The Dome
A Journal of Art & Literature
Spring 2025
Ameneurosis: Train of Thought
digital art
Chidera Okeke ’26
Editors:
Ellie Grimmett ’25, Michkael McKenzie ’25, Sofiia Patkanovtsiy ’25,
Molly Caesar-Kim ’26, Georgina Clarke ’26, Chidera Okeke ’26
Kim Cooper Faculty Advisor: Cover Art:
Spring oil paint
Isabel Shen ’27
Editors’ Note
Dear Readers,
Ever since reading Jamie Levine’s poem, I’ve been walking around with this line in my head: “outside, the wind rearranges what I thought was permanent ” I take my steps to the rhythm of the line, feeling its tug toward both hope and loneliness. It has become a meditation, a mantra, a reminder that soothes the anxious part of me. It’s an invitation to look up and witness what the wind will rearrange. I’d like to offer this meditation to you, to let it slow you down and prepare to sink into these pages which will, I assure you, make you witness the shifting winds.
The story of this year’s edition revealed itself to us almost immediately Not more than thirty minutes into our conversation, someone said nostalgia, and as if speaking the word itself conjured some magic, the rest of the submissions came barrelling at us, one after the other, soaked in that longing. The work in these pages invited me to see nostalgia as this place of purgatory where the past crystalizes with ease and the ghosts of our former selves feel crisp, electric, and alive; in this purgatory there is a longing for what you can’t get back, yes, but there is also a quiet recognition of the beauty that is to come. Perhaps it is when we are on the brink of becoming a truer version of ourselves that we look back at the distance we ’ ve traveled to admire and desire it.
You’ll see the nostalgia in some obvious ways, like in Ellie Grimmett’s haunting essay “No Returns” and in the playful, tender longing in Claire Kim’s essay “A Letter from my Dog in South Korea,” but look for it also in the art. Look at Talia Bukhman’s “Margaret W. Brown,” how the beloved character is suspended among seaweed, a childhood floating in black water, both distilled in its purity and also unreachable across space and time. Look at Jasmine Shen’s “Modern Architecture Meets Old Church Town,” how the harsh, clean lines of the modern building contrast the rounded, gauzy lines of the old church–how the new structure doesn’t replace the old but rather layers over it, imperfectly nestled as it is. This is the story that this collection tells me–what is the story it’s telling you?
Editors’ Note
This collection will usher you toward stunning depth, inviting you to sit in vulnerability and despair, in courageous and difficult examinations of the self–and all the beauty emanating from it–and so we found it important to infuse the edition with moments of playful humor, characters with conniving side eyes, colors and patterns that are simply beautiful and pleasing to the eye Let Priscilla Scullin’s “Curious Goat” poke its nose through the fence and nuzzle your hand; let Molly Caesar-Kim’s wit in “A People Pleaser’s Guide to Fulfillment” endear you to your bad habits; and, when you can, let yourself spend a few extra minutes with Isabel Shen’s cover art: lean closer to see the texture in those cherry blossoms, the lushness of all that blooming so thick and alive that you forget there’s a world on the other side of those trees and you are certain it will always be spring.
There’s a line toward the end of Jadyn Kornegay-Murphy’s essay “Leave Me at the Altar” that lifts off the page as I think about this collection as a whole. She writes: “I often felt relief in harmonizing with my howls,” and it makes me think again about nostalgia and longing. Maybe those old versions of ourselves, the ones we’re scared to lose, are actually the ones with the power to change or soften or heal our present selves, if we give them space to “harmonize with [our] howls.” Imagine what we could create in the light of all that healing.
Cheers, Kim Cooper Faculty Advisor
Table of Contents
The Shape of the Unfinished–Jamie Levine
Modern Architecture Meets Old Church Town–Jasmine Shen
What If You Were Us–Katy Gappa
A Love Letter to Ambiguity–Akari Ikeda
Letters of Life–Lena Smith
A People Pleaser’s Guide to Fulfillment–Molly Caesar-Kim
Behind the Stripes–Charlee Cate Cardot
The Sound of You–Georgina Clarke
Love Splinters–Sofiia Patkanovtsiy
(Emily) Yang
Hayloft–Gabriella Watkins
Shaping Stone–Katy Gappa
Monachopsis (1): Let Me Go–Chidera Okeke
A Letter From My Dog in South Korea–Claire Kim
Mademoiselle–Olesya Frolenko
Farewell to the Tides–Angela Pham
Artwork–Hannah LaPier
–Jadyn Kornegay–Murphy
The Youthful Glow–Noel Yi
Mother–Dax Mutter
To a Splendid Snail–Congran (Emily) Yang
Margaret W. Brown–Talia Bukhman
4572 Noyac Road–Georgina Clarke
Threads of Memory–Lena Smith
The Not Knowing–Aeowynn Conway
Grave Imbalance–Charlee Cate Cardot
Petals of Purity–Sophie Benjamin
I am...–Angela Pham
Let it Bite–Wren Freund
Face–Katy Gappa
The Beauty of Silence–Micaela Quintero
Shum–Sofiia Patkanovtsiy
Faces–Lena Smith
3D Art–Tamana Hassani
Happy Birthday–Michkael McKenzie
Carpe Diem–Congran (Emily) Yang
The Shape of the Unfinished
Jamie Levine ’26
I walk through rooms where light spills like secrets, hush-hush against the walls. A door creaks open then closed; the echo of another choice I didn’t make. Outside, the wind rearranges what I thought was permanent. A bird lifts off a fencepost, Wings split the silence Like an unfinished sentence. I stand still, listening, waiting to see what the wind decides.
What If You Were Us
Katy Gappa ’25
acrylic paint on canvas
A Love Letter to Ambiguity
Akari Ikeda ’25
Mummy, you’re so pretty. You look like a princess. Mummy doesn’t like princesses, because they’re dumb. Mummy’s a doctor.
Mummy, you’re so smart. You know everything. Mummy doesn’t come home a lot, because she needs to prove them wrong. Mummy’s a woman.
I wish my mum was like your mum. I want my mum to smell like cinnamon and cookies and flowers, not like antiseptic and coffee.
I know my mum is cooler than your mum. She works so hard all day, every day. She doesn’t read fairytale books to me. She’ll let me read her thesis and Vogue and her dissection textbook.
She’ll tell me that mediocrity is for boys and losers, and that I’m the best daughter she could’ve asked for, and that she doesn’t want losers in her household, get out! She’ll paint my nails, and cry over her professors because they’re boys and losers, and time me as I do vocabulary drills. She’ll ban cereal from the house, and yell at Dad to communicate, and come home in the morning with bags under her eyes. She’ll let me have sparkly blue eyelids, and make fruit salad: honey for her, whipped cream for me. She’ll take me to Victoria’s Secret in secret, and make me promise to keep it a secret, and share her secrets: sometimes, buying pretty things just makes her happy, and Dad won’t understand because he’s a boy. She’ll tell me that she felt like a big girl, a strong girl, in white: her lacy underwear, and her wedding gown, and her lab coat. She’ll tell me to be a big strong girl, and to make sure that I make my boyfriends say I love you before I do because it’s a big scary thing to say, and that one day I’ll be a big strong girl in a world of men.
I want to tell her, I love you. That’s a big, scary sentence.
I like having rice for breakfast, unless Mum is at the table with me. Mum still doesn’t let us have cereal, so Dad tells me he loves me by sneaking in Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I wore a dress today and I felt pretty, but Mum, why does it squeeze my stomach so much? It’s too tight, and I’m squishy and soft, and I can’t be sharp and straight and rigid like you and Dad. When I cry, I let my mascara smudge sometimes because at least they’ll know I tried. I try. I’ll try because my mother tried, my father tried, for me to be able to try. I like airplanes and dinosaurs and insects and I wonder how much time I still have to be a child, not a woman.
My mother liked crayons and ribbons and cartoons, and I wonder if she wondered how much time she still had to be a child, not a woman. When she became a woman, I wonder if she wondered how much time she still had to be a woman, not a mother. I wonder if I’ll ever become a woman. Mum’s world wasn’t built for mediocrity, or ambiguity, or for the people who like being in the middle. A doctor, a mother, a woman. There is no in between. Mum’s world wasn’t built for that.
Mum, why won’t you tell me I love you?
I won’t let you sink in this sea of mediocrity Mum, is ambiguity mediocrity? Maybe if I tucked my soft squishy self into that dress with the too-tight waistband and the sharpedge sleeves, I could be like you. I want to be like you, but I also like being in the middle. I even like this dilemma a little, because I’m in the middle of being in the middle. Mum, didn’t you want to be in the middle? To be a doctor, a mother, a woman, to be all of them and none of them. The lines in your world are so acute, they hurt. I wish you’d join me in the middle, so that we could read Vogue, and eat cereal and fruit salad, and you could write Dr. in front of your name when you sign off letters, and I could still call you Mum.
Mummy, I love you.
Letters of Life
Lena Smith ’26
colored pencil on paper
A People Pleaser’s Guide to Fulfillment
Molly Caesar-Kim ’26
A Note from the Author: My parents always used to tell me my most-used word throughout my childhood was “sorry”. However, it would be a lie if I were to say it still doesn’t remain one of my most repeated phrases.
“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!”
“Whoops! Sorry!”
“Yes, I’ll do that now. I am so SO sorry!”
As a child, the idea of “people pleasing” was foreign to me. I always acknowledged I was a timid child who allowed pretty much anyone to walk all over me, but I never knew this behaviour could be defined by the ideology that is “people pleaser”. The most ironic part about people pleasers is that they are never fully able to recognize what they are doing. It’s like that one pimple, that one blemish that you just can’t get rid of No matter how hard you may attempt to mask, vigorously pick and squeeze, put up a strong front, the idea of confrontation makes you sick. And with that, you fall back into the pattern of putting others before yourself.
Disclaimer: The art of pleasing people was not created for your benefit, but for the benefit of literally anyone else. So before you begin reading this ultimate mastery guide to the art of people pleasing, please note that people pleasing is centered around the moral and happiness of others, and has no reflection on your personal contentment
1. Always move first.
The busy morning rush requires you to move where you're standing various times, assuring everyone else can get where they need to before yourself. You shouldn't be putting yourself first, why would you ever think that? You should shuffle and stumble around the train station, always clearing the doors for the business men and mothers to come flooding out with their briefcases and children grasping onto their palms. You should never hesitate, your movements should feel swift, decisive, and purposeful. You are here to please, not to become an inconvenience to someone's day.
2 Smile
Whether it is a momentary interaction with a stranger, or a long conversation with a good friend, for god sakes, paint a smile on your face. Regardless of how eerie, wide, or facetious it may be, you should always flash a smile. Now, it is important that the grin comes off as genuine, which may take some time to perfect. Practice this like an art. Religiously and compulsively obsess over your smile until it becomes your default setting. Now, next time you hold the door for someone, they will, nine times out of ten, reveal a slight but visible smile on their face. And that is what makes the art of pleasing people so rewarding.
3. “I’m Sorry”
If you take anything away from this tutorial, apologizing should be your priority. Apologizing is how you perfect the art of people pleasing. The final piece to gain that kind, outward external praise we seem to crave. Keep these two words on the edge of your tongue until they have the joyous opportunity to leap out like steam escaping like the sipping hole of a coffee cup–unavoidable. So, say it again. Say it louder. Say it even when you're not sure why you’re saying it. Think of “I’m sorry” as your little emotional Febreze it doesn’t clean anything, but it sure makes everything smell like you tried. It’s not really about guilt; it’s about manners with flair. Apologies are your social currency, and you better tip well.
And when you finally collapse into bed after a long day of helping, nodding, smiling, scooting, apologizing for breathing too enthusiastically you can tuck yourself in with a warm, whispered “sorry” for taking up space in the universe. Because nothing says inner peace like total, unrelenting external validation.
Congratulations, you're now equipped with the People Pleaser’s Holy Trinity: move fast, smile wide, and apologize profusely. Fulfillment? Who needs that when you ’ ve got the approval of someone who barely noticed you were there?
Behind the Stripes
Charlee Cate Cardot ’27
acylic on canvas
The Sound of You
Georgina Clarke ’26
Tell me about the song that brings harmony to your soul, solemn and sound, An echo breathes through moonlit trees and passes us by steadily, like a heartbeat.
The beat of a drum is melodic and marvelous. It is the sound of our souls, The sound of you.
Singing sweet songs that bring harmony to our souls, We sit with the stars as the crescent moon floats above. We are timeless, eternal.
For this is the sound of you, The star of your universe. who reigns true and free through melodic tunes and marvelous moons.
Sofiia Patkanovtsiy ’25 Love Splinters photograph
Congran (Emily) Yang ’27
No Returns
Ellie Grimmett ’25
To Whom it may concern,
Your attempt to buy back your childhood has been denied and your credit card has been cancelled. A purchase like this simply cannot be made, you cannot bargain material items for your innocence, nor can money buy back what you have lost. If you wish to buy back moments of your childhood, if you hope to redefine your now skewed memories of the past, I hate to be the one to tell you this but you cannot.
You cannot sell your soul, or trade something you love, or make pleas with God in some futile attempt to get what can never be found, what you will NEVER have again.
I cannot pretend to understand to know what you are going through, I cannot pretend to know what it is like to feel as if you would do anything to go back in time, to change the past. To think “If only I had given up parts of my identity, things I longed for, and things I thought I had to prevent the moment that changed my life forever”. I cannot pretend to know but I can recognize the toll that it takes on you. The toll that this pain, this unrelenting feeling of nausea and anger and sadness and anxiety, the knot of words unsaid and of unattainable dreams that lives deep within the lining of your stomach. I can recognize that sometimes when you look in the mirror, the only thing that seems the same about who you are now and who you once were is the pain and look of your face as you cry. And I can also recognize that my recognition means nothing to you because you cannot jam recognition into a hole made for innocence
I know, if you could, right now in this very second trade the life you are living for the one you used to have you would do it But a bargain cannot be made Because one day, when you get past the fear and you are finally looking at life through eyes washed clean with healing rather than ones covered in a film of regret, you might just realize that you ended up being okay. That the nightmares that woke you up in a cold sweat because you felt stuck and alone and it seemed too close to real life really were just nightmares. When you finally stop trying to bargain for something that not longer exists, you might just realize that you are better off because you survived the pain.
You cannot see the light in New Jersey when you first enter the Lincoln Tunnel in New York but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Good things are coming and you just have to trust that there is some greater power that will lead you to where things are brighter and the weight of your mind isn’t crushing your shoulders. The light is there but you have to survive in the dark a little longer. Give it time to find you.
I’m sorry your purchase could not go through. But who really wants their innocence back anyway?
Who wants their innocence back. Who wants their innocence back? Someone who mourns it every day because they never got to say goodbye. A person who wakes up one morning feeling a hell of a lot less like a child but they can’t quite place why. A person who for months wonders if anything would be different if only they hadn’t realized if only there weren’t big, new, terrifying words in their vocabulary because a little boy made a mistake.
Who wants their innocence back? A person who sometimes feels more like a statistic than a human. Who is tired of thinking and feeling and being all the time? It’s simple really. You said so yourself. You will never understand the weight of the world I live in. Who can recognize my pain but never truly understand how badly it hurts for something like innocence to be stolen?
And what’s worse? I never got to say goodbye. And now, I don’t even recognize who I am anymore. Sure, that’s part of growing up but it happened to me too fast and too soon. And I don’t cry. I don’t complain. In all honesty, I try not to bring it up. I laugh it off and, and push down the tears and pain that boil when it comes up. And I don’t say it enough but I really do miss the girl I was. I miss waking up and recognizing the little girl looking back at me in the mirror. I miss the freedom and the fearlessness and the joy that comes with not being afraid to turn a corner or close your eyes.
A part of me was buried on that day without a funeral. No obituary, no flowers planted next to my invisible grave and still you ask who wants innocence back? I do. It’s me.
mixed media on paper
Chidera Okeke ’26
Kalopsia: Drown it Out
Secrets of the Hayloft
Gabriella
Watkins ’28
The moon hung high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the quiet farmland. Crickets chirped in the distance, their symphony filling the night air. Elijah crept along the worn dirt path, his boots barely making a sound against the packed earth. He glanced over his shoulder, ensuring no one had followed him before ducking behind the weathered barn.
A soft rustling came from the shadows. A familiar figure emerged, a mischievous grin lighting up his face even in the dim moonlight. Sam’s blond hair was slightly tousled, his eyes gleaming with excitement. He had always been the reckless one, the kind of person who leapt first and thought later.
"Took you long enough," Sam teased, his voice barely above a whisper.
Elijah rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smile "Had to wait for Ma and Pa to go to sleep. You know how nosy they can be."
Sam chuckled, stepping closer until their fingers brushed. "Yeah, yeah, always sneakin’ around. Think they’ll ever stop bein’ suspicious?"
Elijah exhaled sharply. "Not a chance. We just gotta be careful."
Sam nodded, then tilted his head towards the barn. "Come on, let’s go. Before you start worryin’ yourself sick."
Elijah followed Sam to the side of the barn where the old ladder led up to the loft. He hesitated for a moment before placing a foot on the bottom rung, testing the strength of the wood. It groaned softly under his weight, but it held firm. He reached up and began to climb, Sam following close behind.
The ladder creaked under the weight of the two boys climbing up. As they ascended, Sam giggled quietly, the thrill of sneaking out making it hard to contain his excitement. Elijah shot him a warning look, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes.
“Come on, you ’ ve gotta be quiet,” he hissed, trying to stop Sam’s giggling.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Sam whispered back excitedly, trying to suppress the joyful sounds.
The taller boy rolled his eyes as he pulled his boyfriend up and into the loft. They collapsed on the hay, Elijah finally giving up and laughing with Sam. Sam wrapped his arms around Elijah’s neck and pulled him in for a gentle kiss. Elijah hummed and reciprocated
the affection, pulling away after a few seconds.
“We’re gonna get in trouble, y’know?” he muttered, running a heavy hand through Sam’s hair. He couldn’t wipe away the soft expression on his face, however, as he gazed at his lover.
“Aww, but you’d protect me if we did, right?” Sam teased, rolling the both of them over so he could rest his head on Elijah’s chest.
Elijah paused for a moment, contemplating Sam’s question. He had practically signed his life away if they ever got caught. Two men dating in a town like theirs? Who knew what their families would do.
“Of course I would,” he sighed finally. “I’d go to the ends of the Earth for you. Didn’t I promise when we started this whole thing?”
Sam only hummed in response, nuzzling into Elijah The two of them laid there for a while, just enjoying the feeling of being together.
The sound of the barn door creaking open made both boys freeze. Elijah’s breath hitched as he instinctively held Sam closer, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Footsteps echoed on the wooden floor below, slow and deliberate.
“Elijah?” a gruff voice called out.
Elijah stiffened, his hand stilling in Sam’s hair. For a moment, it felt like the world had stopped spinning. His father.
Sam opened his eyes as well, slowly looking up at his boyfriend with a worried expression.
“Babe…” he began to whisper, but Elijah quickly shushed him. He nodded, his blue eyes wide with fear, and stayed still.
“I know you’re up there with that Leary boy. I ain’t unlocked the barn, an ’ your ma’s been with me the whole night,” Elijah’s dad called out again, his footsteps growing louder and closer.
Elijah cursed silently, there was no use in hiding it now. He motioned for Sam to stay hidden and slowly responded.
“I just wanted some fresh air. The house was too stuffy,” he called out, praying that his dad would buy the lie. There was a long moment of silence. Then, the sound of boots moving through the barn and up the ladder continued. The wooden rungs creaked under the weight of the older man. The lanterns cast his shadow across the barn and the boys.
Elijah’s heart was pounding in his chest. Sam moved behind him, trembling.
“Fresh air, huh?” his father asked as he made his way into the loft. “If you jus’ wanted fresh air, why’s he here?”
Elijah swallowed nervously, his eyes fixing on the gun in his dad’s hand.
“I… I just ran into him on my way here We were just hangin’ out, Pa,” he said, silently squeezing Sam’s hand in reassurance.
“Sure you were,” the father mused, stepping closer. His eyes scanned the hayloft, noticing the way the two boys were acting. “If you weren’t here together, why’re you holdin’ his hand like that?”
Elijah stiffened once more, his heart stopping in his chest. He glanced at Sam, who seemed just as terrified.
“Pa, it’s not like that,” he started, but was quickly cut off
“I won’t be havin’ any gays in my household,” Elijah’s dad sneered, aiming and cocking his gun. “You’re an abomination and a disgrace.”
The gun went off, and Sam collapsed on the hay behind them. Elijah whirled around to see his lover with a bullet through his chest. Sam struggled to breathe, his grip on Elijah’s hand loosening.
“Sam!” the dark-haired boy cried out, kneeling next to him. He placed his hand over the bullet wound and attempted to apply pressure.
“Eli…” Sam whispered, his voice weak and shaky. “Eli, I… it hurts. Everything feels cold ”
“I know,” Eli muttered back, tears beginning to fall down his face. “I know. You’re onna be okay, I promise. I’m gonna make sure of it. I wouldn’t break a promise to you, would I?”
Sam’s eyes fluttered shut, and his breathing grew shallow. “I… I love you, Eli…” he managed, his body weakening further. “I love you too,” he replied, fully sobbing over his lover’s body. Elijah’s body trembled with fear, shock, and grief as he caressed Sam’s cheek. Elijah turned as he heard another click, seeing his father aiming the gun at his head. “I told you, ain’t no son of mine gonna go an ’ be gay, ” his father chastised, his finger hovering over the trigger. Elijah slowly looked back at Sam. The smaller man’s body had gone limp and was becoming colder with every passing second. He stayed there, watching over his lover, even as he heard the sound of the trigger being pulled.
colored pencil and graphite on paper
Shaping Stone
Katy Gappa’25
Monachopsis (1): Let Me Go
Chidera Okeke’26
paint on cardboard
Dear Claire,
A Letter From My Dog in South Korea
Claire Kim ‘26
I can’t quite sense how long since you left home. Maybe only two days? Or possibly four months? I am unsure; losing track of time is one of the greatest perks of being a dog! I am currently home alone after Mom and Dad went to work. I don’t think they will be back until 11pm or midnight...(you know how it is). I’m resting on the new cushion mom bought me a couple of weeks ago and suddenly thought of writing a letter to you. It’s not just because I am bored, trust me. I miss you. I miss having a person in the house waking up before 6 am, eager like myself to start a productive day. I miss our morning walks around the neighborhood... sniffing each and every pole I came across. And sitting on your lap while you work and lying down next to you at night. Oh, and also, playing tug of war with your smelly socks. I can’t forget that!
When are you coming back? I know it won’t help much even if I knew, but still, I can’t help that I am a teenage bichon who wants to know everything. How is human life going for you across the world? You are across the world, right? Otherwise, I don’t think you would have taken five gigantic suitcases when you left. Besides, your eyes watered up on the car ride to the airport, which is highly unusual for you – you never cry. You must have gone for a long, tough, scary trip.
I hope that wherever you are, life is treating you as well as it is me. No doubt, my life is incomplete without you home, but still, I’d say I’m a pretty lucky dog. How I live such a comfortable life, I’m not sure, but maybe it’s because of what I’m about to tell you. I’ve learned (from watching mom, dad, and you talk during dinner) that humans tend to give lots of advice to one another. I’m going to try it, although I will sound rusty... This is quite obvious, but if a mean pet (I mean, human) prevents you from rolling around in the grass whenever you want to, don’t crouch down with your stomach on the floor. Bark! Bark twice, three times, or five! Slap that tail across their face. Trust me; I have plenty of experience fighting off the sly poodles and pomeranians trying to steal my Greenies. They tend to back off whenever I bark. There is nothing to be afraid of,
seriously. Even though humans might be more stubborn and malicious than the pets in my doggie daycare, I sincerely suggest you give barking a shot. Forget about being polite. Come out from under the table and tell the world what you want, whether it’s a greenies treat, a slice of meat, or a peaceful nap. I know you like to stay quiet, but I, your best friend and only pet friend, believe in your ability to be loud!
I wanted to think of a couple more pieces of advice to give, but my bichon brain is beginning to heat up. It has been quite some time since I have put this much energy into generating logical sentences. It’s good for me, though. I think it’s been about ten hours and about time for Mom and Dad to come home. Until I hear the passcode button noises on our front door and sprint out, I will need to nap for a few hours at my usual spot (although it is becoming quite dusty under your bed) I wish you were here to feed me dinner right now. I am beginning to feel hungry– a warm sweet potato does sound exquisite. Promise you will be home soon. I can’t wait to be stuck next to you all day again.
Love your one and only, Coco
Mademoiselle
Olesya Frolenko ’25
water color on paper
Farewell to the Tides
Angela Pham ’25
Where the waves softly kiss I once danced in bliss.
Once adorned in glistening grace, Now wrapped in currents of a toxic trace. Humans weave a deadly song, The plastic tides sang along.
Beneath the surface, a vibrant hue, Now muted by residue. Creatures weep in the depths below, As humanity's footprint continues to grow.
Once a beauty now turns gray. Corals’ colors bleed away Reefs that thrived in vibrant hues, Now mirror the world's somber views.
Breaths in the poisoned sea, Flow like symphonies of agony. Plastic whispers, silent cries, Echo through the ocean ' s sighs.
In the echoes of fading songs, A plea for change, for rights from wrongs. Let the ocean reclaim its cheer, Where waves softly kiss, devoid of fear.
Where the waves softly kiss I once danced in bliss.
Hannah LaPier ’25
mixed media
Leave Me at the Altar
Jadyn
Kornegay-Murphy
’25
Boston Massachusetts is all I’ve ever known. The red-brick townhouse that was a five minute walk from Maverick Station is where I spent most of my life. As an adolescent growing up in the inner city, the thought of unfamiliar hands taking your life is not an uncommon Idea. The kinda serious warnings about gun violence were enough to keep me away from firearms. The first time I ever saw one, I remember my nerves shriveling up and my body growing hot. I can’t really remember everything about my first time encountering a gun. It’s all foggy and jumbled and all I can read in between the lines is you're still a good person. I believe that’s the trauma protecting me. I believe that the trauma is aware of the evil I was surrounded by, like I was committing the biggest sin and the Devil was subjecting me to hell on earth. The “what ifs” about the firearms whereabouts, the curiosity chewing on my mind–where did it come from? How many times has someone awakened the genie that sits inside the chamber? The genie who grants the wish of whoever is playing god?
I didn’t believe in God for a long time. I needed to see something, feel something, hear something. With my own logic, I didn’t believe in a lot of things. I never believed in the tooth fairy. The thought of a fairy as big as my pinky sneaking under my pillow without crushing herself to death seemed unrealistic. I never saw the Easter Bunny either, making it my childhood mission to not believe all of these phenomena that adults insisted existed in the world I never believed God would ever come and save me; I didn’t believe that when someone drops dead leaves all their unfinished ideas, love and relationships behind–that it was supposed to be a good thing because a man we had never seen said so. But I also never believed that I’d be a victim, that the genie in the chamber would listen to his owner and decide that I no longer get to contribute to the world anymore.
The production of firearms seems a direct sin against the bible. A weapon made with the intent to kill, the beholder of the gun is God in that moment and forever. Having the power to take someone’s life at their fingertips–the power of taking someone’s life and uprooting hundreds of others; the power of writing a person’s last chapter.
The first time I ever did a drug stronger than weed, two months after I had been shot in my chest, I felt horrible and vacant, as if someone had just told me everything was all my fault. I walked around the streets of Puerto Rico and everything started to fall into place in my mind. I vowed to never do it again. The come down is the second time that I sat in a waiting room with God, the cloudiness of my mind creating anonymity around his presence; the voice that called down to the Garden of Eden is the only thing I could hear. Feeling disconnected from my own limbs, I turned to my journal to find some recognition in something anything–that I wrote: I’m no longer in denial
about what happened, I wrote, I think more so accepting, but it's just like laying in bed with an angry man. I feel so tense and he’s always just there begging me to do something with him.
I never believed that I would be a victim. I never believed that the life choices I made would have ultimately led me to my death.t felt like I unknowingly picked the forbidden fruit. The blood of the juices my blood smeared all over my face and hands–I was guilty. That was the first feeling I remember: an undeniable churning and bubbling, my stomach throwing somersaults as I processed that I had just been shot.
Maybe I should set the scene. I was in Dorchester Massachusetts right off of Colombia Road. My group of friends and I were up to no good on a street named Washington Street the home of a school and Burger King. I didn’t live over there. I had never lived in the more dangerous parts of Boston I had the privilege of growing up by the harbor five minutes from the airport. It was there that I lived in oblivion about what a gunshot sounded like or what gang activity looked like. Sure, we had the stereotypical neighborhood boys who fulfilled their masculinity through terrorizing the neighborhood but still, it was no match to the inner neighborhoods in Boston.
I knew I should not have been in that little nook and cranny of an alleyway on Washington St. in a neighborhood that I had never lived in. I found a lot of personal fault in my situation, still fighting this label of being a victim. It seemed that after I got shot I stopped believing in people. Around 57% of Americans are dealing with some form of grief. I find this hard to believe. I sat in a hospital bed, and sometimes people cared, meanwhile I grieved who I used to be. I grieved the naive ideas that my brain used to associate with the world. I grieved the innocence that I fostered before I was raped by the reality of the world.
Even after Puerto Rico, there were things that weren't drugs that I also compulsively submitted to. For months after, I liked the feel of aged fingers on my skin lifting me up to the light and refusing to stay, seeing how scratched my surface is like a lottery ticket A five dollar lottery ticket that some rich old man with tobacco breath will use his wet toothpick to sloppily and aggressively scratch me off. The lines will be uneven and harsh and the man with the aged fingers will leave me like always.
There is some power in feeling helpless. Like when you were a child and someone was being mean to you in private but you weren’t articulate enough to tell someone, or like when you consistently fail a test no matter how much you study, or similar to how I felt when I laid in the back of the ambulance as my broken sternum caved in, my ribs puncturing my lungs and my ability to breath gone with the space for air in my lungs. The feeling of bleeding out There is a power in feeling so helpless it made me feel like I wanted to get a gun of my own. I wanted to have blood on my hands that wasn’t my
own. I wanted to write on the wall my message that nobody would hear: I don’t want to die alone.
I think I’d fully be lying if I said I got over that fear. A part of me is still scared. I want someone to take my fear of abandonment and loneliness and put it on a small sailboat to some country that I can’t name or identify on the map. To fill the emptiness that will be the plot next to me in the ground, the emptiness that is beside me every night in bed. The emptiness being a real life testament that my fear would never come true as long as they stay(ed). I found that in my healing my view on men was also skewed. I was shot by a man. A man had blown my chest up, literally and figuratively, and it wasn’t the first time. I was used to being let down by the male species.I avoided them for the first few months, not believing I had enough emotional capacity to give to anyone in that moment of my life. Not believing I had enough forgiveness in my heart to not generalize. This was also while being petrified that I’d meet another man with a complex relationship with his ego. One so complex that he felt like he had to tear me apart like a sheet of paper. I felt naked and vulgar. I didn’t want to be seen. When I decided to become involved with men again, it seemed that it was almost against my will. I had many knights outside of my house, flashing their fancy clothes, swords and jewels, hoping I’ll catch just the smallest glimpse of their riches glistening against the light and that will be enough to convince me that I need their saving, to come and save me from myself I wanted so badly to feel saved and sometimes, even now when I feel overwhelmed, I wish for the man of my dreams to come and save me. To meet me outside when the moonlight is at its brightest with a horse and carriage and a slipper.
The only saving I found was through a psychiatrist named Barri Belnap. She was old school, and a lovely lady when she wasn’t talking about her passions of the world. I had been seeing her even before being shot but she was a big part of the after. It seemed that she lifted me up to believe I could still build something with the broken tools that my life presented. It felt as though she held me firm by my feet as she pushed me upwards so I could pluck the stars down from the sky–even when her arms would grow tired and weak, she still found a way to keep me up. Our conversations provoked an intellect from me that I did not know I had. I found solace in not needing anyone
After my incident, after four days in the hospital bed laying in agonizing pain, after I got the bullet removed from under my armpit, after I lost many friends, after everything–I found a different way to tie meaning to the seemingly trivial things that I never appreciated before, in the same way you would tie a dog to a tree and recognize how distraught you’d be if you came back and he wasn’t there anymore; the birds chirping outside of my window every morning was a song I would never get tired of hearing and the warmth of a sunny day ignited my want to stay on the Earth forever despite all of the imperfection But I felt alone in all of this Though the natural state of the world around me was beautiful, I could not help but hear sorrow in the
mournful song of the birds and the heavy feeling of heat on my skin. I felt like the people around me should have had a better understanding of me. I felt like they had ample time to do right by me. I found myself in the next few months contorting my body in a way that allowed me to receive the love and understanding that I craved. Though my heart felt shattered there was a part of me that didn’t want to be loved back. It felt unconventional to have my life moving on without the person that I was before getting shot in my chest. At night I’d cry out for the girl, the cries coming from my body imitating that of a grieving cat missing its mate. It took me a while to get back into the routine of caring for myself, partially because I did not know who this new person was that I was caring for. I felt like I was always gonna have a hole in my chest though the bullet didn’t pierce my heart, it still felt like my love was a dartboard, my heart pinned between the bullseye and the dart.
What they don’t tell you about almost dying is that you can see the future without you in it. The first month was especially the hardest. I could somehow see all the reactions of my still living family members. I could see all the commemoration posts that my mother would post about me until she met my same fate not quite ever being able to get over outliving her child. All of my unfinished thoughts, ideas and relationships are gone just because a man we had never seen before said so.
I listened to music sometimes and would sing with the howling of my own emotions. It felt like nobody could hear my cries as long as they matched the melody of the song, and I often felt relief in harmonizing with my howls. Music carried a lot of emotion and memories for me, at that time especially. I realized a lot about myself in my loneliness. I realized that I love passionately, like a mother to her first child. While in the past I have found myself in trouble with my passion, my love is as loud and unsettling as hitting a random pothole on the highway.
I no longer have to sit in the sun to thaw out my heart. The warmth wraps me up and holds me like my grandmother did when she wasn’t sure she’d get another chance. The flowers grow toward me on every path I walk. I don’t fight it anymore–I lay in the meadow and let the soil consume me; I could have been this all along.
Curious Goat
Priscilla Scullin ’25 photograph
Youthful Glow
Noel Yi ‘’26
We characterize those with a “youthful glow” as individuals whose appearances lack wrinkles, scars, or impurities–those who seem unaged. This “glow” can also be applied to what makes us happy. Someone with a strong youthful glow is able to love the same little joys in life that would have satisfied them as a kid Their standards of happiness have not yet been marred by the pressure–often found among grown-ups–to define inner joy around major achievements and milestones. Naturally, a youthful glow can dim over time out of neglect, but it can also be re-ignited.
I seek refuge when things get hectic by wrapping myself tight in my duvet covers. Letting go might just cause my eyes to swell up with tears, so, in times like these, I close my eyes and flip through childhood memories in my mind–each moment, a tattered polaroid in the sleeve of my old photo album. I remember in that album, comments like “Best night ever!” were unforgivingly scribbled in glittery pink pen ink. Though by now, the pen lines, once sharp and crisp, have lost their sparkle Someday, even the pen ink in the copy I grasp tight in my mind might fade, so I want to recognize two to preserve in memory here:
Once upon a time, at six, I realized I was allergic to flower pollen. With my hefty green backpack slouching on my back, I awaited my mom to pick me up from school. Two minutes later, I was somersaulting down the hill near my school. Little did I know, those darling dandelions that scattered the field had no remorse for my immune system. I returned home with an incessant sneeze and a fighting urge to rub my eyes. But I was eager to return–dandelions were my favorite flower, and one was curled up in my palm as a keepsake.
But then once upon a time, I was eleven and I encountered dandelions again. I was clutching my mom’s hand under a dim overhead light as I sat next to her ICU bed. I didn’t understand why she had stayed here for three days; I missed her honey-sweet smile greeting me after school. Her eyelids fluttered half into sleep while she told me there was a tiny weed growing in her brain, and she needed to snip it off before it bloomed into a dandelion. That night, imagining a pretty little dandelion, I dozed off into slumber with ease. The next morning, I overheard my dad talking on the phone about an aneurysm. I felt ashamed that I believed the covert analogy my mother used on me. I decided I wanted to grow up–I wished to assure people that I was mature enough to handle the unsweetened truth.
That was when I stopped taking polaroids. I figured that life is more serious than I had perceived. That maturing meant realizing the little things didn’t matter and didn't deserve to be recorded. But when I stopped taking the snapshot and noticing life–appreciating how a butterfly next to me is frolicking in the wind–genuine happiness became a rare gem and
I couldn’t anchor myself when spirits were low. My outdated, sticker-covered, corduroy album documented all my childhood joy. And I still want that joy to linger now–I’m continuing where I’ve left off and am recording new moments in this album day-byday. How? I make an effort to retain the same fascination and wonder that would make my inner child smile: I make wishes when I blow out birthday candles; I like to think that there’s magic in them. And I’ll never stop believing that my silver star necklace grants wishes. Of course it does. And why? I’ve already promised myself that I’d restore the youthful glow I had lost in that hospital room, for the six-year old me back in 2014.
Mother Dax Mutter ’28 photograph
To a Splendid Snail
Congran (Emily) Yang ’27
May the sun grant you the courage to stride. A baby snail who comes of age, Across the woods where the mysteries hide.
When the moon creeps high in the sky, owls glide, Looming in front of you with their fearful visage, May the sun grant you the courage to stride.
With light and love traveling by your side, You bear a heavier shell, yet your soul still free from the cage, Across the woods where the mysteries hide.
In the bosom of yours, shield and spear reside, So heed not the wars of others but at your own pace wage; May the sun grant you the courage to stride.
Looking to tomorrow, though the road ahead has no guide, Destiny fogs, and wild storms rage, Across the woods where the mysteries hide.
Crawling through winding trails where shadows abide, Wishes planted deep will come of age. May the sun grant you the courage to stride, Across the woods where the mysteries hide.
Poet’s Statement:
This is a villanelle for every reader. A snail is small, and may not seem impactful to the world, but the growth stage for individuals is important to each. It is a journey of teenagers, a consistent, slow, and steady transition from childhood to adulthood. The complex grownup world has always seemed mysterious and incomprehensible. While we are through it, it may terrify us with the unknown, may stress us with responsibilities, may lead us to anxiety, and may scare us with the unpredictable future. We will experience ups and downs and will doubt ourselves, but I believe hope is always in ourselves. You were, you are, and you will be splendid.
Margaret W. Brown
Talia Bukhman ’25
acrylic paint on canvas
4572 Noyac Road
Georgina Clarke ’26
It is a scorching, summer evening in your happy place, your family’s quaint cottage in Sag Harbor, New York. This is the house where it all started, the house that you will love forever when your family sets it free in 2014 “to travel” though you rarely will because life will get increasingly complicated and difficult to manage with age. Merely existing will be chaotic, and looking back fondly on the lavender haze that was your childhood, you will question when everything shifted from this simplistic, blissful existence to what will feel like riding a bike without training wheels or a break on the handle.
But for now, you sit in the comfort of your queen bed, which you share with your older sister. You don’t ponder over tomorrow, you don’t dwell on yesterday, nor do you think about being 17, and luckily for you, you don’t have to because above you, a red curtain hangs over the inconvenient and oddly placed window that lies on a slanted wall and always, like clockwork, bangs into your father’s head when he enters the room. You are nestled in the covers on the left side of the bed, with your sister snuggled in on the right; you are “snug as a bug in a rug,” as Daddy would say. At the foot of the bed lie bins upon bins of toys, overflowing like the pots of gold amid rainbows and thick fog in your dreams These bins are filled to the brim with a lifetime’s worth of precious toys from Squinkies glittery, sparkly, multicolored ones to rag dolls, puppies, and animals of all shapes and origins. Both you and your sister’s side tables are lovingly stocked with your dearest picture books from Angelina Ballerina to Madeline’s Adventures in Paris. You are only 7, so it is likely no later than 10 in the evening, and you know it is time for bed when Daddy floats into your room to perform his evening ritual of bidding a sweet, playful farewell to his little girls.
Crouching at the foot of the bed because of the low ceilings, Daddy grabs hold of the bottom of your covers and shakes them so they swirl, fly, and flutter like Tinkerbell's iridescent lime wings, and spin like a tornado in the Wild West rapid but silky and sweet. You and your sister erupt in laughter, your eyes bright and fresh in ignorant bliss and you feel like you are dreaming in a scarlet haze, only you never really have to dream of love and admiration or warmth and praise because everything you need right now all the hugs, kisses, swirls, and all the love in the world radiates through your bedroom from your ruby red curtains to your cotton covers as Daddy stands before you and offers you the world on a silver platter.
Don’t worry, darling, you don’t have to think about broken promises and broken mirrors or how effortless this simplistic life is for you as a little girl, because you are one. You are young and sweet, the dancing queen, only 7 years old, and for a while, things will stay this way.
Don’t worry, darling, you are safe in the realm of tales, toys, and endless, explosive love for now. It isn’t time to know how deeply stressful life can be or how the thoughts in your bright mind will perpetually swirl just like your cotton covers only Tinkerbell’s wings will turn a fierce red with spikes, and the tornado raging in the Wild West will be rapid, no longer silky and sweet.
Don’t worry, darling, you don’t have to know how daunting life already is for the adults around you, so you mustn’t wonder what thoughts bite and scrape through Daddy’s mind when he grabs hold of your cotton covers, hoping they flutter and flap like some storybook thing. You don’t have to recognize your innocence, or note that many adults around you engage in an endless game of make-believe. For now, you may hide from what is to come behind the red curtain that hangs over your inconvenient and oddly placed window. You may chuckle as your father’s head gets a little love pat from the slanted wall masked by the classic ruby red curtain. Use the cherry cloth as your own personal shield from the outside word your weapon to resist growing up, your potion to preserve your youth. Accept it with gratitude, and enjoy bliss at 4572 Noyac Rd before it’s gone.
Threads of Memory
Lena Smith ’26
mixed media
The Not Knowing
Aeowynn Conway’27
I had never thought a life could be changed in a single night. With one spark, a ruthless wind, and an impossible leap from one mountaintop to another, my life as I knew it was consumed by flames. The evening was nothing out of the ordinary; dinner at the long rectangle table, chasing the dogs around the stone slabs on the lawn, and packing our lunch for school the next day. It was like any other Sunday. No one knew that it would become a night we would remember forever. A nightmare. The impression left by the smoke, the embers, and the flames is always with me. It hides behind my eyelids, echoes in my ears, and still worms its way into my dreams.
Slam! Slam! Slam!
I dog-ear my page in The Half-Blood Prince and toss it to the bottom of the bed. I turn and look at my sister Arden beside me, asleep through the door and the wind howling outside. I wonder if Brynn, my youngest sister down the hall, is awakened by the obnoxious wind. I reluctantly crawl out from under the covers and close the window that was letting in the harsh gusts of air and slamming my door. Why is it so windy? I slink down the hall and peer through Brynn’s cracked door. I see her snuggled in the sheets, snoring softly. I shut the door delicately and return to my bed. I close my eyes.
Suddenly, I am pulled out of sleep. Dad kneeling beside us, telling us something about a fire, leaving only for the night, to be safe. “Hurry to the car,” he tells us “Grab a blanket.”
He is gone the next moment, leaving Brynn in the doorway, her hair disheveled and her eyes wide. I grab a hold of Arden and Brynn's hands and each of us makes sure to scoop up our favorite stuffed animals that haven't left our side since birth. Brynn with her blue-gray elephant, Arden with her brown spotted dog, and me with my beige and fawn bear Brown Bear. We race up the stairs to Mom who stands at her dresser stuffing clothes into bags. She tells us to put on our shoes, but we have no socks on so we don’t. Holding our shoes in our hands we climb into the white minivan and call the dogs, Daisy and Sadie, to us. There is nothing in the sky and it is cold inside the car, despite it feeling warm outside. Mom utters some comforting words about how we will be back soon well why wouldn’t we? In the car, I give my blanket to Arden and Brynn to share. As I shiver in the backseat, secretly wishing for it back, I strain my ears to hear what Mom whispers to Dad. I don’t have to listen though, looking out the window I see a glow of orange from across the mountain as the flames begin to spread. We stare, mesmerized, but think nothing of it. We assume we are safe, that it can not harm us, that we will be back tomorrow. The dogs are agitated and seem to sense the oddly warm and rough night, aware of the chaos that would soon sweep through this very
spot. As we begin our descent down the curving roads of The Foothills, where we lived, I gaze at the bright full moon and how it illuminates the hillsides of oak trees and damp mossy rocks. Unaware of how different it would be the next time I would drive up that gravel driveway.
In the hotel parking lot, cars and cars are lined up in this waiting room; for a room, for more news, for word from family members. We wait for all of these things. There is a woman next to us. In the trunk of her blue pickup truck, she has a cage full of chickens. Their periodic clucks and caws make Arden, Brynn, and I giggle, though we soon grow tired of it. We watch as they settle, snuggle close, and find relief and protection from each other. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, we made our way into the hotel lobby with one duffel bag and our dogs. Our room is one of the last available, down a narrow hallway, and far from the elevator. Our family finds comfort within the unfamiliar walls of the hotel, knowing we are all safe and together. There is only one bed for all of us, the comforter an ugly pattern of green and brown circles and triangles. Arden, Brynn, and I climb in first, we settle and snuggle close, most eager to fall back asleep.
As we drift off, I hear Dad’s voice from the chair, reassuring us with his line, “What’s the most important thing, girls?”
We answer, rolling our eyes but smiling, “Family.” In the dark, I know Dad doesn’t sleep, so I try to stay awake. Someone has to watch out for him, too.
The sharp shrilling of the fire alarm wakes us. There’s an angry orange glow from the window; Dad’s hand against the pane draws back from the heat as quickly as it is placed. We shove shoes on our feet and zip jackets. In the dark, no one notices the shoes are two sizes too big for Arden. But there is no time to switch. No elevators are in service with the power out, so we race down the pitch-black stairwell. Too many people filing down the stairs to stop and look back at the other scared faces blurring in the darkness. We are only on the third floor but it felt like I would spend the rest of the night and maybe even the next trying to reach the last step. Wanting to get to the end, but not knowing what to face outside We reach the side door and are pushed out into the night. Together, we emerge from the doorway, the EXIT sign blending in with the sky. We follow the march of people headed towards the front parking lot.
Blazing flames.
Men in big coats and boots point us away from them and towards our cars. They stand by the medians that are on fire. Their hoses are nothing against the rampant embers igniting the night. We stare with horror at the scene before us. This is real.
The air was thick with smoke as we pushed on past the terror Dad passes me Sadie and Daisy’s leashes and picks up Arden.
They disappear into the smoke.
Mom snatches Brynn and follows Dad into the whirlwind of chaos. I hear nothing but a loud ringing in my ears.
I look down at the dogs as they struggle to see, Sadie hacking at enemy smoke as it travels through her body. I look up and step quickly trying to remain close to Mom and Dad who have faded from view.
All of us, choking for clear air as we run for the safety of the minivan. Smoke in our hair, on our clothes, surrounding the car, and inside of the car. Unforgiving and unforgettable. No one could escape the smoke.
From the car window, the moon is nowhere to be found, suffocated by the smoke and embers rising from the radiant flames. We do not know where to go, just to go. My sisters and I hold hands in the back of the car, trying to see through the smog and redorange tinted windows. I look at Brown Bear in my lap, his smile small, but comforting in the dark. Our mouths open but no words are spoken as we watch the burning vineyards we whir past, our family fleeing, in search of the next place.
After that night, everything shifted. As if someone had rolled the dice, my memories from the next two weeks were scattered throughout my brain. Hugging Dad goodbye as he was the first of us to return to the remains of our town. The small moments of laughter and shared smiles between the cousins and Grammy. Driving in the minivan, that would stay with us for another seven years one of the only remnants of our past life. Trying to understand how and why this could have happened, how unfair this is, how little control we had. The not knowing was torture, unsure of what had perished, ignorant to what would be left of our town of our home. Our family was slowly emerging from the cinders, stamping out the remaining embers, and trying to keep moving. After spending almost three weeks with our cousins, we moved on to search for a rental house. Passing in and out of friends' houses that were extended to us by pity, I am constantly reminded of what I no longer have. Of what I have lost. There were things my sisters and I missed immediately; my purple toy trunk, the rock collections, our zombie apocalypse houses, and our precious Shopkins I imagine the night in my head, thinking of each thing I could have grabbed on the way downstairs. Each thing I should have grabbed on the way to the car. I might still have the Disney princess dresses tucked away neatly in lilac bins, our Melissa and Doug coloring books from Grandma and Aunt Sue, the chunky fresh crayons I received for my birthday, and the Lego Eiffel Tower Dad and I had worked so hard on. The loss of physical things was quelled by the presence of my mother as she kissed me goodnight, the feeling of my father sighing after a bite of a good meal, and the laughter from my Arden and Brynn. Now, in my mind, I replay what I do have left, the memories from home; the gasps and splashes when Brynn jumped in the pool with no floaties, the whispers
shared in the night when we were supposed to be sound asleep, and our lighthearted shrieks of joy echoing across the hills from the backyard stage. After everything, I know my love for my sisters can never be tarnished, destroyed, or burned.
Three Years Later
I pull my tattered Brown Bear out of the stack of packing boxes on the floor and set him on my bed. Brown Bear sits resting his head forward on his arms and legs, the stuffing in his stomach shrunk by years of washing. Our new home still smells of fresh white paint and sawdust. I call out to Brynn and Arden to let the dogs out, though I know they will not. I tramp down the stairs and open the front door, shooing the dogs out onto the mulch in the yard. Breathing in the cooling air, I hear Arden and Brynn’s joyous and prodding jokes come out of a window left open, and Mom laughing and telling a story to Dad, who is stirring something on the stove, calling everyone over to taste it, waiting to see if they can guess each ingredient. I sigh and smile to myself. On a fall night like this, when the breeze whistles through the tall dry grass, for a moment I let myself gaze across the mountains looking for any sign of orange and checking the air for smoke before calling Daisy and Sadie back home.
Grave Imbalance
Charlee Cate Cardot ’27
acrylic on canvas
Petals of Purity
Sophie Benjamin ’26
“Cover up. Your skirt is too short”
He says as he walks up to me
His fingers a ruler
Measuring the three-inch gap
Between my hem and my knee.
Is it somehow provocative
For a 12-year-old girl
To show her knees?
Well, forgive me for I have a body
But I lack shame
I lack the energy to care if my teacher feels “distracted” by my shoulders
For he simply should not be looking.
I could list the ways I’ve been told
My clothes are wrong.
My shoulders are wrong.
My skin is wrong.
My body is wrong.
I’m 14
Standing at my locker
My sweater slips below my shoulder
In an instant, I feel the snap of a strap
Leaving a tender red mark against my skin
My bra strap deemed “indecent.”
Our skin
Young as budding roses
Barely exposed to the world yet Already told to be put away
You say it’s for our safety
So why do I feel so watched
So sexualized
Like I’m your object
We’re told that if we dress a certain way, we are “asking for it” So please tell me
What am I asking for?
To be objectified?
Sexualized?
Assaulted?
We’re told if we dress a certain way, whatever happens to us is our fault But you wouldn’t blame a flower for being picked, would you?
So I dare you I dare you to talk about my body
To sexualize me
For I am choosing not to care I am choosing Life, Liberty, And the pursuit of happiness But, will he let me?
“Cover up,” he says “I can see your ass in those pants,” he says “You’re distracting the boys,” he says “Go to the office,” he says
We learn to follow his rules We learn to cover up But this time
His message changes “Loosen up, have some fun.” “You should smile more ” “Prude”
His message is delivered to all the sprouting young girls
Who are learning, Over, and over again
That they will only ever be valued for the petals of their purity.
Instead of teaching girls to be modest and to listen to men's opinions
Teach boys not to look
Teach boys that we are not their objects
Teach boys consent.
When a 12-year-old girl is told that her young body is a “distraction”
Only intended for the male gaze
A part of her dies
A part of her
The young, beautiful flower she is Wilts
My heart breaks for all the ten-year-old girls who have to learn what the word slut means.
After all, that’s all we are, right?
We’re told to stop distracting the boys
Since when is my body a mere distraction?
I am beauty
Not something to be stowed away under baggy clothes and conservative uniforms with shame
Do they think our bodies are all that we are?
We are more
We are more than our bodies
And we are more than an object to be looked at
Is it truly about the clothes?
Or is it about the woman?
The woman you ’ ve sexualized
Time and time again, slowly plucking away the petals of her innocence until there’s nothing left to take, like it belongs to you
Self-expression is being locked away
Clothes, a canvas for identities
Textures, fabrics, dyes, patterns
A showcase of art and life
An indicator of who we are
Our pride leaving with it
Our elastic skin is deemed shameful
Distracting
Indecent
Whore-ish
What about beautiful?
I am... Angela Pham ’25 sculpture
Let it Bite
Wren Freund ’26
Go and find a wild poem in the woods. You will know it by its wild eyes. It will try to bite you. Let it.
Lure it home with a rhythm it cannot resist. Drip iambs like honey from your hand. If it snarls, do not flinch.
Teach it to sit. Teach it to stay. Do not break its spirit.
When it howls, listen. Even the absurd sounds carry meaning.
Let it sleep in your bed. Let it haunt your dreams. Let it be the thing that wakes you.
Never let it forget that once, it ran wild.
When the poem is ready, open the door. Release it. Watch it run.
The best poems are the ones that do not wish to be domesticated. If it loves you, it will come back in the rain, paws dirty, heart howling.
Face
Katy Gappa ’25
acrylic on canvas
The Beauty of Silence
Micaela Quintero ’25
Growing up, my mother used silence as a way of punishing me. She took my relationship to silence, and every possibility for one in the future, and diminished it to the size of my pinky finger When I had done something wrong or made a mistake, my punishment was the absence of her words. It was to trap me in a moment where all I could do was imagine her anger and the mistakes I had made to cause it. This discomfort wed me to the idea of words always filling the air. She taught me to love my voice and the way that it could draw out syllables so that my lips created a neverending string of words that filled the space between anger and silence, building a barrier between my mother and my mouth. She waited silently until I eventually said–or did–the right thing to earn her forgiveness. My relationship with silence has always been one of fear. One that brings me back to my mother’s kitchen, as I peered up at her from behind the marble-topped, white oak, counter that shielded my body. My little fingers, which barely gripped the cold countertop, shook relentlessly as I watched my mother throw cabinet doors and jostle the silver spoons that lived there. My feet still bloody with the little cuts made by the porcelain elephant I had just knocked over. My mother’s silence was her way of telling me that I had shattered her beloved mascot. She didn’t manifest her anger into the screams that I was sure she had been holding in. She didn’t have to. I could hear her inner dialogue from the way she flung cabinet doors and the jolts my body would make as I winced at every loud sound.
My mother’s silence was different from the silence within my boarding school. Hers was filled with anger, and theirs were filled with awkward stares. To them, silence is a waiting period. It's a sign that someone should say something, to add to the conversation, or break the tension in the air. They waited for the words I didn’t know I had to deliver as we locked eyes walking past each other through dorm halls. They waited for the questions I didn’t know I was meant to ask as we walked to class. They waited for me to avoid the same thing they seem to fear more than anything: appearing lonely. But at thirteen, I thought for sure, they must have all hated me. They must have been waiting for me to apologize to them for being there. To tell them that I knew I was not supposed to be their roommate, their classmate, or even their peer–and that I was sorry for it. Their silence was not just the difference in our mothers’ anger, their silence was a lesson of money. It was a lesson of “how to make connections” and “everyone else knows the rule” except for people like me. But that wasn't the only time their silence illustrated the difference in our lives. Their silence
while I cried, and yelled, while I screamed, and begged them to use their privilege; that was their morals and the lengths they would go to uphold their power. That silence was a vow they took. To never go against the grain. To forever uphold the culture around connections.
But their silence is not mine. And I refuse to ever make it mine. I did not adopt their silence within all the awkward pauses and the complacency. But I didn’t inherit my mother’s silence either. I taught myself to make the silence whatever I chose. To take the raw and moldable air, and shape it into my own creation.
Silence is what you make of it. And sometimes you don’t have a choice. Sometimes, silence is a reflection of yourself It mimics you and forms melodies of the feelings you emit into it. Sometimes it doesn’t give you the choice of pleasure because sometimes you don’t want pleasure. We seek gratification in almost everything we do, but silence doesn’t offer the privilege of satisfaction. It gives your mind what it wants whether your conscious knows it or not.
If you want it to be sad then it is; if you want it to be the embodiment of anger, fear, or appreciation, all you have to do is imagine it to be so. If you want it to be awkward, then it makes you want to claw your way out of the same thing you just created. It pierces your ears, and stares you in the eyes, like a teacher waiting for you to tell them the answer to a question you didn't even know they asked, as the class angles their heads in your direction. It’s the sound of the student's eyes as they all wait for you to defrost their teacher from the position she seems frozen in. But if you want it to be sad, then it floods your head. It crashes into your heart. It becomes the spitting image of you at three years old. It's your quivering lip, and watering eyes as you stare at the dog you loved so dearly struggling to take its last breath. It's loud in that moment; it's a choir as they mourn with you, beside you, as the blinding spotlight is just on your dog. Sometimes, it's anger. It's a raging fire rising further and further above you. It's chaotic and it distorts everything you know to be true. It’s not you anymore. It’s your mother, as she drives the both of you home from the party you made her leave. It's her fingers gripping the steering wheel and the fear that consumes you at the red light. It gives you the same feeling in your stomach that you have at the top of a ride, just before the drop, peering down at the ground that seems so far away now. But it's not your fear of heights; it's the same feeling you feel as you wait for your mother to say something, anything.
And sometimes, it's beautiful. Sometimes, it comes to you as you watch the sunset with your future boyfriend. It’s the tears that roll down your eyes as you thank every celestial being that allowed you to witness something and someone so gorgeous. Silence takes the sunset for all its beauty, it takes your tears, your mother's fingerprints on the steering wheel, the choir that stood behind you as you sobbed for your precious dog,
the students as they waited for you to inevitably give the wrong answer. Silence takes every moment and swaddles them in layers of comfort or discomfort. The moments are wrapped into an embrace that cradles your heart as it sinks into a reflection of yourself.
At any given moment, billions of people around the world experience the deafening sound of silence. They feel it in the thousands after the pastor says take a moment of silence for the memory of the living, and heads hang from the necks that hold them as they pay a new found respect for the bodies they used to demean. They feel it in the dozens as employee conferences get tense during ‘performance checks’ and tongues seem to forget their roles in forming sound. But mostly, it's felt where our presence is vacant. Where the human body has yet to infiltrate, and the earth has been given its autonomy. The song of delight as birds soar over the freshest air or the Atlantic Sea as it spans across the deep blue pockets that form every thousandth mile.
I can imagine how my ancestors used silence as their tool, how they waited for the sun goddess to approach their deserted fields that nourished their bodies. With their hands held up high, and every finger spread out to its extent, their palms opened in an attempt to touch her golden rays. In moments where they celebrated the sacrifice of their children, they mourned, they danced, and they prayed, in silence. Their silence spoke familiar words to their community; they knew their eyes and despair. They knew the gods loved them without their open mouth prayer I wonder if the first time they heard each other's groans and screams, was when their language of looks and glances no longer fit what they meant to tell. When demeanor and symbols could no longer capture the horror they had faced. I wonder if they tried. If, at first glance of the estranged boat that came from beyond, they instinctually waved their arms or bulged their eyes. Did they realize that a look no longer told the true story of horror? Did they break their silence to tell their children they had to flee from their gods or serve the new men to no end?
Even now, after 500 years, I still see them. I see their silence as my grandmother slaves over the dresses she makes. I see their eyes in hers while she holds the rough fabric in one hand and the needle in the other callused hand. I see them in the pattern she forms as the thread weaves in and out of her fight for her own success, and that of her children. Silence is not her escape from confronting the world beyond her thoughts. It's not her fear of the ears that would eventually receive the sound of her broken English and the confounded faces that form afterward. It's not every word she wishes to hold for herself or the anger she’d rather not speak into existence. Silence is her voice and her words. It's the love she does not have the synonyms or accent to pronounce. It’s the vow she made to fight for us until her dying breath, just as her lineage had done for her. It’s the language she inherited from our ancestors and passed down to my mother. It was the language of love when she sowed the holes in my favorite princess dress. It was anger when she silently packed her bags and left my
grandfather’s heavy hand. It was pride when she gifted her porcelain elephant to my mother after graduating college. My mother’s silence is the flower of her mother’s patience, and the seed of my grandfather’s violence. Her silence is the water that suffocates the anger she inherited. It's the escape her mother gave her to avoid becoming her father. But my grandmother’s silence is not the absence of her words or the moments that lead up to them. It's the stories sown into who she is, her ancestors that fought for their future and our presence. It's every moment in her life that shaped who she is now. Sometimes they’re too agonizing to tell, and sometimes they're told without a sound.
Sofiia Patkanovtsiy’25 photograph
Faces
Lena Smith ’26
block painting on paper
Tamana Hassani ‘26
3D art
Tamana Hassani ‘26
3D art
Happy Birthday
Michkael McKenzie ’25
The human tendency to divorce ourselves from reality is so us. To tape up the cracks, light the candles, and pretending the wax melting down isn’t just another measure of time slipping away.
They dance, they laugh, they sing, they “make a wish’ as if wishes aren’t just empty prayers whispered into smoke, as if closing my eyes will make this feel real.
The cake is too damn sweet. The lights are too damn bright. The room is too loud. The candles flicker, all 17 of them, shadows stretching across the walls. I tell myself I belong. I tell myself, be happy. But the lie crumbles on my tongue, its dry and tasteless, swallowed like every other truth, I’ve buried just to get through.
No one notices the way my hands tremble as I cut into another lonely year. No one seems to hear the silent scream caught between my ribs No one seems to see the leash tugging at the collar around my neck, the way I choke on the weight of my existence, Pressing, pressing, It's so tight.
They don’t know that candles aren’t the only thing I’ve thought about blowing out. But it’s fine, I still smile, still I nod, I say thank you, because that’s what we all do. We delude ourselves into thinking that Happy Birthday means something. That the wish matters. That the candles matter. That the presents matter. That next year will be better than the next.
And maybe that’s the most despicable part of it all–how much we want to believe it.
Carpe Diem
Congran (Emily) Yang ’25
mixed media
