid stuck at home while his friends spent their summer in Cape Cod, riding bikes until sunset, playing ball at a park without a care in the world. He could go with them. He could be normal. No more spending every day watching his mother fade before his eyes. No more missing out.
Tim quickly gathered the money and stuffed it into an old tin lunch box he hadn’t used in years. Normally, every penny he got went towards caring for his mother. He pushed it to the back of his closet, covering it with a pile of baseball gloves and forgotten junk. He wasn’t going to tell anyone. Not yet.
The next day at school, he couldn’t focus. His mind kept drifting back to the money, to the freedom it represented. At lunch, he watched Maxx and Dylan laugh about some dumb joke, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside of him. He wanted to tell them. He wanted to say, This summer, I’m coming with you. But he kept his mouth shut.
By the time the final bell rang, he couldn’t keep it in anymore. He called Maxx and Dylan and told them to meet him in his basement. The tin
lunch box sat on the floor between them, the money stacked inside. Maxx whispered in a cautious voice. “No chance. No way. You just found this?”
Dylan brushed his hand over his short hair. “That's gotta belong to someone.”
Tim shrugged. “No one’s come looking for it.”
“So what are we gonna do with it?” Maxx asked, eyes now shining with possibility.
Tim leaned forward. “We save it. Until summer.”
“For what?” Dylan asked.
“For everything,” Tim said, his voice almost desperate for the summers he had missed. “Cape Cod. Baseball games. A whole summer just doing whatever we want. No worrying, no responsibilities. Just us.”
Maxx and Dylan exchanged a look. Tim knew they didn’t understand what this meant to him. How could they? They’d never had to feel trapped the way he did.
Dylan hesitated. “Are you sure about this?”
Tim nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
They spent the next hour carefully planning. They needed the perfect hiding place, somewhere no one would find it but where they could easily retrieve it when summer came. After much arguing, they settled on a spot just past the baseball field, in a small clearing where an old rotted oak tree still stood tall. The ground beneath it was mostly soft soil, even in the winter. They dug a deep hole, their fingers stiff from the cold, and carefully placed the lunch box inside. Tim pressed his palm
against the bark of the tree and, using a pocket knife, scratched their initials into it, a secret only they would understand.
To ensure they wouldn't forget, they sketched a rough map. Tim traced a crude path from the baseball field to the oak tree, marking landmarks and even drawing an “X” where the money lay. The air smelled of damp earth and pine, the quiet rustle of the wind through the bare branches sending a chill down their spines. They had done it. Their treasure was safe.
For the first time in a long time, Tim felt light. Hopeful.
Tim couldn’t sit still the night after they buried the money. He kept picturing it sitting there under the frozen ground, a treasure waiting for the summer sun to release it. The weight of responsibility had always kept him tethered to his life at home, but now, for the first time, he felt like he had a secret of his own. One that meant he could be free, even just for a little while.
Over the next few months, they would sneak off after school to their hiding place. The field remained untouched, the oak tree standing tall as if guarding their secret. The anticipation built with each visit. Summer was just within reach. As Winter dragged on, all the three boys could think about was their money. Tim kept the secret, dreaming of summer while he went through the motions of his daily life. He still cared for his mom, still cooked her meals and made sure she took her medicine. But he now had something to look forward to. He had his teenage life waiting for him.
Then, one afternoon in early spring, Tim was biking past when he noticed something strange. Heavy machinery was parked near the
clearing, workers were hammering stakes into the ground. He slammed on his brakes, unable to comprehend what was happening. The trees that once stood there were gone, reduced to stumps and piles of dirt.
He didn't wait. He pedaled as fast as he could to Dylan’s house, breathless as he burst through the door. “ They are digging up the trees! We have to do something!”
Maxx met the two there within minutes, and together, they sprinted through the baseball field, their shoes kicking up grass and they skidded to a stop. They hopped the fence and walked to where their money had been. But instead of their hiding place, they found nothing but churned up soil and a construction sign warning them to stay out.
Maxx’s face went pale with disbelief. “No way.”
Dylan picked up a stray piece of paper flapping in the wind. It wasn’t their map, just a crumpled flyer about a new community center being built on the site. He cursed under his breath. “They must’ve dug it up when they cleared the trees.”
Tim’s stomach dropped. Their treasure, their plans, everything gone. He felt hollow. All that time, all that hope, had vanished just like that. All that was left was dirt and the distant sound of a bulldozer revving up for another day’s work.
For a long moment, none of them spoke. Then, Dylan broke the silence. “Well,” he said, kicking at a rock, “so much for that.”
Maxx sighed and sat down on the bleachers. “Guess we’re back to square one.”
Tim sat down beside him, staring out at the field. He had spent so long pinning his hopes on that money, believing it was the only way he
could feel like a normal kid. But looking at his friends, their disappointment mirroring his own, he realized something.
They had planned for the best summer ever, but had it really been about the money? Or had it been about the adventure, the thrill of planning something big together? The past few months had been some of the best he’d had in years, and he hadn’t even used the cash. It was because of the friends he spent time with. Tim looked up, “You know, we still don’t need money to have a good summer.”
As the summer days passed, the anger faded. He still took care of his mom, but his sister also decided to come home from college. This left him with valuable time to be with his friends. He realized that even without the money, he still had Maxx and Dylan. He still had summer nights on the baseball field, racing bikes down the street, swimming in the lake. He had his friends. And for the first time, he saw them not as a reminder of what he didn’t have, but as what he had all along.
One night, lying on the baseball field after a late night practice, Tim turned to his friends. “You know,” he said, “we didn’t need that money to have a great summer”
Maxx chuckled. “Yeah, but it would’ve been nice.”
Dylan grinned. “Still, we made it pretty damn great.”
Tim smiled up at the sky, feeling better than he had in months. He had spent so long looking for an escape, but all he ever needed was right there with him. And no construction worker could take that away.
LETTER FROM THE EDITORS
Many hours, revisions, and long nights over the course of the 2024-25 school year have been put into the amazing works of art and pieces of literature that you see in this magazine. We are extremely pleased with how this year’s edition of the Hippocrene turned out and would like to thank all of the students who submitted their literary and artistic work. This work could never have been possible without the unwavering support of all the amazing faculty and staff in the Art and English departments, so a huge thank you goes out to them.
This is the 33rd year of our beloved literary and art magazine, and in this edition, there have been some substantial changes. Most notably, we decided for the first time to accept submissions of greater length. Up until now, we have had a limited word count on submissions, but as we started the selection process, there were two stories we simply couldn’t ignore. After much deliberation as to how we would display them in the magazine, we settled on the current layout, using these stories (written by identical twin brothers) to book-end the rest of the art, poetry and prose. We are excited about this new layout and the substance within the pages. We hope this inclusion will inspire other authors in our midst to stretch their creative muscles in the future.
Another feature of note is the inclusion of several poems that take the same form. This past summer, two of our English faculty members went to Ireland for a professional development week to learn more about the poetry and literature of the land. Throughout this issue you will see poems that were inspired by that trip, by the poems of Seamus Heaney, and the teachings of a young poet named Naimh McNally. Each of these poems is designated in the Table of Contents with a ( ) and most are titled Personal Helicon after the mentor poem used in class.
Finally, a hearty congratulations must go out to some of our award-winning artists. Wonjae Cho won Best in Grade in the National Scholastic Art Awards, and our cover artist, Owen Callaghan, won a Silver Key at the Scholastic Art Awards. Within our pages are numerous award-winning and honorable mention pieces, and I, along with my fellow editors, join with our faculty to applaud them all for their incredible work.
Chris, Jordan, Wesley, Nate, Shane and I would like to thank the teachers at Avon Old Farms for inspiring the work you see between these pages - Mrs. Jensen for being both our guide and task-master, and Mr. Sayles for all his technical assistance and creative guidance. Each
of us is filled with a sense of accomplishment and pride in what we have been able to produce and offer to our community; a celebration of the inspiration and talent of our brothers. Wesley and I leave the Hippocrene in extremely capable hands next year, and we look forward to seeing what future editions hold.
Aspirando et Perseverando,
Editor-in-chief
Dominik Sedlak-Braude
’25
Creative Director
Wesley Huynh ’25
Junior Editors
Chris Nazarian ’26
Jordan Lee ’26
Nate Olson ’26
Shane Olson ’26
Colophon
Academic Advisors: Samantha Jensen, Evan Sayles
Editor-in-Chief: Dominik Sedlak-Braude ’25
Creative Director: Wesley Huynh ’25
Photography: artist submissions
Printing: Marketing Solutions Unlimited, West Hartford, CT
Press Run: 450 copies / 7” x 10” / 56 pgs. plus cover
Cover paper: 120# Gloss / 4 color plus aqueous coating
Text pages: 100# Gloss, perfect bound
Vellum pages: 30# Chartham translucent paper / K color
Produced with Adobe InDesign, Illustrator, and Photoshop.
Three deadlines (2/5/25, 3/30/35 4/15/25), all submitted online. Fonts vary throughout.
Front & Back Cover art: Owen Callaghan ’25
