OUTCROPPINGS
Volume 46 • 2025
Brewster Academy
Wolfeboro, New Hampshire
From the Editors:
OUTCROPPINGS
Editor in Chief: Logan Cliche ’25
Art Editor: Hannah Ruegg ’26
Faculty Advisor: Jennifer Metcalfe Dumont
Cover Design by Hannah Ruegg ’26
We, the staff of Outcroppings, are proud to present our 46th edition of the magazine. This magazine, for us, lives at the very heart of the Brewster community. It forms the backbone of our artistic community and is a labor of love for all of us on staff. We have received so many wonderful submissions, both from the aspiring artists and young writers of the community, and we wish we had as many pages as we do submissions, so that we may share yet more of our students’ work with the world.
We know this magazine may look a little different from how it has in your time here at Brewster. This new form factor was inspired by our past editions, some of which have taken a similar shape, alongside the shape of a vinyl record. Our editors noticed a theme of sound permeating throughout this work, as it is often sound that drives both the artist and the writer. While art is often the encapsulation of sound in visual form, writing is the voice made manifest in marking; both are linked together by the powerful nature of the sound wave. To highlight this theme, the cover depicts an image of a sound wave, which represents a capture of our voices saying the word “Outcroppings”.
We would like to encourage you to go carefully in your reading of the magazine. Each piece was selected with intention, and each layout has been heavily scrutinized in its design. We encourage you to look at this piece with the same level of scrutiny, to understand the why as well as the what, and to reflect on the binding nature of sound, bringing the piece together as one living human wave.
Winni Sunset by Audrina Crowell ’28
Al Harith Al Shukaili
Hannah Ruegg ’26 and Fireborn by Anna Simon ’25 .......................................... 16
Relit by Jake Marcum ’26 and Individual Halos by Gabi Reynolds ’27 ........................ 17 Comin’ in Hot by Logan Cliche ’25 ............................... 18 Hana (artwork), and Stereotypes About Germans, Debunked by a Fellow German by Anna Simon ’25 .. 19 Lucky by Grace Watson ’26, Cabin by Maya George ’27, and Red and Green by Hope Macaione ’26 .................. 20
Mitío de Arcilla by Beck Rosenbaum
Red Ropes
by Charli Madill ’27
Anxiety is a long hug that’s unwanted. It’s the type of hug that squeezes you so hard you can’t breathe. It’s a type of love I could live my life without. I don’t need it, yet I have it. Why? I ask myself that a lot. Why did it have to stay with me? Why does it never leave me alone? Why is it always there? It’s like a stalker, always watching. It never leaves. It’s a drug that has side effects: throwing up, crying, hyperventilating, not being able to sleep, trouble focusing, and so much more. It’s uncontrollable, it’s unpredictable. It’s mean and unwanting. It will stay though, it never goes away. It comes in waves of how bad it’s going to be. Sometimes, it’s only a little bit of shaking, and other times, it’s throwing up and not being able to breathe. It’s something I stand face-to-face with it. It’s scary. It’s red with ropes, it’s bigger than you, and it consumes you.
The Other Side by Anna Simon ’25
Heart-Bound by Hiro Onoguchi ’26
Out for a Stroll by Fernanda Luna Reyes ’25
Walking
by Robert Hubner ’25
1, 2, 3, 4, one right after the other to who knows where. Fighting senseless we all lost our purpose months ago. 5,6,7,8 years of hell on earth. 9,10,11,12 good men lost to war. Over and over again until we forget who we are all of us are washed away and only the soldier remains.13,14,15,16 hours nonstop. Again and again, it is what we were made to do one foot after another arms swaying back and forth a pendulum in perfect balance, not to be stopped by anything nature can hurl its way. 17,18,19,20 long years and for what? Our most important gift is also our perfect weapon, to strip every ounce of humanity for all a life is worth till they are not but a machine of blood and bones. Everyone will hold out just as everyone will eventually forget the past. When you strip a man of all his internals and put him back together as you please can you even call him the same man anymore? 21,22,23,24 million more if that is what it takes. For in our marching, we are all the same no different from one another, what once established family is now breaking them apart washing them away with rain, blood, and mud till it is forgotten. 25,26,27,28 more days till we reach our destination. 29,30,31,32 more men till the gates are broken. 33,34,35,36 years of fighting to a close. 37,38,39,40 till I am nothing no more. 41,42,43,...
Sunrise Collage by Sofia Henley ’26
Trees
“Like the trees there will be seasons in our life: some warm, some cold, some beautiful, some gold. Work through the hard and grow as we go”
by Aly Eastland ’25
Dark Beauty by Ms. Barb Thomas
Never Been
by Beck Rosenbaum
I have never been more free than covered in mud tracing cattails towards the milkweed the comfort of holding a rock in my hand as water flows over my feet. I have never been more strong than the wind in my hair stones beneath my soles running after the braided marshgrass hitting knotweed with a fallen branch. I have never been more kind than hidden in a cargo jacket just below the mermaid level sun-warmed dirt six feet away waiting to one to get home safe
’26
(top) Embrace by Hope Macaione ’26 (bottom) Reflection by Al Harith Al Shukaili’26
The Call
by Sharlene Francis ’28
Ringing
“Hello Macie”
“Haha, very funny, Jason. I don’t know how you keep getting new numbers, but you will not prank me this time.”
“I am not Jason. I am Michel, and I’m calling to tell you to be careful.”
“WHAT??? Michel Smith??”
“Yes..”
Footsteps
“I have to go. They are coming.”
“Michel wha-”
Call ends
That was the weirdest conversation ever. I thought Michel Smith was reported as dead three years ago. How and why would he be calling me? Especially at 2 am. What did he mean, watch out? I am so confused. How did he know it was even me? I didn’t even know him. He went missing two months into freshman year. I have so many questions. I think I will go to sleep; it is late anyway.
As I woke up, I remembered the strange call. Then I looked at my alarm clock; it was 12:42 pm. I slept through school; I must have snoozed one too many times. I needed to leave because if my mom found out I was late to school, she would kill me. I quickly rushed out of my house and started the walk to school.
I was walking for about 5 minutes before I realized something felt off. I did not know what it was. All I could think about was that call. What did Michel mean by “be careful”? Was he trying to tell me something important? I kept thinking about the call as I walked. I was about to be at school until I felt a hand covering my mouth, and everything went black.
When I woke up, I could not recognize where I was. It was an all-black room, and I was in the middle of it. I did not realize it at first, but I was tied to a chair with tape over my mouth. Then it hit me: I got a random call from Michel Smith, a kid who had been missing for three years. Telling me to be careful; this is what I was supposed to be cautious about when someone kidnapped me.
I was in a room with nothing but a chair; there were no windows, but there was a door. So I flipped the chair on its side and scooched my way to the door to see if it opened, but of course, it wouldn’t be that easy; it locked from the outside.
A few minutes later, I heard footsteps coming towards me. I quickly scooched my way back to the middle of the room. A tall man dressed in all black made his way over to me. As soon as he saw me, he yelled, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING ON THE FLOOR?” I tried to say something,
cont. on pg. 13
Water Fowl by Jake Marcum ’26
from pg. 12
but the tape didn’t allow me to talk. So he came over and ripped the tape off my mouth. I said, “When I woke up, I got terrified, so scared that I lost my balance and fell over.” I don’t know how, but he believed me and put the tape back on my mouth. Then he gave me something that looked like it was supposed to be edible and said it was my lunch. Then he left.
As soon as he left, I thought of a plan to leave this place because I did not want to stay here for much longer if they would feed me what looked like grits and corn. I then realized that if I could reach the top of my head, I could get my hairpin and cut the rope holding me to the chair. Since the man did not even bother to pick up my chair, it wouldn’t be that hard, or that’s what I thought. I tried to bend my head to my hands and grab it, but it was useless. Then I tried to shake my head, hoping it would fall out, but still no luck. Then I realized I could just put my feet to my head and use my toes to pull it out. All those years of sitting in my bed and trying to become a contortionist pays off.
I grabbed my hairpin and tossed it into my hands. I began to cut the rope, tying me to the chair. It felt like it took an hour to cut out, but I finally did. I stood up so fast I got a little dizzy. I went over to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. So I tried to pick the lock. I had seen it done so many times in movies, but it was not as easy as it looked. But I eventually got it.
Then I started to run. I ran and ran down a straight, dark hallway. Then I turned left and spotted a light. It was a window. I quickly opened the window and jumped out. Then I called the police.
Fifteen minutes later, I heard sirens. The next thing you know, the tall man in all black is being arrested. Then I saw him. Michel Smith. The guy everyone thought was dead since freshmen year. I felt like a hero.
He stopped right in front of me and just stood there for like a minute or two. I did not know what to say or do in the situation. So I said, “Hey, I guess you weren’t dead after all.” Then he finally opened his mouth and said, “Macie, you just made the biggest mistake of your life. You will regret this. They will come after you.” Then he turned around and walked into the shadows.
Golden Hour by Katherine Twombley ’26
(top) Floral Portrait by Marharyta Morozova ’26
(bottom) The Source by Charlie O’Connor ’26
Flowers
by Beck Rosenbaum ’26
I lay Calla Lilies down the petals pale against the mossy stone the grave does not have a death date and the Lilies have not begun to wither.
a Spiderlily tucked behind My ear My bones rot beneath the petals the stem predicts My fate. I will follow the Irises no longer watered by the ghosts into the marsh.
My name forgotten by the Daylilies covered in colors
I was an invisible child. they say I am a Forget-Me-Not and they forget Me among the blossoms. a Tulip is always seen I watch from the shade as they bloom in the sun. so I color Myself a Tigerlily fierce in fire petals unbroken and tall above the grass.
I color Myself a Daffodil pale but bright intensely knowable.
I color Myself a Marigold petals fragile but coveted able to protect the others.
I become a Clover generous if forgotten unignorable if unknown. I become a Rose defending the opportunity to grow defending My heart with blood. I become a Water Lily floating above the tide aware but uninvolved.
I have always been a Dandelion everywhere except the garden unexceptional next to real flowers.
I grew up a Ditch Lupine growing in the best and the worst unburnt by the crash.
I am a Violet small and bright but more than anything, I am a Violet because I choose to be. I like Violets.
we live in a world
by Hannah Ruegg ’26
we live in a world where brands that make cheap clothes out of plastic run earth day campaigns we live in a world where the waterfront property that was once viewed as valuable is being slowly encroached upon by waters that will not be stopped we live in a world where mental disorders become trends And those who really need help are deemed crazy we live in a world where we barely bat an eye at war crimes on our television we live in a world where government websites communicate through memes we raise our children to believe everything will get better but who is going to make it better? we live in a world where we rely on the next generation to fix our messes while they drown in the debt and corruption we’ve left for them as well as the rising seas
Fireborn by Anna Simon ’25
(top) Relit by Jake Marcum ’26
(bottom) Individual Halos by Gabi Reynolds ’27
Comin’ in Hot by Logan Cliche ’25
Stereotypes About Germans, Debunked by a Fellow German
by Anna Simon ’25
Germans. They’re pretty intimidating, aren’t they, with figures as tall as their mountains, blonde hair as bright as beer, icy blue eyes, and a nonchalant stare that foreshadows their lack of humor?
I swear, during my two years in the US, I’ve heard it all. And even though I fit the stereotypical German characterizations, I would like to argue that there is a lot more to being German than drinking beer and recalling events of WW2. For example, there is Oktoberfest, where people come together to celebrate “something”? No one really remembers that Oktoberfest was introduced to honor the marriage of King Luis I, but who cares if you get to drink some beer! I’m joking - Oktoberfest is probably the most well-known but overrated festival in my country. The part of Germany I come from doesn’t even celebrate it since it’s mostly a southern German tradition.
I also realized that Americans have started to copy it, but I’m wondering why they couldn’t have replicated an actual stunning German festival. To give you an idea of superior alternatives, during winter time, every town builds its own “winter markets,” where small stands sell food, hand-made decor, and, of course, bratwurst. We’re still in Germany, after all. The entire area is decorated with fairy lights, and you can hear Christmas music playing around every corner. The Oktoberfest always feels a bit barbarian (or Bavarian?), while those Winter Markets fill me with pride and excitement. They show the true side of a German; we’re not an unfriendly, rule-obedient, or aggressive country - we are social, quite humorous, and we love punctuality, which means being there at least five minutes early.
And yes, I did try to drink beer since I have been legally allowed to do so since the ripe age of sixteen. Even though the stereotypes about my people imply something else, I found the taste to be quite disgusting, and that doesn’t make me less of a German.
Hana by Anna Simon ’25
(top) Lucky by Grace Watson ’26
(bottom left) Cabin by Maya George ’27, (bottom right) Red and Green by Hope Macaione ’26
Mitío de Arcilla
by Beck Rosenbaum ’26
In the beginning, the concepts of energy and chaos created the major gods. The siblings were Alerion, god of the dead, Fabel, god of creation, Enderian, god of the mind, and Neterúm, god of destruction. The siblings each had their own realms in which minor gods were created into courts. However, Fabel wanted power and attacked his sibling, Alerion. After Alerion died, the gods and their realms fought. The minor gods and the people helped their rulers but Fabel killed Neterúm, trapped their wife and queen, and captured Enderian. He also killed the people from Enderian’s realm. Most of the minor gods in the realms of Enderian Neterúm, and Alerion either fled or died. However, one god, Malité, the god of colors, part of Enderian’s court, stayed.
Malité saw the destruction of the War of the Gods and cried. However, Malité was a very happy god, so they tried to paint their memories of the time before the war. They put all of their colors on the paper but they couldn’t capture the spirit. So Malité took the crushed rock from under their foot, still covered in blood, and formed a fish. It unmade itself. Malité tried again. Again, it crumbled. Again and again, the fish fell apart. After many tries, Malité began to cry. Their
tears mixed with the crushed stone of their home and the blood of their family.
Finally, the mixture formed a fish. Malité called the mixture ‘clay’, like one of their dead friends. Malité created sculptures of their memories of happiness and their life before the war. For many years, they lived alone in the beautiful house in the ruins of the War of Gods, making art in the places of the massacres.
After years of this life, the child of Enderian and the prince of the mind, Ré, and his boyfriend, the prince of the night, Fenris, arrived at Malité’s house. They were very kind and, with the god’s permission, took a bit of the clay to their home, where the survivors lived.
The survivors began to use clay for their restaurants together with wood and metal, for their art together with paint, and for their buildings in the form of bricks. Their lives did not change but, for Malité, their family remained in history. In all of the brick buildings, in all of the sculptures, the life before the War of the Gods remained. When a new generation of gods began, the clay remained. With clay, the people who died in the War of the Gods remained as well.
(left) Death Waits, Patiently by Marharyta Morozova ’26
(top right) Woodcut by Cyrus Hutchison ’26
(bottom right) Sweet Summer Afternoon by Hope Macaione ’26
Quick Study by Anna Simon ’25
Stand Clear of the Closing Doors
by Logan Cliche ’25
6:30 AM
A man stirs from his slumber
In a sleeping bag in a corner He wrestles himself upright And fights drowsiness
As men and women in suits Watch on with apathy
And a voice echoes
Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
9:00 AM
A family, visiting From somewhere in the Midwest They huddle together
Half in fear, and half in awe
At the chromium walls
And the beating heart of a city
Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
12:00 PM
A young woman, unaware Has her cell phone snatched from her back pocket
She doesn’t notice And walks out onto the street
As the culprit rides away Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
5:00 PM
Men in suits crowd the train, Their breath still smelling of coffee And their souls of apathy
As another workday ends And they are carried home
One living mass
Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
12:00 AM
A man stands on the platform: He wears a plain shirt And carries only himself
A flash of light
A screech of steel
And a body flung across the station. Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
Sea and Sun by Christa Badilla Chaves ’26
Wanderer on the Sea by Maccabee Sufrin ’28
Haiku by Ms. Jess Wallace
Maya’s Spark
by Ms. Maria Found
There once was a spark - bright, wild and free, A spirit named Maya, full of fierce glee. She clapped for herself, and we clapped along, Her joy was electric, her silence a song.
She splashed in the water, loved action and light, Faced each day’s challenge with heart and with might. With Down Syndrome, autism, and battles she bore, She still showed us all what a soul’s meant for.
No self-doubt dimmed her - she claimed every space, A radiant presence, a gift, a grace. She needed a village - and oh, what a crew! We all raised Maya, but she raised us too.
Though she’s not here in the way we once knew, Her spark lives on in the good that we do. Through laughter and love, through each hand we lendMaya’s light shines on. It will never end.
Changes by Ms. Barb Thomas
Butterfly Spirit by Hannah Ruegg ’26
On This Day by Marharyta Morozova ’26
Sasha
by Beck Rosenbaum ’26
Sasha writes a letter every day for seven years. For 2,557 days, he sits down in the room at the desk he has been given. For 2,557 days, he writes to his wife, his children. Each of these 2,557 letters is signed in ink. He addresses them with care and gives them to the man in charge of the post. Every day for seven years, this man gives Sasha’s letters to Squing, the boy in charge of the inn. Every day for seven years, Squing looks at the letters and sees not messages to be sent but mere pieces of paper. And every day for seven years, he eats them. For 2,557 days, Sasha writes, Dovi delivers, and Squing eats.
Two thousand, five hundred, and fifty-seven letters never sent.
Macaw by Jake Marcum ’26
Solo Americana
by Aly Eastland ’25
Nací en la tierra de sueños, Where my house is rooted in Los Angeles, Pero aqui, bajos cielos español, Spain fills my soul, Hablo dos idiomas, I breathe two airs, Un pie en America, And the other in Spain, La sangre del oeste corre en mis venas, But Spain has changed my life, Entre dos culturas que me llenan I am a mix of day and night. Soy de los dos mundos que me abrazan. Where both hold my heart.
Soulstar by Anna Simon ’25
A New Beginning
by Erin Kenah ’27
A year ago I walked those halls, a public school where silence now falls. I stood in that classroom and asked myself why, I was still at a place that made me want to cry.
Mean girls cut me down with every word, their cruelty now muted and hardly ever heard. I confided in my parents, telling them I could be there no longer, and an idea sparked that I never had pondered.
A boarding school so far away, I would soon decide to leave without delay. I packed my things and there I went, to a school I loved and never wept.
A last minute decision, a break from my past, I went to a place where I knew I would last. A new beginning was waiting for me, a bunch of great friends who didn’t judge me.
I am no longer lost, no longer alone, I have found my place, I have found my home. I’m grateful now for the chance I could take, learning the hardest steps are the ones you must make.
Tessellation by Madelyn Nichols ’28
Studio 54 by Hannah Ruegg ’26
A Minecraft Journey by Anna Simon ’25
Time Runner
by Rose Sheerin ’26
I am not running for time
Time is running for me
Because time will never stop
You just have to take what you are given
Because if you don’t take that
Then to you
Time simply just doesn’t exist
If we didn’t have time
Everything would be different
Calming
Maybe suitable
Whenever I go to bed it’s dark
Most of the time when I wake up it’s light
All I need to know is that those are the start and the end
Of a day or a new one
So in reality we are not running for time
But time is running out for us
Mantis by Oliver Raymond ’25
Blood
by William Dumont ’25
Arteries, strong and thick, hold the fruit of our heart
Which flows with such force it could break them apart, but the capillaries serve as blood’s perfect guide spreading oxygen to the cells, far and wide, And when the blood has concluded its campaign It finds the veins to begin again, through the thin tubes back to the core
The blood prepares to repeat its chore, Of spreading nutrients and excreting waste While regulating our body heat with haste, And if this liquid of life feels any damage That our bodies cannot manage, It returns to the lungs to oxygenate
While we are reminded by our heart rate, Of this cycle which continues on Beating in the rhythm of a cardiac song
Barren by Dylan Tal ’25
Full Moon by Grace Watson ’26
Happy Birthday
by Hannah Ruegg
Every Child counts down the days. They sneak into the basement to see what presents are being wrapped. They wait for the day that they can say they have grown up. I am one of those children. I always wanted to become an adult; to no longer be looked down upon by those who were older. On my next birthday I will no longer be a child. When the clock strikes midnight on that chilly November night I will have completed eighteen trips around the sun, but now that it’s so close, I’m feeling different. I don’t want to grow up. I know now that coming of age comes with all sorts of scary things: college decisions, taxes, voting. I can still picture twelve year old me in my childhood bedroom counting down the days until she becomes a teenager. If I could go back and talk to her, I would tell her not to count the days because she has no idea what’s coming.
’26
Indirect Portrait by Anna Simon ’25
(left) Called, (top right) Platformed, (bottom right) Puffed by Maccabee Sufrin ’28
My Fish
by Fernanda Luna Reyes ’25
Time is one of those things that you’ll never get back. It’s one of those things that haunts us but also is so precious to us. It is one of those things that we take for granted until it comes time for us to reflect. And now I am standing here at the reflection pool of time wondering what fish I should take out of the pool to present to you. Which fish I am going to cook, prepare, and garnish so that it looks extra nice when you go to consume all the details of the memory I chose.
Time passed. And it’s now time to choose.
There are so many fish to choose from though. And there are so many ways to prepare this dish. I could take many little fish and make them into a meal that will try to satisfy your hungry curiosity of who “me” is. Or maybe I take one big fish and try to condense all of him into one meal. Or both? Indecisiveness. Probably one of my biggest fish. He’s big, dull, and can be a nuisance to the other fish. He bumps into the other fish, pretty ones which glimmer and shine as they swim around, and sometimes injures them causing them to dull too.
There are many little fish that he has dulled. My parents would sometimes ask “Hey what do you want to eat?” and I would respond “I don’t know.” Every single time they’d ask me “Then who is going to know?” And again I’d say “I don’t know.” All I’ve known is to keep cultivating the pretty fish I have so that one day I will have a beautiful collection in the pool of time which is life.
The fish I have been giving most of my attention to right now is Discipline. The issue with Discipline is that he keeps getting sick, especially when Motivation goes into hiding. Motivation is big and strong. He has always had plenty of food and reason to keep himself healthy. He is fed with the need to make all the hard work my parents put into immigrating to this country and raising me and my siblings worth it, the need to be the best role model for my younger siblings, and the need to make the life my grandparents had dreamed about for their children and grandchildren, a reality. Because he is so strong he often protects the other bright fish from the big dull bullies that terrorize them. The issue is that there are times when Motivation gets tired and goes into hibernation to rest.
This is a problem because Discipline and Motivation
have always been best friends so Discipline has come to rely on Motivation almost completely. But Discipline has to learn to survive on her own. For the past couple of years, I’ve been making sure to feed Discipline with strict schedules, a challenging workload, the commitment to regular exercise, and the commitment to always get back up. The color-coded blocks that live in my Google calendar are my only indicators of time. Trying to keep track of time by constantly looking at a watch takes up too much time. Each time period for which I assign a task must be as focussed and as efficient as possible for the amount of work I have to do (high school, early college, my job as a tutor, my job as a cashier, etc). And I try my hardest to feed Discipline all these things every day but it is a ton of food to have to carry to her so I struggle. And if I am not careful those big bullies will come and steal it, and they are especially greedy when it comes to stealing Disciplines food. But anyhow, now I must move on to my next color-coded block so that Discipline gets her food today.
Oh, Koi! by Hannah Ruegg ’26
Through the Veil by Fernanda Luna Reyes ’25
(top) Petite by Kaden Minnis ’28
(bottom) Professor by Aly Eastland ’25
(left) Urban Legend by Logan Cliche ’25, (top right) Country Mouse by Jake Marcum ’26, (bottom right) Saved by the Bell by Charlie Bockmann ’25
by Esmé Ashworth ’25
My Hair is a Darker Shade of Brown
by Grace Watson ’26
my hair is a darker shade of brown i no longer live in my old hometown i wear an outfit i would never had worn before i’ve stopped spending everyday looking for more and becoming a person who isn’t me. what does it even mean to be me? i am the streaks of sunshine peeking through the whistling trees the peaceful but chaotic crashing hum of the sea i am the color yellow; bright, and shining. this whole time, this light has been hiding it was inside a plastic shell of lies told for others i am beyond that now. i love the eyes of my mother i know myself now. i love my dark brown hair
Looming by Hiro Onoguchi ’26
