The Baxterian 2024

THE BAXTERIAN 2024

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Nicer Than I Thought It’d Be…….1

Industrialization of the Free Spirit……3

She Told Us……4

Fluent in Silence……5

Winter Weather Patterns in the Gulf of Maine……7

Dirty Cleats……9

Notifications……10

The Ocean Gallery……11

Red Country……13

Untitled……16

Blue Star……17

Injuries……18

How to Raise a Garden……19

How to Find Missing Persons……21

Life……23

To Be a Girl……25

Bartholomew Black……27

The Seductive Forbidden……28

Backyard Honeysuckles……29

The Eclipse Gallery……31

Breakfast for Two……33

Stories……35

History of Bomba……37

Mallory……39

Magnificent Machines……40

The Digital Art Spotlight……41

Antarctica……43

Barn to Bracken……45

Acknowledgments……48

NICER THAN I THOUGHT

ELLA Fenderson '25

It’s cold, like standing in front of a fan on a hot day rather than shivering in the ice like I thought it’d be. It’s dark, like when you close your eyes to sleep rather than when you’re blinded like I thought it’d be. It’s quiet, like when you dip below the water rather than when the world goes silent right before you pass out like I thought it’d be. It’s nicer than I thought it’d be. I feel a connection with the earth that smothers me. It sinks through my skin, feeding the insects and the mushrooms. I lay here, a horror to anyone that would come across me, but so beautiful, entangled in vines and moss as I’m turned into food for the soil that suffocated me. The only remains of me they’ll find are my bones now. But I am everywhere.

THOUGHT IT’D BE

I’m the roots that connect this blade of grass to that one. I’m the deer that fed on the plants that grew around my ribs. I’m the fawn that relies on her milk, milk that’s been made from the moss that fed on my flesh. I’m the coyote that finds the fawn alone.

I was made of the same atoms that exploded into stars and galaxies, the atoms that held so tight to each other that they created the world. I am the same energy that’s been around since the very beginning, and I will be until the universe decides its time is up. I am nothing, but I am everything.

The illiterate overwhelms it

The machinists do too

The automobiles, the churning

The wheels, the turning

As the spirit does too

In the cycle that preludes

The “perfect” flow

all being complained about

What about my ideals

What about her ideal

In the ideal world, we live to our ideals

We don’t, we often surpass.

Creating a mess

We turn better than our thoughts

“We are not our thoughts”

You are separate, somehow

As every ‘hemisphere’ of life is

As they take the scalpel

separating it themselves

Medicating it.

Making it “easier”

For the self interested machines

Making the medicine

It is all machines

With bias always,

The Surplus value of the subject ruins.

The free as well, everything is allowed.

Only that, allowed

INDUSTRIALIZATION OF THE FREE SPIRIT

ETHAn MyATT '25

There just might be nothing subjective everything is history as long as it’s seen everything is physics as long its able to be felt

But the ladder is a lie

Some things felt can never be physics

To do that hurts the free soul

Sometimes it may be A+B

But it’s not absolute as the fool sees.

We’ve labeled the free as the split mind

But doing that shows its true nature

The labelers and the laborers are all of split mind

The organs of the world

The body is shown everywhere

The masses

The dialectic

The preach

The psalm

That is hate

That is love

That is war.

Only thing to cure us

Is if we are gay as the Greeks were.

SHE TOLD US

ADriana Alie '27

FLUENT IN SILENCE

Jasmine Lucas '26

After the Pledge of Allegiance, we gather on the floor for circle time. This room crowded with five-yearolds smells faintly of hand sanitizer and crayons. The routine persists: show-and-tell, daily announcements, and then update the calendar chart. A different student completes the task every day, depending upon the following name on the list. Today Mr. Williams looks at the list and says my name. He quickly matches the name to my face and says, “Oh right, Jasmine. We’ll err… come back to you.” in a tender, smooth voice, quickly moving on to the next name. This is how every interaction goes when my name and speaking are in the same context. I refuse to ever let a word escape my mouth, trapping the butterflies in my chest. Suddenly embarrassed, I squeeze Lucy tight enough that perspiration emerges from my hand. If it was not for this little lion stuffed animal that molds perfectly to my hand, I would probably refuse to attend school all together. “How about Oliver?” says Mr. Williams, reassuringly. Oliver walks up to the calendar chart and goes over the date, weather, and the number of school days that have passed thus far into the year. The task is really quite simple.

I always go over it in my head before some kid stammers the wrong month with snot running down their nose. If only people could read my mind. Maybe then I would not be treated differently. I know what will happen next: Mr. Williams will pull me aside and tell me I will do the calendar after school. He will email my parents asking them to pick me up later. He will take a video of me doing the calendar for the next day. He will be amazed when I speak as if my voice is something belonging to him. Waiting for the bell to ring for dismissal, I keep my backpack on, so it looks like I am leaving with my peers. Attempting to blend in, I do not want them to know that I have to stay. When the bell rings I slowly strut away from the doorway and back into the classroom dreading the next part. He pulls out his computer to record me. He comforts me and tells me there’s no need to be nervous. I stand by the calendar chart waiting for him to hit the record button. Holding Lucy tightly against my chest, I wished she was big enough to hide behind. “All right, are you ready?” Mr. Williams asks, looking sincerely at me. I nod, having practiced it in my head all afternoon.

“3…2…1, go,” he says slowly, but encouragingly. It feels like my heart is beating through my chest and my ears are on fire.

“T-today’s date is Wednesday, October 2nd, the weather is partly sunny outside, and it is the 18th day of school,” I say as I change the chart.

I wonder how everyone else does this with 20 pairs of eyes beaming at them.

Mr. William’s face brightens, and a smile spreads across his face from ear to ear like he just witnessed a two-year-old recite one hundred digits of pi.

WINTER WEATHER PATTERNS IN THE GULF OF MAINE

JULES VAZQUEZ '25

As winter settles in, residents along the Gulf of Maine are no stranger to erratic weather patterns. From cold fronts to heavy snowfalls, understanding the dynamics of winter weather in this region is crucial for both safety and environmental stewardship. The Gulf of Maine Research Institute (GMRI) provides valuable insights to the relationship of atmospheric and oceanic factors that shape the winter climate. According to data collected by GMRI, winter temperatures in the Gulf of Maine exhibit notable variability. While some winters experience harsh rainstorms, others bring cold fronts from the north, resulting in below-average temperatures. Over the past decade, trends have shown more frequent fluctuations in temperature during the winter months. This variability shows the delicate nature of climate dynamics in the Gulf of Maine. Snowfall is a staple of winter in the Gulf of Maine, with coastal communities often blanketed in a layer of white. However, the amount and timing of snowfall can vary significantly from year to year. GMRI data reveals that while certain winters witness heavy snowfall, others may see comparatively lighter precipitation.

These fluctuations show the importance for adaptive strategies for managing winter weather related challenges, such as transportation disruptions. The winter weather patterns in the Gulf of Maine also have profound implications for marine ecosystems. Cold temperatures and ice formations can influence the distribution and behavior of marine species, affecting fisheries and ecosystems. Variations in snowmelt and runoff can impact water quality and nutrient dynamics in coastal waters, highlighting the interconnectedness of terrestrial and marine environments. In recent years, there has been growing concern about the influence of climate change on winter weather patterns in the Gulf of Maine. Studies show that rising global temperatures contribute to the increased volatility in winter weather, including more frequent extreme events such as intense storms and rapid temperature fluctuations. Understanding these dynamics is essential for developing effective mitigation and adaptation strategies to address the impacts of climate change.In the face of these challenges, community engagement and resilience play a vital role in adapting to changing winter weather patterns.

Organizations like GMRI provide valuable resources and research to make informed decisions and develop sustainable solutions. By fostering collaboration and sharing knowledge, we can work together to build a more resilient and adaptive Gulf of Maine. As winter unfolds, it is clear that the weather patterns shaping the Gulf of Maine are as diverse as they are dynamic. Through using scientific research and community collaboration, we can navigate the complexities of winter weather with better understanding, ensuring the wellbeing of both humans and the environment in this unique coastal ecosystem.

DIRTY CLEATS

TRoy Pilch '25

The dust of old games And the grit of past glory days

Once active now still.

NOTIFICATIONS

SHAnnOn REynOLDS '26

the notifications on my phone are boring unless they’re from you i will purposely walk away from my phone to hopefully see a notification from you when i see your name on my phone my heart skips a beat and i smile like an idiot but there’s a thought in the back of my mind saying that you don’t care about me like that you love me but as friends and my heart begins to crack because i know you see me as a friend and thats it but it makes me realize i never lost feelings for you just pushed them down to protect our friendship so when you text me and my heart flutters and skips a beat at the memories flooding back and i respond so quickly to notifications on my phone hoping that one might be you.

THE OCEAN GALLERY

Eliot Verry-Gardella '25

Eliot Verry-Gardella '25

RED COUNTRY

Liam Conway '25

America is the biggest place in the world. Shopping malls eat villages and super-highways have annexed your grandfather’s railways. America doesn’t stop, it doesn’t even slow, it moves in death throes. Shedding its great mills and refineries like a snake sheds its skin, and replacing them with miles and miles of something. My house was built near one of these industrial carcasses. The Worumbo Mill straddled the border between Durham and Lisbon Falls.

A large dam (now used for hydroelectric) powered the sprawling complex from when it was built in 1865 until it was shut down in the mid-’60s due to the pressures of foreign trade. 600 workers were laid off, which now doesn’t seem like much now but at the time was well over half the population of Durham. After closure the empty complex hung on for a long time, hunching over the ruins of the dam-turned-waterfall, worldlessly watching the rapids below. It nearly burnt down in ‘87 and was eventually destroyed in 2016.

A few of the additions remain, uncanny and haunting, but people are slow to give up the past. The town built a parking lot where the mill building used to be and a recreational dispensary moved in next door. Things like this aren’t talked about in small towns, except for the odd Facebook post, or when the shriveled old-timers sit for coffee at the back of the convenience store. Memory goes back far or not far enough. In 1980 Durham had 2,000 residents, today it has nearly twice as many but you wouldn’t notice. Spread out all over in a mixture of hundred-year-old farmhouses and dirt road trailer parks. The might-be-wannabe-wealthy have built McMansions in their own little enclaves.

Their moms are on the school board and their dads drive pristine lifted pickups. There was never a lot of community, you hear small towns and you think community, but small towns are too big for that. It’s a 15-minute walk just to get from your house to the next street over, and another hour to get to your friends (that is if you’re both walking to meet each other). You may not get that fuzzy community feeling but that doesn’t mean everyone doesn’t know everyone.

Grudges go back decades, boundary line disputes, squabbles over inheritance, hunting incidents, or maybe just someone who cut you off at a red light. No matter how much you hate each other you have to get gas (the concept of an EV hasn’t penetrated Durham except for a few hipsters who probably work in Lewiston), and there’s only one gas stationthe concisely named Get ‘n Go. Everyone goes to the Get ‘n Go, where you stand in line behind your worst enemy, picking the hair out of your $3 wings and staring daggers at the back of their head. You glance to the side at the hunting magazines, the dried pig ears, and the rows and rows of Reese’s peanut butter cups.

The register clicks, the cashier grunts affirmatively, you’re up next. The best thing about small towns is you can always run away, but the worst part is you can never leave. They’re constructed like prisons, dirt road panopticons. Even where there are no people there’s lots of land. You can worm through twisting roads, along the river, and down to Runaround Pond (a pond so filthy it inspired Steven King short stories), take a left, and visit the author’s childhood home. Sometimes the roads wash out in the spring, and all the marshes decide as one to claw up out of the silt and onto the pavement.

For every destination, there’s two or three ways to get there. Drive slow on the scenic route, drink a beer (or as Willard Bowie termed it- ‘a road soda’), and watch the trees twist with the seasons. Don’t worry about the cops- they don’t come around, you’ll only see the occasional statie who got lost and wandered in. I was roughly 4 or 5 when I went to the Bowie’s farm (it was sometime before Frank died in 2012). The Bowie’s were a kind of Durham aristocracy, they certainly weren’t the wealthiest but they had been in town for generations and they owned quite a bit of land.

They owned a big farm on the edge of town and ran cattle and pigs as well as vegetables and hay. It was through the annual hay harvest that my father became friends with Frank, Willard, and Eric Bowie. He’d pick up odd shifts during the summer because they needed extra hands. Deciding when to hay is a careful balance, the later you harvest the more nutritionally dense it will be but if the hay is out in the field for too long late in the season it may get wet (which is no good for anyone).

Having extra workers meant you could guarantee that all the hay would be stored in time. I can vividly remember standing in the barn tossing bales of hay off the cart with my dad, straw poking at my hands and the twine rubbing my fingers raw. Later on my dad would rent a plot of land out front of the road, they let him grow corn on their land so long as he provided them with some monetary or produce percentage. Me and my little brother would chase each other through the rows of corn as my dad tried to corral us into helping him pluck the low-hanging ears. Picking the corn wasn’t so bad but shucking it was devastating. Any night that we would have corn my parents would make me and my brother take a bucket and out back and shuck. Corn that comes straight from the farm is liable to have black hairs, bugs, and mushy gross partsI hated all of these things. Being a kid largely interested in books and climbing trees I took a limited interest in the affairs of the Bowie’s and I associated gardening with hard labor. I spent a significant amount of time dodging corn-shucking duty, tomato picking, and pig watering. I grew up clenching both my fists and insisting that I was not a redneck. I didn’t drive a dirt bike, I avoided camo like the plague, and I’d listen to everything under the sun besides country. I disdained the fixation with guns- particularly the redneck pastime of firing rounds into barrels of tannerite. These efforts seem more and more futile as I get older- it’s hard to hate your home (maybe it’s easy but not for me). The more time I’m out of the country the more I love it.

It’s a piece of identity that reaches beyond your bubble of familial ideology and touches your eyes and your heart. I appreciate that there’s glory in mud, a cult of labor and laziness, and a distrust of all liberals, cosmopolitans, and city-slickers. It’s an identity like any other that fits warmly around you, it smells slightly like cigarettes and it’s a bit too big, but you can’t complain. You can tell it works so well because rednecks call themselves rednecks- hipsters loathe to be called hipsters, they’d rather be anything else in the world besides hipster- but rednecks, they embrace it with their whole hearts. It’s important to understand what you are, because a self-identity based on a negation is deeply destructive. The self is weak, an aimless coefficient (if it exists at all), like a disembodied eye floating through space. It takes colossal effort to pull together bones, muscles, skin, and nerves enough to build a body. To remove your home, or your family, or your god, or your education from yourself is to cut off an arm, or a leg, or a tongue. I grew up out of the green swamps and low hills just like beech trees and skunk cabbage, I would not have grown in the red mud of Georgia or the grain fields of the heartland. No one leaves small towns, families stay for generations and generations, the Copps, the Bowies, the Larrabbees. It always stunned me that my father, who fled New England to anywhere else in the world and had lived in every state that matters had come back within a decade or two. Home has a gravitational pull, a tractor beam that pulls would be trailblazers and dreamers back to the oblivion of familiarity.

UNTITLED

Liam Conway '25

BLUE STAR

INJURIES

TROY PILCH '25

Broken bones & kidney stones

Stone man syndrome, Colon cancer,

Ankle sprain, A tumored brain,

I can survive these things with ease, Just don’t call me stupid, please.

HOW TO RAISE A GARDEN

Mikayla Doyle '25

Find a suitable plot of land

There is a large pasture behind the old horse barn in the outer field. The sun shines nonstop, and none of our animals dare venture that far away from the farm. A perfectly respectable grounds.

Test the soil

Head into the town and grab one of them testin’ kits from the town hall. One of them fancy ones. Set it in the passenger seat of the old pick-up and drive to that outer field. The instructions says to grab sum dirt and put it into this lil cardboard box. I guess they got fancy machines to test it with up in the city. We too remote out here for all that.

Pick out your seeds

I always fancied the idea of growin my own berries, lord knows we eat em a lot. Bright, blood red berries. So sweet, yet their season ends too soon.

Till the field

I don’t have those fancy machines that can do all them rows at a time, and all the town knows laborers aren’t easy to find these days. I haves to get down there myself and mark em up with a puny hoe. A hoe on the verge of collapse.

Plant the seeds in rows

Thank the lord this garden is small. Then again, with all the supplies I got stocked, some might go to waste.

Keep out the pests

Old wing’ed pests keep circling up there in the sky, I worry my crop might not last til fall if their eyes catch it.

Plenty of water

Rains been slow this year, they sayin it’s a drought. Just another thing missin in this town. I Gotta haul my can to and fro to water the thing, beginin to believe it might be a waste of my time.

As they sprout, pluck the weeds

I’m startin to think the warm sun wasn’t too great an idear. It’s sweltering out here, my sweat seems to sweat. When I get back to my house it looks like I been havin an altercation, coated in dirt.

Remember to water, every few days

My tin can ain’t gonna last at this rate, the darn thing’ll rust before the seasons end. Just need it to hold out a lil longer.

Add fertilizer

I never knew sacks could be so heavy. They never look it, sittin pretty, so full of that vigor and color.

Watch as they grow

Little green stems popped out from the ground yesterday evening, the birds haven’t noticed yet. I don’t know what I’d do if they found my secret stash.

Add more fertilizer

Might need to get me a wheelbarrow if my back is going to survive this. A new shovel too, mines been worn; to the bone.

Keep weeding

They all keep coming back to the surface, it’s like I gotta kill ‘em over and over again. Keep the pests out

Those darn vultures are back again. May be a good time to invest in one of them scare crows.

Watch them fruit

A perfectly respectable grounds, producing perfectly respectable fruits. No harm in that.

Harvest

The fertilizers did wonders, the flavor is one that’ll send me home with a full belly rather than a basket.

Enjoy

Baked into a good ol’ pie. Maybe I’ll bring some down to the sheriff and his new wife… So I drove that old truck back into town and right to the sheriff’s office. In I went with my strawberry pie in hand. Past the wanted posters, passed the news articles, and past the missing persons posters, straight into his office.

HOW TO FIND MISSING PERSONS

Mikayla Doyle '25

Find a connection

In a small town, everyone knows everyone. We are all connected that way. The victims follow no specific pattern. Men and women, teens to adults, farmers to city workers. The only commonality, this town.

Talk to the families

The folks are all terribly disturbed by their family members disappearing. They all claim it to be so outta character. That said, I do have to consider that maybe these people all just chose to leave. It is possible.

Note places of sightings

Word of the missing persons has gotten out, of course, it’s a small town. These folk already don’t trust me, seeing as I’m from the outside, up until two months ago that is. I have received some tips about some of the victims. What they were wearing when last seen, where they were, who they were with, and who they saw.

Be wary of changes

Little old lady on Friar has been working in the fields to make a garden. Many townspeople have seen her coming round the shops for supplies. She got a new shovel just yesterday, must be a hard job.

Create a suspect list

You have to suspect foul play by family, it is the most commonplace scenario in most parts. But what are the odds that the same scenario occurred in so many families all around the same time? Dan, the owner of the convenience store on Greenhill, sticks out as a suspect. He has a record.

Be wary of everyone

I find myself side-eyeing everyone, looking at them as a threat. For all I know, they could be. Little garden lady came back to town today. From what I hear, she’s become all paranoid over the birds circling the sky. She came in to grab some supplies for a scarecrow. I must be going crazy, thinking a little old woman could harm anyone, this town is making me lose it.

Look Closely

It couldn’t be the families, they all have solid alibis. And it can’t be Dan, found out from his wife that he’s doing poorly, been so for the past few months. I’m back to square one, first base, back to the beginning.

Don’t lose your cool

They are all looking to me for an answer. They fear for themselves and their friends. I have to remain calm, but I also need to figure this out fast.

Don’t give up

It’s been ‘bout a year since the case started. All the leads ran cold, sheriffs from other towns got involved, but even as a team we couldn’t find anything. No new sightings, nothing. I still look over the files everyday, hoping to find something missed. The old lady came in today, she gave me a pie to share with my wife. She tells me she grew the fruits herself, and it looks mighty fine. I invited her to a cup of coffee, but she refused. Said she had some more work to get done at home, clean-up of some sort. I thanked her for the pie and she went on her merry way. It’s nice knowing this town has good folk like her.

The pie sat on my desk, a testament to what she had done, what she had accomplished. And next to it, my files, the faces staring back at me. And next to their faces, the link I was looking for. The link that just left my office.

L I F E

Abigail Gardner '24

TO BE A GIRL

Ella Fenderson '25

Grand Rapids, Michigan is a beautiful city. In the fall, an art festival that takes place throughout the streets and plazas. With statues and sculptures everywhere, murals at every corner and light displays. A girl and her mom stay in a hotel a few blocks from the river. They cross a bridge most days after walking around talking and laughing. The girl wears a side-braid, just like her mom. She holds her hand tightly, to stay close. She never walks through a door before her mom, scared she’ll look back to find her gone. Her shoes still light up with each step. She still wears bright colors that make her happy, she still wears a never-ending smile that only sits on a child’s face. The sky is dark now, starless among the lights of Grand Rapids.

Gentle wind blows across the girl’s face. She doesn’t shiver. The temperature is perfect. She could walk and walk and walk, and never get tired or want to go home. Her mom leads her across a street towards a park. One of the only places not flooded in light, it’s also not flooded with people. It stretches along the river and sits next to the bridge. From the grass, the girl spots tunnels, lit up with color and paint. The lights twinkle between colors, and with each change, different parts of the art come alive. Also in the park are a group of men. They’re loud and laughing. Her mom shifts her direction so they’re moving diagonally away from them but still forward. It doesn’t matter.

Their voices carry, landing heavy on the mom’s ears, and lightly on the girl’s. The mother hears every word and understands every word. The girl just hears shouting. It sounds like they’re teasing them. The girl turns her head to find the source, but she’s pulled forward by her mom’s hand, so she leaves it be. Back to the pressing issue, for her. “Can we go in there?” She points to the tunnels of glittering light and swirling color. Her mom shakes her head and quickens her pace, heading towards the street their hotel is on. The girl’s face drops while she trots to keep up with her mom’s strides. Once they get out of the park and back onto a lit street, her mom stops and kneels down to hold her daughter’s cheeks. “If a group of men yells at you like that, you don’t then go under a bridge and into a tunnel.” The girl is confused. Her mom continues, and teaches her about being aware of one’s surroundings, and staying safe. About being a girl.

The next day her smile is gone. Her shoes don’t light up, her clothes are dull. She notices everything; The man who watches her a little too long, the man that smiles at her a little too bright, her teacher she’s a little too comfortable with. She sees the group of men talking next to a truck where she needs to park, and she circles the block to see if they leave, and when they don’t she parks another block away from where she’s going. She sees the article detailing the arrest of that teacher for sexual abuse of a minor, and knows that minor was one of her classmates. So now she sees a man simply walking down the street and she crosses and looks for cameras. Now she gets an uneasy feeling and gets herself out of that situation, except every situation gives her an uneasy feeling. Now she hears the way her family members talk about women and is scared to be in a room alone with them. Now she knows that to be a girl, is to be afraid of everything.

BARTHOLOMEW BLACK

TRoy Pilch '25

Bartholomew Black

Was a man way back When dinosaurs roamed the earth.

He saw a falconiformes At the top of some trees And he said “come down please, There’s no food in those trees.”

Though the falcon heard, It was only a bird, And thus it just flew away.

THE SEDUCTIVE FORBIDDEN

TRoy Pilch '25

I found a path, don’t ask how, Of signs that said “TURN BACK NOW”

Go away, Keep out, Get lost, You’re astray

That’s what all the signs did say,

But angled precariously To point specifically

To a shed down the way

Not big not small, Perhaps filled with mice Its wooden door

Whose fragility enticed.

This path made to go down, To a thing to be found, Completely obstructed But only with words.

So what stops me

What holds me

When upon the door Is one sign more Whose letters say: “Come in”?

BACKYARD HONEYSUCKLES

ETHAn MyATT '25

My mother opens the door for me on an extremely humid bright late spring morning. At most it could’ve been noon. We go past my playhouse and go past my trampoline soon after that. I must have already started sweating, as everyday past February was extremely humid, as the rain passes through that month and in return we get even hotter, humid air. Though the rain also brought the plants to come again, thankfully. Me and my mother, after going through the yard looking at plants and bugs, and squirrels that were just coming out of their own tree-cocoons, found ourselves a bush, the bush where the honeysuckles are. Almost as if a piston of a head of the engine, pulling back the piston of the honey sickle, with the sweet oil at the very tip of the plant. Described as nectar by a biologist, but me and my mother just called it honey. It was almost milk, the plant giving me his nectar for me. The honeysuckle plant was another provider among the world of taking, as I thought no one knew about this wonderful gift God himself had bestowed upon me and my mother.

It was without work, and showed faith within the seasons, that there was no preparation for this yearly treat, there was no planting the gardens or chore to this. It was a gift provided to me. My mother always pulled the piston very delicately, showing me that if you go too fast on the plant it may break, it may pull it apart. You might not get the honey if you don’t treat the plant as glass. Fragile was the plant, showing me that even the things that God makes in abundance can be broken, you must have the will of the creator on your side to get the surplus of this machine. The will of the creator is careful, as the will is the will of proper use, common sense to some, evangelicalism to others. My mother was a part of my God. She was the woman who told me I didn’t have to go to mass since we are Baptists, not the all congruent Catholics. She was old school even at the age of 25. Her actions did not show this, but her way of doing them did.

"My mother was a part of my God."

THE ECLIPSE GALLERY

A BREAKFAST FOR TWO

Liam Conway '25

The room is small, it has two windows and a desk pushed into the corner to allow for an open space on the floor. Snake-green wallpaper peels at the edges and the dust of old buildings fills the air. He is sitting in the corner, I have changed but he has not. Long thin legs bend outwards, he’s leaning back against the wall fiddling with a cold cigarette. The late-winter sunlight beams in through the window making him squint with one eye and turning all the gray hairs in his mustache iridescent. I look him in the face as hard as I can, but he doesn’t meet my gaze, he’s still playing with his cigarette tapping out morse code on the splintering floorboards. For a moment I am hypnotized by the silence. The stairs are rickety and unfinished, new enough that they still have the orange-white glow and hard edges of fresh lumber and pencil lines from when they were put in. Following two steps behind me, his shoulders have squared to make himself look tougher than he is. He’s wearing a faded motorcycle jacket that hangs loosely over his skeletal frame. The hinges on the door wail as it pushes out.

Pale gray clouds hang over the world, so thick that I can only guess where the sun is. The grass is brown and flat from the memory of the snow. The yard is strewn with items abandoned in the fall: a deflated basketball, a corroded hubcap, a single glove, a patch of scruffy flowers by the fence. We walk together not saying a word; he had the gait of a deerfurtive and pained, perched on thin legs. He pulls his jacket tight around him looking for all the world like a hulking water bug. It’s still morning, not quite 10, mist still hangs low over the ground wherever I look. The door of the truck grinds as I pull it open. The seat protests slightly as I jump into the cab. He stands awkwardly in the driveway- seemingly confused, his expression inscrutable. The condensation runs down the windshield in lines, distorting his face. My breath catches in my throat but I’m not sure why. Suddenly as if emerging from a reverie he lurches to the passenger side and climbs in—the engine coughs before rattling to life. We say nothing, I jab at the dashboard and the FM radio crackles to life, he stares out the window at the accelerating blur.

The route is unfamiliar to me, I have to look at the map on my phone, driving with one hand on the wheel. We go slowly, evenly, never more than a couple of miles over the speed limit. A red light allows me to look over at him. His thick brown hair has been shaved down sloppily, I spot nicks in the back where the razor fell awkwardly. Despite this, it fits well with his angular features. A thin mustache haunts his upper lip, his cheeks are sunken, his eyes are vacant and listless. All things considered, he has changed very little. The green light looks like a moon through the fog.

I’m crying in the parking lot. He makes no effort to comfort me, he still hasn’t spoken. I’m embarrassed.

My boots slip on the asphalt He walks ahead of me now as if drawn by an inconceivable magnetism.

As he walks he seems to grow thinner. We file into the lobby. The receptionist doesn’t look up from his monitor. After a minute of weighted silence, he glances up. Do you have an appointment? I nod and mutter something about an email. 10:30? I nod again. Do you have your referral and medical history?

The papers are crumpled as I remove them from an inside pocket- a flicker of annoyance passes over the receptionist’s face. This is for Aleksandr? He doesn’t ask him, he asks me. Aleksandr doesn’t so much as look up, his eyes are firmly fixed on the tiles. Under fluorescent bulbs, he has transformed. The cuts on his head are now clearly visible, his face looks more drawn, his eyes glitter behind that same blank expression. Uh- yeah, this is for Aleksandr. After a morning of silence, my voice feels brittle and hoarse, like it may collapse at the slightest prodding. The receptionist stows the documents neatly in a manila folder. Then I just have a little bit of paperwork for you to fill out. He hands me a clipboard and a few sheets.

A shock of brown on white linoleum

The air smells like gasoline

Doors, and doors, and doors, expanding ever outward

My eyes trace the powerlines all the way home

The drive is lonely

Lonelier than lonely

Like the whole universe collapsed into the cab

Into a tiny infinitesimal, ineffable point

Ella Lewis '25

Ella Lewis '25

STORIES

Matt barnes

There is an old man out on the island with me.

You don’t see him in his yard much anymore, though he once was out all the time.

He’s mostly deaf, though he can still hear a little.

He’s mostly blind, though he can still see shadows.

Almost a century has passed in his life and I would love to know the stories, but how do you ask?

Do you say, “You shall be gone soon, so let me know your secrets”?

How rude to ask, even in softer words. How presumptuous to request the keys to his life.

Still... bones tell no good yarns and then it will be too late.

Some day, I too wish to be old, and I hope they will be braver than I. Ask away.

A HISTORY OF

JULES VAZQUEZ '25

Bomba is a vibrant and rhythmic dance form, originating from Puerto Rico. It has captivated audiences around the world with its beats and dynamic movements. Rooted in African and Caribbean influences, Bomba has a rich history that reflects the resilience and creativity of its people. Bomba traces its roots back to the African diaspora, brought to Puerto Rico by enslaved Africans during the colonial era. Influenced by West African drumming traditions and combined with elements of Spanish and Indigenous Taino culture, Bomba emerged as a form of resistance and expression for enslaved Africans seeking to preserve their cultural identity and assert their humanity. Over time, Bomba evolved into a complex art form, incorporating various rhythms, dance movements, and call-and-response vocals. It became an integral part of Afro-Puerto Rican culture, passed down through generations as a means of storytelling, celebration, and community bonding. The rhythms of Bomba are often played on traditional percussion instruments such as the barril, maraca, and cuá, creating a mesmerizing and immersive musical experience.

Bomba is more than just a dance; it is a powerful form of cultural expression that embodies the resilience, strength, and spirit of the Puerto Rican people. Each movement and rhythm carries deep symbolic meaning, reflecting themes of resistance, liberation, and solidarity. The call-and-response interactions between dancers and musicians create a dynamic dialogue that celebrates individual creativity while fostering a sense of collective unity. In recent decades, there has been a renewed interest in Bomba both within Puerto Rico and internationally. Efforts to preserve and promote this cultural heritage have led to the establishment of Bomba schools, workshops, and performances across the island and beyond.

“Bomba represents much more than just a dance; it is a living testament to the resilience, creativity, and cultural heritage of the Puerto Rican people.”

Organizations and artists dedicated to preserving Bomba’s traditions continue to educate and inspire new generations, ensuring that this vibrant art form remains alive and thriving for years to come. It’s essential to recognize the diversity and interconnectedness of our global community. Bomba serves as a reminder of the resilience and creativity of marginalized communities, highlighting the importance of preserving and honoring diverse cultural traditions.

By embracing and celebrating our differences, we enrich our collective human experience and create a more inclusive and harmonious society. Bomba represents much more than just a dance; it is a living testament to the resilience, creativity, and cultural heritage of the Puerto Rican people. It’s important to remember the profound impact that Bomba has had on shaping Puerto Rican identity and enriching our interconnected cultures.

Eliot Verry-Gardella

Zofia Kuzma '25

Mikayla Doyle '25

MAGNIFICENT MACHINES input_

A cacophony of gears

Grind to motion

A burst of steam from A systems devotion

Clicks and clacks, Knicks and knacks,

Sprockets and springs, Cogs and things,

Jolts of movement

As teeth connect, Belts whir, And ratchets stir,

As a monstrous contraption

With brain of iron

Rears its ugly head

Thundering steps

Devoid of emotion

As this behemoth

Roars to motion

Shuttering, sputtering, Clanking, cranking…

TROY

THE DIGITAL ART SPOTLIGHT

Edna Diulo '27

BARN TO BRACKEN

ABIGAIL Gardner '24

At a time when many of my classmates were confined to their homes and forced to be on the computer, I went to the horse barn. When they struggled to get their schoolwork done and experienced a lack of socialization, I found solace sitting in the tack room. Filled with the scent of freshly oiled leather tack and a thin layer of dust on the window, I sat diligently completing my schoolwork. In between assignments, I popped my head out the door and walked over to pet my horse who happily trotted over for a treat, the beautiful spring sunlight shining onto me. With only three other people at the barn, all of whom did not see anyone else, we created our own little “barn bubble”. The outside world heaving heavily around us. I remember a distinct feeling of loss during this time. Loss of a lifestyle and routine. The horses at the barn provided me with a different type of social interaction— listening to my every word and never complaining. Always eager for my attention, nickering from the pasture as I exit the barn. With the help of Nicole, my best listener, and our “barn bubble” I began exploring different topics—first Antarctica! “Did you know Antarctica is a desert due to the minimal precipitation, Nicole?” I exclaim as the manure hits the mental wheelbarrow with a ting. “Nicole, I wonder how microbes and animals manage to survive in such extreme conditions?” I yell over the spray of the hose on the plastic water bucket. “Good morning Nicole!” I say as I enter the barn tack room.

Nicole takes a seat in the white plastic chair and I stand at the table holding my computer and presenting on the white, cold continent: “It takes approximately 2 days to cross the Drake Passage, the rough body of water separating the bottom of South America and the Antarctic Peninsula”. As Nicole and I brought two horses out to pasture later that morning, the young April grass starting to poke through the dead of winter, I declared “I have decided that I am going to travel to Antarctica.” “I have no doubt you will” Nicole genuinely responds. Nicole and I met when I was 10 years old and we both volunteered at a 30-horse barn. As a retired optometrist, she holds a natural curiosity that has inspired my love of learning. Anytime I asked a question, Nicole followed with another. We often engaged in “barn science experiments”, with my favorite being raising fly larvae that I discovered in the horse manure pile. I asked Nicole, “What are the squirming worms in the manure pile?” Nicole kindly explained to me the small creatures were fly larvae. Immediately intrigued, Nicole assisted me in placing the larvae into a jar. I went on to record daily observations of the larvae on a piece of cardboard I found in the barn recycling. I vividly remember the sense of delight I felt releasing the adult flies into the world. Since the COVID pandemic, at a previous meal my family shared with Nicole, I explained my new-found interest in bats: “They are the only mammals that can fly, Nicole! Isn’t that amazing?” Nicole responded “Wow! I wonder why that is?” We continued our in-depth conversation about bats with my parents ever so often interrupting with a “What?” “AND Nicole, 15-20 million bats congregate in San Antonio, Texas every summer and I am determined to go” I explain.

Nicole turned to me, in between bites of lettuce, “Well, why don’t we go!” My excitement immediately poured out “Oh my goodness! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I refer to myself as a “Self-Proclaimed Bat Enthusiast”, “Bat Nerd”, or even a “Bat Advocate”—titles I have bestowed upon myself in an attempt to honor my appreciation and fascination with bats. Now, most people believe bats to be rabid-bloodthirsty creatures, but I am here to share with you that this is a misleading stereotype simply constructed by some human.On a 100°F day in San Antonio, Texas, I approach the Bracken Cave Preserve. Cacti surround the long, dusty dirt road. I had never been to the desert before now. A place many believe to be dead and dry, I instantly perceive as a space flourishing with life. Calling to be explored and questioned. Deciphered and interpreted. These cacti not only represent the vast desert before me but also the possibilities of my future experiences. What will be next? As I exit the car and approach the docent with a bright smile, I am in awe of the bats I am about to witness. “It’s a dream come true,” I tell her. The docent was just as enthusiastic about bats as I am and was positively intrigued by my “Self-Proclaimed Bat Enthusiast” title. I, of course, was dressed in bat-themed merchandise. Wearing bat socks and a We Need Bats, Bats Need Us t-shirt, I couldn’t help but immediately immerse myself in a discussion about the Mexican free-tailed bats who inhabit the cave. Before I realized, a small crowd had gathered at the trailhead. The docent announces we have time to explore the nature preserve before the bat’s emergence at dusk—but quickly adds: “Please everyone, stay on the path, there’s a wide variety of animals here.” I couldn’t help but think of the deadly snakes that might lunge at my ankles if I strayed off course. I had zero intention of violating the bat-docent’s advice.

As we set off on our course, I explained to my good friend, Nicole, my hopes of seeing an albino Mexican free-tailed bat: “There are only 1-2 albino Mexican freetailed in this 20 million bat colony, but I am hopeful!” Nicole and I continued our walk, meeting other docents and discussing various bat-related topics such as the cave’s history of guano mining. Now, I find myself sitting under the desert sunset, on a wooden bench, with the lingering smell of my sunscreen and bug repellent mixing with the Texas humidity, practically bursting with excitement. Nicole and I patiently await the bats’ emergence from the cave, quickly answering the docent’s “bat fact trivia”. Suddenly, specks of darkness scatter across the evening August sunset. The sound of fluttering wings. A sense of fear as the circling hawk squawks above, eyeing its prey. I sit watching and listening to the millions of bats emerging from Bracken Cave. They move closer to their prey of insects…prepared to eat up to half their body weight tonight. Draw sweet nectar from flowers and gather a dusting of pollen. Many bats in the cloud move swiftly out of the hawk’s reach, while others do not. The cloud of bats seems to decrease infinitely in size as they move farther and farther closer to the night’s darkness. Those not lucky enough to see tonight’s darkness are another necessary victim of the food chain. One life is lost for another’s survival. This give and take provides the basis of the animal kingdom, one bats themselves benefit from. As another cloud of bats emerges from the cave, I consider the vast role of bats in our ecosystems. The billions of dollars they contribute to our human-constructed agricultural economy. The 1400 various bat species, all with distinct features and echolocation calls. Calling to those in their cloud at a frequency I am unable to hear.

I return to the car in an almost dazed-like state, my mind whirling with questions about what I witnessed. Where are the bats going? How far will they travel? I didn’t see the albino bats, were they there to start or did I miss them? Once in the car, the darkness and quiet of the night surround me as we drive away from the San Antonio desert. An odd sense of isolation, similar to the COVID pandemic—in my “barn bubble”, secluded from the world. I watch the world move by out the window. The only sound is the car swiftly moving across the concrete road. No one speaks. Engulfed by silence, I reflect on our “barn bubble”. My moving away and growing up. Farther from the times of sitting in the tack room with Nicole sharing my Antarctica presentations. My eyelids become heavy and I move closer to sleep, while the bats move closer to their dinner; both surrounded by the darkness of the night. At dawn, I awaken and recall the bats who return to the dark cave to sleep away the warm summer day.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book is a product of the Baxter community of writers, poets, artists, and photographers who enthusiastically contributed their work to the collection. The physical copies of this collective work are (for the second year in a row!) thanks to John Wensman’s Advanced Creative Writing class and the efforts of our local collaborator Curry Printing. The formatting was done single-handedly by Asher Knott (following in his sister Fiona Knott’s footsteps) who sacrificed huge amounts of time and energy to give us all a beautiful and professional product.

2024 Advanced Creative Writing Class: Abigail Gardner '24, Ethan Myatt '25, Isabella Ferriter '24, Liam Conway '25, & Mikayla Doyle '25

Production Credit: Asher Knott '25