MUSE 2022

BOSTON UNIVERSITY ACADEMY

Editors, Members, and Sponsors of The MUSE Editors

Art Contributors

Julia Dickinson ’22 Sally Jamrog ’23

Sarah Bernard ’24 Aparna Deokar ’24 Sally Jamrog ’23 Sitarah Lakhani ’22 Sofia Martini ’24 Tatum Mueller ’23 Robbie Mulroy ’24 Angela Noyes ’25 Michelle Qian ’24 Satya Rencic ’25 Ally Tian ’25 Leo Wang ’23

Members & Contributors Alyssa Ahn ’23 Celeste Alcalay ’22 Christian Asdourian ’23 Ava Brilman ’25 Dorothy Brown ’22 Kaeleen Chen ’23 Celine Cheung ’25 Kate Dickinson ’23 Sarah Emmert ’24 Aster Gamarnik ’23 Liam Kirwin ’22 Caden Krauter ’23 Audrey Lin ’22 Olga Meserman ’24 Richa Mishra ’24 Tatum Mueller ’23 Tanay Nambiar ’22 Cece Noel ’22 Alice Shu ’25 Emmanuel Smirnakis ’23 Charlie Walsh ’22 Dustin Zhang ’22

Front Cover Art Rainbow Owl, Sally Jamrog ’23

Back Cover Art Soup, Ally Tian ’25

Printer Jay Arthur, ProPrint Typesetting and Layout by Julie Gallagher, to whom we give our deepest appreciation and thanks once again.

Faculty Advisor Dr. Lauren Proll

Special Thanks Mr. Christos Kolovos Copyright © 2022 Boston University Academy Boston, Massachusetts

Table of Contents Editors’ Note

v

Strangers, Dorothy Brown ’22

1

Inspired By a Mushroom, Dorothy Brown ’22

1

When Sonny Gets Blue: A Retelling of James Baldwin’s “Sonny’s Blues,” Celeste Alcalay ’22

2

Planets, Sitarah Lakhani ’22

7

Water Bottle, Sitarah Lakhani ’22

7

Birthdays, Alice Shu ’25

8

Winter’s Watchman, Sally Jamrog ’23

9

Dear Hood, Emmanuel Smirnakis ’23

10

8:30—Harold Munfield, Kate Dickinson ’23

12

Abstract Line Drawing, Sofia Martini ’24

15

Sapphire Waves, Julia Dickinson ’22

16

January, Julia Dickinson ’22

17

A City’s Spring, Julia Dickinson ’22

17

Inmate, Sally Jamrog ’23

18

Haibun on the Green Line, Liam Kirwin ’22

19

Nature is Futile, Liam Kirwin ’22

20

Under Luna’s Umbra, Christian Asdourian ’23

21

Still Life with Tea Pot, Angela Noyes ’25

22

Glass Study, Tatum Mueller ’23

22

The Light, Kate Dickinson ’23

23

Emily Dickinson Pastiche, Tatum Mueller ’23

25

iv

Emily Dickinson Pastiche (Grief — that grasping, ancient thing —), Sally Jamrog ’23

26

Patience, Audrey Lin ’22

27

Self Portrait, Aparna Deokar ’24

28

Ignorance is Bliss, Charlie Walsh ’22

29

Treacled Melodies, Dorothy Brown ’22

33

Am I a science or a fantasy?, Julia Dickinson ’22

35

Architecture, Robbie Mulroy ’24

36

Knight, Leo Wang ’23

36

Waking, Liam Kirwin ’22

37

Trees are like People, Liam Kirwin ’22

37

Echo, Aster Gamarnik ’23

38

The Promethean Legacy, Cece Noel ’22

40

Walt Whitman Pastiche (Our Bells Ring at Long Last . . . Forever Free), Alyssa Ahn ’23

41

Walt Whitman Pastiche, Kate Dickinson ’23

42

Marsh Chapel, Michelle Qian ’24

44

Now and Forever, Dorothy Brown ’22

45

Still Life, Sarah Bernard ’24

52

Still Life with Phone, Satya Rencic ’25

52

To a Sunflower in My Sister’s Garden, Sally Jamrog ’23

53

Haibun: Dragonfly, Dustin Zhang ’22

54

Editors’ Note Dear Readers: We are pleased to present the 2022 edition of The Muse, Boston University Academy’s annual literary magazine. It is exciting and fulfilling to see this beautiful web of student prose, poetry, and art coalesce into this lovely little book. I hope you enjoy reading this year’s edition of The Muse as much as the rest of us have enjoyed assembling it.

Though I am thrilled to help publish yet another rich edition of The Muse, this year’s publication is bittersweet since Dr. Proll, Lit Mag’s wonderful faculty advisor, is retiring at the end of this academic year. Dr. Proll has fearlessly led Lit Mag through pre-pandemic, online, and masked formats.

Each of us eagerly awaits our Thursday afternoon meetings to read student work with her and pick up valuable tips for our own writing (including the famous “be” verb elimination). Not only has she been a mentor to all of us in Lit Mag, but she has done the same for the hundreds of BUA students she has taught English in tenth and twelfth grade. I can speak from my personal experience, having had Dr. Proll as both a teacher and advisor.

I will always value her reassurance that everything will turn out well each time I’ve walked into her classroom. All of us thank her with our greatest gratitude for her guidance, empathy, and wisdom. Congratulations on a well-earned retirement!

I would also like to thank everyone who has attended Lit Mag meetings this year. There would be no magazine without you, and I will miss listening to your praise of a peer’s work. Thank you also to our contributors and artists for enriching The Muse with your artistry and perspective. Last but certainly not least, we extend our gratitude to Julie Gallagher, our typesetter, for bringing our literary magazine to life with her expert and beautiful formatting.

One might think that the continued disruption of the COVID-19 pandemic would have dampened Lit Mag, but in fact, Lit Mag has only grown stronger since I started at BUA four years ago. Writing and the appreciation of written work have stayed constant through the world’s ever-changing

v

landscape. Lit Mag has withstood and will continue to withstand great changes, but it will always be a safe haven for creative minds at BUA, a place to write and collaborate. I warmly welcome you to join us in tapping into your own creative side while reading this year’s edition of The Muse.

vi

Julia Dickinson ’22

Dorothy Brown ’22

Strangers Mars is a fleck of iron dust Embedded in the soft night’s skin That slouches through without a course: A familiar stranger wandering.

What ties us to his ambled path But this thin shell of night?

And one red pearl that swings us round On tethers formed of light?

And what ties my slouched soul to yours, But our own drifting home?

Our unmet eyes locked to one sky Our feet locked to one stone.

Inspired By a Mushroom I am in awe of brown mushrooms on grey-brick basement walls, And spiders weaving tender threads from gathered drops of blood, And sparrows perched in snow whose pulses thrum beneath their down.

If such frail hearts may beat, and such thin limbs weave silver silk, And such life spring from old, wet stones, I too am blessed by strength, And I will awe the world by pulling smiles from its storms.

1

Celeste Alcalay ’22

When Sonny Gets Blue: A Retelling of James Baldwin’s “Sonny’s Blues” Bodies in motion made it so our bodies contorted. Like mismatched puzzle pieces, we collided with the crowd at the bar and fit ourselves through.

This was ritual, the shimmy you had to do to reach the cats in the back. It felt good to be back. My fingers had missed the keys. I’d messed around once or twice on the piano since I’d returned, but my hands wouldn’t relax to their usual position on top of the wooden blocks with the shiny ivory coating. What got me was that I’d notice the act of lifting my arms up and placing them down. When I first started improvising, it was like that. Bird’s ideas are in your head, and the piano doesn’t really have a head, so you gotta get the ideas into your fingers and fight until you and the piano get along. The difference was, now, I knew my hands knew, and my hands knew it too. I was berserk waiting for it to come back to me. In prison, I’d form my hands into the shapes of chord voicings I remembered and play progressions so I could hear them. When I put them to time, it got to look like I was stabbing the air. I saw that looked pretty wild, so I stopped.

“Hello, boy,” Creole bellowed.

I let my eyes familiarize themselves with that lighting in which cigarette smoke made figures like dancers twirling above your head. He was reclining on a chair in this room dripping with atmosphere. “I been sitting right here,” Creole said, “waiting for you.”

An overwhelming presence grew. Creole’s arm swung over my shoulder.

The sensation was comfortable. The pressure made me aware of my physicality, reminded me I was a person. That was nice, because sometimes I really forgot. Or wanted to. Sensing my brother next to me lingering, unsure, I oriented myself toward him. He was walking through space like I walked through everywhere else.

“Creole, this is my brother,” I said. “I told you about him.”

Man, was my brother a phenomenon. His eyes hadn’t acclimated to the low glow and you could tell by his shimmying how he bumped up against chicks, excused himself, and stumbled awkwardly. He was new to this scene. But hell, I was too, practically, on account of my being in prison.

2

“I’m glad to meet you, son,” Creole responded. They shook hands. Creole moved his arm and slapped me lightly on my cheek. For a moment, I felt his weight as missing, like I was on the verge of tipping over till he got there, and now I was tipping again. “You got a real musician in your family.” I grinned. From Creole, that was gold. Creole never said anything he didn’t mean. Me too.

I would rather say nothing at all. Words and I don’t get along. Speaking— I mean, about anything real—never came easy to me. The day I told my brother I wanted to play piano, that day, I was struggling with all my might to convey the seriousness of my music. My whole body, hands, arms, face became tense as I recruited them like little soldiers to try and speak for me. To tell someone who you want to be, before you are sure for yourself you can be it, it’s handing all of the power over. I felt naked. The cigarette, my brother’s, gave me something to hold. The little circular, white cylinder seemed good to hide behind. The smoke, too. I had tried it—horse—by then. “Sonny, be reasonable. Sonny, you just got one more year of school.”

His words fell on me hard. Creole, who I knew from before, was always telling me that leaving space in order for the music to breathe was a good thing. But that day, our words lingered in the air all sticky and heavy, the silences felt like your clothes sticking to you on a humid Harlem afternoon where the kids stood under the sprinklers for relief.

I couldn’t tell him what I was scared of, and I was angry at him for that.

I got scared of myself. I sensed a darkness within me, or maybe I would break from the darkness in Harlem. I didn’t know which it was. Still don’t.

By now, Creole had stuck my brother in a corner table. I followed the guys to below the bandstand. Our jesting was helping to relax me. Part of the music happened off stage, where you got to know the guys you played with. We were like onions. Every hour closer to dawn, another layer would peel off. You got to know how many drinks each guy could take, and who they were listening to, and who they loved. If it got somber, I’d talk about my brother, just to speak out loud the words I wanted to speak to him.

There was a tiny knot in my stomach so tangled it couldn’t be undone. I didn’t know if climbing up on the stage would loosen it or pull it tighter.

The drummer, Otis, a goofy character, looked up at me, smiled and punched me in my shoulder. He spoke in a low and steady tone that said his question was honest. “You ready, kid?”

3

I was nervous. I was mighty proud my brother was here, and that tonight, I thought, he might believe in the music. With no drugs in my system, like that awful encounter in the Village, I’d play and he’d listen. The same feeling was there two weeks ago, in the cab ride home. I didn’t know what to say and if I could say it, and for a small amount of time, it was unbearable, but the whole way through I was so happy I was sitting there with him, looking out opposite windows, the miles between us, minute by minute, lessening.

“Well, if I ain’t, I better get ready fast,” I said, half joking, half praying.

Creole looked me up and down. “He’s ready.”

With that, he led me to the piano. Someone called out my name. The crowd clapped. These people were real, and I was there with them, and I wasn’t hurting. That made my whole body smile. The rhythm of the room building to silence was a familiar one. A thin hush fell over the place. Each player acquainted himself with his respective instrument.

I put my hands on the keys. The first set was rough. I wasn’t with it. My body ached. “Come on, Sonny!” a man in the back yelled.

I closed my eyes.

To my brother, Bird, the modern stuff, sounded disordered. To me it was as if someone was finally making sense. I fell in love with jazz, with sound.

It was conversing using a language that, when you mastered it, there were enough colors and rhythms to trust you wouldn’t come up short when you had something to say. No talking is required if you can dig it the same as your bandmates. When I was younger, I had a routine of playing along with records all day, scrunching my face up in ugly formations, as if making it small would make my ears big enough to hear the clustered chords Bud Powell played. That would work up my nerve to go to the jam sessions.

The younger musicians like me were working out their chops and very focused on themselves. The older ones, what they were doing on stage was creating a space to listen, and by listening so intently to each other, they could hear themselves.

I listened. Creole’s fingers walked up his bass again, and the unmistakable twang of The Blues entered my ears. My fingers sat upright atop the keys.

The tension between major and minor is so potent it starts playing you.

4

And the music was going and I was dancing. It hit me that I was back in New York. I heard the piano telling me about Harlem.

Harlem stank, plain and simple. I didn’t want to hate it. As I grew, inevitably, it came into focus. As a child you don’t imbibe the feeling of a place because your imagination is so active you sort of create your own places. But as your imagination recedes, realities begin penetrating your conception of things. The jukebox music, the pick-up basketball games, you know, the stuff kids dig, lose their flair and the universes you once hid in get smaller and while that’s happening, the streets get bigger. The drugs, the trouble are right there in front of you sitting on the street. Once I started living in that physical space I began to feel it. Like, I was carrying everyone’s pain and it was my pain too and it was going to suffocate me. I feel everything. That’s why I’m always running. When you feel everything, that’s done to you. There’s no way to sort through, to pick and choose, which parts of life reach you. Like, when I hear a chord, the sound is so overwhelming, sometimes I almost topple over. I hear each separate note on top of one another, the personalities of each colliding, and that’s how I heard life, and you can’t turn it off. I wanted to be the one doing something. What I got to doing was heroin.

There’s only one place I know where feeling won’t kill you. It’s when you’re in a song. So I played.

I remembered little kids dancing around in the park on the West Side, weaving their way through play structures, gripping the monkey bars, arms hanging on tight. Cornrows bobbed up and down as girls in their dresses jump-roped to rhymes. Some kids, playing hopscotch, seemed real focused on their feet, one leg up, arms out like a bird to keep them from wobbling.

I remembered the graffiti I used to stop at and study on the walls and at the train stations. Some was gang names, words that didn’t mean much.

Sometimes there were really detailed portraits, or scenes that looked like what Harlem could be if it got a new coat of paint.

The whole of Harlem talked without speaking through the graffiti on the walls and the wailing of singers on the street. I had an affinity for things that did that.

I kept following my fingers.

5

Creole said something on his bass. I played the space.

You are a listener and a creator, playing jazz. You have faith that a thing that’s wild will eventually turn into a thing with order. Heroin is trying to do that too, but nothing ever gets in order. With jazz, there’s some way you can incorporate yourself into it. The reality of the pain isn’t gone but it’s manageable to wrangle.

On the bandstand, together, we felt what each other was feeling, and it didn’t stay all compressed and jammed in because it was laid out there, our pain growing into the sound.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my brother, hands clasped to his chest, his shadowy figure illuminated by club lights, and I knew he heard his pain, and in it, there was a place for me.

6

Sitarah Lakhani ’22

Planets

Water Bottle

7

Alice Shu ’25

Birthdays my first birthday a brick blurred apartment captured in a Polaroid that’s still fading angel food cake hovering at the center I don’t remember the inside just my apple cheeks swelling like red party balloons my brother’s big toe sculpted itself into the misty clouds frosted like our birthday cake ceiling I invite more friends over when I’m eleven guests flit through rooms like hedgehogs nuzzling apart pillows sifting through snacks burrowing under pillow forts we tidy when they leave it seems they each took an outside brick as a party favor I turn fourteen in this American Dream but today there is no oil-pool pizza or cookie monster blue cake iced in wispy pink cursive these I leave behind in the supermarket aisle hidden behind blue-box spaghetti today we slurp knife-cut noodles wide as pennies extensive as a highway pinched to the clouds during a long drive home

8

Sally Jamrog ’23

Winter’s Watchman A silver owl sits upon a ladened bough, heavy with a blanket of weary dancers.

After a whirling waltz, they cling together in collective sleep; under the pearled sky, they glimmer beneath the raptor’s eye.

Creeping roamers slink amid the peace, for a silver owl sits upon a ladened bough.

No hiding places dwell among the drifts, as sleeping white betrays the ones who deign to question the solemn hunter’s reign.

Footsteps falter as a hooting sounds, then greedy, gulping silence burgeons anew; a silver owl sits upon a ladened bough.

As a rosied hand lifts to a hopeful ear, wide eyes wish for the caller to appear.

A wolf moon blooms in the frigid bliss, tracing spotted feathers with milky fingers.

Roving eyes settle on the knotted place where a silver owl sits upon a ladened bough.

A secret smile beams beneath a hidden brow.

As booted feet plod a second path into the snow, creatures soundly trust their watcher’s gaze, a vigil for their safety, if they sleep.

And in his fealty to this lonesome vow, the silver owl sits upon a ladened bough.

9

Emmanuel Smirnakis ’23

Dear Hood Dear Hood, With your faded blue dawn as an owl hoots from afar Gently clearing away the remnants Of dreams that have run away with the consciousness of the families, boys and girls, men and women who rest peacefully in your soft beds while a cool breeze drifts over their heads and rustles their still hair; With your little tree nestled in a lush lump of freshly shoveled soil, its drooping collage of foliage rippling in smooth waves; With your misty dew sprinkled lightly across the rooftops of awakening people, drearily blinking their eyes open and rubbing away the blur to gaze out, out at your low fog that softly blankets the grass of their yards and the small streets lined by sidewalks stretching from one house to another; With your little tree nestled in a lush lump of freshly shoveled soil, its earthy aroma being washed away by the brisk current of cleansing air, Its brittle branches shiver with every shift in the morning draft, its thin leaves tremble under the gentle wind’s soft kiss.

10

Dear Hood, With the lights switched on in the small square paneled windows of your stirring homes, weak torch beams flickering sporadically as they drive away the drowsy spell cast by the moon’s ghostly silver gaze; With your wafting scents of scrambled eggs and the sweet tang of orange marmalade spread on cinnamon toast seeping through door frames where some stretch their limbs and draw the curtains for early rays of sunlight to dust off slumber’s melodic tune; With your little tree nestled in a lush lump of freshly shoveled soil, While golden honey droplets dribble down the smooth curves of each leaf, rhythmically pattering against the damp earth, There it stands day after day, season after season, awakening at your faded blue dawn’s touch, falling to a state of still rest under the star-studded night sky.

11

Kate Dickinson ’23

8:30—Harold Munfield So I just . . . start talking? Alright. My name is Harold Munfield, I’m 89 years old, and I am not crazy. I guess that’s why I’m here. When I was a boy, maybe around eight or ten, I was scared of the dark. Not “The Dark” as a whole, but because in the dark there might be vampires. I know that’s not true, but this fear of mine was indulged by my parents, so I never had to face it and get over it. I was still scared of the dark, generally this time, when I was twenty and signed up to become a miner. The pay was only alright, but it was a mining town, so what other choice did I have? My parents weren’t rich—I couldn’t go to college. Anyway. My best friend Reece Pendelmeyer was also a miner, of course. He was never scared of the dark, no sir. So I felt safe with him down in the mines. One day, it was just us two scouting ahead. I was scared of gas poisoning, and we didn’t have a canary. No birds lived there, and buying one? Far too much work. Losing a worker was cheaper than buying a bird. Reece went in front because he knew how scared I was. I should have been in front. I was assigned to be in front. I should have been. I should have been.

I’m sorry, where was I? Oh, yes. Reece called back to me “I can’t see nothin’. Is your headlamp workin’?” And just as I was about to hand it over to him, it spluttered out. Pitch black, no idea where we were, half a mile under the ground. For such a cheapskate company, our mines went deep.

We should have headed back. It would’ve been the safe thing to do, but we would’ve been halfway to fired for that. Never give up on a job unless you’re mortally wounded, and even then, consider whether or not going back up would be worth it. And we were fine. We would just keep walking forward until we came across a stop, a wall or something. And so we continued and— We should have headed back. We should have. We should have.

I’m sorry. I’ll try to speed it up, I’m sure you’re very busy here.

We continued on, and Reece just—he gave the most horrible scream I’ve ever heard in my life. His scream faded, and then . . . a thud, and the screaming stopped.

The best I can hope is that it was quick.

12

I got out of there as soon as I could. I hated being a miner anyways. I struck out as a carpenter. I did well. Well enough that as soon as my children got married and couldn’t care for me I went to a fairly good retirement home.

Deerheart, it’s by the river? Yes, that one. Anyway, a few weeks ago, it was nighttime, and I had to go to the bathroom, but it was dark and . . . well.

I’m not too good with that, still. So I was about to ring for a nurse but I remembered that the only one working was Jordan. Jordan is horribly cursed. Every single death since they came happened in the same room as them. So I avoid him. As much as I’m afraid of the dark, I certainly am more afraid of death.

So I got to the bathroom all right by myself. I did my business, and then the lightbulb went out. So, since I’m a handyman, I pulled over the stepstool in order to check it out for myself, maybe it was a blown fuse. So I reached up to unscrew it and. . . .

I know this is going to sound crazy, but I promise I’m not.

I touch the bulb, but it’s covered in a thick black tar. That’s when it hits me how pitch black the room is. There is no light. So I rush to the sink to wash the residue off but it just. Won’t. Budge. It’s stuck to my hand. So I sigh and look into the mirror and my eyes are gone. “Alright,” I think to myself, “this is just a trick of the light. Your old bones casting shadows. You’re fine.” So I continue trying to wash the sludge off, and I’m getting tired, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.

You never think about it, but unless you have utmost precision, when you pinch the bridge of your nose, you brush against your eyes. The only way to avoid it is to be very careful, and if you’re doing it? You’re a bit past being careful.

Anyway. I pinch the bridge of my nose and my eyes are . . .

They’re just gone.

Nothing.

Holes.

In my face.

Voids.

Nothing.

13

I scream. In that scream, I heard Reece’s descent, his end. Too early. Should have been me.

I run out of the bathroom, leaving the tap water on, and run into Jordan.

Head on right into zem. They try to stop me, comfort me, but I’m already spooked, I don’t want to die, so . . .

I think I might have hit him. Poor kid.

I got back to my room, and the light in there was working fine. I went to my mirror and— Well. You can see. I’ve still got my eyes.

I went to sleep that night with the light on. I have ever since.

You see this flashlight here? I’m not taking any chances. I’ve got a second in my pocket and extra batteries strapped under my hat. I will not be in the dark ever again.

14

Sofia Martini ’24

Abstract Line Drawing

15

Julia Dickinson ’22

Sapphire Waves Sapphire waves warble on my shore, On pebbled crags and crackled driftwood: Velvet tides swept by both sail and oar.

Crystal jellyfish rest at my door, Pearlescent halos of marine sainthood.

Sapphire waves warble on my shore.

Slim legs skitter their own fragile roar On silken stone where sea salt once stood: Velvet tides swept by both sail and oar.

A deep bellow rings, warning vapor.

Leathered rocks pearl with mist, hail no good.

Sapphire waves warble on my shore.

A topaz sun sinks with vivid encore, Boldly crowning the ocean’s knighthood: Velvet tides swept by both sail and oar.

Nautical satin serves as the decor For our earthen gem, our livelihood.

The sapphire waves warble on my shore With the velvet tides swept by both sail and oar.

16

Julia Dickinson ’22

January A mapled sun turns snow into cinnamon, Glowing with warmth and youthful joy.

The first boots crunch, sink, and run.

Too soon, pink noses head inside to reheat.

Metallic scrapes replace our gleeful cheers And snow fortresses are constructed to protect the roads.

Light falters on the icy mountain crests, Growing taller with each ached throw.

White bliss grows dreary under an early moon.

The mapled sun will show our party’s aftermath, With sleepy children stumbling to school, And caked cars grumbling down interstates.

A City’s Spring Sunday drivers whoosh down one-ways Past the blossoming urban oasis.

March’s snowbanks must finish their mutiny.

A chickadee’s two-note song chirps again, Echoing off the branches of a willow, Weeping with the tears of the sky.

The saccharine stink of Bradfords clogs my nostrils From the delicate scent of daffodils and tulips Vibrantly lining the well-loved pathways.

A wide cloud passes in front of the sun; The fertile green is grayed.

Maybe a coat would have been nice.

17

Sally Jamrog ’23

Inmate Cupped hands deliver The Secret into my ear. A whisper, so soft it barely counts as breathed air, nestles itself into the wrinkles of my brain, wallowing silently.

“Don’t tell,” murmurs the messenger.

“I won’t,” I say. But, secretly, I feel The Secret pulse in response.

It’s easy to forget my secret duty to another, but when every other word seems to poke and prod The Secret free, I fear that one day soon the words will coax their way to liberty and make a marionette of my tongue.

My teeth clamp down on my fleshy communicator from such a thought.

Could it do such a thing? A tongue cannot take bribes like hands, but would it be so easily swindled by The Secret? Even now I feel the words slither to the forefront of my mind, staring out of the backs of my eyes. Are they really windows to the soul or to the mind? Can others see The Secret basking in my gloom? Dancing in my sockets? Mocking my misery?

I check upon my prisoner periodically, tightening the shackles on its wily words, though I know no bounds can hold its fiendish heart. One day I feel The Secret prepare to greet the air for the second time, as if it can sense my thoughts, splitting my seams. It bursts forth.

18

Liam Kirwin ’22

Haibun on the Green Line The constant movement was overwhelming. Everyone rushing, listening, reading, scrolling. The doors closed, and the chatter of people on the train grow louder. Each face hid its own story behind a stoic, tired facade. A brief moment of quiet before the next stop. The doors opened, and the chaos continued, everyone focused only on their destination. Finally, I hear the call of my stop: it’s my turn to join the frenzy. always in a rush this unceasing movement is it fulfilling?

19

Liam Kirwin ’22

Nature is Futile M e l t i n g burning C rac k i ng the machine keeps m o v i n g, Innovation breeds exploitation: Birds cry, fish squirm.

Storm after storm, We ignore what’s in front of our eyes, Yet nature will achieve retribution.

20

Christian Asdourian ’23

Under Luna’s Umbra Along a graying strip of hard asphalt, I walk adjacent to this span of rock, Cracks etched upon pavement, a blatant fault.

The ground is my friend for it cannot talk.

A lull of silence fills the tranquil air.

Misty tendrils leave the sky as patchworks.

Pale moonlight pierces the black veil I wear.

I’m drowned by shade, fearless of what lurks.

My joy is my freedom from the daylight, Emancipated, the last one awake.

No one can watch me; I am out of sight.

Everyday struggles I will forsake.

In truth, the dead of night makes me alive, So under Luna’s umbra, I will thrive.

21

Angela Noyes ’25

Still Life with Tea Pot

Tatum Mueller ’23

Glass Study

22

Kate Dickinson ’23

The Light Jener sat in front of the caged light, waiting for it to blink, beep, do something.

“Your meal.”

He took it, not taking his eyes off the light even as he ate.

It had been years since he looked at anything else, but he didn’t know that.

If he had to guess, he would have said a month. Three, at most.

He was always scared of blinking. Blinking meant he might miss something, which meant— He didn’t know what would happen if he missed something. He didn’t want to find out.

It was a fairly simple job. Watch the light, listen for sounds. If anything happens, hit the button. He had seen the button, once, when he was first brought in. It was big and red, he thought. Though that might have been because the light was big and red. He was pretty sure the button wasn’t caged. That would make it difficult to press.

He carefully placed his tray on the floor next to him. If he just dropped it, the clatter might drown out any sound that could indicate the button needed pressing.

He made sure not to take his eyes off the light.

His meals had been coming less and less frequently, but he thought he was just tired. It had been a while since he had slept. That’s where the thought stopped. He didn’t think about or remember that he hadn’t slept since he first saw the light.

There were drugs in his food. They kept him awake, made sure he didn’t think too hard about the wrong things. He didn’t know this of course.

Maybe he would have figured it out if the drugs hadn’t addled his brain beyond recognition. He had been clever once before. That’s why they chose him for the light. He would know the signal, know when to push the button.

The light was his life, his purpose. Maybe he would get an award once he pushed the button, starting—preventing—

23

He didn’t know. But the train of thought slipped out of his mind almost as soon as he probed it, so it didn’t bother him for very long.

Days passed. No meals showed up. He started to get hungry for the first time in years. He wondered if there were rations in the room—but no. He couldn’t look for them; he might miss the signal. The signal was more important than his hunger. Besides, his next meal would come soon. He was sure.

He almost fell asleep. He shook himself awake just in time, but he panicked. What if he would have missed the light? And if he had almost fallen asleep once, it would surely happen again. And what if he fell asleep?

And what if he missed the signal?

He tried to calm himself. Surely, if there were a sound it would be loud enough to wake him up, and the light would be so bright it would too. He was sure. He was sure.

The door slammed open just as he was about to sleep for the first time in seven years. He knew it had been years now. He startled, nearly taking his eyes off the light.

A man walked in front of him. A person. The first one he had seen in seven years. Before, he would have thought him average. But now? But now? He was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

The man held a screwdriver and took the cage off the light. Jener perked up. Was this it? Was it his time?

The man placed the cage gently down. Jener nodded absently. Yes, in case there was a sound. He was a smart man.

The man looked at the light for a few seconds, then slammed the handle of the tool into it, shattering the bulb.

Jener shouted, diving to pick up the shards. He wasn’t careful, and he didn’t have the calluses he used to have, so his hands bled. He screamed, trying to say “Why?” But his vocal cords were practically gone, having wasted away in his throat all those years. They finally snapped, cutting off his scream. He sobbed, silently.

The man left without a word of explanation, shutting the door behind him.

He sobbed. He became lightheaded. The last thing he saw before his final sleep was a room containing only a chair, an empty tray, a small cage, and a broken light.

24

Tatum Mueller ’23

Emily Dickinson Pastiche Oh how sad! To be you — All your Troubles and your Woes — You moan them loudly in the halls And now the whole school knows.

Who at home is telling you?

You need to get Straight A’s — Admission through those Ivied gates Relies on perfect grades.

Or do you put this on yourself?

Until you are consumed — You are besought — by constant thought — Of school stress self-assumed.

Proll told me not to worry — Not to fuel the College Craze — To spend time doing what I love — That’s the focus — not the grades.

Our head of school — still rather new — He wants us all to cope.

He talks about our mental health — He cares — he dares — to hope — I’m waiting at the T stop — The outbound train thuds by — My earbuds in — I’m listening — The volume cranked up high.

Up First — the podcast’s called — My daily dose of news.

Covid rates — Ukraine’s fate — The facts inform my views.

And as I board the inbound train That whisks me toward BU, The podcast whispers in my ears — A world outside of school.

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Sally Jamrog ’23

Emily Dickinson Pastiche (Grief — that grasping, ancient thing —) Grief — that grasping, ancient thing — You squat upon my heart, Unearthing treasured memories — Those poignant, poison darts — How can you crouch — so cretin-like — And breathe without a sound To break apart — and clutch — and scrape — The tender heart I’ve darned and wound?

It’s just begun to beat again — A feat of bridled patience — How can a heart — so worn from pain — Still lure your greedy conscience?

Spare my bleeding core — oh, Grief — Take pity on me now!

Though empty chest means numbed relief, I cannot bear it hollow —

26

Audrey Lin ’22

Patience Will you or won’t you?

I guess we’ll wait and see: Gentle as the morning dew Or flighty as a breeze?

Will you or won’t you?

I’ll still wait to see, But words as soft as morning dew Are easier to freeze.

Will you or won’t you?

Don’t just leave me be— I’d think these drops are morning dew If only I could see.

Will you or won’t you?

Can you hear my plea?

With frozen lips and morning dew, Do you remember me?

27

Aparna Deokar ’24

Self Portrait

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Charlie Walsh ’22

Ignorance is Bliss I remember when our cat left. I was three. One day she was dozing around the house, the next she simply was not. It wasn’t death—I didn’t understand what that meant then—just departure, a state of nonbeing. She might not have existed at all. Over the years, she faded to a shadow, a mere phantom in a dream. I imagine it was more real for my parents and my older sister. They knew what death was.

It’s not pleasant to know what death is. I first realized that at my job decades later. I’m in the business of helping people forget—it’s all very clinical. War meant good business: more paperwork for the clerks, sure, but more clients ready to get strapped into the machine and simply forget.

Childlike naïveté was their aim, the last refuge from whatever awful trauma they had endured. I didn’t care much about the reasons myself, of course. I’ve never been much attached to emotional affairs, which made me a perfect candidate to operate and monitor the machine. I must not interfere with the process, which is just fine with me. It’s all very impersonal. Some rail against memory manipulation, as the media calls it; it is unnatural, disabling, humiliating. Really, it is nothing more than selectively removing memories, tweaking some emotions and chemical imbalances, straightening things out. They like to get angry at me, but I just pull the lever. Through the one-way mirror, I see clients enter with long stares, eyes alternatingly shining or empty. They grimace, or their jaws hang. They are strapped in by an assistant. The assistant leaves, I flip the switches, I pull the lever. I look away—the process unnerves me, like few things do. After mere minutes, I look back, and their lips slowly contort into an unfamiliar smile, a child’s face, one that their face has not felt in years. With wonder, abandon, and unbothered innocence, they look around the now-unfamiliar room as the assistant takes off the restraints.

Their eyes are always a dull black. They are led into the discharge center to re-learn basic skills of living, but they will ultimately be dependent. The process is complete. As a matter of procedure, I check over their entrance papers, liability forms, waivers. The most common reason for treatment is death, of a child, maybe, or comrades, brothers-in-arms, patients, friends, acquaintances, even strangers who happened to be near the admitted at the time of their passing. Always death.

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I remember when my mother left. I was 54. I knew about death then, but it was much the same as the cat. The hours were long at my job and I was never much of a family man. I had no kin of my own and no real contact with or sentimental connection to my parents. They didn’t really know what I did, only that I worked at some medical facility. She had given up on conversation with me long ago. When I used to see her, I saw a longing in her eyes, the want for a son who reciprocated her instinctual, overwhelming love. But I am the way I am, and it was better for both of us to stay apart. She departed because of cancer in the end. I understood what death was then. I was at her wake, her funeral; I sent my father flowers.

Wet earth was thrown over the modest coffin, and I clocked into work not long after. My father’s face was stony, blank. There was no need to delay over something that happens to everyone.

Months passed. I spent most hours behind the one-way mirror, pulling the lever and flicking the switches, looking away and looking back. Things carried on.

The assistant led in a stooped man, wispy white hair barely covering a blemished scalp, which wrapped closely around his skull. As I glanced up from my lever, my switches, I could see he was the empty-eyes type. Not unusual. A flash of recognition—I glanced again—the face was familiar, but so aged, so cruelly wrinkled. The face of my father, wearied, sallow, resigned. The months had not treated him well. Behind the mirror, I looked down at the paperwork one of the white-clad assistants had dropped on my desk. An unusually nervous yet still recognizable scrawl detailed the reason for treatment, filled out the liability forms, and a signature I knew adorned each sheet. Reason: death of a loved one (wife). I knew death. I did not know forgetting. I only pulled the lever. A slow panic built up inside me, a feeling I had not known for a while. The assistant routinely strapped my father in, and I could only watch through the glass, my eyes widening with the fear of what I might have to do. My job was to pull the lever. My job was to flick the switches. My job was to glance over the paperwork, make sure it was all in order. That was all I had to do. My father stared blankly at the mirror, into and past my own eyes. He did not know I was there. He wished only to forget, wanting to escape the autonomy of a man taken by grief. My job was to pull the lever. They told me that in the interview. They told me I must be impersonal. Slowly, clinical rationality began to pour back into me. My eyes relaxed, my frantic heartbeat slowed.

I had been doing the same thing for decades. People I knew, whom I had 30

seen on the streets as I walked to my job, whom I bought my groceries from, had been put through the forgetting process under my watch. This was no different. It was my father’s wish to do this, and it would help him in the end. I was paid to do my job, and the organization relied on me doing my job. The assistant left the room. I pulled the lever. I flicked the switches. I could not tear my eyes away. In the beginning of the process, I could see a faint light in my father’s eyes, two quarters glimmering at the bottom of twin wells. I had never watched the process all the way through. His mouth slowly, so slowly, closed, his thin lips pressing together with a resolute firmness. His limbs, so stiffly positioned in the restraints, unconsciously loosened themselves, as if they were relearning their longforgotten youthful flexibility. His cracked lips curled up at the ends, now smirking, now smiling, now letting out sudden exuberant laughter. I could stand no more. After a moment, I looked back—the client’s eyes were bottomless, with no light, no faint shine of hope. The two quarters were stolen away by some unknown force. The assistant came back, the restraints were taken off. The patient left with an unfamiliar grin, the carelessness of his smile unsuitable for his weathered, cracked skin. My part of the process was complete, at least.

Something changed that night. I left work feeling some string had snapped within me, some veil protecting me had at last been torn away. I rolled in bed, the mattress now feeling more lumpy than luxurious, the blanket more scratchy than fuzzy. It was wrong. The routine was broken. I could no longer pull the lever.

Waking up from fitful sleep, I dressed myself in plain clothes, the normal ones. I had my cup of coffee. It was bitter and not in the way I liked. I walked past my place of work. I kept walking until I arrived at another branch about a half hour away. They didn’t know me there. They handed me waivers, liability forms, the usual paperwork. It was familiar to me, and I completed it quickly. An assistant, dressed in spotless white, entered the waiting room. He beckoned me to follow. I obeyed, feeling weightless, as though no longer fully attached to this world. I sat in the chair, was restrained. It grounded me. I had never been on this side of the mirror before. I wondered what their lever-puller, their switch-flipper, was thinking right now. He thought he knew death, he thought he could be entirely clinical, impartial, I was sure. He did not know forgetting. The assistant left. I heard the lever clank down with impersonal authority. I began to forget. It all became so trivial—my mom, a memory, joining my 31

cat in the dream-world, my dad, an excellent playmate! What fun we would have! The whole white room around me, the black restraints holding my arms and legs in place—so much fuss just for me! What an excellent idea!

Without even realizing it, laughter bubbled up from within me, because what a hilarious thing this all was, this thing we call life. To think I was once sad! The stern lines of my face cracked against a wide smile, my white teeth gloriously presented, and my joy filled the room! The nice assistant walked in, a frown-smile dancing across his lips. He undid the restraints, as I urged him to strap himself in and give it a go—what a profoundly joyful device! He seemed unaffected (no matter!) as he walked me to the re-teaching center, where I would learn all sorts of things. I remembered how happy my father had been in the same walk—what a time we would have together! Why on Earth had it taken us so long to learn how to be happy? Laughing and shaking my head at our foolishness, I stepped through the doorway to the teaching center. A slogan adorned the far wall, written in large red letters: “IGNORANCE IS BLISS.” I gurgled out another carefree laugh. Indeed it was! Indeed it was.

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Dorothy Brown ’22

Treacled Melodies Such treacled melodies have laced our tongues Of festering heat and sickly soft spring showers, Of slimy and caressing breeze we’ve sung, Of bulging life and grasping, poking flowers.

Away! Away! Tear out the summer’s heart From where it bloated beats wrapped in her chest.

Trample her throne and shred her veil apart, And let the earth in naked cold be dressed.

Let autumn chill plunge deep within our lungs And burn away the damp and festered air.

Let shivers shake the treacle from our tongues, And leave clipped, quenching answers waiting there.

Strip gentle leaves—like gathered gaudy rings And leave the branches clutching at the sky, Where flocks tread iron gusts beneath their wings, And crack the silence wide with every cry.

Smother the filthy stone in pelting ice.

Let thin, cold teeth stretch down from branch and eave.

Let pale light tremble in its paradise, Gambol across the crystals, and leave.

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Then let grim shadows brush the furrowed dunes With oily paint and hollow shadow-marks, Frayed only by sharp glinting of the moon.

Let horror swirl and boil in the dark.

What will the darkness cloak from human eyes?

What terror halts the pale draw of our breath?

What will it claim before the sun dares rise?

And what is there to fear but death?

And when our eyes are sealed by silver frost, Our pulses slow, our thoughts in cold decay, Our fingers stiff and frozen, our hope lost, Then let the sun lift up another day.

Then will we raise the summer’s toppled throne And gather stars to furnish where it stands.

As her fresh smiles melt the cluttered snow, We’ll kiss each finger on her budding hands.

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Julia Dickinson ’22

Am I a science or a fantasy?

Am I a science or a fantasy?

Am I analogy or an “ology”?

Are my flowers peonies or paeonia suffruticosa?

Are my dreams real images or a highly active amygdala?

What do we learn, and what’s inherited?

How should our life’s excellence be merited?

I am more than an equation inputs cycle through, Or so I hope: my written words are never true.

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Robbie Mulroy ’24

Architecture

Leo Wang ’23

Knight

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Liam Kirwin ’22

Waking Bereft of scale, colors vivid, Perspectives shift, Worlds change.

A snap—eyes widen: Contemplation, then realization, Relief, yet regret.

Which is the true fantasy?

Trees are like People Trees are like people, Each one unique; the sound of any one has its own color: The crunch of the leaves is brown, Yet the wind whistling through the trees is yellow.

The trees called out to me in red as I flew through the woods.

A squirrel waved to me.

The trees of feeling surrounded me, a warm, pink hug; They shrank as I walked past, growing inwards.

As the sweet trees disappeared, I knew I had to go there, away and towards them.

Cuando se cierra una puerta, se abre una ventana.

So the trees led me to the place, My relaxation, my color green.

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Aster Gamarnik ’23

Echo Rain gently patters on the hood of my coat, clumsily tumbling down to land on my nose. The seams of my tattered boots surrender to the surrounding mud, as my exposed socks dampen. Yet my feet remain firmly planted in the ground. Those insufferably stubborn things have probably grown roots by now. A whisper of fog escapes my lips and dances away into the glum, darkening sky.

An hour: that’s how long it’s been. That’s how long my eyes have been resting firmly upon that old well. Perhaps we are having a staring contest?

A true bonding moment. After brewing in the steaming hot mess of a head for a while, my thoughts finally settle, formulating a simple composition.

I let those words cascade from my mouth, unsure of their intentions, not conscious enough to care.

“You know? We’re a lot alike, you and I.” I wait foolishly for a response, but the only consolation I receive is the sound of little droplets who finally decided it was time to let go. What if those droplets were leaving behind their little droplet friends to venture on into the abyss? Is it heroic? Is it self-destructive? Or is it all the same thing?

But who cares anyway? It’s just a stupid droplet. After realizing the pathetic tangent my feeble brain decided to travel down, I fixate back upon the well.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? They use us. They use us but never appreciate us. Those people wouldn’t even dream of giving us a second thought, of considering us. That is, unless we are no longer able to serve them. Beyond getting their personal needs, they couldn’t care less. It’s funny, isn’t it?”

Only a melancholy murmur of droplets answers my desperate call. Is silence my only solace?

“And then they never think about how much we can take. I mean . . .” A raw dread clasps my throat. “Your poor walls can only hold so much water, just as my head can only hold so many of others’ burdens. It’s . . . It’s only when we break down or flood that they notice. Only then. But what about until then?” My eyes trace up the cracks in the stones to rest upon the old well again.

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I stop, knowing there is not much more to say, even though my head still bubbles with a billion thoughts: the shrieking voices of anxiety and lonely echoes of past mistakes. A clumsy drop spatters onto my grazed knee and a sting surges up my leg. I search in vain for any last thoughts to set free.

Anything! Anything?

Finally I say, with a soft grin growing from the corners of my mouth: “I’ll take care of you.” ...

I have always believed that people deserve to be treated the way they treat others; that is why I am an echo. I return whatever people send my way.

If they treat me with violence, I spit in their faces with equal hatred; but if they treat me with care, I repay that kindness a hundred times over. Most importantly, if someone does not know who they are, I reflect their voices back to them. I paint their portraits with their own words.

But this young boy knows something about me that I never had a chance to show the world: how I feel. Empathy is a reflection of sentiments, fueled by personal experiences. Never in all my years would I have imagined this boy to empathize with me. I am an echo; empathy is my entire existence, yet he echoed me first.

Unknowingly, he planted a seed in both our minds, and I must aid its growth. So I reply: “I’ll take care of you.”

Finally, I watch a young boy in a raincoat, with tattered boots and strawberry-stained knees, break free from his stoic stance and meander away. The seed has been planted; a beautiful mind will bloom.

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Cece Noel ’22

The Promethean Legacy I did not always have a flame.

I built my own foundation, and when she saw it, she gave me an ember and kindling, Far more than she had been given from those before.

I learned to walk.

With each step I took, narrowed, criticizing eyes rolled, and strong, angry limbs reached out to trip me.

But I refused to fall.

So the fire caught.

I learned to speak.

Each word evaporated in ignorant ears, connected to insidious mouths poised to strike “No” before I’d even opened mine.

But I refused to lower my voice.

So the fire grew.

I know I will be chained to a mountain of humiliation, left to proud eagles who will pick me apart daily, as if my thoughts are solely for them to consume.

But I have seen your foundation.

I know when I look past the talons I will see a bonfire burning far brighter than mine.

I am giving my flame to you.

When you give them hell, my love, think of me.

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Alyssa Ahn ’23

Walt Whitman Pastiche (Our Bells Ring at Long Last . . . Forever Free) Dance with me, once we kneel and pray, appreciating the sturdy trees and crisp leaves protecting their kind.

Clasp your fingers in mine, our eyes locked, alive, Hold me tight . . . tell me I am safe through the strength of your squeeze . . . tell me we are safe in a world which may never understand.

Breathe in the essence of our joined soul, holding our memories afloat.

Alas, we must tuck our moments away from the piercing public eye, which criticizes Nature’s purest child.

We must quickly conceal memories of us beneath the folds of outer skirts, and settle simply, for short . . . short curtsies, Holding our separate breaths instead of mingling fingertips.

Do you remember autumn’s cool breath?

We dashed delightedly; our hair flapped about.

Our hands spread summer sun in autumn’s bitter kiss.

You bowed before me gallantly, and I before you . . . for we were full willow branches bending to Nature’s playful breath.

And the joy of life bloomed on our cheeks.

I twirled you round on tip toes—we danced, danced, and danced, And the leaves crunched as our feet pounded, And our chests heaved, breathless. . . .

O, how we would savor the song of our bells, a dollop of homemade honey dribbling!

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Kate Dickinson ’23

Walt Whitman Pastiche Am I a man?

I love like a man: I love other men, I love other women, I love other people, I love everyone I’ve ever seen, even the hated (of whom I have quite a few), And I speak like a man: I am loud, I move, I use few unnecessary words but still use too many, And I act like a man: I know I’m myself, I dance in the mirror, and I love the whole world, But am I a man?

I see a girl in a dingy alley.

She has dyed hair and the brightest dress I’ve ever seen, And I know she’s one of me, And I love her more than words can say, And I see a boy in a pink dress, Wheeling a bike across the street, And I know she is one of me, And I love her more than words can say, And my beloved spins in a bare gym, And I love him, (I love him), I love him more than words can say, But Am I A Man?

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Am I a man in the way my father was, a classic, brawny man?

Or am I a waif, a tiny piece carved from the sun itself, And am I a man? (Am I a man?)

I love more than words can say.

But if not a man what could I be?

But I know she is one of me, But which me is she, The soft love I hold, Or the rage I contain, And I love them more than words can say, But I continue to try, I write poetry, I write stories where everything turns out, And I put myself in them, And I never share, And the world bustles around, and I dance with the sound, And I never stop moving, but Am I a man?

A question for another day.

43

Michelle Qian ’24

Marsh Chapel

44

Dorothy Brown ’22

Now and Forever Freya was glad that the dust settled so quickly over the city. After it rained, the broad glass panels of the skyscrapers were almost clean between the streaks of dried mud where the rain had carried the dust down like thick, brown tears. Then, the sun glinted harshly off the buildings, and the streaked mud gave the impression that the glass was rippling and warping under the weight of the steel and concrete.

It was a relief that this lasted only a few days before the regular film of dry grit dulled the sun and restored the glass panels to their smooth appearance.

Perhaps someday people would want the glass from the skyscrapers, and Freya and the other reclaimers would go floor by floor through the buildings, gathering the screws around the windows and then taking out the panels one by one, hauling them back through the abandoned streets and returning for more. Floor by floor, until its surface was nothing but nestled gaps, like a million eye sockets in some alien creature’s skeleton.

Fortunately, there had not been rain for a long while. As Freya set out into the empty city in the morning, there was only the comforting presence of the usual sun, dust, and whir of two motorcycle wheels beneath her.

The motorcycle, the heavy airtight suit she wore, and the empty cart strapped behind her were all stamped with the neat blue and green logo of ReclaMotion, stark on the gray and black designs of their hosts. Just behind her as she began, the truck that had brought her to the city had the same logo, and a tagline: “Caring for the future, now and forever.” To her sides, a few bikes like hers flashed the company name as they slipped off into the streets. But after five minutes of bumpy motion through the roads, there were only her own logos left in sight.

There was an understanding among all the ReclaMotion workers. They rode in together in the truck, they worked together when necessary, and they occasionally grabbed drinks together back in town, but when they each drove off into the gaping stillness of the abandoned city . . . well, you didn’t take the job if a part of you didn’t revel in the solitude.

Freya weaved through the potholes of the unkempt asphalt and glided carelessly over faded white and yellow lines that would once have directed traffic. Most of the traffic signs had been taken by early amateur reclaimers 45

for an easy bit of aluminum scrap. Her assignment today was in the center of the city, and by now, she knew the way without the need to consult the map on her wrist screen.

That intrigued her. No map, no way to put every building that drifted by in a simple line of boxes in your head; no way to see them as a patch on a 2D spread of street names. Instead, their sheer scale enveloped you. In a single moment, two stone monstrosities went past; how much weight was bound up in them? How many times over could their empty rooms swallow you in their hollow spaces? How conceivable was it, really, when you were next to a creation that shot hundreds of feet into the air, that creatures like you had built it?

Freya basked in the thought and in the stillness of those steel and stone goliaths.

A smooth digital voice clicked and began to gush out of a speaker inside her helmet. Freya mouthed along with the words.

“Re-route recommended; Coston Street rated SRF 2. Orange to Firian to Main recommended.” Freya glanced down Coston and dutifully turned the handles of her bike away from it. The brick buildings that lined it had flooding damage at their bases, cracked windows, and stones worn by the sharp rain. All as it had been in previous trips. She couldn’t see how it was particularly dangerous. “Nine hours, eighteen minutes to Tide,” a click, and the voice was gone.

Orange Street . . . Firian . . . Main . . . Another few minutes and she was at the base of the Kimin Building. She unstrapped the collapsed wagon from the back of her bike, set the ReclaMotion tarps, poles, and joints into their proper positions, and hauled the light cart behind her through the wide metal doors of what had once been a library.

The shelves had been unburdened of their loads long ago when the city was first being evacuated. A healthy layer of dust was all that was left of them now. Of course such a public place, and a place of education, refinement, had known that when they’d been told to get out, it meant get out. No locking up and coming back when a new system of pipes was installed or when the desalination plant started running. Permanent relocation. And while there were a few cupboards and laptop carts that had been busted open, and the bathroom was not a pretty sight, there was no sign of longterm squatters or reclaiming. People had stopped by to grab easy things 46

and use the dwindling sanitary toilets, but no one had stayed. No one had hunkered here illegally while paying a couple thousand dollars for a gallon of a resource that still flowed freely from pipes in other parts of the country.

Freya’s suit protected her from the scent as she passed the toilets, but she still grimaced in disgust at the thought of the sheer stubborn stupidity that made you cling to a city with no water. She wouldn’t have blamed a few old folks for their sentimentality, or even some sort of crime ring who wanted to try and find a place they could operate where no law enforcement was left, but normal people like her? Moving was a bother. It was your home.

You had memories. It didn’t matter.

If the water was gone, you should be too.

“One hour, four minutes to Tide.”

Freya drove down the final street and back to the truck four minutes early.

She was slower now, and the heavy wagon jerked and rattled as it hit potholes. A glorious day it had been. As she approached the usual loading spot for the truck, she glanced up at the billboard that marked it. It was faded, dusty, and half torn off in the breeze, so that the only visible thing left was the lower half of a grinning face and the words “running out?” in a depressingly peppy font. The reclaimers had speculated about what it had once been advertising and what the rest of the sentence had been, but no one had ever had the audacity to try and look it up.

She was one of the last to arrive and had plenty of help loading her wagon and bike. Only Alexander was behind her, sliding in at a cool one hour and fifteen seconds to Tide.

Freya turned on the speaker that would let her voice easily pass through her helmet. “You cut it closer every time, you know.”

From behind the clear plastic of his own suit, Alex smiled. “Someday I’ll have the guts to make you guys wait for me.”

With the loading secure, the truck’s driver signaled, and with the twentyodd ReclaMotion employees safely in their places in the back, the vehicle began its solid motion out of the city.

Alex checked his watch. “Supposed to rain next time we’re on shift.”

“How long in?”

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“Almost the same time as Tide. No time off for us, then.”

“Only in our dreams.”

The other reclaimers had split into their own conversations or had become absorbed in their phones, and a light, white noise of the truck’s engine made the situation utterly familiar and comfortable.

“How was looting the library today?”

Freya shot Alex a glare and felt herself joined by a couple of people in the seats around her. He sounded like her mother, minus the accusing tone, the underlying ignorance. Freya scolded herself. She shouldn’t think ill of the dead.

“Fine. Extensive security system. Kind of a bitch to pull out, but I think I’ve hit my neodymium quota five times over with all the locks.”

“Nice.”

Freya tried to remember what building Alex was doing. He’d just finished the Norbrook hospital a couple days ago. “What’re you onto now?”

“Just an apartment build. Twenty floors.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. Yanked the elevator bits today. Very daunting.”

“I can imagine.”

“Lot of people had been hiding out there at one point. Left a ton of graffiti.”

“Any standouts?”

“Took some pictures . . .”

The screen on Freya’s wrist lit up, and she swiped through the images. Our City Lives. Sai was here . . . and he’s not leaving. We Are Our City. Give us our city or fuck off. Our Legacy. Freya snorted and shook her head.

“Why’d you even take these?”

Alex raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised you don’t. The magazines pay for them now and then.”

“Not enough.”

“No one ever pays enough.”

48

“You know what actually? They do pay enough for these. Some idiot’s random graffiti isn’t worth shit.”

“It is in Pompeii. They uncover it all the time there.”

“This isn’t Pompeii.”

“Still living history.”

A part of Freya’s mind writhed at the phrase.

I don’t know why you chose a career like that, dear. A whole city preserved, and you people are tearing it up, like ancient Egyptians robbing the tombs of their kings. Just because it’s only decades instead of centuries. That’s living history.

“It isn’t ‘living history.’” Her voice was almost sharp enough to go beyond the suit even without the speaker. “Sai’s not there anymore, no matter what he wrote. He’s long dead and so is whatever ‘history’ you’re talking about.”

“Geez, Freya.”

“And if it’s ‘living history,’ you’re definitely not helping its health, are you?”

Freya nodded toward the part of the truck where Alex’s torn-out elevator buttons were stowed.

A couple people looked over at Freya. She shifted in her suit. Why did they make them so heavy? Alex looked similarly uncomfortable.

“That’s . . . Fine. Got it.”

This was why she preferred it in the city. Already, she wanted to go back.

A smooth voice spilled through every helmet in the truck at once. “Exiting the Tide Zone with twelve minutes to Tide. Estimated one hour and seventeen seconds to reach the drop-off point. Thank you for your work today as we protect the future together, now and forever.”

It wasn’t that their relationship had been so bad. Freya had the memories of a happy childhood under her mother’s care. And she had cried at her death, Even if it had not been as much as she would have expected. Even if it had only been once. Even if it had only been fifteen minutes.

The only conflict she remembered between them was the city. The stupid dead city and the job that had kept her mother alive. Until it didn’t.

49

The sky was already overcast, but forecasts said they would be safe until just before Tide. The Kimin building was almost empty of anything useful.

The walls had holes where Freya had cut out panels, found the nets of wiring that kept the lighting running. A couple final projectors set in the ceilings and the basement, mostly filled with storage space.

There was a corpse in the basement.

She came on it suddenly, opening a closet door. She’d glanced in and seen only some empty plastic boxes. She shifted them, making her final check of the building. Laid neatly behind was the skeleton and rot of a human body.

The clothing was simple. Well-preserved. Green T-shirt under a black jacket. Loose jeans. Sneakers. It was lying on its side, slightly curled as if to clutch a stomach it no longer had. It couldn’t have died near when the city was abandoned. It would look older, wouldn’t it? How recent could it be?

Freya stared into the eyes of the skull and felt a yawning chasm of black emotion she could not name open under her feet. She stood, knowing nothing around her would change, but knowing more deeply that she could not move until something—anything else—did.

“Two hours, thirty minutes to Tide.”

She lifted the body more gently than she had ever touched anything in her life. She tried to cradle the skull as she lowered it into the box. She hated the clink of a couple bones falling back to the floor as she lifted it and how cramped it had to lie in the container. She snapped the lid closed, and carried it—gently, gently, gently—outside.

The boxes around the body were mostly not empty. A small collection of books, clothes, empty bottles. A desalinization machine, more worn than any she had ever seen.

One of the tools on her bike was a shovel.

She went to the center of a street where there had once been grass, perhaps an ornamental tree. A small, silent funeral procession. She did not even know who she was burying, yet she knew them too well. She saw their final moments more vividly than she saw the city around her.

She threw her weight onto the spade, and it sliced into the dry salty soil.

Thin grit rained from the clump of earth as it lifted, and she threw it aside and again thrust the metal into the dust.

50

The plastic sarcophagus waited beside its blossoming grave, patient under the gray sky. The buildings lining the new graveyard bore mute and mindless witness to their loss.

Her helmet became more pressing with its reminders of the Tide. She shut it off, but the reminders played through her head all the same. She would not let this grave be shallow. She would not let the body be uncovered by the coming rain.

The screen on her wrist began to trill and flash with its own warnings. It was silenced between two spadefuls of dry ground, heaved out by eager, aching arms.

The grave was not deep enough when the earliest drops of rain began to hiss on the street around her. It was a slow beginning to what she knew would be a sudden onset. The pelting curtain of rain would slam into the patiently rising Tide as it reached to embrace the ground she scraped aside.

Higher ground. Thoughts of violent currents, careening debris, or a building nearby finally crumbling to the relentless waves shook Freya, and her arms stopped at the first sign they were slipping on the wetness of the shovel in her gloves. What she had made was not a grave. As she stood back, she saw it was barely a scrape in the dry earth.

I won’t leave. I won’t leave you. She looked down the surrounding streets, imagining that she already saw the Tide. Her heart pounded, faster than the rain beginning to pelt her helmet.

I’m the only one there, Mom. Freya shut her eyes, and for a moment, she felt that her heart was beating in steady union with the long-ago final heartbeats of the corpse. It flooded through her: Wild, animal fear—of death, of thirst, of failure — and a fierce and tender longing to hold onto something that was not fear.

I’m the one still there.

Freya’s suit grew heavier as she ran to find a place to shelter, the dust and plastic memorial crying out to her. Her voice shook. “You were wrong.

You’re wrong.”

The rain fell, the tide grew, and warm water flooded Freya’s eyes and trailed serenely down her face.

51

Sarah Bernard ’24

Still Life

Satya Rencic ’25

Still Life with Phone

52

Sally Jamrog ’23

To a Sunflower in My Sister’s Garden Days fly, and the higher you rise, Dainty aspirant, the more your wreathed Crown seems to crave the skies.

The frail sprout to life my garden breathed Now reaches up and welcomes newer heights.

The mockingbirds are jealous in their flights.

Tomatoes stew in envious red, And daisies gossip in their cluster As you turn up your hopeful head, Stretching toward the sun in all its luster.

Won’t you look down to see how high You’ve risen? Or are you shy?

Only the ground on which you stand Is present here for you to spy And the gentle, patient, helping hand Which coaxed you to the open sky.

There’s nothing here to scare you, flower, Yet you rely on your sole power, Allowing nothing in your sight to see How much your fellow patch-mates care; How much they wish themselves to be The golden blossom swaying in the air.

Will your highest ever be enough?

You dazzle diamonds back into the rough.

Alas, will there be some or none To stop your burning in the blazing sun?

53

Dustin Zhang ’22

Haibun: Dragonfly Slanted sunlight touches the surrounding trees, their trunks half illuminated and half cloaked in shadow, their leaves still green yet foretelling autumn. My gaze stretches out the window. As I watch, a dragonfly lands on the rhododendron bush in front of me. Its wings beat once, twice, then fall still. For a long moment, we contemplate each other: a human on a sofa, an insect on a trembling leaf. A phone rings. I turn away; when I look back, the leaf is empty.

Waning light glistens Crystal wings resting on green One moment of peace

54

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