PERSPECTIVE
The Bolles School 2026
Cover art by yicen lu
PERSPECTIVE is an art and literary magazine designed and produced by students at The Bolles School. Special thanks to the Bolles Creative Writing class, the Bolles Bugle class, Ms. Curran, and Ms. Gastaldi.
Olivia Owens '27, Untitled
John Cusick '27, The Gracious Peace
Arnav Velcheti '29, Ode to Gorillas
Ellsa Zinn '27, Steady Capital Loss
Tilly Waddell '28, A Knot which Can't Be Untied
Aydin Shirazi '28, Life, am I right?
Mallie Brackin '28, Maybe
Sadie Hunt '26, Stranger on a Train
Mallie Brackin '28, Empty
Sadie Hunt '26, I am from
Ellsa Zinn '27, Marigolds
Will Arndt '27, The Trade
Nora Humphrey '29, Ode to My Sketchbook
Anya Burtak, The Moon
Ellsa Zinn '27, Messages from the Footstool
Zach Gratz '26, bred (a borzoi encounter)
Tilly Waddell '28, Emotions
John Cusick '27, Fifty-Four Bones
Aydin Shirazi '28, The Half-Painted Wall
Myka Das '28, The Paradox of the Burn
Rowan Trafton '28
Arnav Velcheti '29
Noura Ossi '27
Noura Ossi '27
Yicen Lu '26
Owen Goldstein '28
Noura Ossi '27
Rowan Trafton '28
Yicen Lu '26
Rowan Trafton '28
Owen Goldstein '28
'29
Lu '26
Rowan Trafton '28
Lu '26
Rowan Trafton '28
Owen Goldstein '28
Arnav Velcheti '29
Noura Ossi '27
Nora Humphrey '29
Nora Humphrey
Yicen
Yicen
Photography by Noura Ossi
Neeta
by Rowan
Photography
Untitled
by Olivia Owens
one of these days a frog will come out of my mouth
blimp cheeks puffed like a toad I know nothing else
this florida sunrise, what poison to a human mind brackish tears weep for the way this water rests on my tongue, I can taste the wetlands I can taste my ignorance the south does not know how to apologize we squawk
no words no dialect the murmuring thrash of mosquitos there is a point to all this
under a lilypad maybe in the carcass of oranges postmortem
pry the alligator apart put her teeth on a leather strap around your neck
live here, sling guns over tan shoulders, and savor soil hurricanes grown under the miasma american flag aflame under the microscope
chemicals of sunscreen/canvas of manatee, blaring heat/ deficiency of warmth,
southern hospitality/forget the foreigners red flags red votes red sun blue blood
the etymology of the heron’s cawthis diction of drawl
I don’t pray to the same god as crocodiles, bless this sandy ground holy father of the palms
something more, something new I don’t belong the bible in the hotel room drawer
written with a rifle’s trigger I try to pronounce the leaving of home, the south, the beloved, a crab trap call the wisdom of the eagle and send her to florida
come tides surf us out
shores of a new land, allow me to speak a new language pardon my swampmouth
The Gracious Peace
by John Cusick
A child runs through the dark
Answering the bed’s safe call
Yet is still afraid of falling asleep
When the dark consumes us all
We catch glimpses of the dark
When our eyes rest to blink
But the dark recedes so quick
No one takes the time to think
Think why do we rest only in the dark
When the light comforts our eyes
Our life needs the dark for rest
And the dark provides under pitch guise
Life is the dark when eyes blink A glimpse unto our death
Perhaps these glimpses are in preparation
For the dark to take our last breath
Photography by Arnav Velcheti
In the deep heart of Africa, in the dense jungle. A great beast lurks deep in the trees. Is the Gigantopithecus still alive?
Or is it a dragon which has awoken after thousands of years?
As it moves closer and closer towards us, the picture comes to life. A mighty male gorilla comes up to greet us.
We all watch in amazement as the gentle giant approaches. It is indeed a mighty guardian of this forest, Hercules in another form.
The silverback King Kong leaves us and tends his beloved troop. Even a formidable giant like King Kong has a soft side to him.
Their social livelihood is one to imagine
The gorilla troop sticks together like an unbreakable shield
Each one having one-another’s back.
Enjoying their tasty plant and bug diet. Bamboo for us is instantly dead
But bamboo for King Kong is quite a treat.
A long day’s excitement has had its time. Night in the forest signals that it's time to power off. Their twig and leaf nest is as comfortable as a couch. High in the trees is where they can watch the stars.
Sadly these giants are being driven to extinction.
Destroying their natural habitat for human greed. How sad it would be to see our giant friends go.
There is a spark of hope for these giants.
To give them a better future
We should conquer our greed and respect nature
Conservation is the key.
The Gorillas are indeed nature’s gift
When they peacefully roam the Earth. The true guardians of the wild.
Ode to Gorillas
by Arnav Velcheti
Photography by Noura Ossi
Neeta
Art by Nora Humphrey
Steady Capital Loss
by Ellsa Zinn
The living room was warm; a dull orange glow poured like molasses from the small brick fireplace. Three people huddled together, a desperate attempt to keep warm in the cold winter. Soft voices rose from the tv opposite them, but Red’s eyes were on Monica, asleep on his shoulder, peaceful and beautiful.
Papers covered the small coffee table, spilling onto the ground, covering every inch they could. The fire was starting to die, and though Red sat not 4 feet away, the numbers and finances in front of him were too all consuming for him to notice. Next to him, a plate of pasta waited, growing colder and more unpleasant by the second.
Stuffed bags piled high on the couch, leaning against suitcases and boxes, shirts and scarfs peeking into view. The last embers collapsing into ashes, small red glows smothered by charred logs. Red sat, crushed by backpacks and bags, their weight suffocating him, he wished they really would.
Amber liquid swirled in Red’s glass, forming a small vortex as he stared absent mindedly at the tv, the tinny voices drowning out his phone's incessant rings. Take out boxes strewn across the room, stacked on top of each other, forming a teetering tower. Ashes from the fireplace covered the carpet, sinking into its worn fibers.
The lights were out as paint peeled from the walls, flies creeping into the corners of their unattended cracks. Red lay on the couch, clothes dirty and stained, head pounding in rhythm with the rickety fan above. Most of the furniture was gone, save for the ragged couch and cluttered coffee table, even the fireplace was barren without so much a log to show signs of life.
A Knot which Can't Be Untied
by Tilly Waddell '28
Life is a knot which can't be untied.
A grasp of hope that keeps me alive. A throb of numbness that runs through my body.
For something that can't be broken. My legs are tied and movement hurts. Each thy equally as bruised and hurt. My hands blistered and bare from the knot.
Which makes every inch of me want to stop.
To give up on something that can be easily teared. For something that is barely even there.
by Noura Ossi
Photography
Photography by Yicen Lu
Life, am I right?
by Aydin Shirazi
You stand, High up in the clouds, Looking down on us, Us common people.
You wish for roses, Thrown at your feet, A showman of the sky. I will throw at your feet, Not roses but feathers. You will need them when you fall.
Here, I see your scorn, Here, I see your rot, Here, I do not see your blackened heart –Yet, I know it to be behind your silk curtains.
Tar covers your face, That is my mark, My ‘crime’ – as you call it –For which I will gladly pay.
Maybe
by Mallie Brackin
Maybe,
A word so unknown, So unseen, So unsure. Sitting right between yes and no belonging to neither, pretending to be both. It never sat right with me, forcing you to guess which way their tone leans, or if they’re just hiding the no to spare your feelings. Maybe, A word so unknown.
Photography by Owen Goldstein
Neeta
by
Photography
Noura Ossi
Stranger on a Train
by Sadie Hunt '26
I was on my way to Seattle so that I could visit my parents. I’ve never taken a train before, but I thought it might be cheaper, so I got a last-minute ticket. I was sitting in my seat, and my eyes were wondering around looking for something to think about, when I noticed a man with a tall yellow hat, yellow jacket and yellow pants. I thought this was very odd. I was making predictions for the whole train ride about why he might be wearing all of that yellow. As I take a sip of water, the train makes an aggressive stop, and I spill my water all over myself. I got up to go get some paper told when suddenly the man in the yellow stops me.
I started shaking and I became so nervous. He starts laughing and asks if I know why the train had stopped. I had no idea but for a second, I wondered why he asked me instead of the girl sitting right next to him. I tell him that I have no idea, and I walk away. He continues to stare at my every move until I get into the small train bathroom. I didn’t think much of it until I came out of the bathroom, and he went right back to stare at me. As it became scary instead of admiring, I started to walk faster and did not make eye contact. When I finally returned to my seat, I got tired and fell asleep quickly. Hours went by and the train was now moving. I stared to slowly open my eyes, and there he was.
I saw him towering over me. It was now dark outside and for some reason many people had got off the train at their stops. He asked me where I was headed to. Hesitating to answer, I told him about Seattle. He then gave me a surprised look, with a huge grin on his face. “Same!” he says. What a coincidence he was going to the same place as me. “I’ll see you when we get off” he says as he walks away. I then wondered if he was really going to Seattle or if he was just some creep. Ten minutes later the train stopped at Seattle. Terrified to get off I rushed to the exit door. I caught myself walking at speed and looked behind me. There was nothing. I sighed in relief that he was not behind me. As I slowed down, I heard someone whistle. I turn around and it was the man dressed in yellow sprinting at me with a rope in his hand.
Empty
by Mallie Brackin
I lay in my bed, sinking into the comfort of its cocoon of blankets around me. The house didn’t get empty all at once. It happened slowly. One heap of clothes disappeared from the dresser, one toothbrush was gone from the bathrocorner om, one bedroom door stayed closed because nobody was there to sleep in that room, and one section of the couch where they would usually sit changed. First, it was the left of the L-shaped couch; then the middle intersection; then the other end. All these areas that were worn out by the weight now stiffened, rigor mortis.
When my siblings moved out, I was excited to get a house to myself. New chapters for them, big dreams for me, all of that. And I was happy for them, I really was. But the quiet that settled in afterward became less exciting and more like a part of me had left with them, too. You’re never sure what to do with the silence. I miss the version I was when we all lived under the same roof. I stood in my hallway the other day, in the middle of the intersections between our 4 rooms and thought of the quote I had heard earlier that day. “You have already spent 75% of the time with your siblings than you will the rest of your lifetime.” Maybe that’s what growing up feels like, learning how to not hold onto them without needing them.
Photography by Rowan Trafton
I am from
by Sadie Hunt
I am from Rolling Stones T-shirts, From Rainbow flip flops and Players Grille.
I am from the brick path to the river. Warm, exciting, smells like a trip to bird island.
I am from palm trees, long grass and rocks, The sound of leaves blowing in the wind repeatedly in my head.
I’m from midnight Fourth of July boat rides and thinking about what the next meal will be.
From Jimmy to Virginia.
I’m from no birthday plans and unusual kitchen table talk, From “Because I said so” and “Get over it.”
I’m from Jesus who died on the cross for our sins.
I’m from Jacksonville, Homemade burgers and chip dip.
From the notes slid under doors after bedtime, The consistent jokes towards my dad.
The baby pictures that I’m not quite sure we have.
Neeta
by Yicen Lu
Photography
Marigolds
by Ellsa Zinn
If ever there was a day for the skies to cry, one would find no better day than today. Their tears soaked through my wool coat, but I was unfeeling. Too submerged by waves of grief to do much more than wail, and wail, and wail. I could not stand, I could not lift my head, I could not walk, I could not speak. Born anew from pain.
I did not want this rebirth.
Oh, what light could my life have, now that my sun had been taken? People bussed around me, shades and figures in the dark of my mind. They did not know my pain, my grief. How could I expect them to understand?
‘Candace?’
A lone voice broke through the silence. One word, one command. I knew what he meant, but I did not want to let go of the flower clenched tightly in my hand.
I threw down my single flower, a lone marigold. My whole body shook, I wished to the stars that they would take me. A soft thud hit the wet wood lid. My marigold was gone, I would never get it back. My hands felt empty, my heart felt worn. I had no purpose, no marigold to hold, I was adrift.
My Marigold had withered, all too soon.
Photography by Rowan Trafton
Neeta
Photography by Owen Goldstein
The Trade
by Will Arndt
Joey Owen was an ordinary kid with ordinary baseball talent, but extraordinary drive. He wasn’t the fastest or the strongest and quite frankly just lacked the ability to keep up with the rest of the high school baseball players on the team. But Joey loved baseball and he certainly worked harder than anyone on the team.
He would get up early every single morning, work out in the gym, eat the right foods, do all the right things. He would hit the cages every single afternoon, swinging the bat until his arms felt like lead. He practiced obsessively, but at the end of the day it just wasn’t enough. He had a supportive, loving family, and a great group of friends. He did well in school, and generally loved everything about his life. But his true dream was to be a star baseball player and as hard as he worked, no matter what he tried, he just couldn’t seem to make it happen. In fact, he couldn’t even make it off the bench.
After a particularly grueling practice, where the coach told him once again he just wasn’t making the cut, he lay awake in the quiet of his room, staring at his ceiling, and imagined what his life would be like if he was the star player, the one hitting home runs and leading his team to victory.
One evening, as Joey was leaving practice, he noticed something strange in the woods past the outfield. He wandered into the trees out of curiosity and a bizarre feeling that was pulling him in that direction. He suddenly noticed a light shining and a silhouette of a young child in the distance.
The boy said “Joey, I was hoping you would find me here.”
Joey stopped in his tracks, taken aback. “How do you know who I am? What are you doing by yourself out here at night?”
The child replied, “I’m here to grant your wish. I can make you the athlete that you work so hard to be.”
Joey’s breath caught. This was what he had always wanted. But was he dreaming? Had he hit his head in practice and gotten knocked out? Why was there a child in the woods, at night, asking him if he wanted him to grant his greatest wish? Surely this was a dream. But in the off chance its not a dream, he might as well go along with it, right?
Joey replies “Ok, if you can grant my wish, what do I need to do?”
The child steps closer. “It’s simple. I’ll give you all the talent you seek. But in return, you must give me something else you value – time.”
Joey frowned. “What do you mean by time?”
The child smiled. “If I give you strength, speed, agility, and all the things you desire, I will need time. Every game and every practice that you use your new abilities will make you remember less of your past. Your memories will slowly fade. The more you use, the more of your past will disappear.”
Joey stood stunned. Surely, he did not hear correctly. “That sounds like a terrible trade.”
“Well consider what this is worth to you? You can use as little or as much as you desire. You can be great for one game and lose only one memory. The choice is yours.”
Joey considered. Maybe this was not a terrible trade. Maybe he could have one great game and lose one insignificant memory, and in the meantime gain one amazing memory. He could make a difference on the team for once. He could be a star.
“Okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’ll do it. I’ll take the trade.”
In an instant, the light faded and the child disappeared into thin air. Joey began to wonder if he was ever even there. Maybe he was losing his mind. On that thought, he made his way home.
The next day at practice, all he could think about was the previous evening. He wanted so badly for it to have been real, but the more he thought about it, the more he began to think he truly was going crazy. When it was his turn for batting practice, he stepped into the cage, and wished it had all been true. As he swung at the first ball, he felt different, as if someone else was in control of his swing. The ball went flying. That would have been a home run. The next ball was the same. And the next. And the next. Everyone turned to watch.
After practice, the coach approached. “Joey, that was some good hitting. I’m going to put you in the game tomorrow.”
Joey began to think that maybe he wasn’t going crazy, but also something didn’t quite feel right either.
The next evening, despite knowing what he had traded, Joey decided that he needed to play great for this baseball game. It was important. This was what he always wanted. Finally, he had the opportunity to be the star. And so he was. He crushed the ball, he made every play, he made perfect throws. And everyone cheered. It was everything he ever wanted and more. And so, he couldn’t stop, he played great the next game and the next and the next.
But in his quest for baseball fame, he failed to recognize what he was losing. At first, he hadn’t noticed small memories fading, but lately he realized he wasn’t recognizing people that seemed to know him. He couldn’t remember big portions of his childhood. And yet, it all seemed worth it. Until one day, after a huge victory, Joey stood frozen on the edge of the field, the crowd cheering so loudly his ears rang. He glanced around at his teammates, the fans, his coach, and all he saw were unfamiliar faces. A sudden realization hit him like an ice bucket. He had traded far too much. The past, the people he was surrounded by, this was what made him who he was, and it was slipping away. His dreams of becoming a baseball star had come true, but in the process, he had lost the very things that made life worth living, he had just never realized it. He slowly made his way off the field, with heavy heart, and deep regret.
Ode to My Sketchbook
by Nora Humphrey
Endless creativity comprised in a book that holds thoughtful memories.
A crack of its spine leads to endless possibilities, Mediums of many expressing what I cannotmandate in words. A stroke of a pencil and the flick of the wrist, An idea or even simple surroundings, anything can be my muse. A passion ignited like a flame, as a pencil is in my hand, a work of art is simply created.
Art by Nora Humphrey
Neeta
by Yicen
Art
Lu
The Moon
by Anya Burtak
The moon. No one knows where it came from. No one knows the truth of it all. It just appeared one night and gave us light. They say it was a gift from the gods to provide us with light at night such as the sun gives us light at day. Every night it just shows up, sometimes going into the light of day to greet the sun. They say one day the stars collided, creating the moon. Giving us the thing we love.
The stars were always together but never combined. They always shimmered together in the sky. Nights long ago, the stars grew together. Only a few people noticed at first. As the nights went on, the people started to notice more and more. They did not get it. They didn’t know how to. Maybe it was the gods of the stars coming closer, wanting to connect. Wanting to watch over us all together and protect us more. The gods of the stars always shimmered together to create the beauty of the night sky. The constellations and the home for the lights. That is what the stars were to the people. They were art and a home.
As the stars came together, so did the lights. They grew brighter. They gave home to love. One night they made a shape. The shape of a circle. The shape of the moon. People looked up seeing a ball almost as bright as the sun shining in the dark. They were confused. They did not know what to do. They have only ever seen the stars and now the stars have combined into the beauty of the night sky. The moon shone, outshining the stars. People saw it as a heart. The gift of life. They saw the stars joining as something not to fear, but to love. The moon became the joy of the world.
No one knows if this was a gift from the star gods. Maybe it was a creation of a new god. Blessing us with more lights in the night sky. A new love that no one knew they needed. If we do not know where the moon came from, we can still see it everywhere. In the love we knoin the love we feel. This is why we need love and the moon. It protects us through the night, giving us light.
Messages from the Footstool
by Ellsa Zinn
You stand on your ladder, High up in the clouds, Looking down on us, Us common people.
You wish for roses, Thrown at your feet, A showman of the sky. I will throw at your feet, Not roses but feathers. You will need them when you fall.
Here, I see your scorn, Here, I see your rot, Here, I do not see your blackened heart –Yet, I know it to be behind your silk curtains. Tar covers your face, That is my mark, My ‘crime’ – as you call it –For which I will gladly pay.
Photography by Rowan Trafton
bred (a borzoi encounter)
by Zach Gratz
The man had been meaning to visit the bakery for some time now. He was new in town, and he figured he might as well get to know the locals and their business. The lights were on, but there were no people inside. Perfect, he thought, I'll be first in line. He opened the door, behind which there were no people. But there was plenty of bread. Behind the counter there sat a long, whitehaired dog. This amused the man. He had never seen one operate a bakery before. Its narrow snout was as long as a loaf of bread. A rare dog, the man understood. It looked at him with its two eyes and one snout, and the man looked back, with his no snout.
"Hello, Dog," the man said, uncertain of what else he might have done.
"Hello, Customer," the cashier replied. This amused the man further; he had never met a talking one either. He wondered if there was bread for purchase. He was surrounded by bread. "Welcome to the Bread Bank," the borzoi continued, "We sell Bread, we sell Loaves. We have Bread on shelves. We cut Bread on the counter. We put Bread in ovens. We bake Bread, we slice Bread, we sell Bread, but we do not eat Bread. Would you like to be sold Bread to eat?"
The man thought awhile. "I'll get a baguette roll, and, maybe a brioche." The dog did not think awhile.
"We don't have either of those. Perhaps you would enjoy a potato loaf, or our special white bread. Gluten freely, of course."
This confused the man. "Gluten? What's that?" ... The dog did not reply, staring at him instead from two lengths of its bread-length snout away. Its eyes betrayed no intention of defining gluten. "Uh, okay," the man continued, uncertain of local customs, "You can take it out, right? I'll have that without the, uh, gluten, please." He was satisfied that he had been able to pronounce it correctly. He was sure this 'gluten' would do him no harm, but he preferred the familiar taste of an ordinary loaf. The cashier was both unamused and still a dog.
"Customer. It's gluten free." The borzoi spoke with the nearly disappointed but willfully uninterested flatline of one who had spent far too long at a cash register. The man understood. Work like this could make a human insensitive, so he could only imagine what it could make a dog. Still, he wanted that bread.
"I don't care if it's free. Can I just not have it?"
The dog's utter lack of expression irritated him. He just did nothing, said nothing. The man wondered, Was there something wrong? He hadn't the slightest clue, but he vaguely sensed a misunderstanding. The sales-creature loosed a sigh as long and unexpressive as his face. His black nostrils flared out slightly, assuming the shape of raisins.
Neeta
"Do you want the bread?" Understanding their impasse, he picked the conversation up two lines backward. Clever, the man thought, Much wiser than what most dogs would have done here. "If you don't want bread, the Bread Bank might not be the place for you." Still, he was clearly a dog. A human might have gotten along a bit better in this line of work anyhow, and refreshing as it was to talk to the borzoi, the man was still exasperated with its way of speaking. A dog ought to have more respect for a human customer; this one was just condescending. It made sense, he supposed, given the dog's length, looking down is the only way to look anywhere from sitting like that, with that inhumanly long dog snout and all. But he didn't have all day, after all, and all he wanted was some bread. There was bread on the all the shelves, some of which was even what he wanted.
"Yeah, of course I want bread. I want white bread, just plain white bread. Can you do that for me?" The cashier angled his face to reply, but the man cut him off. "And no gluten. Just one loaf, like, that long." He indicated an unsliced loaf on the counter, stretching his fingered hands to articulate around the size of the dog's face. As the dog with the face, it took his meaning. However, it did not offer any meaning back for it. The cashier's raisin-like nostrils were hovering
Art by Yicen Lu
near the counter now, where the man could see breadcrumbs scatter each time the borzoi exhaled. His breath was unhurried, and his eyes told the man he was losing the will to carry on in their comic dance of human-speak. The only sound now was the ovens where the bread baked. There was always more bread in the ovens. This made them quite different from the man's home.
He checked his watched without really reading the time. It was some lines and numbers, that was the time. It was time to get going, the man decided. "Look, is there a manager here, or someone else I could talk to? This is going nowhere." He paused. "No offense, Dog. It's just a human thing." The dog was not happy.
"You don't want to do that, Customer. You wouldn't get what you want like that." The man took no heed. Carnivores, he thought, all the same. He was glad to be a human because humans could eat things that didn't bleed. Being a predator animal must make a creature prone to making threats, even in a place like the bread store. At least the cashier wouldn't be tempted by the blood-free bread he sold.
"Please, just tell me who else I can talk to. Is there anyone back there? Hello?" He raised his voice over the elongated creature at the counter to the mostly-closed door behind it. Something shifted there, although the lights were all off back there as far as the man could tell. Then a great grumbling rose, like that of a bear woken from hibernation, and the listener a mouse in his bread-store den. It muttered something unrecognizable in a voice so deep and heavy it set the light suspended over the countertop swinging slightly. The breadcrumbs jumped at the vibration. Doughy earlobes now pinned back in a stressed dog-expression, the borzoi turned slightly and leaned onto its forelimbs to allow its neck to roll back, now extending itself a bread's length toward the back room.
"Just a customer. Just a customer." As the dog turned back to face the man, the growling thing he took to be the manager of this most bizarre of bakeries mumbled a name, at which a human replied something human-like and walked to the door on his two standing legs. From the dark
employees-only chamber emerged a man in an apron. His hair was messy, his eyes somewhat bloodshot, and his clothes were caked in flour. He looked like the human version of a bread oven. He looked down slightly, like his coworker did, but less carnivorous, more spaced out, almost easygoing. The oven man spoke humanly.
"Yeah, uh, listen, chief. We can't really take jack out the bread. So, uh, that's it. You know, take it or leave it."
Aside, the dog voiced a curiosity to the baker: "You have flour on your elevator repair clothes." He nodded, evidently aware, before continuing to the customer.
"Because, you know, that's really all we can do for you, man. The gluten ain't going nowhere. So you want it?"
The man was frustrated. "Why put it in in the first place? I mean, what kind of bakery is this anyway?"
"One that sells bread," the borzoi replied, evidently still there and visibly still a dog.
"That's what a bakery does. Except this one doesn't do a very good job," the customer retorted, speaking even before he thought. After thinking, he agreed he had said it pretty well.
The oven-man spoke up. "... So you buying the bread or nah? It's gluten free, man. That's all we got."
The customer decided thinking less let him say more. He said much, which satisfied him through his anger. "This is a simple request. I'm not asking a whole lot, I will literally sit here and watch you bake a normal loaf of white bread if you want. But you don't want me to. I'll pay you and everything. I mean, what planet are you all from where this is how you run a bread shop?"
Again, the dog spoke in a normal tone. "Florida."
"Go figure," the customer muttered. Although he wondered what a creature like the borzoi would be doing in Florida. He set this aside for later. He didn't know much about dogs, or Florida. But he did know that this one was not the easiest cashier
he had spoken with. The aproned man went to say something but was interrupted as the entity in the employee-only room cleared its throat massively. The two employees exchanged worried glances. The doorframe rattled slightly as it began speaking, this time in human tongue.
"CUSTOMER." The man was startled; the color in his face drained like bread baking in reverse. "DO YOU WANT GLUTEN IN YOUR BREAD?" Silence.
At length, the customer replied. "... Who are you?" He had no idea what else to say.
"THE MANAGER SPEAKS. ANSWER ME." The dog's ears dropped and pricked again, kneading its white-haired brow into an unnerved expression.
"Well, no. No, you better take the gluten out of that bread." The customer was finding his voice again. It was mostly still in his throat. Strange how little things change sometimes.
The self-proclaimed manager inhaled deeply before continuing. "WHOLE WHEAT. GLUTEN FREE. TEXAS TOAST. GLUTEN FREE. CORNBREAD. GLUTEN FREE. TORTILLA-"
"I get it, I get it!" The human was at his limits. "The gluten's free! I don't want any of that! I want-" Now it was the manager's turn to interrupt. It was quite effective.
"YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ASK FOR, CUSTOMER." The customer did not like his tone one bit.
The borzoi meekly interjected, adding something the manager had forgotten: "And ancient-grain crackers. Gluten free." This did not help.
"That's it," the man began, "I really tried. I give up. I'm done with you people! I'm done with this place! I'm done!"
It was the oven-man's turn to mediate. He also did poorly: "Dude. Like, what are you saying?" The other human by and large ignored him. His lack of an elongate snout no doubt contributed to his failure to project his words into their place. The customer continued.
"All I'm saying is, I'm done with all your bread, I'm done with gluten, whatever that even is, and no, I'm not gonna buy your ancient-grain crackers or whatever they are!" Futilely, he gestured to the sleeve of crackers the borzoi had pointed out. His finger indicated it even more clearly than the face which the dog had aimed at it. But they both achieved their point, and the other knew what they indicated.
The manager was silent for some time. It sighed the sigh of a horse unwilling to carry on walking a path it already knew. It refused to go on involved. Perhaps it went back to its dormancy. At last the oven man put something together in his mind and articulated it.
"But the crackers ain't got no gluten." Suddenly the angry man became a customer again.
"Wait, actually? Alright, well, uh, I'll take those." The cashier moved to grab the sleeve of non-gluten ancient-grain crackers, but the man's opposable digits and flexible arms had already taken hold of it. Another reason a human would be more fit to the cashier position.
"Do you have the payment, then?" It asked with some significance. The dog did not often receive payments, the man guessed. After all he had gone through, nor was he about to give one.
"Screw that, I'm not paying for this." Surely petty shoplifting was a lesser crime than all the strangeness of this Bread Bank. Surely the government would take quarrel with some aspect of this. The employees seemed to understand it, and did not challenge him.
As he walked out of the bread store, he heard the oven man ask the borzoi: "Wait, did he say 'you people'?"
The cashier sighed and answered with his eyes, which the customer gladly could not see as he left. That was a good deal I got back there, he thought to himself, I ought to go back there more often. He knew there would be a gem like this somewhere in the market district.
Photography by Rowan
Emotions
by Tilly Waddell
There are many things that are unsaid but speak louder than words can express.
Things that are so unknown that you understand it completely. You understand but there is no way of expressing it to wothers.
If I could tell people, I would be world renowned, but I just can’t. It’s like the words want to plow themselves out of my mouth but they’re too sturdy to break the bond.
If only I could speak the pounding words that could change the world.
Could uplift the struggles of others and change lives for many.
But it will only be able to live in my head for me to hear.
It lives in my head making me stay up at night trying to express it.
But it only grows my emotions to a point I can’t stand up straight.
The weight of everything making it hard to take a step forward.
Making it easier for me just to sit down and completely give up.
But you have to get up and try again to make a step towards the light.
Because everything gets better when you try as hard as you can.
Fifty-Four Bones
by John Cusick
Day-Old Delicacies
Oatmeal, freshly steaming and poured into a bowl. Ice cream, chilled to perfection and melting on your tongue. Salsa, made of bright red tomatoes from Grandma’s garden.
They all sit at the bottom of the sink now, marinating in their own sludge.
But all the old and used dishes must be washed, so your hands pick up a slimy plate and scrub.
Making an Office Worker
Dirt digs into fingernails as a child picks weeds, one by one, from his neighbor’s lawn. The child’s only eight, and his hands are still baby-soft, but he diligently digs his fingers in between grass straws and into soil so not even the roots of the weeds are left.
He gets paid a dollar for every plastic bag of weeds he fills, so if he leaves some dirt on the weeds’ roots, who can tell? He wants gasstation slushies.
Lies We Tell Ourselves
Choppy, short, stubby, flat. That’s how I’d describe my fingernails.
I stare at the ends constantly. They stare back at me, but each time I look, they shorten. I can’t stand them, really. All I can do is think about the germs, the bacteria, the sweat that collects under them, and I don’t know why that bothers me so much. Because they’re on my fingers, not in my mouth, infecting my body.
But I bite down anyway.
Shareholder Money
The watchmaker makes watches. Each one costs at least a few hundred dollars, yet no one uses them to tell the time. Like jewelry, watches flaunt wealth and affluence. They fill up empty space with shine, forever ticking, never read.
But the watchmaker still makes watches. He takes his hands trained like a surgeon and dissects one of the hundreds of watches he makes every year because people still walk into his shop and show their black credit cards.
Don’t Judge a Book by its Cover
Greeting people I don’t know is one of the biggest chores in the modern age. We as humans have invented giant metal monsters racing faster than any animal on earth, yet the best line opening to a conversation is, “How was your day?”
Preposterous.
Every person thinks differently, and it’s only polite to ask them how they were ー but that does not mean I want to shake their hands!
Hands touch everything, from food to doors to dirt and that is genuinely disgusting. I don’t want to be polite, thank you.
Photography by Owen Goldstein
The Half-Painted Wall
by Aydin Shirazi
An incomplete wall
The paint is already dry
Where a painter should be, no one stands
A goal abandoned
A home unlived
They could’ve at least taken the ladder with them
Maybe one day the painter will return
And they will continue where they left off
Life can become too much
Our passion is an engine
Our motivation is a fuel
But when we run for too long
The engine burns out
We all need a break sometimes
Photography
Neeta
Photography by Noura Ossi
The Paradox of the Burn
by Myka Das
Fire is a starved soul, explosive and violent, A frantic oxidation born of friction and neglect, A garish carnival flaunting its luminous zones, veering from fervor’s glow to resentment’s white sear. A tightening chain of torridity, swelling until the air itself recoils, leaving behind a landscape of ashy specters. To be burned is to be branded by a ruin that, in its own cruel design, gives life to the soil beneath us.
Ice offers a more patient devastation, A hollow architecture of glacial breath, demanding others to mirror its own paralysis. A brittle glass, polished until sudden fracture, carrying a latent torment that numbs, until feeling evaporates and indifference remains. A selfish vault refusing to trade in love, choosing instead to absorb agony, until it liquifies and resets into a dissimilar shape.
The elements collide, Yet within the wreckage, they find their equilibrium, a frozen haven to house a dying spark. Fire needs the cold to define its heat, ice needs the burn to prove it can feel. They do not end the other, but rather sustain the struggle. Two ghosts haunting the same heart, twin thieves of the pulse, forever dancing.
