Outcroppings Spring 2019

OUTCROPPINGS Brewster Academy • 2019 • Volume 40

OUTCROPPINGS Volume 40 • 2019

OUTCROPPINGS Brewster Academy Wolfeboro, New Hampshire Volume 40 2019

Editor in Chief: Asal Al Mohamed ’19 Managing Editor: Abbigale DiVirgilio ’19 Art Editor: Brianna Brown ’19 Contributing Editors: Emily Adelson ’19, Olivia Papp ’19 Faculty Advisor: Jennifer Metcalfe Dumont Cover Photo by Alice Hou ’19 Back Cover Verse by Asal Al Mohamed ’19

by Olivia Van Orden ’19

From the Editors: In this issue of Outcroppings, we take you on an adventure around the world to find the creativity and beauty that lies within our souls, waiting to be discovered. Through the strokes of paint brushes, the clicks of camera shutters, and the carefully chosen words woven into sentences, we are able to connect through the beautiful language of art. These pages hold emotions that have bled through the pens and brushes of their masterminds, sentiments of love, passion, pain and misery. Only they, who are brave enough to share their passion and create worlds that we can all dream in, are the true artists that we wish to recognize in this book.

“Where two streams joined, we met By accident, sitting upon an outcropping of rock With only the intent of watching Water flow beneath unwinding water.” - Robert Pack - Asal Al Mohamed ’19 and Abbie DiVirgilio ’19

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Table of Contents Title Page: Photo by Omayma Al Balushi ’20.....1 Somewhere by Rose Guttman ’21 and Artwork by Selena Phinney ’22 ......................... 4 A Gentleman by Ella Quinlan ’20 and Photo by Ms. Michelle Rafalowski.............. 5 Heavy Boots by Elise Scott ’21............................. 6 Photo by Omayma Al Balushi ’20 ...................... 7 Artwork by Carly Ferdinand ’20........................ 8 “Irrational” Fear by Reese Richmond ’21 ........... 9 Love’s Rescue

by Mrs. Linda Shenton Matchett ..................... 10 Artwork by Shemar Joseph ’19.......................... 11 Where I Am From by Anya Found ’19 and Photo by Alice Hou ’19 .......................................12 Therapy by Kendall Proulx ’21 and Photo by Mrs. Maria Found..............................13 Bullets by Sydney Caldwell ’21 and Artwork by Elise Scott ’21...................................14 Raw/Linger by Olivia Papp ’19..........................15 Grand Piano by Caroline Trepanier ’20 and Artwork by Katherine Martin ’21......................16 I Speak My Thoughts by Katherine Martin ’21, Trevor Simboli ’21, and Kaylie Rosen ’21 and Photo by Ben Shaw ’19 ......................................17 The Hue of Tides and Artwork

by Brianna Brown ’19....................................... 18 Artwork by Maddie O’Blenis ’22 ......................20 Trust Issues by Jillian Pollini ’21.......................21 Photos by Mrs. Maria Found, Ben Shaw ’19, Ms. Raylene Davis, Abbigale DiVirgilio ’19 and Omayma Al Balushi ’20............................. 22 Dear White America by Ella Quinlan ’20......... 24

Artwork by Shemar Joseph ’19......................... 25 Pgs. 26-29: AP Lang Student Work Cyberbullying by Aidan Rolfe ’20..................... 26 Brain on Fire by Asal Al Mohamed ’19 and Photo by Leanne Durham ’20........................... 27 My Sister’s Name is Bipolar

by Ella Quinlan ’20...........................................28 Nothing Matters by Emily Adelson ’19 and Artwork by Selena Phinney ’22......................... 29 Eyes Closed by William McElroy ’21................30 Artwork by Shemar Joseph ’19..........................31 The Boston Marathon by Lara Given ’21 and Photo by Ben Shaw ’19...................................... 32 Photos by Gus Schoenbucher ’21 ...................... 33 Snapshot by Sydney Bertinetti ’19 and Photo by Chris Dalton ’19................................. 34 Summer by Madigan Mansour ’21 and Caroline Churchill ’21 and Artwork by Aimee Jin ’22 ................................. 35 Supermarket by Lily Fanton ’22 and Photo by Ms. Raylene Davis ............................ 36 A Mess by Zylpha Largay ’22 and Photo by Marlene Schick ’19............................. 37 The Collision by Jade Knowles ’21 ................... 38 Photo by Grace Factor ’20................................ 39 The Greek Theater by Peter Huo ’21.................40 Photo by Elana Selman ’19 and Photo by Ms. Barb Thomas...............................41 Where I Am From by Asal Al Mohamed ’19 and Artwork by Olivia Van Orden ’19 ..................... 42 Artwork by Jade Hall ’22.................................. 43 Artwork by Trinity Towns ’19........................... 44

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Somewhere

by Rose Guttman ’21

Somewhere it rains cold tears on hot, pavement cheeks.

Foggy uncertainty rising from the raging storm, Rivulets to rivers, flow to the mainstream, unbeknownst to youth, we rush to the norms.

Somewhere, thunderheads cry hope of a new beginning.

The bright, electric shocks chilling us to the bone.

A sudden thought, we are all wanting…

Wanting, needing a place to call home.

Somewhere it rains a steam-bath to soothe my shaking soul, Replenish my will to live this life.

To love and to seek for myself more.

With you, I see sun, I see a world without strife.

You make it utterly acceptable to be this person, With you I see that there is no more to life than just being human.

by Selena Phinney ’22

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A Gentleman

by Ella Quinlan ’20

Insomnia cracks open the door and gently shakes me awake, “It’s time to get up.”

He traces his fingers down my spine and presses his lips against the nape of my neck, “Stay awake with me.”

He is tempting , He is beautiful, The silence of the night so oddly welcoming.

The silence.

The night.

He is still gentle, He is still soft, In the calming presence of the night.

The night.

The darkness.

The silence.

He is tempting.

by Ms. Michelle Rafalowski

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Heavy Boots

by Elise Scott ’21

As I walked up to the bright red door, my fists clenched, digging my nails into the skin of my sweaty palms. My heavy boots create imprints as I tread through the snow, leaving a lasting reminder that I was here. Salt crunches below me with every step I take on the path that leads me to my mother. I look back to see my dark blue, rundown Toyota, looking completely out of place in a neighborhood where every house looks identical. From the color of the door to the height of the snow piles pushed out of the sidewalks. I turn back to look at the door and focus on the perfectly placed Christmas wreath. A complex pattern emerges from the pine tree branches with a few hidden pinecones and red and white ribbons that came together to create a perfect bow. The color of red paint that coated the door glared at me as I fix my hair out of my face in the reflection of the glass. .I could see the excitement in my eyes as I tuck away one more strand of hair under my headband. I look at my light brown eyes and rosy cheeks as the question emerges from my brain. What does she look like?

What did she look like then and what does she look like now? Will she look the same or has she changed so much to the point that I wouldn’t even recognize her as my mother? I wonder if she has the same hair color as me, the same smile and laugh. Will she recognize me? I have been searching for her for so long and I just know I’m gonna fuck it up. I should have told her I was coming, I should have called or texted, hey I’m your daughter, why did you leave?

I looked into my reflection one more time so I could create the best impression. I could now see the fear and emptiness that I felt every day she was gone since I was three. She left me to fend for myself as my dad spent every last penny he had on that cold beer he seemed to love so much, more than feeding his starving daughter. I spent days hoping, praying, that one day she would come back and rescue me. By the time I was four, I had forgotten what she looked like. I had no pictures for reference because my dad couldn’t resist the urge to throw each memory of her into the fireplace along with swept up glass bottle from the night before.

The bright red fire raged louder than ever as I watched my father destroy my mother through a crack in my thin white door.

Looking now, back at the flaming red door, I think of all the times she wasn’t there. She wasn’t there to tuck me in at night. She wasn’t there to clean and bandage my cuts when I fell on the rough sidewalk.

She wasn’t there to help me understand my homework or watch the choir concert I was forced to be in. She wasn’t there to cry as her daughter graduated from college to go on to do great things. She wasn’t there to love and support me as I tried to find myself and make something of myself in this giant scary world. She wasn’t there.

My hands unclenched and my fingers felt hot despite the fact it had began to snow. The cool wind tangles my hair again and I stand on the welcome mat, in front of the door, waiting for something to happen. I reach up to the doorbell and rest my hand on the button. I don’t need her love and support. I have made it this far on my own and she doesn’t need another burden in her life to worry about. I click the doorbell with my shaking hand and regret it instantly. I run back to my car, retracing the imprints I had made and slamming the door closed. I sat there, gripping the wheel, resting my head on my sleeve. I breathe in and out at a rapid pace as I watch my breath cloud stick to the window. I look up again to see the door begin to open. A little girl comes out in her footie pajamas and braided hair. She looks like me when I was younger. The brown hair, wide smile and round face. A hand rests on her shoulder and her mother comes out in a robe and slippers, shivering. My mother. She looks around until she makes eye contact with the stranger in the driveway. I keep the stare and wait for her to gasp, that’s my daughter! Oh how I have missed her! I wait. She pushes the little girl inside as she looks at the scary intruder parked in front of her, threatening her. She wraps the robe around herself once more. I press on the gas and back up to drive down the perfectly smooth road, down the perfectly set up neighborhood.

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by Omayma Al Balushi ’20

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by Carly Ferdinand ’20

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“Irrational” Fear

by Reese Richmond ’21

To most of the world, butterflies are beautiful flying insects with large colorful wings. They have six legs, accompanied with three body parts, a pair of antennae, compound eyes and an exoskeleton. To me however, butterflies are the most terrifying things on Earth. With a body covered in tiny sensory hairs and compound eyes that scare the shit out of me, butterflies make me crawl out of my skin. Just the thought of a butterfly coming near me petrifies me to the maximum.

Flashback to first grade. It was the beginning of May, and all the flowers were starting to bloom and the insects were emerging from their winter hideouts.

We began a unit on butterflies, and at the time I was fascinated by them. They range in size from a tiny ⅛ of an inch to a gigantic almost 12 inches, and they taste through receptors on their feet. They cannot fly if their body temperature is below 86 degrees Fahrenheit, and the only continent of Earth where butterflies have not been found is Antarctica. Today, there are about 24,000 known species of butterflies across the world, and scientists are discovering more every day. Like I said, I was infatuated by butterflies, but that was before I had my first encounter with one.

As part of the unit, we went on a field trip to a butterfly farm out in the country part of Greensboro, North Carolina. As we approached our destination, I could not wait. I was about to have my first upclose encounter with a real live butterfly. When we arrived, we were all given sugar pads, as butterflies are attracted to the sweetness of them. Upon stepping into the building with all the butterflies, one approached me and landed on my hand. There was a surge of energy through my body followed by a draining of all that energy. I passed out because of the immense fear I felt the instant the butterfly landed on me. When I awoke, I was surprised to see that I was still inside the dome inclosing all the atrocious insects. I was covered from head to toe in the little devils, so, I passed out again. The next time I awoke, I was pleased to discover that I was now outside and

thankfully not covered in butterflies anymore.

I had no idea why I got so scared. Just minutes before going inside, I thought butterflies were the most intriguing insects ever. Through this experience, I learned otherwise. Everything I thought to be so fascinating about them I now found disgusting and creepy. From this moment on, I would despise butterflies and everything about them, especially the fact that they taste with their feet. I mean, ew. .My next terrifying encounter with these creatures came just three short years ago when my mom, April, thought that I had grown out of my “irrational” fear.

Even after I had assured her that I absolutely had not, she took me and my sisters to another butterfly sanctuary in Alabama. I tried my hardest to get out of it, but April insisted that I would be okay and that I had definitely gotten over my fear. She also implied that I was never actually scared of them, but boy was she wrong. So, with much resistance, I went inside.

At least this time I was not immediately approached by a bunch of butterflies, but after five minutes, a monarch butterfly came and landed on my face. Again, overtaken with fear, I passed out and this time I actually peed myself. According to my family, it was hilarious, but I could not have been more livid at my mom. She deliberately took me into this place thinking I was going to be fine, even after I had specifically told her I was petrified. .Flash forward to today. I am proud to say that I am still terror-stricken when I am in the presence of any butterfly. Most people and scared of spiders but for me it is butterflies. And yes this fear is seen as irrational by many, but to me it’s not. I still don’t know what makes me so afraid of them, but I am. My mom even had the nerve to try to help me get over my fear and hung pictures of butterflies in my room, but that obviously didn’t help. And whenever I take the pictures off my wall, she comes in and hangs them right back up thinking it’s hilarious, but it’s just not.

I will mostly likely forever be afraid of butterflies, and I have accepted that fact.

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Love’s Rescue

An excerpt from “Love’s Rescue: A WWII Novella”

by Linda Shenton Matchett Paris, August 1944 Chapter One Rolande Bisset ducked her head and pulled the brim of her starched cotton sunhat lower over her face, not so much to block the sun’s glare, but to avoid the merchants’ ogling and shoppers’ sneers. She hurried past the darkened shops, most no longer operating since the Germans arrived four years ago. Would she ever smell freshly-baked croissants or peruse a succulent collection of vegetables again?

A scorching breeze sent her hat’s veil dancing. Perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades and threatened to ruin her cobalt-blue silk suit. Her pumps had seen better days, but thanks to leather rationing, a new pair was not in the offing. The Occupiers needed the material for their boots.

Intent upon reaching her destination, Rolande failed to see a rotund woman approaching. They collided, and the woman’s elaborate chapeau slid from her upswept hair and poked Rolande in the face before landing on the pavement.

“I beg your pardon, madam.” Rolande bent to retrieve the confection of flowers, birds, and ribbons.

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Watch where you’re going, collaborateur.” She snatched the millinery masterpiece from Rolande’s grasp and drew her skirts close. Looking down her nose, she plunked the hat on her head and marched down the sidewalk.

Heat suffused Rolande’s face, and it had nothing to do with the day’s temperature. Unbidden tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked them away and stiffened her spine. She couldn’t let anyone see how the women’s words sliced her heart and her conscience.

No longer hungry, she continued down the avenue past Aux Cerises Café where the outdoor tables were filled with German soldiers. One of the men whistled and smirked, his Aryan features marred by a long scar that ran from his eye to his jaw. Her stomach clenched, and nausea threatened.

Pigs. Men were all pigs.

She continued along the avenue until she came to the tiny market her older brother owned. He never acknowledged her presence in the shop, but neither did he forbid her to enter. His wife typically looked at her with a mixture of pity and contempt.

The brass bell jangled above her head as she pushed open the door and stepped inside. Vacant shelves greeted her, and she sighed. Most patrons were smart enough to come first thing in the morning for the best selection, but she had been entertaining.

Little did he realize, Standartenführer Wilhelm Wagner was one of her most reliable sources for information. Tipsy when he arrived; before he left at the end of the evening, he was deep in his cups. With minimal prodding, he’d told her about the anticipated invasion by the Allied troops. Sure, the rumor had been circulating among civilians, but to hear it from a military man made the possibility plausible.

Liberation, at last.

“I set this aside for you.”

Rolande’s head whipped around.

Her sister-in-law, Louise, stood behind her, a brown-paper package in her hands. She looked toward the door then shoved the parcel into Rolande’s arms. “You are later than usual, and I was concerned there’d be no food remaining. There are a few potatoes and carrots in the bin, but nothing else.”

“You’re very kind.” cont. on pg. 11

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by Shemar Joseph ’19 cont. from pg. 10 “It’s nothing. Now, hurry before Henri returns.”

“Je vous remercie. Why are you doing this?”

Louise waved her hand and frowned. “There is no time. He is due any moment. Give me your ration book.”

Rolande handed her the book. Her sister-in-law tore out the required stamps, then pushed the pamphlet back into Rolande’s hand.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. We are famille, no matter how Henri acts.”

For the second time that morning, Rolande’s eyes filled with tears. She was getting soft. That would have to change for her to survive the Occupation. Dipping her head, she tucked the package into her canvas bag then threaded her way through the shop to the front door where she came face-to-face with Henri.

Visage dark, he scowled. “Did anyone see you come here?”

“The whole world, Henri. It is a public street. Would you like me to wear a disguise in the future?

Perhaps sunglasses and a wig.”

“Non. What I would like is for you to find somewhere else to purchase your food.”

Louise gasped. “Henri. She is your sister.”

His lips compressed into a thin line, and he crossed his arms. “She is dead to me.”

Rolande drew back as if he’d slapped her. He’d always been condescending, but to declare her dead…the words cut through her.

“Fine. I will not bother you again.” She pushed past him into the stifling heat. Where would she find food? Two other shops in town had already refused to serve her...

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Where I Am From

by Anya Found ’19

I’m from cascading mountains of greenery, and trails carved from wanderers.

Views that sneak into your dreams, from pine needles to running streams.

Adventure fills my veins.

I am from a small community, and a family of pure dexterity.

A tight knit town, where everyone knows everyone.

Where family connections drives popularity.

Where I am from, temperatures define your limits.

The extreme cold seems unbearable yet, the sweltering heat can be terrible.

I am worn in the skin of flame blazed and icy glazed, made from a summertime of diversity.

I’m from boarding school halls, faculty brat labels, and a home full of textbooks.

Parts of the year, I share my parents with those of my peers.

From stuffing eggs on a Friday night, to late bites with the sisters.

I am led by opportunities only few could imagine.

I am who I am where I am from.

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by Alice Hou ’19

by Mrs. Maria Found

Therapy

by Kendall Proulx ’21

Hiking is my therapy. I hike when my brain is overflowing with worry, pain, and confusion. I love hiking in a forest on the mountain side, just me, my thoughts, the birds singing, the trees swaying, and the squirrels scattering. The start of my hike is uphill and green. There are trees surrounding the brown path. It’s peaceful and an easy hike until I start to go uphill. My breathing starts to get heavy and loud. I come to a rocky path, small rocks and big boulders. I watch my steps as I go through this point. I am underneath a canopy of tall trees. I focus on my breath and my steps through this rocky area. I focus on the trail and signs that show me where to go. As I get closer and closer to the top, the trees gradually get smaller and smaller. The ground gets rockier everywhere forcing me to keep my eyes on my feet. I take my time and examine which rock is the best and safest to walk on. When I start to stumble, I wait a second and take a deep breath. Matching my steps to my breath. Getting more comfortable and finding my rhythm. I see the trail starting to end, opening up to a bigger area. I notice that I am reaching the top. When I get up there I am in awe. In awe from all the beauty I am taking in at once. I see a big, beautiful, blue lake. Surrounding the lake are trees of all sizes and color. It’s early October as I have made this climb and when I look down it is a rainbow of reds, oranges, and yellows as if the forest below me is on fire. When I look up it is so foggy. The clouds are just inches away. This was a difficult hike but it got me to such a beautiful place. Hiking is my therapy. It tells me that when things are difficult, it doesn’t stay that way. There will be an amazing, gorgeous ending, but you need to push through it to get to that point and reach the top.

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by Elise Scott ’21

Bullets

by Sydney Caldwell ’21

How could she? How could she do all of this and then expect me to stand by her? How could she tear my life apart piece by piece after I gave her everything? I was there for her every single day, I loved her and cared for her. Turns out the one that you’d take a bullet for is the one behind the gun.

She pulled the trigger with ease and as the bullet broke open my skin and shattered my bones, she soaked in her happiness. But. As the bullet traveled out of my body, she realized that she never should have taken aim. She never should have been selfish enough to put her own happiness above my right to live. As I recover and grow stronger, she is weak, but will never be innocent. I died for her against my will, but I want to thank her. If it weren’t for her, I may not know my worth. That I am worth more than anything this world can offer me. I will never forgive her, and I wish she would just accept that, because although my wound is healed, there is still a scar in the middle of my chest. Despite that this girl destroyed me, I only wish the best for her. I hope she’s happy, I hope she is, because she killed me in the process. I hope that every time she’s feel joy that she thinks of me, that she knows it is because of me. Because I was the one whose life she took. But. If she is not happy, if she is not satisfied, then the next time she pulls out a gun, I’ll make sure it’s not loaded.

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Linger/Raw

by Olivia Papp ’19

Linger. .The dark clouds loom over, sweeping a haze of grey over the hushed rain. As a moment of ease hangs in the air, the line casts back out into the sea. The moment we return our full attention to unimportance, the line is quickly reeled back in. So much so, it leaves us short of breath, weak in the knees, weak in the heart. .Even more, the building tempest can sense the all too consuming sadness. The tempest can sense the obsession being put off to the side, in the deepest pits of our stomachs, buried away and hidden discreetly until the next storm. This is why it’s so demanding. It doesn’t want us to forget. .The storm we deny, we pretend to hate, secretly gives us satisfaction. When it comes, secret imaginary smirks are etched over our unfazed lips and when it happens, I can’t help but welcome the all too familiar consuming darkness that has become my dearest friend.

And so came the looming clouds.

Raw. Enticing waves stumble over themselves, crashing with wrecking ball force into the charcoal rocks of nearby cliffs. Their menacing grins and wry smirks swallow up the oncoming blue ocean abyss. The ocean, reeking of unease and timid behavior, seems to relish in this visceral storm. Sitting lazily on the chiseled cliffs, I am entrapped in my very own glass protector, customized with imagination. As rain pellets bombard, I dangle my feet over the cliff in awe, completely and utterly taken in with this storm. My prominent fascination with the seething tempest seems to anger it, as discourteous droplets of rain intensify into a cascade. The water’s blurry edge makes it impossible to stare fixedly across the sea through my transparent shield. Tall wispy grass brushes against the glass wall, tracing wet patterns.

The patterns stick clearly, despite the hazy mess of a whirlwind encircling me. In this moment, my essence is defined. Waves of electric current run through my fingertips. I direct my gaze below, where the shear rock cliff descends. The waiting whitecaps below chortle against chunks of rock peeking out. The daunting hurricane conjures and rumbles through the outstretched sky. All my life, the wise adults with whispering implication would utter wise words about time. I didn’t understand their words until now. While the remainder of my life is in question as the stunning tempest writhes against me washing away all doubt and fear, I swear I’ve never felt more content… more resolute… more alive.

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Grand Piano

by Caroline Trepanier ’20

The old Grand piano That stood tall in the sun How your fingers caressed the keys Until the day was done Your voice like magic Floating through the wind Now is a ghost That I can’t seem to pin Looking at that piano As if you had never left Pretending to hear you Instead of the empty sound in my chest Now there lay a fantom Where the piano once was Holding my heart hostage For his stolen love Where is it that I’m here today Coasting through said time Although I have your voice I have not yet found my mine That old Grand piano That no longer sits in the sun How your fingers caressed it Is now over and done

by Katherine Martin ’21

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I Speak My Thoughts

by Katherine Martin ’21, Kaylie Rosen ’21 and Trevor Simboli ’21

The ways in which people find love Is ever still a mystery A brief yet meaningful move Of two hands has changed history I know for certain I will love you When our clock hits seventy Just the same as I always do Right now at twenty-three Illuminated by the light of the stars Our love can truly shine As you place your head against my heart We stand the test of time I speak my thoughts as they come We found love right where we’re from

by Ben Shaw ’19

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The Hue of Tides

by Brianna Brown ’19

The colors fly from the bristles of my brush as I paint this moment into my memory.

When sketching in the ocean’s seafoam and the daunting gleam of the white caps, I recall the three years of hard work that had gone into my accomplishment of finally feeling alive.

Three. Two. One. Go. That’s all the time we had. I pulled in the sail with all my might, making sure that it was perfect. The salt water crashed into my face, the waves rising up around me. My clothes had already been soaked through, but I couldn’t care. The wind was pushing us with all its might, making us soar through the regatta as quickly as it could.

“Bri, we’re rounding the mark.”

Hans knew exactly how to guide the sailboat. Although he is younger than me, I always looked up to him as he was one of the first skippers to teach me how to sail. No matter whether the obstacles coming at us were boats, buoys, or the strong gusts of wind that threatened to throw us into the shivering depths of the Atlantic Ocean, we kept sailing on knowing that we both look out for one another. There are many things which can go wrong when sailing, but still the adrenaline of being in the moment always rushes through my veins as I’m guided by the movement of the boat. It was the first time that I felt alive, confident in the idea that I can take on any trial that life brings my way.

Before sophomore year, sailing had never been something which I had been interested in, much less thinking I would be on Varsity a few years later after trying it out. Painting, acting, and singing had always been right up my alley, especially since I was introverted and not open to many new experiences. Despite living on Lake Winnipesaukee for fifteen years, I had never even been in a sailboat. Since then, I have finally come into myself, ready to go on new adventures and take every opportunity that I’m given.

Every time I go out on the lake, the camera in my head makes a snapshot, being replayed over and over. Throughout the past three years, I went from a scared sophomore into a senior who while still being scared for what awaits in the future, knows that I can accomplish anything I set my mind to.

It is now that I paint myself sailing into an infinite sea. As I finish I wash my brushes, putting away the paint. I stare at the canvas in awe as I place it against the wall. As I walk out the door knowing that today will be the last day I sail in my senior year, I’m ready to take on all the obstacles the wind may bring.

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by Brianna Brown ’19

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by Madelaine O’Blenis ’22

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Trust Issues

by Jill Pollini ’21

She is perfection.

Tall with shiny black heels on her feet, slim legs seemingly a mile long, her smile is bright enough to blind someone, it’s considered a national treasure. With flowing blonde hair in stunning curly q’s and icy blue eyes. If you met her you would understand. She is sunshine on a cloudy day. She is the sunset reflecting off of the ocean water. She is the person that you want to be. Her laugh is bubbly and her eyes are wide with wonder. She is the sun, the moon, and the lightning after thunder. The most loyal person of all, day and night she will be there, coming at your beck and call. This is a girl that knows how to play to her strengths. She is only shown in the best of light. She is blue and red and all of the colors of the rainbow in one package. She is an athlete, an artist, an adventurer. She is the girl that will take a bullet for you. She is spontaneous and hopeful and proud of herself. She looks like a model no matter what she wears and she doesn’t particularly care. She is a picture that says thousands of words. She holds the secrets of the universe in her smile and the galaxy in her eyes. Her mind is open to new possibilities, and it is full of creativity. She’s a ‘glass half full’ optimistic daydreamer who sometimes has her head in the clouds, but she will never back down. Her passion for life is contagious. Her determination to succeed is far beyond her determination to survive. With sparkling eyes, she is one big surprise.

She is destruction.

Lanky with clunky black heels on her feet, skinny legs seemingly a mile long, her smile is the result of whitening strips but it’s still bright enough to blind someone. With long bleachdamaged hair in frizzy curly q’s and vacant blue eyes. If you met her you would understand.

She is fire to a forest. She is the flames burning the grass. She is the person you don’t want to be. Her laugh is empty and her eyes are wide to try and keep her awake, alive. She is the scorching sun, the violent pull of the moon and the lightning strike after thunder. The most agreeable person of all, day and night she will be there for you to walk all over, coming at your beck and call. This is a girl that knows how to conceal her weaknesses. She is only shown in the light she wants to be seen in. She is blue on blue on blue with sparks of color trying to ignite her spirit. She is the girl that would take a bullet for anyone. She looks like a twig shaking in the breeze no matter what she wears and she cares too much. She is a picture that says no words at all. She is a blank canvas. She holds the secrets of the universe in her tears and a galaxy in her scars. Her mind is closed off to the world, hyperfocused on what could go wrong. She’s a ‘glass half empty’ pessimistic nightmare who can’t shake the clouds in her mind, she’s breaking down. Her fascination with death in concerning. Her determination to survive is far beyond her determination to thrive.

As I said, she is perfection.

But she is my anxiety, and she lives off of deception.

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(right) by Mrs. Maria Found (top left and bottom) by Abbigale DiVirgilio ’19

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(top) by Ms. Raylene Davis, (bottom left) by Omayma Al Balushi ’20, (bottom right) by Ben Shaw ’19

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23

Dear White America,

by Ella Quinlan ’20

Dear White America, .1776. We the people is scribbled across a white blank page made out of the honey colored trees of the Natives homes.

Only freeing the men holding the pens from political chains when 3/5ths of the population was still in chains.

America you are home of the free white man.

Your flag stitched with white privilege obviously because 400 hundred years, in a field, isn’t long enough of a resume to earn basic human rights.

But the Emancipation Proclamation freed the slaves you say, but the 13th Amendment tied Lincoln’s tongue: “Section 1. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall be duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their justification.”

Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude except as a punishment for crime.

So you’re telling me that 60% of all incarcerated people have been put back into the chains that their ancestors before them escaped from.

Stacked on top of each other with little food, Disease, and growing numbers like the swaying ships that brought their ancestors over here.

Serving longer sentences for the same defenses a black man will spend more time in jail for smaller crimes.

This is what you call justice.

Black on black crime and both parties serve their time, this is what you call justice.

A white cop shoots a black boy and you end up with a dead boy and a paid suspension, this is what you call justice.

“We protect and serve”, you say.

But I don’t see protection when you’re pointing a gun, at my sister’s boyfriend simply asking for directions.

It seems that you’re protecting yourself from your own ignorance.

It seems that you’re more scared of the word racist, Than you are of racism. cont. on pg. 25

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by Shemar Joseph ’19 cont. from pg. 24 Still the Confederate flag waves down the roots of this country that was built off the backs of slaves.

Which is still the only part of African history interesting enough to teach, That’s why American history is a required, And african history is an elective.

Because the only part worth mentioning is the part that resulted in the death of large amounts of white men.

Why don’t you see that you were the first immigrants in this country?

How can we even discover something that was never missing?

You are worried about blacks destroying communities, When you destroyed nations, After you decided that not learning English was a sin, When you never even bothered to learn the natives tongue.

A whole culture wiped outTraditions, languages, and people Burned down So you could rebuild your own cotton field of ignorance.

Over time, That cotton made t shirts that were worn on our backs for generations, And eventually, The orange jumpsuits that strip Americans, Of american liberties.

Dear White America, You should’ve kept the first draft of the Declaration of Independence.

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25

Viewer Discretion Advised Editor’s Note: As a part of their study of causes for social justice, Brewster’s Advanced Placement Language and Composition classes, taught by Ms. Sarah Hunt and Ms. Kara McDuffee, were assigned to create pieces of writing and art exploring the effects of mental illness. These pieces project the struggles that many face, and the reality of the world around us. Examples of their work can be found beginning on this page, and continuing until pg. 29. Please be advised that while these are creative and fictional pieces, many of them explore disturbing subject matter. View at your own level of comfort.

Cyber bullying

by Aidan Rolfe ’20

The click of the button, the screen lighting up my face.

Scrolling and scrolling, when all of a sudden, people say I, am a disgrace.

My day was good, my day was great, I had nothing to complain about.

Now, being made fun of because of my weight, My “friends” have factored me out.

The dark thought creeps through my mind and blocks out the light.

I can’t seem to fight it even if it takes all my might.

The happiness from the day has drained from my face, The darkness has beat out the happiness and won the internal race Who knows how long the joy will be gone?

My phone and social media use me as a pawn.

My mind now vacant of happy thoughts, as who I am deserted, of who I was.

Why does the darkness have to take over?

Your icy finger wrap around my neck and strangle out all of who I used to be It says social media is free, but joy and happiness is the fee

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by Leanne Durham ’20

Brain on Fire

by Asal Al Mohamed ’19

I was lying on my bed, trying to close my eyes when my body started trembling.

Rings of sweat formed across my tight chest and trickled down my shivering spine.

The air around me was thick and bitingly cold, but my body was unexpectedly warm. It was in that moment that I realized that my body was on fire. I felt the burning flames licking my toes and travelling up my legs in a rapid rush of smoldering heat and I screamed. I screamed and thrashed around, my body wheezing and hissing as my blood boiled underneath my charred skin and my organs smelted into my bones. I screamed and heaved blood on the damp sheets, begging for the flames to disappear.

The door swung open and my mom rushed into the room, scooping me up in her arms and holding me tight against her. I tried to push her away, afraid that the flames would burn her navy blue nightgown to smithereens, but she held me closer, cradling me in her arms and telling me that it’s all going to be alright. I didn’t understand. She was so calm and serene as if she couldn’t see her own child blazing. I was sweltering, my bones melting over her body but she couldn’t see. She couldn’t see me dying in her arms.

To her it was all just in my head.

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27

Nothing Matters, a poem about depression

by Emily Adelson ’19

Walk with my head down Feel sad and worn out Lie with tears clouding my eyes In the dark with no light Hopeless and miserable Irritable and angry Moving through the day a blur Nothing matters to me People tell me to get over it Wipe away sorrow and tears Stop crying recklessly The problem is me.

It’s my attitude I’m told Just wait and see One day you’ll be happy Snap out of it please But it’s not so easy Overwhelmed and in pain Feelings uncontrolled and deep Inside me and impossible to shake Feeling so alone They don’t understand Drowning in my sorrow Nobody cares Dear depression, ENOUGH Can’t you get out of my head?

by Selena Phinney ’22

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My Sister’s Name is Bipolar

by Ella Quinlan ’20

My Bipolar is the twin sister I never talk about.

We’re practically identical, The same blue eyes Oval face, and shaky voice.

The only thing that separates us Is a glass reflector And a reflected mindset, We’re virtually nothing alike.

Growing up, I barely noticed her We played our own separate games With different pieces And our own separate strategies On the same wooden chess board Causing chaos And leaving no open spaces When our grandmother taught us antonyms, Bipolar learned her favorite game: The opposite game.

She’d say danger I’d say safety She’d scream anguish And I’d whisper content.

Bouncing back and forth, We spat antonyms at each other Seeing who would think twice first.

Faster and faster as our vocabularies increased She never got tired of playing.

Her tongue is made of steel, Shrill and harsh She is cold With no mercy She knows just where to twist the knife So you can feel the warmth Drift from your fingertips.

On rare occasions she has taken controlAnger, darkness, Broken noses and battered knuckles I’m sorry sometimes it’s just self defense.

I’m sorry it wasn’t meIt was her.

cont. on pg. 30

She’s the one who has memorized Every blanket stitch That sits on our bed And the cracks in the walls That start from the ceilings She’s the one with the moon’s lullaby Stuck in her head For days on end.

It’s not meIt’s her.

She’s the one with no control With her battered knuckles clenched Holding on to absolutely nothing.

Simply because she can’t.

To her, nothing is permanent.

So we both write everything down Recording out antonyms In black ink So they can never be erased.

Slowly we’re learning how to organize our chess pieces I think she’s growing tired of the opposite game Her medication must’ve dulled her brain And enhanced a deadly side effect.

Today we’re learning new games More challenging ones, I expected that with maturity.

Her sophistication grows with my own, Forever tangled between minds.

For now, all I can do Is endure the backlash of her actions And record them in black ink.

In hopes that maybe one day She’ll forget how to think.

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29

Eyes Closed

by William McElroy ’21

. inston had no idea where he was. He marveled at the trees and buzzing of bees around him.

W Eyes wide open like a kid in a candy store, he took in his surroundings. Nature was the only noise, for once instead of bombs banging it was silence. Winston walked deeper into the woods down a dirt path, braided with roots. Hopping and jumping, with no direction or objective he finally was free from the eyes.

Eventually, he settled down and found and a fallen tree to sit on. He sat and took a few deep breaths in, feeling the sun beam onto his face through the roof of leaves above him. He took out his notebook and pen and stared at the front cover. “Victory Notebooks,” it said in big letters. His thin lined paper with blue lines that were supposed to separate, but were faint almost like they were trying to disappear. He grounded himself, back to bringing in nature. Usually, he has the struggle to write but now knowing he was alone, truly alone, the words flowed like the creek beside him. He had been so used to the eyes tracking him he had pure jubilation. He saw a bomber plane fly over, probably heading towards Airstrip one. He thought back to what he hated most, Big Brother. The over controlling, demeaning leader of his past. He wrote words that would get him publicly hanged if written anywhere else.

Freedom is power, Ignorance is blinding, Peace is happiness. Wow! Winston looked around to see if someone would pop out of a bush and take him away but still nothing. Once he realized he was truly alone he laid back and closed his eyes, and cried. He cried and cried, tears of joy. He didn’t think a day would come back where he’d close his eyes and know that no one was watching. “Why’re you crying?” he heard coming from a soft voice behind him. Initially, he thought he’d have been riddled with bullets the second he turned around but instead it was a pleasant surprise. “Julia!” Winston exclaimed. “I’m sorry Julia, I didn’t mean it” “Didn’t mean what Winston?” Julia Questioned “The writing” Winston nervously admitted “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I came here for you,” Julia said as edged closer to Winston. Quickly Winston got a warm feeling in his chest and he too got closer till she was in his arms.

“I left Winston, I left the ministry,” said Julia As Winston was just about to respond Julia cut him off with a kiss. He kissed back. He’d never felt such a connection with someone and it had made the day for him. “Today is officially the best day ever,” he thought.

Winston had just got back from his run, wiping the mud from the rainy weather off his shoes. He showered and got dressed, cleaning up his room before Big Brother inspections. After playing a few cards he heard the chariots roll up front upon his doorstep and give his door three loud knocks. They came in aggressively and already started ripping his bookshelf up looking for any hate speech. “Shit!” Winston thought. He looked over at his nightstand and saw he left a pencil out on his desk. The guards immediately noticed as well and from behind him one of them gave him a hard slug right in the gut. Winston doubled over and gasped for air. He looked up as the guard first looked at his desk more in-depth before he eventually snapped it in half and dropped it on Winston’s head. If they were aggressive when they came in then they were livid now. They ran about his house terrorizing it as they pleased while Winston lay there, waiting for it to be over, holding his stomach. His eyes focused in on the pencil, the two halves laying right next to his head. A tear fell from his eye as he knew that was his last pencil. It could be a month or two cont. on pg. 31

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by Katherine Martin ’21 cont. from pg. 30 before someone could smuggle another one in past the Ministry. He heard the guards yell out “all clear” and then the slam of his front door. He finally got up and watched as the horses galloped away. He went into the other rooms to tidy up the mess. He then went to the windows and closed all his blinds, and drew the shades. He gave another look out the window before going to his floorboards.

He pried one of the nails loose and uncovered a stash of books. Some were fiction, some nonfiction, and some were self-written. The Odyssey, he had read it many times and loved the story. David and Goliath reminded him of his own life. He read the story and in his head started dreaming. He imagined a story where the Ministry showed up at his doorstep, and he didn’t have to answer, and if they knocked again, he could come out with his sawed-off shotgun and tell them to ‘stick em up’! He wished he could write. He wished he could write down his pains and show them and beg them for sympathy. Instead, he brought himself back to reality, the reality he lived off his mind being run by paranoia and terror.

He knew that if David hadn’t done anything, he’d get crushed, and he saw a similar future coming for himself if the change didn’t happen.

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The Boston Marathon

by Lara Given ’21

Flashback five years ago at the Boston Marathon — from the second the first bomb went off, I knew that I was in danger. I remember everything about it vividly almost as if it was yesterday. It was later in the afternoon, and we were coming back from a Red Sox game like we had done in all the years before.

My family and I had just walked into the food court.

My sister wanted to get food, so we were going to get her something and then head back to the car that was parked in the parking lot. It was a beautiful day that was soon to turn quite violent.

All of a sudden the roar of the first bomb went off.

At that point, no one knew what was going on. I saw people run outside to the patio to see the street below.

It looked as if they were standing there in horror seeing what was going on. The smoke that was rising in the air was visible to the people that were closer to the window.

The second bomb went off, and all hell broke loose. I saw the windows shatter into a million pieces as the nails tore through the windows and into the building. The next thing I heard were screams.

My mom grabbed my wrist and pulled me to the exit. There was a stampede of people that were rushing to get out. No one had time to grab their things, but they all just went running off. I was trying to keep up with my family, making sure not to get lost. The woman in front of me had a purse on her shoulder, but it got caught on the door handle of the emergency exit. She looked back, and I could see a pure panic as everyone was rushing to get out. I felt a feeling of panic surge through me as I was trying to keep up with my family. We got onto the stairs and started to sprint down them trying not to get knocked over by the people behind us. We got to the bottom of the first staircase that led to a door with more stairs that we had to get down.

At this point, people have started to slow down a bit. We were still running down the stairs that were leading to the outside. My mom was still holding my wrist as we were going down the stairs. We got to the bottom of the second staircase that led to another door. Through this door was a little passageway that led to the garage outside. We were some of the people that were closest to the exit, so we got out the quickest.

Everybody was in a panic. People are pulling out their phones, texting their loved ones to tell them what

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had happened. We still didn’t know. I saw someone jump over a railing that was on a small ramp platform leading into the building. There were about 20-30 people around us, all just trying to get out.

My family and I were still walking. We were outside. As soon as I got outdoors, I could feel the warm sun on my face. I heard people talking. “I heard gunshots.” “What is going on?” “I thought it was a bomb!” My dad said that he thought at first it was a truck that was under the building that caused it to vibrate the whole structure. We still had no idea what was going on. There was confusion everywhere, people running out onto the street from all directions.

We continued to walk down the road towards the building where my dad worked. We went inside the building and to his office. We were there for about four hours. I heard people talking in the hallway, and they were saying that the police thought it was a terrorist attack on Boston. They were saying that there was a bomb that went off. At the time I did not know what that meant. After we left the office, we went to the parking garage to get the car but could not get inside.

We decided to take the train and have someone pick us up there. We ended up getting home close to 10 that night.

by Ben Shaw ’19

by Gus Schoenbucher ’21

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Snapshot

by Sydney Bertinetti ’19

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven.” The muffled breaths of small 6 year olds, weaving in and out of the stone lumps, which protected us from the outside. “Eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.” We huffed as we weaved back to where we began. Following the long day of sitting and twiddling thumbs and fingering hair, we gathered in groups outside on the end of Cantercresent Circle and hobbled in between the barriers and the outside world for hours.

Watching the golden hour set upon us, we would pay no attention to the fast setting fire in the sky that cast an orange hue over all of our faces. Bouncing from the tops of these eleven stone masterpieces, we would balance on our tiny twig legs hoping to not go crashing down to the cement that held our mountainous thrones in place. If prancing between these massive hurdles became too tedious, it was the casual stroll we would take on our scooters that would calm the nerves of our anxious young minds.

Roaming between these permanent limits, we dared to break the rules of our mothers and fathers of wandering far from the house and close to the farm fields that stretched for miles beyond our humble homes.

But these blockades, we knew, would never stop us from adventuring into the unknown that lay beyond our fingertips. But for now, they stood strong against our young willpower and kept us in line as we rode our scooters in between the walls that contained us from the outside. And alas, once our mothers had once told us, “once the street lights come on, come home.” But it was every night at the same time that those fake candles in the air would illuminated themselves to our eyes, that we would pump our little legs against the cold gravel of the street to race to our houses. It was then we begged our mothers till

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supper was on the table that they would then release us to the wild, knowing we would not wander past our limits.

But when the hobbling became too much, the weaving too harmonious, it was the circle that defined our very street that kept us entertained. Defining the laws of gravity and racing each other so fast, we elevated to new heights while racing in circles.

But when the circles became too square, it was the sitting and finally noticing the flaming ball of fire in the air that made us realize who we were and why we were there. Talking about how “Ms. Ricardo isn’t married because she is so mean,” made us understand how naive we truly were and oblivious to the world we stood in.

But then it was other nights that ended with, “the new orders arrived yesterday and we leave in June...” that sucked the air out of our lungs and set us back into reality, forcing us to realize that it wasn’t the eleven stone masterpieces keeping us contained, but the order set inside us and our duty to the world that we knew we would be paying forward.

by Chris Dalton ’19

by Aimee Jin ’22

Summer

by Madigan Mansour ’21 and Caroline Churchill ’21

My love for you is like a warm summer’s day Your palms heat my hands like the sun Sunny skies, warm rays, days never grey This is what it is like to be your one.

As I walk farther and farther into the ocean It only reminds me of the parts we haven’t explored And I cannot seem to hide my emotion Because this mystery never leaves me bored.

I dread the day summer ends When the warmth and comfort disappears I’ll have a broken heart that needs to mend The joy in my eyes has left replaced with tears You’ll no longer be my love You’ll have found a jacket to mend your coldness.

You may have found someone new, but my love for you will never die My love for you is like a warm summer’s day.

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Supermarket

by Lily Fanton ’22

A small step, the linoleum floor reflects like a mirror that saw the light of day for the first time in twenty years. The feeling of eyes sitting quietly on your shoulder, they’re heavy; heavy enough to weigh you down, and they do. The radio plays softly as a phone rings across the store, but all you feel is silence. It’s a cold feeling like the freezer section one aisle down. You’re dragged down the aisles, up one, down the other, up, down, up, down.

The silence creeps inside of you. It takes you from the world you call your own and pushes you into reality. You try to shove it out; you force your headphones into your ears. You attempt to drown it out, rather than let it drown you, but it always finds a way back in.

“What are you doing? Why are you allowed back into a place you’ve disassociated with your idea of home?”

You stand in the aisle alone, surrounded by people that mean nothing to you.

“Why are you here? What has led you to believe this was a good place for you to be, for you to stand at this moment, right then, right there?”

There is no answer. You don’t understand why you were there. Why, of all the places you could spend your time, this was the place. But for the moment you decide it’s better to distract yourself than to think of one of the millions of answers to this question.

You pick up a jar of peanut butter and bring it back to the cart. This, this you’ll bring to the place that feels like home when you leave from the place that’s only labeled it.

by Tsehay Murch ’21

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by Marlene Schick ’19

A Mess

by Zylpha Largay ’22

I am a mess, an always dreamed of mess A blessed beautiful mess That I can always access. A mess in a stunning dress. Running from the past, I asked for this downcast. In this glass world of mine. This isn’t the deadline for my success I still stress about my life every day I’m still driving to thrive Alive and on a wild roller coaster Boaster no lie, for sure You’re incomprehensible, can’t be read Head on your chest Stressed as to what is on that mind of yours As if I am blind Unwind in this chaotic world of mine Love, be with me tonight Despite what the future will hold for us There’s no need to discuss Don’t fuss, this is us and we have tonight.

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37

The Collision

by Jade Knowles ’21

I was sitting in Math class watching the clock. I could hear my teacher yelling my name, “Abigail, Abigail!”, to answer a problem, but there were thirty seconds left of class. Who did he think I was? The school bell rang and I put on my backpack and dashed out of class like a rabbit being chased by a fox. I walked out of the school doors with my best friend, Vanessa. We sat on the bench waiting for my mom to come and pick us up. It was a good day, it was 75 degrees with a nice breeze with no clouds. I thought about going to the beach later.

All of a sudden both my phone and Vanessa’s phone started ringing like crazy. My eyes grew wide because this was usually how the government alerts us when scary things are happening. Vanessa picked up her phone and started shaking.

“Abigail pick up your phone right now and call your mom. Tell her she needs to step on it.”

“Why what’s happening?”

“NASA has predicted that an asteroid and meteoroid are going to collide in close proximity to Earth in about ten minutes. The impact may result in massive fragments landing on Earth. We need to get in your basement now!”

I felt my heart rapidly picking up speed. I fumbled to pick up my phone and my mind went blank when I tried to call my mother. Vanessa yanked my phone out of my hand and did it for me.

I could tell she was getting frantic because she started wiggling her toes aggressively in her brown sandals. Before the phone started to ring I saw my mom’s black Kia jeep speeding into the school parking lot. Vanessa and I grabbed our things and ran to the car for what felt like an eternity. As soon as we got in my mom said, “Are you girls ok? We have about seven minutes to get to the house before the collision. Put on your seatbelts, it is going to be a bumpy ride.”

I couldn’t even say anything. Both me and Vanessa were silent making the car feel eerie and uninviting. Luckily we lived about five minutes away from the school, driving. I looked out the window and the sky seemed to be turning red as if it was the end of the world, or God was coming to redeem all his people. I slouched down in my seat and closed my eyes. I didn’t open them until we arrived in the driveway. Thank God my Dad’s car was already there meaning he’s been in there prepping.

“Abi and Vanessa run in and go straight to the basement. Your dad has already stocked up everything down there. You have two minutes and the collision is going to start. Leave your phones upstair, no question. GO!” Nessa and I ran inside taking no time to hesitate. Mom was following closely behind us. We met dad down there and we all ran into his arms. It was the safest I’d felt in the past 20 minutes. I looked to the corner of the room. There stood a bunch of canned goods blankets and pillows. Dad saw me looking over and said, “Even though the collision doesn’t take long, we might have to stay down here for a longer time to make sure outside is safe enough.”

Just as he finished his sentence there was a deafening sound. The collision had already happened and “the fragments” as Vanessa had described them were plummeting to earth. The sound cont. on pg. 39

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by Grace Factor ’20 cont. from pg. 38

came from the huge apple tree on the side of our house. I started crying out of fear. My dad grabbed my arm and pulled me under the pool table where Vanessa and my mom were already sitting. The collisions lasted for another 5 minutes, but we waited for another 10 minutes because Dad said the only way we’re going outside is if the government alerts him. When the alert finally came through Dad was the first one to go out. The house had no damage except for broken things on the floor. I ran outside to see the apple tree.

When I opened the door there was a a plethora of smoky smelling black substances all over our lawn and the neighborhood. There was a thick smog hanging over our heads. Parts of our lawn were going, replaced by holes. I heard a strange sound coming from the one to my immediate right.

“DAAAAD!” I screamed.

“What’s wrong baby girl?” he said frantically as he ran outside beside me.

“I hear noises coming from this one.” I pointed to the one that had caught my attention.

My dad walked over to the substance slowly, but confidently. I could tell he heard it too. By this time Vanessa and my mom were outside also. My dad kicked the black substance with his foot and a hatch door opened. His eyes grew wide with astonishment.

“All of you come to look at this so I know I’m not going crazy!”

There laying in the middle of the black substance was a green baby with bright pink eyes. It had horns on the top of its head and semi-furry legs.

This was the day the world found out there was life outside of Earth. My dad called a connection at NASA, and they picked up the “thing”. The collision happened two months ago and ever since the world has been in a craze. Scientists, astronomists, and astronauts have been working together to figure it all out, and I, Abigail Menneci, have a strong feeling that we’ll be living with the aliens, sooner than we think.

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39

The Greek Theatre

by Peter Huo ’21

The frustration of the miserable future in life has caused you too much depression and loneliness. Every day seems to be the same as usual, school and sports. If we are lucky, maybe pizza at ten thirty after lights out in the dorm. Trying to sleep was not helping at all, after hours of dreaming you realized you have been more awake than ever during the darkness. There is a painful misunderstanding in your mind and you have no clue why it occurs. And then, walking away from the academic building, the slow observation of the outdoor Greek theater located in the woods, the pointless place where nobody prefers to go to socialize because there it is only cold without heating. It feels like the strong outcast grey wall is going to stay there till the world ends, just like the stressful time when no one cares.

On that day, the powerful desire of smoking negatively influenced the perspective of yourself. Maybe, it usually feels good, but never the struggle of quitting. Put another coat on instead of getting cold, then jog to the Greek theater independently. The clicking sound coming from the pebble road might make everyone notice you, don’t look back to check who is behind those woods. Bravely, you continue walking straight ahead until reaching the location of the theater. That tall wall blocks the wind away, and everything seems greyer than ever. The surrounding uneventful smells of the old rocks feel more peaceful than ever. Good enough, nobody will visit here on this dark, windy Saturday dusk.

Continuing on, lighting up this small flame could be the only wish in this place, the only light in this place surrounded by the woods. The feeling of being powerless and hopeless, within that second the smoking session of the day begins. The cracking sound in the forest makes you nervous and unknown objects behind those walls could be peeping at the smokers. The subconscious keeps saying an unsafe situation might appear at any second, even though this would be the best place for smoking. The next one follows to another one; the unstoppable addiction is unbeatable when once preferred to be like that way because the well-prepared activity is untraceable. The time is running out, enough for today of this sad story; you don’t mind. Quickly rejoin the group of students on the pathway to wherever they are going. You made it out safe, nothing is going to happen to you.

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(top) by Elana Selman ’19, (bottom) by Ms. Barb Thomas

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41

Where I Am From

by Asal Al Mohamed ’19

I am from paper clips, From titanium and steel wire.

I am from the water deep in the well, (Dark, glistening, it fed through our pipes) I am from summertime jasmines, whose stems were carefully woven into my nightshirts by my mother.

I’m from albums and eyeglasses, from Ahmed and Sabriya, I’m from hard work and travel in the summer, From “drink soup to warm up your chest” and “sleep or the monsters will get you at night” I’m from the mercy of Allah, the religion of peace and forgiveness.

I’m from Suhar and Al Hijra, Diced mangoes and pumpkin purée From the pain my mother felt during childbirth, from the stories my father used to tell during lunch.

On a bookshelf in a small room in my house, is a stack of photo albums.

From there I was born, and to this day I still belong.

by Olivia Van Orden ’19

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by Jade Hall ’22

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43

by Trinity Towns ’19

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From there I was born, and to this day I still belong.