Outcroppings - Spring 2024

OUTCROPPINGS

Volume 45 • 2024

Brewster Academy

Wolfeboro, New Hampshire

OUTCROPPINGS

Volume 45 2024

Editor in Chief: Liam Fahey ’24

Art Editor: Logan Cliche ’25

Contributing Editor: Audrey Burke ’24

Faculty Advisor: Jennifer Metcalfe Dumont

Cover Design by Liam Fahey ’24

From the Editors:

We are proud to present Brewster Academy’s 45th edition of Outcroppings, our literary magazine. Through countless meetings, the staff has meticulously scouted and searched each sliver of our community’s minds. Students were vulnerable and expressive in sharing writing, photos, and art that represented their time here at Brewster. We were honored to receive so many submissions, and wish we could have included them all.

The staff was drawn to this year’s solar eclipse where community members gathered on the turf to watch a once-in-a-lifetime event. The climax of the eclipse offered a sliver of light and a round of applause from the community. The staff hopes that this publication will elicit similar feelings: a sliver of light (a spotlight on the artists at Brewster); and a round of applause (recognition from the community for their vulnerable work).

When looking through submissions, the staff is forced to make a “yes” or “no” decision. At the same time, we were encouraged to remain sensitive to the feelings shared in each piece. We persuade our audience to view this collective art piece with the same sensitivity. We also encourage you to take your time in looking through the pages. Before you know it, the publication will come to a close. Just like the eclipse, the feeling may only happen once in your lifetime.

“Green”, an immersive art installation by Liam Fahey ’24

Table of Contents

Beekeeper by Iain deSanctis ’24 ....................

24 or 45? by Outcroppings Staff and Old Boy by Jason Sun ’25 ...................................... 18 Table for None by Auto Pichitphun ’24, Centerpiece by Georgia Blackburn ’25 and Finished by Shawn Oelheim ’25 ............................ 19 For What It’s Worth by Matt Kerin ’26 and Out of the Fog by Oliver Raymond ’25 20

Lenscrafter’s Last Dance by Logan Cliche ’25 and Eclipsed Seas by Marharyta Morozova ’26 .. 21 Delicate by Hannah Ruegg ’26 and The Oracle by Marharyta Morozova ’26 ............... 22 Temporary by Jadon Holmes ’25, Tuppence by Auto Pichitphun ’24, and Bridge by Hiro Onoguchi ’26 ................................ 23

The Truth About Talent by Anna Simon ’25 ....... 24

Born A Master by Anna Simon ’25 ...................... 25 Speed Bump by Auto Pichitphun ’24 and The Path by Sam Hanabusa ’25 ............................ 26 Home by Katherine Twombley ’26 and Luna by Marharyta Morozova ’26

Half by Logan Cliche ’25, Juiced by Marharyta Morozova ’26, and Patterns

Foxeye

by Hannah Ruegg ’26

597, Ruegg

the sail number has been written on score sheets for years for Ted Ruegg skippering the many races of his time for his son, Ted Ruegg Jr. sailing the races his father couldn’t make or didn’t live to see and for Hannah Ruegg, skippering her first race of many memories are engrained in the wooden hull of that age-old foxeye constant, solid, steady, bought by my father from my widowed grandmother two summers ago it has a new red spinnaker the same color as the house its previous owner held so dear When we rig that boat now, it’s for you, Grandad

Looking In by Alexia Salamonovitz ’25

There On the Hill by Ellery Gnazzo ’24

Sea Weed by Ms. Michelle Rafalowski

Growth by Sasha Bulochnikov ’25

To Ralph Waldo Emerson

by Simone Miller ’26

Dear Emerson,

Often – with little recollection – I rekindle a tender appreciation for the natural world (strictly, however, in moments of pleasant sunlight). At fault of the recent weather, this rare delight withers as though a spring bud doused in winter fog, soon dissipating in the rainfall. I observe in awe the sky’s simplistic yet profound color gradient, each “acrylic tube” selected in careful consideration of the next. I applaud the Earth’s artist, tasked to please an extensive audience, for this tranquil array of hues. What skills she may possess in order to inspire centuries of the world’s masters. Yellows accompanied by streaks of an enveloping, caramelized orange elegantly reach toward a somber horizon. Clouds that terrorize the sky’s golden crest serve to remind of night’s melancholic arrival. This draws me to the importance of solitude, as you discuss in your essay “Nature,” in which one transcends beyond the mundane of habitual life. By dedicating my attention to a sky of stars or evening sunset, I connect with the sublime and truly acknowledge what I take for granted, observed in passing. This encourages a childlike wonder or curiosity with which to interpret the world. The individual components that enclose the lake unify to compose a single landscape, evoking themes of interconnectedness and reciprocity. I question how each organism, dead and alive, functions to sustain the whole of the ecosystem.

I’m entranced by such a number flora-adorned jewels that I struggle to determine this forest’s defining quality. The maple trees situated beside the campus pathway grow in varying postures, some demonstrate little confidence and bend increasingly to the left, while others stand defiantly tall. Each branch, whether low-hanging or in conversation with the clouds, features miniature clumps of moss and additional growth. Bark, spotted with stains similar to pen ink, gently peels from the base. A robin delicately flutters to a ledge of snow. It remains in frequent chatter while fixated by the soil and what delights it may conceal. The bird, observing chickadees in a “juvenile” game of hide and seek, hesitates on whether to join. Songbirds of bigger size must carry some self-dignity that I have yet to understand. It is only hide and seek; must it be excluded to juncos, wrens, and chickadees alike? I am reminded again of your emphasis on preserving a childlike perspective toward life. In particular, how few adults see nature clearly. To gain wisdom, it is necessary to cultivate a deep understanding of the outdoors, which you write as “part of [our] daily food.”

I’ll never bore of the chickadees’ conversations. It seems they forever have a point to discuss, and passionately so! Amidst the intensity of the game, the chickadees flit to an evergreen tree. As the others –still within the thickets – follow suit, the flock mingles amongst the drapery of pine needles. The scenery possesses an ethereal, dream-like quality. Additionally, clouds of pollen from erupting seeds look eerily close to pixie dust, that, rather than providing the gift of flight, induces a troublesome sneezing fit.

The Floral Braid

by Grayson Mouradian ’24

Blooming with each season

Picking petals, flowers, and friends

Growing stronger every day

The circle of braids never end

Secrets and memories wind together like ivy

Promises made fabricating a weave of trust

Intricate braids holding loyalty, humor, and secrets

Friends Family and fun are a must

Each strand takes turns lifting the other up

Getting older with each piece tangled together

Decorating hair as the braid withstands the pull and tether

Love held within forever

by Grayson Mouradian ’24

Catharsis

by Ben Weiss ’24

Inspired by “Leeches”, artwork by Jean Michael Basquiat

22 roaches crawled out from behind the scenes

I am a street Czar, absorbing parasitic dreams Power and money attained; nobility restrained The Hedonist Trinity, attached to my name

My execution begs for catharsis

An autonomic nervous system malfunction –Headaches with adrenaline pumping through my veins –A diagram of the heart, shattered and strained This life I seek has only met disdain.

Leeches, roaches, fleas

The three thieves of tranquility, Will this Boric Acid set me free?

One detail of the adult flea: It will never care for me.

Suspension by Ms. Maria Found

Portraits by Marharyta Morozova ’26

Speckled Wall by Casey Light ’25

Portal by Ms. Maria Found

Guardian by Jason Sun ’25

From the Depths by Tori Hayden ’26

Letter from Gregor (the Metamorphosis)

by Matt Niembro Porto ’25

To my dearest family and friends whom I’ve tortured for so long:

I am truly sorry for the horrors some of you have had to endure because of my sudden transformation into whatever thin-legged, armored abomination I am now.

I’m sure you feel like I owe you all an explanation for my behaviors ever since my “change” happened. For the sudden transformation, I have no explanation. It just happened, like a sick and twisted magic trick that only the most terrible demon could cast upon an honest man like I used to be before becoming a monster. For my sudden attitude changes, however, I have an explanation. A good one… or one that I think makes sense at least.

You see, before the incident, you all know how hard I worked. How much of my physical and mental health I sacrificed to keep you all afloat. I brought myself to the brink of insanity just to maintain the household that I lived in. The household that all of YOU lived in. Because of the endless effort I put into my work, I outgrew my need for limitations. I grew into the idea that I was no longer a person, but a gear that had to keep turning and turning to keep the poorly oiled machine that this family had become from breaking down.

Then, I turn into whatever my new body is and you find me. You also assume that I am the bug in the room, and for all the torture I put myself through for you, I expect at least one of you to go through something similar for my sake. As I had kept you all fed and away from going poor, I hoped you would do the same for me. Did that happen? Of course not. Instead of repayment for my services to you, I receive screams, fruit thrown at me, hatred. My own manager comes into my home to scream about my errors and my current condition in front of MY PARENTS. I’ve worn myself out for that company and that’s what they have to say to me. “My position at work is not at all secure”. Oh please! How dare that pig talk about my position, my well earned position, like that, and in front of my family as if I were a child not doing their job at school.

The only person who deserves an apology out of all of you rats is Grete, who, for a brief period of time at least, tried to keep me alive. Of course, she gave up eventually, but who wouldn’t after being in charge of a monster, a monster who used to be YOUR SON, on her own. I don’t blame her. Even as a bug, I destroyed myself for you. I injured my jaw and other parts of my body until my wounds bled. All for nothing. All for you to hate, scream, and talk down on me like I hadn’t done anything for any of you, EVER.

You are all leeches. And it’s taken me so long to realize. You were all leeching off of my efforts and the moment in which I stopped being useful for you, you dumped me like a little child who throws away a broken toy. I blame you all for not helping me, or at least trying to help me, and I also blame myself for believing that any of you were decent human beings with just a minimum sense of empathy. I hope that when you find this note that will most likely be soaked by my blood and other bodily fluids, you feel ashamed of yourselves for giving up on me. On the person who made sure you all lived in a relatively comfortable way.

Change before it’s too late, because when you find this note, I might be dead, but you lost your son long before that.

-Gregor Samsa

Indentations by Ms. Antonopoulos’s Sculpture Class

Perspective by Ellery Gnazzo ’24

Yes by Pia Gonzalez Jimenez ’27

Baggage by Grace Watson ’26

The Beekeeper

by Iain deSanctis ’24

Yes, I got stung. As I removed the stingers from my ankle and wrist, I couldn’t help but ponder why I had taken on this unconventional job. The relentless heat pressed against me under the protective beekeeper’s veil, and I could feel the sweat clinging to my shirt. It led me to contemplate the various other summer job options I had, ones that seemed far more typical than my current occupation. Living in the heart of New York City, I had never envisioned myself as a beekeeper, let alone working for the head of The Bee Conservancy.

My unique summer job journey began with a fortunate meeting with Nick, who would later become both my boss and a cherished friend. Nick, the leader of the Bee Conservancy of New York City and owner of Astor Apiaries, crossed my path at my father’s wedding in early June. Learning of his plans to open a store in Astoria, I saw the perfect chance to join him for the summer. Our conversation about beekeeping led to us sharing contact information and setting up a work schedule shortly thereafter.

Given that Nick was a friend of my father’s and a father himself, there was some initial awkwardness. However, we soon found common ground, sharing stories about our lives and interests while navigating the city in his bright orange Tenth Generation Ford F Series, complete with a homemade wooden two-by-four bee barrier in the back.

On a typical day, I inspected beehives for mites before moving on to the next location. On weekends, we conducted tours and sampled the delicious honey. The most captivating days were when we were called to remove hives from people’s homes, only to discover that they weren’t bees but rather hornets or wasps. We were not wasp or hornet keepers, so when we had to

drive across the city, it was a waste of time and money. The less enjoyable days were those when I had to assist in the construction of his new shop, The Honey House. This abandoned place, which Nick had bought after 20 years of neglect, always seemed to require me to handle the less glamorous tasks.

My love for New York City, with its rich culture, food, diversity, opportunities, and vibrant people, remained undiminished throughout this experience. Initially, I had been puzzled about how beekeeping would fit into the city’s atmosphere, but every day was a unique adventure. We often traveled to every borough, and the sweltering New York heat was unforgiving, particularly when encased in beekeeper gear. Returning home each day drenched in sweat, smelling of bee propolis, with swollen hands, and sometimes covered in dirt made me question the job. However, it was all validated one morning as I watched the sunrise from the top of the Javits Center. The Manhattan skyline bathed in an orange glow, the scent of the charred burlap from our smoker, and the soothing buzz of the bees, created an enchanting moment. It was then that Nick turned to me and asked, “Isn’t it nice?” I gazed into the distance, silently agreeing.

Over time, a weird parallel seemed to form between myself and the bees. In a hive, each bee has a job, and it is essential that each bee does it in order for the intricate workings of a hive to thrive. Every bee has a role, and they all have to contribute, just like in New York City. The contribution and flow of the society need to complement each other to better benefit the larger community at hand. Though there is chaos and worry when walking around the city or being around bees, there is always a harmonious feeling that comes along with it.

Old Boy by Jason Sun ’25

45 or 24? by Outcroppings Staff

Table for None by Auto Pichitphun ’24

Centerpiece by Georgia Blackburn ’25

Finished by Shawn Oelheim ’25

For What It’s Worth

by Matt Kerin ’26

I request they start the saw Violently as it is, I let it rip High-pitched and dangerous, shaking around It tears up our ears without even a touch.

Down on the table of slime I stretch it out and make something of mine It slowly comes back together as it was

Just as snow comes crashing down It reminds me of what it’s worth But lasts for only a day.

I worry this may be too much, But that is not my concern

Since you understand what you should learn.

Out of the Fog by Oliver Raymond ’25

Eclipsed Seas by Marharyta Morozova ’26

Lenscrafters’ Last Dance by Logan Cliche ’25

Delicate by Hannah Ruegg ’26

The Oracle by Marharyta Morozova ’26

(top) Temporary by Jadon Holmes ’25, (above) Tuppence by Auto Pichitphun ’24 (left) Bridge by Hiro Onoguchi ’26,

The Truth About Talent

by Anna Simon ’25

Amazed, I looked at the glowing screen of my brother’s iPad, the excitement for my new-found skill nearly uncontainable. For all those years, I believed that I wasn’t creative, that I, in no universe, could draw anything more than a stick figure, but I looked at the screen and saw the simple scene I had just created: the trees, slowly dissolving in the fog of a snowy winter day, with a deer looking into the spectator’s eyes. What was supposed to be only a small birthday present turned into a passion, and even though nowadays I realize how bad the picture looks compared to the artwork I am able to draw, it will always have a special place in my heart since it made me realize that you don’t need talent or a special gene to draw.

Some weeks ago, while doing community service at a local festival, I had to paint something with children and realized how much they do not care about whether or not their painting looks good or if they’re gifted; in their eyes, everything they create is a masterpiece. Their faces light up and sparkle with joy when using the most random colors to paint shapes; their clumsy hands painting weird blobs before them. As soon as they finished painting, they would often go to their parents and proudly show them what they just created. When did people “unlearn” the ability to just create without having to worry about “talent”? Sometimes, I feel like some people are even too scared to touch a pencil because they weren’t born with that special something they need to be an artist.

Just the fact that I, somebody who used to hate art class because I thought that I couldn’t paint, can think about maybe even starting an art career proves that such a thing as talent in art doesn’t exist. It’s instead a skill that needs to develop with hours and hours of patience, practice, and lots of failures, which seems to be something people miss when talking about how talented an artist appears to be. Some artists I’ve seen on social media even claimed that the word “talent” can hurt like an insult since it sounds like people forget about how much time you’ve put into your work to get to your skill level and instead think that you just woke up one day and painted the next Starry Night.

But not only is the word damaging for artists in some ways, but also for “non-creative” people, or at least people who think they aren’t. If I had not been so lucky to pick up that Apple pencil for my grandmother’s birthday that one day, I would’ve lived my whole life believing I couldn’t draw, that I am not talented, that the artists you see in museums just were naturally born with their skill to create those fascinating scenes. If not for that one day, I would’ve never realized that there is an artist in every one of us, that everybody was born with a “creative gene”. As the children proved, everyone can draw or paint; it is more about how you can continue to hold onto and train that gene to improve it to something special when you grow up.

You might not be born a master, but everyone has the ability to become one.

In the Distance by Anna Simon ’25

Born a Master by Anna Simon ’25

The Path by Sam Hanabusa ’25

Speed Bump by Auto Pichitphun ’24

Home

by Katherine Twombley ’26

The stress and the gray

All gets washed away

When I see from above

The home that I love

No matter how long it takes

No matter where I end up I know that my home Is not where I grew up But in the end where With my soul laid bare I know I belong

Luna by Marharyta Morozova ’26

Flowers

by Hannah Ruegg ’26

Sarah was a rational woman who knew what was good for her. One day, she was returning from a long day at work and walked into her kitchen to find a vase of flowers on the table; probably a gift from her husband. She admired the beautiful flowers; they were wildflowers, her favorite. The white, purple, pink, yellow, and orange flowers gave the room a bright pop of color. They had a fresh, sweet scent that reminded her of springtime as if she was standing in a wide-open field on a sunny day. Looking at the flowers, her mood immediately lifted. Sarah spent every day in the kitchen, admiring the beautiful flowers that she loved so much.

As time passed, she noticed that some of the flowers started to wilt. Not wanting to ruin the aesthetic of the bouquet, she threw the wilted flowers out the window without a second thought. One by one, the flowers disappeared as they were thrown out the window. There were few remaining flowers, but at least they were the beautiful ones, the ones that still served the purpose of making Sarah happy.

One evening, Sarah’s daughter was playing out in the garden when she saw the flowers discarded on the ground outside the window. She picked them up and smelled them; they still smelled sweet, but the scent was less obvious. Sarah must not have noticed, being too focused on their shriveled appearance. The little girl picked up the flowers and planted them in the garden. She dug a little hole, poked in the stems of the flowers, and filled the hole with dirt. She made sure to be very careful, not wanting to damage the flowers any more than they already were. She was gentle and tender in the way she handled them. She then made sure the flowers were watered so they could have a chance of coming back.

The next morning, Sarah threw out the last of the flowers. They had wilted beyond her liking and no longer filled the room with color the way they used to. As she threw them out the window, she looked to the garden, where there were many new wildflowers growing! She saw her daughter run over and pick up the flowers she had just thrown, bringing them over to the others. Sarah smiled as she watched her daughter handle the flowers with such care. She walked outside as her daughter was watering the last of the flowers and noticed something. The flowers were even brighter and smelled even sweeter in the garden than they had in the vase!

From then on, Sarah and her daughter always kept a section of the garden for wildflowers. Sarah still loved the sweet smell and bright colors but had grown a new appreciation for the flowers. They were resilient, and though they could not thrive on the kitchen table, they stuck it out until they were planted somewhere new. The flowers flourished, as they were always meant to grow in soil, not in the cold glass vase they once called home.

Transformation by Heidi Broussard ’25

(above) Other Half by Logan Cliche ’25 (top) Juiced by Marharyta Morozova ’26

Patterns by Fatma Al Hooti ’25

Room 16 by Anna Simon ’25

Branching Out by Ms. Michelle Rafalowski

Entrance by Ms. Jasmine Leeman

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Anna Simon ’25

Artist’s Statement

by Anna Simon ’25

First, the drawing is built from a composition based on a curvy line, showing the story’s progress from left to right and top to bottom. Janie is first symbolized as a pear tree, like the one she used to always sit under before her life took a drastic turn and she had to marry Logan Killicks. She felt despair and even anger with him, as the second drawing portrays.

The third drawing is the most interesting and contains a lot of symbolism, starting from Janie’s hair being held up by a kerchief. Since this is supposed to represent Janie’s picture of self when she was with Joe, tendrils are covering her body and mouth, showing that she wasn’t allowed to speak or move as she wanted when she was with him.

In contrast, the following depiction of Janie is a lot happier, wearing one of the blue dresses Tea Cake bought for her. Her hair is in a high ponytail, showing partly freedom but also attachment to her husband. Above her head, a pink anemone foreshadows the death of Tea Cake.

In the last illustration, Janie finally faces the viewer with an unreadable expression, varying between a soft smile but also sorrow. What is noticeable about this is the hand on her shoulder with a wedding ring, undoubtedly belonging to Tea Cake. Even though he is dead, Janie says she knows he’s still with her, fitting with the Forget-Me-Not flower in the bottom left corner.

A thin string of plants connects all the pictures, leading the viewer’s eye in the right direction.

Ace of Hearts by Marharyta Morozova ’26

Figurative by Ms. Antonopoulos’s Drawing Class

Artifacts From My Childhood

by Audrey Burke ’24

I wasn’t sure when I would discover my passion in life, but what I did know was that I enjoyed the cramps I got from rapidly pouring thought after thought down on paper while my brain flew down a great void of endless opportunities and ideas. Writing set my heart on fire.

One of my earliest experiences with writing was letters to the tooth fairy. These sincere notes often included questions about the duties of being a tooth fairy. I had so many questions about how this tooth-collecting process worked. I extended an invitation for them to spend the night and detailed directions on how to get to the guest bedroom. I continued to extend this courtesy despite the fact they never took me up on the offer. I found these letters in a box I had once started at 6 years old to hold and commemorate moments from my childhood.

The box is now 25 years old which is apparent by the peeling of the paint and the dented bottom corners. This box was originally a gift from my dad to my mom for their wedding anniversary, covered with beautiful strokes of green and pink flowers covering the top.

Underneath the letters, I found my collection of short stories, including the one I was most proud of. This 10page masterpiece describes the life of twin princesses who engage in an adventure to learn more about their deceased father, whom they never got to know. The sisters work together to uncover more about their father by snooping through his old letters.

My diary entries poke out from the box, covered with ink smudges from my excitement and impatience to write everything down. The tone of the writings varies. In some, I write about adventures endured on family vacations, describing the fish and shells I saw while snorkeling. Others detail fights between my mom and uncle, as they debated

the right care for my grandmother who was suffering from Alzheimer’s. Others dove into my first emotions and feelings around loss when my best friend’s mother passed away from cancer. I wrote to help me understand and conceptualize the new feelings I was experiencing. I never stopped trying to develop a better grasp of my inner thoughts. Even today, through disagreements with family or close friends, I write. Writing is a force that helps bring my two feet back down to Earth’s surface.

My most memorable entry is when Suzie Cline came to my elementary school to talk about her many children’s books and the passion she has for writing. She expressed how we, at ten years old, could get into writing ourselves. I was consumed by her words and took her message as though we were the only two in the room.

I don’t know what it was about writing that drew me in, but when I started it was safe to say I was hooked. Not only am I able to look back upon fondly of these memories and see my growth as a writer, but these essays and notes I’ve written have also given me artifacts from my childhood. I don’t need photographs or home movies to remember my childhood as my passion gave me the ability to preserve my feelings about my experiences in a way that no recording ever could. Being able to look back at the moments I felt they were worth writing about, has given me the opportunity to reflect on the development of my skills and also my development as a person. When I feel like I’ve faced the hardest thing that life has thrown at me, the perspective of reading about other difficult times of my life helps me harness strength and perseverance. The things I’ve learned I will take with me whether it’s getting through law school, writing notes to old friends, or just keeping a journal. I will always have writing.

Stream by Katherine Twombley ’26

Odin’s Raven by Hiro Onoguchi ’26

Molly by Heidi Broussard ’25

Comfort by Anna Simon ’25

(top) Leap of Faith by Ms. Barb Thomas (bottom) Pastoral by Logan Cliche ’25

Progression by Sam Hall ’24

Letter to Emerson

by Mia Drury ’25

Dear Ralph,

A few nights ago, your words began running through my brain, forcing me to rethink my lifestyle and relationship with the natural world. After a long, bleak day of classes and social interactions, I began to walk. There was no destination; the only goal was to ease my mind. As I left the dorm step after step, I noticed the world around me. The sky was dark, peppered with tiny dots of light, and a full moon paved the path for me. The trees towered above my head, streaking the road with shadowy figures. In the distance, I heard water crashing upon the shore and the buzzing of crickets as they danced in the night. I stopped momentarily wondering how life would change if we went offline and immersed ourselves in the natural beauty surrounding us. Suddenly, your writing clicked. I realized “a wild delight runs through the man” when man appreciates the beauty of nature and takes in all it has to offer. I lay down, lowering my head onto the cold, damp floor and closing my eyes. As the world went black, I realized I had forgotten all the day’s troubles. Carelessness and freedom filled me all at once. The familiar feeling of “perpetual youth” reappeared, distracting me from the poison of materialism and society’s expectations. I felt like my ten-year-old self again, infatuated with the shining stars, the round moon, and the grassy smell of spring.

After laying there unaware of time passing, I stood up, taking one more look at the beauty, and felt as though I was being “uplifted into infinite space.” Finally, I understand the importance of reconnecting with nature in adulthood and clearing my mind of the buzzing and chaos in society. Nature enlightens those who soak in its beauty and teachings.

Crimson Sky by Grace Watson ’26

The Harmful Heat of Meat

by Grayson Mouradian ’24

More people populating the earth bringing up the demand for meat They make it seem as if animals are all that they will eat

People claim that they can’t make a difference

That their meat consumption is not the reason For carbon emissions to blend the seasons

As if it doesn’t account for a quarter of greenhouse gases

As if they are excluded from the masses

As if they will starve when death is not present on their plate

While others can’t find nourishment as their water supply diminishes, locking in their fate

Destroying ecosystems and natural habitats because not enough people will change their act

Droughts and floods killing developing sprouts and spuds

Rivers and lakes evaporate

People substance farming have no escape

Lowering carbon emissions can be accomplished by refraining from driving up the meat demand

So If you have the privilege of choosing your meals it is essential for you to lend a hand

This is why boycotting livestock corporations will benefit all nations

As meat is not necessary for all eating occasions.

Heart of the Woods by Jiang Leetrairong ’24

Imprinted by Ms. Michelle Rafalowski

Felled by Alex Daigneault ’24

Imagine That You Are Running Out of Time

by Beck Rosenbaum ’26

imagine that you are running out of time the lies you told aren’t catching up your enemies haven’t found you nothing so fantastical you are running out of time this is not a metaphor you can feel your body breaking down daily and even when it is good something is left of center your breaths are not quite subconscious your laughs are a bit painful you dance on brittle knees and you feel it even though they haven’t broken yet you sing quickly so that you are not cut off you can’t run so you walk even as you watch them leave you behind you keep walking as your feet grow numb as your shins bruise and your hips dislocate you are running out of time so you breathe the cold air as if it doesn’t burn you greet the people you will never know you cry and you smile and you live and you die and you know that you are running out of time but you aren’t gone yet

Tempo by Hannah Ruegg ’26

BREWSTER ACADEMY

WOLFEBORO, NEW HAMPSHIRE