The Sextant Spring/Summer 2025
The Sextant Staff
Jaiden Lee Editor-in-Chief
Brady Paquette
Henry Ramanathan
Henry Buckley-Jones
David Luo
Executive Editor
Executive Editor
Associate Editor
Associate Editor
JJ Pena Photography Editor
Will Sandor
Associate Photography Editor
Editor’s Note
Audrey Hepburn once said, “To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.” As we move from the renewal of spring into our long-awaited summer vacation here at Belmont Hill, we should always remember to appreciate the growth and energy that each cycle of seasons bring. Spring and summer mark new beginnings, hope, and the hard-earned rest of our efforts during the school year. As the days go by filled with sunlight and laughter, let’s cherish the remaining time we have together and celebrate the vibrant spirit of the BH community as we look forward to next year!
In this issue, Upper School students have submitted creative pieces, sharing extensive pieces ranging widely from violence in war to personal reflections to fictional kingdoms. Additionally, this issue features a spotlight on works of poetry, as many students submitted poems focusing on both personal elements and made-up narratives.
Our tremendous faculty and staff have continued to push students to use their talents to exceed in and outside the classroom beyond what they believed possible. Great writing must include a journey of the soul in a vivid, lively setting. This Spring/Summer issue features that along with well-crafted, select student art with various photographs and colorful ceramic sculptures that give our readers a view into Belmont Hill’s Arts curriculum.
We would like to thank our school’s English and Arts faculty who have assisted in the creation of the 2025 Spring/Summer Sextant especially our advisors, Dr. Defraia and Mr. Leonardis, standing in for Dr. Tift, and all the teachers who have supported us including Mr. Duarte, Ms. Bradley, Mr. Conway, and Ms. McDonald.
Your Editor-in-Chief,
Jaiden Lee ’26
Table of Contents:
Writing:
The Ring of Fire…….…………….…..…………..……….……….………..…………….……………Rylan Dean, V, pg. 9
A Walk Down 125th Street………….………………………….………………………..………….…Brandon Li, V, pg. 19 Trapped…………..…….…………..………………………….…….…………………………………Griffin Vail, V, pg. 20
Lost Memories………..….……………..…………………….………….……..…………………Suhas Kaniyar, III, pg. 21
The Saga of Alvilda………..………………………………………………………..……………Brady Paquette, VI, pg. 23
A Brief Set of Three Haikus……….……….…………………………….……………………Max Ramanathan, VI, pg. 32
Vincent van Gogh…………………….………………………..………………………………………Rylan Dean, V, pg. 34 [X]…..…………………..…………………………..……………………………………………..……Jaiden Lee, V, pg. 35
The Owl…….…………………………………..………………..….……….……,………………Will Achtmeyer, V, pg. 37
The Torrent of Sana…….……………………………………………………………….….……Ryan Chang-Wu, IV, pg. 46
The Richer Horse Doesn’t Seem to Neigh…….…………………………………………………Jack Ramanathan, V, pg. 50
Sounds of a New Negro…………………………………………………………….………..………Boston Ezedi, V, pg. 51
Untitled……………………….…………………………………………………….………..………Chase Teeson, V, pg. 53
A Decadent Cacophony……………………….…………………………………………………….……Eita Fuse, V, pg. 55 Death’s Grievance………………….………………………………………………..……….……Will Achtmeyer, V, pg. 56
Ways to Leave Earth………………….……………………………………………..…..……….……Rylan Dean, V, pg. 58 Freedom Is Like………………….……………………………………………………….……Max Ramanathan, VI, pg. 60 A Broken Tale to My Uncle’s Rooster…………………………………………………………….……Jaiden Lee, V, pg. 62 What the Birds Do………..…………….……………………..……………………….………Henry Ramanathan, V, pg. 64
Art and Photography:
Navy-White Dishes .…….…………….….………………….…………………..………………………Will Days, IV, pg. 5 Ceramics Alligator….…………….…….………………..…….………….…….…,,……………Sebastien Vuono, III, pg. 5 Teapot……….…….…….……………………………………….…..…………………………Beckett Britt-Webb, IV, pg. 6 Red Pottery Cups……..….………….………………………..……………..……………….………Charlie Rubel, IV, pg. 6
A Brief Flash of Colors.…………….……………….……….…………………………………………Will Sandor, IV, pg. 7
The Peace of a Bird on a Branch….………………….….………………………………….……..…………JJ Pena, V, pg. 7 Cave Colors……………..…………….…………………….……….……………………………………CJ Fortes, III, pg. 8 Cups and Bowl………………….….….….………..………….………………………………………Morgan Rich, IV, pg. 8 Giraffe…………………..……………….…………………………………..……..……….………Patrick Carolan, III, pg. 8
A Contrast of Light and Shadows in the City……………………..………….………………….……Will Sandor, IV, pg. 16 Exposure of a Bird………………………………………..………………………..………..………………JJ Pena, V, pg. 17 Camaraderie………………………………………………………………………….……………Mason Iandiorio, V, pg. 26 Grazing………..…………………………….………………………………………………………………JJ Pena, V, pg. 27
The Red Light is On………….……………………………………………………………………….Will Sandor, IV, pg. 33 Owl On a Branch………….………………….………………………………………………….………….JJ Pena, V, pg. 41 Huddle………….……………….…………………………………………………….……….….Mason Iandiorio, V, pg. 57
Vuono, III Will Days, IV
Sebastien
Beckett BrittWebb, IV
Charlie Rubel, IV
Will Sandor, IV
JJ Pena, V
Morgan Rich, IV
CJ Fortes, III
Patrick Carolan, III
The Ring of Fire
By Rylan Dean, V
The flames danced beautifully, their golden light flickering upon my living skin. I wish I could stay here forever. Johnny hit the guitar as his raspy voice echoed throughout the mountains. We told stories of love, laughter, and life, some true. Smitty rolled the dice onto the dirt.
“Double 4’s!” he yelled. “Ando’s down sixty!”
“Ayy Ando you ain’t no Hollywood boy anymore! How much of yer daddy’s paycheck you got left!” exclaimed One-Eyed Jack. He is someone you owe your respect to but you know will bite you in the ass whenever he wants. He got the nickname after bringing back the eye of a Taliban as a souvenir a couple of years back. Savage.
“That’s your fourth loss of the night. Better tighten up or Martinez will be taking home your missus,” hollered Tiny. “Oh yeah? Those are some big words coming from someone who still needs a booster seat in the Humvees,” I said back. “Another great one Ando, your height jokes get funnier every time,” he responded. His name is Tiny for obvious reasons. Legend says that the doctors changed his name on his birth certificate since they had never seen a baby so small.
Johnny placed his hand over the guitar strings. “So what the hell is the point of this shit anyway. We go in and fight the Talis just to rescue more Afghans and bring them to the States?” he asked.
“Hopefully this is Ando’s last stop. Wouldn’t want him going home to a reckless wife heh?” Tiny said, chuckling. “Cut it Tiny, before I take one-a dem logs and brand it ‘gainst yo bare ass,” barked One-Eyed Jack. Martinez spoke up, “They’re Afghan kids and part of the resistance force. Nothing to do with the Talis. According to their leader, it's supposed to be a peaceful transition as they don’t want to harm the kids. But as you all know, you never trust the Talis.”
The fire grew larger, its embers killing cold air, its ashes battling wind. Boots followed muddy tracks as one by one everyone began to hit the barracks. The desert air whistled through the ominous night. The
stars shined bright in the sky, beautiful. We all took to the beds. “Six hours. That’s all you get!” shouted the commanding officer.
BEEP beep BEEP beep BEEP beep BEEP beep. My alarm went off. It was 0400. Immediately, I got in uniform and made my way down to the briefing room where Carl, the platoon commander, handed out are assignments.
“Gentlemen, as you have been informed, intel reports indicate that about ten child refugees are being held about 5 klicks outside Sangin. The Taliban have granted a tradeover; however, all forces shall proceed with caution in the event of an ambushed attack. Multiple Taliban cells highlight the nearby mountain ranges but no tangible bases are within 20 klicks of the area. At 1100, you will be transported via MH-47G Chinook to LZ Eagle, approximately 1 klick away from the target.” reported Carl.
“Woah Carl, wer outta here in six of em hours? You know my old ass gotta hit the medic before wer out. We gonna get a niiice dinnah fo the six of us when we’re back?” shouted One-Eyed Jack from the back corner of the room, spitting out tobacco as he spoke.
He had been in the Marines for too long to give a damn about where we were going. Stabbing a knife back and forth between all four of his fingers was enough to keep him busy.
Carl continued with his rundown: “This op is high risk. No jokes this time. Last thing we need is a team of five Marines reported dead on CNN after a fluke mission to the middle of Afghanistan. We do not plan on leaving a single soul behind, American or Afghan. Trust your training and hit hard. And remember, if the hostiles engage, our priority is to fire back and get every single kid out of there. Good luck.”
After going through gear checks and tactical inspections, the boys and I hit up the chill room to play a round of Rummy. Only two rounds, nineteen cards each. One for every soul lost in Operation Red Wings. It's a superstition for us. A way to dial in our minds and bond with the guys we would be fighting for in a few hours. A calm before the storm. A storm that was about to take flight.
“AY ANDO GET OFF YOUR ASS AND START LOADING UP THIS BIRD!” yelled Smitty from the deck.
The helicopter rotors slice through the desert air. The ground shakes as small branches fall from trees and plastic cups rattled on wooden tables. Sand pellets are blown across the tarmac. The powerful machine is eager to lift off. Twin engines roar, echoing throughout the mountains. WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP. I can feel the vibration in my chest. The propellors stir up a violent storm on the ground. It’s go time.
I hustle onto the heli. Smitty and Martinez manned the ship, piloting from the front. I did one final check through all my equipment to make sure I had everything as the bird took off. It was a thirty-minute ride. The two guys to my right slept, a nice relaxing nap before warfare. I could never. With a threat as great as being shot down by Afghan forces at any point throughout the flight, my blood kept me awake. The adrenaline. The want. The desire to fight for your country.
I pulled out the sleeve of paper I keep in my back right pocket all the time, no matter where I am. I read it before every mission, before every obstacle in life.
Joshua 1:9 - “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go."
My dad gave me this verse on the same slip of paper 15 years ago, a month before he died. Killed. Murdered at the front lines in Afghanistan, fighting for his nation. He taught me discipline, and he showed me faith, sacrifice. He is the reason why I am here today, why I chose to board this helicopter. I know he is watching over me, and I grind my teeth every day at the thought of getting back my revenge on whatever sick, crazy man shot him. The fire in my heart was raging. This was war.
As we approached, I leaned out the side door to confirm the landing area was safe. “LZ Eagle is all clear, maintain speed toward the zone, one minute out,” I yelled to the cockpit.
As the helicopter descended, it blew up dust from underneath and formed a wild, raging storm of debris. The three of us unclipped from our seats and quickly jumped out the back, finding a nearby pack of desert bushes to hide in. We watched as Smitty and Martinez flew away into the desert sun; we were in the real shit now.
“Johnny. Yo Johnny Johnny. That ain't what I think it is Johnny right?” whispered One-Eyed Jack
“You tryna give me a heart attack or what?” I responded, apprehensively.
“Naw naw I’m bein serious mahn, there something rustling in them leaves,” he whispered.
“Desert mouse,” said Tiny, “They really call you a savage for nothing huh.”
Suddenly, we got a message over comms.
We picked up radio chatter about 2 klicks from the area. Might be Taliban cells coming from Sangin. You are all clear for movement for now, but stay sharp men.
“You heard the man let’s move!” I yelled.
We twisted our way out of the thorny bushes and began pressing forward toward the mountain. All three of us clutched our guns while gliding through the trees, scaling the horizon for enemy forces. My boots kept tripping over roots and slipping on the mud-filled path; my knees were covered with dirt and scrapes. After what felt like a marathon of walking on a hardly flattened-out path, we had finally reached the peak. My eyes were burning with fire.
A small compound sat a few hundred feet in front of us, draped with white tarps and surrounded by a metal gate. A hut filled with a story. Quiet now, but a sign of warfare. Peace, but terror. An older Afghan man with a grown beard and dressed in a robe approached us.
“Kids. Kids here. You take now?” He mumbled.
Something felt off. Only one man guarded the center, too calm to know what was going on. There was no urgency, no sound, no life.
“Come come. In here.” The man repeated.
“We don’t want any bullshit old man. You bring the kids out here before I kill your ass,” I demanded.
Tiny stabs my back with his rifle. “On three, you move the hell out of the way, incoming contact.” He whispers.
One.
The Afghan man runs back to the hut.
Two.
I aim my rifle directly toward his back.
Three.
An RPG creeps out on top of the roof. AK-47s appear in all of the windows. A machine gun sits mounted at the doorway.
CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK
“MOVE! CONTACT LEFT! CONTACT LEFT!” shouted OneEyed Jack, hurling his body behind near a fallen log. Bullets were flung in every direction, bouncing off trees and sending cracks throughout the forest. Tiny and I hastened behind a large oak, tripping over roots and tearing off skin just to find cover. My heart was raging. A rush of sweat cooled my fiery soul. I turned. Ten or twelve of them, I couldn’t tell. They were like a pride of lions watching over the jungle on a large rock. A pride about to get lit up by a few badass marines.
“I’M SENDING ONE IN!” yelled Tiny as he pitched a grenade toward the compound. The smell of gunpowder filled the air. A round is fired back in our direction. BOOM. The front gates to the hut explode. A group of young children lay huddled together in the back.
“THEY’RE THERE! I SEE THEM!” I shouted to Tiny while firing back at the compound. “Yeah, I see them too they’re lighting us up right now,” he unsteadily responded. “No, no, the kids man. The kids are in the back. Cut the grenades!”
All of a sudden, a wave of dirt splattered into the air like paint on a canvas. A rocket blew up into the ground a few feet before me. My world began to ring. My vision blurred.
“Ando.”
“Ando come on man get up.”
“Ando get off your ass we gotta go!”
“ANDO!”
I was back on my feet, not sure how the battered legs below me were carrying my weight. I didn’t know what was going on, where I was, or where I was going, but the fire inside of me told me to raise my gun. All three of us pushed forth as bullets screamed through the wind.
I limped to the compound, arbitrarily firing shots wherever I saw turbans creeping out of the trees. Men fell like dominoes, one by one dropping lifeless from the roof. However, violent Pashto-laced screams kept pouring out from the forest. Tiny crawled over to One-Eyed Jack as we continued killing as many Taliban as we could count. I felt an excruciating pinch in my right thigh, another in my right hand. My chest panted like an overheated dog, gasping for air. My lungs collapsed.
“There be mor of em comin’ Tiny! Y’know we ain't losin’ any lives on this side, we can care bout dem kids later. THROW THE DAMN FRAG!” roared One-Eyed Jack.
Tiny yanked the grenade from his chest. My heavy eyelids opened just enough to where I could see it. An M67. Lethal. American. Only brought out when there is no other option but death. Used to knock out entire squads. Worthless lives.
I brought myself back to my feet, twisting my dislocated foot back into place and tightening the tourniquet wrapped around my leg.
“FRAG OUT!” howled Tiny from the other side of the trees. A full life living in one throw. Sound and then silence. The forest was emptied. The world went quiet.
Innocent kids chuckled and cried in the distance. We trudged to the compound, stepping over dead bodies and broken gates. Some of the kids were huddled together, others eager to be embraced with open arms. Time was not in our favor, so we jogged to the outskirts of the woods and motioned the group of children to follow, carrying the disobedient ones.
The sounds of helicopter rotors soon filled the air. I breathed a sigh of relief. All my pain, my worry, and my rage were numbed by the sight of the bird. “Home-bound!” whispered Tiny, smirking at the sight of the
chopper. “How bout a beer fer the road!” hollered One-Eyed Jack. I couldn’t wait to go home. As the helicopter narrowly descended into an opening between the trees, Smitty popped out with a wide grin, exclaiming, “Let’s get you boys and these kids home safe now, hand them to me one by one.”
The fiery sun began setting over the horizon. All the kids were now on the bird. “Ladies first Tiny,” said One-Eyed Jack. I stepped to get on. However, strange shouts from the forest paralyzed my legs.
“AMERIKI AMERIKI!”
The Taliban.
I hurled my weightless body into the back of the helicopter. “They’re here Smitty, get outta this place!” I yelled. It took off, but not for long. One of the rotors crushed into the trees, severely damaging the blade and sending us back down to the ground.
“We’re too heavy, this piece of shit won’t stabilize!” shouted Martinez from the front, “I can’t get us out of here.”
clank clank clank clank
Bullets smacked the side panel as a band of Talis stormed forward from out of nowhere.
“All these damn kids are weighing us down, we won’t fly unless we drop weight! Ando get off your ass and knock open the fuel flap! We gotta lose some gas,” demanded Smitty.
I quickly re-opened the back door and stuck my hand out of the chopper, arbitrarily feeling for a gas cap. Suddenly, while unscrewing, another sharp pain corrupted my arm.
For the next minute, I was completely out of it, taking cover across the laps of one of the kids. I felt the floor shake, as Smitty tried to get the helicopter into the air.
A smaller boy with darker skin and dirt-covered hands placed his palm on my open wound, humming an Arabic song while pressing soil onto the blood. The chaos around me paused.
“No die. No die.” he whimpered. A tear rolled down his eye onto my skin. I could feel his heart. His soft, innocent hands soothed the fire blazing under the gash on my arm. I covered his hand with my palm. “Live,” I said, “Live.”
Will Sandor, IV
Jaiden Lee, V
JJ Pena, V
The helicopter rocked back and forth, bouncing off the earth trying to get height. A rocket exploded beneath the rails, catching fire to the gas on the ground. “WE’RE GONNA HAVE TO LEAVE THESE KIDS! THERE’S NO OTHER WAY TO GET RID OF ALL THIS WEIGHT!” screamed Smitty while steering the helicopter forward. The fire grew large, catching onto nearby leaves and leading its way throughout the forest.
“That’s all the fuel I can burn! We’re taking one last shot for the sky, shut the gas off!” shouted Martinez.
The fire grew violent. It threatened all life with its menacing flames. The world looked like hell.
We took off. Sirens started turning and the interior began lighting up red. Kids cried and screamed. The crew began cursing each other out. I smiled at the young boy who had comforted me before, and I returned the favor. “It's gonna be alright.” I said, giving him a thumbs up, “Live.” Suddenly, the helicopter made a promising move into the sky, flying higher than ever before that night. Slowly, it made its way into the orange sky, like an eagle being released from its chains. Free. American. We did it. They did it.
I hit the ground hard, but my body was ready for the fall, painless. Gunfire ripped through the smoke, ricocheting off fallen trees and striking my torso. Blood poured out from my shattered limbs; I choked on my own breath, giving out ragged gasps. My entire body shaking, I picked up my gun, pressing it hard against my cheek and raising it just above the fire.
“Come on, you sons of bitches.”
My vision blurred. I couldn’t feel or hear anything. The gun slipped from my hands. It didn’t matter anymore, I had already won. The fire had gotten to me. It grew above the trees and touched the high leaves, tearing away the image of the world. It was warm, comforting.
The flames danced beautifully, their golden light flickering upon my dying skin. I wish I could stay here forever.
My dad embraced me. “You ARE forever, Anderson. You are a Marine.”
A Walk Down 125th Street
By Brandon Li, V
As I walk down 125th Street, culture permeates throughout the air.
The streets teem with life; joyful jazz jumps through the cultured air.
Glancing to my right, I see the cultured Apollo Theater, which is at fault for such cultured music.
Cultured passersby walk past me; men in their suits, women in their hats, children in their overalls.
I continue walking through the streets.
A shady establishment – a speakeasy, some would say – makes its cultured appearance to my left.
A man with a top hat leans next to the entrance smoking a cigar, looking around with suspicious eyes.
Out of the blue, a lightning bolt strikes me.
I collapse, and when I wake up, the culture surrounds me. It permeates the air and is everywhere. It is visible, a magical current of mist swirling around me. It makes me feel alive, it makes me feel proud, and it makes me feel cultured.
Trapped
By Griffin Vail, V
Desperate to find a way out of the abyss
One that has far too long taken control
Of me
It holds me captive It chains me down like a prisoner On dirty pavement that scrapes my bare feet Why can’t I escape?
Anger takes control of me It clenches my fists It reddens my face It makes my fingers tingle
Then I realize
To escape I can’t go back I must go forward
Deeper into the abyss
Deeper into desperation
Only then can I find the end
Once I accept it isn’t there.
Lost Memories
By Suhas Kaniyar, III
I think I know how to know someone. Let me start from the beginning; everyone has a timer on their wrist. More specifically, everyone has a countdown timer set for an unspecified amount of time that, once elapsed, erases all memories of other people and then resets, for one minute less than the previous time. Once someone’s timer hits 0, they die, and with them, take everyone else’s memory of them.
Some people have short durations, like my brother Jack, who often forgets everyone around him, including our parents, me, and even the captain of the Los Angeles Sharks. It got to the point where I have stopped talking to him; what’s the point, I thought. We can’t know each other for more than 5 days. Even my parents, though slowly, were distancing themselves from him. Now, after hearing all this, you might still be on the fence about whether having a short or long timer is better. I would have definitively told you that long timers are about 1000 times worse.
Take my life, for example. I was always worried that I will “blink,” and forget everyone I care about. Because of this, I refrain from talking to people. Out of the few people I had conversed with, a couple of them have said that I am “afraid of living,” while the rest had either completely ignored me or backed my theory that there is no point in getting to know someone you will inevitably forget.
One time, I was at school working on a group project with a kid in my class, Max, I think his name was, although it might have been Matt. Anyways, this kid asked me about my deep apathy for social interactions, and I, stupidly, told him the truth. The very next day, he tried doing everything he could to make me remember him. A few days later, the whole school was approaching me. Out of annoyance, I decided to leave and transfer to a much smaller school.
At my smaller school, I wasn’t supposed to know anyone. I kept to myself, didn’t join any clubs or groups, and at one point, stopped looking at people. Fortunately, nobody wanted to interact with me, so it was pretty easy to navigate through the school without making any friends. When I graduated, though, I knew the gig was going to be up. See, where I live, there are multiple middle schools, but only one high school, meaning I couldn’t simply avoid everybody.
In fact, on the first day of school, I was approached by a kid my age, with white skin, straight black hair, and brown eyes. The boy’s name was Samuel Davis, and he, as I found out later, lived two houses down from me. He asked me if I could lend him my textbook for math. For the next month, he borrowed my book for about 25 days. Anyways, I started talking to him, and after a while, I almost considered him a friend. He invited me to his house, and I, torn between keeping my philosophy and making a friend, decided to go, but only for one hour.
As I was at his house, I actually liked him, and ended up staying for 90 minutes, a whole half hour extra! Over the years, I hung out with him more, during which time he “blinked” a total of 2 times, and although it was annoying, I learned that I shouldn’t be afraid of it. I believe that just because everything will leave me one day, I shouldn’t reject the idea of having it. I have started enjoying my life, and while doing so, realized that life would be the same without a timer. I would have a limited amount of time before I would leave with nothing. All that to say, I have to make the most of every moment, and take advantage of the time I have without worrying about my time left. So from now on until I die, I will enjoy my life, without worry of my time, because living a life of fear got me nothing.
Rafael Rodriguez-Montgomery, Form VI
The Saga of Alvilda
By Brady Paquette, VI
There was a man named Hernvunaff, king of Keflavik. He was the offspring of Gikkunduld and Togvjorn, two of the wealthiest in all the land. Hernvunaff was short and burley, much like his father, Togvjorn. Everyone in Keflavik called him Hervunaff the Brute, hence his disproportionate body and fierce way of life. His mother, Gikkunduld, was known to be pleasant and astonishingly beautiful, attracting many of Hernvunaff’s followers. Hernvunaff wanted more in life than just to be king, however. He trained for hours on end, working on his close-contact battle skills. Over the years, Hernvunaff became so well-versed that neighboring countries knew of him for his short dagger he called the Maelstorm Skalpel. He used this dagger in every contested conflict brought upon by foreign invaders. After ten years of kingship, Hernvunaff had a daughter named Alvilda Hernvunaffson with his wife, Jofrid, who died shortly after giving birth. In Icelandic, Alvilda means “elf battle.” Alvilda resembled the physical qualities of her father, chiseled and muscular, but the tender heart of her mother.
As Alvilda grew older, she became accustomed to her father’s iron-headed way of life. Growing up with four brothers destined to defend the battlegrounds of their father’s Keflavik, Alvilda became tougher than any female in the land. She was known among nations as Alvilda the Brute in recognition of her fearless father. In her teenage years, Alvilda fell in love with a man named Aslaug, who was tall, skinny, and possessed great strength. The two married each other and rose to defend Keflavik as the highest in command of Hernvunaff’s army.
One day, Hernvunaff hosted a grand music festival where any man in Keflavik was welcome to play for the king. Many in the land took the chance to perform for the great king. However, there was one man who decided to deliver an uncanny spoken word performance, a man
named Kasulfar, unknown to the people of Keflavik. Kasulfar had long, reddish hair that was always tied back in a braid to keep it out of his face during battles. He wore a woolen tunic with a fur coat draped over his broad shoulders. The eyes and ears of the crowd were heightened at the man’s ignorance of the rules of the music festival as Kasulfar delivered his poem:
Oh Hernvunaff, my supposed superior, I stand before thee in spite of my stature, Blood boiled with anger, frustration.
I come unto thee seeking your daughter’s hand, Confident in thy tongue to win her over.
May thy warrior-like characteristics lack in places, Where my mouth stitches the hole of the loosened sword, I now ask for the king’s approval,
As faces surround me, I am left vulnerable unto fate to decide.
Hernvunaff sat with his veins coursing and head wandering. Aslaug leaped to strike down Kasulfar with his sword in defense of his father-in-law, but the king stopped him. Noticing his daughter in shock, however, Hernvunaff himself came down from his throne, soared through the crowd, and stood face-to-face with the young poet. They exchanged looks of supposition, both anticipating a whirl of unease to wash over the tension between them. Then, Hernvunaff reached for his dagger, expecting the young foe would not be fast enough for his experienced hands. But as Hernvunaff’s hand lay on the handle of his trustworthy dagger, Maelstorm Skalpel, Kasulfar slid the drinking horn from his sleeve into the palm of his hand, slicing through Hernvunaff’s heart with a ferocious motion.
In shock, the room erupted in anger, striking down multiple blows to Kasulfar’s body. But the crowd did not know Kasulfar was king of Papyli and a descendant of Thorstar and Ingulfrid. Kasulfar’s mother was Ingulfrid, who collected runes from all of the heads sacrificed for the protection of Papyli. The bodily runes he inherited protected him, slicing his way through thirty men, killing all of them. He sneaked back to his ship, where he sailed 150 miles back to Papyli.
Former heir and current queen of Keflavik, Alvilda now took charge of her father’s death, seeking vengeance. She ordered fifty men to follow Kasulfar back to his land. When they arrived, they were greeted with a wall of prisoners, two hundred or so heads marking the spot in which their forgotten bodies were no longer attached. The formal name was the Wall of Prisoners, set to send a message to any foreign warrior seeking to invade Papyli. Worried for their lives, the men hurried back and told Alvilda what they had witnessed upon arrival. Alvilda was angered at the idea of letting Kasulfar and his men go unhinged and get away with such a sly murder, especially one of the kingdom’s family heritage. She summoned her husband, Aslaug, into the bedroom to let him in on a plan to seek vengeance she was plotting. Aslaug thought differently of his queen’s intentions when he entered the bedroom, but quickly assembled his ruffled clothing. Unsure of Aslaug’s reaction, she delivered her secret plan in prose:
I disguise as a wolf, hunting through the night
A wolf unseen beneath dark skies
For father’s blood, the traitor dies.
Then we will surround his barn he calls home And demand that he come out, With each strike fulfills my heart’s demand
Unable to flee our sight.
The flames of justice rise unchecked, For Father’s rest, I shall not turn,
Mason Iandiorio, V
JJ Pena, V
Until all the men are boiled and burned, Only then,
The wolf’s fierce howl will demand a return.
Aslaug felt compelled by his wife’s daring words and was destined to hold down Keflavik while she was gone. Alvilda sought out her childhood friend, Frida. Frida was—as Hobbes would say—nasty, brutish, and short. As such, they got along very well. While she upheld this reputation in battle, Frida was always tender towards Alvilda and used a subtle tone when she talked to her friend. Frida was knowledgeable of the familial heirloom of Kasulfar’s kingdom, particularly, the ritual of rune-making. They conducted a mini ritual, and Alvilda disguised her runes behind her shape-shifted wolf body.
Alvilda sailed overseas, landing at the Wall of Prisoners, digging a hole in the ground to transcend and avoid the barrier. After nights of killing Papyli citizens with her vicious berserker mindset, she decided on the fourth night to execute her plan. Jumping through the midnight trees like a thief in the night, Alvilda saw Kasulfar drinking with his men during a glorious-looking feast. Out of the corner of his eye, Kasulfar saw Alvilda and immediately took cover behind the table. However, he was so drunk and loaded with the burden of a belly full of ale that he stumbled right into the doorway, exposing his bottom. Alvilda took the chance and bit down hard, eating away at the human flesh of his behind. Seconds later, he lay on the floor, defenselessly passing away as Alvilda ran through the rest of the drunk men, eating them all.
Alvilda returned to Keflavik in human form, shouting to her people that revenge had been carried out. Hernvunaff’s name and legacy were fulfilled. But word got around rather quickly of the queen’s control. She had amassed far greater power and wealth than any other ruler in medieval Europe. While tensions were low and celebrations ensued from night to night, one ruler started to take notice.
Just north of Keflavik was a commune called Eyvindland. Eyvind was the king and highest-ranked military fighter in Eyvindland. His skin was more pale than the pure white rune Alvilda had possessed. He wore
long, silky blonde hair that fell to his kneecaps. Veins covered his arms and neck. Eyvind’s son, Ragnar, was in alliance with the men of Papyli. Ragnar was soon to become king because of his father’s old age. Stepping in to govern and manage Papyli’s foreign affairs, Ragnar took radical action. He treated his people poorly and felt the constant pressure of being overthrown. That said, Eyvindland was nourished with care and laid plentiful with flourishing crops. Ragnar’s cruel and corrupt manner posed a threat to Keflavik, but never had partaken in any sort of invasion. Over the years, Ragnar grew wealthy from the loot Kasulfar left behind, inheriting all the gold, resources, and rune-ritual practices he inherited. As his power and accumulation of wealth grew, he desired more. He went down and challenged Alvilda to a duel. The battle was set for five weeks from the date and would be held in a Norwegian amphitheater in a region called Reykjanes. Reykjanes served as a neutral sight away from their respective communes. Alvilda trained hard for weeks, taking advantage of her father’s secret dagger. Come duel day, the two faced off for four hours, exchanging blows. Alvilda realized that Ragnar possessed runes of his own, confused. However, Alvilda found a weak spot in his heel. Just as Ragnar turned to his men in agony, looking for any last ounce of strength to continue fighting, Alvilda’s dagger, Maelstrom Skalpel, sliced through the back of his heel, leaving him to bleed out in the center of the amphitheater for everyone to bear witness. She then took her regular sword, sliced the head off the king, and raised it high.
When Alvilda showed the head to Asluag, expecting a whirl of relief to wash over him, Aslaug instead felt weary. He became fearful of what his queen had turned into. “I am worrisome of your aggression and willingness to kill. What have you done with the Alvilda I loved so dearly once upon a time? Has she become possessed by her unbounded runes?” Alvilda was furious with Aslaug’s response. Her greed overhauled her mind, and she questioned whether their marriage contract was in jeopardy. However, Aslaug held property rights to half of the land and resources of Keflavik. Separation from him only diminished her power.
“I propose we go pillaging down south in a country called Simrivik, where I can show you the way of the Hervunaffson lifestyle.” Aslaug gladly agreed, and the two gathered plenty of ships to store their loot and gatherings upon return. They were accompanied by a fullyfledged army for their safe travels. They voyaged from village to village, burning every town hall as a mark of the Hervunaffson message. One that was meant to convey brutality.
Meanwhile, back home, Frida dealt with land disputes amongst familial ties that believed they had rights to Alvilda and Aslaug’s crops and fields while they were off pillaging. After days of argument in the royal house, Aslaug’s older and more fear-mongering brother, Bjorgulf, lit a spark in Frida that was too hot to be tamed. “My brother reigns as the next king of Keflavik. Why should I not be awarded for his place amongst high status? Have all morals in family connection merely flown out the window like a bird from her nest?” Frida responded puzzlingly, walking towards the column of axes hanging on the dining hall walls. After calmly choosing which one she desired, she peculiarly turned around and went full berserker, whipping the bronze axe straight into Bjorgulf’s gut. The axe had not been sharpened, though, and did not slice through. Instead, it clung onto the flesh, bringing the body with it as it took flight right towards the diamond chandelier. The diamond chandelier had been a Hernvunaffson family heirloom passed down for generations, costing almost 250 million silver coins. Unknowing of the impact she would make as it shattered to the ground, Frida fled the scene and banished herself to Scotland, a land far, far away.
Upon Alvilda and Aslaug’s return, Aslaug was petrified by his brother’s state. The land disputes had also not been settled. Anarchy soon ensued. As Keflavik citizens became enraged, Aslaug took to the sea to isolate himself. The waves crashing against the dunes eased him, and he became content with his place in this corrupt world. Aslaug spoke a verse in reminiscence:
I have wielded my blood-stained sword One too many times for my liking
The autumn I yearn for seems so distant
To the white-cap waves that quiet my head
He then took to his drinking horn, where the burden of the Keflavik anarchy felt lightened. With a sense of renewed initiative that had long lingered in the young foe’s mind, Aslaug wielded his sword. For the first time in his life, Aslaug took command of his situation and confronted his wife one last time:
Alvilda, my wife, fierce as a storm Has ruled this hearth in thy reckless form
Beneath the gaze is an iron will One too passionate for a queen
The sea has whispered to me Of distant lands, of freedom’s gleam I long to sail the open wave
Thy fate must be concealed And my fire cannot be tamed.
Alvilda, knowing what was about to happen, shapeshifted into a wolf, shielding herself from Aslaug’s blows. But full of ale herself from the celebration, Alvilda stood no chance. Aslaug quickly changed out his sword for Maelstorm Skalpel—he sneakily acquired—and lifted the wolflike figure up by the throat. Her father's dagger pierced out the other side. Alvilda had been killed after 122 years of queenship, the longest leader to ever rule Keflavik.
The skeleton of Alvilda was buried under the royal house many years later. It is said to this day that her possessed runes still roam the undisputed lands of Keflavik. Then, and only then, did the stories of Alvilda Hernvunaffson come to a close.
A Brief Set of Three Haikus
By Max Ramanathan, VI
Celestial Boy
Glittering bright gold Over the heavens, gleaming Piercing the blue sky
Falling Back into the Sea
Ikaris turns back A vague reflection of fate Tears of acceptance
Parent’s Worst Nightmare
The father cries out Pain, like a knife to the heart But he still flys on
Will Sandor, IV
Vincent van Gogh
By Rylan Dean, V
They sit around the fire, separated. Each piece soothes the mouth on its own, but together they form a van Gogh.
The twig turns tightly held by my two hands, hoping the snowball doesn’t melt on the oozing lava
My uncle asks for pale, like the grain on his back-country fields, like his golden-brown Mustang, which won a few races for him back in 92’
The bunny tail darkens, as the flames kiss its glowing surface
All of a sudden, fire
The dark country night is awoken by the wind, the corn fields blinded by the raging mallow
A single breath, a luke-warm chocolate, and two sugary cardboard crackers
The s’more blends
The ash cracks as it's crushed by my hand, like the wheels of a 1962 Ford Bronco on a gravel road
Crunch
My hand goes back into the bag of golf balls
As I grab the paintbrush for my next Vincent van Gogh.
[X]
By Jaiden Lee, V
I think we were twelve, [X]. We were on that hill, do you remember? It was the one with daffodils–and the abandoned winter sleds.
I loved that hill, [X].
Especially at night, as the stars sprawled across the sky and fell swooping together in a symphonic collaboration–you called that “star magic.”
It was that day, [X]. The day I told you–no, confessed to you, that I was in love with you.
I wasn’t so sure, [X]. You were always the sure one, the confident one, the one who could touch the stars and dance with the moon if you really wanted to.
I still remember what you said to me, [X]. But I wasn’t listening then–I was too busy connecting the dots on your red freckles, and they spelled out “love.”
Two weeks later, you were dead, [X]. Gone, no longer on this hill, on our hill, no longer here to dance the tango with me–no longer here to gaze into my eyes and smile again.
I hope you can hear me, [X].
I haven’t forgotten–how could I have forgotten–the gentle melody of your voice when it tinkled in my ear.
I want to see you again, [X]. Let me see you one more time, skipping over your favorite daffodils as they strip away their shine, and sit with me beneath the stars on this hill again.
Please.
The Owl
By Will Achtmeyer, V
MAIN TITLE SEQUENCE
Open on a shot of THE AUTHOR’s house. Superimpose title cards as shots of the city of Boston at night appear. The shots are all of locations that will be visited later in the film and the shots progress in the same order as they will later in the film. This gives the audience a sense of the tone of the film as well as a sense of direction as to where everything is.
Fade In:
EXT. 4 Chestnut St. Boston MA- 7 P.M.
WE OPEN on an exterior shot of the house of THE AUTHOR. The shot goes around to the side window of the house. Along the way, we see the silhouette of a man (THE OWL) staring up at the house. We see through the window that THE AUTHOR is getting ready to leave. The camera begins to move back to the front of the house and settles behind the shoulder of THE OWL. THE OWL then checks his watch and walks away. THE AUTHOR opens the door as she is still getting something situated in her purse. THE AUTHOR walks out of the still open door and takes a deep breath. THE AUTHOR closes the door and begins to walk down the street in the same direction as THE OWL (who is now nowhere to be seen).
SUPERIMPOSE: 7 P.M.
EXT/INT. Starbucks 7:05 P.M.
CUT TO:
THE AUTHOR walks up to the counter to order her coffee. She glances over and sees a woman reading a book entitled THE OWL with an image of a man in a hoodie with a medical mask, steampunk side-rim glasses and holding a handheld sickle. She gives a look of acknowledgement and turns back to the pick-up counter to wait for her drink. The woman reading the book walks up to her and taps her on the shoulder.
WOMAN
Excuse me, are you-
THE AUTHOR turns around and cuts her off
THE AUTHOR
Yes, I am. How do you like it?
WOMAN
It’s great- I’d never really read a slasher NOVEL before. It’s a shame nobody seems to know about it
THE AUTHOR laughs
WOMAN
Oh, shoot, I’m sorry, I didn’t-
THE AUTHOR
Don’t worry about it. I’m glad YOU enjoy it
WOMAN
Yes, well, very nice to meet you, have a nice night
THE AUTHOR
You as well
THE AUTHOR grabs her coffee and notices a man (THE OWL) behind her. She looks over and the man is gone. She walks outside and sees a man dressed in the same clothes as the man on the cover of “THE OWL.” He is staring at her from the common. She looks away with a thinking look on her face and begins to walk down the street.
CUT TO:
EXT. Beacon St. down to Arthur Fiedler Footbridge just before Sunset
THE AUTHOR is waiting at the light to cross the street. She continues walking until she gets to the footbridge. All the while you can tell she is
contemplating something. She reaches the footbridge and it is clear she has made a decision of some kind. She looks around in her bag and pretends (though it is only revealed she was pretending later) to look for something that she has forgotten, and begins to head back home. In between these shots we get POV shots of THE OWL walking up to and entering THE AUTHOR’s house.
CUT TO:
EXT/INT. THE AUTHOR’s house
We see THE OWL walking through the dining room and the kitchen and then moving upstairs and inspecting the rest of the house. There are no lights on. Along the way, we see old pictures of THE AUTHOR, that seem to have had somebody removed from them. We then hear the door being unlocked. We get a shot of THE AUTHOR opening the door and moving into the house. She gets some pepper spray from her desk. She then goes over to the fridge to get out a drink. The door opens and blocks view of the hallway. When it closes, nobody is there. She then walks up the stairs and as she passes one of the rooms, we see THE OWL around a corner. She goes up to her closet and seems to be checking on something that we cannot see. There is another build up to a jumpscare that has no satisfaction. She then exits the house.
CUT TO:
EXT. The Esplanade at Sunset.
We see THE AUTHOR watching the sunset and THE OWL out of focus behind her. He checks his watch and leaves. THE AUTHOR keeps watching as the sun sets. We see her watching intently and get increasingly close up shots of her eyes and the sun as it finally disappears.
CUT TO:
EXT. The reflecting pool near the Prudential after Sunset
We see the AUTHOR walking up to the reflecting pool. She sees THE OWL in the row of columns. He walks away from view. She begins to walk towards him with he spray ready. As she walks by one of the columns, we see THE OWL hidden, and then he moves away (THE AUTHOR does not see him). THE AUTHOR then sees a note on one of the columns that says on
the front, “TO THE AUTHOR.” She opens it and it simply says “DON’T GO HOME.” We then get a POV shot from the OWL looking at her from across the pool. We then get a shot from THE AUTHOR’s perspective looking back at him. We then abruptly zoom in on the OWL’s face. We then get another POV from THE OWL as we see THE AUTHOR begin to walk away hurriedly.
CUT TO:
EXT/INT. Prudential Center/Boylston St. Dark of Night
THE AUTHOR runs down Boylston street towards the Prudential Center, which is still open but has all of its stores closed. Switch to a POV shot of her running towards the entrance to the Prudential. She looks behind her and sees THE OWL turning the corner towards her. She opens the door and goes inside. Switching back to a stationary shot at the top of the stairs, we see THE AUTHOR run up the stairs and hide in a corridor, waiting to see if THE OWL will open the door and follow her. She whispers to herself.
THE AUTHOR
If it’s real, he’ll open the door and follow you inside. If that note was from him, if he is really following you, he’ll open that door and he'll have the sickle.
THE AUTHOR waits and as she is at the top of her breath, we hear the door open downstairs. We get a shot of THE OWL at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. We go back to a shot of THE AUTHOR, holding her mouth and looking down the corridor and seeing there is no escape that way. She looks down the main hall and sees that it is her only option. She takes off her shoes to be silent. We get a shot of THE OWL again, looking up and then we hear THE AUTHOR slip and fall and then running noises (with shoes). THE OWL takes out the sickle and begins to run up the stairs. We alternate between shots of THE AUTHOR running towards the corner where she can be out of sight and THE OWL running up the stairs. She turns the corner just barely before THE OWL reaches the top. THE OWL then begins to slowly look around and begins to pick up the pace as he goes along. They play a game of cat and mouse until THE AUTHOR finally loses him and makes it out.
CUT TO:
EXT/INT. Montage of The Author walking to Faneuil Hall and then inside Faneuil Hall and then into the North End. Dark of Night. We get shots of THE AUTHOR going to Faneuil Hall. When she gets there, she thinks she hears running behind her so she darts through faneuil hall. We hear a drunk man on the floor yelling at her. She crosses the sidewalk and we get a still shot of her going into the North End. We then see THE OWL running through Faneuil Hall. He looks at the drunk man, ignores him and continues into the North End.
CUT TO:
EXT. North End/North End cafe. Dark of Night.
We see THE AUTHOR look around before entering a North End cafe. The shot remains stationary and focuses on the door to the cafe. We then see THE OWL walk past the door. The shot continues on THE OWL walking down the street until he hears a door open. We then see THE AUTHOR walking out of the cafe, guzzling down water. THE OWL turns his head around in an owl-like manor and then begins to walk towards THE AUTHOR. We have some fake jump scares until THE AUTHOR walks into an alleyway and then looks behind her shoulder and THE OWL is not there. She continues to walk forwards. When she turns a corner she sees another note that is addressed to THE AUTHOR. It reads: Only night and never day
Widened eyes stalking prey
Let you go away, away The Author crumbles up the note and throws it to the side and then sees THE OWL staring at her from across the street.
CUT TO:
EXT. Freedom trail from North End to Bunker Hill. Dark of Night. She runs along the freedom train to the crosswalk near North Station. She opens up her bag and sees an airtag in it. She throws it away and looks behind her, seeing the Owl again. She runs across the bridge and follows the freedom trail down to the docks, where she stands out in the open, waiting for THE OWL to see her. She stands on the edge of the dock. THE OWL then comes
running around the corner and stands still, staring at her. She then pretends to jump into the water but hangs on to the side. THE OWL bolts towards the edge of the dock. THE AUTHOR trips him and THE OWL falls in. THE AUTHOR then get up and sprints off.
CUT TO:
EXT. Montage sequence of various locations. Dark of Night. 11 We get a montage of THE AUTHOR running back to her house.
CUT TO:
EXT/INT. THE AUTHOR’s house. Dark of Night. 12 THE AUTHOR arrives at her house and opens the door. She tries to turn on the lights but it is clear the power has been cut. THE AUTHOR does not seem perturbed by this.
THE AUTHOR Perfect.
THE AUTHOR runs upstairs to her closet and grabs a silenced pistol. She walks back downstairs and sees something playing on repeat on the Living Room T.V. It is a homemade video of what is clearly THE OWL, cutting up family pictures of THE AUTHOR. At the end of the video, the words appear on the screen: YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE COME HOME. THE AUTHOR stares blankly at the screen and then looks down, seeing that a tarp has been laid out on the floor.
THE
AUTHOR
And you would have been right there waiting for me. I would look down and look up and there you’d be. Motherfucker.
THE AUTHOR stand in front of the glow of the T.V. with the gun in her hand. She checks her watch.
SUPERIMPOSE: 12:00 P.M.
CUT TO:
INT. THE AUTHOR’s house. Dark of Night. 13 The door creaks and we cut to a shot of THE OWL standing dripping wet in
in the doorway. He walks upstairs to the T.V. and sees what looks like a dead body in front of it.
THE OWL Shit.
He rushes over to investigate.
THE OWL
Fuckin’ weak bitch.
He realized that the body is simply a pile of sheets. He finds a note at the bottom addressed to: MY DEAREST HUSBAND. We hear a gun cock.
THE AUTHOR
You got skinnier.
THE OWL
Go fuck yoursel-
THE AUTHOR
Shut up. What did you think? That I would just be sitting right there waiting for you, just like you’d planned? Because nothing EVER goes wrong for you right? Everything will work out right? Delusional piece of shit.
THE OWL
Look, you don’t have to-
THE AUTHOR
I thought I told you to shut the fuck up! Stop trying to save yourself..it isn’t about you this time. You don’t matter. You will die here on the tarp you laid out for me and nobody will give a shit. I knew you’d come for me sooner or later. I knew you wouldn’t be able to stand seeing me succeed, achieving, without you. Dressing up as THE OWL was a cute touch.
THE OWL Honey…
THE
AUTHOR
You shouldn’t have come home.
The silenced gun fires and lights up the room briefly as THE OWL falls backward onto the tarp.
CUT TO:
EXT. Montage. Daytime
We see a montage of THE AUTHOR throwing trashbags into the back of her car and driving out into the woods where she starts a fire and watches the remnants burn. We then get happy shots of her talking to friends. We end with watching the sun set on the Esplanade and then checking her watch. All the while voiceover:
THE AUTHOR:
I never understood what was so hard about hiding a body. Murderers go through such extremes to kill a person, and yet they can’t cover up their tracks. I’ll tell you why the bodies always turn up, why the proper precautions are hardly ever taken. It’s because those killers are delusional. They live in a self absorbed world, a world in which nothing can go wrong, because they did nothing wrong. I do not have this weakness, I do not live in that world. I live in this world, in the world where I killed my husband. In the world where he will never be found, because he was never here, not really anyway. But I’m here, and I’ll be around a long time. Now I stand, watching the beautiful sunset, and I say to myself: It’s going to be a great night.
FADE TO BLACK:
THE END.
The Torrent of Sana
By Ryan Chang-Wu, IV
I, Lucius Amori, am going to die soon. In truth, I should have been killed a short time ago, yet here I am. In the time I have left on this mortal plain, I feel obligated to inscribe this story into my journal, whilst laying on the brink of death. So you, lucky reader, rejoice! Thou may not succumb to the harrowing experiences that have reduced me to this state.
A short time ago, a close friend of mine sent a letter to my estate proclaiming that he had now come upon a vastly marvelous finding, thus I must journey to his manor at once. It was the call I had been patiently awaiting, and so my journey began.
Upon my arrival, his servant greeted me and brought me to a dimly lit room where a figure stood sentinel in the corner, obscured by the absence of any light.
“Glad you could finally make it, Lucius,” said the familiar voice through the shadows. “My team of researchers have come across an ancient note encased in a bottle of glass beside a single petal, fortelling that there is an island that humanity has long forgotten about. The island houses a flower that contains vast amounts of an element I have named Sana. Using what I have learned from the petal, Sana can easily be converted into a form of nuclear energy. Hence, I have assembled this small team to explore said region. We would have to be the first people to set foot on the island, possibly for hundreds if not thousands of years! If we were to come back with a way to get nuclear energy, we could eclipse the power of the current world!”
After that statement, the rest of the conversation slips from my memory - possibly it was never there. The sole object of my mind was what could be. My heart was wholly seized by dreams of taking what was to be taken from the island. Even now as I am on the brink of imminent death, I can’t recall simple things, not even the shape of the boat, that brought me to my demise. The faces of the captain and crew elude me. I can no longer recall where, or even how I slept for those turbulent days on the ship.
Blowing into the Island days later, I turned my eyes to the shoreline. I can’t even begin to describe its beauty! The clouds formed a halo of the setting sun, while the color of the luminescent orb seamlessly blended into the sky. The sky gave off an ethereal feeling, as if it were not worthy of seeing such a sight.
We ruined it all.
The first night on the island we found myriad plants, none of which were anything similar to that which we had ever seen in our homeland; there were flowers which had petals twice the size of my wingspan with individual intricate patterns protruding from each, vines that when grasped changed color from the heat of the person's hand, and lakes on which many different trees were all climbing to the sky in beautiful motions.
When venturing deep into the forest, we came upon an area with colors different to that of the rest of the island: what was once white was black, what was green was red, and so on. In the middle of the forest was a tree, presumably the only tree, with the same petals as the one in the bottle - they were the Sana-producing flowers which My Friend had told us about. The Sana-producing flower had the appearance of an unassuming brown flower, though with one difference: it had a golden aura beaming from its center. It was so delicate and beautiful, I simply couldn't bring myself to touch it, for what if my flawed touch marred its perfection? My companions were drawn towards the tree in a trancelike state. In the back of my head a voice whispered, “go away now!”
“Did anyone else hear that?”
No response.
My companions continued taking out shovels from their packs and started digging around the tree.
“What are you doing? That’s not a part of our plan!” I said.
No response.
When they had fully dug around the tree, my companions hoisted the tree up. With them grasping the tree in their hands, I heard the scream; the
scream of my greatest nightmares. It created a cacophony of a hundred souls screaming a warning, composing a fiercely dissonant chord that could be barely distinguished into speech. It was as if I could hear it, but not with my ears. It said “Keep away.”
I would later find that The Being responsible for those words in my brain was leagues ahead of human comprehension. I can’t fathom any of its origins, so using my given intellect I will simply assume it is older than time itself. A primordial being - perhaps the first.
That night we brought the tree back to the camp as a trophy. Almost immediately once we got back at camp, my crew started acting strange and in an erratic fashion: one second overly paranoid, the next extremely excited, then another secretive and mischievous. While this was happening, My Friend simply stared at them, with a look of utter confusion displayed on his face. One of my crew plucked a single petal from the tree, then another, and another; then another companion joined in, and another, and another. Soon the entire tree was barren, and my crew all had their own piles of petals. The look of the barren tree devastated me in a way that I hadn’t expected - I was traumatized.
I needed to walk around to get my head straight. The Island, for the first time, looked tired. It was evident that the island was dying. The flowers were withering, the grass sulking, the trees were all as naked as the one which caused me such anguish.
There was nothing, however, for me to do except return to my crew, and so, with a heavy heart, I did.
When I got there, I was surprised by an unchanged landscape, that was, until I saw it. It was surely what had spoken the unknown language inside my mind. It was the most horrific thing I had ever seen. It had two alternating forms: when I inhaled, it appeared to be a humanoid being of wood, twice as tall as I, with horns the thickness of my chest. It had a mask on, with a bare face bent into pure anger. When I exhaled, the mask turned into that of pure
grief, and the body changed into an outlandish figure, which was… me? I could be wrong, the moment was so brief, and I did not put nearly enough attention on it, because my attention was directed upon something else entirely. My crew. My poor unassuming crew were all lying on the ground in a dazed state which could only be interpreted as pure ecstasy. Each of them were covered in Sana flowers. Moments later, they were screaming. The only thing it can possibly be compared to was the first scream which I had heard when the monstrous being first ensnared my mind in the words of his foreign tongue. Though even that was less harrowing in comparison. The former was a warning; the latter seemed to be a last desperate plea. Then, my crew exploded into Sana seeds and were gone, as I had known them, forever. As the Sana seeds touched the Earth, a new tree was born from each newly planted seed of my former mates. My Friend touched the petals of the flowers. The Being then looked at My Friend, yet his eyes stayed upon me as he asked in pleading confusion, “What is ailing my mind?” Then he exploded into the seeds of Sana. This time, the voice in my head spoke again and it said “touch it,” then again “touch it,” then again “touch it.” It couldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop. So, I touched it.
The Being then turned its head to me.
And so I ran - I ran anywhere I could. I ran all the way to this cave, where I remain now in hiding, waiting on my impending doom. Using this rapport with you, dear reader, as final means to calm my rapidly receding mind. And now my story will inevitably come to an end. I must tell this to you now, as with my memories fading from my mind, this final one resurfaces! We were here to protect the power of Sana. That was the sole objective of our journey - we knew about them all along! Damn you Being of the noblest duty yet malevolent soul - you killed the wrong crew. You killed those who came to protect you! Now, all I see is the light. All that awaits me is death. Therefore, I bid thee farewell, dear reader, and hope the same fate does not befall on you, too.
The Richer Horse Doesn’t Seem to Neigh
By Jack Ramanathan, V
Hot is the day, the day
Where there seems to be enough heat to melt everything else in the world away
Nevertheless, one brown horse is the one that carries on with a “neigh” And a certain kind of rapture strikes the horse as it goes on to stray Yet, it just simply continues to gallop solo, without any other hay
“Remain” equals the sole command that the lonely white horse happily obeys As he feeds and nourishes and drinks upon a cool gourmet
Creating and shifting ignorance of strict and tiny gateways and entrances
Always going back to his vast and huge stable–sleeping within those huge piles of hay and lay
No, he will never probably break free of his stay And realize how his life lacks disarray
Treating his life like it is one with free say However, he will remain trapped until he decays
Aspiring, that like the brown horse he can let out a “Neigh”
Sounds of a New Negro
By Boston Ezedi, V
Tippity-tap, tippity-tap
Hands dancing on keys
Pritta, pritta, pritta, pritta Symbals whisper with ease Boom, bap, Boom, bap Drums shout out to the crowd aHa!aHa!aHa!aHa!
Laughter rises free and loud
Atap,Tap,tap, tap Shoes brisk on Cotton’s stage. People watch from all ‘round town No matter the race, or age, Is 125 the key, to loosening the latch on the Negro’s cage?
And while the Tamer braces, for that dreaded beast’s release, He begins to speak to it and learns That beast prepared a feast! The beast was not so scary, Not a monster in the least But a human just like the Tamer, Oh, how could it be?!
For the chocolate-skinned, life without Sin, begins to seem rather close, But with a bottle of gin, and separate bars to sit-in, it turns to a dream, at most.
A-playin, a-playin, a-playin, a-playin
Till ‘is hands fall off and die,
The Negro talks, the Negro walks, the people point and watch, With awe and surprise of how the Negro even learned to talk The Negro plays, the Negro thrives, on one street of the York As 125 bears the light of Fort Mose’s snuffed-out torch 125, where Negroes perform, for blacks and whites alike Sitting safely on stage, both humans for the night.
Untitled
By Chase Teeson, V
King cotton defeated, The white man, with his gun and his white robe, a white sheet, over black man’s mangled body. The white sky, reflects off a dirty puddle in the road the bloody South behind me I travel, Dragging my body that has been weighed down by the plow and the sickle the whip and the debt a hole
I climb out of scrapping my way North. Yet, the loud streets that yell and sing and cry and dance and love and write remind me of why I left the mud floors and burning torches above white tents that hate and spit and kill.
The loud street reminds me that I smell
and hear and love. This city breathes a smoky breath, but one that is alive a familiar song out of the windows the ears of the city hear and are heard across the street and the country and the globe.
A Decadent Cacophony
By Eita Fuse, V
The Cotton Club raged with whirling dancers and teetering drunks sprawled over the floor. On stage, suits glittering in the light draped over the broad shoulders and fluttered against the wide neck of the saxophone.
The serene black man looked practically angelic compared to the frenzying white crowd—ironic considering Owney Madden’s advertising.
The saxophone drew all the eyes with its magnetic attraction. The spotlight at the back of the room beamed onto its muscular curves which seemed to absorb the vibrant colors and shine them back out into the room, illuminating every corner—every balding head and every secondhand wig.
And the sound, well, the baritone rumble intensified the light, giving off a golden glow as the saxophone trumpeted as if all the animals on Noah’s Ark were stuffed into its belly while being conducted by God himself.
It was a decadent cacophony.
Death’s Grievance
By Will Achtmeyer, V
Are you afraid of the dark
Are you aware of the light
What tires you in the day And keeps you up at night
Is it me, the left hand
The shadow of life
The Reverend of Sorrow
The Lord of Strife
Will you “go quietly Into that good night” Or will you die loudly Burning and bright
No.
I hate this job
You don’t even care I’m right around the corner And yet you dare
To live without meaning
While you still bleed red But nothing matters to you
You’re already dead
Ways to Leave Earth
By Rylan Dean, V
Put in your AirPods
Five minutes of space sounds
Lay back into bed
Breath
Tell Houston it’s time for takeoff
Buckle in and lean back
Close your eyes, an ant climbing Mt. Everest
Blast off
Exit the atmosphere
Float in the sky, weightless
Shed a tear, watch it dissolve into thin air
Be quiet
Fall into a jungle
A hammock in the trees
Listen to the cicadas hum
Sing your own song
Paddle down the Amazon
Throw a line against the shore
Take a bite of your sandwich
Reel in
Put on your wings
And fly to the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland
Let your body sink into the snow
Be still
Take a big deep breath
Let your lungs fill with helium
And float up into the clouds
Lay down
Take a bite, it's cotton candy
Your mouth waters, sweet as a ripe strawberry
The volume quiets, telling you to come back
Let it pull you
Your rocket descends
While your family watches from afar Touchdown
Back on earth
Freedom Is Like
By Max Ramanathan, VI
Freedom is like a ceiling being broken Like the world falls beneath my feet
Instead of falling with it I soar
The breezes accompany me
Speeding and slowing on my command
I frolick
Clouds are my canvases
Time is meaningless here
Freedom is like wandering through a jungle
Like the leaves and vines preventing your every move
Then finally
You burst through There, a beach awaits Its waves glide across the sands carelessly No meter, no rhyme
Steps are washed away You enter the water
Weight is meaningless here
Freedom is like caps flying in the air
Like the sound of our name being called on stage
We accept the diploma
Gowns swaying in the wind
Life is now both a forward arrow And a hazy maze at the same time
But that doesn’t matter because we have already
And while the past is always a good reminder It doesn’t matter here.
Our first corner
A Broken Tale to My Uncle’s Rooster
By Jaiden Lee, V
I. i am lost
my uncle’s rooster gazes at me my uncle’s rooster peers at me for past days have been thrown away in a spiraling circle of madness, spite as nails become nothing more than “bitten away, to the fullest” an untouchable darkness which touches me which rips at me, tugs at me squeezes some form of breath out of me so yes, today i have decided to visit a solace of sorts, a comfort of sorts a pen of broken memories dear rooster, i say will you listen to my tale?
II. a story which may be forgotten
i’ll mention with heart a tale of my pain i’ll mention with zeal a fable of grief perhaps as it began in a cold time of february on a valentine’s day of a certain fourth grader as gifts piled high, glistening in rays of golden shower a certain juvenile, yes, yours truly cried, and cried, and cried under a cherry tree because death is not easy death is not acceptable death cannot possibly be comprehended by a boy who still enjoys bathroom humor that day, there was death, and therefore my first lesson
with something so dark and sinister dear rooster, i repeat are you following along?
III. up to my present
that is where it started, so now i shall end it that is where it started, so now i complete it a boy’s transition to the furthest stages of death, a grim reaper, appearing again twice more after that february, twice more! why must it be the people i love most? encounters and encounters, beginning with a valentine as other evils slowly crept upon me can you guess their names? yes, our friends who call themselves “Deputy Session” and “Angry Society” but we know they call it depression or anxiety as the one tale i have told overlaps with my central miseries, my hurts, my darkness but do not fear, do not fear! i think, deep inside, i am okay now i am relieved now i am safe now dear rooster, for a final time i’m glad you’ve been listening
What the Birds Do
By Henry Ramanathan, V
Not a single pencil trembling in a sweating grip, Nor any one clock that growls with every tick, Not any exponential graph that might curve a bit out of sight, Or limits in math pressing harshly randomly from left and right.
They don’t wake up, groggy, with stressed or angsty thoughts, Or dread so many numbers here and there that lie scattered that they forgot.
Nor are there any random functions drawn on cluttered different desks, Where dreams stay and X is still basically a guess.
They try to flap above the theorems’ rate, But no cosine curve wants to decide their fate, nor cares to date; While I rehearse simply anything I might miss, All they do is this–they fly; I think, personally, there is no test like this.
I’m a little bit envious of what they’ll likely never be able to prove: Anything I do, that they see me do, is just a different move.
