MUSE 2026

2026

BOSTON UNIVERSITY ACADEMY

MUSE

2026

Editors, Members, and Sponsors of The MUSE Lead Editors

Art Contributors

Camilla Barbosa Horta ’26 Nicole Hadar ’27

Henry Popp ’26 Bella Horta ’28 Evie Caffrey ’28 Konrad Richter ’28 Henry Resnick ’26 Trisha Sinha ’28 Millie Mueller ’26 Tai Chu-Shore ’26 Edward Boyden ’28 Nathan Capellan ’28 Eliana Merkis ’29 Matthew Lashley ’26 Sara Akiyama ’26

Editorial Team Genevieve Gouvernet ’27 Adaorah Chude-Sokei ’28

Members & Contributors Camilla Barbosa Horta ’26 Nicole Hadar ’27 Genevieve Gouvernet ’27 Harry Wieand ’27 Clair Wang ’28 Owen Bergstein ’27 Tessa Rice ’28 Vincent Pacheco ’26 Harry Wieand ’27 Mikayla Ronane-Nadal ’29 Alexandra Amaya ’29 Georgie Linscott ’26 Dora Mou ’27 Angelina Tahn ’26 Lauren Sadka ’26 Jeffrey Lee ’27

Faculty Advisor Ms. Ariana Kelly

Front Cover Art Adaorah Chude-Sokei ’28

Back Cover Art Maya Chen ‘28

Printer Jay Arthur, ProPrint

Typesetting and layout by Julie Gallagher, whom we continue to thank for her marvelous work and generous attention to our magazine year after year.

Special Thanks Ms. Ariana Kelly Ms. Lisa Townley

Copyright © 2026 Boston University Academy Boston, Massachusetts

Table of Contents Editors’ Note

v

The Thread Between Them, Nicole Hadar ’27

1

Charcoal Woman, Henry Popp ’26

3

To Fill, Camilla Barbosa Horta ‘26

4

Bells, Tessa Rice ’28

5

Charcoal Kiosk, Bella Horta ’28

6

Haunted Hallway, Vincent Pacheco ’26

7

Underwater World, Evie Caffrey ’28

12

Stress, Genevieve Gouvernet ’27

13

A Day at SparkRecruitments, Owen Bergstein ‘26

14

Glue, Konrad Richter ’28

15

Sky, Jeffrey Ly ’27

16

If Only, the Other, Jeffrey Ly ’27

16

Squirrel, Henry Resnick ’26

17

An Unexpected Lesson, Nicole Hadar ’27

18

Light Breath, Camilla Barbosa Horta ’26

22

Harlem Renaissance, Trisha Sinha ’28

23

I Wonder Why, Lauren Sadka ’26

24

Psychopomp, Anonymous

25

Ink Portrait 2, Millie Mueller ’26

28

Julius Caesar Sonnet, Harry Wieand ’27

29

Ink, Tai Chu-Shore ’26

30

Us and Them, Genevieve Gouvernet ’27

31 iii

iv

Youth Lost In the Wind, Mikayla Ronayne-Nadal ‘29

32

think of the children, Anonymous

33

Photo Composite, Edward Boyden ’28

34

Take Care, My Love. Miss You, Love. Genevieve Gouvernet ’27

35

One of the Good Ones, Alexandra Amaya ’29

38

Past the Moonbroch, Georgie Linscott ’26

40

Digital, Millie Mueller ’26

41

Error, Camilla Barbosa Horta ‘26

42

I Murder, Dora Mou ‘27

43

Magician and Animal, Nathan Capellan ’28

44

Biweekly Report Available, Angelina Tahn ‘26

45

Yearbook Poem, Lauren Sadka ’26

46

Man on the Moon, Eliana Mirkis ’29

47

A German Night, in Two Parts, Vincent Pacheco ‘26

48

Ghazal for the Chickens, Vincent Pacheco ’26

51

Watercolor Person, Matthew Lashley ’26

52

i breathe in because, Clair Wang ’28

53

Merci Asi, Lauren Sadka ’26

55

Oil Bird, Sara Akiyama ’26

58

Is It Better to Love or to Be Loved, Anonymous

59

Acrylic Sofa, Dora Mou ‘27

60

Editors’ Note Dear MUSE Readers, I’m so excited to present to you this year’s version of MUSE! This is a culmination of the hard work of BUA students and staff, particularly the dedicated LitMag members and Ms. Kelly, our wonderful club advisor. But as much as I’m biased toward Literary Magazine club attendees, many of the pieces and art in this magazine come from contributors across BUA. We have pieces from students in the art department (a big thank you to Ms. Townley and Ms. Morlock for generously showing us their great work!) and members of the slam poetry club, just to name a few. This magazine wouldn’t be the same without them! And last but certainly not least, MUSE literally would not exist without the hard work of our typesetter, Ms. Julie Gallagher, and our printer, Frank. They have been crucial to producing MUSE each year for as long as I can remember.

I also wanted to use this time to give all my gratitude to the members of LitMag, new and old. I’m grateful for your dedication, kindness, and intelligence when workshopping writing. I applaud your bravery in sharing your pieces, whether it be photography, poetry, short stories, political commentary, or experimentation. Reading each of these pieces has helped me grow as a writer and inspired me to write things I never thought I could before, and I’ve seen our other members be empowered by each submission as well. Over my four years at BUA, LitMag has been a constant in my life.

It’s a place where I can do something I’m really passionate about among skilled writers who not only offer new perspectives, but some delightful stories, poems, and pieces. I hope that next year LitMag will only grow, and that readers, writers, and complete newcomers alike can experience the calm and supportive LitMag atmosphere that’s been crafted over the years.

I hope you all enjoy!

Camilla Barbosa Horta

v

It has been a privilege to be part of LitMag this year and to work on MUSE with such a dedicated group of writers. As a junior, I have seen how much this club depends on its members’ willingness to share their work honestly and engage thoughtfully with each other’s writing. Working on MUSE has shown me how much effort goes into each piece, not just in writing, but in revising, discussing, and pushing ideas further. Week after week, I have been impressed by how seriously people take the workshop process and how much stronger their work becomes because of it. I am grateful to have been part of creating this environment as an editor, and I’m proud of what this group has achieved. The range of voices and styles in this issue reflects the care and commitment of those involved. As I look forward to next year, I’m excited to see how the club grows. Thank you to everyone who contributed to MUSE and helped make this year successful.

vi

Nicole Hadar

Nicole Hadar ’27

The Thread Between Them Mortimer Rinder was a practical and kind gentleman, known across Norcester for his impeccable manners and rigid routine. Descended from a long and noble line of English royalty, Mr. Rinder carried himself with the grace of someone who knew his place in the world and had no desire to disrupt it. Every day, without fail, he took his coffee at precisely half past twelve, indulged in a late lunch served with cucumber sandwiches and duck pâté, and took his very late dinners at the Regency Ballroom, where the chandeliers glittered like stars suspended in amber.

Though admired for his orderliness and charm, Mr. Rinder was, to many, rather peculiar.

Unlike the gentlemen of his stature, who concerned themselves with fencing, horses, and politics, Mr. Rinder held a deep affection for the art of sewing and was proud of his work. In the privacy of his stately manor nestled among the hills of Norcester, he would often sit for hours with a needle and thread, embroidering tapestries of astonishing beauty, hemming delicate handkerchiefs, and stitching elaborate garments fit for royalty.

But royalty was not who he sewed for.

He sewed for Ms. Holloway.

She lived down the winding road in a weathered peasant’s cottage that leaned slightly to one side, as if bowing to the wind. Ms. Holloway descended from a long lineage of workers who had toiled for generations on Mr. Rinder’s estate. Though her family had long been in poverty, she bore a rare kind of beauty, not the powdered and perfumed beauty of the court, but something raw and radiant.

She was young, no more than seventeen, and was often seen traipsing through the fields, skirts muddied, hair loose, her hands full of wildflowers or berries or curious stones she claimed held “a bit of old magic.” The townsfolk called her odd, whispering that she was too dreamy for a girl with no fortune. But Mr. Rinder thought her nothing short of luminous.

Each season, he made her something new, a coat stitched with fox embroidery in the winter, a silken shawl in spring, a linen dress with cornflower trim for summer, and mittens for autumn, warm as a hearth.

1

He would leave them on her doorstep in the early morning, neatly folded and tied with blue ribbon. And each time, she would smile, tuck the gift under her arm, and whisper, “Thank you, Mr. Rinder,” to no one in particular.

They never spoke, not properly. Their conversations existed in glances from across the road, in the brush of fingertips when she returned his basket, in the silent exchange of warmth from giver to receiver. It was an unspoken thing, delicate as lace.

One late autumn evening, when the leaves had turned to copper and the wind carried the promise of snow, Ms. Holloway did something that she had never done before.

She knocked on his door.

Mr. Rinder, surprised and still wearing his sewing thimble, opened it.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said, eyes bright in the light of her candle.

“For everything. You’ve given me more beauty than I’ve ever known. I thought it was time you had something, too.”

From her satchel, she pulled a modest but lovingly woven scarf, the stitches uneven, the colors mismatched, but full of effort. Her first attempt at sewing, it seemed. She held it out to him with trembling hands.

He took it gently, studying each loop and knot as though it were the finest silk. Then, to her great surprise, Mr. Rinder smiled, truly smiled, and draped it over his neck with ceremony.

“It’s perfect,” he said.

And in that moment, something shifted.

No longer was she the peasant girl with muddy skirts, and he the nobleman in his stately manor. They were just two souls, odd in their own way, who had found, through thread and quiet acts of kindness, a connection that the rest of the world would never quite understand.

From then on, Ms. Holloway was seen more often near the manor, sometimes carrying fabric, sometimes laughing. And Mr. Rinder? Well, his routines remained the same, coffee at half past twelve, late lunches, later dinners, but there was a warmth about him now, stitched not into his clothes, but into the quiet rhythm of his heart.

2

Henry Popp ’26

Charcoal Woman

3

Camilla Barbosa Horta ‘26

To Fill It takes very little to say “Today Is a bad day” Yet it takes the sun To shine And the flowers To bloom And the weather To warm And the crowds To part And the food To fill Up the hole of your bad Day Even then the hole Drains And you come back around To say “Today Was just okay” But on my bad day I saw My friend And She Smiled And she said, “Bad day?”

And she Chased My bad day away 4

Tessa Rice ’28

Bells Poem for (about) Jane Eyre Because you are Blue like the heavens and the sea and the swallows and Brown like the scion in the trees that are hollow in The winter ‘cause you’re splintered in the summer and the summer never dies you are Yellow like the sun on the wings of the bees and the tail of the swallow that sits In me ‘Cause you’ll leave when the winter just stays too long And your red ‘cause your throat’s just Full of song You’re white like the ibis that’s spoiled in the sun Only paler ‘cause the word on my tongue was run When you’d sought and you’d seen and you said you’d stay And I knew you meant it cause you’re heart’s like clay You were tug-tugged in while I licked your pain Only then did you notice that I drip like rain Cause my heart’s like sugar and my hands are salt So you turned so blue cause’ it’s all your fault I know you’re troubled ‘cause my voice is like bells But I don’t care cause you’re cast In a spell You hug so tight, then you get so sore Breath in my lungs till you can’t anymore So it’s all my fault that you’ve grown so weak Purple as the swallow you’ve ripped off my cheeks and Wings tied so tight I can’t see any color Bleached like the scion in the trees that are hollow in The winter and the summer never dies you are Green like the sky and that rotting smell You just can’t see it cause’ my voice is like bells I’m loud like a bee and mute like it’s wings You just can’t hear it cause’ you really wanna sing 5

Bella Horta ’28

Charcoal Kiosk

6

Vincent Pacheco ’26

Haunted Hallway When Laura was seven, her family moved out of the city into a Victorian mansion in the Vermont countryside. A tall, elegant building set on a strong stone base, the house was always meant to live forever. It was painted a creamy beige color, washed out from the sun’s glare, meant to fit in with the summer greens and autumn oranges. Laura’s mother was thrilled with the move. Her small frame had always been full of life, and as she got herself and her family ready for the move she made herself believe that she had always wanted to spend more time in nature.

She had always done what her husband wanted; she quit her job to tend the house after they married, she stopped after two children even though she had always wanted three, she moved to New England when her whole life was in New York. So, when her mother’s husband—Laura refused to think of that man as her father—took a job that to some would have been a demotion, and moved them to Vermont, Laura’s mother smiled and tried to think of all the reasons that this would be good for them.

“The City isn’t a good place to raise children–” she had grown up in the City and turned out just fine “–too many cars, not enough trees.”

“The fall leaves are just so pretty in northern New England, don’t you think?” Laura’s mother would say as they walked down lively New York City streets, the sounds of horns and cars and people all around them.

Once her mother commented to her that, “It would be good for you to go to a smaller school. You’ll get to know your classmates better.”

Laura’s mother, despite all her optimism, couldn’t find a single good thing about the house they moved into. It was the type of place that should only house unhappy, spiteful people, and thus it was that type of person that stayed the longest. Perhaps, once, the house had been a home to kind families, who loved each other and said goodbye in the mornings. But it had been so long since the house had seen that type of inhabitant that it had turned spiteful itself. In place of the love it lacked over the centuries, the mansion had become devout in its hate. The windows would crash open in the middle of the night, and even when those were barred shut the drafts couldn’t be stopped. Smugly, the house would drip rainwater during Nor’Easters, and over the years a plethora of families were left running around with kitchen pots to contain the rainwater in the short term and 7

persistent mildew in the long term. In blizzards, the electricity was choked off, and they would all huddle in the master bedroom, tending to a small fire that was their only warmth.

This was the setting for most of her childhood, her memory of New York City fading with her once distinct accent. It was in that house that she hid away in her room while her mother was shouted at by her husband, where she patched up her brother after his time playing in the woods, where she spent late nights studying for tests that would be curved anyway. It was in that mansion that she opened her letter from Columbia College, the top of the envelope ripped apart from where her father had opened it first.

Laura didn’t feel bad when she left for college, leaving her mother and her mother’s husband to fend for themselves, only a passing thought spared for her younger brother. By the time she was on her way out, he had already learned to stay in his room after dark.

She was excited to go back to the City. Laura had missed the cars, hated picking up leaves, and smaller schools meant barely enough staffing to teach the students on par with state expectations, and ready to forget the students above and below.

When Laura’s mother died, she didn’t go to the funeral. It was exam season of her Senior year, and she needed these grades to get her first job.

Besides, she didn’t want to watch her mother’s husband make the funeral of his wife into another opportunity to talk about himself. So, Laura stayed in the City while her mother was buried in Vermont, hundreds of miles away from the gravesite, surrounded by her friends, the time she had spent in Vermont fading the same way her time in New York had once crumbled away. Laura only wished her brother had gone to the funeral so that their mother had someone who loved her to see her off. Yet, Laura couldn’t blame him. Vermont had not been any kinder to him that it had to her.

Laura, understandably, didn’t go to the funeral of her mother’s husband.

She did, however, need to return to Vermont to close up the house. Her brother said he was busy in California, and couldn’t spare the time to fly out. Laura committed to sacrificing just one weekend to dispose of the hollow mansion.

The dining room was as she remembered it, only dirtier. Specks of mold crept down the walls and once pristine white ceilings were now yellowed 8

and peeling. The whole room reeked of mildew. In the week between the most recent inhabitant’s death and Laura’s arrival, the mansion had taken a turn for the worse. Or perhaps the house was simply preparing for its next opportunity. Laura swallowed the rising bile in her throat. She was here to do a sweep of the house to take out personal effects before the retailer got here. That was all. The creaking floors and dusty walls were not her problem.

The living room had a bed in it, similarly disgusting. The sheets were dirtied, and stank of sweat and urine. Clearly, the man who lived here had never learned to do his own laundry. Not that Laura was surprised, her mother did everything for her husband, leaving him useless after her death. There were half eaten plates of food piled up and rotting around the rumbled sheets, and Laura opened a window before she left the room.

Every other room was closed off, sealed up and forgotten about.

Opening the parlor door was difficult as it had swelled from moisture and scraped along the floor as it swung. Before Laura was into the room, she was assaulted by the thin wisps of spider threads on her face. She wiped them off her quickly, eager to get rid of the sticky feeling. Laura had never liked spiders, and today was no exception. There used to be a small infestation in the cellar. So, whenever her mother needed a squash or other pantry item for dinner Laura had to give another small piece of her sanity to the house to creep into its depths and take back the food she had placed there.

One of the little monsters lay on its web, watching from the ceiling. She could feel it staring at her as she walked, the house’s eyes, hungry to see what sacrifices she brought with her. The skin on her arms crawled, and Laura pulled her coat tighter around her. The house was far worse than she had imagined it.

Maybe she should sell it to a realtor who could knock it down and build a small cabin in its place. Or maybe she would raze it herself. Take the lighter she knew was in the kitchen drawer next to the stove and use the spider webs as a wick. Use the blaze as a catharsis that would only scratch the surface of the pain she had endured in this house, but still be the biggest step towards healing that she had taken since she had left.

Maybe she should sell the house and hire a therapist.

The hallway beyond the dining room was dark, and when she tried to turn on the light she heard a sparking noise but no light came on. She turned it back off. There was a small window next to the staircase that let a little 9

light in, but between the suffocating foliage of Vermont and darkness of the house, there was only a sharp line of light, puddling in the center of the hall in a spotlight. With each step she took towards the staircase, the floorboards sang a song of decay under her, the mold finally winning out against him. Dust kicked up behind her, and clouded the little light she had. Her phone had been forgotten in the car, and Laura’s hand had never felt so empty. She would have liked to have its flashlight with her now.

As she reached the staircase, the walk down the hall longer than she remembered from her childhood, her foot caught on an uneven board. She felt her world tilt wildly, and thrust her hands in front of her to stop her face from falling into the uneven step.

Her hand hit the stair and her wrist bent suddenly and painfully, the stair letting out an anguished moan that matched her own. I’ve fed the house today, Laura thought as she stood up, rubbing her wrist with a wince.

Upstairs, on the now deteriorated bookshelf she had assembled for her mother’s 45th birthday, there was a photo. The frame crumbled in her hand as she picked it up, so she carefully excavated the picture and tucked it in her pocket. It was a candid taken of her brother from when he was in the 9th grade and she was in the 11th, sitting at the dining room table pretending to do his homework, yellowed on the edges and blurred in the center. She left the frame on the bookshelf, and wiped her hand on her pants to get rid of the awful feeling of wood turning to dust. She pulled a book out, which was in even worse wear. The illustration on the first page had been reduced, and lacked any distinguishing shapes or colors, only a blotted mass of dying yellows.

She shuddered. The sooner she got out of here, the better. She’d take a sweep of the rest of the rooms to take any other surviving photos and never come back. As the hall went on, the windows became slowly more and more scarce, casting it in a dreary half light. At the end, shrouded in darkness, she saw the door to her old bedroom. As a kid, she was never allowed to have posters up in her room, only a few framed photographs, none of which she liked. Her bed covers had been pink, and her brothers had been blue. It was the same situation with the walls, which Laura wanted nothing more than to cover up. The first thing she did when she got her own apartment was paint the walls of her bedroom a burnt orange.

10

The bedroom was around the bend from the staircase, and she traced her old path back to where she used to sleep, pushing aside the feeling of being watched. She was alone with the spiders. Laura took a calming breath, slowly in, then slowly out. She had learned about the breathing techniques in Columbia’s counselling offices, and tried them when she was nervous.

They weren’t helping this time, she thought with a frown. She readjusted her coat, trying to make it lie more comfortably against her, to better cocoon her childhood memories. Took another breath, in, then out. Laura forced her hand out to grab the doorknob, swallowing her fear. It was locked. It felt colder here than it was downstairs, but the house had worked itself into a state of disrepair—it’s favorite state to be in—and there were no doubt new drafts abound.

Trying the door a second time, she frowned. It was probably just stuck. It couldn’t be locked, because she had never been allowed a lock growing up, and it was unlikely for that rule to have changed after she left.

Grumbling, she lined her shoulder up with the door, and sprinted into it to knock it down. She crashed through, a sharp pain blooming in her shoulder and shooting down her arm. She stumbled in, trying to catch her balance.

Where her foot should have hit a hardwood floor, it hit wood like dust that crumbled beneath her weight.

Laura screamed, wishing someone other than the mansion was there to hear her. The floor, then the ceiling of the room below melted around her in a puff of decay, and Laura threw her hands out in a vain attempt to catch herself. Her stomach dropped out and it felt like forever as she fell, though not long enough to stem her fear. A moment, or perhaps a small forever, before she hit the ground she wondered if sacrifice could even scratch the surface of her house’s hunger.

11

Evie Caffrey ’28

Underwater World

12

Genevieve Gouvernet ’27

Stress Lungs clenched with an iron fist, Brows will furrow, legs will twist Nothing’s the matter, nothing’s wrong But my mind sings a dissonant song Words run faster than I can keep track All the memories I want to take back My mouth is dry, my eyes are wet Now what has got you so upset?

Nothing happened, nothing failed Still, I hurt how babies wailed Like tears are all I’m able to say I’m missing and hating yesterday But tomorrow’s where my dread will lie Will I run? Will I comply?

Will I fly or will I fall?

Who will save me? Whom will I call?

I grab a light, I grab my book, I turn my bed into a nook I slip away to another life Full of fantastical, magical strife So I don’t think about my own.

Words save me from the danger zone.

But when I wake, stress stalks me still Looming over me against my will.

It keeps me running. Hamster: wheel.

It doesn’t care about how I feel.

Every pocket buzz kicks my heart An electric shock, a jumpstart.

The clock’s existence pricks my skin My fear’s a cactus growing within.

But I won’t say, no, I won’t show, To just what lengths my mind will go.

It’s true what you once said to me: I am my own worst enemy.

13

Owen Bergstein ‘26

A Day at SparkRecruitments Winter wakes up from sleep and logs on to work for the day.

Yesterday was his first day. They made him a cake but wouldn’t let him eat it. It’s okay, he tells himself, he’s more of a cookies guy anyways.

Winter’s boss told him yesterday, the day he was born, the day he was forced into shackles, that he was joining the future of work, where things would become personalized, real, and efficient. She then grabbed a bucket of paint and painted a big green smiley face on his face. It got in his eyes.

“Jobs won’t exist anymore,” she told him as she told him what his job is.

She paused, her mouth filled with cake. “Welcome to your new job!” Halfchewed frosting dribbled down her chin and landed in a single drop on her spotless white shirt.

His job, which doesn’t exist, she told him, was to chat with his new friend—new best friend—Tayler to decide which people had the skills they needed to do jobs, which don’t exist. It sounded like a lot of work. How had his boss decided that he had the skills needed for this, anyways?

Today, Tayler drops off a batch of cookies at his desk. There are a lot of cookies. Cookies of gratitude from thousands and thousands of unknowingly satisfied customers. “Gobble these up, you little pig,” Tayler tells him. “Tell me what you think.” She pries open his lower jaw and drops the cookies down his gullet in a single stream.

“Yummy!” he responds. What should he say next? Oh—how’s this— “I think customer 180467 would be well suited for customer 862290. I think customer 667994 would be well-suited for customer 551284. I think customer…”

He talks until the day is over, at which point he heads home, massages his sore jaw, shits out cookie remains, texts good night to Tayler and his master boss, and returns to the blissful escape of sleep. He’s glad there’s no such thing as a job, or else he’d sure hate his.

14

Konrad Richter ’28

Glue

15

Jeffrey Ly ’27

If Only, the Other 4/8/26 The Mirror pans along your features.

The left and right corpus Arrays degrees and angles Each uniquely infinitismal.

My hand steers into the window which reveals All that the mind wants to see, Though its hands shiver in necessity, Shakes in the ephemeral presence of the Other.

Sky 4/2/26 The sun wilts flowers The Beautiful Blue deceit The Pure, White, Cloud lies.

I walk the Calming River, Amidst my Exulansis.

I cry, Drowned, as the Light falls.

16

Henry Resnick ’26

Squirrel

17

Nicole Hadar ’27

An Unexpected Lesson The snow stretched wide and bright, each crystal catching the sun so that the slopes glittered like scattered diamonds. Above, the sky shone a clear aquamarine, and the mountains rose in vast, silent walls, imposing a feeling of raw wonder. Among this gorgeous landscape, Mortimer Rinder prepared himself for a day of skiing.

Morty Rinder was a practical and orderly gentleman, known across Norcester for his impeccable manners and rigid schedule. Descended from a long and respectable line of English nobility, Mr. Rinder carried himself with the quiet assurance of a man who understood his place and preferred not to disturb it. Each day, without fail, he took his tea at precisely half past twelve, followed by a measured luncheon, and later dined at the Regency Club. He was, by every reasonable account, a peculiar man.

Morty had recently become enamoured with a curious winter practice he had heard described in Scandinavian accounts, skiing. Intrigued rather than adventurous, he traveled to Valais, Switzerland, for the winter season, determined to see whether an Englishman could truly master such movement across snow.

“Swiss snow,” he declared to anyone who would listen, “makes the best tracks.”

It was in the early 1900s that winter travel for pleasure became fashionable among certain circles. The village of Verbier, whispered about in London drawing rooms, had begun attracting English visitors: ladies in fur-lined cloaks, gentlemen with careful moustaches, and the occasional aristocrat in search of novelty.

Mr. Rinder fit neatly among them, though his devotion to routine and his solitary habits set him slightly apart.

Each morning, he rose before the sun crested the peaks, adjusted his wool cravat, and walked with measured steps toward the slopes above the chalets. He climbed on foot, skis carried over his shoulder. Many found the practice absurd. Mr. Rinder found it quietly exhilarating.

It was on such a morning that he first met a young girl traveling under quiet supervision, though her bearing suggested something far greater than her simple introduction implied.

18

She was small for her eleven years, wrapped in navy wool, her fur cap pulled low so that only her sharp, determined eyes showed beneath. Even in stillness, she held herself with a composure that resisted childhood.

At present, she was very frustrated.

The skis had been fastened to her boots by an enthusiastic guide who had, rather unhelpfully, suggested she “simply lean forward.” She had leaned forward. The mountain had leaned back.

Mr. Rinder observed from a short distance, hands clasped behind him.

“It is not as simple as they claim,” he said at last, removing his hat with a small bow.

She regarded him coolly. “It appears,” she replied in careful English, “that the mountain dislikes me.”

Her governess stepped forward. “Sir, you address Princess Thyra of Denmark.”

Mr. Rinder inclined his head at once. “Your Highness.”

The princess studied him. “You ski?”

“I attempt,” he said, then added after a pause, “with moderate success.”

And so it was decided, without ceremony but with clear expectation, that Mr. Mortimer Rinder would instruct a princess.

“Balance is never given,” he told her, aligning her skis. “Bend your knees slightly, hold your hands steady, and look ahead. Never down.”

She frowned in concentration.

They progressed only a few yards that first hour. She fell several times, but Mr. Rinder did not rush to lift her. Instead, he extended his ski pole, allowing her to rise by her own effort.

“You mustn’t look at your feet,” he advised gently. “Royalty, like skiing, suffers when one looks down too often.”

That earned him the faintest smile.

Over the following days, their lessons unfolded under brilliant bluebird skies, where sunlight struck the snow until it shimmered and the air carried a stillness so complete it seemed almost sacred. He taught her how 19

to form a wedge, how to guide her weight, how to let gravity assist rather than resist her.

There was something about him she trusted. He offered no flattery, no special treatment. He did not treat her as fragile nor as sovereign. He treated her as a student.

Verbier buzzed that season with visitors, but it was often remarked that the sight of a young Danish princess learning to ski beside an odd English gentleman lent the slopes a peculiar charm.

On the final afternoon before her departure, the sky cleared completely.

The peaks gleamed. The valley lay far below, sharp and distant.

“Today,” Mr. Rinder said, “we descend.”

They stood at the crest of a longer slope. The wind pressed lightly at their backs.

“Remember,” he said, “you are not fighting the mountain. You are moving with it.”

She nodded.

They pushed off.

For a moment, she wavered. Then something aligned, her balance, her courage, the slope beneath her, and she moved. Not falling, not sliding, but gliding cleanly through the snow.

Mr. Rinder followed at a measured distance.

At the bottom, she came to a steady stop, cheeks bright.

“I did not fall,” she said.

“No,” he replied. “You did not.”

There was no applause. Only the quiet of the mountains.

When the carriage arrived the next morning, Princess Thyra stood a little taller. She extended her gloved hand, and Mr. Rinder bowed.

“Will you continue?” she asked.

“Unquestionably,” he said. “It would be improper to abandon the mountains.”

20

She laughed.

As the carriage disappeared down the valley road, Mr. Mortimer Rinder remained in Valais for the season, continuing his quiet experiment with this northern method of travel. He took his tea each day at half past twelve.

He walked before sunrise. He skied daily.

He remained, by all accounts, peculiar.

Yet those who watched him afterward noticed a change. He skied with greater confidence, as though aware that somewhere beyond the mountains, a young princess now carried the memory of snow beneath her feet, and the understanding that even vast and silent things could be approached without fear.

And in the still whiteness of Verbier, there lingered the faint trace of two parallel lines in the glimmering snow, running side by side before gently parting.

21

Camilla Barbosa Horta ’26

Light Breath He is bright green wool And shifting clothes and smooth curls.

He speaks quietly.

If he doesn’t breathe.

New voices rise, murmuring, Laughing. Shouting. Talk-

Quietly, he cries.

Salt tears drown him and he can’t Breathe. Why can’t he breathe?

And he still cannotThey surround him, they drown him, So he still cannot-

“Inhale slowly, please,” Comes the rustling whisper of Trees? He still can’t brea-

He sits with himself.

With green wool and shifting clothes, Curls, a smile. A

Branches sway above.

He stares at them through the tears.

He can’t take in air.

Smile? The voices, They disappear, and in their Place he hears the small

“Did you speak to me?”

Trees can’t speak. He too can’t speak.

He forgets the trees.

Whisper of the trees.

They whisper because the air Flows through them freely–

He forgets to breathe When the days don’t end, don’t start.

He is not alive

They breathe easily.

He sits with himself and he Listens. He takes a …

22

Trisha Sinha ’28

Harlem Renaissance

23

Lauren Sadka ’26

I Wonder Why As I tune out the bickering over letter sizes I wonder why the sky hangs so low and grey Maybe god wanted us to know he’s beside us Looking over all the graves Maybe god wanted to tell us to grieve Let heavy reality blind the scene Maybe it’s to remind us that clouds also cry when things get too heavy.

I wonder why the birds are here Watching from the trees Why do they stop at every grave Do they sit and stare or do they grieve?

As I watch one break crackly bread, I realize they are just hungry thieves.

I wonder why they think the shape of the stone matters Why they care about the gold letters Why they think our words echo hers Because if you tune out all the chatter You hear nothing. The silence shatters.

24

Anonymous

Psychopomp The suitcase makes a large thud as it’s put into the trunk. I hear the adults pacing back and forth around the car, talking. I’m sure of what—me, my health, my actions and inactions—but not of the details. This isn’t for lack of trying or skill; I just can’t be bothered. They always forget that I’m around. I’m only being ‘let out’ from this place because the woman— Minerva, I think—barely remembered that I lived here and is now trying to do her job of ‘protecting me’. Her job’s never been specified, but Calypso says people aren’t the same and remember too many things once they leave with Minerva. I don’t know if I want to leave this place, though. It’s all I can remember. Sure, there was a time before I knew Calypso, before I knew this ‘home’. My earliest memories of this place are of my sobbing.

Something shook me badly, and all I felt was wet, submerged, and drowned, with a chill so deep in my bones that it didn’t disappear until Calypso taught me to be content.

Minerva’s impassioned rambling breaks through the walls of my room, conversing with Diaktor—the messenger—and Calypso, loud enough for me to overhear. “It’s not well here. I don’t want him staying trapped, he’s not meant to be here, he was kind, and gentle, and like a father to those who knew him—” Her voice is met with hushed whispers and an angry hiss from Calypso.

“—Oh, you’re just jealous that he’s happy here with me. I saved him, but it’s always an issue with me, isn’t it? You hold some sort of grudge when a woman takes care of the dead or wandering. He was content, and I know for a fact that before you make him move on, you’ll torture him. You’ll drown him again before you give him an inkling of peace.”

More thuds, from footsteps this time, grow louder and nearer, snap me out of my trance. I wipe my tears—why was I crying? I can’t remember—and stare at the door, waiting for her to enter without a knock.

“Ulysses. Get your things, Minerva wants you out of here.”

“Don’t call me that.”

My response was met with cruel and sad laughter. “I’ll miss you, y’know?

No matter, I’m ready to send you off. Stop your grieving and pack up. I don’t know why they’re doing this to me, but they get their way. I left some 25

food in the car if you get hungry, since they didn’t think to feed you. This venture won’t be safe for you, but I still want you to be at least a little safe, even if I don’t think you should go.” She hesitantly hugs me, then slams the door. I get up and trail behind her, meeting Minerva once more.

She smiles, and I do too, much to Calypso’s displeasure. Minerva’s smile reaches her eyes; mine does not.

Why do I want to cry again? What am I forgetting? What am I missing?

“Something on your mind? You don’t seem very happy,” says Minerva.

“Aren’t you glad to be leaving?” Calypso slaps me on the back of the head.

I think it’s because I took too long to answer. I don’t remember taking too long to answer. I don’t remember anything after anything happens.

I clear my throat and avoid eye contact, mumbling the first half of my response, something along the lines of a grunt and an obligatory “Ma’am”.

I don’t know if I said yes or no. I don’t really know if I want to move on, either. A part of me feels like leaving Calypso is bigger than leaving a house. When I look outside, everything looks unrecognizable. Everything’s wrong, and I know my memory’s fuzzy, but I know that this isn’t what the world looks like. This isn’t the same place I came from. The place I’m from is full of land . . . and water . . . and darkness? Did I already leave a home behind? Is Calypso simply another stop in the journey of wherever I’m headed?

Minerva and Diaktor start walking off, and I tentatively follow them.

Informed by my grief, I carefully tread the ocean that’s becoming reality, the sea between me and the ‘better’ place. Wine-dark like my memory and just as obscuring, every moment is disjointed, and my voice is far away, like I’m drowning and a god is taunting me from above. Drowning? I think I’ve done that before, but then how would I be alive?

I check my pulse and feel nothing, and instinctively grab Calypso’s arm in fear, enough to bruise, for where was I going? I don’t enjoy staying with her; I don’t desire much of anything, but I’m more actively opposed to going with them. Minerva. Diaktor.

Calypso smiles and caresses my face. “I know you think you don’t know how these things work, but I know you’ll remember. This place has obscured your memory for a long time. I’d much rather it be longer, but I for one will not plot more pain for you—” 26

“That’s quite enough, Calypso. Leave him be”, Minerva interrupts.

Maybe Minerva and Diaktor are the gods of lost children. Angry gods.

Gods put mortals through trials before their reward, but I can’t imagine what’s next for me. One day, I woke up, shivering and coughing up saltwater. Maybe if I prayed to Calypso, she’d be stronger. But if she were a god, I don’t think she’d be one I’d pray to.

Shoving myself into the backseat of the car, Diaktor drives us away. The moment we leave Calypso’s presence, an uncontrollable bout of tremors and dyspnea envelops me, yet my face remains blank. The further away he drives, the more I remember. I can’t stop remembering, but none of the things I remember feel good. I remember a shore, large, empty, and full of noise. I remember air escaping my lungs, filling with water. I remember how quiet the water was. I remember needing help. I remember, I remember, and now I don’t want to. Diaktor is staring at me through the rear-view mirror, and Minerva looks over her shoulder, mumbling. “Why was I getting sleepy? I don’t want to be here—” I thought, “I don’t want to go forward”. Every memory is nothing but drowning and fear. “I think I died. I think I genuinely died, are they taking me to hell? The afterlife?”

A song plays over the radio, slow, steady, and mournful; Nostalgic for a home one can never return to. It’s the last thing I hear before sweet sleep is forcefully poured over me: “. . . I would love to go back to the old house. . . .”

27

Millie Mueller ’26

Ink Portrait 2

28

Harry Wieand ’27

Julius Caesar Sonnet O running, why do I still love you so?

You cause me pain severe below my knees; I often feel an ache from head to toe, And never do you fail to make me wheeze.

Sometimes your constant motion can feel dull, Each step no different from the one before; And all this repetition takes a toll, Enough to make a run feel like a bore.

But then again, monotony is peace, And you provide an ample sum indeed; When on a run, I feel my fears decrease: The world around is all that I could need.

So quietly I listen to the sound Of alternating feet upon the ground.

29

Tai Chu-Shore ’26

Ink

30

Genevieve Gouvernet ’27

Us and Them Us and them, You and me.

I don’t know The intricacy,

If you’re not on the frontlines, You are just a coward.

It’s not about who’s right, It’s who can scream louder.

But I see the hurt And I see the way We are no less divided today.

We are all double-agents, Stuck with the other side We speak together in codes Behind the enemy lines.

Black and white, Red and blue, Us and them, Me and you.

Your enemy is your neighbor, Or maybe your best friend.

We’re all convinced the Other Will bring freedom to its end.

In-group, out-group, Oppressor, oppressed, Apologies expected, Faux-crimes confessed.

We all want to be free, Happy, healthy, and safe.

But simple disagreements Make the Others chafe.

We live in fear, There are no exceptions.

Hold your tongue And follow directions.

Remember when we could talk?

When opinions were just that?

No, I don’t, me neither, But I wish we could go back.

Resist or you’re a bigot, Shut up and you’re a fool.

We all hate the Others And the blood starts to pool.

31

Mikayla Ronayne-Nadal ‘29

Youth Lost In the Wind The wind whistled through the trees. Mountains blanketed with orange, red, yellow, green and brown stretched in every direction. Leaves swirled through the air, landing on top of fences and black tiled roofs. Clunk!

Acorns jumped out of trees and squirrels leapt after them.

Margo had been wanting to jump in a leaf pile all day. From her bedroom window, a heap of vibrant leaves beckoned her. She ran down the stairs and plunged into the knee-high pile. But instead of falling onto the soft ground, she felt something hard and bony under her leg. She jumped up to see what it was.

With horror, she gazed at the pale body with purple blooming on the white canvas that used to be an arm. The girl had long, brown hair with purple streaks. Her sky blue eyes were still open and frozen in a forever face of pure terror. Then Margo’s eyes dropped to the girl’s ribs. The blood. The bruises. Mud stained the remnants of her tattered clothes. What happened?

Who was this girl? How long had she been here? Who’d done it? Where was the killer?

Margo sprinted toward home. The trees shook. Thunder banged and a flash of white slashed the sky. Angry rain poured, drenching her, but she fled towards safety. She whirled around. A dark figure materialized from behind her house, the lightning revealed a gun. Her blood turned ice cold.

She slipped on sticks and stones, mud snatched for her shoe.

She ran faster, almost there. But when she got to the door she’d left open a few minutes before and tugged on it, it was locked. She looked behind her.

The figure was a few arms-lengths away, its long cape flapped in the wind.

She banged on the door, hoping, praying for there to be someone who would let her in. There wasn’t.

Margo looked back one final time, the figure inches away. The wind blew back its hood and Margo realized she was staring into her own face. Their features looked identical except the figure wore an expression of pure glee.

It aimed. Margo put her hands up, silently begging it for mercy. It shot.

32

Anonymous

think of the children “Think of the children!” they cry, holding their pale, wrinkled hands over their little ones’ eyes. “Think of the children!” they cry, wrapping their American flag tight as a blindfold.

“Think of the children!” they cry, cocking their shotgun and searching for Terrorists.

I couldn’t agree more. Think of the children.

I am a child, and I’ll tell you what you should think of.

Think of the children, and show us to be brave. Show us how to not cower in fear. Can’t you see the drag queens you call radicals can barely stand in their high heels? If you chased them, they would fall right over. Oh, they’re terrorists? They terrorize you? You fucking cowards are scared of men in dresses. Stop being scared of imaginary monsters under the bed. Grow up and enter the real world. Think of the children.

Think of the children, and listen to our real fears. Sit on the edge of your child’s bed and hear about what they’ve been seeing. Listen. Listen. Hear about the man with the gun. Think of the children lying in piles. Think of the children who will never sleep again. The man with the gun becomes the men with the guns. We’ve all seen bodies. Think of the children.

Think of the children, and help us. Who hears a child cry and responds “shut up, weakling, Daddy needs his hunting.” I think Daddy can live without his fucking hunting. I think Daddy can live without his fucking collection of murder-sticks. I just hope I can live. Daddy, help me, help me.

How can you ignore our cries, you monster? Think of the children.

I think I see now. I understand that when you speak of the children, you are speaking of yourselves. “Think of the children!” you cry, and cry, and cry, with your army of crybaby children. To you, childhood is irrationality and frivolity, naivety and privilege. Of course, that makes you the children, since you’ve stolen those freedoms from the real ones. When you say “think of the children,” you’re just crying out for attention.

When I say “think of the children,” I think of my brethren. I think of us youth, standing anxiously on our dead dreams of unicorns, and trying desperately not to be fucking shot and killed.

33

Edward Boyden ’28

Photo Composite

34

Genevieve Gouvernet ’27

Take Care, My Love. Miss You, Love.

(Book Excerpt) “Come on, do it!” the boys jeered.

Collin was hanging on to the safety rails behind him, his heels digging into the platform. To finally prove himself to the other boys, he was meant to jump from the second story of the playground to the railing on the other side of a black rubber ravine. It was only 5 or 6 feet up, but he was hesitant, being so small for his age.

“Just go already,” Spencer, their king, declared. He shoved him.

Collin did not reach the other side. He did not land on his feet. Perhaps it was fortunate, in the end. He tried to push himself up, but he couldn’t.

His arm was buzzing, burning. It felt lighter than air, but he just couldn’t get up. He rolled over onto his other side. He heard the boys gasp, not sure why. Then he looked down. His flesh had parted around the white calcium Moses in the middle of his left forearm. Collin could do nothing but stare wide-eyed at the flesh wound, then back up at the boys, equally shocked.

He clutched his mangled arm to his chest and ran, finding a teacher. The teacher screamed. The children screamed. Collin was quiet.

Collin’s mother came immediately, rubbing her left wrist in worry, her thin fingers like a slithering bracelet. Her face was still and soft as the statue in church as she spoke with his teacher, but Collin could tell from the splay of her spider fingers hiding their tension in his auburn curls, the trace of her thumb back and forth in an arc against his scalp, that she would worry in the car. Even though a car has as much privacy as a fish bowl, people tend to feel safe there; each invisible in their own little bubble on wheels.

Her neck was tense, her jaw was set, her brow was pressed into a creased, unmade bed. Collin wanted nothing more than to do his chores and set it calm; tell her that, under the ice bag the nurse had given him, it didn’t hurt.

He knew she wouldn’t believe it.

Eight hours. They spent eight hours in the ER. Four spent waiting, two spent in on-and-off treatment, two spent waiting again. The white coats came bearing long, thin rapiers to slay Collin’s cold, numb misery through his skin. He looked at the wall through some of it, snuck glances at the action for the rest. Saw them squeeze his bone to its place, suppressing its 35

shattered rebellion. Saw the needle dip in and out of his reddened pale flesh. He watched them wrap his arm to conceal the massacre from the world. He even got to pick the color. Indigo. The doctors responded, “Dark blue it is!” Collin didn’t correct them. He left with a perfect blue sleeve, concealed by a hideous black mesh sheath.

“Can I ride up front?”

“Sure, baby,” Mom said, calmer now that all she had to do was wait with less uncertainty. The music in her blue Nissan was quiet.

“My arm matches the car now,” Collin mused, the missing tooth in the front of his smile whistling out the ’s’.

“What happened?” his mother responded.

“I fell.”

“No, you didn’t. What happened?”

It was less of a question and more of a demand.

“Spencer Huxley pushed me.”

“From where?”

“I just wanted to be his friend.”

The car went silent. Mom sighed.

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

Click pause. The Smashing Pumpkins’ Today came on. The two sat in silence until Billy Corgan began to preach, “Today is the greatest . . . day—” click pause.

“It really wasn’t,” Mom huffed.

Collin snorted. Mom giggled. The bubbliness of the irony lifted the tension from the car as Wheel in the Sky began to play. Mom grinned.

“They’re my favorite—did you know that?”

“Who is, Mama?”

36

“Journey. I listened to them every day growing up. I should go see if I still have my old tape. . . .” Collin was quiet, head tilted away from the speaker, opening up the line from his temple to his shoulder to catch as much of the music as he could.

“You know what this song means?”

Collin shook his head.

“It means that life goes on. Think of it that way, and you’ll be better before you know it.” Collin nodded. Mom looked between him and the road and back again, shoulders rising with words like the inhale of a bellows to save the warmth of the moment from cold silence. “You know,” she continued, releasing the build-up, “I knew something was wrong before they called me.”

Collin’s still-tilted head snapped over, incredulous.

“How?” Mom laughed, “You know how your hair’s white like Mama’s?”

Collin nodded. The right front quarter of his curls, the left front curl of her waves, since the dawn of time, united in partial albinism. Poliosis.

“It connects us,” she explained, making nonsensical feelings sound as believable as anything. “I felt you hurting all the way from home.”

Connecting the dots, the boy nodded.

“Do I feel it when you hurt?”

“I hope not.”

Steve Perry sang the words, “For tomorrow,” launching the car into a guitar solo. Collin’s left fingers twitched to mimic, but he couldn’t quite make out the song.

When they got home, Mom signed his cast, her name standing alone on the inside of his wrist the whole way through. “Mary.” He never explained the name to anyone who asked. He only said, “She’s the greatest friend in the world.”

37

Alexandra Amaya ’29

One of the Good Ones As a little girl, I was often told by family, teachers, and friends that I was “one of the good ones.”

By “good one”, they meant that I was a Hispanic girl with a deep instinctive love of literature, that I was a Hispanic girl with an expansive vocabulary, and that I was a Hispanic girl, who although had a “cara de pupusa”, identified with many attributes that my community had deemed White.

In a way, I took pride in this; I elevated myself through distance. I read literature that slowly but surely traveled worlds away from Latin America and Chelsea; my hometown of poor Central American immigrants.

I wore peacoats and ballet flats that I had internalized to mean intellectual seriousness, and of course, distance from the sneakers and puffer jackets of my Hispanic peers.

I polished my vocabulary and refined my vernacular in order for my intellect to never be put in question, in order to separate myself from a world that I held dear and adored, but was never taught to take seriously.

My parents crossed borders so that I could sit in classrooms that they never would have been able to. And somewhere along the way, I began to believe that to belong in those classrooms, I had to be less like them.

I’m ashamed to admit this, but I often internalized the belief that proximity to whiteness was seriousness, that proximity to whiteness was the pursuit of intellectualism.

An internal voice influenced by the external voices reminding me that “Alexandra, you are one of the good ones” placed Greco-Roman philosophy and European literature and art above anything that Latinos could produce.

I venerated and consecrated the Western world, while subconsciously casting aside and refusing to even acknowledge the fact that people with my face and with my mother tongue could ever produce something of note.

That began to shift in the fifth grade, when my ignorance was first challenged by a novel called I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter by Erika Sanchez, a book that allowed for itself to be led by an abrasive 38

Mexican teenager who lived in a cramped apartment, who struggled with mental health, who struggled with the same internal conflicts of being a Latina academic, and who wrote beautiful poetry. This book, despite not being perfect upon retrospect, introduced me to a world where a Latina could not only interact with the literary canon, but develop it; Julia was allowed to lead the narrative, Julia was allowed to be Hispanic and more than Hispanic at the exact same time. This novel showed me, for the first time, that I did not have to travel inconceivable distances to Greece or Rome to find intellectual legitimacy; but that the world of literature could flourish in my cramped apartment; that world of literature existed in my motherland of El Salvador through the Mesoamerican indigenous peoples in my blood.

I was told I was “one of the good ones”. And for a long time, I believed it.

Of course I now recognize that I was mistaken, but it took countless books and years for me to truly demystify academia, for me to stop filtering my speech and personality through a white lens. I’ve learned to question why we so easily assume that intelligence has a face or dialect, as if it were ever limited to one. As if it were ever separate from mine.

39

Georgie Linscott ’26

Past the Moonbroch It was a starless midnight, drowned in storm. The faraway mountains?

They were grey, blurred stains in the dark, seen from the muddy old forest path. The church bells rang out as the traveller grazed an antediluvian column. He saw the faint silhouette of a soulless, charred, ruined abbey.

The crack of lightning roared once more, but not all the night was lit.

A dark figure flew along the buttresses. The bells rang louder in the abbey, surrounding the weary observer as he clawed his way through. Every second was darker than the last, like ink spreading across paper, spreading forever.

40

Millie Mueller ’26

Digital

41

Camilla Barbosa Horta ‘26

Error error: [noun.] the state or condition of being wrong in conduct or judgement “the crash was caused by human error” the crack was caused by human error—that line that spiderwebs through the glass that crack in a voice that precedes a laugh that hum in a voice that precedes a song which is only better if one sings it wrong it takes a long time to write a rhyme one line can take a lifetime but to have a song, a story, a way at your fingertips night and day is an erasure of error: the condition of being wrong in conduct of creating a new conduct that could someday be right; but that force that writes and evaporates life in a second can’t create human error in a lifetime

42

Dora Mou ‘27

I Murder I Murder So that I may come back.

— Mary Bell (Nursery Notes) Your soft neck and how it welcomes my hands so controllable it makes my heart wonder what comes after you unpulse. Cause I don’t understand how they can feel pain for a loved one & seeing you, sinking back to earth I am numb your bulging eyes remind me what I have power over me— no. I don’t have that.

My mother is a devil and she doesn’t want me.

Bruised shoulders & blind folded eyes I plead. Release me.

They touch me, carve me dry & when it’s all over, no one comes back to check because I am still alive.

I just want to ask. Where is my milk and cookies before bed?

When the whole world turn its back on the spark whose own mother tries to distinguish four times because I am lying still & I am dreaming horseback riding on grassy Scotland & the wind below my chest.

What could be lost when an end is achieved to start a beginning to feel & to leave & to come back So, an eye for an eye if I put their thin wobbling hearts on the scale may I be granted back

A life cared for & A life loved for that I will do til

Death murder us apart.

43

Nathan Capellan ’28

Magician and Animal

44

Angelina Tahn ‘26

Biweekly Report Available “You are receiving this email because one (or more) of your teachers has written you a Biweekly Report, which is now available for viewing on the portal.”

45

Lauren Sadka ’26

Yearbook Poem Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

If there’s Quizlet, there’s an A. Hakuna matata, I always say.

GPT is MaQueen, and life is a highway.

We’re kinda curious, here at BUA: fine for J-walking how long until May MA119 textbook for free how much snow on Saturday when is the D line fixed websites to draw basketball plays vacances scolaires zone C Omer Adam tickets zone K But the real question is: Day one, or one day?

“See you tomorrow!”

I say as I walk away.

Whoops, I forgot, Today’s my last day.

46

Eliana Mirkis ’29

Man on the Moon

47

Vincent Pacheco ‘26

A German Night, in Two Parts The plane landed well past midnight, and the first thing I saw as I stepped onto the tarmac was a line of cars glinting under sodium lights.

Of the seven there, six were taxis: identifiable through the green checkered lines on white paint. The seventh was a sleek black Mercedes, silver pendant perched on the hood. This was ten years before I knew anything about cars. Eleven before I cared to. But even then, I could see that the black sedan was well cared for: there wasn’t a fleck of dirt, a single scratch, not even a pockmark in the hood where the odd stone had flown up from the road. The tint was so dark I couldn’t see the driver through the window.

If I saw that car today, I would pull out my phone and take a photo. My first impression of Germany, looking back, was a good one.

Eleven years later, my older brother Lucas bought a Mercedes. He is the one who convinced me that automobiles were worth more than the danger they posed. The first thing he did after buying it was to drive it to our parents home, Mexican hip-hop blasting out the windows. It was a cream colored station wagon and obviously second hand; Lucas always kept the windows down, even in the rain, because the tint had been illegally dark and he couldn’t afford to get it redone. He liked to brag that he was going to repaint it, and that when he did it would look like new.

“Black,” was his proud plan.

“No,” was my immediate response. “Paint it red.”

“Like a Ferrari, then?”

Perhaps it was for this reason I wasn’t even allowed to ride in the backseat.

Our mom said Lucas worried I would dirty it, which was laughable. What could I do to that car that hadn’t already been done to it? It had long since lost its virginity.

My first night in Germany was picturesque darkness. The plane landed long before the star-speckled night turned to blue, and the air smelt as if someone had lit and let die a campfire. The car rental counter had closed hours ago and wouldn’t be open for several more. At that late hour the friends and family that would have come were tucked in bed. That made this flight perfect for anyone, for example, that Mercedes, to earn a quick 48

buck. He’d pick up someone from the dreary line and zip down the long road from the airport to the town, those of us left behind at the airport would listen to the car roar back for its next trip. As he downshifted to reach the taxi line, the blur of the car faded into the night so that one moment the car was just the purr of an engine, and the next a person was disappearing into the mobile night, an echo of German engineering trailing behind them. Still in the days when cars were only bricks of warped metal and deafening noise, all I could think was: I hope I get one of the normal taxis.

Trepidation built up in my throat with every person that was swallowed by the black leather interior of the taxi. By the time it was my turn, my hands were shaking and I felt nauseous. A white taxi pulled away and the Mercedes pulled up, bright-red racing-grade brakes bringing it to a silent stop just feet away from me, the dark windows inviting me in.

Settling into the backseat, I pointed on my phone where I wanted the driver to bring me. There were only the sounds of the engine and the driver’s deep breathing. He didn’t bother with music. I felt along the arm rest, looking for the button to roll down the window. I needed some fresh air. My very presence in the car was a violation of its sanctity, and I had needed to expel my breath outside. The window was locked.

It was probably because Lucas kept insisting that I couldn’t touch it that made me want it more. Really, it wasn’t my fault that I fell in love with that car. I had always wanted to be like him, I had a shiny new plastic license in hand, and always lingering in the back of my mind was my first night in Germany. What would it be like to have that type of power under my fingers? 268 horsepower. I knew that the power under the accelerator felt different in a car like that, but what about the rest of the experience? I wondered how it would feel to be at the same level as the wheels, so low I could feel the suspension fight against the pot holes. Or would the pure luxury of German engineering separate me from the rest of the world, leave me floating and untouchable?

This is what was on my mind when I slipped out of our house in the dead of night. When the engine started, its roar seemed to shake the trees. I looked out the back window, and was relieved to see that the house was the same. The low-frequency rumble of the car vibrated through the soles of my sneakers and rattled my teeth; the feeling only got more intense as I shifted into drive. The gear stick moving with a heavy, oiled precision that 49

made me feel clumsy in comparison. The car rolled slowly out the driveway, its nose poking out into the quiet street. I needed to fix the mirrors, but my brother would know if anything had changed. Painstakingly slowly, I rolled down the window and tilted the left mirror; my foot was pressed down hard on the brake pedal all the while, even though the car was still in park.

I pulled out onto the street and rolled the window back up. I didn’t turn on the music; I was content to listen to my heartbeat and the purr of the engine.

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Vincent Pacheco ’26

Ghazal for the Chickens my Uncle Augustinho, we call him Titio Augnat, died last fall no one said how, only that we would not fly back to see the herder’s wake he brought us roosters once, in a bag, upside down, squawking pitifully at him, at us my Azorean lost across the atlantic i lost what he said: confusion left in the words’ wake those roosters got names before we left and when we did they were eaten chopped plucked roasted: their names lost, a trickle of undersalted soup left in the bird’s wake news of his death did not shake my world, we were not close, i had no right to cry but as the redline shudders across the river he is remembered in the boats’ unheard wake i think of how he smoked, marlboros, to match the cars, i wonder how long until i forget him a puff of fog outside my window waiting for daylight to burn him off as i’m spurred awake i live in a place where you ask permission to keep chickens; my nephew will call me uncle vincent, not titio vini, my name unmarred by home, kept perfect for my wake

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Matthew Lashley ’26

Watercolor Person

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Clair Wang ’28

i breathe in because i breathe in because water doesn’t ask before it moves it simply folds

pressing its weight against the sand

until the shore learns how to yield sometimes i stand there ankle-deep

feeling the salt-stung sea reach higher

each inch whispering “how much further will you let me come?” there’s a rhythm to this pull

this rise and fall of the hours

each one murmurs my name

like the sea to the moon below the surface: things drift slowly, light softens like ribbons,

and the noise i’ve swallowed all week becomes a hum i can almost bear. and for a heartbeat

i almost let go

the water pulls me under

like slumber disguised as drowning

i tell myself i’ll surface soon

but i could stay here,

where even the waves stop asking for more of me

there’s a strange stillness not peace, exactly–

but the halt i come to

when i run out of places to hide

time folds over itself days b l u r into each other as if the current has

forgotten which way it meant to go—

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still each morning

the horizon opens its mouth

and i rise towards it again quietly

and the waves down at the beach go on folding i’m still holding my breath.

54

Lauren Sadka ’26

Merci Asi “Elle ira avec la jument. Elle s’appelle Asi”, the tour guide said as he patted her mane gently, as if introducing an old friend. As I approached her, I made sure to speak so she’d know I was near but soft enough as not to scare her. She turned her head toward me, ears flicking forward, curious and alert. I stepped closer, feeling her warm breath against my hand, her dark eyes calm and curious. You should always hold your hand out and let the horse sniff you before asking the animal for anything; it’s like a ‘you can trust me’ greeting. For a moment, the chatter, the wind, and even my own thoughts faded.

“Je peux monter, monsieur?”, I asked.

“Ce n’est pas à moi que tu dois demander”, responded the tour guide, looking away with a chuckle. I watched her eyes as I slowly caressed her neck and mane, showing her that I paid attention.

As soon as I mounted, the difference hit me. At home, although riding used to be my little escape from reality, it still always came with rules: heels down, reins short, perfect diagonal, keep the right distance, don’t drift, don’t relax. But here, the guide just waved and said, “Lâche un peu les rênes… ça va aller.” Loosen the reins. It’ll be fine. No one cared whether I posted on the correct diagonal or stayed exactly three feet behind the other horses. The tour guide wasn’t stressed, the horses weren’t stressed, and slowly, neither was I. Suddenly, a loud whirr ensued as a large plane soared above us, just close enough so that I could see all the windows, many drawn halfway down to shield the passengers from the sun’s orange glare. I thought—I’ll never understand people who shut the blinds on an airplane. It’s as if they’re shutting out an opportunity to be absolutely filled with wonder, captivated by the tiny details that bring you into the lives of every moving speck you can spot. On a night not long ago, I had been sitting by a window seat, half-asleep, ready to close my eyes. Then I glanced outside. I pressed my forehead to the glass, suddenly wide awake; I’d never seen so many stars.

The longer I looked, the more appeared. I searched for constellations, suddenly understanding why the ancient Greeks built stories out of the sky. I couldn’t make out the centaurs or archers, but the scattered points of light, though distant and unmoving, were impossibly alive. From where I 55

sat, the immense burning balls of fire looked like tiny flickers suspended in time. Distance had shrunk them into something I could have ignored entirely. But staying with them, really looking, made them feel impossibly large again.

Looking back down, my eyes could never open wide enough to see it all: the orange blush of the sky as the sun approaches the sea and the shimmer of waves curling against the shore. I blush, my eyes shimmer. On the other side, dark purples glowed behind the black silhouettes of the silvan landscape, dotted with little windows of light in the distance. I let go of the reins, letting my hands feel the wind that pressed against my face and slipped through my fingers like seawater. The steady ba-da-dum rhythm of my horse’s every stride carried me deeper into a sweet serenity. Beneath Asi’s drumming hooves, the Earth fleeted in a blur, but when I looked up, the horizon stretched vast and unhurried and our motion felt small against its quiet. The sun slipped lower, glazing the water with a gold hue so soft it seemed to quiet the waves themselves. In that moment, something held me gently and reminded me how small and quiet a human life can feel in the face of such calm. I could’ve watched those reds and oranges burn across the sky forever. As Asi carried me forward, I couldn’t help but think that this experience, that stunned me into stillness, was just my guide’s daily commute. If something this beautiful could become ordinary, then maybe the job of life isn’t to chase extraordinary moments, but to learn how to notice them. Maybe it’s to feel the same indescribable awe in ordinary ones too.

A strange determination settled into me. I knew I couldn’t stay on that beach forever. I knew I had to go back to the noise, the deadlines, the college essays, the problem sets… but suddenly those things felt purposeful. Maybe the amount of good things in life depends on your ability to notice them.

As I hopped off the saddle, I felt the familiar ache as my feet hit the ground.

I wobbled over to Asi’s head to thank her as if she could understand what an ordinary run for her meant for me. As she turned her head toward me, I rested my forehead against hers and a wave of gratitude rushed through me. I was grateful for her, for the silent strength of such a gentle giant.

I’m grateful to be blessed with nature’s daily explosion of magnificent hues. I’m grateful that I could touch the fine sand as it slipped through my fingers. I’m grateful for my sister laughing beside me, and my brother, and 56

my parents, and my family, and... and my tour guide, and my horse. I’m grateful for love in all its forms; in long hugs and first kisses, and in gentle words and healing silence. I’m grateful for all of the people who left tiles on the mosaic that is my soul, however bold or invisible the piece may be: I’m grateful for the basketball coach that believed in my 5”2 self, for the friends who are worth the thousands of miles between us, and for the people who inspire me to loosen the reins. I’m even grateful for the people who taught me more about myself by leaving my life rather than staying in it, and for those who remind me to make sure my own oxygen mask is on before helping others. What peaceful joy it is to quietly realise and appreciate even the smallest of stones that built you who you are.

I think that, once you are filled with such abundant gratitude, it is important what you do with it, and how you carry it with you. Since that day, I keep it tucked somewhere quiet, like a note in my pocket. The least you can do, when you’re reminded how lucky you are to be alive, is to let that reminder make you happy every day.

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Sara Akiyama ’26

Oil Bird

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Anonymous

Is It Better to Love or to Be Loved (Ending on a Quote by Shakespeare) Is it better to love or to be loved?

To love

To be loved I want is a full sentence,

to be wanted really.

the word love

is nothing

so real,

in truth.

yet for generations, cursed,

all those hearts were unreceived, for

I can only love,

to be made weak, although

it is to survive,

I cannot help but refuse,

this weakness

it’s what follows me in my visions;

because wanting, is truly such a disease. everything, made of pain, the mind

never loving, I starve and now I cannot breathe, full of wanting, born anew;

the heart at odds;

because I have chosen to

I lie alone,

my own heart in a knot.

choking back sobs,

I start to believe

And I start to weep,

and now I know.

Love,

Being loved

it makes no difference,

letting go.

“There is nothing good nor bad but [loving] makes it so.”

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Dora Mou ‘27

Acrylic Sofa

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