Mélange Mélange 2025 2025
It's a Monday morning in July and I'm walking down 35th street...
[ mey-lahnzh, -lahnj ] noun. A mixture, a medley, the Arts publication of The Bryn Mawr School.
Mélange 2025
Editors in Chief
Alice Li, ‘25
Sascha Hurwitz, ‘26
Literary Editors
Sophia Kantsevoy, ‘26
Shanthi Sethuraman, ‘27
Staff
Visual Arts Editors
Madelyn Dunstone, ‘25
Cynthia Tan, ‘27
Megan Chiu, ‘26
Paige Cutler, ‘27
Radha Hansalia, ‘28
Zoe Jackson, ‘26
Sophia Luo, ‘26
Joy Onchera, ‘28
Talia Santelises, ‘27
Kate Strand, ‘26
Hannah Wu, ‘27
Annie Yuan, ‘26
Faculty Advisors
Ms. Eisler Ms. Letras
Letter from the Editors.............................................................
That First Love Feeling by Imani Attenoukon..........................
Smiling Friends by Kelsey Chang ............................................
City That Reads by Mary Cloonan ...........................................
Running Reprise by Pete Sheridan ..........................................
Blue Reverberations by Julianna Ishii ......................................
The Art of Breaking Things by Anna Wang..............................
Unveiled Virgin by Madelyn Dunstone.....................................
Roe by Louisa Mulligan............................................................
Two Thoughts on Daphne and Apollo by Sophia Kantsevoy....
Girl With Gold by Vivian Cardall..............................................
Trinkets by Olivia Johnson.......................................................
The Scope of Men by Makayla Walker.....................................
Retrospective Thoughts by Julia Nguyen................................
Child’s Eye View by Talia Santlises...........................................
The Rebuke of Adam and Eve by Madelyn Dunstone.............
2 Sides to the Same Coin by Hanna Kim.................................
Complacency by Ophelia Giamatti..........................................
Sketch by Anonymous..............................................................
Residual by Mariah Talley.........................................................
The Nature of Mothers by Makayla Walker..............................
A New Beginning by Katie Mueth...........................................
Reclamation of Strength by Abigail Novoseletskiy..................
Spirit of the Horse by Julianna Ishii.......................................... Serenity by Cynthia Tan...........................................................
Shallow and Deep by Olivia Johnson.....................................
Primus Amor by Anna Wang...................................................
Holidays at Bryn Mawr by Bunni McLean...............................
Rhythms and Recipes by Imani Attenoukon...........................
Punica Granatum by Madelyn Dunstone................................
Reflections by Bunni McLean..................................................
Liability by Pete Sheridan........................................................
The Story by Pete Sheridan....................................................
Two Trees and a Sunset by Kelsey Chang...............................
Stained by Nisa Ashruf...........................................................
Rooted Within Each of Us by Jamie Zhu.................................
Citric Undertones by Grace Kayingo ......................................
Pete Sheridan’s Convocation..................................................
Kaleidoscope by Johanna Pitts...............................................
The Windows to the Soul by Alice Li......................................
Currents of Memory by Sophia Luo........................................
Wanderlust by Ophelia Giamatti............................................
Journey by Annie Yuan...........................................................
Journeys by Sahasra Valluri....................................................
Snail Dance by Annie Yuan.....................................................
Tysie Looking by Sascha Hurwitz............................................
Details by Cynthia Tan............................................................
Bao Jiao Zi by Cynthia Tan......................................................
Nostalgia by Madelyn Dunstone............................................
Simple Things: Unrelated Haikus by Johanna Pitts.................
City Lights by Katie Mueth.....................................................
Shoelaces by Anna Wang.......................................................
An Evening in the Sunset by Sophia Kantsevoy......................
Iridescent by Sophia Luo........................................................
A Present to Us by Jamie Zhu.................................................
Bliss by Sophia Luo.................................................................
A Hundred Moons by Johanna Pitts.......................................
Calm After the Storm by Katie Mueth....................................
Daybreak by Cynthia Tan........................................................
A Distant Star by Makayla Walker...........................................
Daydreamer’s Palace by Julia Nguyen....................................
Dew Days by Talia Santelises..................................................
Ode to Trodden Cobblestones by Sophia Kantsevoy.............
Waterfall by Cynthia Tan.........................................................
Glacier by Sophia Luo ............................................................
Flew to Paris for a Hug by Mariah Talley.................................
Top Ten Ways “Dream Schools” Are Like Unrequited Crushes by Kate Strand................................................
Little People Sword Fight by Kate Strand...............................
Tea Time by Sahasra Valluri.....................................................
Playing in Front of the Science Building by Ray Adeyoju.......
Surrounded by Julianna Ishii...................................................
The Beginning and End of Pete’s Convocation...................... Cover Image: Infinite by Kelsey Chang, ‘25
Letters from the Editors
With my senior year and last year on Mélange coming to a close, I am inevitably anticipating the future ahead of me and reflecting - now, more than ever - on the concept of home. Throughout the year, little fragments of nostalgia found their way to me even before they cemented to the past, before becoming memories. I knew I would miss those moments before they were even over. Held earlier this year, the pieces submitted to Mélange’s competition on the theme of “Journeys” had an overwhelming theme of childhood and the essence of leaving something behind. That in an exchange to embark on something new, it’s fated that we lose a part of ourselves to the chains of the past. Yet, while sifting through boxes of old Mélange magazines dating back to the 1960s in the Bryn Mawr archives, I realized that despite the force of time, Bryn Mawr has and will always be a home we can always return to - a place where our past selves rest. As said beautifully in Pete’s convocation, home will always be here, waiting for me.
Thank you to Sascha, Ms. Eisler and Ms. Letras, the editors, and the rest of the Mélange staff for their inspiring creativity and zealous commitment to this magazine. Thank you to Ms. Roberts for graciously allowing the Mélange editors to visit the Bryn Mawr archives. This edition is a testament that home is not one, singular place but can exist in multitudes. And yet, a place is not a home without its people. It can be intangible: a feeling of wholeness or tranquil bliss; it can be the taste of a dish that only your grandmother makes best; it can be doing something you are passionate about - from painting quietly on a canvas to embracing your teammates after a game. I know that our definitions of home are anything but fixed, and the path ahead each and every single one of us here at Bryn Mawr will diverge into our own unique journeys, but right now, I invite you to join me in calling this place here, home.
Alice Li, ‘25
Mélange is a testament to home, however it appears. Home is our connection to others. It’s the safety we get from smiling friends, or mothers, or Lady Macbeth. Home is a reflection of identity. It’s in the continuation of a thousand-year-old art, a celebration of biscuits in chai, or the study of making dumplings. Home is a declaration of pride. It’s standing up to stereotypes, and complacency, and insecurity. Home is a place. It’s this city, and a car ride, and Bryn Mawr.
This year, Ms Roberts facilitated a trip for the Mélange editors to the Bryn Mawr archive. While looking at old copies of the magazine, I felt a connection to the past students that solidified my belief that Bryn Mawr truly is a home for everyone.
We would not have been able to create this magazine without the support of our editors, staff, and faculty advisors. Our Monday lunches around the Harkness table have become a home for me. Thank you to everyone who submitted art, and thank you to Alice for your incredible dedication to the magazine and support during my first year as Editor-in-Chief.
Home is a cat with a pink bow and a steadfast horse. Home is dependable cobblestones and flowing water. Home is shoelaces and chapels, snails and sunsets. Home is ever-changing, and art is the practice of leaning out the window and feeling the wind in our hair.
Sascha Hurwitz, ‘26
Scan for a behind the scenes peek at the making of this issue
That First Love Feeling.
2 it started at two years old
The first time I was able to dispel the Word love from my lips. Whispered to me as lullabies
From my parents’ mouth. Then there was 11 yes 11. The first time I ever felt love
For someone other than my parents.
Maybe it was the boy sitting next to me
In math class with whom i shared pokemon cards.
But still refused to be my Valentine because to him I wasn’t
A crush or a secret admirer, just a girl he didn’t
Want in his bouquet.
Then 14 at 14 I stopped trying to be loved
Ignored the “I love you” from my parents when they would Drop me off to school in the morning or the ‘’ Girl I love your hair”
From my friends and classmates as we stood in the lunch line. Because to me love was worthless. It felt as though it was Only relevant when it was from a person who honestly just wanted to Play with your feelings and then call it an experience, or The people that you called your friends just to find out that you Were just there to fill up space for them. Love had lost all its value.
And yes maybe cupid was in fact stupid,
But I am a fool to think that I could love other before I could Love myself, To think that maybe, just maybe that if i put everybody else before me
That I could find some sort of comfort or value.
I am still trying to learn the true meaning of love secretly collecting it in poems and hoping that I keep it in my heart.
From mixed eye contact to silent smiles to basic compliments. I will learn to love my love when it finds me.
Imani Attenoukon, ‘28
Smiling Friends
Kelsey Chang, ‘25
The City That Reads (2010)
Mary Cloonan
Running Reprise
streetlight stains stems silver divulges dirt denser than diamond under the lie of a light-polluted sky i, solo sprinter, stomach such strain sweat slowly slithers down slick skin few frequent these footpaths now save for foxes and me and three boys barter, brazen, for borrowed basketball coarsely caress concrete court calls criminalize childhood cheek dare to disparage this decent dream weekdays we wander with wishes assert agency disdain duty to follow feeble freedoms waverly has weaned us we grow willful like weeds we need to be seen
Pete Sheridan, ‘25
Blue Reverberations
Julianna Ishii, ‘27
the art of breaking things
like the white, wintry canvas you splattered with the warm paint of spring and the colorful, lively story you tore til it halted its swing, like the riveting, spellbinding play in which you fashioned yourself the king, and the pink, thumping heart that you tied up with string, you’ve always specialized in the art of breaking things
Anna Wang, ‘26
Your words laid in the soft soil of my belly, Tender, tentative, teeming But not tangible yet
My brain, an equally soft mass
Gaps stopped up with fabricated fabric
Gauze in the gaping wound that is my misstep
Ignorant to your inevitable demise, erasure of your protective disguise I made it all up, that gentle period I stopped it all up, that pooling blood
But your words spill out from me, seeming To have no bounds
Scattered, although out of my hands, still weaning From those seeds I laid.
Louisa Mulligan, ‘26
Photo of Apollo and Daphne by James Anderson . Sculpted by Gian Lorenzo Bernini. Housed in the Galleria Borghese.
Two Thoughts on Daphne and Apollo
(What Can and Can’t Be Captured)
Inspired by the Daphne and Apollo statue by Gian
Lorenzo Bernini.
I.
Sharp and dramatic
Soft and rough
Tree bark, a paralyzing trunk
Leaves that could be dappled, maybe—
Streams of sunshine through a forest canopy as Eternal as marble, smooth and ready, shaped millennia ago
By a river, rushing, or a careful human hand
As eternal as terror, forever frozen, Captured upon Daphne’s Temporary, Fleeting Face.
II. Apparently,
Light shifts through her fingers
A glimpse of forest pushed through By the industrial bulbs of a museum in Rome
Four hundred years from its creation
A millennium and a half from when Ovid described One even older—ancient—moment
In a pastoral glade on a foreign, forgotten peninsula. Apparently, The light’s streaming rustles illusionary leaves Upon Daphne’s gentle, eternal contours; Or, anyway, that’s what those who have seen the statue say But, no matter the angle of the photograph, That light—
Transported from Thessaly to Rome with passed-down tales and chisels— Is never conjured permanently.
Sophia Kantsevoy, ‘26
Trinkets
Olivia Johnson, ‘26
girl with gold
Vivian Cardall, ‘28
The scope of men
“Boys don’t cry”
And yet my dad is the most emotional person I know
Love and Death are guaranteed to bring tears to his eyes
One a rarity and the other constant
I want him to know it’s okay to cry
In fact I insist
I admire the extent of strength and passion he possesses and it would be a shame for that to be a sin
Most men fear tears
As if each droplet will slowly naw away at their masculinity
Obliterate any sign of strength
Dethrone them from their positions of invincibility
Some women even propel this fear
They taunt them, and watch as their tanks slowly crack bit by bit
They bet on when it’ll break, eager to throw the tears into their eyes inflicting once again the pain they had just released
Men must be beasts
Unaffected, Unashamed, Unconfined
It’s not a crime to cry, and we wonder why
Well my dad is not a Beast, he knows that he bleeds
He is the epitome of a man
He loves profusely
He cares constantly
He laughs relentlessly
He protects silently
Why should a tear detract from that strength, Id argue it adds I can always tell when his love is on the brink of blubbering over
His eyebrows begin to furrow, then begins the avoidance of eye contact and when our eyes meet again his are red
Now with water just above his bottom eyelid
In that instant, I feel a tightening in my heart
This isn’t from sadness or pity
I feel honored, honored to know that as long as I’m breathing I am loved, honored to see a glimmer of my dad’s humanity, grateful that my dad isn’t a beast but human I’ve never seen my dad sob, but his eyes have definitely watered
With each embrace, he signifies his devotion to my life
It’s beautiful to witness someone care about others more than they do themselves
Oh how to love someone that much
If my father was mute I’d still conceptualize the gravity of his love
It’s the way he moves, the way he could carry us all on his shoulders, and if those shoulders gave way he’d build something more efficient
Without a word, he’d smile and point us towards our higher selfs I know my dad cries because he loves
If only more men knew how to do that
Makayla Walker, ‘25
Retrospective Thoughts
I am eleven (?) Groggy, soaking sun from the front windshield, languid beams manipulating me into sleep states.
…
My mom enters brows furrowed, jaw tight.
“What’s wrong?” my voice high-pitched Fresh.
“A man at the parking meter bowed to me, pressed his hands together.” I don’t Understand.
She looks at me with sadness. We leave the car, walking into the salon.
I am eighteen Floating, as my parents speak to me.
Overwhelmed. -angry?Disappointed. 3 unusual feelings
There is a target on my back here, they tell me. Don’t be Sharp. Loud. Just stay Alive.
I think back to the bowing man and his mock respect. Blissful ignorance now evades me.
I understand better now that Caution and Prudence are friends. In red, white, & blue, I am the odd shade of Yellow.
Child’s Eye View
Talia Santelises, ‘27
Julia Nguyen, ‘25
Housed in the National Gallery of Art
The Rebuke of Adam and Eve
Domenichino, 1626
Case 410; The Rebuke of Adam and Eve
After Domeichino’s painting
God
what a sin it is to be a woman
In a sea of her own blood Eve thinks
God, why do you look at the man
She was taken out of man- a wīfmann
It has venom
Not her breasts nor her cervix
God, what if Adam had gotten to the fruit first
Eve- to live, to give life; 3:20
Mother, what is this sea below me
Adam- man, humankind; 5:1
Father, what did you sacrifice-
He responds: a singular rib and follows
The cat fears the venom
The sheep follows the man
The woman fears the man
The man follows God
Eve
This is your fault
A seductress, temptress, and a sinner
The venom is palpable
No one cares when you bleed
You bleed for the man- bring him his life
Your life is second
Foremost, you are a vessel
But we only ever saw you as a scapegoat
God what a sin it is to be a woman
Madelyn Dunstone,
‘25
2 Sides to the Same Coin
Clink
“A toast! To the end of all ends and the beginning of a fresh start! To the end of our education days. Boys, we are no longer boys, but men. Cheers,” Aiden shouts at the end of his speech, raising his glass high into the air.
“Cheers!”
6 voices rise against the endless chatter in the packed restaurant. 6 voices, yet 1 is missing. Aiden notices this, and swings around in his chair with wide eyes. “Isen, are you alright? You’re normally the first one to knock back a drink.”
“Hmm? Yeah, I’m alright,” Isen smiles, “but I’ve been thinking. Why does our education need to end in college? We have always learned that knowledge is infinite, so why stop now? I mean, girls get to continue their education so why can’t we?”
His smile falters as his words are met in silence. 6 pairs of eyes swivel around, avoiding eye contact with one another that would reveal their deepest desires. A hush falls among the group as his words sink into the floor, and the 6 men struggle to voice their opinions on a system that has been set in stone since the beginning of time. They choose to ignore the issues present in their lives where every man faces oppression, and instead, stay quiet. Stay hidden. And stay safe. However, a small seed has been planted, and the story of that night would never be forgotten. Or would it?
Hanna Kim, ‘26
Enjoyed it?
Read more here:
Complacency
Why should we have to beg you
To find it in yourself, To put us first?
It’s our generation, This isn’t your liberation. But your ego weighs you down So far that you refuse to see The otherside, and how you Believe they shouldn’t Put their guns aside?
Contemplating your ignorance Is your only existence. It’s not that hard to figure out, Yet you want to make me doubt, Tell me my opinion doesn’t count, That you’re here to just hope it works out. But how could you say that? I guess you’d rather them be completely Forgotten about?
How could you choose complacency When these people are dying so painfully By the hands of a man, With power greater than anyone else’s stand? When we know it’s time to end the violence And people like you will have to realize why The world won’t be silenced, Because we are united, And we will still fight it.
Ophelia Giamatti, ‘27
Sketch Anonymous, ‘26
The shower sings a tune of renewal
Its steam a promise to cleanse
You scrub, as if your skin
Could shed the weight of self loathing, Soap washing whispers of wretchedness away
Yet the mirror remains Layers peeled away but beneath it all misery clings, raw and unmerciful
How ironic, this room of erasure
Where grime dissipates
Yet insecurities harden like stone
You leave cleaner, perhaps, But no lighter
Mariah
Talley, ‘26
The Nature of Mothers
The Earth’s revolving horizon couldn’t fit into the limited scope of our eyes, pretty
Soon our pupils will burst in the relentless attempt to confine the world’s wonders, Women,
The giver of all life and yet the victim of inherent underestimation, causes one to wonder
Why a being so intertwined with the functions of the earth seem to lack any measure to preserve, where
Are the accolades, they are the backbone of everything breathing, Oh my
How I marvel at their strength, the rhythm of their feet sustaining the secret
Beating heart of humanity, they are forced to single-handedly combat the lies,
The ones that say women are nothing without men which is impossible to contend, I’m
Sure the structure of their title will cause you to think the same, but the truth does not
Lie in the name, it manifests itself in actions, how can one confine a woman to the word cute
Although slightly flattering they are much more, or Before, you’d assume that women were built
How could someone be so multifaceted and be displayed as two-dimensional, to
Whom it may concern women are the root, suit
To cultivate every leaf that hangs off its stems, which is a
A tiring task, nature has no fashion
It simply is, every phenomenon is not for the pleasure of human observation, it merely models
The intersectionality of beauty and strength in an astonishing size
Makayla Walker, ‘25
A Golden Shovel poem inspired by Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou
A New Beginning
Katie Mueth,
‘27
Reclamation of Strength:
Mashup of Macbeth & How to Triumph Like a Girl
I like the lady horses best, how they make it all look easy, like running 40 miles per hour is as fun as taking a nap, or grass. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood.
I like their lady horse swagger, after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up! Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose.
As if this big dangerous animal is a part of me, Don't you want to believe it?
Abigail Novoseletskiy, ‘28
Enjoyed it? Read more here:
The Spirit of the Horse
Julianna Ishii, ‘27
Serenity
Cynthia Tan, ‘27
Shallow and Deep
An ocean of lies lies beneath prying eyes,
If you listen closely, you can hear little cries.
Shallow and deep, where secrets lie asleep, She chose to bury hers in the deep.
So far out, not even the deepest lurkers could reach. Something she often did, and more often came to teach.
Olivia Johnson, ‘26
Primus Amor
MY FIRST LOVE was the brush of snow white piano keys against curious fingertips. It was not luxurious nor grand, nor were the keys simple enough that I could master them as quickly as I so furiously desired, but it was an instrument nonetheless. And though instruments should always be revered, this one was old and jaded, heaving with the sighs of its human’s soft weight as the human grew bigger than the keys and the years grew by until she disappeared. The shining black surface wrenched a sea beneath, wielding the heart and adoration of my motherland. It was an island that my naivete should have known never to cross, never to displease. In those days, the sea surrounding it was tumultuous and angry, a tailor of chaos waiting to stitch its heavy seams on my lapel, velvet fabric that was ravishing but weighed so much, so terribly, like lead on a scale.
But once I swam past the waters and landed on the marshy earth, it all felt different. My arms were muddy from wading through the wetlands, and the inside of my elbows made rivers, and it would become so silent around me that I could hear the microscopic bead of sweat forming on my forehead. And three golden pedals felt cool underneath my feet, grounded stepping stones so different from the trembling rocks scattered throughout the stony trail I took down to my teacher’s basement door every week. The rocks were fractured asunder. Walking on them felt perilous, and the yellow flowers that grew in between the cracks were exquisite but no solace. And still, when milky white and ebony black merged
to devise sweet staccatos and deep, rich and lulling basses, the chords sounded faultless, natural. Each note was pristine but stirring, forged from haunting and bare human thought—perhaps overly sentimental, but inevitable, reverent. The sounds were simultaneously modest and world ending, and if I focused on the silence and not the overwhelming noise I uncovered another layer of a siren with beautiful, but unapproachable eyes.
When I was a child, my teacher seemed an island away, which is difficult for me to describe even now. She was exceptionally unapproachable and remarkably irritable. Further, she always bore a slow, cutting tsk building under her tongue that I never seemed to steer my sail away from. Now, when I see her, she has little wrinkles round her formerly scolding eyes, and little laughs on her lips, which are gentle, like a lazy river floating upstream. Yet, curiously, she still harbors the white, silvery hair that blends with the spotless carpet, weaving between the stitching, fixing together until your good, faithful eye tricks you into believing they are one in the same. And then there are the white papers, still tacked to the bulletin board beside the grand piano, horrific and strange dark ink spelling out the names of each winner that week in tiny font. Though it has been years since I first saw that bulletin board, those names still were never mine.
My first love feels forbidden now. Like the unspoken, vague words on my tongue that I cannot quite seem to grasp, no matter how much I stare forebodingly, burning holes in the black casing that ruled the world. Like how the sound of the notes and the sharp turn of sheet music will always be lost. Its piercing edges and rounded, golden furnishings will not be remembered by me when I grow older, and my own edges have long lost their rigidity. Deserted are the hammers that drive through the strings, working like a ceaseless pulley that pushes and pulls like the notes that had once adorned my life like little tinkering Christmas bells. I should never again envision each scene of each story, or forge the perfect chord, feeling red yarn tie my fingers to the keys as if they belonged there, as if they were sewn together into the fabric of my skin. Now the keys carve their path again, forsaking my slowness and inability to love them, slowly and patiently waiting to envelop the sound of another human’s soft, slow breath.
I shouldn’t try to pretend that it doesn’t bother me—being replaced by another inquisitive pair of hands that may look so much like my own. But my days seem to always trip me, and, with my cheek pressed to the burning pavement, I see so plainly how the asphalt is black and the sidewalk white, like how the keys on the piano are married. I see how the sky is so blue, but not bluer than Ms. Olga’s eyes, and the trees bear the weight of a thousand years strong, though certainly not older than the ancient instrument I had once known to have resided in generations of human sweat and ardor. I remember too much; often, the memory is all enveloping and my regret consumes me.
But some days, like today, I remember that years ago, I had stepped down the rocky trail, and stopped at the bottom, stopped definitively to stare at the flower growing jaggedly from a crack in the stone. The flower was yellow, and it struggled against the hard stone. I turned my back, an act of defiance, to the screen door of Ms. Olga’s basement. I looked out at the skyline and I saw the sun, and in the sunlight the earth bore fruit, and exuberance, and love and joy and togetherness, and new seeds to be planted. So I couldn’t stay there then, and I shouldn’t now—how could I? I remember more and more of that fateful day—I walked out towards the sun and I felt its warmth as if for the first time. Astonished, I closed my eyes and imagined yellow flowers, ripe and unconstricted by the rocky stones they fought against to grow. When I opened my eyes, my love had been placed in the beauty of the sun, and there it would remain.
Anna Wang, ‘26
Holidays at Bryn Mawr
Bunni McLean, ‘25
Rhythms and recipes
OMG am so hungry , Are you hungry?
Yeah i could go for some food Ok let me cook then.
Cause all day and all night I be in the back of that kitchen Whipping up lyrics and simmering Down melodies till al dente.
I be marinating these tunes In a bowl of sauce, sauteing These bars until crispy.
Do you smell the harmonies
The pitch, the sizzling of the chords And keys.
Cutting these lyrics into words. Voice cracks eggs into a batter of percussion.
So are you still hungry ?
Madelyn Dunstone, ‘25
Punica Granatum
Reflections
Bunni McLean, ‘25
liability
plunge your hand into my chest and caress my heart or rip it out of my body i won’t be able to tell the difference take my time, kill my days call it a blessing or a waste it’s not really the words that define the existence you render me a shapeshifter you create me as a womb once did reborn in your arms i become more than i ever have been that is to say everything you took away built me up everywhere you pulled me, a lesson learned our dance a game, split, deadlocked you won in the end of course and it was well earned
break me into shards like i was never complete how could i have ever been before you anyway destroy me like the last note you burned save me the trouble of what i have to say
say my name again drag me under with your voice such humanity found in such a suffocation you remind me what it means to be alive the memories the scars hold worth every abrasion
Pete Sheridan, ‘25
The Story
the late summer evening sits quiet as dusk falls upon this state
as you pile more food upon my plate reciting a line about how i’m not eating enough
i sit on this porch watching the corn fields begin behind your garage the wall they make a mirage hiding the past
the past that watched you run these fields as a boy watched you build your house, a ploy for security this handcrafted home a long lost form of artistry never since replicated
you’ve never believed in fate but this life was long ago set up for you this south carolina sky as sure as your parents stripping stalks of tobacco
your parents who prayed you would never do the same your parents who prayed asking to be saved in god’s name your parents who prayed to give you better but could never guarantee it
even with your scholarship letter even with your dreams almost within reach this systemic prison stole them from you leeched them from your veins and you? you took matters into your own hands
i sit in the place you left long ago its bones creaky with time, its roots exactly the same this legacy of prowess and diligence and love spanning the breadth of a nation calling my name
this amtrak chugs up the coastline 520 miles, down the throat like warm tea you watch every single one fall away through the window you must have looked back or maybe you just looked to me
looked for me, though i stood just out of reach, looked straight into my eyes, knowing i’d understand the story even if we were to never meet
Pete Sheridan, ‘25
Two Trees and a Sunset Kelsey Chang, ‘25
Stained
It takes approximately 1 hour and thirty minutes for henna to stain the skin. Depending on the desired pigmentation of the henna stain, it can take up to twenty four hours. It is a simple process: apply the henna paste onto the skin, allow for it to dry, and then scrape it off while waiting at least an hour and thirty minutes. Apply. Wait. Scrape.
On the last night of Ramadan, after breaking fast while excitedly sneaking glances at the moon, the women in my family rush to the little, weak, wooden table prepared with henna. Soon, one by one, each of them wears a unique blend of flowers and paisleys on their hands. The women in my family who carry stories in their hands — etched in henna, in calloused palms, in the same way they hold grief and silence without letting it smudge. Then it was my turn, excited and naive; I placed my hands on the shaky wooden table and admired the artist’s intricacy when she began to adorn my hands. The paste was cool and tingly against my warm hands yet I should have known by morning, it would burn itself deep inside me. After the artist finished, I carefully fixed my Indian attire and proudly showed off my hands. My grandmother, my first target, stared at my freshly adorned hands and traced the patterns with her eyes that were wrinkled at the corners, not just from laughter, but from years of unshed grief. Her gaze heavy with admiration and echoes of stories that would never be heard. She gave me a tender kiss on the forehead and said wearily, in thick Urdu, “Your henna is lovely. Remember, you cannot wipe it now. Be Careful, my love”. I responded with a smile and hurried off to my aunts, who also adorned their hands with the tingling paste. However, their henna is freshly dried now and is starting to flake off. My aunts who wear their past the same way they wear their bangles—clinking, layered, impossible to remove without leaving a mark. My aunts who wear their past the same way they wear their fresh henna stains— carefully and anxiously. My aunts gently and gracefully grab my hands and tell me in their thick Urdu, “So beautiful. Be careful”. The last person I desired to show was my mother. She was the only one with calloused hands and no henna stained on her hands. My mother’s hands, which gently trace the henna on my palms with care, now carry the same sting as her words, as did her own mother. As my mother gently traces the patterns on my palms, a little girl accidentally bumps into my mother causing her to mildly smudge a flower on my palm. My mother, remaining calm, says in her thick and loving Urdu, “I’m sorry my love, accidents happen, don’t let them hold you back”. My mother’s love was like henna—deep, rich, and always there. But it was also sharp at times, leaving marks that lingered too long. She loved me with the same hands that once trembled under her mother’s anger, and I felt it—her love and her pain, tangled in a way that neither of us could untangle. I responded to my mother with a kind smile and kiss on the cheek and decided to sit down while listening to A.R Rahman’s: “Tere Bina”.
Nisa Ashruf, ‘26
Citric Undertones
I put on an orange dress with white lace sewn onto the edges of the fabric I was listening to my favorite song when I did that, did you know that?
I was playing dress up doll listening to sweet melodies my knees were muddy and the grass was plastered every which way I swung so high on the swings, and forgot to come down so you grabbed me down did you already know it then?
I told the stars about you, I told the moon about you yet, you already know how to hurt me
Grace Kayingo, ‘27
Convocation
It’s a Monday morning in July and I’m walking down 35th street. It’s already humid and I can feel myself beginning to sweat under the early sun and I know that today will run slow and sweet like honey, like every other Monday morning during summertime in Baltimore. In between work and play, all I can seem to do lately is retrace my steps, unintentionally finding myself chasing the ghosts of my past. Maybe it’s nostalgia, knowing that this is the last summer of its kind, my last Baltimore summer that will bleed into a Baltimore fall, the last summer I will be a child here. Or perhaps it’s not a consequence of nostalgia but merely of having lived in the same place for seventeen years, the texture of these sidewalks imprinted into the soles of my feet, the neighborhood around me a seamless extension of my house, a definitive part of what makes this place my home. I don’t know if I’m wistfully chasing these ghosts or if I am inventing them, because regardless of where I find myself I can always find my past self there, too. Lately, I have been seeing myself everywhere and perhaps it’s the lazy nature of a summer morning but in this gentle, golden light the memories I watch replay are idyllic, blissful, familiar, broken in like the shoes on my feet. It’s so easy to idealize the Saturday wagon rides to the farmers’ market and rides on my dad’s shoulders home, the trips to the playground at the Y, the concrete under my bare feet as I drew my dreams with sidewalk chalk, the freedom I felt biking to the row house on the other end of our set, though it can’t have been more than a hundred feet away. In this gentle, golden light, these streets feel utopian, the same way that they used to in childhood when all I knew was the comically diverse, peaceful, tightknit community I was raised in. Summertime is an easy season, my favorite season, one I relax into as soon as it comes and latch onto desperately when it tries to leave, and so during summertime it’s easy to find this place flawless, to forget the resentment I used to harbor for it, to see only the good. But I know what it means to love Baltimore and I know that my love for Baltimore was not borne of these lazy mornings and peaceful afternoons, but rather fought for desperately.
Somewhere in my childhood, in the nights that insomnia kept me lying awake in my bedroom, the air around me infused by
the sounds of sirens or fireworks or train horns, a resentment for my home planted itself into my mind. In the days spent running around my friends’ backyards or finished basements only to return to my own home that had neither, in the sidewalks enveloped by smoke and steam, in the shattered windows and boarded up buildings, in the encampments on grass medians, I began to be repulsed by my environment. I had bigger dreams, a vision of living on a farm, looking out my window to see nothing but green, hearing only crickets chirping and wind blowing at night. I begin to savor moments at Bryn Mawr where the acres of land, the woods outside the Lower School windows provide fuel for my fantasy. I begin to be plagued by shame in my own home, constantly comparing it to those of my peers, finding issues in my everyday life, disrupting my own peace. But these issues become further compounded by the real problems surrounding me, as it becomes impossible to be sheltered from the obvious: my mother teaching me and my brother lessons on how to avoid being profiled as suspicious, getting catcalled before I even reach middle school, walking alone in my oversized sweatshirt, neighborhood break-ins forcing extra caution upon us. As I learn that growing up in Baltimore means there is no room to be carefree, I again dream of a home with more distance between myself and my neighbors, perhaps in a small town, but this time for different reasons...
Pete Sheridan, ‘25
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Kaleidoscope
Johanna Pitts, ‘27
The Windows to the Soul
inspired by lucille clifton’s poem, “homage to my hips”
they say that Eyes are the windows to the Soul; can you see Mine? remnants of earth’s soil, two brown irises flash like embers. yet these Eyes betray me, exposing my desires, attention, emotions, and if Yours look closely, tears that threaten to escape when words say otherwise. these Eyes see to see what Ears could not hear. these Eyes have seen both brutality and beauty. these Eyes bring shades of color & shadows unimaginable to the mind, trace shapes & outlines inimitable for an artist. these Eyes see to seek the truth to see the ignored and overlooked. piercing through deceit, my double-edged sword some use to mock and ridicule, caricatured me into a stereotype. it is true, these Eyes mark my identity, yet; They are proof that those before me loved these Eyes.
Alice Li, ‘25
Currents of Memory: Journey of the Hippocampus
First place winner of Melange’s “Journeys” competition
Sophia Luo, ‘26
Wanderlust
When the mountains crumble to the ground, The cities flood and the oceans rumble, We won’t let them take us, We won’t let them have us,
Even when the road has no end, And the ghosts of the past Blend our souls until they disappear, Into a frost that’s crystal clear.
Nothing we can’t remember, Nobody we can forget, No where we will ever go, No words we will regret,
My ghost follows where I go, Wistfully holds me and lets go, There’s so much I could do, So much bliss I don’t want to miss, All the memories, I’ve reminisced, For now, I close my eyes and wait, Until the world falls to my knees, Someday it’ll turn to dust, And I’ll be lost in wanderlust.
Ophelia Giamatti, ‘27
Journey
Second place winner of Melange’s “Journeys” competition
Annie Yuan, ‘26
Journeys
Third place winner of Melange’s “Journeys” competition
Every day I pass by my house. Now, a family lives there. Every day I pass by my school. Now, students go there. Every day I pass by my park. Now, kids go down the slide. Every day I pass by my pictures. Now, they are only a flash into the past.
I am no longer part of the family who resides in my house. I am no longer a student who goes to my school. I am no longer the child who rides the slide. I am no longer the child in my eyes. I am no longer; What I was. Yet it lives on within me.
Every day, I pass by myself - the car speeds by my memories. I look out the window, silent. Silently observing the places I have gone and no longer go to. The car does not stop. I get scared. I get excited. I feel the jaw-dropping feeling as if I almost fell yet caught myself. I sigh in relief. Then. I look to the driver seat: a mirror.
Sahasra Valluri, ‘26
Snail Dance
In the heart of emerald shadows deep, Where rainforest whispers secrets keep, A ballet unfolds on a mossy stage, A dancer adorned in pearl, on pilgrimage.
Lumbering steps on the log’s green lane, A snail, a dancer, free of disdain.
Silent in movement, a slow-paced delight, A symphony written in the rainforest’s light.
Pearlescent grace against the verdant hue, A solo performance, a ballet anew.
Terrarium green and mossy embrace, Nature’s dancer twirls in tranquil grace.
Oblivious to onlookers in the silent glade, A swift, shining dancer in the forest arcade.
Low-lying, yet in simplicity refined, A sylvan ballet of the tranquil kind.
Raindrops suspended in midair, Accentuate the dance, a spectacle rare. The log, a stage, the moss, a floor, A snail’s ballet, a forest encore.
In the realm of shadows, where tales are spun, A dancer emerges, the dance begun.
Sylvan ballet in the rainforest’s trance, Nature’s poetry, a delicate dance.
Annie Yuan, ‘26
Tysie Looking
Sascha Hurwitz, ‘26
Cynthia Tan, ‘27
bao jiao zi
“Mama, how are your dumplings so pretty?”
Her dumplings were plump and pinched, creating a flower-like crown on top. They were all uniform, yet unique.
I learned how to make dumplings years ago, but mine always came out long and flappy.
“You just pinch it, like this,” she responded, demonstrating something I’d seen, and failed at, hundreds of times before. I slowly folded the dough over the filling, before giving it a tight pinch. And there it was, a little gold ingot.
“Mama! I did it!”
“你出徒了” she smiled.
I have nothing left to teach you.
Cynthia Tan, ‘27
Cynthia Tan submitted this piece to The New York Times’ flash memoir writing contest and it didn’t win; however her more recent contest submission made it into the top 25% out of over three thousand submissions.
Nostalgia
Madelyn Dunstone, ‘25
Simple Things: Unrelated Haikus
flurries: down from the heavens frozen tears of the gods fall softly touching earth
defibrillator: sunk into the dark dim light glints in the distance shock me back to life drums: behind the music this heartbeat is the rhythm perfect metronome parasite: latching on until i have nothing left to give when is it enough?
A Flower in Bloom Shanthi Sethuraman, ‘27
Johanna Pitts, ‘27
City Lights
Katie Mueth, ‘27
shoelaces
remembering the day when you told me we’d never decay didn’t you long furiously that i could love you someday?
sitting here alone, in my plight
wallowing in this suffocating summer night blindly coveting the snow’s love from winter, when everything was right
reminiscing, i think, doesn’t rescind your honey eyes terrible and full of chagrin watching as we slowly melted and our flitting season became hot and golden
in those tree branches’ fleeting love perhaps there never existed a dove never a winter, or never a beloved
our legs crossed different streets all our words strange and incomplete bodies bound woefully by the shoelaces that tied us in different places
but the snow melts quickly, dutifully and the sun brings revived faces so now, we stand nothing more than a snow boot without laces
Anna Wang, ‘26
An Evening in the Sunset
ABOVE: The stars tolled the death knell of the universe overhead. It was a pretty noise—a giggle of crystals, the melodic sparkling of iridescent facets. As if somebody was toasting a thousand well-wishes at a dinner party next door, or waving a firecracker in a humid July evening. This was not July, though—how could everything come to a close with the promise of summer breezes ahead? So, it was—it had to be—December, and solemn frost waltzed down to kiss the earth goodbye.
BELOW: A revel. Poets, and plague doctors, and the periapsis-pilots of the All-Solar Empress’ Most Honorable 48th Fleet roiled and twisted, learning each other in the dawn of that old, eternal enemy Forgetfulness, who’s hunted civilization tirelessly and is finally sinking her teeth into the most hearty of feasts. This night, though, her specter loomed less ominous—a long-awaited visitor lost in a storm, only now pulling into light-blessed harbor, rather than a stalking beast prowling through jungles of shade. Perhaps it was the day; December lies open to new beginnings, even if nothing is begun. It might’ve been the time, too; sure, the stars drifted overhead, but the warmth of frenzied bodies—Maenads in their last throes—brought the caress of day, mellowing that harsh breaking point, Horizon. So, while night bore its full bounty above, below—where bare limbs embraced in the reckless manner of the about-to-be-departed, despite the conspicuous chill icing the ground—it had to be sunset.
It was the end of the universe, it was vesper twilight, it was December, and the stars tolled their death knell overhead.
Sophia Kantsevoy, ‘26
Iridescent Sophia Luo, ‘26
A Present to Us
Tirelessly swinging from start to finish, only meeting in the middle for a second. Chained by the rope, forced back and forth by the weight of the world.
So repetitive, So simple, So effortless.
Every one of us inherited this ability, yet few are able to master it, To get a hold of its gravity and magnitude, To control the frequency of the swings.
This place seems so familiar yet unknown. Forgotten and drowned by the uncertainties of the future, Haunted and shackled by “mistakes” in the past. There’s never time for the present.
Like a monkey desperately swinging from branch to branch, vine to vine, never staying on one branch, We never reside in the present for long.
Always too quick to judge the unchangeable, to frantically traverse through our memories for an answer, All to find solace.
Always too quick to doubt our abilities, to suffocate from stress, All to declare the right path.
A constant whisper in my head –What could I have done? What would I have changed?
Never asking –What am I doing now?
What can I do?
Afterall,
We lived in the past. We are going to live in the future. We should be living in the present.
Not yesterday, Not tomorrow, But today.
Today is a gift, A present to all of us.
Jamie Zhu, ‘27
Bliss
Sophia Luo, ‘26
A Hundred Moons
I gaze up to the sky and see a hundred moons. The stars paint themselves onto the dark canvas of the sky, toned with the subtleness of blanketing night.
The moons peek playfully over the crests of rolling hills. As I look up, I think of how my hundred moons pale in comparison to the thousand moons that you have seen, putting Van Gogh to shame with the pureness of the night stars of which his works could only have been replicas.
I have never thought you so wise as when I saw you then, those thousand moons glistening an all-knowing milky-white hue behind the shining of your eyes to match the stars above us,
I had never thought how simple my hundred moons were to your thousand. They wax and wane, shifting through phases, but you have seen them all.
One day, I, too, will see a thousand moons.
Johanna
Pitts, ‘27
Calm After the Storm
Katie Mueth, ‘27
A Distant Star
I think I’m in love with the sun
I marvel at its ability to set me a glow
Not a blaze
But a glow
It could transform me to ash if it wanted to
But it chose to submerge my body in an iridescent shade of brown
It rejuvenates my spirit, that the cold tried to suffocate
It reminds me of earth’s indisputable orbit
That universal truth that nothing lasts always
How did it know I missed seeing cherry blossoms embrace every corner
Or everything falling into order
The year coming to a close
Who knows what the next will hold
But here we lay basking in the sun
Twiddling grass through our thumbs
It’s like clock work
You rest in the periods of your departure and you encourage us to do the same
During those months you give us more time to rest
Because you understand
Its hard to say goodbye to your shimmer and all the joy you bring
You know how draining it is to accept your absence
But we rest assured because we know you’ll return
So we sleep, and anticipate your glow
I’m so glad that you know
Makayla Walker, ‘25
Daydreamer’s Palace
My treehouse is grand unlike the quaint ones in childhood memories. It weaves across hundreds of trunks
High Low elaborate in its whimsy. Branches grab hands, forming bridges for me to traverse Roots fondly chat about my newest adventure. I swing
A tethered rope to the kitchen A vine ladder to my bed. Calluses glove my hands, skin accustomed to tickling leaves unbothered by insects’ kissing crawl. Friends visit, climbing to the lowest level before tiring They paint aloud their outside-world escapades We spend content hours admiring the bird calls and peaceful vibrancy before I easily send them back to their lives. I climb to the tallest height every night watch the dusky sky gain freckles I am all the company I need. At the end, I descend into my twined hammock the scent of damp cyprus cradling me to sleep.
Julia Nguyen, ‘25
Dew Days
Talia Santelises, ‘27
Ode to Trodden Cobblestones
Isn’t it miraculous, to walk upon trodden cobblestones? Worn smooth by uncountable steps, ‘Til they slip new visitors to those beloved paths
Where worshippers, ascending, once bore marble
To be carved and placed Upon unyielding mountaintops?
Where passerby to that beast, Time, Scurried beneath sentinel turrets
To make it through bright market stalls And return, safe, to their hearths ‘ere night?
Where trolleys howled their songs of smoke, Kindled with kerosene and hope
To bear letters from end-to-end Of steadily-extending maps?
Where winds whispered, Plague spread, Poets recited, Flowers were gifted, And newspapers forever harked?
Isn’t it miraculous to walk upon trodden cobblestones And wear them down a smidgeon, too?
Sophia Kantsevoy, ‘26
A Flower in Bloom Shanthi Sethuraman, 27’
Waterfall
Cynthia Tan, ‘27
Flew to Paris For a Hug
flew to paris for a hug- the juxtaposition of the two actions that are completely out of each other’s league. boarding an airplane is something that involves a somewhat high degree of preparation and anticipation, while a hug is a simple gesture that you can give or receive within a matter of seconds. why, then, does comfort require this individual to undergo extreme lengths to receive something so seamless? unfortunately this may suggest that this individual, in moments of need, turns to the warmth of an embrace, but otherwise returns to face a bleak reality of nothingness and loneliness.
Mariah Talley, ‘26
Opposite page: Glacier
Sophia Luo, ‘26
Top Ten Ways “Dream Schools” Are Like Unrequited Crushes
1. At first, you may repress your feelings for various reasons: you don’t want the vulnerability that comes with those feelings, you’re worried about how others could react, you’re scared of getting your hopes up and being rejected, and so on.
2. You may have had a type, or assumed you had one. The recipient of your interest might embody that type perfectly, or you might be surprised to find that you’re interested in them. Maybe you go through life thinking you know what you want, only to fall head over heels when you least expect it.
3. You might feel pressured- from friends, family, your environment, etc- to have a certain type, or to look elsewhere, even if you don’t want to. You may give into that pressure and pretend to be interested when you aren’t, or you might insist that they are the one for you and resolve to tell anyone who objects to jump in a lake. Still, though, you care what people close to you think of them.
4. You’re aware your chances are low, but hope lingers in your mind, despite your efforts to banish it with logic.
5. Interest blooms into a borderline-obsession. You stalk them online, spend hours daydreaming about them, and eavesdrop shamelessly wherever you hear their name.
6. There may be factors that increase your odds: maybe they pay attention to demonstrated interest, for example. Maybe they like musicians, or people who do a lot of community service. Whatever it is, you find yourself feeling compelled to try new activities, not necessarily because you’re interested in them, but because you want to be a more attractive option. Maybe you give in to that compulsion, or maybe you stick to the things you really like, hoping that your passion will be enough to impress.
7. Your self-esteem may suffer. If only I had done this instead of that, you think. If I could just do more, stand out more, then they’ll notice me; then they’ll want me, surely. The underlying feeling is that you need to be better for them to accept you, that you aren’t enough as you are.
8. Fear of rejection looms. What if you aren’t enough; what if they don’t want you? You know there are plenty of options out there, but they all pale in comparison now, and that scares you. Besides, what if no one ever wants you? What will your life look like then?
9. You worry about competition. You can do all the right things, and they could still choose someone else. You have no control over what they decide. You may even be confronted with the fact that someone else has captured their affection. Said lucky soul may flaunt their new relationship, likely without knowing how it pains you.
10. You consider not even trying; what’s the point? But you also want to shoot your shot, because when you imagine a future with them, you like what you see.
‘26
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Kate Strand,
Little People Sword Fight
Kate Strand, ‘26
Tea Time
All labels are objective: there is no obligation to fulfill them. However, when someone asks, who are you? I am left slightly lost, just like my parents were when they emigrated from India.
*
I could say I’m a biscuit or a pack of Maggi noodles. Maybe today I’ll choose a biscuit for my fulfillment.
As the old grandma in the foyer dips her biscuit in her chai, I watch from a distance. Will that be me in many years? Or has my identity been altered beyond repair due to my parents’ actions?
* Sometimes, I indulge in a biscuit or two, naively thinking the child on the packet is me, as my mother convinced me at a young age. The biscuit, however, is just a biscuit: a tasty yet inanimate object. So, in that, I look in the mirror and think “Yes, I will be different, but even as I grow old, I’ll have my biscuit and chai, even if it happens to be a cookie and coffee.”
I’ll still be me and that includes every biscuit and every cookie.
Sahasra Valluri, ‘26
Playing In Front of The Science Building
Ray Adeyoju, ‘27
Surrounded Julianna Ishii, ‘27
...and I keep walking in peace, accepting that no matter how far I go, homecoming is imminent, and my home will be waiting with open arms.
Pete Sheridan, '25
