A special BIG thanks to Sydney Hruska for creating an exquisite cover for this issue—a collage full of noteworthy coming-of-age films featuring Isabela Fitzgerald’s matreshka version of the BRIO alien. Another BIG thanks to Andrew Catalanello for the BRIO alien on the following page and for the one in the “Sanguine” story.
NOTE FROM THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
A Bildungsroman, at its heart, is a story—whether told through words, images, or both—that explores one’s journey of introspection. So, it’s not just about growing older; it’s about growing wiser (or at least trying to). This timeless genre has its roots in German folklore. Picture this: tales of dreamers and fools who set off on grand adventures, stumble through naïve mistakes, lose it all, and somehow find themselves along the way. I am so happy and excited to welcome you to lose yourselves in BRIO’s FALL 2024 issue!
In my two years with BRIO, I can confidently say that this collection of prose, poems, a play, artwork, quizzes, photos, and collages will stir so many sentiments if read at once: you might feel nostalgic for something that never happened to you—nostalgic for the feeling itself; you might be compelled to question happenings from your past or present; you might enjoy the bright colors of one piece and the calm palettes of another; you could be confused by someone else’s experience or resonate with it so deeply—or with the manner it was written in—that it feels as if it’s from your double. Whatever you feel while exploring this collection of works by strangers and friends from all over the world, we hope that this issue, like all art, moves you to truly notice your life— just as you once did (or do now) in your “growing out of it,” “coming-of-age” era—instead of simply living through it.
This issue is the first to feature BRIO’s new staff, who have worked so harmoniously this past semester. I’m immensely grateful for this team—for every idea shared at our biweekly meetings and in our group chats—and for our genuine drive to create something worth reading! I also want to thank all our contributors, who entrusted us with their pieces—many of which are so intimate and heartfelt. We hope we’ve lived up to your expectations of BRIO :)
I wish you and your inner child a joyful reading!
Warmly,
Polina Belova Editor-in-Chief
All artwork by Isabela Fitzgerald and Lizzy Milde
Rock Lane
By Alissa Candal
on carefree bourbon nights, Uncle plants a pear tree roots as big as fierce dogs, nay horses, once teensy; we bike past bats and bees, the sprawling, unkempt trees streetlight haze, moths that rave, pine cones – all that prickles, pinches too; I smell sweet, sweet sugar, fly trap days and twisted ankle tears;
Mom serves pie and cider as the sun disappears, faint like cigar embers on the caved-in back porch, lungs cold as December mornings, sun rays that scorch, and fall as fireflies do, same as the old black berry bush that once grew, ‘til nothing much remains.
By Emma Day
My grandfather says he remembers being in the womb. He says he could hear muffled speech and his mother’s thunderous heartbeat through the red walls of her body. He remembers being born, too—he says the nurse’s hands were cold as she caught him. The lights were bright and the world was loud and he cried. We don’t believe him, but it’s a nice story anyway.
My mother is pregnant again. Danny and I don’t mind. Everything is progressing properly, the same as last time, but she’s developed a window in her stomach where her navel should be. It’s perfectly round and smooth, like a ship’s porthole. We can see our baby sister’s newly forming hands and feet, drifting and kicking at nothing. She looks like an alien, with her big black eyes and oversized head. My mother says we shouldn’t call her an alien because she might hear and get upset, and nobody should be judged before they even have a chance to grow hair or fingernails. We understand. We hear things through windows all the time.
We went to the store with our mother, Danny and I, to buy maternity clothes. She wasn’t expecting the window when she first bought clothes, she says, no more showing off this bump, people will stare. She buys loose dresses and blouses with empire waists while we hide in the center of the round clothing racks. It’s soft and quiet behind the clothes. I wonder if this is what my grandfather remembers. I wonder if God wears clothes. I press my face hard against a red gingham summer skirt. My mother tells me to stop.
On the drive home Danny and I sit together in the back. He’s found a discarded straw wrapper and is worrying the paper with his fingers. He twists it into a flower shape and hands it to me, proud of himself. I take it and put it behind my ear and he laughs. It’s dark outside, and the road is winding, and soon, Danny falls asleep in his carseat. I can’t ever sleep in the car—the strips of moon and streetlight flashing red through my closed eyelids never let me. We round a bend and are faced with a digital sign, bright as the sun to our night-adjusted vision. It flashes words and pictures, advertising the Baptist church behind it, but I can’t make out what it says over the spots in my eyes. My mother shakes her head. You’d think they’re trying to blind you, she says, it’s like those church signs are so bright you can’t see God.
My grandfather says the window is a blessing. He likes to sit next to my mother on the couch when she falls asleep to late-night TV shows and watch the baby swim about. Baby girl likes commercial jingles and courtroom scenes of Law and Order, he tells us. My grandfather is sure the baby can hear him when he whispers to her, and he can’t wait to talk to her about it when she’s born. I can see my mother’s expression when he says things like that. She cuts her eyes away and strokes down her stomach, covering the window with both hands.
A Student’s Resumé.
By Peyton Pitts
I want to be a teacher. I will graduate in a few years, I’ll go on to teach So many young faces That look like mine. I’ll walk the same hallways, Beside the same teachers, In the same classrooms. I’ll hear the same bell. The same bell.
I’ll have new markers. Books with spines still intact, Posters by the door Reminding everyone Sine, Cosine, Code Red; Run. Hide. Fight.
. . .
I’ll engage my students! Thoughtful exercises— I’ll even test their instinct.
Here’s a test: What do we do when we hear a sound louder than the bell? Once, we ignore it, we’re quiet.
Twice, whispers run, and you ask your friends if they heard it — what you thought you heard.
Third, fourth, fifth time, you run for the door.
Hint! The intercom will come over in a few minutes to let you know that This is NOT a drill.
I Repeat, This is NOT a drill.
Correct Answer: We’ll pile chairs you’re sitting on Against the door; Grab dictionaries, encyclopedias, thesauruses, Arm yourself, And gather into the corner. Wait.
Realize the older man never went here. Never worked here. Was never Supposed To be Here.
The walls are rusted with student blood, Lessons inked in savage red
The loss of life, liberty, the pursuit. The schedule pulsating on the wall, The trial of all crimes shall be by jury, Beating to the blues of bullets.
Listen to the students of American History.
Vocabulary:
Teacher- (n.) an unemployed police officer. Student- (n.) a target. Book- (n.) a weapon.
Another test!
How many more times does this have to happen before school isn’t asterisked for g*n violence, where our biggest threat isn’t on the shelves? You’ll protest with students from all over this country, demanding better but seeing worse; you’ll promise yourself there’s hope That this is not in vain.
You don’t know, but you’ll raise your kids in the American Education System with the same Code Red Drills you watched in 1999, 2018, 2023.
There is not enough information to answer this question.
I want to be a teacher. Books filled with words banned, Spines still intact. My students’ faces, they spark Every bell. Every bell.
Soda Pop.
By Peyton Pitts
Her hands were slippery with olive oil, The soda bottle glided right through her pretty fingers. With a clatter on the ground, She plucked it from grimy tiles, Placed it back on the counter, Continued cooking dinner.
My grandmother’s lips were tight, Her work clothes were discarded in a bin labeled in fresh ink, Goodwill.
Her eyes were red.
My mother and father said nothing, asked nothing, wanted nothing. My grandmother picked up the soda bottle again.
My brother and I watched, giggling and patient, Her pretty fingers twisted the cap And then clawed her eyes.
Black sludge sizzled off the walls as She wiped soda off her face.
My brother and I laughed. My mother calmly took us by our hands, leading us Into the living room
Where a dead bear watched from the floor.
Stepping on his fur, My mother spanked us. It was the anger that was quiet enough to warn. I watched my father cry in her arms that night.
A year later, I am celebrating my birthday with soda pop, Pizza, and ice skating with cousins and strangers and family. We were told my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s As we cut my cake.
Four years later, I am celebrating my birthday with soda pop, In an empty Bounce-U, the blizzard assaulting the roads, A long table lined with plates and napkins, Only my brother, mother, and father cut my cake. It was better we had just moved.
At least then, Nobody could see my father cry when he was told His mom had died.
My brother kept snapping the forks, My mother holding him and me, I drank my soda pop and cried.
Germknödel
By Maxine von der Heyden
Every winter, my father and I are reconnected by skiing aches and mountain huts but this one winter in particular…
My binding is released with a loud clack snowflakes melt in multitudes against my cheek as I rush towards the little hut.
Inside, our noses are tinged red hair frozen at the tips like delicate icicles, dripping in the warm golden glow of the hut.
Set into one wall is a window, framing a perfect white rectangle like a sheet of fresh printing paper cold and still and silent.
Swirling steam distorts my father’s face lifting the smell of vanilla sauce into the fuzzy air, my frozen fingers searching the edge of the hot plate.
The fluffy dough meets my tongue in subtle mohn and tangy plum heating my mouth in splendor and writing this memory on my tastebuds.
The snowstorm rattles on outside sweeping frozen flurries across the mountaintop, relentless.
A hut with a slanted roof, a delicious Germknödel, and my father, smiling.
Which Era of American Coming-of-Age Movies Are You?
By Polina Belova
How to Score Your Quiz:
Count how many A’s, B’s, C’s, and D’s you selected. The letter with the most answers will reveal your coming-of-age movie era!
1. You’re picking an outfit for the first day of school. Which style do you go for?
A. A bold neon jacket or color-block windbreaker, scrunchies, some high-top sneakers.
B. A flannel shirt layered over a graphic tee, with baggy ripped jeans and Doc Martens.
C. A bright (acid colors would be great) graphic tee with low-rise jeans and a statement belt, maybe some bedazzled details.
D. Vintage/thrift finds, oversized sweaters with a neutral palette, clean sneakers, minimalist vibe.
2. Which social event do you look forward to the most?
A. The iconic school dance, complete with power ballads, balloon arches, and confetti.
B. A spontaneous (or rather intended) house party with your closest friends (and a hint of teen rebellion).
C. Hanging at the local mall, grabbing some cozy food, then catching a movie or staying home to play video games with friends.
D. A low-key coffeehouse meetup or an indie music festival under the stars.
3. A teacher gives you detention for a minor rule break. How do you spend your time in detention?
A. Bonding with other misfits — maybe you’ll form an unexpected friendship by day’s end..?
B. Coming up with ways to sneak out or pull a harmless prank while nobody’s watching.
C. Texting under the desk or updating your blog about how unfair detention is.
D. Journaling your thoughts or sketching quietly until it’s over (or posting something cryptic on social media).
4. If you got in trouble, how would your parent or guardian react?
A. They’d sit you down for a heartfelt lecture about respect and re sponsibilities — cue the emotional music.
B. They’d ground you for the weekend, but eventually you’d patch things up with a meaningful talk.
C. They’d take away your phone or internet privileges, forcing you into a digital detox.
D. They’d encourage open communication, maybe suggest therapy or a calm discussion to understand your feelings.
5. What was/is your biggest struggle as a teenager?
A. Figuring out who you are and where you fit in.
B. Rebelling against authority and societal expectations.
C. Navigating friendships and first loves.
D. Understanding your identity and finding your voice.
6. How do you express yourself creatively?
A. Making mixtapes, collages, and doodling designs on your note books and textbooks.
B. Hand-making zines, writing in a personal diary, or skateboarding as your personal statement.
C. Blogging, posting on Tumblr, perhaps writing fanfiction.
D. Curating a “good-looking” Instagram feed, filming vlogs, or creating Spotify playlists for every distinct activity in your life.
7. What’s your approach to love?
A. Romantic and idealistic, with grand gestures.
B. Passionate and intense, but sometimes complicated.
C. Playful and fun, with a lot of awkward moments.
D. Deep and introspective, focusing on emotional connection.
8. How do you handle conflict?
A. Writing a heartfelt letter or poem to express your feelings.
B. Confronting it head-on, even if it gets messy.
C. Using humor to diffuse the tension.
D. Reflecting on it deeply and talking it out with someone you trust.
9. What would your dream moment of teenage rebellion look like?
A. Standing on a desk and shouting “O Captain! My Captain!” to speak your truth.
B. Skipping class for a spontaneous road trip or day of adventure with friends.
C. Throwing a secret party at home and uploading the highlights to your social feeds.
D. Starting an online petition or social media movement to address a cause you care about.
10. If your life were a coming-of-age movie, how would the climactic scene unfold?
A. You and your friends making a grand, united gesture — freezeframe high-five with some epic track.
B. A rebellious confrontation followed by a cathartic heart-to-heart, set to moody alt-rock or hip-hop.
C. A comedic yet moving final monologue recorded on your phone, culminating in a big hug or a friendly pat.
D. An introspective, emotional moment of self-discovery.
Results:
Mostly As: 1980s
You’re all about bold statements, and heartfelt bonds sealed in unlikely places (like detention!). You value those big, cinematic moments of self-expression — think The Breakfast Club, Stand by Me, or Dead Poets Society. You ARE a classic optimism and a flair for dramatic declarations of friendship.
Mostly Bs: 1990s
You’re a rebel with a cause! Your era is all about angst, rebellion, and finding your place in a world that doesn’t always support you. You’re drawn to stories that are raw, unfiltered, with a grunge-meets-pop vibe like Clueless, Dazed and Confused, and Ten Things I Hate About You. You ARE the perfect mix of angst and empowerment.
Mostly Cs: 2000s
You’re quirky and fun! Yay! You’re a digital native at heart. From your iconic page on the internet, you channel the free-spirited and occasionally awkward vibe of Mean Girls, Superbad, or Juno. You ARE about experimentation and finding yourself in a media-saturated world. Life’s a little chaotic, but you wouldn’t have it any other way!
Mostly Ds: 2010s
You’re introspective, socially conscious, artistic, and always ready to explore deeper emotional arcs. You can be filming an impromptu vlog or advocating for a cause on social media. You are not afraid to spend as much time as you need with yourself to discover who you really want to be and in what world you would want to exist. You reflect the modern, empathetic response to the interpersonal issues seen in Lady Bird, Moonlight, or Call Me by Your Name You ARE the growth through reflection and community support.
Rope
By Isabela Fitzgerald - Staff Submission
I was trusted with the lives of freckled, gapped-tooth children once, where the sun’s rays kissed the undergrowth and summer gifted trees with trembling leaves. up up towards the canopy they’d climb, harnessed, double-checked or triple, an umbilical rope looping past their navel, and tethered down to me.
at any moment, if I faltered, I could drop a child to death, but I was trusted by and with their hearts despite my lack of trust in self.
Image by Isabela Fitzgerald
By Jamie Kimura
Sitting at the Park
By Matt Li
I’m listening to Newt, No Body again and there’s a line that keeps going through my head. They go— I think it’s a brother and sister’s voices, laid over together, singing in tandem from different octaves— “I gave you head because that’s what friends do.” There are times when their voices are more blended, or when the sister seems to crawl out more and the brother recedes, but this line is just the guy. I think. Because I think it’s mostly his project. The sister made the artwork, and does bonus vocals according to the Bandcamp page. And it’s a resigned, borderline resentful sort of line that maybe you should hope it’s not both siblings singing. I don’t know. I don’t know, maybe that’s fine. It’s probably a little weird if they both gave head to the same guy, right?
I’ve been fixated on it for a while now, because it mattered to me that he might have been giving head to a guy. Do you give head to girls? I don’t think you would sing about it like that, if you gave head to a girl, at least. And he calls him his “Mountain Dew tall boy,” “tall boy with pond hair.” Or he has a tall boy of Mountain Dew, but the prior interpretation is more fujo.
I’ve got a full-sugar Mango Loco Monster and a Kona Big Wave, because I’m treating myself, and a pack of herbal cigarettes on my lap. The ones that still have the tobacco leaves, but like with shit mixed in so it tastes all bitter and worse. WuYeShen. I guess the shit is herbs. I don’t know what the point is but maybe they’re more therapeutic. It only really matters that they taste different. It’s like when you buy Mrs. Meyer’s hand soap and you choose a differently scented one, because it’s different even if it’s the same brand, and it blends in the same after the first week anyway. I’m sitting in the park again. It’s easier now—to be sitting in the park—than it used to be. Except the air stings a little more because the weather’s turning.
Is that really what friends do? Give head to each other? I’ve never given head to my friends. I wouldn’t know where to start, honestly. The sky’s overcast but that’s okay. It’s not humid, the air’s crisp, the park bench is a little wet, but it still beats sitting on the grass. There’s a sort of sticky mud caked up against my boots, wet earth clinging onto me like it’s dragging me down, like it’s condemning me for stepping on it, announcing to the world that I was the one who trampled on it. My friend who goes to therapy too much told me depression was an intra-psychic disorder. Like a negative halo effect surrounding you, like a drowning man hanging onto a lifeguard, weighing them down, pulling them into the rip currents as well. I feel like the rip was so much bigger in my head than it turned out to be. A kind of bogeyman of the beach that made your kids think twice about going too far away from the shore. I might be looping back into the headspace where I really want to cut everyone I’ve ever known off. I don’t like the person I am when being around them. I think I already had my chance to reinvent myself, so I’m not sure I’m allowed a second one, because I take too much of myself with me wherever I go. That’s what Lana Del Rey tells me: “It turns out everywhere you go‚ you take yourself‚ that’s not a lie.” I have the urge to put on Norman Fucking
Rockwell! because Lemon Meringue Die keeps looping in my over-the-ear headphones, but I know I can’t stomach anything else right now, or the bile’ll rise up in my throat again.
Lately it’s this state of pre-vomit, the threat of vomit, that I live in. My thoughts flit to something I read when I was seventeen, about how your music taste never changes after seventeen. A horrifying prediction of stagnation. I feel like I’m always seventeen, hauntologically possessed by some idea that my present/future could’ve been different. I remember everything when I need to, but never more than that. I can’t really think about anything ever, anymore. I think I’m a zombie, maybe. A human only by external account. I’m not going to smoke that pack, because it’s a signifier that I smoke, and if I finish it, I’d lose the sign. I don’t really like smoking cigarettes, I think. I like looking like I smoke cigarettes.
Maybe I should just chill. I’m just a vessel. I’m nothing like that and the stakes were never that high and I could just be normal and successful and not feel like I have to sit at the park again. I could walk through the park maybe, and get a sandwich at the café around the corner. I should do that now. I haven’t eaten today and I don’t think the caffeine is good for my stomach, empty.
The Giant
By Franklin Dong - Staff Submission
I used to wish I was a giant that chased after the sun, Leaping miles with each step, Drinking from the river and sea when dry. But now I have seen that giant: He was covered in snow, In pain, Groaning with each breath. Although his might is great, He can no longer move mountains, And that raging blue sea can no longer Quench his desperate drought. He wrapped himself in a guise of spring And headed West.
By J.
My love, a bird of paradise, passing through the skylight, it swifts to a new world.
There, lives a shepherdess. Crevices of her fingernails collect flour and earth.
Pink wellies, twelve steps forward, welcoming two hungry children.
My love, there is a child, leaning to the car window, she is looking into you.
“My eyes fall into your eyes,” you said, and I heard, then saw the defect of (our) bones.
Tires hanging on the side of the road. Go, child, an eyeball in exchange for a tree. No fear, my love, don’t hesitate, rather actively repetitively, furtherly, shovel deeper, to dig out yours, bury mine. What a grand newborn (sacrifice)?
To give birth to a rubber tree. Soon, an open ground, before that, milky-white tear, biting a bitter stem (penis), leaving traces of twelve teeth. Folded up, wrinkled, desire and love.
“Hug the two (human beings) into one (human being)”, you said.
My love, one last cigarette, scratching the screen───the ugly window of us, Here, tuned out to be different.
I counted, twelve sparks, you were eagerly taking their breaths away, meanwhile taking my—— thirteenth spark.
Nov 21, 2024
By Sean Gilbert - Staff Submission
A tomato so red like it’s election year 1984. She’s held up against a sky the color of Minnesota, also in 1984, and there’s a full mango sun today illuminating everything within her sheer flush face. Pulp and seeds and juicy guts and all. And the tomato looks like a fantasy, like food in a cartoon where it’s just perfect. Not a hint of the earthy chocolate crust I pulled her from. So I don’t even wash her I just bite, and I know I must look absolutely vampiric with copper juice scurrying down the creases of my face, down to my chin, that sticks out like a dagger as I take in every part of this tomato and it takes every part of me. It’s an abrasive chemical on my tongue, just how I like it, and a crunch here and there and there just how I like it.
Mama used to tell me to open up a fruit before you bite her. Because you might just crunch on a bug or a worm in place of a seed. She would also say seeds weren’t much better ‘cause that little spring will sly its way up and down all through your limbs and eventually to your brain and out your ears, and then you’ll look just like your hairy-eared, dumb, son-of-a-bitch father. In fact, Mama said that’s exactly why Dad ended up the way he did, running away with some Vietnamese lady in 1979 when I was just 8. He did write a letter back, he said—and it’s too painful to write out verbatim and you couldn’t pay me to take that thing out of storage—something to the effect of Vietnam is as beautiful as a well-watered crop, and that the women had skin so much smoother and brighter than even our best Christmas chinaware that when the soldiers made them blush it was like looking at the most red-hot tomato in the world. And that there was this particular woman who Dad made blush and, of course, men like that feeling so much that when Nixon told America to get the hell out of Saigon, he just couldn’t get on the plane.
I think Mama and I have eaten tomatoes every day since. Today is no different. I am eating this thing like it’s going to grant me a free wish, and I don’t even hear the talking sounding something like “Hey, then thumb ban hey” until my brain remembers I do speak a little Viet, and it’s actually “Look at what I’m selling!” The market scene suddenly inflates like a balloon; venders and horses, chickens, and men and women with a certain cut to their clothes, and these swaying, promenading strides who probably are looking to sell something else that I probably shouldn’t buy. I wonder if my stepmom— or step-girlfriend, or whatever she is by now—is or was like that. Ruby lips, garnet blush, and fire opal skin in the places you apply pressure.
At home, Vivian often whispers in my ear things I’ve never heard before and things I could never repeat. And I wonder if this woman did the same for my father. On other days, Vivian augments her vocal cords in such a way that all those countless people, bustling there yonder past our small room above the shop right off of the avenue, almost sound quiet. She’s shattering glass, my spine, and my skull as she asks, why do I always smell like the women on the long avenue? Why did I even come to Vietnam, just to drink and sleep my way into an early Ngôi mô? Even with her forehead pulsing, and the capilla-
ries gorging themselves on blood, I don’t see the tomato. Cardinal, carmine, crimson, cherry, yet not the tomato my dad described. In fact, though I’ve searched, I’ll admit I’ve never found it here. Is she still yelling? I’m almost looking at myself, looking at her staring at me, saying nothing and I see that I am, in fact, crying. Not really crying in the sense that I compel my tears. No, it’s a submissive, sterile cry, where each blink produces a tear without much input from me, and, and, it’s accompanied by a proselytizing beating of the heart that calls me to its morbid march. It’s a trance. I look back up at Vivian who is morphing into Lisa, Linh, Hoang Anh, and May. Red. In lips, cheeks, and pale flesh. Still, no tomato red. I’m still looking at her looking at me, her face is elegant even now when I know she could kill me. She says that she loved me once and that she might still do and that she can’t take this right now or anymore. Now, she’s walking away towards the door, and I see myself, petulant, pathetic, and childlike, throw my snotty, salty-wet, tear-drenched body onto hers, and we are both on the floor grappling, then kissing and then finally writing our own scarlet letter with our bodies as pens, scribbling a passionate mess into the floor as if it were paper.
Vivian tells me, “I love you.”
I don’t say anything for a while, but eventually just kiss her. Sleepy. Linoleum is cold.
I woke up this morning, and for the first time I did not go to the market and buy a tomato. I didn’t think of finding my father or his tomato-red Vietnam. I did not despise Vivían, for not being the tomato red my dad liked. Nor Lisa, Linh, Hoang Anh, and May. Though I suppose no one really is.
For the first time I didn’t feel eight years old, wondering what was that away feeling Dad must have felt to want to leave us behind. Today, I don’t care that I haven’t found it.
Today is a day, I think, I want to go out to a phone booth to call my mother, but before I go, I have to tell Vivian, “I love you.”
Mother
By Cecilia Hua
In the mornings with no need to rush, we don’t speak of love rather take a walk together in Shayuan. uphill, downhill, and then uphill falling, raining, breathing.
We can quaff — the tea on table, we can also take sips, a sip follows another, and then another in the cup: a little goldfish, leaping out of the piping-hot surface I hold onto the cup, hold onto her
Across the other shore of the table, mom sits, looking at me, quietly. She always forgets to fill my empty cup.
She is a newborn.
What Character Archetype Would You Play in a Coming-of-age Movie?
By Lola Bosa and Faye Walalangi
How to Score Your Quiz:
Count how many A’s, B’s, C’s, and D’s you selected. The letter with the most answers will reveal archetype at the end!
1. What movie poster is hanging on your bedroom wall?
A. Lady Bird—You’re figuring it out as you go, even if it means break ing a few hearts (including your own).
B. Modern Times—You know the system is rigged, and you’re not afraid to push back.
C. Girl, Interrupted—You embrace the chaos, even if no one else understands.
D. The Perks of Being a Wallflower—You’d rather observe than be observed.
2. Who’s your favorite author?
A. Jane Austen—You’re always watching the people around you, thinking five steps ahead.
B. Karl Marx—You’re constantly questioning the system, probably ranting about it in Reddit threads.
C. Sally Rooney—You’re searching for long conversations that leave you feeling both enlightened and devastatingly empty.
D. J. D. Salinger—You’re trapped between nostalgia and cynicism, searching for something real.
3. What Lorde song would be your soundtrack?
A. “Ribs”—Keep dancing in the middle of prom like it’s the last night of your life.
B. “Royals”—Leave it all behind…home was never where you were meant to stay.
C. “Supercut”—Turn the volume up and chase the version of life that feels almost real.
D. “Liability”—Cry away the weight of being too much and not enough.
4. What’s your vice?
A. Cigarettes—You romanticize your bad decisions.
B. Getting into fights—You’re not afraid to say what no one else will.
C. Irish exiting—You disappear before people even realize you’re gone.
D. Doomscrolling—You find comfort in knowing exactly how bad things are.
5. What keeps you awake at night?
A. Notifications—The endless ping of a message, a like, a missed call.
B. Late-stage capitalism—You’re just one existential crisis away from moving to the woods.
C. Hopes and dreams—The future is coming, whether you’re ready or not.
D. Chronic insomnia—Some nights never really end, do they?
6. What was your childhood hobby/obsession?
A. Making rainbow looms—You found joy in small, intricate creations, the kind that kept your hands busy and your mind wandering.
B. Skateboarding, parkour, or anything that involved ignoring rules— You were constantly testing limits, looking for the next thrill, and may be getting a few scrapes along the way.
C. Memorizing indie movie scripts or making up elaborate backstories for strangers—You lived in your own cinematic universe, forever chasing the perfect scene
D. Any of the young adult fantasy novels—You believed in different worlds and destinies, hoping yours would be just as extraordinary.
7. Where do you feel most like yourself?
A. Somewhere new, about to take a risk—The thrill of not knowing what comes next.
B. A small, packed music venue—Alive in the chaos, lost in the noise.
C. A bookstore or library—Surrounded by stories, searching for your town.
D. A city in the twilight hours, walking alone—Everything feels more real after dark.
8. What’s your relationship with nostalgia?
A. I romanticize the past, even the bad parts.
B. I don’t dwell—I’m too busy moving forward.
C. I chase fleeting moments, even if they hurt.
D. It’s complicated. Some things haunt me.
Results:
Mostly As: Main Character
You overthink everything, but we think that’s part of your charm! You probably spend a lot of time looking out of car windows, imagining your life as a movie. Whether you’re figuring things out in a small town or moving to the big city for a fresh start, you’re the kind of person people root for—even when you’re making questionable choices.
Mostly Bs: Rebel Without a Cause
You’ve got a lot to say, and you’re not afraid to say it—unless you’re too busy leaving town in the middle of the night. You resist being put into a box, and if there’s a system, you’re figuring out how to challenge it. People might call you reckless, but you know exactly what you’re doing…most of the time.
Mostly Cs: Manic Pixie Dream Girl
You feel everything deeply, and you live for moments that make you feel like the world is just a little more magical. You disappear before people can figure you out, not because you want to, but because you don’t know how to stay. You might be a little chaotic, a little unattainable, but you leave an impression that lingers long after you’re gone.
Mostly
Ds: Wrong-Side-of-the-Tracks Outcast
You’ve always felt like an outsider, even when you’re surrounded by people. You observe more than you speak, and you carry the weight of memories no one else knows about. Maybe you prefer it that way. You don’t need to fit in— you just need to figure out where you’re going next.
By Tim Xu
By Tim Xu
Ils crient pour la vie
Par Giaime Spina
Note au lecteur : Cet extrait est une première ébauche d’une pièce de théâtre en cours de développement.
SCENE 1
Un studio en désordre. Sculptures en argile. GAB (20 ans) et JAMES (20 ans). Par l’unique fenêtre, on entend une voix robotique: “Utica Av.”
GAB
Noguchi disait qu’il n’aimait pas l’argile, qu’elle n’avait pas d’identité propre. “Vous pouvez lui donner n’importe quelle forme et l’argile vous laissera toujours faire.” Moi, j’adore l’argile. Voyez-vous, M. Guggenheim, je crois que l’argile a une âme et qu’elle est peut-être même plus forte que les âmes du métal et de la pierre. L’argile a appris à s’adapter. Qu’en penses-tu, James?
JAMES (en criant)
Ah!
GAB
Je n’aurais pas pu mieux le dire.
JAMES (en criant plus fort)
Ah!
Gab fixe le Daruma.
GAB
Ils vont téléphoner.
SCENE 2
Un bruit de ferraille. “Utica Av.” Gab travaille sur son Daruma.
GAB (en se parlant à lui-même)
C’est un plaisir, M. Olstead. Vraiment. Puis-je dire quelque chose avant que vous vous en alliez? Pendant longtemps, je me suis senti perdu. Vous voyez, j’ai toujours su que j’avais besoin de modeler des choses. Ma mère m’a dit que j’avais quatre ans quand j’ai fait ma première sculpture– j’ai modelé la déjection de Molly. Molly était notre dogue allemand . Je me sentais perdue, mais
vous, M. Olstead, vous m’avez époustouflé.
On sonne à la porte. GAB sort en courant.
GAB (hors-scène)
C’est pas possible!
MARK et EDEN (hors-scène) Surprise!
EDEN Salut James!
MARK Hey mon vieux!
JAMES Ah!
EDEN
Ici c’est un bordel mortel!
GAB
Je te jure que j’ai fait des progrès depuis Montauk.
MARK Montauk!
EDEN
C’était quand, ça? Ça doit faire quatre ans, non?
MARK Au lac!
GAB
C’était plutôt un étang. C’est marrant, vous savez qui doit venir ici ce soir?
EDEN La police?
GAB Joanne.
Mark paraît déconcerté.
EDEN
Ah. Tu lui parles encore?
GAB
Elle a téléphoné la semaine dernière, en sortant de nulle part. Je pense qu’elle veut discuter.
JAMES Ah!
EDEN (en touchant sa ceinture)
James va beaucoup mieux, vous l’aidez un peu?
GAB
T’es marrante, Eden.
EDEN
Si tu peux le croire, je fais du stand-up maintenant!
GAB Ah oui ?
EDEN
Je suis le numéro un dans le coin.
MARK
Le numéro un... de sa rue, plutôt.
EDEN
Chut! Regarde ce machin. Gab, qu’est-ce que c’est ça?
MARK
On dirait une pomme de terre.
GAB
C’est un Daruma– un objet bouddhiste, qui porte chance.
EDEN
Il m’en faut un!
GAB
Je t’explique. Lorsqu’on t’offre un Daruma, ses deux yeux sont blancs. Tu te fixes un objectif à atteindre et tu peins l’œil gauche de la poupée. Une fois que tu as réussi ce que tu voulais faire, tu peux peindre l’œil droit.
MARK
Le gauche est déjà peint.
GAB
Eden! Présente-nous ton meilleur sketch.
EDEN se prépare un instant. Puis elle tressaille comme si elle s’était heurtée à quelqu’un.
EDEN
Oh! Oh! Desolée!
GAB
Eden, qui diable est-il ?
EDEN
Qui est-il? Allez! Andrea Bocelli rencontre le pape. Allez, l’aveugle!
MARK
Tu as encore le temps de retourner au Wall Street Journal.
EDEN
Doit-on tous les deux, Gab?
GAB
Mais non. Ne l’écoute pas, j’ai trouvé ça génial, Eden.
EDEN
Et toi, Gab? Tu as commencé?
GAB
Pas encore, mais je vais m’y mettre. Le mois prochain.
MARK
Ils ont appelé?
GAB
Ils vont le faire. Aujourd’hui.
MARK
D’accord. Et ça fait combien de temps? Trois mois?
GAB
Depuis que j’ai démissionné? Non, non, moins que ça. J’étais ici après Thanksgiving.
MARK
Donc... trois mois.
EDEN
Ils vont dire oui! Regarde ce Daduma.
GAB
Mark a un problème?
MARK
Non non. J’pense... J’pense juste que je vais partir.
EDEN
Quoi?
MARK sort en poussant l’une des plus petites sculptures au sol. Elle se casse.
EDEN
Je suis vraiment désolée, Gab. Je ne sais pas ce que...
GAB
C’est pas grave, Eden.
EDEN sort.
SCENE 3
Comme il n’y a pas de miroir, Gab utilise une petite cuillère pour se regarder. On frappe à la porte.
GAB
Alors, comment tu me trouves?
JAMES (sans enthousiasme )
Ah…
GAB
Écoute-moi bien, gars. Elle va monter. Et quand elle entrera, tu feras silence, d’accord?
JOANNE
Salut. Je peux… entrer?
GAB
Oui, pardon, tu peux entrer.
JAMES AH!
JOANNE
Oh, salut Joanne.
JAMES (en criant fort) Ah!
GAB
Voilà James. Il est toujours comme ça.
JOANNE
Toujours...en train de crier ?
GAB
Presque toujours, ouais.
JOANNE
Tu plaisantes?
GAB
Son frère me l’a laissé ici, avec le studio. Mais je l’aime bien. Je pense qu’il en a juste marre de sa vie.
JOANNE
Bon. Salut, James. Et Gab, tu as l’air... en forme. Comment se passe ton travail?
GAB
J’ai démissionné.
JOANNE
T’as démissionné? Pour... ça?
GAB
Pour la sculpture? Non, non.
JOANNE
Je me souviens, une fois tu m’as dit que tu allais quitter ton travail et partir dans le Maine pour devenir sculpteur.
GAB
Ah oui? (puis) Tu veux t’asseoir ?
JOANNE
Par terre?
GAB
Vas-y, j’ai une chaise.
JOANNE
Je ne veux pas m’asseoir. Je ne vais pas rester longtemps.
GAB
Ah. Je pensais... J’ai commandé du fish and chips…
JOANNE
Ah du fish and chips! Shagwong me manque. Nous sommes allés pêcher ce week-end. Avec Eden, Sean, et papa. Nous étions au Point, sur cette même plage. Je peux fumer ici?
GAB
Ouais. Vous avez attrapé quelque chose?
JOANNE
Eh bien oui, si tu peux y croire. Un Porgy. Sean était furieux de ne pas en avoir attrapé et il en a voulu à papa. Il a dit la même chose que toi. “Je suis vraiment nul en pêche.”
Le téléphone sonne
JOANNE
Tu veux répondre?
GAB
Non. C’est bon.
JOANNE
Tu es sûre? Je–
GAB
J’ai dit c’est bon.
JOANNE
D’accord. Gab, pourquoi on est allés à la plage ce nuit-là?
GAB
Tu t’es enfuie en disant que tu allais à la plage.
JOANNE
Je voulais juste voir l’océan. On était bourrés. Et puis tu m’as dit que tu voulais quitter la ville, et j’ai dit “Viens, on va vivre au phare. On pourrait prendre un voilier et aller à New London.” Pourquoi New London?
GAB
C’était pas au Canada?
JOANNE
Mais c’était Rhode Island.
GAB
Putain de Rhode Island. On se croirait au bout du monde!
JOANNE
Mark pense toujours que nous avons fait l’amour cette nuit-là.
GAB
Ouais.
JOANNE
Mais nous n’avons fait que parler de nos vies. Nous étions perdus, Gab. Nous étions tous si perdus. Nous voulions crier au monde que nous étions là. Où est le problème?
GAB
Je sais.
JOANNE
Je t’aime, Gab. Mais lui, je l’aime. On a tout gâché, Gab. Je suis venue ici pour te le dire. Et aussi pour te dire au revoir. Mark ne le sait pas encore, mais je veux l’épouser. Pour la première fois de ma vie, j’ai vraiment l’impression que ça pourrait marcher. Et je sais que tu comprends, parce que nous sommes pareils, toi et moi.
GAB
Je comprends. Je pensais que vous étiez venus pour me dire autre chose.
JOANNE
Oh non, Gab. Non... C’est drôle, hein? Cette nuit-là, New London était le bout du monde pour nous. Maintenant, il n’y a plus que cette porte.
GAB
Nous sommes encore perdus.
JOANNE
Il n’est pas perdu.
GAB James?
JOANNE
Oui, il n’a pas l’air perdu. Je dois y aller. Au revoir Gab.
Joanne sort. Gab et James se regardent, tandis que James semble essayer de dire quelque chose... Le téléphone sonne.
VOIX
Bonsoir Monsieur Kirson. Nous venons d’être appelés par le collectif Olstead.
GAB
Oui, je suis vraiment désolé.
VOIX
Pas de problème. Nous vous contactons pour l’offre d’emploi. Nous apprécions vivement le temps et les efforts que vous avez consacrés à toute la phase du concours...
GAB
Cela a été facile...
VOIX
Malheureusement, cette fois-ci, nous n’avons pas pu accepter votre candidature. Sachez que votre candidature a été...
Gab raccroche. Il s’assoit, étouffé, et commence à pleurer, la tête entre les genoux. James le regarde fixement, puis se lève lentement de sa chaise et s’approche de Gab. Lumières sur eux.
JAMES Ah?
GAB
Ça suffit James! Je ne peux plus entendre tes horribles cris! T’en a pas marre? On essaie de réussir, et voilà comment ce monde nous récompense. Sans rien! (il saisit le Daruma) J’me dis que je n’suis pas réel, que toutes ces conneries ne sont pas réelles. (il jette le Daruma) Mais ensuite, tout devient si réel à nouveau!
JAMES Ah!
GAB
Regarde-moi James, j’suis une chose qui doit te faire crier. Non? Non? Crie!
Les deux commencent à se battre. Ils finissent tous les deux au tapis. James a vraiment du mal à faire sortir les mots de sa bouche. Il essaie de le faire, et finalement…
JAMES Crie! Essaye!
Gab lève les yeux. Il est choqué.
JAMES Essaye!
GAB (doucement) Ah!
JAMES Plus fort! Crie!
GAB (il crie plus fort) Aaah!
JAMES et GAB (ensemble)
Aaaaah!
Il n’y a plus que Gab et James. Une voix robotique, alors que les deux hommes continuent de crier mais sans aucun son: “Utica Av. Et ça, c’est un homme. Deux hommes. Ou juste un... peu importe. Ses cris déchaînés, confus et angoissés t’ont peut-être dérangée. Peut-être as-tu ressenti le besoin soudain de te boucher les oreilles. Tu en as le droit, mais je te suggère plutôt de fermer les yeux et d’accueillir le cri de cet homme. Car il ne s’agit pas seulement de leur cri. Ce ne sont pas seulement leurs tripes qui produisent ces centaines de notes stridentes. Écoute ton ventre. Il est probable qu’une envie d’en découdre se manifeste déjà sous ton nombril. Car leur cri est le cri de tout le monde. Le mien, le sien, celui de ta mère, de tes enfants, de cette Terre. Même le tien. Est-ce que tu l’écoutes vraiment? C’est ce qui se rapproche le plus du son de la liberté. Ils crient pour la vie.”
Un autre, final, cri libérateur.
Ils crie pour la vie (English
translation)
By Giaime Spina
Note to the reader: This excerpt is an early draft of a play currently in development.
SCENE 1
A messy studio. Clay sculptures. GAB (20) and JAMES (20). Through the only window, the sound of a robotic voice: “Utica Av”.
GAB
Noguchi said he didn’t like clay, that it had no identity of its own. You can give it any shape you want, and clay will always let you. Me, I love clay. You see, Mr. Guggenheim, I believe that clay has a soul and that it is perhaps even stronger than the souls of metal and stone. Clay has learned to adapt. What do you think, James?
JAMES (screams)
Ah!
GAB
I couldn’t have said that better myself.
JAMES (louder)
Ah!
Gab stares at the Daruma.
GAB
They’re going to call.
SCENE 2
Sound of scrap metal. A voice announces “Utica Av.” Gab works on his Daruma.
GAB (talking to himself)
It’s a pleasure, Mr. Olstead. It really is. May I say something before you go? For a long time, I felt lost. You see, I always knew I needed to model things. My mother told me I was four years old when I made my first sculpture-I modeled Molly’s feces. Molly was our Great Dane. I felt lost, but you, Mr. Olstead, blew my mind-
The doorbell rings. GAB comes running out.
GAB (offstage)
I can’t believe it!
MARK and EDEN (offstage) Surprise!
EDEN Hi James!
MARK Hey buddy!
JAMES Ah!
EDEN This place is a mess!
GAB I swear I’ve made progress since Montauk.
MARK Montauk!
EDEN When was that? It’s gotta be like four years, right?
MARK The lake!
GAB
It was a pond. It’s funny, you know who’s coming here tonight?
EDEN The cops?
GAB Joanne. Mark looks puzzled.
EDEN
Oh. Are you still talking to her?
GAB She called last week out of the blue. I think she wants to talk.
JAMES Ah!
EDEN (touching her belt)
James is doing much better, did you help him a little?
GAB
You got funnier, Eden.
EDEN
Believe it or not, I’m doing stand-up now!
GAB You are?
EDEN I’m the number one around here.
MARK Number one... on her street.
EDEN
Hush! Look at this room. Gab, what’s this?
MARK A potato.
GAB
A Daruma. It’s Buddhist, for good luck.
EDEN
Find me a fucking Daruma!
GAB
When you get a Daruma, both eyes are white. You set yourself a goal and paint the doll’s left eye. Once you’ve achieved what you wanted, you can paint the right eye.
MARK
The left one’s already painted.
GAB
Eden! Give us your best sketch.
EDEN prepares herself for a moment. Then she flinches as if she’s bumped into someone.
EDEN Oh! Oh! Sorry!
GAB
Eden, who the hell is this?
EDEN
Who the hell is this? Come on! Andrea Bocelli meets the Pope. Come on, the blind singer!
MARK
You still have time to get back to WSJ.
EDEN Shall we both Gab?
GAB
Hell no. Don’t listen to him, I thought it was great, Eden.
EDEN
What about you, Gab? Have you started?
GAB
Not yet, but I will. Sometime next month.
MARK Have they called?
GAB
They’re going to call. Today.
MARK
How long has it been? Three months?
GAB
Since I quit my job? No, no it’s definitely less than that. I was here after Thanksgiving.
MARK So... three months.
EDEN
They’re going to say yes! They must. Look at that Daduma.
GAB Is something wrong, Mark?
MARK No, there’s not. I just... I just think I’m going to leave.
EDEN What?
MARK comes out pushing one of the smaller sculptures to the floor. It breaks.
EDEN
I’m so sorry, Gab. I don’t know what...
GAB
It’s okay, Eden.
EDEN exits.
SCENE 3
There is no mirror, so Gab uses a small spoon to look at himself. There is a knock on the door.
GAB
How do I look?
JAMES (unenthusiastically) Ah...
GAB
Listen to me, man. She’s coming upstairs. And when she comes in, you’re going to be quiet, okay?
JOANNE
Hey. Can I... come in?
GAB
Yeah, sorry, you can come in.
JAMES AH!
JOANNE
Oh, hi! Joanne.
JAMES AH!
GAB
That’s James. He’s always like that.
JOANNE He’s always...screaming?
GAB
Almost always, yeah.
JOANNE
Are you kidding?
GAB
His brother left him here for me, along with the studio. But I like him. I think he’s just done with his life.
JOANNE
Well, hello James. And Gab, you look... good. How’s your work going?
GAB
I’ve quit.
JOANNE You quit?! For... that?
GAB For the sculpture? Nah, no.
JOANNE
I remember you telling me you were going to quit your job and move to Maine to become a sculptor.
GAB
Did I? Wanna sit down?
JOANNE
…On the floor?
GAB
I’ve got a chair.
JOANNE
I don’t want to sit down. I won’t stay long.
GAB
Oh. I thought–I ordered fish and chips…
JOANNE Fish and chips! I miss Shagwong. We went fishing this weekend, you know. With Eden Sean and Dad. We were at the Point, on this very beach. Can I smoke here?
GAB
Yeah, you can. Catch anything?
JOANNE
Believe it or not, yes. Porgy. Sean was pissed he didn’t catch any and he blamed Dad. He said the same thing you did. “I can’t fish anything but shit”.
THE PHONE rings
JOANNE
Do you want to get that?
GAB
No. It’s okay.
JOANNE
Are you sure? I–
GAB
I said it’s fine.
JOANNE
Okay, Gab. Gab, why did we go to the beach that night?
GAB
You ran away and said you were going to the beach.
JOANNE
I just wanted to see the ocean. We were drunk. And then you told me you wanted to get out of town, and I said come on, let’s go live at the lighthouse. We could get a sailboat and go to New London. Why New London anyway?
GAB
I thought it was Canada.
JOANNE
But it was Rhode Island.
GAB
Fucking Rhode Island. It was like the edge of the world!
JOANNE
Mark still thinks we had sex that night.
GAB Yeah.
JOANNE
But all we did was talk about our lives. We were lost, Gab; we were all so lost. We wanted to shout to the world that we were there. What’s the big deal?
GAB
I know.
JOANNE
I love you, Gab. But I love him. We’ve ruined everything, Gab. I came here to tell you that. And to say goodbye. Mark doesn’t know it yet, but I want to marry him; for the first time in my life, I really feel like it could work. And I know you understand because we’re the same.
GAB
I do understand. I thought you’d come to tell me something else.
JOANNE
Oh no, Gab. No... Funny, isn’t it? That night, New London was the end of the world for us. Now it’s just this door.
GAB
We’re lost again.
JOANNE
He’s not lost.
GAB James?
JOANNE
Yes, he doesn’t look lost. I must be going. Bye, Gab.
Joanne exits. Gab and James look at each other, while James seems to be trying to say something... The phone rings.
VOICE
Good evening, Mr. Kirson. We’ve just been called by the Olstead Collective.
GAB
Yes, I’m very sorry
VOICE
That’s quite all right. We’ll be in touch about the job offer. We really appreciate the time and effort you’ve put into the whole competition phase...
GAB
It was easy...
VOICE
Unfortunately, this time we’ve gone in a different direction. You should know that your application has been...
Gab hangs up. He sits up, choking, and starts to cry, his head between his knees. James stares at him, then slowly rises from his chair and approaches Gab. Lights on.
JAMES Ah?
GAB
That’s enough, James! I can’t stand your horrible screams anymore! Aren’t you tired already? You try to be good, and this is what you get in this world. Nothing! (grabs Daruma) I tell myself I’m not real, that all this crap isn’t real. (throws the Daruma) But then it all becomes so real again!
JAMES Ah!
GAB
Look at me James, I’m something you should scream about. No? No? Scream! The two begin to fight. They both end up on the floor. James really struggles to get the words out of his mouth. He tries, and finally:
JAMES Scream! Try!
Gab looks up. He’s shocked.
JAMES Try it!
GAB ah!
JAMES Louder! Scream louder!
GAB AAHH!
JAMES and GAB AAHHH!
There’s only Gab and James. A robotic voice, while the two men continue to shout but without any sound: “Utica Av. And that’s a man. Two men. Or just one... doesn’t really matter. Maybe his raging, confused, anguished cries disturbed you. Maybe you felt the sudden need to plug your ears. You have every right to do so, but I suggest you close your eyes and take in this man’s cry. Because it’s not just his scream. It’s not just their guts that produce those hundreds of shrill notes. Listen to your belly. Chances are you’re already feeling the urge to fight, right there below your belly button. For their cry is everyone’s cry. Mine, hers, your mother’s, your children’s. The cry of this Earth. Yes. Even yours. Are you really listening? It’s the closest thing to the sound of freedom. They are crying for life”. Another, final, liberating cry.
The Caretaker
By Madeleine Cerone
I once belonged to a forest creature, one so young, wild, and free. And although I was a small feature, if he were to be in a duel for a doe, I could serve my purpose.
But that night, as the days were growing longer he brushed me up against the soft dead leaves where I was left to sit forgotten— until a hand closed around my tines.
Now I belong to a fine creature. A girl so young, wild, and sweet. Whom I watch from my spot on her dresser while she strings lights, hangs pictures, works hard, talks, and cries.
I bring her thoughts of paternal pastimes: flying arrows, frying fish, forest floor, how to gut and skin. She picks me up, brushing her fingers over my smooth, ivory surface when she misses home. She is not alone.
Noah’s poem
By Lauren Stanzione
Hahaha Ha
noah’s laugh big big big Curls our curls when we hid in the corner pink sticky note of your favorite books horrid handwriting and white-out painted. every holiday a new beard or latin hair or bald head or bow tie or color of shorts, for the last one, last time i saw you on christmas. soft pink.
noah’s note: in my coach wallet next to my birth control and my DayQuil, i found it the other day. Paper melt.
noah’s text on december 26th: i’m very proud of you, btw. Following in the great tradition of your uncle Peter and myself.
noah’s text on wednesday march 6th: Idk if you’re a tea person, but I feel like you might be.
easter: aunt father mother cousins grandparents brother sit there but it is silent.
gaping hole no one to talk about Joyce with.
noah’s wake, april 12th: Grandma wearing big corals from his trip to Greece, fingernail deep in the ridges, to feel to feel feeling feeling there’s a picture of Noah and Peter, on the window. We forget them. Easier easy.
Grandma says, My boys are together now. Reading latin as we pace around this urn. I pray only to avoid Conversation, wearing a cross for fashion.
