Still Waters 2023-2024: Vol V, Issue II

Still Waters A BROOKS SCHOOL LITERARY MAGAZINE VOL V, ISSUE II

EDITORS

Dean Charpentier, English Faculty Ximing Gong '23

DESIGNER

Jasmine Shi '24

PUBLICATIONS

Jennifer O'Neill, Director of Digital Communications Rebecca Binder, Director of Print Communications, English Faculty

COVER IMAGE Cheng Zhuang ‘25

Inner Page Images

Contents - Jasmine Shi ‘24 Section Heads - Dean Charpentier

Still Waters is committed to publishing original, exciting material from a diverse collection of Brooks student writers.

While we actively pursue short fiction, poetry, and memoir, we will consider any form of writing submitted.

There are no restrictions on word count, and authors may submit multiple submissions at a time.

I often recall these words when I am writing, and I think to myself, It’s true.

There aren’t any new words.

Our job is to give new meanings and special overtones to absolutely ordinary words.

——Haruki Murakami

CONTENTS 1 Weary, the young night

In a deep corner of life 6

The Night Before Christmas | Nagle They Play for You | Diaz Put It On My Tab | Diaz The Hawk | Staniscia Red Mittens | Palle Hometown | Nyondo

A heart still blooms bright 19

Chaos | Fortenberry Change | Nyondo Deception | Eggleston Find Yourself | Mireles Morning, Early | Pierre In Days of Innocence | Correa Journey Under the Stars | Palle Leader | Yamatani Dreams | Pierre

Silent Surrender | Eggleston The Path | Yamatani Class | Fortenberry Trapped | Diaz Afraid | Yamatani

11 Special: Sophie Genden

Barn Burning | Genden Girls Again | Genden The Son | Genden Porcelain Daughter | Genden Interview of Sophie Genden

Silent Surrender May Eggleston In the stillness when exhaustion hangs heavy, fog seeps in, veiling the world, wraps us, softens edges,

obscures the path ahead, blurs boundaries.

We move through, each step a burden, each breath a struggle.

Thoughts drift like ghosts.

Amidst the weight, a strange peace, a quiet acceptance.

So we surrender to the mist,

The Path Derek Yamanati

to the fatigue—

Ahead, only gloom.

between waking and dreams,

call to me

and as we drift through the haze we stay silent.

Bland brick buildings in the distance ready for the day I trot across gravel.

My feet splash in the cold grass a trail for others to follow

water builds on each foot Cold air runs through my veins shivers down my spine the flags wave to me the lake sits still Where is the end of this infinite path

I create every day that no one will follow?

2 Still Waters

Class Sofia Fortenberry The one who sat with me on the cold, drafty stairs Bright blue walls illuminating our faces, Telling me I was ugly As I cried.

The one who would sneak out of class with me To sprint breathlessly into the bathroom Murals of women on each stall And tell me, as we stared at each other in one large mirror, That she was leaving the school.

The one who would interlock our small hands And dragged me through the field Mud on every side sticking to our shoes To show me the black spotted cows next to our school with the blue tongues.

The one who would sit in plastic blue chairs Filled with static And play the snake game Watching it grow larger and larger with each apple it ate Instead of playing chords on the flute.

The one who roamed the entirety of the school Every single lunch time Desperately trying to find new places, Passing the classrooms that had no walls And our feet began to ache And teachers’ shouts rang in our ears

Sit down at lunch.

The one who sat on those huge cold rocks Outside the elementary school playground

Brooks School 3

And plotted for hours about how to buy a hedgehog While little kids sprinted through wood chips playing girl hunt.

The one who played dress up with me And crowned me queen with a sparkly tiara that glistened With each movement, even though Laughter erupted from everyone Since he was a boy.

The one who showed me the river That rushed with emily’s tears Under her wooden bridge.

The one who drove the long voyage with me To the only starbucks and target When we had nothing to do each sunday.

The one who picked me up when the sun went away And the rain started to turn the sky a dark gray During my hike on the dirt roads That led to my house.

The one who baked a cake in the shape of a stoplight For the celebration of the single one In the entire town (even if it was torn down only a month later).

The one who painted Hearts and affirmations To place around town When covid hit.

The one who was positive that the sheet of wood We found laying outside Must have been a map Leading us to a pot of gold.

The ones who shaped me.

4 Still Waters

Trapped

Afraid

Mithayus Diaz

Derek Yamatani

What am I afraid of?

What am I afraid of?

That one day I’ll wake up to the news of your death and lose my chance to

I am afraid of the pain,

address you properly

the dagger to the back

above and beyond that hazy grave

while I'm not looking.

you’ve been so happily digging?

I am afraid of the energy What am I afraid of?

and passion that could run down

That for the remainder of your life

the drain like a tsunami.

you’ll sit there in pure ignorance believing you did your due diligence

I am afraid that it will never feel the same

and be left with that

and the heart that is the biggest part of me

sense of artificial contentment?

will never be fixed.

But what, what—what am I afraid of?

I am afraid to answer the phone

Well, I’m afraid that while you’re here

only to find out heartbreak is calling

you may actually listen to my broken voice

ringing so loud the line shatters.

and feel the way you’re supposed to have felt all these years.

I am afraid our plans of life together will be

And that—

crushed like velvet.

that feels like the worst thing I can subject you to

Does that answer your question, Love?

for you feel I am your life.

But when I think of you I feel trapped by someone I owe something to.

Brooks School 5

The Night Before

extraordinary power to think the way

Christmas

yet with an immeasurable capacity for

children do—in simple shapes and plain lines,

Emma Nagle

imagination and wonder. After the first

The snow caught the glow of the lights from

its outline, but after the snow departs in the

inside and held it up so that I might look clearly upon my rising and falling breath and the row of houses just beyond. There were people laughing inside each one, I was sure of it.

My brother made a snowball. I made another, and we rolled them about till they grew to a stackable size. Soon, there stood a snowman in the yard.

We asked him his name, but he stayed silent.

He was, after all, as much snow as he was person, and snow has a reputation for holding its tongue.

Even so, his stone eyes seemed to ask why there was a tree, of all things, in the living room, and stockings dangling absurdly from the mantelpiece.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” we told him through our smiles. He smiled back. *** And that’s what I would remember of Christmas: making friends with the snow on a wintry New England evening. Snow has the

snowfall, all that can be seen of the world is spring, any fascinating thing or color might be revealed.

Snow is white. White like Nana’s hair. White like her hospital bed sheets.

But of course, at five years old, no such thought crossed my mind, and thus no such thought had the opportunity to live on in my memory.

I remember, in vague echoes, sugar cookies and marshmallows and playing Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots in a warm basement. Snow had obscured the strain just below the surface of smiling adult faces and made me forget the reason we arrived at Logan Airport a few days earlier than originally planned.

That’s what it means to be a child on Christmas. It means not seeing the fear, only the white angels falling from the sky. It means remembering the presents and the sledding and not the way my grandmother couldn’t seem to stop coughing.

I can’t decide if it’s selfish or beautiful—the magic of snow and youth.

Brooks School 7

They Play for You Mithayus Diaz Why do you always jump?

One day, you’ll land on

something as stubborn as you are.

Just take it easy!

This is a moment to rejoice.

A moment to savor.

You’ve done it.

You did what you had to do.

And did it with grace.

Oh. I get it.

They never told you about this part of the job.

When it’s all over,

the music whispers through the still of the night.

Can you hear them play?

They’re playing for you, so kick off the shoes— Let’s dance!

Put It On My Tab Mithayus Diaz A dented stool where John always sits.

The usual?

The whiskey ebbs and flows, and with tired eyes, John watches.

The tables fill

as the night grows old, but John’s just getting started.

One drink to two,

two to four, four to…

Hey John, that’s enough for tonight.

The bartender towels the bar as a cab emerges from the night; John drags himself to the car.

The bartender tallies every glass, thinks of his wife.

Head down, he adds it all to John’s tab.

8 Still Waters

The Hawk Alex Staniscia It glides through the air, observes the surroundings: serene baby blue sky, great clouds dotting the scene, grand green peaks.

Scattered prey hides, desperate; the predator waits for the perfect moment then begins its dive.

Red Mittens Nidhi Palle In winter's icy grasp, when evening falls, on the edge of the snowy abyss I stand alone, A beacon of warmth in the bitter cold.

In my embrace, hands are shielded from frost’s might.

I am red, hot like a scorching fire, knit with care, testament to a mother’s craft.

No matter the winter's fierce sting, within my depths lives a gentle spring.

Mother says, Put these on!

And you listen, evade frigid winter’s grasp— hours of warmth in the cold, but now, abandoned, buried in winter's snow.

Brooks School 9

Hometown Lughano Nyondo Cook. Eat. Sleep. I dream of the USA. 5 years later, I am in the USA. In the wonders of my sleep I dream of being awake I dream of being home

A familiar place of delicious smells My lungs test the air of the dust As fresh as the water I drink I dream of my family

Sitting together and laughing to tears

I dream of walking up the wavy dirt hill until the sunset I dream of a dream that suffices I dream of a dream others wish to have

I dream of a hometown full of thinkers and intellectuals Who reach their full potential and go beyond.

I am in the dream I dreamt before the dream I am dreaming now.

I dream of bringing the dream alive

So cheer to the dream and the future we no see

10 Still Waters

Barn Burning Sophie Genden I miss Grandmother but I don't know how to pray. Lately I have been writing in the leather book Emma used to use. She's always sick so she's given it to me. I think back sometimes to when she used to take it with her to the hill and draw the sparrows. I used to sit in silence and watch her sketch the thin black feathers. They all sat on the big crooked tree, the tree we pray never gets struck by lightning. When she finished she would let me chase after them in hopes they would drop a feather for me. Sometimes they did, but most times they didn’t. I wonder if Emma thinks of this, too. But she can't talk lately, so I’m not sure.

Before she lost her voice, back in the fall when she only had two dots, I swore not to look at her side of the journal and she agreed to let me use it. She's been giving me many of her items and I feel so lucky. It's not even my birthday yet. I haven't looked at the old drawings she used to do but I wish I could. I wish she could talk to me. She’s sick again, and now she can't speak. I hope she gets better in time for my birthday. She already missed the Great Harvest. I hope she doesn’t fall ill like Samuel of the Darsin family, their only boy, the strongest I've seen. He became so weak he couldn't come to the Great Harvest either. He passed a few days back, his neck was covered in dots. I don't know why he died for sure. I won't ask yet. *** Mother woke this morning with two more red dots. She had grown one a few days back but she is beginning to look more and more like Emma. So strange. I wonder if I’ll get red dots. I don't really worry too much about it, as long as I can still talk. Mother and Emma went to sleep early last night. I heard yelling over on the farmers’ end and walked to the end of the road. I saw the big red barn, the Martin’s barn, burning. The Martins, the farmers of our village—I wondered why someone would do such a thing. Two black cloaked figures stood and watched. They caused such a mess. ***

12 Still Waters

This morning I woke to the loud ringing of the bell. Mother woke with more red dots all along her

throat. Doctor expects to be in the village soon. He will get to us by sundown at latest, he will cure us all. Mother and I walked into the square to see the reason for the bell. The gathering looked

bleak and on the far side of the square I noticed Mr. and Mrs. Martin hanged dead. I felt nothing. I still feel nothing. I cannot understand this. Why did they kill them when they grow all our food,

when they provide all our harvests? I stared at them, then I stared back at the crowd. They all had dots like Emma, all around the neck. *** Doctor came this evening. Mother and Doctor spoke in hushed tones but our roof is only so wide.

Mother was ill and Doctor seemed to think she would lose her voice soon too. We are to only eat

grains and beans. They spoke of the hanging and they spoke of the vegetables. Something about an infection, something about it being too late. Doctor left as it began to rain, the sky broke into

screaming thunder and flashes of lightning and we were just girls again. I prayed for the big tree on the hill and I prayed for the vegetables. *** I awoke early and mother spoke only softly. I told her I was going to see the tree on the hill and she was heading back to sleep. The ground was soft from the rain and my feet were soaked. I reached

the hill and the village was quiet, more quiet then it has been. The tree had been struck, broken and smoldering. Smoke rose. The tree was dark and the village was desolate. I cried standing by the

broken tree. No prayer would be enough to bring the tree back. The sparrows were gone for good.

Brooks School 13

Girls Again Sophie Genden I was once a mother, but this Road is where femininity goes to die; I am not a woman.

Walking with her, wincing at the brush of the wind. They would rape us, they would kill us.

Walking with her and I clench with one hand the gun in my belt, her hand in the other. Do you know how to shoot a gun? I ask. She

looks at me blankly. Can you re-tie my ribbon first? she asks. She opens her fingers, the

small yellow ribbon rests in her palm. I pause,

looking at the little girl. My little girl, may she always be soft. Always, I think.

and her dusty yellow ponytail ribbon. I want her hands to be warm again.

Please. Where is He? I sleep next to her, holding her, as she drifts away from me. I wake and I’m holding her

tighter than I remember. I hold my breath in

an effort to stop all thinking and all feeling. I want every pain receptor to go blank, I want every nerve to die. I think of her laughing, us in the kitchen, and that’s a lifetime away. I don't want to move her, I don't want

anything to happen yet, don't want to wither away. I am puffy eyed again, I am a girl again choking on a mother’s grief. I already know

she’s gone. She’s too cold. I touch her hand, I

I wake next to her, not with her. She’s young

don’t move, and my stomach drops. I sit like

Her chest rises and falls, I sit holding my

many things for hours. Night is falling back

emotion. I wince, restraining my tears. She

the dirt as I cradle her. I hope death felt like

my collar bone.

on the couch. I hope it was my arms that

Where is He? I am a woman.

when she died. I sit and hold her through

and I watch her through conditioned eyes.

that, pretending she is asleep, pretending

breath. Morning, I exist in a shattered ball of

into a dark gray and I pick her up, sitting in

sleeps. I hold the blackened cross resting on

being carried to her bed after falling asleep

We walk together, holding hands only when the sky is too dark to see. That's when I feel her hand getting colder, her body slowing

wrapped around her. That it was my arms nightfall.

Her big brown eyes.

down. I pretend it isn't happening. We sleep

Her wedding would be beautiful. She would

tell her to pray before bed. Why? she asks.

chrysanthemum. She would wear my dress

earlier than usual lately and I have begun to

be covered in roses, tulips, and

We never pray, Mama. I look at her face, hard.

with the buttons down the back, the slit on

Soaking in her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, her

the left side. She would be a beautiful bride,

big brown eyes. Please, sweetie, let's pray, I

ribbon in her hair. When she would walk to

praying. I’m thinking of her big brown eyes

crying, yellow ribbon kissing her curls. She

say. We close our eyes and hold hands,

14 Still Waters

the altar she would probably laugh at my

would hold a golden bouquet. There is no gray and we are together.

She would be a beautiful bride and I look at

her and think of all the ways we could be girls again. All the ways we could be women, real women, nothing like this.

scary, it makes me sad, I wonder if I look

scary. Your cheekbones, and deep wrinkles in your forehead. Your smile lines are not so deep. You were looking for me. In your

dream, you were looking for me, you were calling for me, you say plainly. We stare at each other for what feels like a long time.

The Son

Your words sit in the air, stinging me when I

Sophie Genden

you, I finally whisper. Next to me I watch the

Heavenly Father, allow me to forget all I have

You watched me watch myself cry. I’m bored

seen.

Behind my closed eyes I see them looking up at us; Lord allow me to forget. I am ageless and nameless and I am suddenly nothing, I want to be nothing. My eyes adjust to the

darkness and it feels like a long time coming. I know what was going on here, I know the monsters under my bed are gone. I know

there was no monster greater than us. I close my eyes and I pray they go away, dying in their own time. Nothing will change and

nothing is good. The ocean tastes the same as my tears and men have forgotten the words of the Hail Mary. You said it yourself Papa, this is a Godless Road.

I wake up in pale gray. It’s always the same.

It's always cold and I always wake to you

hanging over me; you stopped sleeping after the house. I wake with a sick empty feeling in

try to open my mouth. I’m always looking for grayish dirt turn black, and I blink away tears. with this emotion. The tears taste the same as the ocean and nothing is new.

We walk and I think about you, about us, and what the Road did. I think about how you

changed and I think about the gun in your belt. I think of us laying in the grasses, the fear, and the gun pushed against my

esophagus. I wonder how it would feel. I wonder about what I love you means and I wonder if you might kill me in the end. The

devotion would turn violent and in loving me you would have a gun to my head—in loving you, I’d allow it.

I think about those grasses a lot. I wonder who gave us those grasses and I wonder

what they see. I wonder where they went and I wonder how far they let the grasses stretch until hitting the dirt road again.

my stomach and I wait for my brain to forget the dream. You stare at me for a long time, your mind moves slower and I have your

whole face to look at while we wait. You look

Brooks School 15

Porcelain Daughter

mother, Ashley. I will be greater and I will last.

Sophie Genden

never comes.

How does a woman grow a porcelain face

Since I was saved I spend my days walking on

from a face of fear and grief? How does a

woman become the face of a billboard or the face of a cover? How does a woman become

seen? How does a woman become a woman?

An important woman? The girls and I smoke

cigarettes in the hall, lined up. We wait. I am drowning in feathers as I wait, completely drowned, I love it here, in this state of

breathlessness. We are dolls, my mother was a doll, I am a doll and my daughter will be a doll. It is an honor, I am beautiful. This red

carpet is my blood, it fills my lungs and it lies under my skin, I would die without this red carpet. My mother, Ashley, she would be so proud. I will be greater than she ever was. I will last so much longer.

Ashley was beautiful. She messed it all up and she could have been great. She got pregnant and she messed it up because they never

want something disgusting and ruined. Her C-Section scar and the reminder of her

breastfeeding me for six long months ruined

everything they ever wanted her for. She had to go. Her voice burns in my brain, those six years I had with her, the years before she left, the years she was allowed to be with me. She begged me not to ruin it like she did, before she had to go. Her eyes were glossy as she said this, and I wonder what my own eyes

looked like, wide and dark, taking her in. My

16 Still Waters

I dread the day I become disgusting. I pray it

glass until my feet bleed, showing everyone

what they could have been if they wanted it bad enough. I've learned the value of the

cigarettes, the drugs, the image. I've learned how it will give me life for as long as I have

what they want. I am beautiful, but my pupils still dilate in the bright lights and at the sight

of my mother. She is now Ashley—she comes to me in dreams and visions. I lay awake at

night and my image is gone, it is just me and I wonder how I can freeze my pupils, the same

way I will freeze the wrinkles, the smile lines. I wish my pupils would never dilate again, I wish my mother was only ever Ashely.

Eventually, I will turn into those other mouths that release the cigarette smoke next to me in the red carpeted hall. Eventually I will be nothing but the face of what Ashely was not,

I will be perfect, I will be a doll. I wonder how long until I am porcelain and I wonder how long until my pupils freeze on their own. I wonder how long I will last.

Sophie Genden ‘24 has been involved in the Brooks School writing community since she arrived. An alum of the Still Waters Creative Writing Winter Term workshop, the Student Director of the Brooks Writing Center, and a tireless supporter of her fellow writers here at Brooks, Sophie is headed to Bucknell University next year, where she will major in English and Pre-Med. Sophie’s collection of dystopian short stories appears in this issue.

appreciate McCarthy’s work in a different

Still Waters recently caught up with Sophie to talk about writing, dystopias, and life here at Brooks.

that experience.

The collection of dystopian flash fiction in this issue—what inspired you to write these stories?

The collection is both a mix of inspiration gathered from books we read in my

Dystopian Literature class, as well as

dystopian perspectives I developed a personal interest in. That course really gave a full understanding of the definition of

dystopia and the really popular genre of

literature that has grown up around it. That

ultimately sparked my interest in this type of fiction.

fashion. Reading this book for the second

time, I allowed myself to digest his writing style as well as the complexity of

relationships portrayed in dystopian stories. It was really the depth of the father-son

relationship in the book that inspired me

deeply. I wanted to see if I could recreate

The themes of womanhood, motherhood, and the relationship between mother and

daughter are prominent in your collection.

What makes this theme so powerful in this type of fiction?

Most of the time dystopian literature is about survival and violence—that is a pretty

common theme in this genre, for good

reason. The Road fixates on a father-son

relationship in front of a dystopian backdrop, which makes its masculine essence more

apparent. I wanted to explore and understand how femininity and motherhood would

function in the same kind of environment. In doing so, I deepened my own understanding of those intersecting themes.

One of the stories recalls in its plot and

language Cormac McCarthy's dystopian novel The Road. What was it about this

novel that struck you enough to explore it in your own writing?

The Road is the type of book you need to

read more than once in order to get the full

experience. Having read The Road previous to taking the Dystopian Lit class, I was able to 17 Still Waters

When did you realize that you were a

Okay, speaking of that—what advice do

your life here at Brooks?

their way at Brooks?

writer? What has writing meant to you in

you have for creative writers trying to find

Being dyslexic is both a blessing and a curse

My advice would probably be to just keep

for me in terms of my writing. I always loved

writing and sharing, and try everything. I

writing, but when I was younger I really had

become a stronger writer with each different

is what ultimately forced me to work hard at

I try. I didn’t know I could write poetry until

little too close to the sun, because now I'm

Writing can be a very solitary and

English for my second year in a row! At a

yourself off. Just keep doing it and sharing

always thinking about improving my writing

myself in any and all creative writing

trouble putting words on paper. This struggle improving my skills as a writer. I think I flew a seeing my writing in a journal and doubling in certain point I made the transition from

to finding genuine joy in it. That’s when I

form of writing I explore and the more things recently. Now I write poetry all the time.

independent pursuit, but you can’t close even if you think it’s bad! I plan to involve

opportunities that I can next year at Bucknell.

really started improving because it became something I did that made me happy, it

wasn’t work. I’m so grateful to Brooks for

allowing me to be flexible and showcase my work in various ways. I feel like I’m watching

myself grow and hopefully inspiring others to put themselves and their writing out there.

Brooks School 18

Chaos Sofia Fortenberry The world turns to chaos when light turns to dark when the songs of birds

Change

signaling

Lugano Nyondo

become desperate cries their

fear.

The world turns to chaos the moment that a child sees the neon

floating in the

signs

sky

and a dullness fading.

The world turns to chaos as our reasons for living

bring no spark to the eye

and the comfort of joy is just a

memory.

The world turns to chaos

when you begin to grow.

the stars in the sky are lost

no, it’s not me

Deception

I was born

May Eggleston

I thought this place

Hey, girl.

was sane enough

Change your face.

it’s hard being the DITR

Get yourself together.

it’s the place

they disobeyed

I taught you better the mothers yell Where is my child? changing. your child is changing.

Wield the brushes, powders, creams: each stroke, a lie.

You look so dirty.

You are a fraud.

You disgust me.

Hey, what's the matter?

Look at yourself.

You need this.

20 Still Waters

Find Yourself Joel Mireles Drift like the summer breeze Mist blows over an opportunistic sea Look for the person inside me The mystery is unsolved Seek it out and you’ll see Days go by once the sun stops to shine In a life filled with treasures the chest remains unopened We wish to see beyond the world of seven seas We thrive off each other’s energies Ask, who do you want to be?

The floor creaks like the sting of a bee You walk down the hall, its doors locked— look at yourself and imagine each scene.

Brooks School 21

Morning, Early Darnell Pierre In deep sleep I hear: a car crash—someone somewhere will find out later.

The last winter leaves

fall into the dirty bucket, turn to gold.

Alone and cold,

the ocean, waves flow, the fastest I’ve seen.

An earthquake can kill everything.

My Heart’s beating fast.

Early morning, dark clouds, young sunlight

still dancing to the song.

22 Still Waters

In Days of Innocence Kylie Correa In days of innocence, beneath the sun's golden gleam, We danced in meadows, in a world so serene, Where laughter echoed through the trees' leafy screen, In memories sweet, of childhood’s dream.

With imaginations boundless, we soared on wings of play, In secret hideaways, where time would gently sway, Through fields of wonder, in the light of day, Childhood’s magic held us in its sway.

Though years may pass, and from paths we stray, The echoes of youth in our hearts will stay, For in the innocence of childhood's array, We find the light that guides our way.

Brooks School 23

Journey Under the Stars Nidhi Palle When darkness seizes the town

the veil between reality and fantasy wears thin I drift into the vast realm of my subconscious

allow the creations of my imagination to come to life I am a traveler of the mind

I discover the mystical whims of fantasy

and the terrors locked in unseen crevices

all in the depths of night where dreams thrive The streets become paths untold lead me through landscapes of illusion,

mountains of dreams, rivers of thought.

Here, my mind is three dimensional.

As dawn nears and the sun rises,

the dreamscape fades, the veil thickens— yet the echoes of my boundless journey linger and I am both explorer and creator.

24 Still Waters

Leader Derek Yamatani I wonder how i can help I hear the little things I see the bigger picture I pretend i’m invincible I am tired I touch rock bottom I worry they will see I cry when no one is looking I understand my role I say i'm fine I dream of respect I try to right my wrongs I hope i will succeed

Dreams Darnelle Pierre In the forest flames leap high and wild, peeling back bark like pages from a book, crackles echo, loud, fierce, untamed— the wicked dance of orange and red: we look. a smile flickers like a hidden gem, as fire devours all in its path.

Nature’s anger, its fiery song Burning bright—scars stay long.

Campus whispers sway, footsteps echo dreams of the blooming future.

Brooks School 25